The Lamp of the Wicked

‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter who engineered it if it was meant to happen, if it’s the right thing for her – and for Lol, obviously – and it quite clearly is. But because of what she does she’s got to be sure it’s the right thing by… Him. Like He deserves that kind of deference. If He exists.’

‘It’s a big responsibility, being a priest,’ Eirion said lamely.

‘The truth is,’ Jane said, ‘they’re both basically wimps. Neither of them had the confidence to commit. They were just kind of moving warily around one another, like cats.’

‘That’s not being wimpish, it’s what you do when you’re an adult,’ Eirion said, the trite bastard. ‘You’ve made a few mistakes before, and you don’t want to jump into anything without being sure of the territory… especially when there’s additional baggage.’

‘You mean me?’

‘No, you egomaniac – emotional baggage! History.’

‘Well,’ Jane said, ‘it’s not like they’re still not making a complete bollocks of it – all this about everything having to be kept under wraps… which is like totally ridiculous.’

‘It’s not, totally, when you think about it.’

Jane leaned back against the passenger door. ‘What’s to think about? If you look at the Anglican Church as a whole, about half the priests are gay, right? And they’re not hiding their private life any more, are they? They’re practically announcing it from the pulpit.’

‘Dearly beloved brethren…’ Eirion did this reedy voice. ‘This morning, I have to impart to you all that the big black guy living with me at the vicarage is not really a Nigerian theological student, as originally announced in the parish magazine. In fact, he’s my special friend.’

Jane fought back the grin. ‘But I mean, with a gay vicar you’ve got an ordained minister who’s having sex with one or more partners with no possibility of any of them ever becoming the vicar’s wife, in the traditional sense, so why can’t two heterosexuals—?’

‘Because, right now,’ Eirion said in his explaining-to-the- child tone, ‘neither of them needs the shit. She’s had more publicity than she ever wanted just lately. Plus, Lol’s got a lot to work out, with this album and the chance of a comeback after, well, a very long time. Be bad enough for someone who hadn’t had… the kind of problems he’s had.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing, Irene, if Mum had walked away, he wouldn’t’ve been able to finish that album. If you listen to the new songs, most of them are actually about her. Which has got to be just the most incredible turn-on, hasn’t it? Like being the Dark Lady of the Sonnets.’

‘Jane, with all respect and everything—’

‘OK, hyper. But if I was his Muse…’

Eirion stopped for the traffic lights at Trumpet. ‘You still fancy him, don’t you?’

She stared at him, resentful again. He’d refused to let her drive, claiming the car wasn’t insured for a learner. Which was bollocks, probably. The truth was he was afraid.

‘But what this is really… Jane… ?’

‘What?’ she said sulkily.

What this is really about is Moira Cairns, isn’t it?’

‘That’s crap. Moira Cairns is really old.’

‘And really beautiful and charismatic.’

‘Moderately attractive, I believe. If you like that kind of thing and you can put up with the grating accent.’

‘And – what – possibly five years older than your Mum?’ His patronizing lilt was back. ‘That’s not very old, really, is it? And Moira and Lol have the same musical background. And Lol’s going to be playing on her album. And she’s doing one of his songs? And they’re under the same roof, miles from anywhere, recording well into the night.’

‘That is total, absolute, complete bollocks,’ Jane said, furious.

It was getting dark now, and some of them were carrying torches or lamps. About a dozen people, men and women, with a few teenagers lurking on the fringes. From a distance, it looked like a group of very early carol- singers but, close up, Merrily could tell they weren’t going to be bought off with mince pies.

A man came forward, his voice preceding him across the cindered forecourt of Roddy Lodge’s garage.

‘We’d like, if we may, to speak to the Senior Investigating Officer?’

Frannie Bliss turned to Merrily, raised an eyebrow and then walked out to them – a poised and dapper figure despite the loss of sleep and all the coffee. A pro, an operator.

‘That would be me. DI Francis Bliss. How can I assist?’

‘Well, I hope that, for a start, you can tell us exactly what’s going on.’ The man was half a head taller than Bliss. He wore jogging gear, luminous orange. He put out a hand. ‘Fergus Young. Chair of the Underhowle Development Committee. Also head teacher at the school.’

He and Bliss shook hands, while Merrily stayed in the shadow of the concrete building, hoping on one level that all this wasn’t going to take too long and on another – because of what lay ahead for her – that it would take half the night.

‘Mr Young,’ Bliss said. ‘I’m happy to tell you what I can, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be much.’

‘Well, to begin with, if I may ask this, where is Mr Lodge?’

‘Ah.’ Bliss put his head on one side. ‘Mr Lodge – to use a phrase which I only wish we’d been able to improve on over the years, but we somehow never have – is helping us with our inquiries.’

A woman shouted, ‘Please don’t patronize us. We know the kind of questions you people have been asking in the village.’

‘Yeh, I’m sure you do.’ Bliss peered cautiously into the assembly. ‘The press aren’t here, are they?’

‘Of course not,’ Fergus Young said. ‘We’re all local people, and we’re here because we’re quite naturally concerned about what appears to be intensive police activity around the community in which we’ve chosen to invest our lives. And if that sounds pompous I’m very sorry.’

It certainly didn’t sound local. He was about Merrily’s age, and had a bony, equine head with tough and springy dull gold hair. He looked like the kind of evangelical head teacher who did an hour’s fell-running before morning assembly.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can assure you that anything you say to us will be treated with sensitivity and discretion.’

Bliss looked pointedly at the teenagers.

‘Or,’ Fergus Young said, ‘if you’d prefer to talk to just a few of us, in a less public place, I’m sure—’

‘That might be a better idea, sir, yes.’

Young turned to the group to discuss it. Frannie Bliss moved away, hands in his trouser pockets. Merrily murmured, ‘Shall I wait in the car?’

‘Not unless you really want to. I might need back-up, with some of these plummy bastards.’

And so they all wound up walking, almost single file, into the village of Underhowle in the blustery dusk. The lane was slick with wet leaves. Nobody spoke much. Merrily knew that Bliss was working out how to turn this around, milk the villagers while telling them nothing they didn’t already know and making it sound like he was taking them into his confidence. Walking a couple of yards behind the delegation, she had the feeling of being towed into something she was going to regret.

Underhowle: she didn’t know what to expect. The village, though still in Herefordshire and close to the most expensive curves of the Wye Valley, was also on the fringe of the Forest of Dean, the less affluent part of rural Gloucestershire – former mining area, high unemployment, a fair bit of dereliction. It wasn’t only the River Severn that separated the Forest from the Cotswolds, and it probably wasn’t only the Wye separating Underhowle from the posher parts of South Herefordshire.

Bliss dropped back to take a call on his mobile. ‘Yeh.’ Then he listened for a while. ‘So that bears out? Good, good…’

The trees dwindled, lights appeared.

‘Lovely job. Ta very much, George.’

Bliss snapped his phone shut, dropped it into his jacket pocket and quietly punched his left palm with his right fist. Fergus Young glanced back at him sharply. Merrily wondered if Bliss had been given the post-mortem