Here was the result: a mock-Gothic edifice with pointed arches at its doors and windows, a timber roof with varnished rafters from which dangled cobwebs – Steven heard one of the councillors muttering about ‘that fellow Stick’ who should have been told to clean up the place! – and a grey, unwelcoming floor of lias flags. At one end was a dais, on which a table set with a carafe and water-glasses awaited the main speakers and the chairman; this was carpeted. In addition to chairs for the speakers, there was another row behind, on which the members of the parish council took their places.
Sitting down, on invitation, at Nigel’s right, Steven surveyed the body of the hall. It was crammed with chairs. Even though two aisles had been left, they were probably too close to be consistent with fire-safety regulations … but he dared not. comment. Under wan, tapered bulbs on round black wrought-iron chandeliers hung from chains, the people of Weyharrow were gathering to hear their doom.
Plus sundry others from outside.
The front row of seats bore handwritten signs saying ‘RESERVED’. Basil and Helen Goodsir occupied two, and the man in the mohair suit sat down beside them. (Who had they said he was? But Steven had simply failed to catch the name.) Mrs Judger, sniffing, took another one realizing that the hall was already almost full.
Also there were the press. Jenny was escorting them to their places. Not looking as though they enjoyed each other’s company, Don and Wallace sat down either side of her, flanked by Wilf and Lisa respectively. That much was as Steven had expected. So, albeit somewhat less so, was the fact that Don had found places for the Ellerford boys immediately behind him. So too was the arrival of Chief Inspector Chade, to take the chair at the left end of the front row, near a door over which a lighted sign said ‘FIRE EXIT’. Beside him was another man Steven didn’t recognize, in a navy-blue blazer and regimental tie, with whom Chade exchanged muttered comments. Joe Book took station beside the fire exit, crossing his arms and looking official.
Speaking of muttered comments: it looked as though Don Prosher was acquainted with the man in the mohair suit. At any rate, they smiled insincerely at each other.
A couple of vacancies remained at the front. A dark, fortyish woman in glasses, walking as though her feet were sore, whose face struck Steven as vaguely familiar though he didn’t recollect her as a local person, tried to claim one of them. But Nigel beckoned Mrs Judger and whispered to her, and the would-be intruder retired to the rear of the hall, obliged to join the hippie visitors who had filtered in last of all and were standing at the back, shifting from foot to foot as though uncomfortable among the more conventionally dressed, among Tom and Fred Fidger, Vic Draycock, the Jacksetts, Lawrence Ratch the pharmacist, the Flakens, the Blockets, Moira O’Pheale, Harry and Joyce Vikes, Ken Pecklow and his wife, and the rest.
With a start Steven realized: apart from those who had other obligations, such as the Jeggses who had to keep the Marriage open, almost literally everybody he had met since his arrival in the village had assembled. Even Stick was here; they caught each other’s eyes and exchanged waves. The pretty, long-haired woman next to him, presumably, would be Sheila Surrean, whom Steven hadn’t met. Her children were sitting on her lap and Stick’s.
And wasn’t that Cedric Goodsir on Stick’s other side?
His eyes ranged to the extreme far end, in search of the woman who had hoped for a seat at the front. It always infuriated him when he saw a face he felt he ought to recognize but couldn’t. But her head was bowed, as though she were praying, and her features were in shadow.
Directly above her hung a clock of the kind Steven always associated with memories of school: a plain white dial and heavy black Roman numerals, with the conventional 1111 in place of iv to mark the four. That same lecturer who had told his students about Ambroise Paré – was Penny Wenstowe here? No, though her parents were. Moreover there was scarcely anybody present, apart from Jenny, the Ellerford boys and the Surrean girls, younger than himself; this was a middle-aged gathering, inclining to the elderly – that same lecturer had explained that the mistake was deliberate, designed to help the astigmatic.
Assuming it was right, the time was ten past eight.
