Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

Jane shrugged.

‘Well, thank you, flower, you’ve converted me. I’ll pack in all this Christian crap, put up a Goat of Mendes poster in the hall – only ten dollars from the Church of Satan and All Fallen Angels, Sacramento – and once I’ve popped into the church and spat on the altar—’

‘All right … you can mock.’ Jane stood up. ‘I’m just trying to show you what you’re dealing with, that’s all. There are two sides to everything.’

‘So the Garway Green Man is actually Baphomet. Mr Williams thinks that?’

‘He knows Garway church, and he thinks it makes sense. And if what you found inside the inglenook at the Master House was a replica of the Baphomet in the church …’

‘You didn’t tell Robbie Williams about that?’

‘No, I just asked about it in a general kind of way.’

‘Only I would hate any of this to get back to your beloved head teacher, because if Morrell thought I was involving you, a minor, in what he regards as my unscientific, primitive and superstitious occupation …’

‘It’s OK. I don’t think Robbie Williams likes Morrell either. And in case …’ Jane’s gaze softened. ‘In case you were fearing the worst, even I would be a bit wary of bending a knee to Baphomet. Or the Goat of Mendes.’

She came over, and Merrily half-rose and then they were spontaneously hugging. Ridiculous. Embracing your heathen daughter because she’d granted you the concession of drawing the line at actual devil worship.

More probably, Merrily guessed, it was the formal sealing of a pact against what was upstairs.

‘Jane, look … I’m sorry. It was a bad night, and it’s not been a great day. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing. Going over to Garway – it could be a wasted exercise. Even Huw Owen’s telling me to back off, because whatever happened there concerns ancient secrets that aren’t going to get cracked. Definitely not by someone like me.’

‘He actually said that?’

‘I don’t think he meant it in any mystical sense. I think he was saying I’d just tie myself up in knots, getting nowhere. And when you come home and hang all this on me, with the saintly Siân upstairs …’

Merrily was feeling almost painfully tired. Tired and inept. Huw was probably right: tamp it down, walk away and, with any luck, it won’t flare again in your lifetime.

‘Listen, there’s one final thing, Mum. Jacques de Molay?’

‘The last Grand Master of the Templars.’

‘I think there’s an engraving of him here. I’ve got it … there … He looks a bit like Baphomet himself, doesn’t he?’

Merrily looked at the drawing of the figure with the cross on his surcoat. Dignified but defiant. Che Guevara. Or maybe just the quiet one from some electric-folk band in the 1970s.

‘He was burned at the stake?’

Jane nodded. ‘After refusing to confess to sodomy, sacrilege and the rest of it. Most of the others who were arrested did confess after being threatened and tortured. But De Molay insisted to the end that he was a good Christian. He said he wanted to die facing the Church of Our Lady. But – get this – before the flames took him, he said that God would avenge him. He said the Pope and the King of France could expect to see him again before too long.’

‘I know. De Molay’s dying curse. Where’s this going, Jane?’

‘Neither the King nor the Pope lasted a year. And Jacques de Molay became this kind of cult figure. Still is, apparently.’

‘Yes.’

‘There was some guy in the French Revolution,’ Jane said, ‘and when they guillotined Louis XVI he was like, This is for Jacques de Molay .’

Merrily thought she could hear footsteps on the stairs and stood up. Felt, for a moment, slightly dizzy.

‘Suppose I’d better show Siân around.’

‘Hang on,’ Jane said, ‘I haven’t told you, yet.’

‘Sorry. Only—’

‘And this isn’t, like, supposition or legend or anything. This is official history. I think it was 1294.’

‘All right.’ Merrily paused, holding the door handle, aching for a cigarette. ‘What happened in 1294?’

‘That was the year Jacques de Molay came to Garway,’ Jane said.

SETTING OUT A place by the window in the whitewashed dairy, now the guests’ dining room, Beverley Murray glanced at Teddy across the table, and you could almost see it happening: this smouldering issue reigniting in the air between them.

Then Beverley went back to the cutlery tray, and Teddy said, ‘If handled discreetly, I think it would be sensible. Discretion being the operative word.’

‘When was there—?’ Beverley letting the cutlery clink more than was necessary. ‘When was there ever discretion in a place like this? Sometimes I think that damned radio mast picks up everything we say and broadcasts it into everybody’s living room.’

‘In which case, Merrily needs to get it all done and dusted before too many people find out.’

By ‘too many people’ Teddy presumably meant some of the cranks likely to descend on Garway next weekend for the Templar memorial service.

‘Quick as I possibly can.’ Merrily was not feeling up to an argument. ‘As soon as I can establish what we’re looking at.’

Meaning help me here . Teddy prised out a reluctant chuckle.

‘Merrily has a most unenviable job. Bumps in the night being an area most of us tend to steer clear of. Too many pitfalls.’

‘If there’s a crisis in the parish, Teddy tends to take himself for a walk,’ Beverley said.

She was maybe ten years younger than Teddy, one of those brisk, practical, short-haired blondes who’d become a familiar breed in these parts, like the golden retriever. Their farmhouse was eighteenth-century, a block of sunburned-looking stone wedged into the hillside half a mile beyond the church, ruinous outbuildings scattered below it like scree. The Ridge: Dinner, B & B. Walkers welcome . Two public footpaths intersected below a terrace with tables and green and yellow umbrellas.

‘Balm for the soul, this landscape.’ Teddy was in thick socks, still carrying his walking boots by their laces. ‘You’ll start to feel it soon, Merrily. Take away that anxious frown.’

‘Teddy!’

‘Well, it’s true, Bevvie.’ He turned to Merrily. ‘Sorry if I’m being tactless, but I have to say I don’t think I’ve seen anyone alter as dramatically as you have in just a few days. Well, yes, sudden death … inevitably a shock to the system. But it’s not your fault, my dear, not your fault .’

‘Yes, well …’ Merrily said, ‘Maybe a good night’s sleep …’

‘Or, as I say, a good walk. Oh, I know Bevvie thinks I’m an avoider , but the countryside calms and strengthens. One of the functions of a parish priest is to remain centred and … essentially placid.’

‘He means passive ,’ Beverley said. ‘In other words, uninvolved. Male priests think there’s some sort of dignity to being remote. One of the benefits of having girls in the clergy is that at least they aren’t afraid of getting their feet wet. Women get involved, men go for a walk. He does yoga, too, I’m afraid.’

‘Basic stuff, but it keeps one in trim.’ Teddy dumped his boots by the door. ‘Like to enjoy this place for a couple more decades. That so wrong?’

‘I mean, obviously we’re delighted to have you here, Merrily,’ Beverley said. ‘If only the circumstances were different.’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

If only. Merrily was the sole guest, although a party from Germany was expected at the end of the week. There were no-smoking signs in the dining room, the lounge, her bedroom and the en-suite bathroom.