Absolute Truths

‘Yes, I quite understand that, but you still haven’t answered my question. What happens to the people who just can’t fit into this neat, orderly world designed by the Church? I mean, have you ever thought, really thought, about what it must be like to be a homosexual? Your problem is that you haven’t the slightest interest in homosexuality and you have no homosexual friends.’

‘Surely those are points in my favour!’

‘Charles, I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you! Now stop being so frivolous and just try to be helpful for a moment. How would you, in your professional role, advise my prayer-group to pray for my friend’s homosexual son who’s living discreetly with his boyfriend in a manner which has absolutely nothing to do with a promiscuous career in public lavatories?’

I sighed, ground out my cigarette and to signal my resentment that I was being dragooned into playing the bishop I reconnected us to the outside world by replacing the telephone receiver with a thud. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘while I put on my cope and mitre.’

‘No, don’t you dare sulk! I’ve always been very careful not to bother you about the prayer-group, and yet now, on the very first occasion that I’ve actually paid you the compliment of asking for your advice –’

I slumped guiltily back on the pillows just as the telephone jangled at my side.

II

‘I’ll answer it,’ said Lyle, slipping out of bed.

‘No, let it ring.’ I was already regretting that I had slammed back the receiver in a fit of pique.

‘If we let it ring you’ll crucify yourself imagining a suicidal vicar screaming for help,’ said Lyle tartly, and moving around to the table on my side of the bed she picked up the receiver and intoned in her most neutral voice: ‘South Canonry.’

A pause followed during which I wondered whether to light another cigarette. Contrary to Lyle’s fears I thought it was most unlikely that some suicidal vicar was screaming for help in an icy vicarage while his bishop lounged in a centrally-heated haze of post-coital bliss, and having made the decision to light the cigarette I turned my thoughts instead to Lyle’s prayer-group, those middle-aged, middle-class, church-going ladies who seemed so unlikely to want to discuss unnatural vice. It occurred to me that the kindest advice I could give them was to pray for the wholesome family life of their married friends and leave any deviant relations to God.

‘Just a moment, please,’ said Lyle, bringing the silence to an end. ‘Let me see if my husband left a number where he can be contacted.’ Sitting down on the edge of the bed she muffled the receiver in the eiderdown and whispered to me: ‘It’s the chaplain at the hospital. Desmond Wilton’s been beaten up in his church. He’s unconscious, he needs an operation and the chaplain thought you ought to know about it.’

Crushing out my cigarette I began to struggle out of bed.

‘Yes, I can get in touch with him straight away,’ said Lyle. ‘Either he or the Archdeacon will be with you as soon as possible.’ She hung up. ‘Charles, surely Malcolm can cope with this?’

‘I couldn’t possibly palm such a disaster off on my archdeacon.’

‘Trust Desmond Wilton to get himself beaten up on your day off!’

‘Darling –’

‘What was he doing anyway, getting himself beaten up? I just hope there’s no sinister explanation.’

I was appalled. ‘But Desmond’s been leading an exemplary life ever since he came to Starbridge! If we hadn’t been discussing homosexuality, it would never have occurred to you to make such a remark – and I refuse to believe there’s any truth in it!’

‘Dear Charles,’ said my wife, slipping into a black silk negligée. ‘Such a very Christian nature.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with any Christian nature I might have,’ I said, very heated by this time, ‘and everything to do with the fact that Desmond made a complete recovery from that spiritual breakdown he had in London. All right, I know you think the Bishop of London palmed him off on me, but even the best priests can have breakdowns and I absolutely defend my decision to give him a job in the diocese as soon as he’d recovered!’

‘I know you’ll always defend it – and how good it is for me to be reminded that despite all my advanced liberal thoughts about homosexuals you’re still so much more compassionate and Christian towards them than I am! If I were a bishop nothing would induce me to employ a pathetic old priest who’d been beaten up while soliciting in a public lavatory … Shall I try and track down Malcolm for you?’ she called after me as I headed for the bathroom.

