Since coming home to her apartment at the vicarage, Jane had… well, just slept, actually. Longer, probably, than she’d ever slept before. She woke up briefly, thought of something crucially important, went back to sleep, forgot about it. Just like that for most of a day.
It was the hospital’s fault. Hospitals were, like, totally knackering. Unless you were drugged to the eyeballs, you never slept in a hospital — be more relaxing bedding down on a factory floor during the night shift. Naturally, Jane had tried telling them this, but no, they’d insisted on keeping her in, in case her skull was fractured or something worse. Which she knew it wasn’t, and they knew really, but it was, like — yawn, yawn — procedure, to forestall people suing the Health Service for half a million on account of her having gone into a coma on the bus.
Sleep was all you really needed. Real sleep, home sleep. Sleep was crucial, because it gave the body and the brain time to repair themselves, and because it was a natural thing.
And, also, in this particular case, because it postponed that inevitable Long Talk With Mum.
The Long Talk had not taken place, as expected, in the car coming home from Worcester Royal Infirmary last night, because it was Sophie’s car and Sophie was driving it, and Sophie — to Jane’s slight resentment — seemed more concerned about Mum, who had herself at one point fallen asleep in the passenger seat and awoken with a start — like a really seismic start — which made Sophie judderingly slam on the brakes going down Fromes Hill. Mum had shaken herself fully awake and said — in that flustered, half-embarrassed way of hers when lying — that something must have walked over her grave.
And, like, trod on her hands? Why were both her hands clumsily criss-crossed with broad strips of Elastoplast, like she was the motorway pile-up casualty?
Fell among thorns, was all Mum would say when they finally got home, must have been around ten. Bewilderingly, she’d hugged Jane for a long time before they’d staggered off to their respective bedrooms, without mention of the impending Long Talk.
Odd.
Jane slept through most of Sunday morning, venturing dowstairs just once for a bite to eat from the fridge — lump of cheese, handful of digestive biscuits — while Mum was out, doing the weekly pulpit gig. Then leaving her plates conspicuously on the draining board so that Mum would know she’d eaten and wouldn’t come up to ask about lunch and initiate the Long Talk.
She vaguely remembered awakening to see Mum standing by the bed in her clerical gear, like a ghost, but she must have fallen asleep again before either of them could speak. She kept half waking to hear the ting of the phone: a lot of calls. A lot of calls. Was this about the accident? Or Livenight — Mum apologizing to half the clergy for screwing up on TV?
For Sunday lunch, alone with Ethel the cat, Merrily had just a boiled egg and a slice of toast. Which was just as well because, before two p.m., the bishop was on the phone, enquiring after Jane and revealing himself to be a worried man.
The Daily Mail had phoned him at home. Did he know that a former church in his diocese had become a temple for the worship of pagan gods?
Well, of course he did. He’d seen the damned TV programme like everyone else, but he was hoping that either nothing more would be heard of it or it would turn out to be safely over the border in the Diocese of Swansea and Brecon.
Not that he’d told the Mail that. He’d told the Mail he was ‘concerned’ and would be ‘making enquiries’.
And this was one of them.
‘As it happens,’ Merrily said, ‘I was in Old Hindwell yesterday.’
Bernie Dunmore went quiet for a couple of seconds.
‘That’s an extraordinary coincidence,’ he said.
‘It is. But nothing more than that.’
‘Did you see the church?’
‘Only the tower above the trees. I didn’t see any naked figures dancing around a fire, didn’t hear any chanting. Is it really true? Who are they?’
‘Witches, apparently. People called Thorogood, ironically enough. Young couple, came from Shrewsbury, I think. But he’s American.’
‘In parts of America, witchcraft is awfully respectable these days.’
‘Merrily, this is Radnorshire.’
‘Er… quite.’
‘As for the church — well, strictly speaking it isn’t a church at all any more. Did all the right things when they let it go. Took away the churchyard bones to a place of suitable sanctity. Virtually gave it to the farming family whose land had surrounded it for generations. Stipulating, naturally, that relatives of people whose names were on the graves should be able to visit and lay flowers, by arrangement.’
‘Why did they let it go? It’s not as though the village has an alternative church.’
‘Usual reasons: economics coupled with a very convenient period of public apathy.’
‘You could dump half the parish churches in Britain on that basis.’
‘Also, this isn’t a building of any great architectural merit,’ Bernie said. ‘Old, certainly, but the only history it seems to have is one of more or less continuous major repairs and renewals, dating back to the fifteenth century or earlier. The dear old place never seems to have wanted to stay up, if you get my meaning. Close to a river or something, so perhaps built on ground prone to subsidence. Things apparently came to a head when the rector at the time actually suggested it should be decommissioned.’
‘Really?’
‘Anyway, all that’s irrelevant. The unfortunate fact is, if it’s got a tower or a steeple and a handful of gravestones, the general public will still see it as holy ground, and there’ll be protests.’
