Crybbe

CHAPTER VI

One of the women who cleaned the church was paid to come into the vicarage on weekdays to prepare Murray's lunch. He rarely saw her do it, especially in summer; it would just be there on a couple of dishes, under clingfilm. Variations on a cold-meat salad and a piece of fruit pie with whipped cream. She never asked if he enjoyed it or if there was something he would prefer.

He lifted up a corner of the clingfilm, saw a whitish, glistening smudge of something.

Mayonnaise. He knew it could only be mayonnaise.

But still Murray retched and pushed the plate away. This had been happening increasingly, of late – he'd scraped the lunch untouched into the dustbin. He never seemed to miss it afterwards, rarely felt hunger, although he knew he was losing weight and even he could see his face was gaunt and full of long shadows. Pretty soon, he though sourly, there would be rumours going around that he had AIDs.

Next week he might let it be known that he was interested in a move. He would see how he felt.

Today was not the day to do anything hasty.

Today he'd left the vicarage as usual, before eight, and walked the fifty yards to the church where he'd found what he'd found.

The church door had not been damaged because it was never locked. Nothing had been torn or overturned. Only the cupboard in the vestry, where the communion wine and the chalice were kept, had been forced.

Murray had heard of cases where centuries-old stained glass had been smashed or, in the case of Catholic churches, plaster statues pounded to fragments. Swastikas spray-painted on the altar-cloth. Defecation in the aisle.

Nothing so unsubtle here.

What was missing was that element of frenzy, of uncontrolled savagery. This was what had unnerved him, made him look over his shoulder down the silent nave.

Candles – his own Christmas candles – had been left burning on the altar, two of them, one so far gone that it was no more than a wick in a tiny pool of liquid wax. Between the candles stood the communion chalice, not empty.

What was in the bottom of the cup was not mayonnaise.

Murray had looked inside once, then turned away with a short, whispered, outraged prayer – it might have been a prayer or it might have been a curse; either way it was out of character. His reserve had been cracked.

With distaste, he'd placed the chalice on the stone floor, remembering too late about fingerprints but knowing even then hat he would not be calling in the police, because that was all they'd done.

And it was enough.

It was inherently worse than any orgy of spray-paint and destruction. The single small, symbolic act, profoundly personal, almost tidy. Appalling in its implication, but nothing in itself, simply not worth reporting to the police and thus alerting the newspapers and Fay Morrison.

'They always ask you,' he remembered a colleague with an urban parish complaining once, 'if you suspect Satanism. What are you supposed to say? It's certainly more than anti-social behaviour, but do you really want some spotty little vandal strutting around thinking he's the Prince of Darkness?'

But this, he thought – staring down at his cling-wrapped lunch, suddenly nauseous and unsteady – this is another gesture to me. It's saying, come out. Come out, 'priest', come out and fight.

However, as he'd thought while rinsing out the chalice this morning, this can hardly be down to Tessa Byford, can it?

Murray had thrown away the candles, performed a small, lonely service of reconsecration over the chalice and decided to keep the outrage to himself. By the time the Monday cleaner came in at ten, there had been no sign of intrusion.

As for the small cupboard in the vestry – he would unscrew it from the wall himself and take it to an ironmonger's in Leominster, explaining how he'd had to force the lock after being stupid enough to lose the key. Silly me. Ha ha.

Impractical souls, vicars. Absent-minded, too.

Just how absent-minded he was becoming was brought dramatically home to him when the doorbell rang just before two o'clock and he parted the lace curtains to see a hearse parked in front of the house with a coffin in the back.

It had slipped his mind completely. But, even so, wasn't it at least a day too early?

'Ah, Mr Beech,' the undertaker said cheerfully. 'Got Jonathon Preece for you.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Funeral's Wednesday afternoon, so it's just the two nights in the church, is it?'

'Yes, I… I wasn't expecting him so soon. I thought, with the post mortem…'

'Aye, we took him for that first thing this morning and collected him afterwards.'

'Oh. But didn't you have things to, er…?'

'No, we cleaned him up beforehand, Mr Beech. If there's no embalming involved, it's a quick turnover. Right then, top of the aisle, is it? Bottom of the steps before the altar, that's where we usually…'

'Yes, fine. I'll… '

'Now you just leave it to us, Mr Beech. We know our way around. We'll make 'im comfortable.'