‘Yes, he ought to be told straight away, but say there’s no need for him to cancel everything and rush to the hospital. The chaplain and I’ll sort things out.’

Five minutes later, dressed in a black suit with a purple stock and pectoral cross, I emerged from my dressing-room to find that Lyle had picked up from the floor the casual, off-duty clothes which I had discarded earlier, made the bed and tracked down my archdeacon. ‘He’s making a visitation at Upper Starwood,’ she informed me, ‘but I’ve left a message at the vicarage there.’

‘Good.’ I turned to leave but on the threshold I hesitated and looked back. ‘I’m sorry I took evasive action when you started to talk about the prayer-group,’ I said. ‘I really would like to hear more about it. Maybe later – when I’m in neither a rush nor a post-coital torpor –’

‘Of course. Later.’

I hurried away to the hospital.

III

When I had visited Starbridge in 1937, the year I had met and married Lyle, I had thought it more than lived up to its reputation of being the most beautiful city west of the Avon. In my mind’s eye I could still see it shining in the hot sunlight of that distant summer; I could remember how enchanted I had been by its medieval streets, flower-filled parks and winding, sparkling river, how mesmerised I had been by the Cathedral, towering above the walled Close on a mound above the shimmering water-meadows. ‘Radiant, ravishing Starbridge!’ I had exclaimed to myself more than once during that crucial time, but that was all long ago, and Starbridge was not the city it had been before the war.

Why must unspoilt county towns inevitably change for the worse? Those Starbridge parks remained flower-filled in summer but now they were litter-strewn as the result of the huge increase in tourists and the slovenly habits of the young. Most of the medieval streets still existed but a number of them south of Mitre Street had been bulldozed to make way for a hideous invention, a ‘multistorey car park’ which was attached to something called a ‘shopping centre’. This new development was so ugly that I felt hot with rage whenever I saw it. Fortunately the mayor who had encouraged this act of vandalism had dropped dead so I was no longer obliged to be polite to him, but the city council members lingered on, a sore trial to my Christian patience. More concrete horrors were rising on the outskirts of the city where a by-pass (on stilts!) was being constructed, but this innovation I was prepared to tolerate since its purpose was to eliminate the city’s traffic jams.

The Starbridge General Hospital, a Victorian building, was unchanged on the outside despite being constantly modernised within. It stood near Eternity Street on the river which flowed swiftly, fed by two tributaries, through the heart of the city. As I arrived that afternoon the rain was hardening into sleet and a bitter north wind was blowing. From the car park the tower of St Martin’s-in-Cripplegate, my archdeacon’s church, could be seen standing palely, as if numbed with cold, against a yellowish, snow-laden sky.

For a moment I thought of those radiant sunlit days of 1937, and suddenly I heard a much younger Lyle say in my memory: ‘I’m Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine’s companion …’ I hurried into the hospital but the memories pursued me and I heard Bishop Jardine himself exclaim: ‘Welcome to Starbridge!’ as he made a grand entrance into his drawing-room. It occurred to me then that I was on the brink of remembering Loretta, but that was one episode from 1937 which I always willed myself not to recall, particularly since I had become a bishop. Blocking it at once from my mind I entered the hospital’s main hall.

A dreary interval ensued. I asked for Desmond but was told he was in the operating theatre. I asked for the chaplain but was told he was not in his office. I asked for the hospital almoner and/or the doctor in charge of the case, but was told to take a seat. Evidently I was becoming tiresome and needed to be disciplined.

Since I was not wearing my formal uniform of frock-coat and gaiters, and since my overcoat hid my purple stock and pectoral cross, I was not immediately recognisable as a VIP. I did toy with the idea of opening my coat and flashing my chest at the lacklustre receptionist, but I thought better of it. No degree of impatience can excuse vulgarity.

I managed to kill my annoyance by telling myself the woman was probably worn out by long hours and low pay, and having thus transformed myself from a cross old buffer to a charitably inclined bishop (a process which I found more than usually exhausting), I received my reward: the almoner arrived to look after me, and I was taken speedily down a chain of cream-coloured corridors to meet the doctor in authority. The almoner even called me ‘my lord’. For one golden moment I could imagine we were both back in those sunlit days before the war.

