Unholy Dying by Robert Barnard

of the Bishop, greeting his flock on that pleasant Sunday, being the local pastor whom everyone was happy to have a word from. Pardoe was making his farewells to his friend when he sensed the robed figure coming up behind him.
    â€œIf I may have a word, Father.”
    Pardoe turned. The tone of the Bishop’s voice had been soft, and the set of his face was neutral and perfectly amiable.
    â€œOf course, Bishop. It was a very fine service.”
    An infinitesimal pause.
    â€œI am not sure it was wise of you to come. Or considerate.”
    Pardoe swallowed, but kept his voice similarly low.
    â€œI’ve been going to Mass at a variety of places on Sunday. It seemed like an ideal opportunity.”
    He got a tiny shake of the head in reply. Then: “But nevertheless you would not deny that you had other motives in first sending me your letter, then in coming here ?”
    Pardoe took a deep breath.
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t deny that. I seem to be stuck in limbo in Pudsey. No one communicates with me, I get no whisper of what is going on. A committee is investigating these foolish rumors: I have no idea who they are, what they are doing, how long they are likely to take. I have simply been stuck in this horrible position and left here.”
    â€œWhat is there to tell you before the committee has reached a decision?”
    â€œQuite a lot, I should have thought, as I’ve already suggested. And I would have liked the assurance that the committee will talk to me, that my side will be heard.”
    â€œThat is of course up to them.”
    â€œIf I were not heard it would be grossly unjust to me, and also to the congregation at St. Catherine’s.”
    Thus far the interview had been conducted in low tones, with the utmost apparent amiability. Now the Bishop’s expression twisted into hostility, and the low tones took on the character of a hiss.
    â€œI should have thought that your congregation was already making doubly sure that their voice was heard.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œDon’t tell me you are ignorant of this—this letter of support, what is in effect a petition.”
    â€œI am totally in ignorance. I have, alas, had no connection whatever with any member of the congregation since I was suspended. I have wondered, in fact, if letters are being forwarded as they should be. I know nothing about any petition.”
    â€œI should like to believe you, because this is emphatically not the way we do things in our Church.”
    â€œPerhaps the way we do things is changing, Bishop. I hope you’d agree, in any case, that denying a man accused of serious misdemeanors the right to be heard is also not the way we should be doing things in our Church.”
    The Bishop’s head rose arrogantly.
    â€œI have no doubt that the committee will consider the matter in the way that best serves the well-being and reputation of the Church. It is not my intention to interfere. You, of course, may make any representations to them that you choose. In the meanwhile”—he turned full on him a face that was no longer merely stern, but angry—“I would ask you not to embarrass me or place me in a false position by coming to Mass or any other service here at St. Anne’s.”
    â€œYou are not suggesting I cease going to Mass, are you, Bishop? It is all right, I suppose, if I embarrass Father Connell at Christ the King, or Father Wishart at St. Joseph’s?”
    â€œYou are being impertinent and sarcastic. You are doing your cause no good at all. There are unpleasant rumors that the press is on to the story. I would strongly advise you—”
    He pulled himself up, looked across Cookridge Street, and something like a snarl came over his face. He had heard clicking, and now, feet away from him, he saw a photographer. Father Pardoe, following his gaze, saw the man too, and saw that beside him stood the unappetizing man whom he had noticed on the