Midwinter of the Spirit

should phone for help from the office in the gatehouse.

Merrily had glanced back once before they hurried away, and had seen George fumbling at the wall under the aumbry light.

‘The sacrament.’ Sophie had started to shake. ‘Oh, dear God, he’s asked for the sacrament.’

Merrily wasn’t sure Dobbs had been in any condition, at the time, to voice a request; this was probably George’s own decision. Probably a wise one.

She and Sophie stood back while the paramedics brought the old man out. Multiple headlights creaming the snow and more people gathering – one of the vergers, a couple of policemen.

And the Right Reverend Michael Hunter loping towards them. The Bishop in a purple tracksuit.

‘Merrily, what on earth are you doing here?’

‘Michael, I sent for her,’ Sophie explained at once. ‘I thought—’

‘That’s good,’ the Bishop said. ‘That’s fine. Entirely appropriate.’

Summoned from his bed, no doubt, by the ambulance siren, he seemed neither cold nor tired. Merrily could almost see his athlete’s glow as an actual halo as he raised a palm over the two women, like a blessing.

‘Poor Canon Dobbs,’ Sophie said.

The Bishop nodded. ‘A good and distinguished servant of God.’

Huh? Merrily recalled their discussion in the Green Dragon. ‘The old man’s ubiquitous. Hovering silently, like some dark, malign spectre. I’d like to… I want to exorcize Dobbs.’

Classic episcopal hypocrisy.

‘But he worked himself too hard – and for too long,’ the Bishop said. ‘A stroke, I gather.’

‘Yes,’ Merrily said, ‘that’s what it looks like.’

‘No!’ Cool, efficient Sophie started to cry. ‘Two strokes. It must have been two, don’t you see? We thought he must be… must have been drinking. When we heard his voice all slurred, in fact he was simply struggling to speak after a first stroke – probably only a minor one. And then… I remember my father… Oh God, how stupid we were, how utterly thoughtless.’

‘Sophie,’ Merrily said, ‘if it wasn’t for you, he might still be lying there.’

‘Perhaps it was us shouting at him to come out… perhaps all the fuss threw him into some sort of confused panic and that was what brought on the second stroke.’

‘Sophie, listen.’ The Bishop took his secretary by both shoulders, then eased back her scarf so as to look into her eyes. ‘We all knew that Thomas was long, long overdue for retirement. His particular ministry put him under enormous pressure. Several of us, as you know, tried very hard to persuade him to give it up. I think it was becoming explicitly clear to everyone that this good man’s mind was breaking down. Hey, watch yourself…’

He guided Sophie out of the path of the ambulance as it started up, preparing to bear the stricken Dobbs to the General Hospital. George Curtiss appeared from behind it, breathing hard through his beard.

‘Bishop…’

‘Well done, George.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t do enough.’

‘I’m sure you did everything humanly possible,’ Mick Hunter said – then, after a pause, ‘except to inform your bishop.’

‘Oh, yes. I, ah, thought… hoped… that it wouldn’t be necessary to involve you – or the Dean.’

‘I want to be appraised of everything, George. You won’t forget that again, will you?’

‘No.’ The big canon, a good ten years older than the Bishop, looked like a chastized schoolboy. ‘I’m sorry, Bishop.’

‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Merrily—’

‘Bishop?’ She was annoyed at the way he’d spoken to George, who’d administered the sacrament to Dobbs, stayed with him, tried to make him comfortable, keep him calm.

The Bishop said, ‘What was Canon Dobbs actually doing when you found him?’

‘He was having a stroke, Bishop,’ Merrily said wearily.

Mick Hunter was silent.

‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘It’s been a difficult night.’

‘Has it? I see. I’ll talk to you on Monday, Merrily. This is obviously going to have a bearing on your situation.’ He turned and walked towards the Cathedral.

‘I thought for a moment he was going to say something about God moving in mysterious ways,’ Merrily muttered, ‘to clear the way for the new regime.’

‘He’s wearing trainers,’ Sophie said absently. ‘His poor feet must be absolutely soaked.’

‘Wellies wouldn’t fit the image.’

‘He’s more than image, Merrily,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘I think you know that. He’s a very young man. One day he’ll be a great man, I should think.’

One day he’ll probably be an archbishop, Merrily thought. But I doubt he’ll be a great man.

But she’d said enough.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Sophie said, ‘though clearly it wasn’t a terribly good idea.’

‘Sophie…’ Merrily glanced over her shoulder at the Cathedral, which – although someone, probably the Bishop, had put on lights – was still not the imagined beacon of old Christian warmth, not now. ‘When George said Dobbs was talking to Thomas Cantilupe, what did he mean by that?’

Sophie appeared uncomfortable. ‘Does that matter now?’

‘Yeah, I think it does.’

‘That was George’s surmise. I thought he was talking to himself. Thomas, you see – both of them Thomases. It was as though he… perhaps he was already feeling ill and he was urging himself to hold on.’

‘What were his words?’

‘Well, like that. He did actually say that at least once: “Please God, hold on, Thomas.” And then he’d lapse into mumbling Latin.’

‘How did he get in? Does he have keys?’

‘He must have.’

‘Does he often come here alone at night?’

‘It…’ Sophie sighed. ‘So they say.’

‘What else do they say?’

‘They say he has rather an obsession with St Thomas Cantilupe. I do know he studied the medieval Church, so perhaps he sought some sort of deeper communion with the saint, on a spiritual level. I don’t like to—’

‘You mean because the tomb was lying open, for the first time in over a century, he thought the saint would be more accessible? You have to help me here, Sophie. I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Sophie said. ‘I don’t feel it’s right to talk about it now, with the poor man probably dying. I mean, George gave him the sacrament.’

‘Sophie, just let me get this right. Are you saying you called me in because you and George thought Canon Dobbs was attempting to make contact with a dead saint?’

‘I don’t know, Merrily.’ Sophie was wringing the ends of her scarf. ‘Look, I just wanted to protect… Oh, I don’t know who I wanted to protect. The Bishop? Canon Dobbs? Or just the Cathedral? In the end it all comes back to the Cathedral, doesn’t it? I…’ She stamped a booted foot on the snow as if to emphasize it to herself. ‘I work for the Cathedral.’

‘Is there something… is there a problem in the Cathedral? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

Maybe she should talk to George, who was still with the two policemen beside their car at the roadside.

‘Can we talk about this… again?’ Sophie said.

‘If I’m going to help, you’ve got to trust me.’

‘I do trust you, Merrily. That’s why I telephoned for you. And I feel guilty now – you look so awfully tired. Do you really have to drive back? The roads are going to be dreadful.’

‘No worse than when I came. I think the snow’s stopping anyway.’