'In that case,' Jean Wendle said firmly, 'do you mind if I come in and wait? If that wouldn't be disturbing you.'

A refusal would be impossible. This was a deliberate, uncompromising foot-in-the-door situation, it having occurred to Jean that if she took it easy, she might actually get more out of the wife.

Mrs Preece took half a step back. With no pretence of not being reluctant, she held the cottage door open just wide enough for Jean to slide inside. There were roses around the door, which was nice, which showed somebody cared. Or had cared.

'Thank you.'

The first thing Jean noticed in the parlour was a fresh onion on a saucer on top of the television.

She was fascinated. She hadn't seen this in years.

Mrs Preece actually had hair like an onion, coiled into a tight, white bun, and everything else about her was closed up just as tight.

She looked unlikely to offer her guest a cup of tea.

'I do realize things must be very difficult for you at present,' Jean said, if there is anything I can do…'

Mrs Preece snorted.

Jean smiled at her. 'The reason I'm here, the public meeting will be upon us tomorrow evening and I felt there were one or two things I should like to know in advance.'

'If you're yere as a spy for Mr Max Goff,' Mrs Preece said bluntly, 'then there's no need to dress it up.'

Jean was not unpleasantly surprised.

'Do you know, Mrs Preece,' she said, being equally blunt, 'this is the first experience I've ever had of an indigenous Crybbe person coming right out with something, instead of first skirting furtively around the issue.'

'Maybe you been talking to the wrong people,' said Mrs Preece.

'And who, would you say, are the "wrong" people? By the way, I wouldn't waste that nice onion on me.'

'I beg your pardon.'

'Just don't tell me,' Jean said levelly, 'that the onion on the saucer is there to absorb paint smells or germs. You put it there to attract any unwelcome emanations from people you don't want in your house. And when they've gone you quietly dispose of the onion. Will you be getting rid of it when I leave, Mrs Preece?'

Mrs Preece, face reddening, looked down at her clumpy brown shoes.

'Or am I flattering myself?' Jean said.

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Och, away with you, Mrs Preece. I'm no' one of your London innocents.'

'You're none of you innocent,' Mrs Preece cried. 'You're all as guilty as, as…' Her voice dropped. 'As guilty as sin.'

'Of what?' Jean asked gently.

Mrs Preece shook her head. 'You're not getting me going, I'm not stupid. You must know as you're doing no good for this town.'

'And why is that, Mrs Preece? Do you mind if I sit down?'

And before Mrs Preece could argue, Jean had slipped into the Mayor's fireside chair.

'Because it seems to me, you see, that all the new people love Crybbe just exactly the way it is, Mrs Preece. They would hate anything to happen to the local traditions. In fact that's why I'm here. I was hoping your husband could tell me a wee bit about the curfew.'

Mrs Preece turned away.

'I'm also compiling a small history of the town and its folklore,' Jean said.

'Nothing to tell,' Mrs Preece said eventually. 'Nothing that's not written down already.'

'I don't think so. I think there is a remarkable amount to tell which has never been written down.'

Mrs Preece stood over Jean. She wore a large, striped apron, like a butcher's. Discernible anxiety in her eyes now.

'Tell me about it, Mrs Preece. Tell me about the ritual which your husband's family has maintained so selflessly for so many centuries.'

'Just a bequest,' the Mayor's wife said. 'That's all. A bequest of land a long time ago in the sixteenth century. Depending on the bell to be rung every night.'

'This is codswallop,' Jean Wendle said. 'This is a smokescreen.'

'Well, we 'ave the documents to prove it!' Mrs Preece was getting angry. 'That's how much it's codswallop!'

'Oh, I'm sure you do. But the real reason for the curfew, is it not, is to protect the town from… well, let's call it the Black Dog.'

Mrs Preece's face froze like a stopped clock.

Into the silence came lazy footsteps on the path.

'Be my husband back.' Very visibly relieved.

Damnation, Jean almost said aloud. So close.

But it wasn't the Mayor. A thin, streaky haired youth with an ear-ring shambled in without knocking.

