Blood Brotherhood (13 page)

‘Quite,' said Ernest Clayton, mentally adding ‘declined into the vale of years!'

‘But he was very much knotted up inside, don't you think, which made him seem much older. He was inhibited, I think — he never
gave.
We don't have young people like that in Liverpool!'

‘You had conversation with him, then, did you?'

Philip Lambton did not relax the angelic openness of his expression.

‘Only what we had in public — in our get-togethers. He hardly encouraged one to embark on private confidences. I've tried to talk to some of the other younger brothers, when I've met them around the place, but I haven't got very far. They all seem very reserved. None of them seems very curious about the outside world.'

‘It is, after all, what they came here to get away from,' said Ernest Clayton.

• • •

Randi Paulsen, of course, knew all about Inspector Plunkett before she went for her interview. Nobody felt the need to keep quiet about the oddity of their interviews with him, and, in any case, nothing escaped Randi. No hi-fi enthusiast had an ear better trained to pick up feathery shades of sound that lesser ears might pass over; no naturalist had an eye more used to observing the tiniest movement in the undergrowth. In earlier times Randi would have made a splendid police spy. As it was, her superiors in the Church were delighted with her zeal.

So Randi, in her quick way, had spotted a fellow zealot, and rather expected to enjoy herself. She had, in fact, tentatively mapped out the interview in advance, and when Plunkett said (leaning forward with a show of fellow feeling that at any other time she would have poured her glacial smile over), ‘What do you make of all this, then?', she knew exactly how she should reply.

‘Well, of course, I am only a guest here,' she said, her thin lips pursing up, ‘and it wouldn't be right for me to express an opinion openly, but I must say it's Not What I'm Used To!'

‘I'll bet,' said Inspector Plunkett. ‘Do you know what I found in this drawer here? A rosary! Think of that. Eh? Doesn't it make you sick?'

The Paulsen lips pursed still closer together: ‘I must
say, I'd always thought of the English as a
Protestant
people,' she said.

‘There it is, you see,' said Chief Inspector Plunkett, leaning still further forward. ‘We're being taken over, that's the point. That's what nobody realizes.'

Though the Inspector was so unpleasantly close, Randi Paulsen's body did not gain further accretions of stiffness, as might have been expected. Indeed, she decidedly relaxed, and prepared to enjoy a lengthy swapping of bigotries.

T
HE
B
ISHOP OF
Peckham had had heart put into him in the course of the day, and when he finally went in to talk to the Grand Inquisitor, at about half past twelve, he was quite his normal self — avuncular, cheery within limits, but with a definite surface authority. It was thus he behaved on parish visitations. It went down very well with the smaller suburban or country congregations, who otherwise were inclined to be suspicious of so controversial and much-televised a bishop.

It is difficult to say what manner would have brought out the best in Inspector Plunkett. Certain it is that this episcopal manner did not. As the Bishop eased himself down into the comfortable visitor's chair, mopped his brow, and jovially said: ‘Dreadful business, this, dreadful,' the submerged sneer on Plunkett's face relaxed not one iota. He was, it seemed, a man whose soul of steel could not be softened by matiness. And when the Bishop said: ‘Rely on me for any help I can give,' Plunkett merely replied: ‘I suppose you think you're out of it?'

‘I beg your pardon?' said the Bishop.

‘I suppose you think you're out of the running, eh? — because you're a bishop.'

‘Not at all, not at — '

‘Because you're not. Not by any means. Bishops don't cut any ice with me. Nor does any of this paraphernalia — robes, sandals, rosaries, crucifixes. No — they don't cut any ice with me.'

The Bishop, uncertain of his wisest approach, made a cat's cradle of his fingertips, and maintained a polite silence.
His attitude, however, seemed only to make Plunkett more aggressive.

‘And do you know why it doesn't cut any ice? Do you know why it makes me sick to the stomach? Eh? Because it's popery, that's what it is. Popery. We got rid of popery in this country four centuries ago, and now it comes creeping and crawling back in again, using the Church of so-called England as the back door. If I had my way you'd be chased out of the country — put on the next plane for Rome, where you belong.'

