‘What were you hoping for?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jenny shook her head unhappily. ‘Except it wouldn’t have been like what we’ve got.’
That remark was still ringing in Steven’s memory when he walked across the green to the parish hall fifteen minutes before the scheduled time of the meeting. Half the village seemed to have decided to attend, perhaps because the evening was fine and mild and there was little worth watching on TV. Shortly he found himself surrounded by people he’d never met who beamed and greeted him by name. He had a wild and fleeting vision of Weyharrow as a ‘dear octopus’, a creature that once it had made up its collective mind could draw a stranger permanently into its toils, and wondered – not for the first time – whether succeeding to Dr Tripkin’s practice was such a good idea.
But he had no time to worry about that. Constable Book was accosting him.
‘Doctor, Chief Inspector Chade would like a word!’
Two regular police-cars in livery of blue and white, and another larger one, all black bar the county emblem on each
side, were parked in a group across the road. Three constables and a sergeant were keeping a wary eye on the assembly, particularly the hippie visitors. The latter were standing at a discreet distance for the moment, but clearly intended to get into the hall if they could.
‘Evening!’ said the chief inspector curtly, proffering his hand. ‘I gather you’re one of the main speakers. I already told your chairman: we’ll be standing by, and at the slightest sign of trouble …!’
‘I hope there won’t be any,’ Steven muttered, and passed on.
There followed a somewhat confused reception in a poky anteroom, where he had to shake several more hands without registering most of the names, though he gathered he was being introduced to members of the parish council. In a corner, accompanied by Mrs Judger, sat the parson, a forced-looking smile coming and going on his face. Nigel Mender himself was bustling about, offering people half-filled glasses of South African sherry – ‘compliments of the hotel!’ – which Mrs Judger banned from Mr Phibson’s reach. Looking especially unhappy, Basil Goodsir and his wife were chatting with some of the people whose names Steven was told but failed to hear properly, though he did take notice of one man, about forty, dark-haired, wearing a grey mohair suit that practically yelled, ‘Bespoke!’
Its wearer’s face, however, was so unmemorable it could have been a clown’s, or a spy’s; it was an international face such as might be seen on any of ten thousand streets in fifty countries. He, the Goodsirs and Steven exchanged platitudes about the weather while Nigel moved distractedly from group to group, pausing now and then to ask whether there was any news of the archdeacon. He did this in whispers, making sure to be on the far side of the room from Mr Phibson.
‘It’s six minutes past,’ he announced at last. ‘I don’t think
we should wait any longer. We’ll go in, if that’s all right with everybody … Steven?’
‘What? Oh – oh, by all means.’ Steven drained his glass. He had been seeking an opportunity to broach his private knowledge of Basil’s plight, as Don Prosher had suggested. It had not arisen, and now there was no time.
‘Give ’em hell, old chap,’ said Nigel, taking him com-panionably by the arm. ‘You know there are reporters here, I’m sure. We’re all relying on you to make sense of this to-do.’
Sense?
Steven could scarcely refrain from laughing. But he composed his face and meekly followed Nigel and the rest.
He hadn’t been inside the parish hall before. Someone had mentioned in his hearing that it had been built at the turn of the century because previously public meetings had had to take place either in the church itself – which the residents felt was inappropriate for discussing secular matters – or in a disused barn on ground adjacent to the Marriage. That, the gentry felt, was even worse; it meant meetings could too easily be packed with the pub’s customers, bribed in advance with beer and cider.
Here was the result: a mock-Gothic edifice with pointed arches at its doors and windows, a timber roof with varnished rafters from which dangled cobwebs – Steven heard one of the councillors muttering about ‘that fellow Stick’ who should have been told to clean up the place! – and a grey, unwelcoming floor of lias flags. At one end was a dais, on which a table set with a carafe and water-glasses awaited the main speakers and the chairman; this was carpeted. In addition to chairs for the speakers, there was another row behind, on which the members of the parish council took their places.
Sitting down, on invitation, at Nigel’s right, Steven surveyed the body of the hall. It was crammed with chairs. Even
though two aisles had been left, they were probably too close to be consistent with fire-safety regulations … but he dared not. comment. Under wan, tapered bulbs on round black wrought-iron chandeliers hung from chains, the people of Weyharrow were gathering to hear their doom.
