‘Maybe you’re giving me more credit than I deserve. That’s if you are giving me credit . . . I’m kinda confused.’
‘You have a sharp mind, Mr Fenn. And that’s what I want. I need your objectivity also.’
‘Can you get to the point of all this?’
‘The fact that you’re cynical about the Church could mean you’re also cynical about its opposite. It could give you an advantage.’
‘Over what?’
‘Over the evil that’s surrounding us now.’
Fenn grinned. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘You see, if you don’t believe, then you won’t be so afraid. Evil is a parasite that breeds on people’s beliefs.’
‘I thought it bred on ignorance.’
‘It’s often the ignorant who have unreasonable beliefs. But yours is not that kind of ignorance. You would believe something if it was proved conclusively to you and, furthermore, you would seek that proof; the ignorant would not. And that’s what I want you to do, Mr Fenn. I want you to seek.’
Fenn tucked his hands into his overcoat pocket. He wasn’t sure if it was the conversation or the church itself that made him feel so cold ‘Just what is it you want me to seek, Monsignor Delgard?’
‘I want you to find out about this church.’
Fenn looked at him in surprise. ‘Surely that’d be easier for you to do.’
‘Objectivity, Mr Fenn, and practicality. I shall be too busy in the next few months organizing St Joseph’s itself, preparing for pilgrims, supervising the building work that will have to be carried out. As for objectivity, I’m too ensconced in the dreadful atmosphere of this place, too involved with the tragedy of Father Hagan, to see anything in a pure, objective light. More than that, I want you to find out about the village. It needs a researcher’s eye, someone who can dig deep, find answers. You’ve already reached an agreement with Bishop Caines and George Southworth; this would merely be part of that work. All I ask is that you look for something more, something that could have happened here in the past.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. That’s for you to find out.’
Fenn shrugged. ‘Okay. As you say, it would be part of the job anyway.’
‘And one more thing: I want you to find out more about Alice Pagett. And her parents. There’s something missing and I’ve no idea what it is. I only know we must find out.’
‘I think you may be coming a little unhinged yourself, Monsignor.’
Delgard studied him coldly for a moment, then said, ‘That’s good. I want you to think that way. But before you leave, I want to show you something.’ He rose from the bench and Fenn quickly followed suit, stepping into the aisle so the priest could get through.
Delgard genuflected before the altar, then walked towards the right-hand side of the church. He turned back towards Fenn when he was below the statue of Our Lady.
‘Would you please come here?’ he said.
Fenn, hands still tucked into his pockets, followed. He looked curiously into the face of the tall priest who indicated the statue with a nod of his head. ‘Father Hagan told me Alice loves this statue, that she used to spend long periods sitting before it. You could say it was almost an obsession. If her visions were merely the hallucinations of a disturbed mind, it’s not improbable that they would take the form of something she was fascinated by. Take a good look at the statue.’
He remembered studying the statue just two weeks before, on the Sunday of the miracles. He had noticed a flaw then, the faintest crack running from beneath the chin down one side of the neck.
Now the effigy was a mass of black lines, a crazy network of thin jagged veins that covered almost every inch of white stone. Cracks running from the corners of the Madonna’s lips gave her a grotesque smile, an obscene leer. Even her sightless eyes were cruelly scarred.
Instead of a finely sculptured and compassionate image of the Madonna, it seemed that a hideously wrinkled harridan stared down upon the two men, her ravaged palms a mocking gesture of supplication.
Fenn stepped away, as if fearing the stone figure might reach down and touch him.
22
Dame, dame! the watch is set:
Quickly come, we are all met.
From the lakes and from the fens,
From the rocks and from the dens,
From the woods and from the caves,
From the churchyards, from the graves,
From the dungeon, from the tree,
That they die on, here are we!
Comes she not yet?
Strike another heat!
Ben Jonson, ‘Three Witches’ Charms’
He walked down the gravel path towards the gate. Overhead the branches of the leafless trees joined, forming a web-like canopy. Thin, winter-brittle branches snapped against each other, the cold breeze that shifted the mist causing their movement. His footsteps were unnaturally loud, as they had been inside the church, but now there was no echo, no hollow sound to reflect the emptiness of the sanctum. It was dark beneath the trees, almost as dark as inside the church.
The whole business was crazy! Bloody stupid crazy! What was Delgard trying to pin on the kid? An eleven-year-old, for Christ’s sake! How the hell could she cause any harm? And why should she? Was he implying she was in some way responsible for Hagan’s death? She hadn’t even been there!
He stopped for a moment, breathing fiercely.
Delgard was becoming as neurotic – as paranoid – as Father Hagan! He just couldn’t be serious! He had almost begun to believe the priest. Christ, he was nearly as crazy as the two of them!
He continued walking, shoving his hands deep into his overcoat pockets.
