Glittering Images

‘Very well.’ She had regained her composure and although she was still pale her voice was calm.

I wondered how long it would take her to decide – greatly against her better judgement, of course – that she wanted me to make another pounce.

VI

Upstairs in the cavernous Victorian bathroom I filled the bath to the halfway mark with cold water and sat in it for a while as I sluiced away both the sweat of my afternoon’s exertions and my very carnal thoughts on the subject of Miss Lyle Christie. Then I returned to my room, pulled on some underclothes and cast an eye over my St Anselm notes, but the glance was a mere formality. I wanted only to give a veneer of truth to my statement that I was missing tea in order to work, and eventually, my conscience assuaged, I began to imagine what I would have said to the Archbishop if he had appeared beside me and demanded a progress report.

I now knew very much more about Jardine than I had known before my arrival and I was certainly well on my way to building up a psychological portrait which would enable Lang to decide whether his enemy was the kind of man who could be disastrously exploited by Fleet Street, but I had still elicited no information about Lang’s chief worries, the journal and the possible existence of indiscreet correspondence. I myself was now convinced that Jardine was far too shrewd to commit epistolary indiscretions, but the journal remained an unknown quantity. No one had mentioned it to me yet, but this silence was hardly surprising if the journal were a long-standing hobby which everyone took for granted.

I meditated on the subject for a while but came to the conclusion that Jardine would have been unlikely to use the journal as a confessional during the lifetime of his stepmother. Why confide in an impersonal notebook when one had a confidante who provided limitless sympathy and understanding? I could imagine him tossing off some lines in a frenzy if his stepmother had been inaccessible, but I was sure that a ruthless censorship would have taken place once the sympathetic understanding had been obtained.

I then asked myself if he might have used the journal as a confessional since his stepmother’s death, but all my witnesses had testified that after the upheaval surrounding old Mrs Jardine’s arrival in Starbridge Jardine’s life had been unpunctuated by crises; possibly no confessional had been required. The chaplain had said Jardine had been getting on better with Lyle; Lady Starmouth had remarked that a spacious palace made it easier for a married couple to live in close proximity to a third party; Mrs Cobden-Smith had implied that by this time Lyle had been at her zenith as a miracle-worker. I suddenly remembered my friend Philip saying that Jardine had seemed distrait during the first year of his episcopate, and this observation from a stranger harmonized with the facts I now knew: the rocky start to the Starbridge career followed by years when Jardine was able to pursue his calling against a background of tranquillity. I decided that the journal was probably as dull as sackcloth and quite unworthy of a reduction to ashes.

At this point I paused in my meditations to light a cigarette but as I shook out the match my thoughts once more turned to the Lovely Ladies. I had already decided that because of the Bishop’s psychological constraint on the subject of class I could tell Lang with confidence that there was no risk of any scandal with an aristocratic Englishwoman, and although the incident with the foreigner Loretta Staviski could certainly be regarded with suspicion, I had believed Lady Starmouth when she had vouched for Jardine’s good behaviour. Jardine was popular with the ladies; that sort of clergyman always risked fatally attracting a parishioner, but in the vast majority of cases the clergyman was innocent of misconduct and I was sure that Jardine, newly married and no doubt burning to make a success of his splendid preferment, had had powerful reasons for treating Loretta with propriety.

I had almost argued myself to the conclusion that Jardine was as pure as driven snow, but I had left the most ominous possibility to the last.

I began to think about Lyle.

I had noticed that although she had admitted she regarded Mrs Jardine as a mother she had not said she regarded the Bishop as a father. Yet she had described her own father as ‘clever’, ‘bright’, ‘quick’ and ‘tough’, all adjectives which could be applied to Jardine. Obviously she was fond of the Bishop; obviously she respected and admired him, but there was no hint in her manner of a schoolgirl’s crush or a spinster’s frustrated passion, and I was driven to suspect that her feelings here too were filial. In fact I now found I shared Mrs Cobden-Smith’s conviction that Lyle stayed with the Jardines not because of a passion for the Bishop but because of a passion for power – and not merely the power of running the palace but the power of keeping that marriage glued together, the power springing from the fact that she made it possible for the Bishop to continue his ministry. What happened to a bishop whose marriage went to the wall? It was a spine-chilling thought, and I thought it was a chill to which Jardine’s spine had become well accustomed.

