too were filial. In fact I now found I shared Mrs Cobden-Smith’s conviction that Lyle stayed with the Jardines not because of a passion for the Bishop but because of a passion for power – and not merely the power of running the palace but the power of keeping that marriage glued together, the power springing from the fact that she made it possible for the Bishop to continue his ministry. What happened to a bishop whose marriage went to the wall? It was a spine-chilling thought, and I thought it was a chill to which Jardine’s spine had become well accustomed.
I did speculate about the possible ill effects on Lyle of a broken engagement, but on this point I could form no more than the tentative conclusion that some adverse romantic experience seemed likely. Her response to my kiss indicated she was sexually normal; her repudiation of it indicated an abnormal fear of romantic involvement. Ignorance prevented me from expanding my theory further, but nevertheless I felt I could say to Lang that Lyle’s aversion to marriage was more likely to spring from a broken engagement than from any inappropriate feelings towards the Bishop.
Having summed up Lyle’s probable attitude to Jardine I turned the relationship around and began to consider Jardine’s probable attitude to Lyle. This was easier because as a clergyman I could mentally put myself in Jardine’s shoes without any undue strain on my imagination: I had married in haste but had almost certainly repented at leisure, and as the result of my rashness I now had a wife who was capable of being a crippling liability. I was an eminent cleric beyond hope of divorce so the most nerve-racking question in such nerve-racking circumstances inevitably became: how did I survive my marriage? Lyle was the heaven-sent answer, and because Lyle was so vital not only for the welfare of my marriage but for the welfare of my increasingly illustrious career, I would take no risks whatsoever and exercise an iron control over any insane but pardonable desire to flirt. I would, of course, find Lyle immensely attractive, and that would make it difficult to adjust to her presence in the household – I would even tell Lady Starmouth I found the presence of a third party an intrusion on my marriage – but with prayer and willpower and plenty of deliciously risqué chats with my safe Lovely Ladies I would control myself, diverting the emotion into harmless channels whenever possible and suppressing the emotion which could not be diverted. I was Adam Alexander Jardine, a mature survivor trained in the hardest of schools, and I was neither weak nor a fool.
That left only one more vital question to be answered before I stepped out of Jardine’s shoes. I was a man of volatile temperament with plenty of physical energy and a strong liking for women; did I or did I not live like a monk? I did not. I slept with my wife, who was still pretty, still adoring, still mildly lovable in her own maddening way and – most important of all – still available. Certainly no one else was and married clergymen, like beggars, can’t be choosers.
I decided this was not merely a plausible interpretation of the Jardine ménage but the only interpretation which made sense. I felt I could now say confidently to Lang: ‘The girl, who probably has strong psychological reasons for not marrying, regards the woman as her mother and regards the man as satisfying her hankering for power. The woman regards the girl as her daughter and regards her husband with adoration. The husband regards his wife as a liability but as a source of sexual satisfaction, and regards the girl as a godsend but as sexually taboo. The marriage is entirely safe so long as this triangle is maintained and I see no sign of any approaching catastrophe.’
But of course this last statement would be untrue. I knew now that I was the approaching catastrophe bent on breaking up the triangle, and once the triangle disintegrated the marital disaster would be poised to unfold.
I was still contemplating this prospect with appalled fascination seconds later when someone rapped loudly on my door.
I jumped, sprang to my feet and pulled on my dressing-gown. ‘Come in!’ I called, assuming I was addressing a servant sent to deliver either a telephone message or perhaps a letter which had arrived by the afternoon post, and turned aside to extinguish my cigarette in the ashtray.
The door banged open and the Bishop blazed across the threshold.
‘Now, Dr Ashworth,’ he said abruptly as I spun round in shock, ‘I think it’s time you told me the truth – and when I say the truth I mean the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Exactly why did you come to Starbridge and what the deuce do you think you’re playing at?’
‘The sexual appetite (which is the most insistent and the most important of our bodily desires) presses for satisfaction … So we start with the certainty that sexual indulgence will be popular and that Christianity will be most difficult precisely at that point.’
More Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.
I
In the second which followed I saw the Bishop with photographic clarity and noticed that his brown eyes were no longer brilliant but opaque. His mouth was set in a tight line, his hands were clasped behind his back as if to conceal clenched fists and his whole stance radiated pugnacity. ‘Well, Dr Ashworth?’ he demanded, and his pugnacity was formidable indeed. ‘Speak up! What do you have to say for yourself?’
I knew at once that I had to stop him thinking I could be intimidated but unfortunately I was far from being completely unperturbed. Some form of defensive action was clearly called for. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Jardine,’ I said, ‘but I refuse to conduct an interview with a bishop while I’m wearing only my underclothes and a dressing-gown. You must allow me a moment to dress.’
There was a short tense silence. Then Jardine laughed, exclaimed, ‘I admire your nerve!’ and sat himself down at the table by the window.
Scrambling into my clerical uniform I found I could all too easily deduce what had happened. Lady Starmouth had complained about my interrogation, the chaplain had revealed my interest in the palace ménage, Mrs Cobden-Smith had disclosed what an excellent listener I was and Lyle had reported my episcopal obsession. I was about to be exposed as a deplorably unsuccessful espionage agent, but on the other hand my findings were all in Jardine’s favour. If I allowed his rage to run its course I might have a chance of pacifying him when he subsided into mere indignation. It seemed the best I could hope for. However meanwhile I had to cope with his rage.
‘Thank you,’ I said when fully dressed at last I sat down opposite him at the table. ‘Now I feel more civilized. First of all, Bishop, let me apologize from the bottom of my heart –’
‘Spare me the apologies. Give me the truth. Why are you here?’
‘Dr Lang sent me.’
Jardine showed no surprise. ‘The Archbishop should take care,’ was his acid comment. ‘He’s showing a talent for ecclesiastical skulduggery unmatched since the days of the Borgia popes. And what was his objective – or rather, what did he tell you was his objective?’
‘He’s acting to protect you, Bishop. He’s afraid his enemies in Fleet Street might use you in an attempt to smear the Church, and he sent me here to estimate how vulnerable you are to scandal.’
‘That may indeed be what he told you – but of course the real truth is that he’s sent you here to spy on my private life in the hope that you’ll find evidence which he can use to compel my resignation!’
‘Bishop –’
‘Monstrous! Archbishops have been executed for less!’
I felt I had no choice but to attempt my patron’s defence. ‘Bishop, His Grace doesn’t suspect you of any gross failure or even of any serious indiscretion, and I must absolutely insist that he’s not trying to get rid of you –’
‘No? It sounds to me as if he’s recently travelled incognito to the Old Vic to see a performance of Murder in the Cathedral – with the result that he’s now