Chapter 4 - Man of the Cloth
Earlier that same afternoon the Reverend Fabian Brentwood-Green had rung the bell at Mrs Loxwood's beautiful Victorian villa. The red brick walls and tiled elevations, built over a hundred years ago with loving care and artistic design, made him so envious. This was one of the best houses in the village, surrounded by lawns and wide beds, in which exotic flowers grew in tasteful arrangements against a backdrop of perfectly trimmed shrubs.
He was on a mission. Men of the cloth are occasionally fired up with missionary zeal, and none more so than a vicar with a crumbling church who hears that his most affluent parishioner is in danger of straying from the fold. He had received a call from the lady's son, Councillor Piers Clandecy, and was determined to do all he could to avert the disaster that the Councillor envisioned. A mental picture of Clandecy's red face, practically bursting a blood vessel in fury, swum before his eyes. "Mother," he had spluttered, "is thinking of joining a dangerous sect. Just imagine what could happen! She might leave all her money to them!"
Mrs Loxwood herself answered the door, calling out to her maid to stay upstairs with the vacuum cleaner. Perhaps she was already aware that the maid was the one who had informed her son of her unorthodox activities. She smiled at the vicar and invited him in. "Good," he thought, "this won't be as difficult as I had imagined." He had rehearsed in his head the conversation he expected to have with the old lady, aware that as a respected member of the community he had to be careful. She was old enough to be his own mother, indeed he had been at the same junior school as her son.
Mrs Loxwood led him into the sunny drawing room, inclining her head with its prettily coiffured white curls to indicate that he should sit in an upright armchair. He hoped that she was as mentally fragile as she was physically delicate, but he feared that her mind was still as sharp as the last time they had spoken. He had brought her Holy Communion five years ago when she had broken her hip and could not attend church, and she had taken the opportunity to ask him all sorts of deep spiritual questions. He had the feeling that his clich?d answers had failed to impress her.
Now she sat down in her favourite chair, at ease and smiling, and said "To what do I owe this unaccustomed visit? Is there a problem with the church which my cheque-book can solve?"
He hesitated, his eyes widening at this rather cynical attack. He gathered his wits and replied "My dear Mrs Loxwood, can't a minister visit his parishioners without a financial motive? I can assure you that it is concern for your welfare which brings me here. I have heard some disturbing rumours."
"Disturbing rumours?" she countered. "I am sure that I have been conducting myself as a good Christian should - whatever can you mean?" She looked faintly amused, and he was sure then that she knew exactly what he meant.
"I have heard that you have been - shall we say - put upon, by members of a sect which I have in the past warned my flock to avoid. I realise that you are a kind and sympathetic lady who wishes to be polite to all, but I felt it my duty to impress upon you the dangers of allowing these people so much as a foothold in your life. I have only your best interests at heart," he continued as she prepared to reply, "and I can assure you that I will pray for you to be restored to your former, ah, loyal support of our dear St Giles's, er, of course, by that I mean, your regular attendance...." His words tailed off, as she fixed him with a beady eye and a withering look.
She sat there for a minute, looking straight at him, until he felt as uncomfortable as a schoolboy caught cheating. Finally she spoke.
"Mr Brentwood-Green," she began deliberately, the omission of his title boding ill for his chances of success. "You wish me to return to worshipping in your church, and presumably continuing my financial support. Let me be clear on this - I have become an astute businesswoman, thanks to my years of life and experience, and I appreciate value for money. In the days of your predecessors, there were some wonderful vicars in this parish who upheld the Christian principles of goodness, decency and family values, and took a firm moral line. One did not mind putting a contribution in the plate. Not so today."
She continued passionately: "My son, whose father failed to set an example for him, could have done with instruction from the Church, and I used to take him to services in the hope of sermons that would have given him an understanding of right and wrong - to reinforce what I strove to teach him at home. I do not blame you," she held up her hand to silence him as he began to protest, "I realise that it was before your tenure, and you have merely continued the downward trend into the moral void, instructed, I presume, by the heads of the Church. However, I have for some time felt that if Church services were a commodity we paid for, there would be a case under the Trades Descriptions Act for failure to deliver what we have a right to expect."
The Reverend Brentwood-Green's jaw dropped. "My dear Mrs Loxwood," he stuttered, "I can assure you that....I mean....why only last Sunday I preached on the subject of humility, and not judging others....."
"Not judging others? How very interesting. Yet you have accused the ladies who have been visiting me of belonging to a sect. Do you know what a sect is, Vicar?"