I did speculate about the possible ill effects on Lyle of a broken engagement, but on this point I could form no more than the tentative conclusion that some adverse romantic experience seemed likely. Her response to my kiss indicated she was sexually normal; her repudiation of it indicated an abnormal fear of romantic involvement. Ignorance prevented me from expanding my theory further, but nevertheless I felt I could say to Lang that Lyle’s aversion to marriage was more likely to spring from a broken engagement than from any inappropriate feelings towards the Bishop.

Having summed up Lyle’s probable attitude to Jardine I turned the relationship around and began to consider Jardine’s probable attitude to Lyle. This was easier because as a clergyman I could mentally put myself in Jardine’s shoes without any undue strain on my imagination: I had married in haste but had almost certainly repented at leisure, and as the result of my rashness I now had a wife who was capable of being a crippling liability. I was an eminent cleric beyond hope of divorce so the most nerve-racking question in such nerve-racking circumstances inevitably became: how did I survive my marriage? Lyle was the heaven-sent answer, and because Lyle was so vital not only for the welfare of my marriage but for the welfare of my increasingly illustrious career, I would take no risks whatsoever and exercise an iron control over any insane but pardonable desire to flirt. I would, of course, find Lyle immensely attractive, and that would make it difficult to adjust to her presence in the household – I would even tell Lady Starmouth I found the presence of a third party an intrusion on my marriage – but with prayer and willpower and plenty of deliciously risqué chats with my safe Lovely Ladies I would control myself, diverting the emotion into harmless channels whenever possible and suppressing the emotion which could not be diverted. I was Adam Alexander Jardine, a mature survivor trained in the hardest of schools, and I was neither weak nor a fool.

That left only one more vital question to be answered before I stepped out of Jardine’s shoes. I was a man of volatile temperament with plenty of physical energy and a strong liking for women; did I or did I not live like a monk? I did not. I slept with my wife, who was still pretty, still adoring, still mildly lovable in her own maddening way and – most important of all – still available. Certainly no one else was and married clergymen, like beggars, can’t be choosers.

I decided this was not merely a plausible interpretation of the Jardine ménage but the only interpretation which made sense. I felt I could now say confidently to Lang: ‘The girl, who probably has strong psychological reasons for not marrying, regards the woman as her mother and regards the man as satisfying her hankering for power. The woman regards the girl as her daughter and regards her husband with adoration. The husband regards his wife as a liability but as a source of sexual satisfaction, and regards the girl as a godsend but as sexually taboo. The marriage is entirely safe so long as this triangle is maintained and I see no sign of any approaching catastrophe.’

But of course this last statement would be untrue. I knew now that I was the approaching catastrophe bent on breaking up the triangle, and once the triangle disintegrated the marital disaster would be poised to unfold.

I was still contemplating this prospect with appalled fascination seconds later when someone rapped loudly on my door.

I jumped, sprang to my feet and pulled on my dressing-gown. ‘Come in!’ I called, assuming I was addressing a servant sent to deliver either a telephone message or perhaps a letter which had arrived by the afternoon post, and turned aside to extinguish my cigarette in the ashtray.

The door banged open and the Bishop blazed across the threshold.

‘Now, Dr Ashworth,’ he said abruptly as I spun round in shock, ‘I think it’s time you told me the truth – and when I say the truth I mean the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Exactly why did you come to Starbridge and what the deuce do you think you’re playing at?’

SIX

‘The sexual appetite (which is the most insistent and the most important of our bodily desires) presses for satisfaction … So we start with the certainty that sexual indulgence will be popular and that Christianity will be most difficult precisely at that point.’

More Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.

I

In the second which followed I saw the Bishop with photographic clarity and noticed that his brown eyes were no longer brilliant but opaque. His mouth was set in a tight line, his hands were clasped behind his back as if to conceal clenched fists and his whole stance radiated pugnacity. ‘Well, Dr Ashworth?’ he demanded, and his pugnacity was formidable indeed. ‘Speak up! What do you have to say for yourself?’

