My imagination accelerated. I pictured Lady Starmouth saying to her: ‘My dear, the most frightful thing’s happened – a young clergyman’s found out about you and Alex, and to make matters worse he’s not just any young clergyman – he’s the Archbishop of Canterbury’s spy!’ And I felt I could understand all too clearly why there had been such a long delay before Loretta had come to the morning-room to meet me. As soon as she had seen the name on my card she had feared the worst and paused to work out the best way to defuse the danger. I could almost hear her saying to herself: ‘Charm him and disarm him. Make him think I have nothing to hide.’
Putting a brake on my imagination I reminded myself that still nothing had been proved. Jardine had certainly made a large omission from his narrative, but in the circumstances that was natural; he would never have wanted me to know that he and Loretta had walked deep into the countryside far from all those passing pony-traps. He could still be guilty of nothing worse than a minor indiscretion, but nevertheless my suspicions were now thoroughly roused. I reminded myself that he had been under acute domestic strain in 1918 following the stillborn birth of his child and his wife’s nervous breakdown. I reminded myself that Loretta was an attractive woman who had been deeply in love with him. Was it really possible that Jardine, despite his faith in the concept of platonic friendship, had had no perception of the strong undercurrent of sexuality which must have inevitably permeated their encounters?
I thought not. I was now sure he had known of her feelings long before that September day in 1918 and I was sure too that he must have been strongly tempted to reciprocate them. Yet I was unable to see how I could prove these convictions were true. Loretta had clearly reached the limit of all she was prepared to tell me about the incident, and she was quite shrewd enough to sidestep any attempt I might make at cross-examination.
I thought of Jardine, and suddenly I remembered him stooping to pluck
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
from the bookshelf in his library. Inspiration dawned. I remembered the mystery novels I had read. When a detective wanted to test a theory he was unable to prove, he returned to the scene of the crime and staged a reconstruction.
‘… so the Bishop of London shouted out: “I say to you that the streets of hell are paved with champagne, fast cars and loose women!” whereupon an innocent voice from the audience called back: “O Death, where is thy sting?”’
Loretta shook with laughter. ‘Is that a true story?’
‘If it’s not it ought to be. Look, I’ve just had an idea – that was a large lunch and I fancy some exercise. Would you like to come for a walk with me down by the river?’
‘That sounds an attractive proposition, but unless you want me to get bogged down in the meadows I’ll have to go back to Starmouth Court to change out of these high heels.’
I had anticipated this. ‘We’ll call at the house, then drive to the river and leave the car at the bridge.’
‘The bridge where –’
‘I’m sorry, am I being insensitive? If you’d rather not go near that spot again –’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why make a big deal over a love affair that never happened? Let’s go and wave at another cute little train!’
I was now sure she was bending over backwards to allay my suspicions.
We went outside to my car.
I was not looking forward to meeting Lady Starmouth but to my relief the footman told us she was having a siesta. I thought she would decide I was behaving in a very questionable manner for a clergyman, and I was sure she would be deeply suspicious, even deeply annoyed, by my interest in her guest.
Loretta kept me waiting ten minutes in the morning-room. I was just wondering why it was taking her so long to slip out of her high heels when she reappeared not only in different shoes but in an informal sunfrock with a large matching hat. She looked foreign, exotic. The sunfrock had a neckline which was well within the bounds of decency but which nobody could have described as high.
‘This is the coolest dress I have,’ she said as we stepped outside, and casting me a sympathetic glance she added, ‘It’s a pity you can’t strip off that hot uniform of yours.’
‘What a delectably improper suggestion!’
She laughed. ‘Relax!’ she said. ‘I haven’t forgotten you’re a clergyman!’
‘I’m glad at least one of us remembers.’ We were both laughing by that time but I knew I had to apply an emotional brake. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said abruptly as I held open the door of the car for her. ‘My tongue’s running away with me.’
‘Is that a sin?’
‘No, just a mistake. Like smoking in a clerical collar.’
‘A breach of self-discipline?’
‘Yes.’ I was surprised by her understanding. ‘Exactly.’ I said no more and seconds later we were on our way down the drive. On the main road Loretta said unexpectedly, ‘God’s at the centre of your life too, isn’t He? He doesn’t just fade away when things are going well, as He does with most people. He’s there all the time – and like Alex you
know
He’s there.’
I said obliquely, ‘The sun’s not a mere disc in the sky which you can see whenever you bother to look up. The warmth of the sun permeates the world even on a clouded day, and that’s not mere wishful thinking or sensual illusion. You can see the plants reacting to the warmth. It’s real.’
‘I wouldn’t quarrel with that. But I still think the ability to be religious – to keep God constantly in view – is a gift. It’s like playing the piano well. A lot of people long to be accomplished pianists but if they’ve insufficient talent they fail, no matter how hard they practise and how many lessons they take.’
‘I agree we’re not all born with supreme mystical powers, but on the other hand a certain level of spirituality is within everyone’s reach. It’s a question of … But no,’ I said smiling at her, ‘I really mustn’t lecture you as if you were one of my undergraduates.’
She smiled back. ‘Aren’t you going to try to convert me to Christianity?’
‘The best way to convert someone like you is probably not to adopt an intellectual approach; you’d find the doctrinal arguments mentally stimulating but your soul would remain untouched.’
‘Then how would you go about converting me?’
‘I’d say you’d be more impressed by action than by words. For instance, back in 1918 what was it that impressed you most about Christianity? Was it Dr Jardine talking hypnotically about the Incarnation – or was it Dr Jardine rejecting you in the face of a very great temptation?’
The car was approaching the river. I could see the bridge ahead of us, but as I glanced sideways at Loretta I sensed her thoughts were far away.