My spirits rose even further when the doctor told me that although the injuries were unpleasant, Desmond’s life was not in danger. A series of heavy kicks had cracked a couple of ribs; a series of heavy punches had battered his face, which was now being stitched up; the main problem was the shock sustained, and Desmond would need to be in hospital for at least forty-eight hours, possibly longer, while his progress was monitored. Since he was an elderly man, not robust, a period of convalescence would be advisable once he left the hospital. Meanwhile he could be allowed no visitors until the following morning.

Having thanked the doctor for all this information I was taken by the almoner to her office in order to deal with certain bureaucratic formalities relating to the admission. She did try to contact the chaplain on the internal telephone and when there was still no reply from his office she arranged for a message to be broadcast on the public address system, but he appeared to have vanished. Not wishing to delay the almoner further I said I would wait for him in the main hall, but this decision proved to be a mistake. No chaplain appeared, despite yet another summons on the public address system, but two cold-eyed men in raincoats entered the building and immediately collared me.

With dismay I found myself in the hands of the police and confronting the possibility of scandal.

IV

I knew Inspector Parker. Indeed I knew all the top men on the Starbridge force and I was on good terms with the Chief Constable, but to know a policeman formally as the result of one’s public position is one thing; to be interviewed by him during his investigation of a crime is quite another. Too late I wished I had brought my lay-chaplain to the hospital. Roger was an old hand at dealing with worldly matters which had the potential to be awkward for a bishop.

Assuming my most confident manner I said to Parker: ‘How glad I am to see you!’ and without hesitation offered him my hand. I then both took control of the interview and underlined the power of my position by demanding: ‘Please tell me exactly what happened.’

I could see Parker was thinking what a tiresome old smoothie I was, but he said civilly enough: ‘Mr Wilton was found in the church by one of the lady members of the congregation, and judging from the loss of blood we think he may have been lying there for some time. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived but we’re here in the hope that he can be interviewed.’

‘He’s in the operating theatre.’

‘Then when he comes out my sergeant here can sit at his bedside till he recovers consciousness.’

I thought it prudent to leave all comment on that plan to the doctor. What I really wanted to hear was information about why Desmond had been attacked, but I did not want to appear too curious for fear of arousing Parker’s suspicions. I decided to try to float the most likely explanation in the hope not only that it was true but that I might learn something from Parker’s reaction.

‘It’s disgraceful for a priest to be beaten up in his own church!’ I exclaimed, playing the outraged old buffer. ‘I assume Father Wilton interrupted a thief who was in the act of robbing the alms-box.’

‘No, sir, from our preliminary investigation it appears that nothing was taken.’

I noted that I was addressed as ‘sir’ instead of ‘my lord’ or ‘Bishop’, and suspected that this was a move to grab control of the interview by cutting me down to size.

‘Then I assume,’ I said, refusing to be reduced, ‘that the culprit was a vandal bent on sacrilege.’

‘No, sir, nothing was disturbed or damaged.’

Then I can only conclude that this outrage was perpetrated by a lunatic. Well, Parker –’ By this time I had decided that I quite definitely did not want to answer any questions about a possible motive for the attack ‘– I wish you every success in your investigation and I hope you’ll keep me informed of all developments. And now, if you’ll excuse me –’

‘Just a moment, my lord.’ Parker had decided it was worth bending over backwards a fraction in order to stop me dead in my tracks. ‘Would you be so good as to tell us a little about Mr Wilton? In this sort of case the personality of the victim is often of the first importance when it comes to solving the crime.’

Having lost control of the interview I realised that my task now was to appear so immensely distinguished that my opinions could not easily be doubted. ‘Father Wilton,’ I said, again giving Desmond the title which as an Anglo-Catholic he preferred yet this time contriving to infuse it with an air of sanctity, ‘is sixty-four years old and has been vicar of St Paul’s church in Langley Bottom since 1960. He’s an extremely devout and conscientious priest, and is greatly respected by his congregation.’

