David Dickinson - Death of a Chancellor

Powerscourt paused. He realized suddenly that if they had carried on, they would have had to place the explosives on Friday night. Good Friday the darkest night in the Christian calendar, Christ carrying his cross to the place of the skull called Golgotha where they crucified him on a cross with the inscription Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, the last drink of the sponge filled with vinegar, Jesus saying it is finished and giving up the ghost. And he and Johnny Fitzgerald riding round the Compton countryside in the dark, blowing up railway lines.

Powerscourt found that Lady Lucy’s hand had left her lap and travelled up to unite with his own on her shoulder.

‘Never mind, Francis,’ said Johnny, ‘we might be able to find a use for the explosives after all. I didn’t think you would go ahead with it in the end.’

‘Neither did I, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy in rather a weak voice. ‘I even offered to place a bet on it with Johnny but he wasn’t having it.’

‘Always nice to know that you can both work out what I’m going to do,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘I’m not offering any prizes for guessing what I’m going to do now. I’m going to read these bloody letters.’

Johnny folded up his enormous map very neatly. Powerscourt observed that it said Property of the Stationmaster, Compton. Not to be removed. Anne Herbert’s father must have been prevailed upon to lend one of his maps. Powerscourt wondered if he had been told why they wanted it.

‘Archbishop of Canterbury here,’ said Powerscourt, holding up his first letter, written on expensive-looking notepaper. ‘“Thank you for your letter . . . It has been my custom, ever since taking up my current position, to maintain the closest links and personal relationships with all the bishops and senior dignitaries of the Church of England.”’

‘It’d be pretty odd if the bugger ignored all his colleagues,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald.

‘“I have known Gervase Moreton for nearly twenty years,”’ Powerscourt carried on, ‘“and I find it simply inconceivable that he should contemplate the actions you describe. Under normal circumstances I should simply have thrown your letter into the wastepaper basket. Letters from the mentally disturbed are one of the smaller crosses an archbishop has to bear. Owing to your distinguished record I have taken soundings in the diocese of Compton. I can assure you there is not one single piece of evidence to support your wild allegations.’

‘Last paragraph coming,’ said Powerscourt. ‘“I shall add you to the list of those for whom I pray on Tuesdays. Yours sincerely . . .”’

‘Tuesdays, Francis? You’re not in luck today I’m afraid. It’s Thursday. You’ve got five days to wait. But think how much better you’ll feel early next week.’

‘Do you think he has a rota like we did in the Army, Johnny? Burglars on Mondays, lunatics on Tuesdays, thieves on Wednesdays, blasphemers on Thursdays, fraudsters on Fridays, murderers on Saturdays, heretics and unbelievers on Sundays? I am rather looking forward to being prayed for, I must say. Along with all the other lunatics. Lucy, you must watch me very closely on Wednesday mornings to see if there are any signs of improvement.’

Lady Lucy smiled at him. ‘You’ve got one letter left, Francis. Do you think there’s any hope there?’

Powerscourt slit open his last envelope. ‘Encouraging start,’ he said. ‘“The Prime Minister has no doubt of the veracity of the proposition you outline in your letter . . .”’ He skimmed through the next section. ‘Few more sentences along the same lines. Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Powerscourt glowered at the letter, ‘I think we’ve had it. The Prime Minister has gone away for Easter and asked his colleagues to deal with the matter. “I’m afraid I have to report,” says Private Secretary McDonnell, “that there is a lack of unity among the colleagues. The Home Secretary believes it to be a matter for the Church of England. As the Archbishop does not take it seriously, the Home Secretary proposes to ignore it. The government law officers believe it would be impossible to act before a crime has been committed. Even then they are uncertain which particular law or laws would be broken. The foremost authority on ecclesiastical legislation is on a walking tour of the Pyrenees at present and cannot be contacted. The Lord Chancellor believes it is a matter for the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council which cannot be summoned before the week after Easter. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, who has always taken a keen interest in religious questions and in everybody else’s business, is of the opinion that it is for the two Archbishops and the senior bishops to resolve. In short, Lord Powerscourt, you have fallen between the cracks in the shaky edifice of Church and State. May I offer you my commiserations and express the hope that you can find some means of settling the business without further bloodshed. Schomberg McDonnell.”’

Powerscourt folded his two letters very carefully and put them back in their envelopes. He smiled at Lady Lucy.

‘It’s like that line in the Messiah, Francis,’ she said, ‘you’re the voice of one crying in the wilderness.’

‘Don’t think I’d like to be John the Baptist very much, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘my head served up on a platter in front of Salome like a roasted ham. Mind you, I should get some better prayers from the Archbishop. I might have to move from Tuesdays to a different day.’

‘It’s like the poet says, Francis,’ said Johnny, moving towards the cupboard with the drinks, ‘a prophet is not without honour save in his own country.’

Powerscourt looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t think that’s a poet, Johnny. That’s St Matthew’s Gospel, chapter thirteen if I remember right. And the unfortunate Christ had to walk on the water in the next chapter to convince the unbelievers. I don’t think I’m up to that either. But that’s what we need, a miracle. A miracle in Compton. None of the authorities are going to lift a finger. Maybe we should blow up the railway lines after all. We’re on our own. Nobody can stop them now.’

All through Friday and Saturday Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald kept a discreet watch on the comings and goings round the Cathedral Close. Sometimes they watched from Anne Herbert’s upper window, regular supplies of tea and home-made cake fortifying them in their vigil. Sometimes one of them would walk round the streets, the cathedral itself standing impassive as it waited for the Resurrection.

On both days the pattern was the same. A quartet of clergy would set off from the Archdeacon’s house shortly after nine o’clock, heading at a sedate pace towards the Bishop’s Palace, the Archdeacon himself accompanied by Father Barberi and the two gentlemen from Rome. Then there would be a gap. Between ten and ten thirty a steady trickle of members of the Chapter and the choir would present themselves at the Bishop’s front door. About half an hour later they would emerge, looking rather happier than when they had gone in. Sometimes Patrick Butler would join Powerscourt and Fitzgerald, taking careful notes of the times of entry and departure of all the participants.

‘What a story,’ the young man said cheerfully to Powerscourt on the Friday afternoon. ‘I think it’s the biggest story I’ve ever come across. Maybe I can make my name with the Saga of Compton, its murders, its conversions, like William Howard Russell did in the Crimea for The Times. Then Anne and I could be rich and move to London!’

Powerscourt smiled at the young editor. ‘Do you know what’s going on with all this religious traffic?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I think I can guess but I’m not sure.’