been told, for consideration by the panel before any action is taken. Like I said earlier, I shouldn’t even have come tonight without clearing it with them.’
‘It’s preposterous, Merrily.’
‘It’s what we agreed.’
‘What
In theory he could, as Bishop, overrule any of it. In practice, it would be impossible without dispensing with the panel and making lifetime enemies of Sian and Saltash, and the Dean who had brokered the deal. She left all this unsaid, but it was drifting between them as Leominster appeared over to the right, an island of lights.
The Bishop sighed.
‘Merrily, let’s not fool ourselves. Look at me: overweight, over sixty and not up to much in the pulpit. I’ve never been under any illusions. I’m a caretaker here and I suspect my time’s already running out.’
‘Come on, Bernie, people like you.’
‘Like? What’s that got to do with it? There are those who could have me quietly retired in no time at all, if they chose to whisper in the right ears. And I rather suspect Ms Callaghan-Clarke’s one of the potential whisperers.’
‘You think Sian wants you out?’
‘I don’t know what I think. Hereford’s not the most exalted of dioceses, and nicely out on a limb. Good place for a woman to have a chance at the helm, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sian Callaghan-Clarke?’ Was that the wheel shaking, or her hands? ‘Bishop of Hereford?’
‘I’m simply saying it’s a possibility that’s occurred to me, that’s all. May be years off, yet. Then again…’
‘Christ,’ Merrily said.
‘And there’s… something else. I’m not supposed to tell you this yet, but… the Archdeacon came to see me this afternoon. You know Jeff Kimball’s moving to St John’s at Worcester, leaving a major vacancy at Dilwyn?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, he is. And with Archie Menzies retiring in the autumn, your area of north Herefordshire’s going to be stretched. Inevitably, the Archdeacon’s looking at the possibility of a shake-up — introduction of a collaborative ministry in that area: rector, team vicar, et cetera. And, as all this would be happening very close to the Ledwardine parish boundary, it’s been suggested that Ledwardine should be included in the review.’
‘Oh.’
Her hands slackened on the wheel. She could see where this was going. Only a matter of time.
‘And, of course, someone pointed out that you had only one parish,’ the Bishop said.
‘Inevitably.’
‘Something of a rarity these days, you will admit.’
‘Who, er… pointed that out?’
‘No idea, but I expect you could make a solid guess. My opinion, as I’ve frequently stated, is that, with an expanding Deliverance department to run, one parish is quite ample, and I do know you’re working seven days most weeks. But when I pointed this out to the Archdeacon, he said it had been suggested to him that perhaps Deliverance was something that, ah, expanded according to the time and the manpower — or, indeed, womanpower — available.’
‘The Archdeacon’s been got at.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Someone wants me to have a bunch of extra parishes. Thus leaving very little time for Deliverance work.’
‘Draw your own conclusions. The thinking, I would guess, is that Deliverance would itself then become something of a team-ministry.’
‘And the post of Diocesan Exorcist — under whatever title?’
‘Would disappear.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s neither here nor there.’ Merrily kept her eyes on the road. ‘Except that the end result would probably be that Deliverance itself — as a specialist field — would eventually also disappear.’
‘I can see that happening, yes,’ the Bishop said. ‘It’s a political thing, isn’t it?’
They hit the Leominster bypass, picking up speed and extra rattle. The Bishop seemed tired, almost defeated. Merrily wondered how close he was to pre-empting attempts to remove him while a suitable property in Ludlow was still within his price range.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to tell you tonight.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘I may be misinterpreting it.’
‘I don’t think you are. It explains a lot. Well…’
‘Quite.’
‘If I fight it, it’s going to look like pure self-interest, extreme selfishness — some ministers struggling to support seven parishes, while I’m poncing around with a flask of holy water.’
‘There’s so much resentment in the Church now. I’ll hold out against it, of course…’
‘You can’t. I wouldn’t expect you to. Anyway… let’s see what happens. Meanwhile, there’s the Ludlow situation to sort out.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you think you should take it to the Deliverance Panel, do it. If they say leave it alone, leave it alone.’
The parish church of St Mary, Hope-under-Dinmore, rose up on the left, separated from its parish by the fast road. Our Lady of the Bypass. Merrily slowed; this stretch had a bad record for deaths.
‘Stuff them,’ Merrily said. ‘I’ll do it. But if anything rebounds on George I won’t try to catch it first, OK?’
‘Of course not. Merrily, look, I’ve been thinking about this whole situation. Why don’t you take a week or ten days off from the parish — get Dennis Beckett in as locum. Then you can look into the situation and you won’t be responsible to anybody, will you? You won’t be there. You’ll be working… what’s the word?… not plain clothes?’
‘Undercover?’
‘That’s it. Afterwards, you produce a report for me, and I inform anyone who complains that this seemed to me to be the best way of dealing with a delicate and rather nebulous situation.’
‘Bernie, have you really thought this through?’
‘And it’s not a witch-hunt, Merrily, it’s pastoral care. It’s very clear that this woman needs help. Women don’t behave in this way because they’re happy and fulfilled. They don’t leave used sanitary towels down the back of a fifteenth-century misericord, they—’
She turned to him. ‘I don’t remember him telling us that.’
‘He didn’t. He got halfway and became embarrassed. The incidents — it happened three times in successive, ah, months — were mentioned as a whimsical footnote in a report on church maintenance I was obliged to read.’
‘That’s weird, Bernie.’ She followed a pale grey ribbon of road up the long hill towards Hereford. ‘Not to say faintly ridiculous.’
‘Play it by ear. Follow your conscience.’ The Bishop loosened his seat belt, settled back with his hands folded on his stomach. ‘Do have a cigarette, Merrily, if you want.’
‘You’re a true man of God, Bernie,’ Merrily said.
Merrily didn’t have the cigarette until she’d dropped Bernie Dunmore at the Bishop’s Palace, behind Hereford Cathedral. It was about nine-thirty p.m., a few people about. She parked for a few minutes on the corner of Broad Street and King Street, opposite the cathedral green, took the Silk Cut from her bag and thought about Belladonna and Marion de la Bruyere.
About ghosts.
In the 1930s, a cowled, monkish figure had been repeatedly seen in the cathedral close. Seen initially by policemen. The whole town had been hugely excited, apparently. Excited rather than frightened. As many as two hundred people would gather here on the green, night after night, in the hope of spotting the ghost. Like a football crowd, someone had observed at the time.
Merrily smoked and gazed out at the green and the Cathedral and the soapy spring moonlight splashing
