poverty-stricken working-class people, many of whom would have worked in the dockyard. Now he reckoned the reverend would be hard pushed to get a handful of people here. Had Tom Brundall been one of them on Tuesday afternoon attending a special service? Why come here though?
This parish church was a long way from the area where he had been raised and even further from the marina.
Horton walked towards the far end of the gallery. Now he was above the door by which he had entered. From here he couldn’t see anyone entering the church.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention. He headed back to the stairs to see a man in his late seventies with white hair and a creased and crumpled leathery face rather like a walnut, settle himself at the organ. Mr Gutner, Horton presumed.
‘Struth, you gave me a fright,’ the old man cried, clutching his heart.
Horton apologized and decided to postpone asking questions about Brundall. He was curious to find out more about the Reverend Gilmore. Without introducing himself, he said,
‘I was sorry to hear of the vicar’s death.’
‘So were we all. We’ll miss him.’
‘He was well liked?’
‘Never a bad word nor a cross one. He didn’t ask for much and didn’t get much. Not like the kids today. Grab, grab, grab.’
‘How long had you known him?’
‘Since he first came here in 1995.’
Horton was surprised and shaken. He had assumed that Gilmore had been the vicar here for years. He cursed himself silently for not getting more information from Anne Schofield, and for letting his emotions overwhelm his curiosity. He should have asked more questions. And now that first article that Gilmore had put a ring round and had written his mother’s name in the margin began to make more sense. Gilmore had seen it on his arrival in Portsmouth. So where was Gilmore from? And more puzzling was how would he have known his mother and Tom Brundall?
The old man was saying, ‘Reverend Gilmore did wonders for this place, and the community. Oh, you don’t want to judge him or us by this gloomy old church; this wasn’t what he was about.’
Horton didn’t think he had shown any visible distaste for the church. Perhaps this man was so used to people criticizing it that he automatically went on the defensive.
‘Reverend Gilmore knew what it was like to be poor. He had his fair share of tragedy too; lost his wife and daughter.’ The old man’s expression clouded over as he shook his head sadly.
‘How?’Anne Schofield hadn’t said, but then maybe she didn’t know. She had told him that she was a stranger to the area.
The old man lowered his voice and looked warily about him, as if he was about to divulge a secret and was afraid that Gilmore, wherever he was now, would hear. ‘His little girl was killed in a boating accident, on the Reverend’s yacht. She was only eight. They were out sailing when she fell overboard. She was dead by the time the Reverend could reach her.’
Horton suppressed a shudder. The church felt colder and darker than before. He tried not to imagine how he would feel if it happened to Emma whilst she was on his boat. Catherine would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself.
He wondered if he would be able to continue living.
‘The Reverend’s wife never got over it. She was dead within six months. Committed suicide.’
Horton felt an icy chill run through him as he imagined the poor woman’s grief.
‘The Reverend Gilmore had a nervous breakdown. Tried to kill himself too. He knew what despair was. He understood.’
His eyes filled with tears. ‘God helped him out of it, and that’s when he decided to become a priest.’
‘So this all happened before he was ordained.’
‘Yes. After God saved him, the Reverend decided to give away all his wealth and enter the church. He went to some college up country to study and came out a priest.’
‘He was once a wealthy man then?’
‘Must have been to have a yacht.’
Not
This parish church was a long way from the area where he had been raised and even further from the marina.
Horton walked towards the far end of the gallery. Now he was above the door by which he had entered. From here he couldn’t see anyone entering the church.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention. He headed back to the stairs to see a man in his late seventies with white hair and a creased and crumpled leathery face rather like a walnut, settle himself at the organ. Mr Gutner, Horton presumed.
‘Struth, you gave me a fright,’ the old man cried, clutching his heart.
Horton apologized and decided to postpone asking questions about Brundall. He was curious to find out more about the Reverend Gilmore. Without introducing himself, he said,
‘I was sorry to hear of the vicar’s death.’
‘So were we all. We’ll miss him.’
‘He was well liked?’
‘Never a bad word nor a cross one. He didn’t ask for much and didn’t get much. Not like the kids today. Grab, grab, grab.’
‘How long had you known him?’
‘Since he first came here in 1995.’
Horton was surprised and shaken. He had assumed that Gilmore had been the vicar here for years. He cursed himself silently for not getting more information from Anne Schofield, and for letting his emotions overwhelm his curiosity. He should have asked more questions. And now that first article that Gilmore had put a ring round and had written his mother’s name in the margin began to make more sense. Gilmore had seen it on his arrival in Portsmouth. So where was Gilmore from? And more puzzling was how would he have known his mother and Tom Brundall?
The old man was saying, ‘Reverend Gilmore did wonders for this place, and the community. Oh, you don’t want to judge him or us by this gloomy old church; this wasn’t what he was about.’
Horton didn’t think he had shown any visible distaste for the church. Perhaps this man was so used to people criticizing it that he automatically went on the defensive.
‘Reverend Gilmore knew what it was like to be poor. He had his fair share of tragedy too; lost his wife and daughter.’ The old man’s expression clouded over as he shook his head sadly.
‘How?’Anne Schofield hadn’t said, but then maybe she didn’t know. She had told him that she was a stranger to the area.
The old man lowered his voice and looked warily about him, as if he was about to divulge a secret and was afraid that Gilmore, wherever he was now, would hear. ‘His little girl was killed in a boating accident, on the Reverend’s yacht. She was only eight. They were out sailing when she fell overboard. She was dead by the time the Reverend could reach her.’
Horton suppressed a shudder. The church felt colder and darker than before. He tried not to imagine how he would feel if it happened to Emma whilst she was on his boat. Catherine would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself.
He wondered if he would be able to continue living.
‘The Reverend’s wife never got over it. She was dead within six months. Committed suicide.’
Horton felt an icy chill run through him as he imagined the poor woman’s grief.
‘The Reverend Gilmore had a nervous breakdown. Tried to kill himself too. He knew what despair was. He understood.’
His eyes filled with tears. ‘God helped him out of it, and that’s when he decided to become a priest.’
‘So this all happened before he was ordained.’
‘Yes. After God saved him, the Reverend decided to give away all his wealth and enter the church. He went to some college up country to study and came out a priest.’
‘He was once a wealthy man then?’
‘Must have been to have a yacht.’
Not
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