But the statue. What the fuck had happened to the statue? A flaw in the stone? Huh! That was a new one! Running cracks like ladders in tights. Maybe someone had been secretly pounding away at it. No way. It would have been chipped. The statue had scared him somehow . . . repulsive! Jesus, Delgard was to blame. He was the one making him jittery.
He jumped when something stepped out of the shadows.
‘All finished, Mr Fenn?’
‘Jes – . You gave me a fright.’
The man chuckled as he opened the gate for the reporter. ‘Sorry about that. I was just keeping out of the breeze. Bit chilly.’
‘Yeah.’ Fenn stepped through the gate, glad to be outside the church grounds.
‘Hey, Fenn,’ a familiar husky voice called out. He turned to see the journalist from the Washington Post approaching. ‘What gives?’ she said. ‘You look white as a ghost.’
‘It’s the weather,’ he replied, heading for his car.
‘Funny. I usually get a red nose.’ She kept pace with him.
There were one or two cameramen loitering by the side of the road, but they lost interest when they saw it was only a fellow-journalist who had emerged from St Joseph’s.
‘I saw you drive past me in the village,’ the woman at his side told him. ‘Figured you were on your way up here. How about a lift back to the hotel?’
He opened the car door, then straightened. ‘It’s Nancy, isn’t it?’
‘Yup. Shelbeck. We met last Sunday.’
He nodded. ‘Jump in.’
With no further heeding, she ran round to the other side of the car. Fenn climbed in and opened the passenger door. She joined him inside and smiled her thanks.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You do get a red nose.’ He started the engine.
She waited until he had pulled out into the road, reversed back, then headed the Mini in the direction of the village, before asking, ‘How come you get into St Joseph’s when nobody else can?’
‘You could have got in through the field next door.’
‘You wanna bet? They’ve got a couple of priests posted out there.’
He took a quick glance at her. Even though her nose was red, she was an attractive woman. He noticed she had green eyes.
‘So you were going to tell me?’ she said.
‘Tell you what?’
‘Why you were allowed in.’
‘The Pope’s my uncle.’
‘Come on, Fenn, give.’
‘You could say I’m there by, er, papal appointment. I’ve been officially authorized to write the story of St Joseph’s and the Holy Miracles.’
‘Shit, how did you manage that?’
‘They know an ace when they see one.’
‘Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t seem so happy about it. Money not too good?’
He laughed humourlessly. ‘D’you know, I forgot to mention money.’
‘How remiss. I’m sure you’ll make it in other ways, though.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘As a matter of fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Remember I mentioned it last Sunday.’
‘You said something about comparing notes.’
‘Uh huh. Look, why don’t we stop and have a drink?’
‘At this time of the morning?’
‘It’s gone ten. Nearly half-past, actually. Your country pubs open early here. Come on, you look as if you need a snort.’
‘You don’t know how right you are,’ he said, shaking his head.
They had almost reached the edge of Banfield where the first of the village’s two public houses stood. He indicated left and pulled into its courtyard. There were several other vehicles already parked even at that early hour, but he knew many of the locals used the pubs as coffee shops that early in the morning, as they did the Crown Hotel further along the High Street.
The White Hart had just one L-shaped bar; polished brasses and hunting horns adorned the walls, and the heavy beams set in the low ceiling gave the interior a feeling of ancient solidity. A freshly-lit fire blazed in the huge inglenook fireplace. There were no more than a dozen people drinking, some of whom were vaguely familiar to Fenn. He recognized them as Pressmen.
‘What d’you want to drink?’ he asked the Washington Post reporter.
‘No, let me. It was my invitation.’
Fenn acquiesced. ‘Make mine a Scotch, no ice, no water.’
He found a seat by a window while she ordered the drinks from a tall, bearded and bespectacled barman, and settled into it with a silent sigh. Jesus, his legs felt weak. The statue . . . it was hard to clear the hideous image from his mind. How could something like that happen? He could understand the stonework cracking into such a fine network over the years – and it would take a good many years for such results – but to reach that state in just under two weeks? It was impossible! And what was Delgard insinuating? What was—?
‘I got you a double. You could use it.’
He stared blankly at the woman, then at the glass she was offering.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the whisky and drinking half in one gulp.
‘I was right,’ she observed. She sat next to him and sipped her drink from a half-pint glass.
‘Bitter?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Sure. I like to try your beer. Want to tell me what’s on your mind?’
Fenn studied her closely, taking in more than he had on their first meeting. Her dark hair had a reddish tinge to it, not one that came from a bottle, though (at least, not obviously so). It was still difficult to determine her age, for she was one of those women who could be either younger than she looked or older, but never guessed exactly. Her eyes, which were alert, watchful, said older – maybe approaching forty – but her skin, which was pale and smooth, and her lips, which were not full but were well defined, said younger. Her nose was a little too straight to make her pretty, but it gave her an appearance of attractive strength. She had removed her topcoat and her figure was trim, if not particularly shapely, beneath the roll-topped sweater and straight-legged trousers. He had noticed the high-heeled boots she wore earlier and they were of thin burgundy leather, stylishly cut.