He threw himself back in his chair, and lit a cigarette, almost gasping with eagerness. The Bishop, confronted with the sort of passion he had hardly seen among his co-religionists for years, felt a tinge of fear. Clayton was right. This man was on the edge of insanity. On the other hand, before anything could be done, the interview had to be got through, in as dignified a manner as possible.

‘You're quite wrong if you think I expect special treatment,' he said, adding urbanely: ‘I've known bishops do some very extraordinary things. You're quite right to suspect me.'

‘I suspect everyone in your group.'

‘Quite, quite — it's your duty to. No doubt Father Anselm will have told you that I was asleep in my bedroom when he came to inform me of the murder?'

‘Oh, he told me. Whether you
were
asleep or not, we don't know, do we? Whether he was telling the truth or not, we don't know, do we? For all I know, you may be in this together. In other words, there may be criminal collusion.'

‘Yes, yes,' said the Bishop, sighing. ‘I see it must be very difficult to know who to believe.'

‘Your real name,' said Inspector Plunkett, leaning forward with a hideous, thirsty expression on his face, as if he were accusing the Bishop of going under an alias, ‘is Henry Caradyce Forde, isn't it?'

‘Er-yes.'

‘You write —
books,
don't you?' The word was ejaculated as if it were a strand of tough steak stuck between his teeth. ‘I've read about them, haven't I? Modern books, I believe, isn't that right?' He paused dramatically. ‘Heretical books, I'd call them — blasphemous books. Sacrilegious. It's men like you that destroy people's faith!'

For the first time in his life the Bishop regretted the widespread publicity which had been given to his radical reinterpretations of the basic truths of Christianity.

• • •

On her way down to lunch Bente Frøystad met up with Randi Paulsen in the corridor outside their bedrooms.

‘How did it go?' she asked. ‘Was he as crazy with you as with the rest of us?'

Randi was feeling so pleased with herself at the way the interview had gone that she had not prepared herself for such a question.

‘He certainly seemed very interested in spiritual matters,' she said primly, and pulling open the door she went into her room.

• • •

Lunch was not a happy meal. It was not the food that was the cause: it was excellent plain fare as usual, showing that murder had not disturbed the routine of the kitchen. All ate hungrily, showing that murder did not upset the digestive processes either. Ernest Clayton observed that down in the body of the Great Hall the brothers were doing likewise, and, against the usages of the Community, talking among themselves — eagerly, almost excitedly, like birds about to migrate.

It was the presence of the head of the order which cast a blight over High Table. To begin with it had seemed as if his purpose in coming among them (which he had avoided as much as possible over the last two days) was to reassure them, and restore something of the holy calm of St Botolph's to the atmosphere. So that, though the presence of the ladies still seemed to affect him disagreeably,
and though he cast a particularly polar glance in the direction of Bente Frøystad (glowing with vitality and charm, and not bothering with too much simulated grief for the dear departed brother), still, he attempted at the beginning to establish a restful, mournful atmosphere over the table.

But the talk turned to murder, as it could hardly fail to do, and Father Anselm — lacking the human touch that would have told him that this was something he had not had an earthly chance of stopping — retreated into significant silence.

‘One thing I would like to know,' said Ernest Clayton, sitting two places away from Father Anselm, and making unavailing attempts to draw him into the conversation, ‘is when the Bishop of Mitabezi went out to — do what he did.'

‘Why is that?' asked Bente Frøystad.

‘Because,' said Clayton meaningfully, ‘if it was, say, midnight, that would mean that the main door was unlocked from then until about two-thirty, when the Bishop was seen coming back into the main building by Father Anselm here, and the Bishop.'

If Father Anselm was dismayed to hear his theory concerning the limits on who could be suspected coming under question, he gave no sign, merely gazing at his plate with an expression of distaste on his face, as if he was wondering whether it was the lamb slaughtered by Mitabezi that he was now eating.