‘Has this kind of thing ever happened to him before?’

‘To the best of my knowledge,’ I said with perfect truth, ‘Farher Wilton has never in his life been beaten up by a thug in his own church.’ But I could see where this line of questioning was going and the destination was gruesome. ‘What exactly are you implying?’ I demanded, taking the split-second decision that attack was the best form of defence.

‘I was just wondering how accident-prone he was. Some old gentlemen do suffer more man others from this sort of mishap,’ said Parker, still very civil, but at that point his sergeant interposed brutally: ‘Not married, is he?’

I drew myself up to my full height and allowed a blistering pause to develop before announcing in my grandest episcopal manner: ‘Father Wilton is called to celibacy.’

In the silence that followed I reflected how far removed the scene was from that popular television series about the policeman with the heart of gold, Dixon of Dock Green. The oafish sergeant was bright-eyed, his lips moist where he had licked them in his excitement; he reminded me of one of the more disagreeable carnivores – a rhinoceros, perhaps – who had just scented food. In contrast Parker was as cool and still as steel in ice. Refusing to be intimidated by my grand manner he said levelly: ‘I’m sure you understand, my lord, that since there was no robbery or vandalism, the likelihood is that he was attacked by someone he knew. May I ask your permission to search the vicarage? A desk-diary, for instance, would reveal if he had an appointment to see someone at the church this afternoon.’

I was still trying to conceal my horror at this potentially ruinous request when deliverance arrived in the form of my henchman, the Archdeacon of Starbridge. No detachment of the United States cavalry could have been greeted with more relief in the final reel of a Hollywood western than Malcolm Lindsay was greeted by his bishop as he swept into the hall of Starbridge General Hospital that afternoon.

‘Ah, there you are, Bishop!’ he exclaimed, deceptively jovial. ‘I thought I’d better look in here as soon as I’d finished my visitation – good heavens, it’s Inspector Parker! And Sergeant Locke! Nice to know the police have their best men on the trail. Now, Bishop, off you go to pray for poor Desmond – I’m sure Inspector Parker will quite understand that you shouldn’t be detained from your spiritual duties a moment longer.’

Parker allowed himself to look baffled by the concept of spiritual duties, but recovered himself sufficiently to say: ‘I’ve no wish to detain the Bishop, Mr Lindsay, but there are one or two questions –’

‘Address them to me!’ said Malcolm, still relentlessly exuding bonhomie. ‘I’m the one who has direct supervision of Father Wilton, so I know much more about him than the Bishop does.’

‘But I need the Bishop’s permission to search the vicarage. In my opinion –’

‘Oh, the Bishop couldn’t possibly give such a permission! I see you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the “parson’s freehold”, Inspector – that house is at the moment, to all intents and purposes, Father Wilton’s, and in the absence of his permission I’m afraid you must obtain a search-warrant, but that won’t be difficult, will it? In the circumstances I’m sure it’ll be just a formality … Off you go, Bishop.’

I escaped, bathed in cold sweat.

Outside the sleet was still falling from that heavy, yellowish sky and the gloom had thickened. Scrambling into my black Rover I switched on the headlights and drove straight to Desmond’s vicarage in the working-class city parish of Langley Bottom.

V

There were two police cars parked outside the church and a young constable was on guard in the porch, but the adjacent vicarage was not yet besieged by either the police or the hound from the Starbridge Evening News. Parking my car in the forecourt of the bleak Victorian house I rang the front doorbell and waited, eyeing with dismay the state of the woodwork, which needed a coat of paint, and the windows, which were caked in grime. Eventually I was admitted by the daily housekeeper, a dour woman who conceded with unprecedented animation that the news had given her ‘ever such a turn’. Also present in the hall was the elderly parishioner who had found Desmond lying in a pool of blood when she had entered the church to perform her weekly chore of dusting the pews. Various other members of the small, ageing congregation were twittering in the front reception room as I looked in.