Plus sundry others from outside.
The front row of seats bore handwritten signs saying
‘RESERVED’
. Basil and Helen Goodsir occupied two, and the man in the mohair suit sat down beside them. (Who had they said he was? But Steven had simply failed to catch the name.) Mrs Judger, sniffing, took another one realizing that the hall was already almost full.
Also there were the press. Jenny was escorting them to their places. Not looking as though they enjoyed each other’s company, Don and Wallace sat down either side of her, flanked by Wilf and Lisa respectively. That much was as Steven had expected. So, albeit somewhat less so, was the fact that Don had found places for the Ellerford boys immediately behind him. So too was the arrival of Chief Inspector Chade, to take the chair at the left end of the front row, near a door over which a lighted sign said
‘FIRE EXIT’
. Beside him was another man Steven didn’t recognize, in a navy-blue blazer and regimental tie, with whom Chade exchanged muttered comments. Joe Book took station beside the fire exit, crossing his arms and looking official.
Speaking of muttered comments: it looked as though Don Prosher was acquainted with the man in the mohair suit. At any rate, they smiled insincerely at each other.
A couple of vacancies remained at the front. A dark, fortyish woman in glasses, walking as though her feet were sore, whose face struck Steven as vaguely familiar though he didn’t recollect her as a local person, tried to claim one of them. But Nigel beckoned Mrs Judger and whispered to her, and the would-be intruder retired to the rear of the hall, obliged to join the hippie visitors who had filtered in last of all
and were standing at the back, shifting from foot to foot as though uncomfortable among the more conventionally dressed, among Tom and Fred Fidger, Vic Draycock, the Jacksetts, Lawrence Ratch the pharmacist, the Flakens, the Blockets, Moira O’Pheale, Harry and Joyce Vikes, Ken Pecklow and his wife, and the rest.
With a start Steven realized: apart from those who had other obligations, such as the Jeggses who had to keep the Marriage open, almost literally everybody he had met since his arrival in the village had assembled. Even Stick was here; they caught each other’s eyes and exchanged waves. The pretty, long-haired woman next to him, presumably, would be Sheila Surrean, whom Steven hadn’t met. Her children were sitting on her lap and Stick’s.
And wasn’t that Cedric Goodsir on Stick’s other side?
His eyes ranged to the extreme far end, in search of the woman who had hoped for a seat at the front. It always infuriated him when he saw a face he felt he ought to recognize but couldn’t. But her head was bowed, as though she were praying, and her features were in shadow.
Directly above her hung a clock of the kind Steven always associated with memories of school: a plain white dial and heavy black Roman numerals, with the conventional 1111 in place of iv to mark the four. That same lecturer who had told his students about Ambroise Paré – was Penny Wenstowe here? No, though her parents were. Moreover there was scarcely anybody present, apart from Jenny, the Ellerford boys and the Surrean girls, younger than himself; this was a middle-aged gathering, inclining to the elderly – that same lecturer had explained that the mistake was deliberate, designed to help the astigmatic.
Assuming it was right, the time was ten past eight.
Beside him Nigel Mender rose and cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! Friends! We
had
hoped that our gathering this evening was to be favoured with the presence
of Archdeacon Thummage.’
From the corner of his eye Steven noticed that the parson relaxed a trifle, though his manner and his posture remained alike downcast.
‘Unfortunately he must have been delayed. So rather than keep you hanging about any longer –’
At that precise moment there was a disturbance near the main entrance at the far end of the hall, and a woman’s voice called out, ‘It’s okay, Nigel! Here he is!’
A tall, long-faced man, all in black bar a silver-grey silk front and a white band at his throat symbolizing the traditional ‘dog collar’, appeared in the doorway, bestowing smiles of apology on everyone around him as he made his way to the front row, and occasional glares on the companion who followed him: a much younger man in similar garb save that he wore a plain black front.
‘Mr Phibson! Mr – Mr Mender, isn’t it? A thousand apologies! I’m afraid my driver missed our way, or we’d have been here long ago. Do continue, since you decided to start without us. Quite right, too!’
