Death in Holy Orders (20 page)

Father Sebastian waited until he could be sure of speaking calmly. “You talk, Archdeacon, as if the decision to close St. Anselm’s has already been taken. I assumed that, as Warden, I would be consulted. No one yet has spoken or written to me.”

“Naturally you will be consulted. All the necessary tedious processes will be followed. But the end is inevitable, you know that perfectly well. The Church of England is centralizing and rationalizing its theological training. Reform is long overdue. St. Anselm’s is too small, too remote, too expensive and too élitist.”

“Élitist, Archdeacon?”

“I use the word deliberately. When did you last accept an ordinand from the state educational system?”

“Stephen Morby came through the state system. He’s probably our most intelligent ordinand.”

“The first, I suspect. And, no doubt, by way of Oxford and with the required First. And when will you accept a woman as ordinand? Or a woman priest on the staff, for that matter?”

“No woman has ever applied.”

“Precisely. Because women know when they’re not wanted.”

“I think that recent history would disprove that, Archdeacon. We have no prejudices. The Church, or rather Synod, has made its decision. But this place is too small to cope with women ordinands. Even the larger theological colleges are finding it difficult. It’s the ordinands who suffer. I will not preside over a Christian institution in which some members refuse to take the sacrament at the hands of others.”

“And élitism isn’t your only problem. Unless the Church adapts itself to meet the needs of the twenty-first century, it will die. The life your young men live here is ridiculously privileged, totally remote from the lives of the men and women they will be expected to serve. The study of Greek and Hebrew have their place, I’m not denying that, but we need also to look at what the newer disciplines can offer. What training do they receive in sociology, in race relations, in inter-faith cooperation?”

Father Sebastian managed to keep his voice steady. He said, “The training provided here is among the best in the country. Our inspection reports make that plain. And it’s ludicrous to claim that anyone here is out of touch with the real world or isn’t being trained to minister to that world. Priests have gone out from St. Anselm’s to serve in the most deprived and difficult areas here and overseas. What about Father Donovan, who died of typhoid in the East End because he wouldn’t leave his flock, or Father Bruce, martyred in Africa? And there are others. St. Anselm’s has educated two of the century’s most distinguished bishops.”

“They were bishops for their age, not ours. You’re talking about the past. I’m concerned with the needs of the present, particularly of the young. We won’t bring people to the faith with outworn conventions, an archaic liturgy and a church that is seen as pretentious, boring, middle-class—racist even. St. Anselm’s has become irrelevant to the new age.”

Father Sebastian said, “What is it that you want? A Church without mystery, stripped of that learning, tolerance and dignity that were the virtues of Anglicanism? A Church without humility in the face of the ineffable mystery and love of Almighty God? Services with banal hymns, a debased liturgy and the Eucharist conducted as if it were a parish bean-feast? A Church for Cool Britannia? That is not how I conduct services at St. Anselm’s. I’m sorry, I recognize that there are legitimate differences in how we view the priesthood. I wasn’t being personal.”

The Archdeacon said, “Oh, but I think you were. Let me be frank, Morell.”

“You have been frank. And is this the place for it?”

“St. Anselm’s will be closed. It has served the past well, no doubt, but it is irrelevant to the present. Its teaching is good, but is it any better than was that of Chichester, Salisbury, Lincoln? They had to accept closure.”

“It will not be closed. It will not be closed in my lifetime. I’m not without influence.”

“Oh, we know that. That’s exactly what I’m complaining about—the power of influence, knowing the right people, moving in the right circles, a word in the right ear. That view of
England is as out of date as the college. Lady Veronica’s world is dead.”

But now Father Sebastian’s barely controlled anger found trembling release. He could hardly speak, but the words, distorted with hatred, came out at last in a voice he hardly recognized as his own. “How dare you! How dare you even mention my wife’s name!”

They glared at each other like pugilists. It was the Archdeacon who found voice. “I’m sorry, I’ve been intemperate and uncharitable. The wrong words in the wrong place. Shall we go?”

He made as if to hold out his hand and then decided against it. They walked in silence along the north wall to the door of the sacristy. Father Sebastian suddenly halted. He said, “There’s someone here with us. We’re not alone.”

They stood for a few seconds and listened. The Archdeacon said, “I can hear nothing. The church is obviously empty except for us. The door was locked and the alarm set when we arrived. There’s no one here.”

