The Fabric of Sin

‘The word was never used.’

‘But the person who gave you the advice …’

‘Was someone who had given me good advice on many occasions, let’s not forget that.’

‘Archdeacon Neale.’

‘It was felt that you were going too far into areas that weren’t essential to what you were being asked to do.’

‘What, you mean God’s work?’

‘It …’ Dunmore gritted his teeth. ‘You always go too bloody deep, Merrily. Anybody else, it would be in and out, a quick blessing, a Requiem. You had to ask questions, even getting Jane to …’

‘What?’

‘Ask questions. At school.’

‘How would you …?’ Merrily thought about it. ‘The history teacher? Robbie Williams?’

‘Richard Williams.’

‘On the square?’

Bernie sighed.

‘Knight Templar, perhaps?’

‘He’s a medieval historian, Merrily.’

‘Bloody hell, Bernie, this is worse than CCTV. Do you know Sycharth Gwilym?’

‘Not personally. I know he’s become a prime mover in this city, fingers in pies.’

‘But Mervyn Neale knows him, presumably.’

‘Yes.’

‘Knight Templar?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘Have you come across Lord Stourport?’

‘No. Lapsed. I believe. Look, Merrily, it doesn’t mean they’re all corrupt. It’s done a lot of good. Straightened out men whose whole lives might have been selfish and pointless.’

‘Well, not for me to judge. But, just to put you in the picture, Bernie, over thirty years ago Stourport and Gwilym were both involved in pseudo-Templar rites at the Master House in which women were abused. One of them has never been seen again. She was the mother of Fuchsia Mary Linden, found dead on the railway after her friend was murdered. Oh, and it seems likely that Stourport or Gwilym was the father.’

‘God …’

‘Or possibly a third man who called himself Mat Phobe, who Stourport says is dead. I’ve just been to talk to Sycharth Gwilym, who I’d say is suffering from a severe case of censored-memory syndrome.’

‘What would you expect?’

‘There’s also been … another incident. Someone very nearly killed.’

‘Who?’

‘You wouldn’t know her. And if one of them knew another had committed a murder, would he keep quiet?’

‘I …’

‘Bernie …’ Merrily looked at Bernie Dunmore hard, through the dense, sacred dimness of the chantry. ‘I can’t believe this — you’re sweating.’

‘Don’t … don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t. I cannot rationally explain it. I’m going to retire next year, and I shall leave Herefordshire.’ He had his hands clasped on his knees; he stared down at them. ‘The call I made to you yesterday morning. Forget it. It never happened. Do what you have to.’

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I couldn’t prove anything — I don’t know the half of it. Not yet, anyway.’

‘If it’s a matter for the police, go to the police.’

‘Can’t. Not yet. Bernie, how important — say to the Masonic Knights Templar — would it be to uncover some long-hidden secret at Garway, connected to the original Templars? Big kudos there?’

‘That’s not a question I can answer. Probably be up to the individual.’

‘I’m told some Masons have got quite obsessed over the years about Garway.’

‘Some men, it rather takes them over, yes.’

‘Especially now? The day after tomorrow being the seven hundredth anniversary of the suppression of the Templars. Saturday the thirteenth.’

‘Friday.’

‘It was Friday, when it happened. Friday the thirteenth, which—’

‘I meant at Garway. The service at Garway’s tomorrow.’

‘Is it?’

‘Been … quite a problem for us, Merrily. For me. The C of E is obviously in two minds about the Templars. We have their churches, but we weren’t the ones who persecuted them.’

‘We probably would’ve done, though, if we’d existed at the time.’

‘You know the Vatican’s being asked to apologize?’

‘For the suppression? No, I didn’t.’

‘Some of the modern Knights Templar societies are calling for it. Doesn’t affect us, one way or another, but holding memorial services is a bit iffy, politically. Churches, as you know, have two different roles. Places of worship and historic buildings open for tourism.’

‘So we show the tourists the Templar coffin lids and the remains of the circular nave … but as for including the Templars — Baphomet and all — in a religious service …’

‘Dicey. Very dicey. And, officially, I should have said no.’

‘Teddy Murray doesn’t seem too enthusiastic either.’

The Bishop smiled through the dull sheen of sweat.

‘You really don’t know the half of it, do you?’

Mrs Morningwood was feeling her throat through the silk scarf. Her throat where the marks were.

Jane said, ‘You look like Mum looked … when she came out of that house.’

Roscoe looked up at Mrs Morningwood, whimpering. She clasped his head to her lower thigh.

‘I’m going to make some tea,’ Jane said. ‘Or can I get you a brandy?’

‘What house?’

‘Well, the Master House.’ Jane filled the kettle. ‘You remember … No, you don’t, you’d gone, you’d left us to it. You said Roscoe wouldn’t go in. You said you always trusted the dog.’

‘I do.’

Mrs Morningwood looked down at Roscoe; he was panting. It was like they were tuned to the same wavelength, the woman and the dog, picking up messages that nobody else could hear.

‘Jane, will you tell me about this?’

‘I’m sorry, I thought Mum must’ve told you. Maybe I should keep quiet.’

‘Up to you, Jane.’

Jane walked to the window, looking out at the orchard, at the last red apples near the tops of the highest trees.

‘She looked like death. Like she’d just seen … I dunno, Lol in a porno video or something.’ Jane turned to face Mrs Morningwood. ‘She always insists she’s not psychic, maybe because she doesn’t like to believe anyone else is.’

‘Did she tell you what happened?’

‘Oh yeah. It was when she found the green man. Which is actually Baphomet. But it’s the same thing — Baphomet, Pan, the green man … the male thing in nature.’

‘This is in the church?’

‘No, no …. in the house.’

‘That’s what I thought you meant.’

‘It’s in the fireplace. Behind the inglenook. Someone’s put a green man, or Baphomet, on the wall inside the inglenook where nobody would normally see it. You didn’t know about it?’

‘Is it old?’