‘So you mean— ' said Stewart Phipps, his ferrety eyes aglow.

‘That is the time anyone could have come in and killed Brother Dominic. I mean, for example, anyone from outside the Community — for the walls are mere child's play — or any of the brothers, if it is possible to get out of their wing at night.'

He looked again towards Father Anselm, who looked straight ahead of him to the empty seat at the other end of the table, usually occupied by the Bishop of Peckham,
and gave no sign of having heard. He was clearly too wily a fox to be drawn by such manoeuvres.

‘So you mean,' said Randi Paulsen, leaning forwards, and genuinely interested, ‘that the murderer might be — just to take an example — a thief from outside?'

‘Yes, indeed. The plate in the chapel certainly looks worth anyone's attention. Then again, it could be someone connected with Brother Dominic's past life.'

Ernest Clayton noticed that Simeon Fleishman seemed about to say something, and then stopped. So he went on: ‘All this is dependent on times, of course.' He determined that he would have to take the battle into Father Anselm's country. ‘What time was it, Father, that you went into Brother Dominic's room?'

There was a long pause. It was apparent to everyone present that Father Anselm resented even so simple and factual a question as
lèse-sainteté,
an impertinent questioning of one who should be beyond trivialities of that kind. There were storm-clouds over the snow. Finally, however, he turned his fathomless eyes in Ernest Clayton's direction and said: ‘About ten minutes to two.'

The assembled delegates waited with baited breath to see if the Reverend Clayton dared to ask the next question. The inevitability of that question had been perceived even by Simeon P. Fleishman. Ernest Clayton speared a boiled potato, and said:

‘Why did you go to his room at that time of night?'

The silence at High Table was like Frogmore mausoleum waiting for a visit from Prince Albert's relict. From the body of the hall came the whispered chatter of the brothers, like the voices of the distant world outside.

‘That is a matter,' said Father Anselm, with simulated calm, ‘that I am quite willing to discuss with the proper authorities, should they consider it of importance. You would hardly expect me to discuss it at this time with you.'

Once into deep water, Ernest Clayton decided he had to swim onward and outward. ‘It is because the proper
authorities seem disinclined to ask the obvious questions that I feel they have to be asked by someone,' he said.

‘Then you will pardon me if I doubt whether you are the person,' said Father Anselm, pushing back his chair. ‘I have no doubt you are asking these questions as part of some sort of childish game, and I decline to have anything to do with it.' He stood up, towering over them, looking coldly wrathful. ‘I have business of more importance to attend to.'

And he stalked the length of the Great Hall, his robe billowing against his lanky body as if in an angry wind. As he went past the lower table, voices were stifled and eyes were lowered, and even after he disappeared into the gloom of the cloisters the brothers seemed to have lost the urge to break their silence.

Not so High Table, which suddenly found they had a great deal to say to each other.

• • •

‘You realize it's people like you who rob ordinary men and women of their faith, don't you?' said Plunkett, stabbing the cosy, episcopal form of the Bishop of Peckham with his hat-pin eyes. ‘Do you realize when I was a boy this was a Christian country? Eh? What is it now? A paradise for pimps and druggies, that's what it is. A haven for rotten Hindus and Moslems, buying our churches for their filthy rituals, shovelling their poisonous foods into our bellies, living off our welfare state. What do you feel like when you walk through the streets of London? Eh? I'd never seen a darkie till I was twenty. Now they're teeming everywhere, I can hardly bear to walk down the street it's so bad. We're being overrun by lesser breeds without the law!'

Thus far the Bishop had been holding his own pretty well. He was used to dealing with fundamentalists, and he had been firm, dignified and (in so far as it was possible to be in such a ludicrous situation) reasonable. As Plunkett swerved crazily off on to new pastures, and he found himself
being held personally responsible for the entire process of coloured immigration, a realization came to him that any pretence at rational conversation with a man in his state of mind was out of the question. A great wave of weariness swept over him. At any moment now, he foresaw, the River Tiber would be flowing with much blood.