I knew at once that I had to stop him thinking I could be intimidated but unfortunately I was far from being completely unperturbed. Some form of defensive action was clearly called for. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Jardine,’ I said, ‘but I refuse to conduct an interview with a bishop while I’m wearing only my underclothes and a dressing-gown. You must allow me a moment to dress.’

There was a short tense silence. Then Jardine laughed, exclaimed, ‘I admire your nerve!’ and sat himself down at the table by the window.

Scrambling into my clerical uniform I found I could all too easily deduce what had happened. Lady Starmouth had complained about my interrogation, the chaplain had revealed my interest in the palace ménage, Mrs Cobden-Smith had disclosed what an excellent listener I was and Lyle had reported my episcopal obsession. I was about to be exposed as a deplorably unsuccessful espionage agent, but on the other hand my findings were all in Jardine’s favour. If I allowed his rage to run its course I might have a chance of pacifying him when he subsided into mere indignation. It seemed the best I could hope for. However meanwhile I had to cope with his rage.

‘Thank you,’ I said when fully dressed at last I sat down opposite him at the table. ‘Now I feel more civilized. First of all, Bishop, let me apologize from the bottom of my heart –’

‘Spare me the apologies. Give me the truth. Why are you here?’

‘Dr Lang sent me.’

Jardine showed no surprise. ‘The Archbishop should take care,’ was his acid comment. ‘He’s showing a talent for ecclesiastical skulduggery unmatched since the days of the Borgia popes. And what was his objective – or rather, what did he tell you was his objective?’

‘He’s acting to protect you, Bishop. He’s afraid his enemies in Fleet Street might use you in an attempt to smear the Church, and he sent me here to estimate how vulnerable you are to scandal.’

‘That may indeed be what he told you – but of course the real truth is that he’s sent you here to spy on my private life in the hope that you’ll find evidence which he can use to compel my resignation!’

‘Bishop –’

‘Monstrous! Archbishops have been executed for less!’

I felt I had no choice but to attempt my patron’s defence. ‘Bishop, His Grace doesn’t suspect you of any gross failure or even of any serious indiscretion, and I must absolutely insist that he’s not trying to get rid of you –’

‘No? It sounds to me as if he’s recently travelled incognito to the Old Vic to see a performance of Murder in the Cathedral – with the result that he’s now declaiming, in the manner of Henry II: “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest”!’

‘Dr Lang,’ I said firmly, ignoring this shaft, ‘is worried primarily about the existence of a minor indiscretion which an unscrupulous journalist could distort. He’s also worried in case your unusual domestic situation should be misunderstood. Bearing in mind the enormous amount of attention you’ve been receiving from the press lately, do you really think it’s so reprehensible that Dr Lang should send someone he trusts to survey the landscape to make sure you’re not vulnerable to the worst form of exploitation by Fleet Street?’

Jardine controlled himself sufficiently to say in an even voice, ‘You’re making heroic efforts to defend the Archbishop for his inexcusable trespass on my privacy, and I respect your loyalty to him, but didn’t it occur to His Grace that I’m perfectly capable of constructing my own defences against any assault from the press?’

‘The Archbishop merely wanted to make sure you hadn’t accidentally left a chink in your armour.’

‘And dare I ask what kind of chink His Grace had in mind?’

‘He was concerned in particular about the existence of unwise entries in your journal and the existence of indiscreet correspondence.’

Jardine burst out laughing. Then he exclaimed with the most withering scorn, ‘What kind of a fool does he think I am?’

‘I know it sounds preposterous, but Dr Jardine, it’s a fact that men of your age – even brilliant men of your age – do sometimes go off the rails, and His Grace felt he had to make absolutely sure – not only for the sake of the Church but for your own sake –’

‘Quite. Very well, I take your point. I suppose if one’s Archbishop of Canterbury one should always allow for the possibility of a bishop going stark staring mad, and His Grace no doubt interpreted my attack on him in the Lords as the onset of lunacy. However let me try and allay His Grace’s melodramatic fears as swiftly as possible.’ Jardine leant forward, placing his forearms on the table, and clasped his hands purposefully. ‘First: my journal. It’s not an adolescent’s diary reeking of carnal allusions. I comment on the books I’ve read, record my travels, note the themes of my sermons, remark on whom I’ve met and generally try to reflect what it means to serve God as a churchman. I won’t say I’ve never used the journal to record personal difficulties because I have, but as I’ve always excised the pages later and burnt them, you can tell the Archbishop that my journal in its present state would send any reporter from The News of the World straight to sleep … Or do you find that impossible to believe?’

