A Crown of Lights (38 page)

Lizzie Wilshire:
Bryan had a thing about the medical profession, refused to call a doctor unless in dire emergency. A great believer in natural medicine, was Bryan.

All his wits about him.

... it was, unfortunately, entirely in character for Bryan to attempt such a job alone. He thought he was invulnerable.

A light tapping on the rain-streaming side window made Betty jump in her seat. She was nervous again, and the nerves had brought back the uncertainty. She could be getting completely carried away about this. She hurriedly wound down the window.

‘Mrs Thorogood?’

Betty was unable to suppress a gasp.

Raindrops glistened in the neat, pointed beard under his rugged, dependable face.

‘I’m sure Mrs Wilshire wouldn’t want you hanging around out here in the rain. Why don’t you come into the house?’

‘I didn’t want to intrude,’ Betty said. ‘I was going to wait till you’d gone.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Dr Collard Banks-Morgan. ‘As much as anything, I’d very much like to talk to you about the herbal medicine you so generously prepared for Mrs Wilshire.’

He held open the car door for her. He was wearing the same light-coloured tweed suit, a mustard-coloured tie. On his head was a tweed hat with fishing flies in it. He had an umbrella which he put up and held over her, guiding her briskly past his green Range Rover and up the path to the bungalow.

For a moment, it was almost like an out-of-body experience – she’d experienced that twice, knew the sensations – and she was watching herself and Dr Coll entering the porch together. As though this was the natural conclusion to a sequence of events she’d set in motion when she’d decided she had to leave Robin at the mercy of the media and seek out Juliet Pottinger.

She was now being led into a confrontation with Collard Banks-Morgan, in the presence of Mrs Wilshire. Bright panic flared, she was not ready! She didn’t know enough!

But something evidently had taken over: fate, or something. Perhaps she was about to be given the proof she needed.

Betty could hardly breathe.

‘Won’t be a jiff.’ Dr Coll stood in the doorway, shaking out his umbrella. ‘Go through if you like. Mrs Wilshire’s in the sitting room, as usual.’

Betty nodded and went through. Though it was not yet three o’clock, the weather had made the room dark and gloomy, so that the usually feeble-looking flames in the bronze-enamelled oil stove were brazier-bright, making shadows rise around Mrs Wilshire, in her usual chair facing the fireplace. She didn’t turn when Betty came in.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Wilshire,’ Betty said. ‘I wasn’t going to come over until the doctor had left.’

Mrs Wilshire still didn’t turn round.

The shadows leapt.

The force of her own indrawn breath flung Betty back into the doorway.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’

Not,
Oh, Mother!
which she only said, still self-consciously, at times of minor crisis.

Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh no...’

There was a small click and wall lights came on, cold and milky blue.

‘Go and look at her, if you like,’ said Dr Coll. ‘I think you ought to.’

He walked over to the fireplace, stood with an elbow resting on the mantelpiece.

‘You aren’t afraid of death, are you, Mrs Thorogood? Just a preliminary to rebirth, isn’t that what you people believe?’

Betty found she was trembling. ‘What happened to her?’

Dr Coll raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘Among other things, it seems
you
happened to her.’

Betty edged around the sofa, keeping some distance between her and the doctor. When she reached the window, a movement outside made her look out. Another car had parked next to the Range Rover. A policeman and a policewoman were coming up the path.

Betty spun and saw Lizzie Wilshire, rigid and slightly twisted
in her chair with a little froth around her bluing lips and her bulbous eyes popped fully open, as if they were lidless.

Dr Coll stepped away from the fireplace. He was holding up a round, brown bottle with a half-inch of liquid in the bottom.

‘Is
this
your herbal potion, Mrs Thorogood?’

F
ROM
O
FF
,
THEY
were, nearly all of them, Gomer reckoned. He’d told Merrily he could never imagine too many local people sticking their heads above the hedge, and he was right. There were maybe fifty of them – not an enormous turnout under the circumstances – and the ones Merrily could hear all had English accents.

Two TV crews had stayed for this; they were pushing microphones at the marchers as they came to the end of the pavement, a line of lamps, moving on into the lane past Annie Smith’s place, bound for the Prosser farm and St Michael’s. Telly questions coming at them, to get them all fired up.

