Free Death in the Opening Chapter by Tim Heald Page B

didn’t mean that she couldn’t kindle fierce passions in the odd, and he meant odd, breast.
    He would have to have a word with her, in the hope of finding out what made her and Sebastian tick. It was she who had discovered him, she who had come straight to his cousins, she who had seemed so distraught. Alas, poor sausage!
    Bognor was not a particularly religious man. Lapsed C of E, like most of those brought up in the faith. Nevertheless, he had a vestigial respect for the noise it made and for matins and evensong, for the creed, for psalms, hymns and that curious wheedling, sonorous vicar’s voice, which seemed such an essential adjunct to that conventional middle-of-the-road, essentially bloodless faith. It was like English murder, like, in fact, so much of English life: ordered, tidy, neat, devoid of passion. The Church of England queued. The Church of England did not step out of line. The Church of England knew its place. Like so many English things, it was oddly lapsed and in an apparent state of abeyance, and yet there was a sense in which it was slumbering, not dead, and, to men like Bognor, still commanded respect, even at times a certain dread.
    He found himself reflecting thus, as he stood in St Teath’s that day. He was in the presence of death, and he felt it. The sense of doom and finality was visceral, and was enhanced by his surroundings. It didn’t matter that the Church, which used to be so central, had grown peripheral and unimportant. It had, for years, been a vital part of being a person. One was christened in church, one was married in church, one’s funeral was held in church. It marked one’s beginning and one’s end, and also, more importantly, it was part of one’s routine. Even in Bognor’s childhood, it had been a regular Sunday ritual, and in childhood the day had begun and ended with prayers. In the morning, it was school chapels, and in the evening, it tended to be smaller house dining rooms. But it was a part of life, as essential a part as anything, and even though he, like so many, had lapsed, it remained with him for ever and he respected, sometimes loved, the noise it made.
    The fact that the dead man was ordained and had died in his own church, gave the whole event a majesty that would otherwise have been lacking, even though Sir Branwell found the mystery an affront to his sense of order and ­tidiness, rather than something apocalyptic. One would have thought that Bognor, much of whose business was death and who dealt with it most days of his life, would have become inured to the whole idea. Instead of that, however, it was he who was still in awe of the end of life, and men like Sir Branwell who regarded it essentially as a tiresome disruption of routine. Sir Branwell and Lady Fludd had never even seen a dead body. The same was true of most English people of their generation. It was lack of familiarity which bred contempt. Familiarity induced awe, respect and fear. It made Bognor fanatical about truth and justice, and led him to do his best to eradicate murder from the vocabulary. For most people, death was little more than an inconvenience. Bognor was a traditionalist in such matters.
    He was reflecting on conservatism, mortality and meaning, when he sensed movement behind him and realized that Bishop Ebb had arrived early. He was wearing grey flannel bags, a tweed jacket along with a purple vest, and an enormous and showily bling pectoral cross.
    â€˜Well,’ said the bishop, ‘he moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. I hadn’t intended to be here until I got Branwell’s SOS, but now our paths cross once more. You’re the silver lining to a deep black cloud. Welcome to St Teath’s.’
    And he shook Bognor by the hand. Warmly. Bognor had experienced enough cool handshakes in his life to recognize the difference. The bishop smiled with his eyes too, and he exuded warmth. Some, possibly even most, episcopal