Midwinter of the Spirit

Sophie put down the phone, tucking a strand of white hair behind one ear. ‘It’s bizarre, Merrily, quite bizarre. That was George Curtiss. The Dean’s absolutely furious. You know the Cantilupe tomb was due to be reassembled this week, in time for the Boy Bishop ceremony on Sunday? But, would you believe, there’s a piece missing.’

‘A piece?’

‘One of the side panels. You know the side-panels with the figures of knights? Knights Templar, someone suggested.’

‘I know.’ She remembered the knights, blurred by age, their faces disfigured.

‘Well, one had broken away from the panel. Maybe through age or stone-fatigue. It was due to be repaired, but now it’s vanished!’

‘Someone pinched a slab of stone?’

‘So it seems. When the masons were sorting out all the segments it just wasn’t there. It’s not huge – about a foot wide, eighteen inches deep – though heavy obviously.’

‘Not easily shoved in your shopping bag,’ Merrily said. ‘But safely locked up behind that partition, surely?’

‘That’s the point.’ Sophie looked worried. ‘About the only time its removal could have happened was when we were all fussing over Canon Dobbs, after his stroke.’

‘They suspect one of us?’ Maybe, she thought insanely, I could resign under suspicion of stealing a chunk of Cantilupe. It would be easier, less complicated.

‘This Dean will suspect anyone connected with the Bishop,’ Sophie said with rare malice. ‘He’s already calling for a full inquiry. No, I don’t for a minute think they suspect one of us. They just think we might have been more… I don’t know… observant.’

‘Who’d want to nick a single medieval knight not in terrific condition? And what for – a bird-table?’

‘Don’t joke about it in front of the Dean, whatever you do.’

‘I never seem to meet the Dean,’ Merrily said.

‘Personally I never joke in front of the Dean.’ The Bishop had appeared in the doorway. The Bishop at his hunkiest, with the possibly-Armani jacket over a denim shirt and jeans. The only purple now was a handkerchief carelessly tucked into his breast pocket. ‘Good morning, Sophie. Merrily, how did it go last night? Nothing over the top, one trusts. Restraint is our new watchword.’

She said, ‘You haven’t heard?’

‘What should I have heard?’

‘Mick, look…’ She came slowly to her feet. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sophie said quickly, ‘the blessing at Stretford. I gather you weren’t very well, Merrily.’

‘Who told—?’

‘She really shouldn’t have turned out, Michael,’ Sophie said. ‘You can see how terribly pale she is.’

‘Merrily?’ The Bishop moved into the office, turned his famous blue eyes on her. ‘Lord, yes, you don’t look well at all.’

‘Fortunately,’ Sophie said, ‘Huw Owen was present and able to take over and conduct the service, so that was all right.’

Merrily stared at her. What are you doing?

‘Owen?’ The Bishop’s face stiffened with outrage. ‘Who the hell invited Owen?’

‘I did,’ Merrily said. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you, shouldn’t I?’

‘Yes, you should. The man’s from outside the diocese. He’s Church in Wales.’

‘It’s my fault,’ Sophie said quickly. ‘Merrily told me she’d asked the Reverend Owen to come in as…’

‘Hand-holder,’ Merrily said. ‘It was my first serious exorcism. As it was to be in a church, I didn’t want to make a mistake.’

‘Well, I should have been told,’ the Bishop said almost peevishly. ‘I realize he was your course tutor, Merrily, but I’ve appointed you, not him. In fact, if I’d known more about Owen at the time, we might not have sent you on that particular course.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Let’s just say’ – the Bishop’s eyes were hard – ‘that his roots are planted in the same general area as Dobbs’s.’

‘Oh, Michael…’ Any further discussion of the dangers of medievalism was forestalled by Sophie informing the Bishop about the missing Cantilupe knight, apparently smuggled out of the Cathedral.

‘And that’s all they took?’ The Bishop slowly shook his head, half-smiling now. ‘Admittedly, we don’t want opportunist tomb-robbers cruising the Cathedral, but it’s hardly cause for a major panic. Surely our guys can construct a temporary substitute if they need to put the shrine together in a hurry. Reconstituted stone or something. Who, after all, is going to know?’

‘Reconstituted stone?’ Sophie said faintly.

‘Poor old boy’s bones are already widely scattered,’ the Bishop said reasonably. ‘It’s not as if those knights have anything to guard any more, is it? Sophie, Val and I shall be leaving earlier for London than planned.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie spun towards her office, ‘I thought the reception was tomorrow.’

‘Well, there’s going to be a dinner now, tonight – with Tony and Cherie. And other people, of course.’ He laughed. ‘One can hardly reschedule these things according to one’s personal convenience. We’ll need to get off before lunch. So… Merrily,’ turning his attention on her like a loaded shotgun, ‘I want you to think about something.’

He stepped back and surveyed her – critically, she thought – in her black jumper and woollen skirt, flaking fake-Barbour over the back of the chair.

Whatever it is now, she thought, not today.

‘Ironic that the question of Dobbs and Owen should arise. Traditionalism – I want all this to be raised at the next General Synod, and I want you, Merrily, to give some thought to producing a paper on what, for want of a better term, I’m officially calling New Deliverance.’

She stared at him. ‘Me?’

‘Very definitely you. I think I may be looking at the very face of New Deliverance.’

‘Bishop, I don’t know what you mean about “New”. Surely the whole point of—’

‘You know very well what I mean, Merrily. Think back to our discussion in the Green Dragon. Anyway, I don’t have time to expand on it now. We’ll talk again before Christmas, yes?’

She couldn’t reply.

‘Excellent,’ the Bishop said crisply. As he left, Merrily’s phone rang.

‘Merrily. Frannie Bliss. Remember? How are you?’

‘I’m… OK.’

‘You don’t sound all that OK to me. You should’ve said something – us keeping you talking outside in the cold all that time. Not that it was much warmer inside. Sorry you had to go off like that, but you probably did the best thing. He’s a card, that Huw, isn’t he? Turned out well for us, anyway.’

‘It did?’

‘I’m not gonna bore you with the run-up to this, but we finally had a chat with two very nice elderly ladies: sisters, churchgoers, and active members of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. They put us on to a lad called Craig Proctor, lives out near Monkland. Now young Craig, for reasons you really don’t want to know about, especially if you’re not feeling well, is an expert at trapping wild birds. These old ladies’ve been after him for months, but he’s clever is Craig – or he thought he was. Anyway, after a long and meaningful exchange at Leominster nick this morning, Craig has told us he was approached by a chap he didn’t know, and given a hundred and fifty pounds to procure one live carrion crow.’

‘Christ.’

The fog outside was like a carpet against the window.

‘Yeh,’ Frannie said. ‘Now, what’s that say to you, Merrily?’

‘It says you’re not just looking for a bunch of kids who’ve seen some nasty films.’

‘The real thing, eh?’

‘Yes, though I don’t know what I mean when I say that. Did you get a description out of him?’