The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

contrast — no collar, no shirt. Only a cross, so discreet it could even be an item of jewellery. And you’re not wearing too much make-up or a short skirt, either, so… You’re married?’

‘Widowed, for some years. There is… a man.’

‘Oh.’ His eyes went into a squint. The cat purred, the coffeepot burbled on the stove.

‘He’s a musician. He helps out at a recording studio in the Frome Valley. We see each other… not as often as we’d like, and I’m not sure what to do about that.’

‘Your people know about him? In the parish?’ His gut pushed out comfortably, like a flour sack, and the cat nestled into it.

‘Some must’ve guessed by now. He used to live in the village. We thought there might be an opportunity for him to move back, but it wasn’t to be.’

Wasn’t to be — had she conveyed some sense of foreboding in that phrase? Defensive now; this man could pluck away your secrets like specks of fluff.

‘What do your prayers tell you about this relationship?’ Jeavons asked.

‘I feel it’s the right thing. At this moment.’

Jeavons nodded. There was a movement outside the window — a cock pheasant on the lawn. Merrily blinked. There was something about the light in here, the white clarity of everything, after the dimness of the rest of the cottage. It was like snow-light; everything was lit. She had the curious feeling of emerging from an initiation.

She said slowly, feeling the words drawn out of her, ‘Martin Israel, in his book on exorcism, says that some degree of psychic ability is probably necessary to do this job — Deliverance.’

‘And you think you don’t have what’s necessary?’ Jeavons said.

‘How did you know about me and the word “pious”?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sophie didn’t let it slip that “pious” was my most unfavourite word in the dictionary and that I have a fear of—?’

‘Sophie?’

‘Sophie Hill. The Bishop of Hereford’s lay secretary.’

‘Ah. A lady of evident discretion and diplomacy. No, she didn’t tell me that. But then she wouldn’t, would she? You, on the other hand…’ Canon Jeavons gripped the cat, and the cat purred fiercely. ‘Merrilee, you’re an open person. Aspects of you stand out as if you carrying a placard — it’s in your manner, the way you dress, that big old Volvo you drive. No doubt you’re capable of considerable discretion when it comes to the affairs of others, but about yourself… you drop sizeable clues, you know?’

‘The word “pious”…’

Jeavons rocked back, laughing. ‘You ain’t gonna let this go, are you? Listen, it dropped into my mind. Things do that sometimes. If we take the time to absorb what people are telling us about themselves, directly and indirectly, and we are in a suitable state of relaxation — a contemplative state — then the clues come together and a feeling or a word sometimes drops into our minds, just like… like a packet out of a cigarette machine.’

She frowned. ‘You can also see the nicotine on my teeth?’

‘Your teeth are like pearls.’

‘And it’s always right, is it, this thing that drops into your mind?’

‘Hell, no. Sometimes it’s so far out I feel like a horse’s ass. But when you get to my age, time’s too precious to keep it to yourself and sit and wonder. This, as it happens, is at the heart of spiritual healing: taking the time to know people, making small deductions. How many doctors have the time or the patience to do that now — talking and considering and leaving time for small leaps of inspiration. No, it’s, “Take two of these three times a day”, or, “I’ll make you an appointment to see a consultant… send the next one in on your way out.” One time, minor ailments were resolved without the need for pills, because pills were expensive and time was cheap. And doctors — country doctors, particularly — would often be spiritual people, capable of insight. From insight to inspiration is only a small leap, which may be divinely assisted. Are you following my reasoning?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Let’s have some of this coffee.’ He eased himself around the cat and stood up.

Merrily said, ‘What happened to your wife?’

He raised an eyebrow, as if she’d turned the tables on him.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—’

‘God would not permit me to heal her.’ Jeavons lifted the coffeepot from the stove. ‘She died five years ago, around the time they wanted to groom me for bishop. Maybe if she lived I’d have gone for that, if only to see Catherine in a palace. Instead, a row. I said to them, You don’t know a thing about me, you just want me ’cause purple and black go so nice together in New Labour Britain. I said, I’m going away instead. I want to find out for myself why my wife was not healed.’

‘And did you?’

‘Maybe. Haw, you’re suspicious of me now. You thinking I’m some kind of old-time shaman out of a travelling medicine show. We should start again. Tell me what you want to know.’

‘You know what I want. I was appointed as Deliverance consultant for the Diocese of Hereford. Suddenly, whichever way I turn, I’m finding the word “deliverance” linked with the word “healing”.’

‘And that would naturally scare you. It scares you like “pious”. Because it would mean people start to see you as wonder-woman.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Difficult,’ Jeavons said.

‘The names,’ Ben said. ‘Consider the names.’

Driving back into town, he seemed re-energized, setting out his case for Arthur Conan Doyle basing The Hound of the Baskervilles on what had happened in Kington, talking about the way the book and this area echoed each other in unexpected ways.

And the real clincher: the remarkable coincidence of names.

‘Key characters in the novel… look at the names. Baskerville — obviously, a prominent family in this area, as we’ve established. But then the others — Mortimer. Dr Mortimer is the local GP, the man who first consults Sherlock Holmes over the case. Now Mortimer — as Jane knows — is probably the most significant name in the middle- Marches. This was the core domain of the Mortimer dynasty of Norman barons. Commemorated in place names like Mortimer’s Cross, which is just a few miles from here, along the Border.’

Antony Largo said nothing.

‘All right,’ Ben said, ‘you might argue that’s not such an uncommon name. But what about Stapleton? Stapleton, the naturalist who turns out to know rather more about hounds than butterflies. Stapleton, Jane. Tell him where Stapleton is.’

‘Oh…’ Jane recalled a fragment of ruined castle on a hill, a farm, a few cottages. ‘It’s a hamlet. Just outside Presteigne. That’s right on the Border, too, isn’t it? Presteigne’s in Wales, Stapleton’s in England — just.’

‘Thank you, Jane.’ Ben nodded happily. ‘Baskerville, Mortimer, Stapleton. Key names strung out along the mid-Border. It could be coincidence, but would Holmes himself have bought that? I really don’t think so. Doyle’s delicately encoding the real history, the actual location of The Hound of the Baskervilles.’

Jane was impressed, but Antony said, ‘So what about the Cabell family of Devon? What about Sir Richard Cabell who’s supposed to’ve followed a spooky hound across the moor on his black mare after making a pact with the Devil?’

‘So?’

‘That story fits pretty damn well, and we know for a fact that Doyle went to Devonshire to research the terrain. We even know which hotel he stayed at.’

‘And?’

‘See, I found all this on the Net, very easily. Arthur went down to Dartmoor with his golfing pal, Fletcher Robinson, a Devonian. In fact, Robinson himself was said to have come up with the story — for which Doyle insisted on giving him a credit in the Strand Magazine, which serialized his stuff. Am I right?’

‘I’m not disputing that, Antony.’ Ben shook the wheel lightly. ‘However — and was