I said truthfully, ‘No, I’d already reached the conclusion that you’d edit your work. I was only wondering –’ I broke off.

‘Well?’

‘No, my next question would have been impertinent.’

‘You may as well ask it. Since I’m apparently surviving the Archbishop’s monstrous assault on my privacy without suffering a stroke, one little piece of impertinence from you is hardly likely to dent my miraculous sang-froid. What’s the question?’

‘I was wondering when you last felt impelled to excise entries from your journal.’

Jardine raised an eyebrow, gave me a searching glance but concluded I was anxious only about the possibility of recent difficulties in his private life. ‘You needn’t worry,’ he said drily. ‘My life’s been singularly uneventful for some time now. It’s been five years since any pages from my journal were consigned to the library fire.’

‘Was that when you were still at Radbury?’ I said, certain that the answer was no but hoping to egg him on to a further revelation.

‘No, I’d just moved to Starbridge – and I trust, Dr Ashworth, you won’t graduate from a minor to a major impertinence by asking me what was going on in my life at the time.’

‘No, of course not, Bishop.’ I thought of Mrs Jardine drifting again towards a nervous breakdown as she grappled not only with the arrival of her stepmother-in-law but also with what Mrs Cobden-Smith had described as ‘an awkward time’, a euphemism I had translated as the menopause. I could well imagine the Bishop relieving his feelings in his journal as he waited for the arrival of his confidante.

‘I had a difficult decision to make,’ said the Bishop unexpectedly, ‘and I needed to set down the situation on paper in order to clarify my mind.’

That did surprise me. I could not immediately see what decision had had to be made. Possibly he had been debating with himself whether in view of his wife’s mental health, he had had a duty to install his stepmother not at the palace but in the best Starbridge nursing home.

‘Very well, so much for the journal,’ Jardine was saying briskly. ‘Let’s turn now to my correspondence. There are four women to whom I write regularly. First and foremost: my wife. Whenever we’re apart I try to write her a line every day. I’d say that was fairly normal behaviour for a man of my generation who detests the telephone, although a young man like you might think it rather an extravagant use of writing paper. After my wife the next woman on my list would be the incomparable Lady Starmouth to whom I pen a line about twice a week. Our chief topic is clerical gossip, but we also discuss literature and politics – topics which interest Mrs Welbeck and Lady Markhampton to whom I write regularly but less frequently than I write to Lady Starmouth. Am I making myself clear? My correspondence with all three of these delightful ladies, stimulating as it is, can’t possibly be described as the kind which would encourage a husband to challenge me to pistols at dawn. You may assure His Grace he has no cause for alarm.’

‘May I risk another minor impertinence?’

‘You’re a brave man, Dr Ashworth. But continue.’

‘Do you ever write to Miss Christie?’

‘Only when I have essential information to impart. For example, the last time I wrote to her was in May when my wife and I were in London for the Coronation. I sent Miss Christie a line to say that Carrie and I would be staying up in town an extra day in order to dine with some old friends from Radbury.’

‘Why didn’t Miss Christie go to London with you?’

‘That’s not an impertinent question, Dr Ashworth, but as far as I can see it’s an irrelevant one. I had a part to play in the Coronation ceremony and my wife had a seat in the Abbey. Rather than risk being crushed to death by the multitudes lining the processional route, Miss Christie sensibly decided to stay at home and “listen in” to the proceedings on the wireless. Do you have any other irrelevant questions, or am I now allowed to inquire what kind of report you intend to present to Dr Lang?’

I smiled at him before I said, ‘I shall tell His Grace that in my opinion every chink in your armour’s sealed.’

