was being constructed, but this innovation I was prepared to tolerate since its purpose was to eliminate the city’s traffic jams.
The Starbridge General Hospital, a Victorian building, was unchanged on the outside despite being constantly modernised within. It stood near Eternity Street on the river which flowed swiftly, fed by two tributaries, through the heart of the city. As I arrived that afternoon the rain was hardening into sleet and a bitter north wind was blowing. From the car park the tower of St Martin’s-in-Cripplegate, my archdeacon’s church, could be seen standing palely, as if numbed with cold, against a yellowish, snow-laden sky.
For a moment I thought of those radiant sunlit days of 1937, and suddenly I heard a much younger Lyle say in my memory: ‘I’m Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine’s companion …’ I hurried into the hospital but the memories pursued me and I heard Bishop Jardine himself exclaim: ‘Welcome to Starbridge!’ as he made a grand entrance into his drawing-room. It occurred to me then that I was on the brink of remembering Loretta, but that was one episode from 1937 which I always willed myself not to recall, particularly since I had become a bishop. Blocking it at once from my mind I entered the hospital’s main hall.
A dreary interval ensued. I asked for Desmond but was told he was in the operating theatre. I asked for the chaplain but was told he was not in his office. I asked for the hospital almoner and/or the doctor in charge of the case, but was told to take a seat. Evidently I was becoming tiresome and needed to be disciplined.
Since I was not wearing my formal uniform of frock-coat and gaiters, and since my overcoat hid my purple stock and pectoral cross, I was not immediately recognisable as a VIP. I did toy with the idea of opening my coat and flashing my chest at the lacklustre receptionist, but I thought better of it. No degree of impatience can excuse vulgarity.
I managed to kill my annoyance by telling myself the woman was probably worn out by long hours and low pay, and having thus transformed myself from a cross old buffer to a charitably inclined bishop (a process which I found more than usually exhausting), I received my reward: the almoner arrived to look after me, and I was taken speedily down a chain of cream-coloured corridors to meet the doctor in authority. The almoner even called me ‘my lord’. For one golden moment I could imagine we were both back in those sunlit days before the war.
My spirits rose even further when the doctor told me that although the injuries were unpleasant, Desmond’s life was not in danger. A series of heavy kicks had cracked a couple of ribs; a series of heavy punches had battered his face, which was now being stitched up; the main problem was the shock sustained, and Desmond would need to be in hospital for at least forty-eight hours, possibly longer, while his progress was monitored. Since he was an elderly man, not robust, a period of convalescence would be advisable once he left the hospital. Meanwhile he could be allowed no visitors until the following morning.
Having thanked the doctor for all this information I was taken by the almoner to her office in order to deal with certain bureaucratic formalities relating to the admission. She did try to contact the chaplain on the internal telephone and when there was still no reply from his office she arranged for a message to be broadcast on the public address system, but he appeared to have vanished. Not wishing to delay the almoner further I said I would wait for him in the main hall, but this decision proved to be a mistake. No chaplain appeared, despite yet another summons on the public address system, but two cold-eyed men in raincoats entered the building and immediately collared me.
With dismay I found myself in the hands of the police and confronting the possibility of scandal.
IV
I knew Inspector Parker. Indeed I knew all the top men on the Starbridge force and I was on good terms with the Chief Constable, but to know a policeman formally as the result of one’s public position is one thing; to be interviewed by him during his investigation of a crime is quite another. Too late I wished I had brought my lay-chaplain to the hospital. Roger was an old hand at dealing with worldly matters which had the potential to be awkward for a bishop.
Assuming my most confident manner I said to Parker: ‘How glad I am to see you!’ and without hesitation offered him my hand. I then both took control of the interview and underlined the power of my position by demanding: ‘Please tell me exactly what happened.’
I could see Parker was thinking what a tiresome old smoothie I was, but he said civilly enough: ‘Mr Wilton was found in the church by one of the lady members of the congregation, and judging from the loss of blood we think he may have been lying there for some time. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived but we’re here in the hope that he can be interviewed.’
‘He’s in the operating theatre.’
‘Then when he comes out my sergeant here can sit at his bedside till he recovers consciousness.’
I thought it prudent to leave all comment on that plan to the doctor. What I really wanted to hear was information about why Desmond had been attacked, but I did not want to appear too curious for fear of arousing Parker’s suspicions. I decided to try to float the most likely explanation in the hope not only that it was true but that I might learn something from Parker’s reaction.
‘It’s disgraceful for a priest to be beaten up in his own church!’ I exclaimed, playing the outraged old buffer. ‘I assume Father Wilton interrupted a thief who was in the act of robbing the alms-box.’
‘No, sir, from our preliminary investigation it appears that nothing was taken.’
I noted that I was addressed as ‘sir’ instead of ‘my lord’ or ‘Bishop’, and suspected that this was a move to grab control of the interview by cutting me down to size.
‘Then I assume,’ I said, refusing to be reduced, ‘that the culprit was a vandal bent on sacrilege.’
‘No, sir, nothing was disturbed or damaged.’
Then I can only conclude that this outrage was perpetrated by a lunatic. Well, Parker –’ By this time I had decided that I quite definitely did not want to answer any questions about a possible motive for the attack ‘– I wish you every success in your investigation and I hope you’ll keep me informed of all developments. And now, if you’ll excuse me –’
‘Just a moment, my lord.’ Parker had decided it was worth bending over backwards a fraction in order to stop me dead in my tracks. ‘Would you be so good as to tell us a little about Mr Wilton? In this sort of case the personality of the victim is often of the first importance when it comes to solving the crime.’
Having lost control of the interview I realised that my task now was to appear so immensely distinguished that my opinions could not easily be doubted. ‘Father Wilton,’ I said, again giving Desmond the title which as an Anglo-Catholic he preferred yet this time contriving to infuse 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, ‘Farher 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 man 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, Dixon of Dock Green. The oafish sergeant was