‘But what are you really hoping to achieve here?’

‘Do you actually believe two self-styled white witches can in some way curse the whole community?’

‘Don’t people have the right, in the eyes of the law, to worship whatever they want to?’

And the answers came back, in Brummy, in Northern, in cockney London and posh London.

‘This is not about the law. Read your Bible. In the eyes of God they are profane.’

‘Why are there as many as five churches around the Radnor Forest dedicated to St Michael, who was sent to fight Satan?’ A woman in a bright yellow waterproof holding up five fingers for the camera.

There was a central group of hardcore Bible freaks. This was probably the first demonstration most of them had ever joined, Merrily thought. For quite a number, it was probably the first time they’d actually been closely involved with a church. It was the isolation factor: the
need to belong
which they never realized they’d experience until they moved to the wild hills. And the fact that Nicholas Ellis was a quietly spoken, educated kind of fanatic.

‘It’s true to say,’ a sprightly, elderly woman told ITV Wales, ‘that until I attended one of Father Ellis’s services I did not truly believe in God as a supernatural being. I did not have faith, just a kind of wishy-washy wishful thinking. Now I have more than faith, I have
belief
. I exult in it. I
exult
. I love God and I hate and despise the Adversary.’

For a moment, Merrily was grabbed by a sense of uncertainty that recalled her first experience of tongues in that marquee near Warwick. Whatever you thought about Ellis, he’d brought all these people to God.

Then she thought about his slim, metal crucifix.

Ellis himself was answering no questions tonight; gliding along, half in some other world, no expression on his unlined, shiny face. Self-belief was a great preserving agent.

Hanging back from the march, Merrily rang to check on Jane, walking slowly with the phone.

‘It was on the radio,’ the kid said. ‘That Buckingham woman’s probably dead, isn’t she?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘But if she is, you don’t think she topped herself, do you?’

‘That’s something the police get to decide, flower.’

Jane made a contemptuous noise. ‘The police won’t do a thing. They don’t have the resources. The only reason this area has the lowest level of crime in southern Britain is because half the crimes don’t even get discovered, everybody knows that.’

‘So cynical, so young.’

‘I read the story in the
Mail
. Totally predictable right-wing stitch-up.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah. Mum... Listen, the truth, OK? Have you spoken to Irene since we were in Worcester? Like, him telling you all about me conning him into taking me to
Livenight
by saying you knew all about us going and it would help his career. And then – like, in his role as a Welsh Chapel fundamentalist bigot – asking if you knew how seriously interested I was in alternative spirituality, and maybe that what I secretly wanted was to get to know some of those people – the pagans – and then you both agreeing that this was probably a spiteful teenage reaction against having a mother who was a priestess and into Christianity at the sexy end.’

The kid ran out of breath.

Merrily said, ‘Was this before or after Eirion said to me, “Oh God, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, what if she’s got brain damage?” And I said, “No, it’s all
my
fault, I should never have agreed to do the bloody stupid programme”? Was it
after
that?’

Jane said nothing.

‘Look,’ Merrily said, ‘after the initial blinding shock of seeing you in the middle of the motorway, it didn’t take a lot of creative mental energy to form what looked like a complete picture of how you and Eirion came to be in the neighbourhood of Birmingham anyway. Complete enough to satisfy me, anyway, without any kind of tedious, acrimonious inquest. I mean, you know, call me smug, call me self-deluded, but the fact is – when you really look at it – I’m actually not
that
much older than you, flower.’

Silence.

‘Shit,’ Jane said at last. ‘OK, I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’

‘Er, might that have been the Long Talk, by any chance?’

‘I think it might.’

‘Phew. What time will you be back?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘Only, that nurse phoned.’

‘Eileen?’

‘Said whatever time you get back, could you ring her? She sounded weird.’

‘Weird how?’

‘Just not the usual “Don’t piss me about or I’ll take your bedpan back” voice. Kind of hesitant, unsure of herself.’

‘I’ll call her.’

‘Yeah,’ Jane said. ‘Somehow, I would if I were you.’