“Of course not. How could there be? It was just a feeling I had.”

Father Sebastian set the alarm and locked the outside door to the sacristy behind them, and they passed together into the north cloister. The apology had been uttered, but words had been spoken by both which Father Sebastian knew could never be forgotten. He was filled with self-disgust at his loss of control. Both he and the Archdeacon had been at fault, but he was the host and he was the more responsible. And the Archdeacon had only articulated what others thought, others were saying. He felt the descent of a profound depression, and with it came a less familiar emotion and one more acute than apprehension. It was fear.

A
fternoon tea on Saturdays at St. Anselm’s was an informal affair, prepared by Mrs. Pilbeam and laid out in the students’ sitting-room at the back of the house for those who had indicated that they would be in. The number was usually small, particularly if there was a football match worth attending within reasonable distance.

The time was three o’clock and Emma, Raphael Arbuthnot, Henry Bloxham and Stephen Morby were lazing in Mrs. Pilbeam’s sitting-room, which lay between the main kitchen and the passage leading into the south cloister. It was from this same passage that a flight of steep stairs led down to the cellar. The kitchen, with its four-oven Aga, its shining steel working surfaces and modern equipment, was out of bounds to the students. It was here, in her small sitting-room next door with its single gas stove and square wooden table, that Mrs. Pilbeam often chose to cook scones and cake and prepare tea. The room was cosily domestic, even a little shabby in contrast to the surgical cleanliness of the uncluttered kitchen. The original fireplace with its decorated iron hood was still in place and, although the glowing nuggets were now synthetic and the fuel was gas, it gave a comforting focus to the room.

The sitting-room was very much Mrs. Pilbeam’s domain. The mantel-shelf held some of her personal treasures, most of them brought back from holidays by former students: a decorated teapot, an assortment of mugs and jugs, the china dogs she liked, and even a small gaudily-dressed doll whose thin legs dangled over the edge of the mantel-shelf.

Mrs. Pilbeam had three sons, now widely scattered, and
Emma guessed that she enjoyed those weekly sessions with the young as much as the ordinands welcomed the relief from the masculine austerity of their daily routine. Like them, Emma took comfort from Mrs. Pilbeam’s maternal but unsentimental affection. She wondered whether Father Sebastian altogether approved of her joining in these informal get-togethers. She had no doubt that he knew; little that went on in college escaped Father Sebastian’s notice.

This afternoon there were only the three students present. Peter Buckhurst, still convalescent from glandular fever, was resting in his room.

Emma was curled among the cushions of a wicker chair to the right of the fireplace, with Raphael’s long legs stretched out from the opposite chair. Henry had spread a section of the Saturday edition of
The Times
over one end of the table while at the other Stephen was being given a cookery lesson by Mrs. Pilbeam. His North Country mother, in the immaculate terraced house in which he had been brought up, believed that sons should not be expected to help with the housework; so had her own mother believed and her mother before her. But Stephen, while at Oxford, had become engaged to a brilliant young geneticist with more egalitarian, less accommodating views. This afternoon, with the encouragement of Mrs. Pilbeam and the occasional criticisms of his fellow-ordinands, he was tackling pastry-making and was now rubbing a mixture of lard and butter into the flour.

Mrs. Pilbeam remonstrated, “Not like that, Mr. Stephen. Use your fingers gently, lift up your hands and let the mixture trickle down into the bowl. That way it collects plenty of air.”

“But I feel a right Charlie.”

Henry said, “You look a right Charlie! If your Alison could see you now she’d have grave doubts about your ability to father the two brilliant children you’re no doubt planning for.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Stephen, and gave a happy reminiscent smile.

“That still looks a funny colour. Why don’t you go to the supermarket? They sell perfectly good pastry from the freezer.”

“There’s nothing like home-made pastry, Mr. Henry. Don’t
discourage him. Now, that looks about right. Start adding the cold water. No, don’t reach for the jug. It has to go in a spoonful at a time.”

Stephen said, “I had quite a good recipe for chicken casserole when I had digs at Oxford. You just buy pieces of chicken from the supermarket, then add a tin of mushroom soup. Or you can have tomato, any soup really. It always comes out all right. Is this done, Mrs. P?”