I was unsure how quickly the police would be able to pick up a search-warrant, but knowing Malcolm would delay them as long as possible I thought I had at least an hour in which to prove or disprove the worst. Willing myself to betray no trace of impatience, I singled out the one male in the group and asked him to escort home the woman who had found the body; luckily the woman lived across the street so I was not obliged to waste time giving them a lift in my car. Then I dismissed the remainder of the gathering by assuring them that there was no need for anyone to linger at the vicarage for news; the churchwardens would be issued with regular bulletins which would be posted in the church porch. As the front door closed after the last parishioner I got rid of the housekeeper by requesting some tea and finally invaded Desmond’s study, a large dim dusty hole where the temperature hovered uncertainly above freezing.

I need hardly say that by this time I was exceedingly worried. Of course there might still be an innocent explanation for the attack: a parishioner might have had a brainstorm or a passing tramp might have succumbed to psychosis, but Desmond’s past did mean the attack was capable of a seamy explanation. After the attack upon him in the public lavatory in London he had been arrested for soliciting. The charge had later been dropped but the Bishop of London’s archdeacon, taking charge at the vicarage as Desmond languished overnight in hospital, had to his horror discovered a cache of pornographic magazines in the study. Homosexual behaviour combined with a taste for pornography could well have led to imprisonment. Desmond had been lucky to escape and had no doubt been spurred on by gratitude when he had made the best of his rehabilitation, but if he were now in the midst of a second breakdown, the possibility that his old weaknesses had resurfaced was strong.

I knew I had to search his study. I had no wish to impede the police in the execution of their duty but what drove me on was the dread that the police might uncover material which was irrelevant to their enquiry but of immense interest to the press. I thought it unlikely that Desmond would have managed to acquire the kind of hard-core pornography which would render him liable to prosecution on a pornography charge alone, but even a soft-core collection could prove disastrous if Sergeant Locke chose to make a caustic comment to the hound from the Starbridge Evening News. The hound’s scoop would tip off Fleet Street and then all hell would break loose.

I glanced around the study. At once I noticed that the desk was in chaos, a sinister sign indicating a disorganised mind unable to cope with the daily routine, but the upper layers of paper contained nothing more sensational than unpaid bills and copies of the Church Gazette. I looked at the desk-diary. The page for the day contained – to my relief – only two morning appointments, but it did occur to me that an afternoon appointment might still have existed even though Desmond had chosen not to write it down. Opening the drawers of the desk I found that although they were crammed with an extraordinary variety of rubbish ranging from candle-stubs to undamed socks, no pornography lay waiting to be revealed. The cupboards below the bookshelves were similarly innocent, and the books themselves were unimpeachable, displaying a respectable, orthodox, old-fashioned taste in both English literature and theology. The fact that the volumes were so neatly arranged on their shelves, however, suggested that they had not been read for some time.

I concluded that although I had discovered evidence of a priest fraying at the seams, there was nothing to suggest that he had actually fallen apart. Sitting down in the chair behind me desk I reached for the telephone and dialled the South Canonry.

‘It would take a week to go through the study properly,’ I said to Lyle after I had given her a rapid resume of events, ‘but at least there’s nothing frightful lying around.’

‘Well, of course there isn’t, not after that archdeacon in London went looking for an address-book and instantly uncovered horrors! Wake up, darling! This time there’ll be a hidey-hole designed to outwit any archdeacon – try the bedroom.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Only private detectives invade bedrooms.’

‘And the police! Darling, do you really want Desmond to hit the headlines in the News of the World?’

There was a pause while I wrestled with my middle-class upbringing, my public-school mores and my Christian duty as a bishop to look after a wayward member of my flock. ‘If you only knew,’ I muttered at last, ‘how much I wish I was back in Cambridge –’

‘Charles, this is not the time to wallow in a pointless nostalgia. Think of the Church – think of the diocese –’

‘If only I’d never taken him on! Of course I knew it was a risk but the Abbot-General absolutely swore Desmond was fully recovered as the result of that long retreat with the Fordite monks –’

‘Darling, stop fluttering around in a purple panic and search that bedroom. Or do I have to come over and do it myself?’