When the procession reached the Prosser farm, Merrily saw two people emerge discreetly from a gate and join it without a word: Judith Prosser and a bulky, slab-faced man.

‘That’s Councillor Prosser, Gomer?’

‘Impressive, en’t he? Wait till you hears him talk. Gives whole new meanin’ to the word orat’ry.’

‘Not that you don’t rate him or anything.’

‘Prince among men,’ said Gomer.

By the time the march reached the track to St Michael’s Farm, a police car was crawling behind. That figured: even good Christians these days had short fuses. They walked slowly on.

‘That reminded me,’ Gomer said. ‘Learned some’ing about the Prossers and this Ellis ’fore I left the Lion. Greg yeard it. One o’ the boys – Stephen? – got pulled over in a nicked car in Kington. Joyridin’, ’e was. ’Bout a year ago, this’d be. Woulder looked real bad for a magistrate’s boy.’

‘It happens.’

‘Not yere it don’t. First offence, mind, so Gareth talks to Big Weal, an’ they fixes it with the cops. Gareth an’ Judy promises the boy won’t put a foot out o’ line again. Just to make sure of it, they takes him to the Reverend Ellis, gets him hexorcized...’

Merrily stopped in the road. ‘I’m not hearing this.’

The mobile bleeped in her pocket. She pulled it out, hearing Judith Prosser’s words:
Time was when sinners would be dealt with by the Church, isn’t it?

‘Merrily?’

‘Sophie!’ She hurried back along the lane to a quieter spot.

‘Is this convenient? I tracked down a Canon Tommy Long, formerly the priest in charge of St Michael’s, Cascob. He was more than glad to discuss something which he said had been puzzling him for many years. Shall I go on?’

‘Please.’

‘Seems that, in the late summer of nineteen seventy-five, he had a visit from the Reverend Mr Penney. A very odd young man, he said – long-haired, beatnik-type, and most irrational on this occasion – who suggested that, as Cascob was a remote place with no prospect of anything other than a slow and painful decline in its congregation, the Reverend Long might wish to seek its decommissioning by his diocese.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Once he realized this was far from a joke, the Reverend Long asked Mr Penney to explain himself. Mr Penney came out with what was described to me as a lot of nonsensical gobbledegook relating to the layout of churches around Radnor Forest.’

‘St Michael churches?’

‘In an effort to deflect it, the Reverend Tommy Long pointed out a folk tale implying that if one of the churches were destroyed it would allow the, ah, dragon to escape. Mr Penney said this was... quite the reverse.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Long wasn’t prepared, at the time, to hear him out and now rather wishes he had.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing. Mr Long pointed out that the Church in Wales would hardly be likely to part with a building as historic and picturesque as Cascob, especially as it contains a memorial to William Jenkins Rees, who helped to revive the Welsh language in the nineteenth century. The Reverend Mr Penney went somewhat sullenly away and, some months later, committed his bizarre assault on St Michael’s Old Hindwell.’

‘When he went away, where did he go? Does Mr Long know?’

‘There’s no happy ending here, Merrily. Mr Long says he was told some years later that Terry Penney died in a hostel for the
homeless in Edinburgh or Glasgow, he isn’t sure which. The poor man had been a heroin addict for some time. I think I shall go home now, Merrily.’

Robin spotted some lights, but they were the wrong lights.

He saw them through the naked trees, through the bald hedgerow further along from the barn. They were not headlights.

George came to stand alongside him at the window.

‘What do you want to do, Robin? Shall we all go out and have a few words with them – in a civilized fashion?’

Vivvie dumped her glass of red wine and came over, excited. ‘Is it them?’ She had on a long red velvet dress, kind of Tudor-looking, and she wore those seahorse earrings that Robin hated. The bitch was ready to appear on TV again. ‘What I suggest is we—’

‘What
I
suggest,’ Robin said loudly, ‘is
we
don’t do a god-damn thing. This is still my house... mine and... Betty’s.’

The whole room had gone quiet, except for the damp twigs crackling in the hearth.

‘
I’m
gonna go talk to them,’ Robin said.

George smiled, shaking his head. ‘You’re not the man for this, Robin. You tend to speak before you’ve thought it out, if you don’t mind me saying so.’