Our good verger, no doubt. I must make a point of thanking him.
I had just knelt in private prayer before beginning the service itself when a figure slipped into the church, hastening to a back corner behind a pillar, as if anxious to avoid attention. For a moment I hesitated: should I simply ignore him, as seemed to be his desire? And indeed at that moment another had a greater call on my attention. I would speak to the stranger through the words of the liturgy.
Would he seek to slip quietly away at the end? No. As I concluded the service he stepped forward. I almost dropped my prayer book: it was none other than Archdeacon Cornforth.
He responded with alacrity to my suggestion that he adjourn with me to the rectory, where Mrs Trent, forewarned of my return, would be preparing breakfast: she always overwhelmed me with the quantity, if not the quality, of her food, so I had no doubt of the archdeacon being fed to repletion. None could fault her home-brewed ale, though it transpired that we both preferred coffee. There was a profusion of fresh eggs and some excellent ham; the bread was as good as the new stove could bake. I would make sure that the archdeacon thanked her in person.
Encouraging me to address him less formally as Archdeacon Giles, my guest made inroads into all set before him. It was only as he wiped the last crumb from his lips that he broached the problem before him. ‘These people from Clavercote, Campion: their latest demand isthat none but you should minister to them. They spurn the thought of a curate, no matter how usual that situation is. Having seen, if you will forgive the analogy, the Lord Mayor’s Procession, they have no desire to watch the man sweeping up after it.’
‘I am very flattered. But for once I feel unable to oblige them. As you are no doubt aware, there has been a vile murder in their parish.’ Receiving a shocked negative, I was obliged to recount what had happened and my part in the proceedings.
He looked truly appalled. ‘But you are no mere parish constable, my dear Campion – you are a man of God!’
‘And perhaps, as on previous occasions, an instrument of justice,’ I retorted.
He bit his lip. ‘Perhaps this little country backwater is not sufficient for a man of your abilities. Perhaps your abilities would be better suited to something less out of the public eye.’
‘I am more than happy here. And there is God’s work to be done whether one is seen doing it or not.’
‘Of course, of course. So long as this playing-at-being-constable game of yours is subservient to your other work.’
‘Archdeacon, all over the country I see men of the cloth delegating all their responsibilities to curates to whom they pay such niggardly stipends that they have to lodge with farmers because they cannot afford their own home. It is with them you should be remonstrating, not I! My apologies,’ I added hastily. ‘I spoke too warmly.’
‘You spoke with a good deal of feeling and a regrettable amount of accuracy. Which is why I am all the more disappointed that you will not take up the care ofClavercote’s souls. Sadly disappointed, Campion. A man cannot serve two masters, you know.’
As if my father were pressing my shoulder, I remained silent, merely raising one cool eyebrow, much in the manner of dear Maria.
At last he said, ‘Perhaps a compromise might be reached. Curates may take the services, but you will undertake to continue with your pastoral work there. I hear great things of you from Boddice and Lawton. Dear me, they sound like a particularly unreliable firm of tailors, do they not?’
I laughed, and it seemed that our previous good relations were restored.
Over fresh coffee he questioned me further on the murder, gasping in horror as I relayed the least savoury details, one in particular drawing all the colour from his face. ‘Can men behave like that?’ he breathed. ‘You are in the right: such a crime must not go unpunished, whoever is
I had just knelt in private prayer before beginning the service itself when a figure slipped into the church, hastening to a back corner behind a pillar, as if anxious to avoid attention. For a moment I hesitated: should I simply ignore him, as seemed to be his desire? And indeed at that moment another had a greater call on my attention. I would speak to the stranger through the words of the liturgy.
Would he seek to slip quietly away at the end? No. As I concluded the service he stepped forward. I almost dropped my prayer book: it was none other than Archdeacon Cornforth.
He responded with alacrity to my suggestion that he adjourn with me to the rectory, where Mrs Trent, forewarned of my return, would be preparing breakfast: she always overwhelmed me with the quantity, if not the quality, of her food, so I had no doubt of the archdeacon being fed to repletion. None could fault her home-brewed ale, though it transpired that we both preferred coffee. There was a profusion of fresh eggs and some excellent ham; the bread was as good as the new stove could bake. I would make sure that the archdeacon thanked her in person.
Encouraging me to address him less formally as Archdeacon Giles, my guest made inroads into all set before him. It was only as he wiped the last crumb from his lips that he broached the problem before him. ‘These people from Clavercote, Campion: their latest demand isthat none but you should minister to them. They spurn the thought of a curate, no matter how usual that situation is. Having seen, if you will forgive the analogy, the Lord Mayor’s Procession, they have no desire to watch the man sweeping up after it.’
‘I am very flattered. But for once I feel unable to oblige them. As you are no doubt aware, there has been a vile murder in their parish.’ Receiving a shocked negative, I was obliged to recount what had happened and my part in the proceedings.
He looked truly appalled. ‘But you are no mere parish constable, my dear Campion – you are a man of God!’
‘And perhaps, as on previous occasions, an instrument of justice,’ I retorted.
He bit his lip. ‘Perhaps this little country backwater is not sufficient for a man of your abilities. Perhaps your abilities would be better suited to something less out of the public eye.’
‘I am more than happy here. And there is God’s work to be done whether one is seen doing it or not.’
‘Of course, of course. So long as this playing-at-being-constable game of yours is subservient to your other work.’
‘Archdeacon, all over the country I see men of the cloth delegating all their responsibilities to curates to whom they pay such niggardly stipends that they have to lodge with farmers because they cannot afford their own home. It is with them you should be remonstrating, not I! My apologies,’ I added hastily. ‘I spoke too warmly.’
‘You spoke with a good deal of feeling and a regrettable amount of accuracy. Which is why I am all the more disappointed that you will not take up the care ofClavercote’s souls. Sadly disappointed, Campion. A man cannot serve two masters, you know.’
As if my father were pressing my shoulder, I remained silent, merely raising one cool eyebrow, much in the manner of dear Maria.
At last he said, ‘Perhaps a compromise might be reached. Curates may take the services, but you will undertake to continue with your pastoral work there. I hear great things of you from Boddice and Lawton. Dear me, they sound like a particularly unreliable firm of tailors, do they not?’
I laughed, and it seemed that our previous good relations were restored.
Over fresh coffee he questioned me further on the murder, gasping in horror as I relayed the least savoury details, one in particular drawing all the colour from his face. ‘Can men behave like that?’ he breathed. ‘You are in the right: such a crime must not go unpunished, whoever is
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