on duty to contact him as soon as Desmond recovers consciousness, but luckily they’ve left a woman police constable at the bedside, not that thug Sergeant Locke, so at least Desmond won’t be browbeaten as soon as he opens his eyes. At that point I finally managed to tear myself away from the hospital and rush to Langley Bottom, but the housekeeper had gone home so I was unable to get into the vicarage. Did you manage to get in earlier, and if so – good heavens, Charles, what is it, what have I said?’
‘Ye gods and little fishes!’ I shouted, leaping to my feet. ‘I’ve left that unlocked box in the drawing-room with Michael and Dinkie!’
As if on cue Lyle entered the kitchen with the box itself in her hands.
XI
‘I hid it in the dining-room when you went to answer Michael’s ring at the door,’ she said, setting the box on the kitchen table as I slumped down with relief on the nearest chair.
‘Dare I ask what’s inside?’ enquired Malcolm, eyeing the box with dread.
‘Desmond’s bedtime reading,’ said Lyle, confirming his worst fears.
Malcolm went so pale that the freckles stood out starkly across his cheekbones.
I had first met Malcolm after the war on a course designed for army chaplains who were returning to civilian life. I had been asked to give a lecture on the theology currently fashionable, and afterwards ‘Malcolm proved to be the truculent member of the audience who sat at the back and asked awkward questions. At that time he had red hair and an impudent look. Later in the canteen he apologised, explaining that he was only taking the course because he had been ordered to do so by his bishop and that he considered it a waste of time to listen to theology when he could be out and about preaching the Gospel. I liked both his honesty and his zeal. Not everyone is born to be a theologian, and certainly not everyone is born to appreciate the Neo-Orthodox theology of Karl Barth.
Word reached me by chance in the early 1950s that Malcolm had raised some market-town from the dead in the Starbridge diocese, but I never dreamed our careers would intersect. Then in 1957 I accepted the bishopric and found I had inherited an unsatisfactory archdeacon. As soon as I had freed myself from this millstone, I offered the archdeaconry to Malcolm.
The archdeaconry was attached to the city parish of St Martin’s-in-Cripplegate, but Malcolm had curates to help him run the parish while he roamed his section of the diocese on my behalf. The archdeacon is by tradition ‘the bishop’s eye’, the henchman who keeps watch on all the clergy and churches in the archdeaconry and tells the bishop everything he needs to know. The diocese was divided into two archdeaconries, but the other archdeacon lived in the port of Starmouth forty miles away so I saw less of him, particularly since I had appointed a suffragan bishop to supervise the south of the diocese for me. Meanwhile Malcolm patrolled the north. The exercise of power had made him a trifle bossy in his manner, but he remained devout, diligent and efficient. I relied on him in my professional life almost as much as I relied on Lyle in my private life, and considered him one of my most successful appointments.
‘Am I right in thinking,’ he was saying morosely, ‘that the parish of Langley Bottom has finally driven its vicar completely round the bend?’
‘I hate to intervene at this point,’ said Lyle, ‘but Charles, we’re all waiting for you to join us for a drink. If you could just leave Malcolm alone for ten minutes to browse through the box –’
‘I’ll be along in a moment.’
Lyle withdrew, trying not to look exasperated.
As soon as we were alone Malcolm heaved up the hasps, flung back the lid and demanded: ‘How bad is it?’
‘Appalling.’
‘Within the meaning of the Act?’
‘Not being a legal expert on pornography, I’m not sure. What do you think?’
Malcolm efficiently inspected the cover of each magazine and flicked through the collection of photographs. His final verdict was: ‘No children or animals. All this might set the News of the World alight, but it’s not going to raise any eyebrows among the vice-squad.’
‘I certainly don’t believe the police would have any interest in prosecuting an elderly man who has no connection with a pornography ring and no interest in corrupting minors. But could there be a connection between all this stuff and what’s just happened to Desmond?’
‘Where’s the link?’
‘Exactly. There isn’t one, so in my opinion there’s no need to turn the box over to the police, but –’
‘Good heavens, no – quite unnecessary!’
‘ – but it’s absolutely vital that in our desire to protect Desmond and the Church we don’t wind up obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. We’ve got to be very careful here.’
‘Of course, but if there’s nothing in this box which links Desmond with any particular man, the odds are that the criminal’s a lunatic and has no connection with Desmond’s sex-life whatsoever. Let’s just wait, Charles, and see where the police get to. If you ask me, we’re in the clear: we’re not withholding evidence that Desmond knew his assailant.’
This opinion certainly chimed with mine, but I found I was still worried. ‘The trouble is there’s still a possibility that he was being blackmailed. Maybe he just didn’t keep the letters in this box – maybe they’re hidden away somewhere else in the house –’
‘I doubt it. Charles, I’d be very surprised if Desmond was being blackmailed and I’ll tell you why: he’d crack up almost straight away as the result of the strain and by this time I’d have received reports from the churchwardens that Father Wilton was no longer able to celebrate mass. Desmond just doesn’t have the emotional stamina to sustain a double-life with a blackmailer.’
This assessment had the ring of truth. I finally began to relax.
‘I’ll take this stuff home,’ said Malcolm as he closed the box and stood up. ‘The sooner it’s burnt the better.’
Automatically I said: ‘No, you can’t burn it.’
Malcolm’s long nose quivered as if he scented trouble. ‘Why not?’
‘Because this is Desmond’s property, taken from his house without his permission, and we have no right to destroy it. What I have to do is confront him with the box, explain exactly why I felt obliged to search his bedroom, and apologise for the invasion of his privacy. Then I must make it clear I trust him to do the burning himself.’
‘But my dear Charles, I can see that’s a magnificent example of Christian behaviour, but is it really appropriate for a bishop? No, wait a minute – hang on, just let me rephrase that –’
‘Please do.’ I started to laugh. I suppose I was finally suffering a nervous reaction to the crisis.
‘Well, what I’m trying to say is this: of course you have to behave like a Christian, but do you necessarily have to behave like an English gentleman with an over-developed sense of fair play? A bishop has to show compassion for sinners, we all know that, but don’t let’s lose sight of the sin! Personally I think you should be quite tough with Desmond here and feel no obligation to treat him with kid gloves. After all, supposing the police had found this box? We’d all have been up to our necks in scandal!’
‘But they didn’t. And we’re not. And I don’t see why you should think I’m glossing over the sin by giving Desmond a soft option – it’s not a soft option at all. His punishment will lie in the fact that I know what’s been going on.’
‘Very well,’ said Malcolm with reluctance, ‘but meanwhile what are you going to do with the box? You can’t leave it lying around the South Canonry! Supposing Miss Peabody finds it?’
‘By