Beside him Nigel Mender rose and cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! Friends! We had hoped that our gathering this evening was to be favoured with the presence of Archdeacon Thummage.’
From the corner of his eye Steven noticed that the parson relaxed a trifle, though his manner and his posture remained alike downcast.
‘Unfortunately he must have been delayed. So rather than keep you hanging about any longer –’
At that precise moment there was a disturbance near the main entrance at the far end of the hall, and a woman’s voice called out, ‘It’s okay, Nigel! Here he is!’
A tall, long-faced man, all in black bar a silver-grey silk front and a white band at his throat symbolizing the traditional ‘dog collar’, appeared in the doorway, bestowing smiles of apology on everyone around him as he made his way to the front row, and occasional glares on the companion who followed him: a much younger man in similar garb save that he wore a plain black front.
‘Mr Phibson! Mr – Mr Mender, isn’t it? A thousand apologies! I’m afraid my driver missed our way, or we’d have been here long ago. Do continue, since you decided to start without us. Quite right, too!’
Nigel leaned across to whisper, ‘You won’t have met Mr Thummage, Steven. He’s the archdeacon of the diocese. It’s not for nothing that they call archdeacons “the bishop’s eyes and ears”!’
‘Is that so?’ was the only answer Steven could contrive.
‘Pray continue, as I said!’ said Mr Thummage, sitting down, crossing his legs and linking his fingers in front of him. Looking distinctly unhappy, his companion sat hunched forward with his hands between his knees.
‘I need scarcely say how pleased we are that you have found it possible to join us after all!’ Nigel declared heartily. ‘So, now, even if we are a little late, I can call this meeting to order and introduce our speakers.’
His tone became self-consciously solemn.
‘We meet together because certain strange events have overtaken our village in the past few days. We are all anxious to get to the bottom of them. The elected members of your parish council, of which I have the honour to be chairman, are as desirous as anyone of solving the – ah – the mystery. That’s why we’ve called you here.’
Someone roared past on a noisy motorcycle; apart from that, there was total silence.
‘Now after considerable deliberation, the councillors concluded that the speakers you would most hope to hear from would be, on the one hand, our respected parson –’
The old man’s face had been pale all evening; now it turned the colour of candle-wax.
‘ – and on the other, Dr Steven Gloze, who as you know is deputizing for Dr Tripkin who’s on holiday. I hate to think what he’s going to say – heh-heh – when he finds out how much excitement he’s been missing …’
That was a false note. Nigel realized the audience was glowering, and changed tack.
‘However that may be, and – I must stress this – without wanting to turn this evening’s meeting into an argument, with people taking one side or the other, the council has decided that the various views need to be aired. I call on Mr Phibson to express his opinion of the matter.’
He turned to the parson with a flourish, and sat down.
But Mr Phibson simply sat there, immobile save that now and then he licked his lips. Renewed silence lengthened.
Eventually someone from the back of the hall called out, ‘Ah, come on, Parson! You told everyone it was the Devil!’
That had been a man’s voice. Steven, peering through the dimness, failed to identify the speaker.
A woman spoke up, equally loudly, and he knew who this was: Joyce Vikes.
‘May God forgive you if you’ve told another lie! We all know what heresies you preached! Holy kisses! “The Father an
d the Mother and the Child”! Whoever heard such diabolical bolical nonsense? It was the Devil’s doing, and you said so!’
Nigel looked anxiously at the parson, who seemed finally to be summoning his courage. After another tense pause he forced himself to his feet; Steven’s trained ear caught the sound of creaking joints, and he made a mental note to have the poor old fellow tested for bursitis.
He glanced at Mr Thummage. The archdeacon, hands still linked against his chest, was smiling benignly.
As he had told Mr Phibson, Steven had lost his faith. Suddenly it struck him as imperative to make as many other people as he could lose theirs, rather than remain prey to a sleék and smiling conniver like this archdeacon.
Speaking of sleek and smiling … who in the world was that person sitting next to Basil Goodsir, whom Don knew? What business did he have among the folk of Weyharrow?
