Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

Spicer snorted.

‘He did tell people?’ Merrily said.

‘He told Winnie Sparke. That was enough. The American lady? Winnie is Tim’s … protector. Nurtures his sensitive talents, knows about his problems. Find out about you very quickly, Americans, because they just ask. You have an alcohol problem, Tim? I have herbs for that .’

‘So it was Winnie Sparke who spread it around?’

‘Couldn’t’ve timed it better. There’s a retired geezer, Leonard Holliday. Been here about two years. Leonard’s chairman and secretary of WRAG – the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group. Committed to getting rid of Inn Ya Face and restoring the Royal Oak to the gentle hostelry where Elgar himself … it’s said that Elgar used to drop in for a pint of cider when he was staying at his summer cottage over at Birchwood. So, anyway, there was a meeting of Holliday’s action group to appoint a deputation to lobby the council. Somebody says what a pity we don’t have a celebrity living here, like some of the villages have. Holliday says, pity we don’t have someone like Sir Edward here any more. And Winnie says, You’re sure we don’t … ?’

‘Oh dear.’

Merrily closed her eyes, suddenly quite deflated.

It all made sense. A gift for a protest group, the idea of England’s greatest serious composer rising up from the grave against Raji Khan and his filthy jungle music.

‘When was this, Syd?’

‘The meeting was about ten days ago. Winnie Sparke says it just slipped out, but it couldn’t’ve worked better if she’d timed it. Sir Edward Elgar riding into battle on Mr Phoebus?’

‘Who?’

‘Elgar called his bike Mr Phoebus. Name of a Roman sun god.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I think, to be honest, Holliday was dithering a bit. On the one hand, it would get in all the papers, attract massive publicity to their cause. On the other – apologies, Merrily, but who really believes ghost stories? It could easily be the wrong kind of publicity. But then there was another accident.’

‘Mrs Cobham?’

‘Stella. Stella and Paul. Famous for their very loud rows. Stella’s little BMW roaring down the middle of the road after some fracas, practically spitting flames. Cyclist coming down the middle of the road. Stella swerves. Family of German tourists in a mobile home looking for their campsite. Bam.’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘Bit of whiplash for Stella. And shock. Says she’d never believed in anything like that, until … I don’t think you’ll get any change out of her. Doesn’t like talking about it any more. Doesn’t want to get a reputation as … you know … a bit of a Winnie Sparke. Actually, Winnie’s much more intelligent.’

‘You don’t have many illusions about your flock, do you, Syd?’

‘I’m supposed to? I thought it was our job to lead them to God. Merrily, there is no flock. This is not a village, it’s a bunch of disconnected houses jammed into rock crevices.’

‘So what about you?’ Merrily said. ‘What would you like to happen?’

‘I’d like people to be sensible. I’d like Donald Walford to stop worrying about his daughter, Joyce Aird to get her Polo out of the garage again instead of having all her groceries delivered. Sounds insane, doesn’t it?’

‘Not in an isolated community. I suppose a lot now depends on whether the driver of the Land Rover is claiming to have seen anything immediately prior to a crash that makes the other three look trivial.’

‘Yeah.’ Spicer nodded slowly. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

‘ Has he said anything yet?’

‘Not to me. Not yet. But he’s chairman of the parish council. Which means he’ll be chairing tomorrow’s meeting. You got the message about that?’

‘It’s why I came back tonight. Do you think I should go and see Mr Devereaux now?’

‘Whatever he’s decided, you won’t change his mind.’

‘I don’t want to change his mind.’

‘Merrily.’ Spicer stood up. ‘With respect, if you’ve spoken to Joyce, I think you’ve done enough. She’s the one wants an exorcism of some kind. What we’ve done, by getting you in, is brought it all to a head. Wychehill’s split three ways: the ones who don’t believe any of it, the ones who want whatever it is exorcised because they’re afraid of what will happen next and … the Elgar fans.’

Merrily thought about the American woman, Winnie Sparke. There’s something there that must never be parted, you know what I’m saying? Like, you can walk out on the hills at twilight and you can sense his nearness. It’s a strange and awesome thing .

Sensing his nearness.

Like Hannah Bradley who, quite reasonably, didn’t want it put around that she’d been been touched up, from the other side of the grave, by England’s most distinguished composer.

Consider the implications of this situation. Try not to panic.

‘Why don’t I ever listen?’ Merrily was driving too fast down the hill towards Ledbury, as if the Malverns were ramming the Volvo from behind. ‘Jesus, she might be a touch loopy, this Winnie Sparke, but she cut to the essence of it: am I going to be the mad priest who stands at the roadside and publicly prays for the soul of a musical genius, a national icon, a man with his face on twenty-pound notes, to be at peace and stop causing fatal bloody road accidents? Am I going to be the person who – for heaven’s sake – exorcizes Elgar?’

‘Just … slow down. Please?’

Lol thought she looked tiny and vulnerable, at the wheel of a car that was too big for her and grated out its age on every bend. She’d refused to let him drive. He held on to the sides of his seat.

‘There’ll be a way out. Spicer doesn’t want that.’

‘No, Laurence,’ Merrily said, ‘What he doesn’t want is to have to do it himself .’

And she was probably right. One thing you learned, being close to a vicar, was that other vicars could be scheming bastards.

‘Whatever happens, he’s going to want to keep it discreet. They’re very publicity-shy, the ex-SAS. And that ’s likely to be the main reason he’s switched the meeting from Wednesday night to tomorrow. He doesn’t want TV crews from America.’

A single light up ahead was dim and bleary. Merrily braked.

‘If it gets out,’ Lol said.

‘You don’t really think … ?’

‘Big figure, Elgar, worldwide.’

They passed the vintage motor-scooter. It was on the correct side of the road. Merrily drove slowly in silence for a while. A lorry overtook the Volvo. Lol caught her glance.

‘We’ve never discussed this, Lol, but I got the feeling in there that you knew rather more about Elgar than I did.’

‘Depends how much you know.’

‘Well … bugger-all, really. That’s what makes this so much worse.’

Jane stumbled, panting, into the cobbled market square with its hanging aroma of apple-wood smoke from the fire the Black Swan kept lit for the tourists on all but the warmest summer nights.

She looked around. Nobody about. No lights in the vicarage. No lights in Lol’s cottage, which used to be Lucy’s. Maybe he and Mum had locked the dog collar in the glove compartment and stopped to do it on the back seat in a lay-by.

Jane grinned. God, what was she turning into ?

Whatever, at least those guys from the council hadn’t found out her full name. All she had to do was keep clear of Lyndon Pierce for a while and she could ride this out.

Which of course would be the coward’s way out.

It was about 10.15 p.m., the deep red veins of evening yielding to the cooling blue of early night. Jane moved between the lumpen 4x4s of the Black Swan’s clientele and slipped under the eaves of the oak-pillared market hall.