Nigel leaned across to whisper, ‘You won’t have met Mr Thummage, Steven. He’s the archdeacon of the diocese. It’s not for nothing that they call archdeacons “the bishop’s eyes and ears”!’
‘Is that so?’ was the only answer Steven could contrive.
‘Pray continue, as I said!’ said Mr Thummage, sitting down, crossing his legs and linking his fingers in front of him. Looking distinctly unhappy, his companion sat hunched forward with his hands between his knees.
‘I need scarcely say how pleased we are that you have found it possible to join us after all!’ Nigel declared heartily. ‘So, now, even if we are a little late, I can call this meeting to order and introduce our speakers.’
His tone became self-consciously solemn.
‘We meet together because certain strange events have
overtaken our village in the past few days. We are all anxious to get to the bottom of them. The elected members of your parish council, of which I have the honour to be chairman, are as desirous as anyone of solving the – ah – the mystery. That’s why we’ve called you here.’
Someone roared past on a noisy motorcycle; apart from that, there was total silence.
‘Now after considerable deliberation, the councillors concluded that the speakers you would most hope to hear from would be, on the one hand, our respected parson –’
The old man’s face had been pale all evening; now it turned the colour of candle-wax.
‘ – and on the other, Dr Steven Gloze, who as you know is deputizing for Dr Tripkin who’s on holiday. I hate to think what he’s going to say – heh-heh – when he finds out how much excitement he’s been missing …’
That was a false note. Nigel realized the audience was glowering, and changed tack.
‘However that may be, and – I must stress this – without wanting to turn this evening’s meeting into an argument, with people taking one side or the other, the council has decided that the various views need to be aired. I call on Mr Phibson to express his opinion of the matter.’
He turned to the parson with a flourish, and sat down.
But Mr Phibson simply sat there, immobile save that now and then he licked his lips. Renewed silence lengthened.
Eventually someone from the back of the hall called out, ‘Ah, come on, Parson! You told everyone it was the Devil!’
That had been a man’s voice. Steven, peering through the dimness, failed to identify the speaker.
A woman spoke up, equally loudly, and he knew who this was: Joyce Vikes.
‘May God forgive you if you’ve told another lie! We all know what heresies you preached! Holy kisses! “The Father and the Mother and the Child”! Whoever heard such diabolical
bolical nonsense? It was the Devil’s doing, and you said so!’
Nigel looked anxiously at the parson, who seemed finally to be summoning his courage. After another tense pause he forced himself to his feet; Steven’s trained ear caught the sound of creaking joints, and he made a mental note to have the poor old fellow tested for bursitis.
He glanced at Mr Thummage. The archdeacon, hands still linked against his chest, was smiling benignly.
As he had told Mr Phibson, Steven had lost his faith. Suddenly it struck him as imperative to make as many other people as he could lose theirs, rather than remain prey to a sleék and smiling conniver like this archdeacon.
Speaking of sleek and smiling … who in the world
was
that person sitting next to Basil Goodsir, whom Don knew? What business did he have among the folk of Weyharrow?
And how about the man beside the chief inspector?
But Mr Phibson had found his voice at last. It creaked like the branches of an old oak in a gale; like an old and unoiled hinge; like his own painful knees …
Steven was assailed by waves of pity. How far in the future did a like fate await him –? No! How
near?
Abruptly reminded of mortality, he clenched his fists unseen beneath the table.
Mr Phibson said, looking at nobody: The archdeacon and I have spoken on the phone today. I wish him good evening. I know he has the pastoral care of all of you at heart. He knows that I was sincerely misled in what I said the other morning in this church –
the
church. And isn’t that what God expects of us: sincerity?’
The audience was growing restive. He seemed oblivious.
‘I’m told that shortly I shall be replaced. I shall miss the many friends I’ve made in this parish. I think with special affection of the babies I’ve baptized since coming to Weyharrow. I only hope that the pagan taint which infects your water and your very air, so that your appointed master – I mean
pastor – is compelled to stand under the same roof as filthy loathsome immoral
disgusting
people like those that I see near the door …’