‘Splendid! And are you also going to inform His Grace that in addition to entering my household under false pretences you’ve been further abusing my hospitality by playing fast and loose with my wife’s companion?’

I felt as if I had been felled on the rugger field by an unexpected tackle. It took a considerable effort to look him straight in the eyes and say strongly, ‘I may be playing fast but I’m not playing loose.’

‘No? Miss Christie thinks your behaviour lacked stability, and I must say I agree with her. Don’t you think you were a little rash to subject a respectable woman to passionate advances less than twenty-four hours after your first meeting with her?’

‘No more rash than you were at my age,’ I said, ‘when you proposed to your future wife on the strength of a four-day acquaintance.’

There was a silence. We stared at each other. Jardine’s amber eyes were dangerously bright.

‘That was a major impertinence, Dr Ashworth.’

‘And so, with all due respect, was your last remark, Dr Jardine. No man, not even a bishop, tells me how to run my private life.’

‘What an extraordinarily arrogant statement! Are you saying you’re never in need of spiritual direction?’

‘I –’

‘Who’s your spiritual director? Or are you so adrift as to believe you don’t need one?’

Beneath the table my fists were clenched. Somehow keeping my voice level I said, ‘My spiritual director is Father James Reid of the Fordite monks at Grantchester.’

‘Oh, I know the Grantchester Fordites from my days at Radbury – and of course I remember Father Reid, the best kind of cosy old monk, very gentle and saintly and kind. But don’t you need someone rather tougher than a cosy old monk to advise you on your spiritual life, Dr Ashworth?’

I said nothing, and when Jardine realized I had no intention of replying he said in a voice which was unexpectedly compassionate, ‘Don’t think I can’t remember what it’s like to be thirty-seven and unmarried. But impulsive romantic action isn’t the answer, Dr Ashworth, and you’re quite intelligent enough to know that for those of us not called to celibacy the pressures of a celibate life can lead to emotional instability unless there’s regular and effective counselling by someone who knows exactly what problems are involved.’

Again he paused and again I remained silent. Finally he said, ‘Have a word with your bishop. See if he can recommend someone more suitable than dear old Father Reid who’s been celibate so long that he’s probably forgotten the male organ has a purpose other than urination. Cambridge is a good man, even if he does spend too much time writing theses about whether Ezra came before or after Nehemiah, and I’m sure he’d do his best to help you.’

Once more the silence lengthened but eventually I was able to say, ‘Thank you, Dr Jardine. And now, of course, since I’ve so thoroughly abused your hospitality, you’ll want me to leave your house at the earliest opportunity.’

Jardine leant back in his chair and regarded me as if I presented some difficult but fascinating problem. ‘My dear Dr Ashworth,’ he said as he rose to his feet, ‘if you cut short your visit and leave the palace under a cloud, you’re going to trigger exactly the kind of gossip Dr Lang is so anxious to avoid. Can’t you imagine the report in the gutter-press? “We have it on good authority – ” (that would be the eavesdropping second housemaid) “ – that a storm erupted in the Cathedral Close at Starbridge when Canon Charles Ashworth was expelled from the palace after an assault on the virtue of the Bishop’s attractive young companion, Miss Lyle Christie.” (Naturally they would omit all mention of my wife.) “We are reliably informed that the ravishing Miss Christie returned from a motor drive à deux with the handsome Canon only to rush sobbing to the Bishop, ‘He unleashed his passion at Starbury Ring!’ whereupon the Bishop stormed to the Canon shouting: ‘Never darken my door again!’ …” And so on and so on. Oh no, Dr Ashworth! I’m not falling into the trap of asking you to leave! We do, after all, have a duty to the Archbishop to keep up appearances, even if he does insult us both by treating you as a spy and me as a fool.’

During this speech the Bishop had crossed the room. He now opened the door and looked back. ‘You will complete your visit, you will behave like a gentleman and you will consider my advice on the subject of spiritual direction,’ he said, ‘and meanwhile I look forward to resuming our theological discussions over the port tonight. I should very much like to hear your views on the Virgin Birth.’ And he walked out, banging the door abruptly behind him.