‘Christianity did make an impact on me when he ended our friendship,’ she said at last. ‘I thought that all men – real men – ever thought about was chasing money and women. To find a man – a real man – who thought there was more to life than that … Yes, it made me feel I had to try to understand.’
‘But understanding proved elusive?’
‘Not entirely. I see Christianity as a beautiful dream. But that’s what being human’s all about, isn’t it? That’s what sets us apart from the apes. We have beautiful dreams and the finest lives are spent trying to make those dreams come true.’
‘To think of Christianity as a dream is to ignore its reality, although perhaps what you’re really saying is that the finest lives express man’s yearning for transcendent values. That’s real enough – but just listen to me! Trust a theologian to make the nobler aspirations of humanity sound dry as dust!’
We laughed, and driving across the bridge I halted the car on the verge. But then some unexpected impulse made me add: ‘I agree that a lot of men appear to be interested only in money and sex but I think too that a lot of men would secretly like to believe there’s more to life than the materialist’s treadmill. However, society forces them to chase worldly success in order to be esteemed, and then they chase women either to forget how unhappy they are chasing success or because they see women as boosting their value in the eyes of the world.’
‘So all men’s troubles arise from the pursuit of worldly success? That’s an interesting theory, Charles! I wonder if I’m beginning to learn a little about you at last!’
I said lightly: ‘Am I such a mystery?’
‘We’re all mysteries,’ said Loretta. ‘That’s what makes life so fascinating.’
I could not deny it.
We left the car and set out on our walk.
The ground sloped from the road to the river which meandered lazily beneath the bridge, and when we reached the path by the bank I paused to shade my eyes with my hand. On either side of the valley the wooded hills shimmered in a heat-haze and on my left the water sparkled hotly in the brilliant light.
Loretta paused too, and as I saw the stillness of her face I said suddenly, ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’
‘That sounds as if we’re on our way to get married. Yes, sure I’m sure! Let’s exorcize all the past horrors … Do they still perform exorcisms in the Church of England?’
‘Nowadays it’s generally regarded as a somewhat unsavoury superstition.’
‘How odd! Is it wise for the Church to abandon exorcism to laymen?’
‘What laymen?’
‘They’re called psychoanalysts,’ she said drily. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of them. They have this cute little god called Freud and a very well-paid priesthood and the faithful go weekly to worship on couches –’
‘Ever tried it?’
‘Sure. My analyst told me that the reason why I kept trying to marry impossible men was because deep down I didn’t want to get married at all – and after two years of lying on his couch and reviewing my past I came to the reluctant conclusion that he was right.’
‘What extraordinary things go on in America!’
‘Maybe. But the fact remains that the analyst exorcized my demon of despair when I was spiritually sick.’
‘Well, of course the Church provides counselling for the spiritually sick, but
exorcism
! That’s a different matter altogether!’
‘But is it? Isn’t it all one? If no one finds you when you’re spiritually sick, don’t the demons eventually possess you to such an extent that you end up climbing the walls and screaming for help?’
‘But is it really appropriate, in this scientific twentieth century, to call a nervous breakdown demonic possession?’
‘I don’t see why not. Personally I find it a lot easier to believe in demons and the Devil – especially in this scientific twentieth century – than in God and the angels. If the world’s fundamentally evil I’d say the difference between a nervous breakdown and demonic possession is purely a matter of semantics.’
‘I’d deny the world’s fundamentally evil, no matter how prevalent evil may be. I see you have dangerous tendencies,’ I said smiling at her, ‘towards the Gnostic heresy!’
‘The most dangerous tendency I have is to talk too much. Why on earth did I tell you about my analyst? Now you’ll be thinking I’m crazy.’
‘My dear Loretta –’
‘Maybe it’s time I kept quiet for a while.’
The path forked ahead of us, and leaving the river we turned uphill towards the bridge which carried the railway line over a gap in the embankment. I did make attempts to renew the conversation but her replies were monosyllabic, and by the time we reached the bridge we had once more relapsed into silence. Beyond the bridge rose the steep field she had described, the field in which I had picnicked as a boy with my parents and my brother Peter.
‘It’s odd how close the past seems sometimes,’ I said as we paused for breath. Out of respect for the severity of the gradient we had avoided struggling directly uphill and were cutting a diagonal path across the field, but the way was still steep. Ahead of us the spinney, a dark cluster of trees clinging to the hillside, once more stirred my memories; I had retired there to sulk after squabbling with Peter and arousing my father’s irritation. ‘I feel I’ve only to look back now over my shoulder,’ I said, ‘and I’ll see myself as a child long ago on that family picnic.’
She made no reply. She was standing motionless, listening, and as I listened too I heard the distant murmur which had caught her attention.
It was the train.
‘We were further up the hillside last time – nearer the trees – oh, I must get there, I must, I want it to be just the same …’ She dashed forward, I hurried after her and all the time the noise was increasing as the train thundered down the valley towards us.
Below the spinney she halted. We could see the train now. It was approaching from the left, and beyond the railway line, beyond the river, beyond the watermeadows I could see the main road and the miniature cars and the Starmouths’ house on the hill. The train, looking curiously like an over-sized toy against a painted backdrop, roared closer.
‘We must wave!’ cried Loretta. ‘Wave, Charles, wave!’
We waved. The engine-driver saluted gamely, and as the train swept past, assorted children waved back at us from their window-seats. Then in a flash the episode ended. The train disappeared from sight beyond the far corner of the field, the noise died away and all was quiet again. I turned to Loretta, but my amused comment was never spoken for I saw her cheeks were wet with tears. The next moment she was stumbling across the few yards which separated us from the spinney, and as I stared after her she disappeared among the trees.