And how about the man beside the chief inspector?
But Mr Phibson had found his voice at last. It creaked like the branches of an old oak in a gale; like an old and unoiled hinge; like his own painful knees …
Steven was assailed by waves of pity. How far in the future did a like fate await him –? No! How near?
Abruptly reminded of mortality, he clenched his fists unseen beneath the table.
Mr Phibson said, looking at nobody: The archdeacon and I have spoken on the phone today. I wish him good evening. I know he has the pastoral care of all of you at heart. He knows that I was sincerely misled in what I said the other morning in this church – the church. And isn’t that what God expects of us: sincerity?’
The audience was growing restive. He seemed oblivious.
‘I’m told that shortly I shall be replaced. I shall miss the many friends I’ve made in this parish. I think with special affection of the babies I’ve baptized since coming to Weyharrow. I only hope that the pagan taint which infects your water and your very air, so that your appointed master – I mean pastor – is compelled to stand under the same roof as filthy loathsome immoral disgusting people like those that I see near the door …’
He had completely lost track of what he was saying.
Alarmed, Steven leaned towards Nigel. But already the chairman was signalling to Mrs Judger. She marched up the three steps to the dais, took the parson by the hand, and led him away. When the door closed behind him, Mr Thummage had taken the place he had vacated.
‘With your chairman’s permission,’ he said in a resonant baritone, ‘I shall claim the privilege of substituting for my unfortunate brother in Christ. Far be it from me to put words into his mouth, but it does so happen’ – he glanced modestly down at the table – ‘your chairman and I had a brief telephonic conference today, and reached a modicum of agreement … I do not deny, nor shall I ever do so!’ – this time he banged the table with his fist and glared around the hall – ‘that the Evil One exists! How could anybody claim that he does not, confronted with the reality of evil in our modern world?
‘What I do say, though, is this!’ He straightened in his chair, shoulders back, eyes blazing.
‘It is not yet in a placid English village that one may seek his rule! Oh, certainly there are signs that it may one day come to pass.’ His voice dropped. ‘Immorality is rampant everywhere! There are countless persons who seek false happiness in relationships unsanctified by the Church! There are stupid people who resign themselves to the artificial gratification that can be got from drugs, when all such transient joy is but a shadow of what can be obtained through dedication to the love of God! Perhaps – I do not say this is the case, but certain evidence I’ve been given inclines me to suspect it may be – perhaps here in Weyharrow these forces, due less to evil than to mere stupidity, have overcome your parson and undermined his – mind. I say the poor man is overwrought. He needs caring for, and a long rest. I would rather believe so than think that you, you ordinary decent English people, have consciously and voluntarily allowed that being whom we know as Satan to enter your hearts, your minds, and your souls … despite your willingness to welcome pagans in your midst!’
He concluded with a glare directed at Chris and Rhoda.
Someone said faintly, ‘You mean Parson was wrong? The Devil didn’t take him over like he said?’
Smiling indulgently, the archdeacon said, ‘Even those of us who have spent long years in the service of Christ are vulnerable, if not to the Evil One, then to human weakness. You can hardly expect Mr Phibson to be immune.’
Nigel tapped Steven on the arm. Leaning close, almost chortling, he said, ‘He’s doing our work for us, isn’t he? Sounds as though I may not even have to call on you!’
Swallowing hard, Steven said, ‘I’d like to speak anyway. I didn’t really want to before. Now I do.’
Surprised, more than a mite dismayed, Nigel stared at him. But he said at length, ‘Don’t want to miss your moment in the spotlight, is that it? Well, I can understand that. How about now?’
It seemed like as good a time as any, if he hoped to make a rational contribution to the proceedings. Half the audience were sitting stunned, as though to have their parson contradicted was unthinkable. The rest were whispering among themselves, and from the susurrus of their voices arose a change in the formerly quiet mood.