‘I feel as though I’m under a microscope,’ she said.
‘I was just thinking,’ he said. ‘You fit the image.’
‘Hmn?’
‘The hard-bitten New York reporter-lady.’
‘Thanks. You must have a way with women.’
He laughed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that nastily. As a matter of fact, it was a kind of compliment.’
‘Yeah? I’d hate to hear your snipes.’ She sipped her bitter again, then reached inside her bag for cigarettes. She offered him one first and he shook his head. She lit her own with a slim Dunhill lighter. ‘What’s the problem, Fenn?’ she said, blowing blue smoke across the small table.
‘My name’s Gerry,’ he said evenly.
She smiled. ‘I think I prefer Fenn.’
He returned her smile, beginning to enjoy her company. ‘I think I do too.’
‘Is it the death of the priest, this Father Hagan, that’s upsetting you? I understand you were actually there when he had his heart attack.’
He nodded. ‘The post-mortem said it was a heart attack, but I was sure he was choking. I tried to save him.’ He took another long swallow of Scotch. ‘I’m certain I saw the meat in his throat. Christ, I even tried to yank it out.’
‘But the coroner would have known if it was asphyxiation.’
‘Maybe it was both, I don’t know. Maybe he just imagined he was choking. The priest was in a pretty hysterical state towards the end.’
‘That’s likely when your heart is seizing up.’
‘No, I didn’t mean then. He was in a highly-strung state for weeks before.’
She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I noticed there was something peculiar about him that Sunday at the convent. Are you saying, in your sweet way, that he was bananas?’
‘No . . . just, well, neurotic. He was upset by what was happening at the church.’
‘But that had to be fantastic for any priest. He actually witnessed the miracles himself. What was it he didn’t like? The publicity?’
Fenn realized he was saying too much. As a reporter himself, he should have known better. He quickly changed the subject. ‘Have you got a deal to offer me?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Where’s your British reserve? Okay, to business. How’d you like to form a partnership with me in this little enterprise. We work together, you supply the information, I write the story for my paper, I get you a fat fee. I also get you your name alongside mine.’
‘Are you kidding? Why the hell do I need you?’
‘Because I’m a better writer.’
He put his empty glass down. ‘I need another drink.’
‘At this hour of the morning? Hey, wait a minute, don’t get sore. Look, you’re good, but I hate to say it – you’re provincial. Come on, don’t get up, just listen. You haven’t had the experience of working on a National yet. I know, I’ve checked. You haven’t the experience of working under a good editor, I mean, someone who’s going to kick your butt ’til you get it right, someone who’s going to show you how to get it right—’
‘My butt’s been kicked plenty of times,’ he said in weak defence.
‘Yeah, but there’s different ways to kick different asses. All I’m saying is that you haven’t had the right guidance yet. Sure, you’re good to a degree, and okay, you’re going to get a lot of offers; but I can make whatever you do with this thing better. Believe me, much, much better. And if you want to get down to figures—’
Fenn was no longer paying attention. He was looking towards the door, which had just opened. A figure stood there, staring around the pub as if looking for someone. Two men immediately rose from their seats at the bar and hurried towards the man.
‘That’s Len Pagett,’ Fenn said, more to himself than to the woman.
‘Pagett? Oh, yeah, Alice’s father.’
Fenn was already out of his seat, quickly making towards the three men, who were now shaking hands. Nancy Shel-beck soon followed.
‘Mr Pagett?’ Fenn said, barging into the group and offering an outstretched hand. ‘You’ve met me before. I’m Gerry Fenn. Brighton Evening Courier.’
One of the other men quickly stepped in between Fenn and Pagett. ‘On your bike, Fenn,’ the man said, his voice almost a snarl. ‘Mr Pagett’s ours. We’ve made an arrangement.’
‘Who’re you?’ Fenn asked, but he had already guessed. He now recognized one of the men as a reporter from one of the heavies.
‘He’s signing an exclusive contract with the Express,’ the other man, who was just as belligerent, told him. ‘And that means he doesn’t talk to any other papers.’
‘Don’t be bloody silly. You can’t—’
‘Piss off.’ A hand shoved him, and the first man took Pagett by the arm. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, Mr Pagett, where we can talk. We’ve got the contract ready for you.’
Pagett looked confused. ‘Can’t I have a drink first?’
‘We’ve got plenty where we’re going,’ the first reporter assured him. ‘It’s not far.’ He guided him towards the door.
The few other journalists in the bar who had been taking a sneaky morning nip (purely to keep out the cold for when they took up their vigils outside the church and the convent) were converging on the shuffling group.
‘What’s going on, Fenn?’ Nancy asked when she reached his side.
‘These bastards have done a deal with Alice’s father. They won’t let him talk to anyone.’
The second Express reporter blocked the doorway. ‘That’s right, he belongs to us now.’