Free Absolute Truths by Susan Howatch Page B

it with an air of sanctity, ‘is sixty-four years old and has been vicar of St Paul’s church in Langley Bottom since 1960. He’s an extremely devout and conscientious priest,and is greatly respected by his congregation.’
    ‘Has this kind of thing ever happened to him before?’
    ‘ To the best of my knowledge,’ I said with perfect truth, ‘Father Wilton has never in his life been beaten up by a thug in his own church.’ But I could see where this line of questioning was going and the destination was gruesome. ‘What exactly are you implying?’ I demanded, taking the split-second decision that attack was the best form of defence.
    ‘I was just wondering how accident-prone he was. Some old gentlemen do suffer more than others from this sort of mishap,’ said Parker, still very civil, but at that point his sergeant interposed brutally: ‘Not married, is he?’
    I drew myself up to my full height and allowed a blistering pause to develop before announcing in my grandest episcopal manner: ‘Father Wilton is called to celibacy.’
    In the silence that followed I reflected how far removed the scene was from that popular television series about the policeman with the heart of gold, Divan of Dock Green. The oafish sergeant was bright-eyed, his lips moist where he had licked them in his excitement; he reminded me of one of the more disagreeable carni vores — a rhinoceros, perhaps — who had just scented food. In contrast Parker was as cool and still as steel in ice. Refusing to be intimidated by my grand manner he said levelly: ‘I’m sure you understand, my lord, that since there was no robbery or vandalism, the likelihood is that he was attacked by someone he knew. May I ask your permission to search the vicarage? A desk-diary, for instance, would reveal if he had an appointment to see someone at the church this afternoon.’
    I was still trying to conceal my horror at this potentially ruinous request when deliverance arrived in the form of my henchman, the Archdeacon of Starbridge. No detachment of the United States cavalry could have been greeted with more relief in the final reel of a Hollywood western than Malcolm Lindsay was greeted by his bishop as he swept into the hall of Starbridge General Hospital that afternoon.
    ‘Ah, there you ar e , Bishop!’ he exclaimed, deceptively jovial. ‘I thought I’d better look in here as soon as I’d finished my visitation — good heavens, it’s Inspector Parker! And Sergeant Locke! Nice to know the police have their best men on the trail. Now, Bishop, off you go to pray for poor Desmond — I’m sure Inspector Parker will quite understand that you shouldn’t be detained from your spiritual duties a moment longer.’
    Parker allowed himself to look baffled by the concept of spiritual duties, but recovered himself sufficiently to say: ‘I’ve no wish to detain the Bishop, Mr Lindsay, but there are one or two questions —’
    ‘Address them to me!’ said Malcolm, still relentlessly exuding bonhomie. ‘I’m the one who has direct supervision of Father Wilton, so I know much more about him than the Bishop does.’
    ‘ But I need the Bishop’s permission to search the vicarage. In my opinion —’
    ‘ Oh, the Bishop couldn’t possibly give such a permission! I see you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the "parson’s freehold", Inspector — that house is at the moment, to all intents and pur poses, Father Wilton’s, and in the absence of his permission I’m afraid you must obtain a search-warrant, but that won’t be difficult, will it? In the circumstances I’m sure it’ll be just a formality .. . Off you go, Bishop.’
    I escaped, bathed in cold sweat.
    Outside the sleet was still falling from that heavy, yellowish sky and the gloom had thickened. Scrambling into my black Rover I switched on the headlights and drove straight to Desmond’s vicar age in the working-class city parish of Langley Bottom.
     

 

     
     

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