'How valuable would you say? I mean, I realise you can't…'
'Invaluable. And yet nor valuable at all to most people. You could hardly stick it in your hall like a Rodin. It's beyond me, the whole thing. And yet…'
Chrissie's head shot up out of her hands. Never!
'Well, sir, I expect you have photographs. I'll also need to know what kind of vehicle would be required, assuming it has been removed from immediate area.'
Bloody hell! Chrissie stood up. She found she was shaking.
'We'll obviously be searching the grounds pretty thoroughly. But if you wanted to get it away without damaging it…would it need any special conditions? Refrigeration?
'It's in peat. Inspector. Peat's a preservative. That's how he survived for two thousand years.'
'Of course. Sorry. Stupid of me. Anyway… We're clearly not looking for young tearaways here, so have you any idea, any notion at all, who in the wide world would go to so much trouble to…'
'Steal a two-thousand-year-old corpse.'
'Old as that? Well. Wouldn't be much use for medical research then? So what are we looking for? Bit of a nutter? A rich eccentric collector? I'll be honest, Dr Hall, I've not come across anything quite like this. It's a one- off.'
'It's unbelievable,' Roger said for about the fifteenth time, and Chrissie heard him pacing the echoing empty lab.
CHAPTER II
The girl who opened the Rectory door was sipping red soup off the top of an overflowing mug. She watched both of them cautiously over the rim.
'Sorry,' Dic said. 'It's an awkward time.'
She swallowed hot soup, winced. 'No problem. I'm on my own.'
'That's what I thought. We, er, we needed somewhere to talk… Sorry… your dad, is he… How is he?'
'They say it's a minor heart attack.' Tomato soup adhering to her lips. 'I'm not allowed to see him until tomorrow, he has to have rest. Ma Wagstaff says not to worry. He'll be OK.'
She sounded like this was supposed to be a reliable medical opinion. 'This is Moira Cairns,' Dic said.
'Hello,' Catherine Gruber said limply.
Moira sensed she was worried sick. The porch light was a naked bulb. Above it, the gaping orifice, spread by stone thumbs, was deepened by the hard, unsubtle shadows it threw.
The Sheelagh na gig, lit for drama, grinning lasciviously at Joel Beard. And he was appalled to think that everyone entering the church to worship God should have to pass beneath this obscenity.
Tradition, the antiquarians said. Our heritage. Olde Englande.
Joel Beard saw beyond all this, saw it only as symbolic of the legacy of evil he had been chosen to destroy.
A few minutes ago, he'd telephoned the Archdeacon from the kiosk in front of the Post Office, giving him a carefully edited summary of the evening's events in Bridelow. Not mentioning the appalling incident at the graveside with the bottle – which the Archdeacon might have judged to be, at this stage, an over-reaction on his part.
'Well, poor Hans,' the Archdeacon had said easily and insincerely. 'I think he should have a few months off, don't you? Perhaps some sort of semi-retirement. I shall speak to the Bishop. In fact I think I'll go and see him. Meanwhile you must take over, Joel. Do what you feel is necessary.'
'I have your support?'
'My support spiritually – and… and physically, I hope. I shall come to see you. Drop in on you. Very soon. Meanwhile, tread carefully, Joel. Will you live at the Rectory now?'
'The girl's still there, Simon. Hans's daughter. She'll have to go back to Oxford quite soon, I'd guess. But then there's Hans himself, when he leaves hospital.'
'Don't worry. We'll find him somewhere to convalesce. Meanwhile…'
'… I shall sleep in the church. In the priest's cell.'
'All alone down there? My God, Joel, you're a brave man.'
'It's God's House!' Joel had said, even he feeling, with a rare stab of embarrassment, that this was a naive response.
And was it God's House?
And which God?
As he entered the church of St Bride under the spread thighs of the leering Sheelagh, he experienced the unpleasant illusion of being sucked into…
No!!
'Long-haired girls,' Dic Castle said bitterly. 'Always the long, dark hair.'
Moira said, 'I can't believe this.'
'No?'
'No,' she said firmly.
The minister's daughter had left them alone in the Rectory sitting room. Dic had wanted her to stay, like he needed a chaperone with this Scottish whore, but she wouldn't. They could hear her banging at a piano somewhere, ragtime numbers, with a lot of bum notes. Letting them know she wasn't listening at the door.
'He never touched me sexually,' Moira said. 'He never came near. On stage, it was always him on one side, me on the other, Eric and Willie in between but a yard or two back. That was how it was on stage. That was how it was in the van. That was how it was.'
Somewhere, walls away, Catherine Gruber went into the 'Maple Leaf Rag', savaging the ivories, getting something out of her system…
'And you clearly don't believe me.' Moira was sitting on a cushion by the fireplace. Paper had been laid in it, a lattice of wood and a few pieces of coal.
Dic said, 'Followed him once. After a charity gig. She was waiting for him in the car park. About twenty-one, twenty-two. About my age. Long, dark hair.'
'When was this?'
'Fucking little groupies,' Dic said. He was semi-sprawled across a sofa, clutching a cushion. 'At his age. Er… 'bout a year ago, just before he… before it was diagnosed.'
Dic had a lean face, full lips like Matt. Dark red hair, like Lottie. Still had a few spots. 'And, yeah,' he said, 'I do know she wasn't the first.' Staring at Moira in her jeans and her fluffy white angora sweater, hands clasped around her knees, black hair down to her elbows.
'Because you still think the first was me. Sure. And you know something… Gimme a cigarette, will you?'
He tossed the cushion aside, got out a crumpled pack of Silk Cut and a book of matches. 'Didn't know you smoked.'
'Tonight,' she said, taking a cigarette, tearing off a match, 'I smoke.'
The minister's daughter was playing 'The Entertainer', sluggishly.
Moira said, 'Just answer me this. Earlier tonight, at your dad's funeral, at the graveside… I mean, how'd you feel about that?'
His face closed up, hard as stone. 'I just played the pipes. Badly. I didn't see anything.'
She nodded. 'OK.'
'So I don't know what you're talking about.'
'I understand. We'll forget that, then.'
He lit his own cigarette, said through the smoke, 'Mum said you wouldn't be coming anyway.'
'She didn't know.'
'You seen her?'
'No. And that's not because… Listen, I'm gonna say this. There was a time when I felt bad. Twenty, fifteen years ago. When I felt bad because I never came on to him, not even after a gig in some faraway city when we were pissed. And I felt bad that I was twenty years younger and I was taking off nationally, and he was maybe