‘But there’s nothing you can do about that, is there? You can’t actually vet new owners.’
‘The Church can vet them, obviously, when the Church is the vendor. And the Church does — we’re not going to sell one to someone who wants to turn it into St Cuthbert’s Casino or St Mary’s Massage Parlour. But when it’s being sold on for the second or, in this case, third time, you’re right, it’s more or less out of our hands.’
‘So is there any reason for this to escalate into anything?’
‘Merrily, this is Nicholas Ellis’s patch. This is where he holds his gatherings… in the village hall.’
‘I know. I was there for a funeral. The congregation was singing in tongues over the coffin.’
The bishop made a noise conveying extreme distaste.
‘But the point I was about to make, Bernie, is that Ellis is Sea of Light. He doesn’t care about churches.’
‘Oh, Merrily, you don’t really believe the bugger isn’t going to start caring very deeply — as of now?’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Never spoken to the man in my life, but the press have. They didn’t tell us what he said, but I expect we’ll all be reading about it at length in the morning.’
‘Oh. Anything I can do?’
Bernie Dunmore chuckled aridly. ‘You’re the Deliverance Consultant, Merrily, so what do you think you could do?’
‘That’s not fair. Look, I’m sorry I messed up so badly on TV, if that’s what-’
‘Not at all. No, indeed, you were… fine. As well as being probably the only woman on that programme who looked as if she shaved her armpits. Was that sexist? What I’m trying to say… you’re the only one of us who officially knows about this kind of thing and is able to discuss it in a balanced kind of way. Not like Ellis, that’s what I mean. Obviously, I can’t forbid the man to speak to the media, but I’d far rather it were you…’
‘The only problem, Bishop-’
‘… and if all future requests for information could be passed directly to our Deliverance Consultant. As the official spokesperson for the diocese on… matters of this kind.’
Merrily felt a tremor of trepidation. And recalled the whizz and flicker, the crackle and tap-tap on the window of a room full of shadows.
‘But, Bernie, this job… deliverance-’
‘I know, I know. It’s supposed to be low-profile.’ He paused, to weight the punchline. ‘But you have, after all, been on television now, haven’t you?’
Ah.
‘I won’t dress it up,’ Bernie said. ‘You’ll probably have problems as a result. Extremists on both sides. The pagans’ll have you down as a jackboot fascist, while Ellis is calling you a pinko hippy doing the tango with Satan. Still, it’ll be an experience for you.’
She stripped off the plasters Sophie had bought from the pharmacy at Tesco on the way to Worcester last night — a fraught journey, from the moment she’d stumbled into the Saab’s headlight beams somewhere on the outskirts of the village.
She then changed out of her clerical clothes and went up to the attic to check that Jane was OK.
The kid was asleep in her double bed under the famous Mondrian walls of vermilion, Prussian blue and chrome yellow. Merrily found herself bending over her, like she hadn’t done for years, making sure she was breathing. Jane’s eyes fluttered open briefly and she murmured something unintelligible.
Merrily quietly left the room. They’d assured her at the hospital that her daughter was absolutely fine but might sleep a lot.
Downstairs, the phone was ringing. She grabbed the cordless.
It was Gomer. He’d just been to the shop for tobacco for his roll-ups and learned about the motorway accident.
‘Her’s all right?’
‘Fine. Sleeping a lot, but that’s good.’
‘Bloody hell, vicar.’
‘One of those things.’
‘Bloody hell. Anythin’ I can do, see?’
‘I know. Thanks, Gomer.’
‘So you wouldn’t’ve gone to Menna’s funeral then? I never went to look for you. One funeral’s enough… enough for a long time.’
‘You were in Old Hindwell yesterday?’
‘Reckoned it might be a good time. Found out a few things you might wanner know, see. No rush, mind. You look after the kiddie.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Sure t’be,’ Gomer said.
Good old Gomer.
‘Mum.’
‘Flower!’
Jane was standing in the kitchen doorway in her towelling dressing gown. She looked surprisingly OK. You wouldn’t notice the bruise over her left eye unless you were looking for it.
‘You hungry?’
‘Not really. I just went to the loo and looked out the window, and I think you’ve got the filth.’
‘What?’
‘He’s outside in his car, talking on his radio or his mobile. Overweight guy in a dark suit. I’ve seen him before. I think it’s that miserable-looking copper used to tag around after Annie Howe, the Belsen dentist. I’ll go for another lie-down now, but just thought I’d warn you.’
Merrily let him in. ‘DC Mumford.’
‘DS Mumford, vicar. Amazingly enough.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘They have accelerated promotion for young graduates like DI Howe,’ Mumford said heavily. ‘For plods like me, it can still take twenty-odd years. How’s your little girl?’
‘You’re just a late starter,’ Merrily assured him. ‘You’ll whizz through the ranks now. Jane’s doing OK, thanks. But that’s not why you’re here?’
