Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

Something of a cynic, St. James wouldn’t have put money on most people having much “realness” under their surface personae. But he was happy enough to be involved in Deborah’s conversation. When she first began chatting, he tried to evaluate her words, tone, and expression for the likelihood of their being avoidance. She’d been upset last night with his intrusion into her territory. She wouldn’t want a repeat of that. But the more she talked — weighing this possibility, rejecting that, exploring her motivations for each — the more he felt reassured. There was an energy to her that he hadn’t seen in the last ten months. Whatever her reasons for entering into a discussion of her professional future, the mood it seemed to engender in her was a far sight better than her previous depression. So when she set up her tripod and Hasselblad, saying, “The light’s good right now,” and wanted him to pose in the deserted beer garden of Crofters Inn so that she might test her regard for portraits, he let her snap away at every possible angle, for more than an hour despite the cold, until they received Lynley’s call.

She was saying, “You see, I don’t think I want to do conventional studio portraits. I mean, I don’t want people coming in and posing for their anniversary snaps. I wouldn’t mind being called out to do something special, but largely I think I want to work on the street and in public places. I want to fi nd interesting faces, and let the art grow from there,” when Ben Wragg announced from the rear door of the inn that Inspector Lynley was wanting to speak to Mr. St. James.

The result of that conversation — Lynley shouting over the noise of some sort of roadwork that appeared to call for minor explosives — was a drive to the cathedral at Bradford.

“We’re looking for a connection between them,” Lynley had said. “Perhaps the bishop can provide it.”

“And you?”

“I’ve an appointment with Clitheroe CID. After that, the forensic pathologist. It’s formality mostly, but it’s got to be done.”

“You saw Mrs. Spence?”

“The daughter as well.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I’m uneasy. I’ve not much doubt that the Spence woman did it and knew what she was doing. I’ve plenty of doubt it was conventional murder. We need to know more about Sage. We need to unearth the reason he left Cornwall.”

“Are you on to something?”

He heard Lynley sigh. “In this case, I hope not, St. James.”

Thus, with Deborah at the wheel of their hired car and a phone call made to ensure their reception, they drove the considerable distance to Bradford, skirting Pendle Hill and swinging to the north of Keighley Moor.

The secretary to the Lord Bishop of Bradford admitted them into the offi cial residence not far from the fi fteenth-century cathedral that was the seat of his ministry. He was a toothy young man who carried a maroon leather diary under one arm and continually riffled through its gold-edged pages as if to remind them how limited was the bishop’s time and how fortunate were they that a half-hour had been carved out for them. He led the way not into a study, library, or conference room, but through the wood-panelled residence to a rear stairway that descended to a small, personal gym. In addition to a wall-size mirror, the room contained an exercise bike, a rowing machine, and a complicated contraption for lifting weights. It also contained Robert Glennaven, Bishop of Bradford, who was occupied with pushing, shoving, climbing, and otherwise tormenting his body on a fourth machine that consisted of moving stairs and rods.

“My Lord Bishop,” the secretary said. He made the introductions, snapped a turn on his heel, and went to sit in a straight-backed chair by the foot of the stairs. He folded his hands over the diary — now opened meaningfully to the appropriate page — took his watch off his wrist and balanced it on his knee, and placed his narrow feet flat on the fl oor.

Glennaven nodded at them brusquely and wiped a rag across the top of his sweat-sheened bald head. He was wearing the trousers to a grey sweat suit along with a faded black T-shirt on which TENTH UNICEF JOG-ATHON was printed above the date 4 May. Both trousers and shirt were mottled by rings and streaks of perspiration.

“This is His Grace’s exercise time,” the secretary announced unnecessarily. “He has another appointment in an hour, and he’ll need an opportunity to shower prior to that. If you’ll be so good as to keep it in mind.”

There were no other seats in the room aside from those provided by the equipment. St. James wondered how many other unexpected or unwanted guests were encouraged to limit their visits to the bishop by having to conduct them standing up.

“Heart,” Glennaven said, jabbing his thumb to his chest before he adjusted a dial on the stair machine. He puffed and grimaced as he spoke, no exercise enthusiast but a man without options. “I’ve another quarter of an hour. Sorry. Can’t let up or the benefits diminish. So the cardiologist tells me. Sometimes I think he has profi t sharing going with the sadists who create these infernal machines.” He pumped, lunged, and continued to sweat. “According to the deacon”—with a tilt of his head to indicate his secretary—“Scotland Yard wants information in the usual fashion of people wanting something in this new age. By yesterday, if possible.”

“True enough,” St. James said.

“Don’t know that I can tell you anything useful. Dominic here”—another head tilt towards the stairs—”could probably tell you more. He attended the inquest.”

“At your request, I take it.”

The bishop nodded. He grunted with the effort of addressing the additional tension he’d added to the machine. The veins became swollen on his forehead and arms.

“Is that your usual procedure, sending someone to an inquest?”

He shook his head. “Never had one of my priests poisoned before. I had no procedure.”

“Would you do it again if another priest died under questionable circumstances?”

“Depends on the priest. If he was like Sage, yes.”

Glennaven’s introduction of the topic made St. James’ job easier. He celebrated this fact by taking a seat on the bench of the weight machine. Deborah went to the exercise bike and made it her perch. At their movement, Dominic looked disapprovingly at the bishop. The best-laid plans gone awry, his expression said. He tapped the face of his watch as if to make sure it was still in working order.

“You mean a man likely to be deliberately poisoned,” St. James said.

“We want priests who are dedicated to their ministry,” the bishop said between grunts, “especially in parishes where the temporal rewards are minimal at best. But zeal has its negatives. People find it offensive. Zealots hold up mirrors and ask people to look at their own refl ections.”

“Sage was a zealot?”

“In some eyes.”

“In yours?”

“Yes. But not offensively so. I’ve a high tolerance for religious activism. Even when it’s not politically sound. He was a decent sort. He had a good mind. He wanted to use it. Still, zeal causes problems. So I sent Dominic to the inquest.”

“I’ve been given to understand that you were satisfied by what you heard,” St. James said to the deacon.

“Nothing that was recorded by the adjudicating party indicated Mr. Sage’s ministry to be wanting in any way.” The deacon’s monotone, a demonstration of hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil, and step-on-no-toes, no doubt served him well in the political-religious arena in which he worked. It did little to add to their knowledge, however.

“As to Mr. Sage himself?” St. James asked.

The deacon ran his tongue over his protruding teeth and picked a piece of lint from the lapel of his black suit jacket. “Yes?”