Mrs. Pilbeam peered into the bowl, where the dough had finally been formed into a glistening lump. “We’ll be doing casseroles next week. Looks quite good. Now we’ll wrap it in cling film and put it in the fridge to rest.”

“Why does it want to rest? I’m the one who’s exhausted! Does it always go that colour? It looks kind of dingy.”

Raphael roused himself and said, “Where’s the sleuth?”

It was Henry who answered, eyes still on his paper. “Not in until dinner, apparently. I saw him driving off immediately after breakfast. I must say I saw him go with some relief. He isn’t exactly a comfortable presence about the place.”

Stephen asked, “What can he possibly hope to discover? He can’t reopen the inquest. Or can he? Can you have a second inquest on a cremated body?”

Henry looked up, said, “I imagine not without difficulty. Ask Dalgliesh, he’s the expert,” and returned to
The Times
.

Stephen went to the sink to wash the flour from his hands. He said, “I’ve a bit of a conscience about Ronald. We didn’t take much trouble over him, did we?”

“Trouble? Were we expected to take trouble? St. Anselm’s isn’t a prep school.” Raphael’s voice assumed a high pedantic half-whine. “ ‘This is young Treeves, Arbuthnot, he’ll be in your dormitory. Keep an eye on him, will you. Show him the ropes.’ Perhaps Ronald thought he was back at school, that awful habit he had of labelling everything. Name tabs on all his clothes, sticky labels on everything else. What did he think we were going to do, steal from him?”

Henry said, “Every sudden death produces predictable emotions: shock, grief, anger, guilt. We’ve got over the shock, we didn’t feel much grief and we’ve no reason to feel angry. That leaves guilt. There’s going to be a boring uniformity about our
next confessions. Father Beeding will get tired of hearing the name Ronald Treeves.”

Intrigued, Emma asked, “Don’t the priests at St. Anselm’s hear your confessions?”

Henry laughed. “Good Lord, no. We may be incestuous but we’re not as incestuous as that. A priest comes twice a term from Framlingham.” He had finished with his paper and now folded it carefully.

“Talking of Ronald, did I tell you that I saw him on the Friday evening before he died?”

Raphael said, “No, you didn’t. Saw him where?”

“Leaving the piggery.”

“What was he doing there?”

“How do I know? Scratching the pigs’ backs, I suppose. Actually, I thought he was distressed, for a moment even crying. I don’t think he saw me. He blundered past me onto the headland.”

“Did you say anything about this to the police?”

“No, I didn’t say anything to anyone. All the police asked me—with, I thought, a crashing lack of tact—was whether I thought Ronald had any reason to kill himself. Leaving the piggery the night before, even in a state of distress, would hardly warrant sticking your head under a ton of sand. And I couldn’t be certain what I’d seen. He almost brushed against me but it was dark. I could have imagined it. Eric said nothing presumably, or it would’ve been brought out at the inquest. Anyway, Ronald was seen later that evening by Mr. Gregory, who said that he was all right during his Greek lesson.”

Stephen said, “It was odd, though, wasn’t it?”

“Odder in retrospect than it seemed at the time. I can’t get it out of my mind. And Ronald does rather hang about the place, doesn’t he? Sometimes he seems more physically present, more real, than he was when he was alive.”

There was a silence. Emma hadn’t spoken. She looked across at Henry and wished, as she often did, that she had some clue to his character. She remembered a conversation with Raphael soon after Henry had joined the college.

“Henry puzzles me, doesn’t he you?”

She had said, “You all puzzle me.”

“That’s good. We don’t want to be transparent. Besides, you puzzle us. But Henry—what’s he doing here?”

“Much the same as you, I imagine.”

“If I earned half a million clear each year with the prospect of another million bonus for good behaviour every Christmas, I doubt I’d want to give it up for seventeen thousand a year if you’re lucky, and not even a decent vicarage any longer. They’ve been sold off to yuppie families with a taste for Victorian architecture. All we’ll get is some ghastly semi with parking space for the second-hand Fiesta. Remember that uncomfortable passage in St. Luke, the rich young man turning away sorrowful because he had great possessions? I can see myself in him all right. Luckily, I’m poor and a bastard. Do you think God has arranged that we’re never faced with temptations that He knows perfectly well He hasn’t given us the strength to resist?”