Andy Mumford’s smile was strained as he stepped into the kitchen. Another two or three years and he’d be up for retirement. Merrily had coffee freshly made and poured him one. She’d left the door open for Jane, for once hoping she was listening — a strong indication of recovery.
‘You’ve been in contact with Mrs Barbara Buckingham,’ Mumford said. ‘We traced her movement back through the hospital. Sister Cullen says she referred her to you.’
Merrily stiffened. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s been reported missing, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Barbara? By whom?’
‘Arranged to phone her daughter in Hampshire every night while she was here. But hasn’t rung for two nights. Does not appear to have attended her sister’s funeral.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Checked with Hampshire before I came in. No word there. It’s an odd one, Mrs Watkins. Teenagers, nine times out of ten they’ll surface after a while. A woman Mrs Buckingham’s age, middle class, we start to worry.’ Mumford sipped his coffee. ‘You saw her last when?’
‘Tuesday evening, here. It was the only time. How much did Eileen Cullen tell you?’
‘She said Mrs Buckingham was very upset, not only over her sister’s premature death but the fact that she wouldn’t be getting buried in the churchyard like normal people. She said she thought you’d be the minister most likely to give the woman a sympathetic hearing.’
‘I’m just the only one Eileen knows.’
Mumford smiled almost shyly. ‘To be honest, Mrs Watkins, I got the feeling there might have been another reason she put the lady on to you, apart from this objection to the burial. But that might just be promotion making me feel I ought to behave like a detective. Of course, if you don’t think that would throw any light on our inquiry…’
‘Well… there was another reason, relating to my other job. You can put this down to stress if you like but don’t go thinking she was nuts because I don’t think she was — is.’
‘Not my place, Reverend.’
‘She was having troublesome dreams — anxiety dreams probably — about her sister. Barbara left home in Radnorshire when Menna was just a baby, and they’d hardly seen each other since. Anybody would feel… regrets in that situation. She’s a Christian, she was headmistress at a Church school. Eileen thought she might appreciate some spiritual, er, counselling.’
‘She explain why she was alone? Why her husband wasn’t with her?’
‘She said he was away — in France, I think. He deals in antiques.’
‘Didn’t say anything about him leaving her, then?’
‘Oh God, really?’
‘For France, read Winchester.’ Mumford pulled out his pocketbook. ‘Richard Buckingham moved out two months ago.’
‘Another woman?’
‘That’s the information we have from the daughter. So, were you able to ease Mrs Buckingham’s mind? I mean, if I was to ask you if you thought there was any possibility of her taking her own life…?’
‘Oh no. She was too angry.’
‘Angry.’
‘Yeah, I’d say so.’
‘At anybody in particular?’
‘At J.W. Weal, I suppose. Know him?’
‘Paths have crossed in court once or twice. He used to do quite a bit of legal aid work, maybe still does. I don’t get out that way much these days.’
‘Really?’ She’d made a joke out of it to Sophie, but she couldn’t imagine Weal defending small-time shoplifters and car thieves and dope smokers; that would mean he’d have to talk to them. ‘I had him down as a wills and conveyancing man.’
‘Place like that, a lawyer has to grab what he can get,’ said Mumford. ‘Mrs Buckingham didn’t care for her brother-in-law, I take it.’
‘Not a lot. You have a situation where Menna spends her young life looking after her widowed father and then gets married to a much older bloke, in the same area. No life at all, in Barbara’s view. And then can’t even get away when she dies.’
‘You don’t like him either then, Mrs Watkins?’
‘I don’t know him.’
Mumford considered. ‘You’d wonder, does anybody? So, when you spoke to her, did Mrs Buckingham give you any idea what she was going to do next?’
‘She wanted me to go to the funeral with her. I went along, but she apparently didn’t.’
‘You were there?’
‘We were supposed to meet.’
‘Seems an unusual arrangement, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I thought she needed somebody.’
‘You didn’t know Mrs Weal, then?’
‘Well, I was actually at the county hospital, with a friend, just after she died. But, no, I didn’t actually know her. I don’t really know why I said I’d go along. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. Maybe…’ Why did coppers always make you feel unaccountably guilty? ‘Maybe I thought Barbara might do something stupid if I wasn’t there, which I might have been able to prevent. It’s hard to explain.’
‘Stupid how?’
‘Maybe cause some kind of scene. Start hurling accusations at J.W. Weal, or something, at the funeral.’
‘But you didn’t find her there?’
‘To be honest, it was a difficult day. I had Jane to pick up from hospital in Worcester. If I’d known Barbara had been reported missing, I’d have… tried harder.’
She returned from seeing Mumford out to find Jane at the kitchen table. The kid was dressed in jeans and her white fluffy sweater. She looked about ten. Until, of course, she spoke.
‘He thinks she’s dead.’
‘Police always think that, flower.’
‘I think you think she’s dead, too.’
‘I don’t think that, but I do feel guilty.’
‘You always feel guilty,’ Jane said.