The Smile of a Ghost

On the way back, in Mumford’s car, coming down from Leominster towards the Ledwardine turning, Merrily said, ‘I did a brief house blessing, no fuss, a prayer for Robbie to be at rest, and the Lord’s Prayer.’

‘She even realize what you were doing?’

‘She’s not that far gone, Andy. Although I don’t think she quite got the point that I was a priest. Hard to say. Erm… look, I’m going to talk to the Bishop, OK? I mean, she asked for him, right?’

‘All that was…’ Mumford looked embarrassed. ‘They both knew him quite well, the Bishop, Mr Dunmore, back when they had the paper shop. Hardly ever went to church, mind, certainly not the ole man, but it didn’t seem to bother him. But, hell, he’s Bishop of Hereford now. We can’t just get the Bishop of Hereford to an old woman who—’

‘What… like, if it was the dowager Lady Mumford it wouldn’t be a problem? Of course we can get him. You got me — I mean you were concerned enough to think it might be something we could help with.’

‘Wish I’d never bothered. The ole man, he don’t give a toss.’

‘He’s not making her feel any better, is he? Do you think he even notices?’

‘Mrs Watkins, the fact is he’s been treating her like she’s daft for half a century.’

A stray spatter of rain landed on the windscreen. Merrily took a breath.

‘Well, I’m not sure she is.’

‘What’s that mean?’ He almost turned at the wheel, but the old Mumford set in and he kept on looking at the road.

‘It’s a feeling. Based on this and that. Who’s Marion?’

‘Who?’

‘Did Robbie have a girlfriend?’

‘Too shy.’

‘That’s what your mother said. But there was an unfinished message on a postcard. In an envelope in Robbie’s sketch pad. Begging someone called Marion to meet him at the castle. He said it was their special place. He said he was imagining them holding hands.’

‘Written by Robbie?’

‘He hadn’t signed it yet, but the handwriting matched the titles he’d put on some of the drawings. Also, was he having a bad time at home?’

‘Not according to his mother, but that don’t mean a thing. If I had a home like his, I’d’ve been having a bad time.’

‘Perhaps you should read the card,’ Merrily said. ‘I put it back in the sketch pad, next to a rather strange drawing.’

‘Strange how?’

‘Difficult to explain.’

Cole Hill came up in the windscreen, and the church steeple, and rain came on for real. Two o’clock in the afternoon, and it felt like dusk.

‘Marion,’ Mumford said. ‘Don’t mean a thing. You ask the ole girl?’

‘I didn’t mention it. She was already upset, so I just did the prayers.’

‘She seemed calmer.’

‘Final point,’ Merrily said. ‘The mirror turned to the wall.’

‘Couldn’t fail to notice that, could you?’

‘I thought it was a picture, so I had a quick look while she was in the loo — thinking maybe it was a picture of the castle or something.’

‘Mirror.’ Mumford sighed. ‘Dad wouldn’t let her take it down. Nothing to straighten his tie in.’

‘I’m not happy with this, Andy.’

‘No,’ Mumford said.

Sermons: every week another one hanging around your neck like a penance, supporting the traditional assumption, from the days when the priest was the only person in the village who could read, that you could stand up there in the pulpit having universal truths channelled through you, when all you really had were questions.

An hour after Merrily got back to the vicarage, the computer in the scullery was still switched off, Ethel the cat curled up in the tray next to it. On the sermon pad she’d scrawled a number of questions, including: old people — why have we stopped listening to them?

Maybe, one day, something unexpectedly profound would get pushed between the lines, a surprise parcel in the spiritual letter box. One day.

The phone rang.

‘Merrily, this is Sian. Just a very quick call. Nigel and I had lunch — apparently, you were late with your sermon.’

‘Well, I always like to leave it till the last minute. Keeps it fresh, like… like a salad.’

God, why does this woman always make me talk bollocks?

‘Anyway, Nigel was impressed with your handling of a rather difficult situation.’

Huh?

‘Inevitably, when people we’ve known for years, like ex-Sergeant Mumford, are involved, we feel we have to go through the motions, don’t we? But I do think this case underlines the usefulness of having someone like Nigel who can confirm our own suspicions with some authority.’

‘Suspicions?’

‘He tells me he’s already given ex-Sergeant Mumford his own initial assessment, along with suggestions on how it should be followed up with his mother’s GP as early as possible next week. He’s also going to write up a short report for Sophie to keep on our database. And I think that concludes our involvement.’

‘That’s what you think, is it?’

‘Except, of course, as a discussion point amongst ourselves. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I have to say there’s a danger that, by our very existence, we may, ahm, sometimes be actively encouraging people to inflate their feelings of paranoia or persecution, or their reactions to sudden and shocking bereavement, into something altogether more fanciful.’

By our very existence?

‘You’re suggesting we shouldn’t exist?’

Sian laughed. ‘Essentially, I’m merely saying that we — the Deliverance Ministry — if we are to lose the unsavoury aura of medievalism, should not be seen to bolster people’s protective fantasies. Encouraging them to deny personal responsibility by projecting it into something separate and amorphous over which they have no control. I’ll put this on the agenda for our next meeting, shall I?’

‘Erm…’

‘But thank you, all the same, for going to Ludlow with Nigel — although I gather he did the driving.’

‘Evidently.’ Merrily felt rage clogging her chest. ‘Sian, are we becoming a fu— focus group?

‘That’s becoming a derogatory term, I think.’

‘Because focus groups appear to be designed to obliterate the individual intuition by which something as inexact as Deliverance often stands or falls.’

‘One viewpoint, certainly,’ Sian said. ‘We could discuss that issue, also.’

Afterwards, Merrily sat watching the wind in the apple trees.

She folded up the pad and rang the Bishop at the palace behind Hereford Cathedral. Answering machine. She left a message asking what he was doing tonight, anticipating his groans, but this was important, even if she wasn’t sure exactly why. Intuition, maybe.

She rang Andy Mumford on his mobile.

‘Hold on one minute,’ Mumford said, and she heard him apologizing to someone else, and then he came back with a different acoustic — outside. ‘I was in with Mr Osman. The witness. Feller who saw Robbie fall?’

‘You went back to Ludlow?’

‘En’t far.’

‘Oh God, what are we doing, Andy?’

‘Think I’ve found a woman,’ Mumford said. ‘Mabbe two.’