A Crown of Lights

‘Jane!’

‘He is. If you, like, subvert Christianity, if you use it aggressively to try and hurt or crush people of a different religion... or if you go around exorcizing demons out of people who haven’t actually got demons in them, just to get power over them – like this guy McAllman – then you’re using Christianity for evil, so that’s got to be black Christianity.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call Bain a white witch, either,’ Eirion murmured.

Sophie said, ‘Jane, your grasp of theology—’

But Gomer was back with them, thoughtfully rolling and unrolling his cap. ‘That’s Nev,’ he said, watching the man in the plaid shirt go out. ‘My nephew, Nev, see. Er, some’ing’s come up, ennit? Mrs Hill, if there’s a chance you could stay with these kids till the vicar gets back...’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jane shook her head. ‘Mum said to stick with Gomer.’

Gomer sighed. He opened the pub door, peered out. Jane got up and leaned over his shoulder. There were still a lot of people out there and more police – about seven of them. Also, the guy in the plaid shirt standing by a truck. In the back of the truck was a yellow thing partly under a canvas cover.

‘What’s that?’ Jane demanded.

‘Mini-JCB.’

‘Like for digging?’

‘Sure t’be,’ Gomer admitted gruffly.

Ellis took her into the second surgery: a plain room with a big, dark desk, Victorian-looking. Authority. A big chair and a small chair. Ellis sat in the big chair; Merrily didn’t sit down. She was thinking rapidly back over the history of her faith, the unsavoury aspects.

In the Middle Ages, Christianity was still magic: charms and blessings indistinguishable. The Reformation was supposed to have wiped that out but, in seventeenth-century Britain, religious healers and exorcists were still putting on public displays, just like modern Bible Belt evangelists. And when it was finally over in most of Britain, here in Radnorshire – inside the inverted pentagram of churches dedicated to the warrior archangel – it continued. In a place with a strong tradition of pagan magic, the people transferred their allegiances to the priests... the more perspicacious of whom took on the role of the conjuror, the cunning man.

Few more cunning than Nicholas Ellis, formerly Simon Wesson. His face was unlined, bland, insolent – looking up at her but really looking down.

‘Where’s your mother now, Nick?’

‘Dead. Drowned in her swimming pool in Orlando, four years ago. An accident.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Still out there. Married with kids.’

‘You came back to Britain because of what happened over Marshall McAllman and this Tennessee newspaper?’

‘I’ve told you I won’t discuss that.’ He brought a hand down hard on the desk. He was sweating. ‘And if you say a word about any of this outside these walls, I shall instruct my solicitor to obtain an immediate injunction to restrain you and make preparations to take you to court for libel. Do you understand?’

‘This is Mr Weal, is it?’

‘Never underestimate him.’

‘I wouldn’t. He’ll do anything for you, won’t he? After what you did for him. And for his wife – before she died.’

Ellis kept his lips tight, his face uplifted to the lights and shining.

‘You must have investigated this parish pretty thoroughly before you applied for it. Or were you looking specifically for a parish that suited your kind of ministry? Or was it just luck?’

‘Or the will of God?’

‘From what I gather, your mother was into a particularly mystical form of High Church—’

He turned his chair away with a wrench. ‘No. No. No! I will not.’

‘Perhaps she found the connections. Perhaps she was a particular influence on McAllman’s ministry.’ Merrily stood with her back to the door. ‘Any point in asking you if you did actually help to cover up a less-than-hot-blooded murder?’

His eyes burned.

‘All that matters is Ned Bain thinks you did,’ Merrily said.

‘Edward is a despicable nonentity.’

‘Not in pagan circles he isn’t. I mean, I suppose it’s easy to say that’s why he became a pagan. It’s rough, natural, wild... very much a reaction against your mother’s suffocating churchiness.’

He rose up. ‘Blasphemer!’

Merrily lost it, bounced from the door. ‘Do you know what real blasphemy is, Nick? It’s a man with a nine-inch cross.’

‘I will not—’

‘Do you sterilize it first?’

‘May God have mercy on you!’

‘Only, I was there when you exorcized Marianne Starkey. Who...’ Merrily prayed swiftly for forgiveness. ‘Who’s now prepared to make a detailed statement.’

A lie. But she had him. He stared at her.

‘We’ve prepared a press release, Nick. Unless she hears from me by seven o’clock, my secretary’s been instructed to fax it to the Press Association in London.’

Ellis folded his arms.

Merrily looked at her watch. ‘I make it you’ve got just under an hour.’

‘To do what?’ He leaned back, expressionless.

‘Put on your white messiah gear,’ Merrily said. ‘Get out there and tell them it’s all over. Tell them to go home. Or lead them all up to the village hall and keep them there.’

Ellis spread his hands. ‘They’ll be there, anyway. The police wanted them off the streets. I believe the Prossers have taken them to the hall.’

‘Keep them there then. Tell them you don’t want to risk their immortal souls by having them stepping onto the contaminated ground of St Michael’s.’

He shrugged. ‘OK, sure.’ He leaned back, two fingers along the side of his head, curious. ‘But I don’t understand. Why do you care?’

She didn’t follow him. She stayed on the edge of the schoolyard, near the police vans, and saw lights eventually come on in what she reckoned was Ellis’s house. Dr Coll came out of the surgery, but didn’t so much as glance at her. Perhaps Judith hadn’t told him. At the same time, two policemen went in, presumably to obtain statements from the injured man and his wife. Merrily resisted an impulse to yell at Dr Coll, ‘Why did you kill Mrs Wilshire?’ in the hope that some copper might hear.

The village was comparatively quiet again. The lights were still few and bleary. Or maybe it was her eyes. Was there more she could have done? If there was, she couldn’t think what it might be. She was tired. She prayed that Ellis would see sense.

A few minutes later, she saw him coming down from the council estate, a Hollywood ghost in his white monk’s habit. He walked past the school and didn’t turn his head towards her. Leaving twenty or thirty yards between them, she followed him to the hall. A cameraman spotted him and ran ahead of him and crouched in the road, recording his weary, stately progress to his place of worship. A journalist, puffing out white steam, ran back to the pub to alert the others. Merrily prayed that they were all going to be very disappointed. Like the Christians.

‘With respect, Father, what was the point of us coming at all?’