The Cure of Souls

‘Yeah, sure. I mean, that’s fine,’ the Rev. Simon St John said. There was a pause on the line. ‘Sorry… which paper did you say it was in?’

What?

It was gone three in the afternoon. It had been before nine this morning when she’d called into the Eight- till-Late in Ledwardine, on her way back from Holy Communion, to ask if she might have a quick flip through the tabloids – actually missing the story first time, never expecting a spread this size.

‘You mean…’ Merrily sat up at the scullery desk. ‘You mean you haven’t read it?’

‘I don’t see the papers much,’ Simon St John said in his placid, middle-England voice.

‘But you must have known they were going to publish it?’

‘I suppose I had an idea, yes.’

‘Had a—?’ The mind boggled. She tried another direction. ‘Erm… the feeling I get is that this Mr Stock is trying to… get back… at the landowner. Mr Lake.’

‘And also his wife’s uncle, I’d guess,’ St John said.

‘The one who’s dead?’

‘It’s rather complicated.’ He didn’t seem unfriendly, but neither did he seem inclined to explain anything.

Last try: ‘You’ve also been accused of being part of a rural mafia,’ Merrily said.

Simon St John laughed. There was laid-back, Merrily thought, and there was indifferent. ‘I’ve been accused of far worse things than that,’ he said eventually. ‘But thanks for letting me know.’

‘That’s… OK.’

‘I expect we’ll get to meet sooner or later.’

‘Yes.’

‘Goodbye, then,’ he said.

It was another of those days: Mercury still retrograde, evidently.

She tried the Shelbones again and let the phone ring for at least a couple of minutes before hanging up and calling back and getting, as she’d half expected, the engaged tone. The implication of this was that someone was dialling 1471 to see who’d called. So maybe they would phone her back.

But they didn’t, and Hazel Shelbone’s excuse that she didn’t want to talk to Merrily while Amy was in the house was wearing thin. Most people now had a mobile, especially senior council officials. Behind that old- fashioned, God-fearing Christianity, deep at the bottom of the reservoir of maternal love, there was something suspicious about this family.

So how was she supposed to proceed? The request for a spiritual cleansing was still on the table. Merrily didn’t think she could just turn away, like Simon St John. Besides, she was curious.

She was finishing her evening meal of Malvern ewe’s cheese and salad when Fred Potter, the freelance journalist, rang again.

‘Before you say anything,’ Merrily said, ‘who alerted you to this story? I mean originally.’

‘Ah, well.’ He laughed nervously. ‘You know how it goes, with news sources.’

‘Yeah, down a one-way street. If someone like me doesn’t disclose something, we’re accused of covering up the truth, while you’re protecting your sources.’ She paused. ‘How about off the record?’

‘Oh, Mrs Watkins…’

‘You know,’ Merrily said thoughtfully, ‘something tells me this won’t necessarily be the last time our paths cross. I do tend to get mixed up in all kinds of things that could make good stories. Who knows when you might —’

‘You’re a very devious woman.’

‘I’m a minister of God,’ she said primly.

The scullery’s white walls were aflame with sunset. She lit a cigarette.

‘All right,’ Fred Potter said. ‘Off the record, it was brought in by our boss, Malcolm Millar. He knows Stock from way back. Stock was in PR.’

‘When was all this? When did you learn about it?’

‘Couple of days ago. Malcolm sent me out to see the Stocks yesterday morning.’

‘So it’s likely they cooked it up between them?’

‘Oh no. I don’t think so. I mean, a ghost story – that’s not something you can verify, is it? I can tell you it’s dead right about how dark it is in there. I couldn’t live in that place. It’s a scandal that this guy, Lake, can just block off someone’s daylight to that extent.’

‘There are laws on ancient lights. It’s one for Stock’s solicitor.’

‘But the press don’t charge a hundred pounds an hour, do we?’

‘What I’m getting at, that’s not our problem, is it? I mean the Church’s. We just come in on the haunting. And if that turns out to be made up—’

‘Please, Mrs Watkins.’

‘I’m not making notes, Fred. I’m just… covering myself.’

‘It’s like asking if I believe in ghosts,’ he said. ‘Maybe I don’t, but a lot of people do, don’t they? Presumably you must.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘OK…’ A pause, as if he was looking round to make sure he was alone. ‘He’s a bit of an operator.’

‘Stock?’

‘He’s been in PR a long time. A lot of PR involves making up stories that sound plausible. If he did want to make up a story, he’d know how to go about it and he obviously knew where to take it. It’s only people close to the media who know that if you want to make a big impact very quickly, you don’t go to a paper and offer them an exclusive, you go to an agency like ours because we can send it all round… national papers, TV, radio…’

‘And the more outlets you send it to, the more money you collect.’

‘Sure, news is a business. But it’s in our interest, at the end of the day, to make sure the story’s sound – or at least, you know, stands up – or else various outlets are gonna stop coming back to us. If you get a reputation for being a bent agency, it’s not good, long-term.’

‘But, bottom line, this probably is a scam.’

Fred hesitated. ‘I don’t know. He’s a bombastic kind of bloke – comes over like big mates soon as he meets you – but underneath… I reckon there was something worrying him. He was really shaky. I mean, when people are quivering and telling you how terrified they are, it could be an act. But when somebody’s got this veneer of cockiness, and something else – call it fear – shows through, that’s harder to fake, isn’t it? Or it could mean he’s got a drink problem or something, I really wouldn’t like to say. You’re not gonna drop me in it, are you? I mean, I’d love to work for the Independent or something, but you’ve got to take what you can get.’

‘Life’s such a bitch, Fred. What did you ring for, anyway?’

‘A follow-up, I suppose, a new line on the story. I mean, you said you were going to look into it…’

‘I didn’t really, though, did I? What I said—’

‘Give me a break, Merrily. I think you’ll find a few papers’ll pick up on this again tomorrow.’

‘Meaning you’ll try and persuade them to.’

‘It’s…’ Fred Potter whistled thinly. ‘It’s a business, like I said.’

‘All right – off the record?’

He sighed. ‘Yeah, OK.’

‘I’m in a difficult position,’ Merrily said. ‘It’s hard for me to move on anything unless the local minister requests assistance. In this case, it strikes me that the local guy, St John, knows exactly what Mr Stock’s up to. So I don’t think we’re going to want to get involved.’

‘But if you do take it any further…’

‘I’ll let you know, promise.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘Yeah, but I’m a minister of the Church, Fred.’

‘Hmm,’ Fred Potter said.

Merrily washed up her solitary dinner plate, went back into the scullery and called the Shelbones yet again.