'All right, Gran? I come to tell you…'

'You stay outside with them boots, Warren!'

'Too late, Gran.' The youth was in the living-room now, giving Jean Wendle the once-over with his narrow eyes.

Ah, she thought. The surviving grandson. Interesting.

'Hello,' Jean said. 'So you're Warren.'

"s right, yeah.' From his ear-ring hung a tiny silvery death's head.

'I was very sorry to hear about your brother.'

Warren blew out his mouth and nodded. 'Aye, well, one o' them things, isn't it. Anyway, Gran, message from the old… from Dad. All it is – they brought Jonathon back and 'e's in the church.'

'I see,' said Mrs Preece quietly. 'Thank you, Warren.'

'In 'is coffin,' said Warren.

Jean observed that the boy was somewhat less than grief-stricken.

'Lid's on, like,' Warren said.

Jean thought he sounded disappointed.

'But 'e's not screwed down, see, so if you wanna go'n 'ave a quick look at 'im, there's no problem.'

'No, I don't think I shall,' his grandmother said, 'thank you, Warren.' Tiny tears were sparkling in her eyes.

'If you're worried the ole lid might be a bit 'eavy for you, Gran,' Warren said considerately, 'I don't mind goin' along with you. I got half an hour or so to spare before I got to leave.' He turned to Jean. 'I got this band, see. We practises most Monday and Wednesday nights.'

Mrs Preece said, her voice high and tight, 'No, thank you, Warren.'

Warren watched his grandmother's reaction with his head on one side. This boy, Jean registered with considerable interest, is trying not to laugh.

'See, it's no problem. Gran,' Warren said slowly and slyly. ' 'Cause I've already 'ad 'im off once, see, that ole lid.'

He stood with his hands on narrow hips encased in tight, leather trousers, and his lips were just the merest twist away from a smirk.

Jean had been listening to the tension in the air in the small, brown living-room, humming and then singing, dangerously off-key, sending out invisible wires that quickly tautened and then, finally, snapped.

'Get out!' Mrs Preece's big face suddenly buckled. 'GET OUT!' She turned to Jean, breathing rapidly. 'And you as well, if you please.'

Jean stood up and moved quietly to the door. 'I'm really very sorry, Mrs Preece.'

'Things is not right,' Mrs Preece said, sniffing hard. 'Things is far from right. And no you're not. None of you's sorry.'

They'd stopped for coffee but hadn't eaten, couldn't face it.

Fay still felt a bit sick and more than a bit alone. She badly needed someone she could rely on and Joe Powys no longer seemed like the one. But while she felt slightly betrayed, she was also sorry for him. He looked even more lost than she felt.

'All I can think of,' he said, driving listlessly back to Crybbe, 'is that the stone near the cottage is the actual one – the Bottle Stone.'

'You mean he had it dug up under cover of darkness and…'

'Sounds crazy, doesn't it?'

'I'm afraid it does, Joe. Why would Boulton-Trow want to do that, anyway?'

'Well, he knows that was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and…'

'And he wanted to bring it all back by confronting you with the stone again? That would make him… well, you know… quite evil. I can't imagine…'

'I'm sorry. I'm asking too much of you. Maybe I ought to stay out of your way for a while.'

Fay looked at him hopelessly. 'Maybe we'll take some time and think about things. See what we can come up with.'

She decided she'd go, after all, to Goff's press conference, in a private capacity, just to listen. See what questions other people raised and how they were answered.

'I don't think we have much time,' Joe Powys said, 'I really don't.'

'Why? I mean… before what?'

'I don't know,' he said.

He looked broken.

Alone again, Mrs Preece shut herself in the living-room, fell into her husband's sunken old chair and began to cry bitterly, her white hair spooling free of its bun, strands getting glued by the tears to her mottled cheeks.

When the telephone rang, she ignored it and it stopped.

After some minutes Mrs Preece got up from the chair, went to the mirror and tried to piece together her bun without looking at her face.

Out of the corner of her right eye she saw the onion in its saucer on top of the television set.

Then Mrs Preece let out a scream so harsh and ragged it felt as though the skin was being scoured from the back of her throat.

The onion, fresh this morning, was as black as burnt cork.