"Yes, yes, of course, it's ah, it's a group who, well, there's a leader, someone with radical - bizarre - beliefs. It's a defection from the true Church. This group who have been trying to get you into their clutches, well, everyone knows they are led by some American outfit...."
"Rubbish. You as a man of the cloth should be especially careful not to slander others in the community - make sure of your facts, Vicar," she admonished him sternly.
"But they aren't Christian," he protested, "They don't believe in the Holy Trinity!"
"And neither did the apostles, Mr Brentwood-Green. The Trinity is a fourth-century twist - there if you want it is a defection from the true Christian Church. I can assure you they aspire to be the very definition of true Christians. You see," she continued, more softly, "I have been given the privilege of being shown the true teachings of the Bible."
"Their Bible," he snarled, "You have been taken in by them, as I suspected."
"Again you are wrong - I insisted on using my King James Bible throughout. I was as mistrustful as you could have wished, Vicar, having paid heed to your frequent warnings. I did, however, wonder why you picked on them - after all, I've seen you go along quite happily to the Methodist Hall for their social lunches, and shake hands with Father Pattison from St Mary's - it seems your ecumenical charity extends to other churches, but not to those who give up their own time to teach the Bible."
He was appalled, and in his confusion made the mistake of resorting to abuse. "They are a dangerous threat to the community - pests, a nuisance!"
"They are a force for good in the community," she retorted. They are our neighbours, Mr Brentwood-Green, yes," as he looked shocked, "why, did you think they were shipped in from somewhere else? They are helpful and kind, and have strong family values, which is more than I can say for some of my friends who go to St Giles."
"I can't imagine what your friends will say - and, Mrs Loxwood, surely you care about your own family. Your son will want nothing to do with you if you join this - this - religion!"
Mrs Loxwood looked for a moment at the floor. The Vicar thought that he had finally carried his point, but when she gave her answer he knew that he had lost the battle.
"My son," she sighed, "is not likely to abandon me, not that he appreciates my efforts to share my Bible knowledge with him. We had a little controversy over it, and I have promised him that I will not change my religion unless I am absolutely sure it is the right course. Mind you, Vicar, it's not as easy as that. It means action as well as knowledge, you know - I would have to give up all my bad habits - my annual flutter on the Grand National..." she giggled.
"No, but seriously," she continued gravely, "my son is not going to walk away from me. I'm afraid he is too attached to his prospects in my will. Piers has an eye to the future. I just wish I could persuade him t
o consider his everlasting future, for, like most of his generation, he claims to be an atheist. I am very surprised he has appealed to you to help him."
Stung by this pious reminder, Reverend Brentwood-Green tried one last rejoinder. "I fear your own everlasting future is at stake, Mrs Loxwood," he said sternly. "I doubt that heaven will be awaiting those who desert the Church."
Mrs Loxwood stared at him, taking in this thinly-veiled threat. Then slowly her shoulders began to shake with mirth. "Why Vicar," she laughed, "I have attended enough funerals to know that you have already consigned to heavenly bliss both good and bad alike! Some of the most unpleasant people in this village are sitting on clouds playing harps, according to you. Drunks, thieves, adulterers - not one of them the least bit repentant. One of the most comforting things I have learned from the Bible is the meek can inherit the earth!"
Goaded beyond endurance, Reverend Brentwood-Green let the mask slip. "Well, Mrs Loxwood, I'd have thought you'd have inherited enough of that in this life," he retorted nastily.
"Maybe so, Vicar, maybe so. And it brought me no pleasure - the best things in life really are free, you know. And it may interest you to know that now the majority of our land has been sold to Egron, I intend to turn the remainder of the estate over to Piers. I wish to live simply, and my needs are few. I will have very little to give away," she finished pointedly.
She stood, indicating that the interview was over. Brentwood-Green looked up at her, not knowing how to respond. Defeated, he rose from the chair and followed her to the front door. She held out her hand to him, and he was tempted to refuse to shake it - but he did, in the hope of a further chance to influence her.
As he drove away from the house, he glanced back at the elegant villa, warmed by the afternoon sun. A fury overcame him, rage that he had not been able to demand her return to the fold, and a sense of his own failure to browbeat her into submission. She was an influential figure in village society, and who knew what mischief she could make if she spread her new-found knowledge to others?
