The Fabric of Sin

ridiculous.

‘What are you doing, exactly?’ Bliss said.

‘Trying to see out of the bloody—’ She sank back in her seat. ‘I’m looking into something connected with the Duchy of Cornwall’s investments in Herefordshire. Would that explain anything?’

A short silence, except for a car engine somewhere and a clanging that became duller. What sounded like Bliss moving away from something to a place of greater safety.

‘That would possibly explain it, yes,’ he said.

‘It’s nothing particularly contentious.’

‘With respect, Merrily, how would you know?’ Bliss paused. ‘You want to explain? Being as we’re old mates and those smart-arsed cloak-and-dagger twats get right up my nasal passages?’

‘Well …’ She thought about it, could see no harm. ‘All right. The Duchy of Cornwall have paid good money out of the Prince’s piggy bank for an old farmhouse which their favourite conservation builder is refusing to work on because his girlfriend says it’s haunted.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Sorry to disappoint. Obviously I’d like to be able to tell you that the vengeful spirit of Princess Diana’s been seen around Highgrove in a—’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘But that’s it, Frannie. That’s the lot. As far as I know.’

‘I see.’

‘You don’t, though, do you? Where’s the threat to national security in that?’

‘Maybe there’s more to it than you know.’

‘I’ve already been thinking along those very lines. These inquiries about me … is that still going on?’

‘I don’t know, Merrily. I’ve been off for a couple of days. I got this from Karen Dowell — now promoted to DS, by the way. They wanted your background, potted biog, any political connections and … Oh, yeh, they wanted to know about little Jane and her widely reported altercation with the Herefordshire Council over the proposed development of Coleman’s Meadow.’

‘Wha—?’

It was like yobs had strolled up and starting rocking the car.

‘Calm down, Merrily, it’s not so unusual. And it would’ve been pointed out by somebody fairly quickly that the kid’s a force of nature, as distinct from a rural terrorist.’

‘It doesn’t matter, it’s just—’ Merrily sat up, dipping into her bag for the Silk Cut packet. ‘The bastards! I mean, you know what else they’ve done, don’t you? Someone’s leaned on the Bishop, so that he’s actually freed me up to … to devote all my attention to a minor issue which, the way it’s shaping up, may not even be Deliverance business.’

‘The Bishop’s told you this himself?’

‘Bishop Dunmore is conveniently away in London until Tuesday.’ She lit a cigarette, opened the window to let out the smoke, which blew back in a blast of wind from Garway Hill, wherever that was from here. ‘Sod this, I’m going home.’

‘You’re on this now?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Where?’

‘Garway Hill.’

‘Be a spectral sheep-shagger, then, would it, Merrily? All right, just remember we haven’t spoken and you know nothing of this. If you need to speak to me, call the mobile. Using your mobile. As distinct from the vicarage landline.’

‘You actually think—?’

‘I’m just being careful.’

‘Bloody hell, Frannie.’

‘Stay cool, Merrily.’

Switching off the phone, she felt hunted, exposed, focused-on … and just tired, brain-dead. Sod it. She took two angry drags on the cigarette and then put it out. Pulled her waterproof jacket from the back seat and walked out into the rain.

A lumpy grey mattress of cloud meant that she couldn’t see the village or the church tower or anything much apart from the wind-combed coarse grass on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. Supposed to be going back to check out the Master House, but what was the point?

As Merrily was leaving the church, Teddy Murray had said, We, ah … we have a room for you, Merrily. I’m not sure what you …

I don’t know, to be honest, Teddy. I don’t live that far away, and I can’t really understand why the Bishop feels the need to inflict me on you.

Oh, I think we both know what that’s about. They want you to put the lid on something … firmly. As regards my interpretive role, I suspect Mervyn Neale might have had a hand in it.

The Archdeacon. Been with the Bishop when the issue was raised by Adam Eastgate.

Mervyn and I have known one another for some time. He refers people to us — people looking for an open-air holiday. Not on a percentage basis, I have to add.

Well, she’d said finally, I have a few things to sort out at home, so maybe I could ring you tomorrow.

Pleasant enough guy, but Merrily had been glad to get away. His interpretive role suggested he’d been appointed by the Archdeacon as her native guide. Useful in some ways, but there was a sense of remote control that she didn’t like.

The rain gusted into her face and drummed on the side of her hood. She let it come, shivering, thinking of the wind that had suddenly arisen when Parkins, the academic in the M. R. James story, had blown, experimentally, on the old whistle he’d found in the remains of the Templar preceptory.

Who is this who is coming?

A figure like wind-blown rags pursuing Parkins along the deserted beach. Making its final, most memorable appearance at night in his room at the Globe Inn. Arising under the sheets of the second bed and standing in front of the bedroom door, with its arms outstretched and its intensely horrible face of crumpled linen.

Although the dust sheets were plastic, you got the idea.

Merrily turned back towards the old Volvo, with the wind behind her.

10 Signposts

Using the mobile from the scullery — this was insane — she called Sophie at home. Sophie’s husband, Andrew, answered, humphed a bit. Andrew, the architect and cathedral widower — they even lived in one of the cloisterish streets behind the close.

‘Merrily.’ Sophie had picked up an extension, Andrew humphing again and hanging up. ‘I was half-expecting you to call this afternoon — the Bishop having suggested, in an email from the Palace this morning, that a preliminary written report might be quite useful.’

‘And you thought, odd — he’s never previously particularly requested a report of any kind on anything relating to deliverance.’

‘Correct.’

It was almost dark, the grey-brown sky melding with the churchyard wall outside the scullery window. Still no rain here. Maybe Garway Hill had its own climate.

‘Well, Sophie, it might all be academic now, anyway.’

Merrily put on the desk lamp and explained in some detail about Huw Owen’s M. R. James revelation. Never any discretion problems here; next to Sophie, the grave was Broadcasting House.