‘We – ah – we thank Archdeacon Thummage for his levelheaded appraisal of the situation,’ Nigel said, rising and staring down the hubbub. ‘Now I call on Dr Gloze, whom some of you – most of you, perhaps – already know despite the brief time he’s been with us. Steven?’
He was on his feet, nodding acknowledgment of scattered applause … and his mind was absolutely blank.
He said at length, ‘Friends – I hope I may call you so despite, as Nigel said, the short time I have been here … Friends, I’m sure you were as pleased as I was to hear the archdeacon ascribe Mr Phibson’s actions to excessive stress and mental pressure, rather than to supernatural forces. Had I been called upon to voice a professional opinion’ – thank goodness the poor fellow wasn’t in the room! – ‘that, I’m afraid, is what I too would have been forced to say. For a medical man, it’s something of a relief to hear one’s views confirmed by a theologian.’
He paused, hoping that there might be a smile or two, even a chuckle, in response to his sally. Instead there was silence, tense as a fiddle-string.
His mouth dry, his throat hoarsening, he launched into the carefully reasoned, statistically defensible, wholly and absolutely logical argument he had prepared in every spare moment during the day. He had a sheaf of paper in his hand, and every page bore solid data, authoritative and documented …
And no one, after the first minute, listened to it. He wound down with a weak statement that sounded more like an apology, even to himself: ‘So, you see, what happened here could well have happened anywhere.’
There was a pause.
At length, beaming, Nigel Mender said, ‘I hope that sets everybody’s mind at rest. We could scarcely have hoped for a clearer exposition of the facts, could we?’
Was that going to be it? Steven stared out across the audience. From their expressions he could tell that they were as dissatisfied as he. But as Nigel went on to say something about a vote of thanks to the speakers, his fellow councillors started to shuffle and rise from their chairs. Obviously they were past masters of the art of sweeping dirt under the carpet. So …
Despondent, on the verge of renouncing once and for all any ideas of taking over from Dr Tripkin, he mechanically folded up his papers.
He would have liked to know for sure what had afflicted him. And Jenny, and the parson and everybody else. It looked as though he wasn’t going to get the chance. Not tonight, at any rate.
And then there was a cry from the body of the hall.
‘Oh no you don’t! We didn’t come here to be fobbed off with doubletalk! We still got questions – lots of ’em!’
Praise be!
13
That outburst had come from Mary Flaken, resisting her husband’s attempt to
restrain her. He might have succeeded but for the chorus of support that followed. Advancing down the left-hand aisle, Ella Kailet shouted, ‘I came all the way from London to find out what happened to me here! For pity’s sake, you can’t stop us talking about it! Something happened here that drove me mad!’
‘And a lot of other people too!’
For a second Steven didn’t realize it was his own voice that had rung out from the platform. Then he realized that Nigel was scowling at him, and the archdeacon was looking like thunder.
And the parish councillors, par force majeure, were resuming their chairs.
He sought desperately for a way to excuse his intervention, and realized abruptly that there was no need. Shouts of approval were greeting it. Several people were on their feet, waving their fists. Loudest, and attracting most attention, was Tom Fidger.
‘Doctor! We won’t hold it against you that you had to spin that reassuring yarn! It’s just what most of us have learned to expect around here! But you weren’t enjoying it – were you? I could tell!’
Nigel was pawing at his arm again, but all of a sudden Steven felt reckless, as he had when he decided to take Jenny to the Marriage for a drink instead of treating her as a patient. He brushed the chairman’s hand aside and rose to his feet.
What the hell difference did it make if he had to suffer another three weeks in this place? He need never return!
‘You’re right!’ he bellowed. ‘You’re absolutely right! While I didn’t tell you a single lie I don’t believe I told you half the truth!’
‘But that’s only ’cause you didn’t know it!’
Tom Fidger was pulling back his jacket and raising his hands as though to adopt the classic posture of thumbs in waistcoat armholes – only to realize he didn’t have a waistcoat on. He covered his mistake by clapping.