He envisioned himself facing empty pews at Sunday services, the few stalwart churchgoers who did attend diverted to feed on richer spiritual pastures. She was right about her son's contemporaries - there was no room for God in most of their lives. If she really gave most of her money to Piers, the church would never see a penny. "Oh come on," he said to himself, "she keeps half the village in business - hairdressers, gardeners, cleaners, boutiques.....I bet she won't do it really. I wonder how much money she got for that land? Must have been worth a lot more once the Development began." He hunched over the wheel, grinding his teeth. Her comments on his sermons came back to him.
It wasn't his fault, people didn't want to hear the truth, so vast passages of the Bible were out of bounds to a modern cleric. 'Pacify them with promises,' the more cynical teachers at the seminary had implied. 'No rules, no guilt. You're a Christian if you clear out your wardrobe for the Bring-and-Buy sale. And if you want to get on, man, don't rock the boat.'
He'd suffocated his own early questions, eager to get on, and had earned himself a cosy little number in this quiet village. It was true that numbers had dropped so much that he now had to cover several villages, working in a team ministry with Heather Beamish, an energetic female vicar. She wasn't so bad, better than the awful Lance Preston, who had flaunted his homosexuality so openly that the older villagers had protested. The Bishop had quietly removed him to a London parish.
He drove on, and the memory of Lance Preston recalled to him the story about the lady who ran the finance section at the Council. The rumour was that her husband ran off unexpectedly with another man. Odd - he'd met Steve Coulthard, who struck him as a laid-back rugby-playing 'straight bloke'. But nothing surprised him these days.
He passed the road leading to Southcliff Hall, and his thoughts moved on to the Council. He pondered what Mrs Loxwood had told him about Councillor Clandecy, her son from her first marriage. Piers, that horrible little boy he had first seen marching round the playground trying to impress everyone with his aristocratic airs and graces, had fallen on his feet as usual. Fancy having the proceeds from all that land, it must have been worth a fortune - now that Pebbleton was 'on the map'. But Piers was used to wealth and privilege, sent after 'juniors' to a private senior school, pony and all.
He remembered the teenaged Piers' tragic face at the funeral of his father, Henry Clandecy. Henry had been a rogue, but a crafty one. The family fortunes had revived in his day, and his early demise from a severe stroke left his widow very comfortable. She had surprised everyone twelve years later by marrying John Loxwood, a quiet and decent man. Piers was thirty by then, and past reform. Piers had hated the man, afraid that he would spend 'Clandecy money', as Piers put it.
John Loxwood had done no such thing, and had died fifteen years later with the whole estate intact. Piers wore a very different face at this funeral, his jubilation barely suppressed as he firmly held his mother's elbow. She and the Clandecy money were now in his grasp, his expression said. He could well believe Mrs Loxwood's confidence that her son would stand by any decision she made, as long as her will was not to be changed.
Money, money - everything revolved around money. No wonder Mrs Loxwood was turning away, sickened. Suddenly, he had a curious idea. Surely, as a Councillor, Clandecy should not have profited by a Council decision in which he took part? Would that not be abusing his position? A mean desire for revenge on Mrs Loxwood, and her over-privileged son, took root in his heart. He might just mention a few things to someone at the Council......James Goswell, he seemed easy to influence. And he was neutral to the political scene - it was important not to alienate any of the local parties. Yes, James Goswell would be the one to talk to.
He jumped slightly as a police siren whined a little way ahead. Traffic was busier than usual since the Development began, and it was the end of the working day. He couldn't see any emergency vehicles, but he slowed down and peered up the road. An unmarked car with a small blue light on top swung around the roundabout ahead, and sped towards him. It passed, and in his rear-view mirror he saw it turn into the road towards Southcliff Hall. Odd - only the Council building there?.
He continued his journey, absorbed in his own thoughts. Later, at home in his comfortable modern vicarage, he switched on Clifftop FM, the local radio station. It was always useful to keep up with local news.
".....police were called to the Parish Council offices of Pebbleton-on-Edge, after a report of a suspicious death. In other news, a last treat for the children before school starts next week, don't forget the Extreme Sports Weekend. And for the younger children, the annual Painting Competition will be held this Saturday. Go along to Frayminster shopping precinct at one-thirty......."
The vicar switched off the radio and stood, lost in thought. That must have been the vehicle he saw. A suspicious death? A vicar should make himself available in such a circumstance, perhaps. He twitched an eyebrow, a small smile creeping up one side of his mouth, as he formulated a plan for the morning.