Phil Rickman - A Crown of Lights

The phone rang, had her reaching for a towel before the answering machine could grab the call.

‘Oh, my dear, I’m sure it’s working already!’

‘Mrs Wilshire?’

‘I have had what, without doubt, was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months!’

‘That’s, er, wonderful,’ Betty said hesitantly, because the likelihood of her arthritis remedy kicking in overnight was remote, to say the least.

‘I can bend my fingers further than... Oh, I must show you. Will you be in this area today?’

‘Well, I suppose...’

‘Marvellous. I shall be at home all day.’

‘Er... you didn’t stop taking your cortisone tablets, did you? Because steroids do need to be wound down slowly.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t take any chances.’

‘No.’

It was psychological, of course, and Betty felt a little wary. Mrs Wilshire was a woman who could very easily become dependent on people. If Betty wasn’t careful, she’d wind up having to call in to see her every other day. Still, if it hadn’t been for Mrs Wilshire they would never have got onto the Penney affair.

‘OK, I’ll drop in later this morning if that’s all right. Er, Mrs Wilshire, the papers you kindly let me take – about the church? There was one from a Mrs Pottinger, relating to the Reverend Penney. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Oh, there was a lot of trouble about him, my dear. Everyone was very glad when he left, so I’m told.’

‘Even though the church was decommissioned and sold soon afterwards?’

‘That was a pity, although I believe it was always rather a draughty old place.’

‘Er, do you remember, when you bought the house – and the church – did the Reverend Ellis come to visit you there?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I was hardly ever there. It was Bryan’s project. Bryan’s house, until it was finished. Which I confess I really rather hoped it never would be.’

‘So you don’t know if the Reverend Ellis went to see Bryan there?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. Though I’m sure he would have mentioned it. He never mentioned Mr Ellis in connection with that house. I don’t remember him ever mentioning Mr Ellis.’

‘No suggestion of Mr Ellis wanting to conduct a service in the church?’

‘A church service?’

‘Er... yes.’

‘Oh no, my dear. I’m sure I would have remembered that.’

Just us, then.

The first thing Mrs Judith Prosser asked him was if they would be keeping stock on their land. Robin replied that farmers seemed to be having a hard enough time right now without amateurs creeping in under the fence. Which led her to ask what he did for a living and him to tell her he was an artist.

‘That’s interesting,’ Mrs Prosser said, though Robin couldn’t basically see how she could find it so; there wasn’t a painting on any wall of the parlour – just photographs, mainly of men. Some of the photos were so old that the men had wing collars and watch chains.

As well as chairman’s chains. Robin wondered if ‘Councillor’ was some kind of inherited title in the Prosser family – like, even if you had all the personality of a bag of fertilizer, they still elected you, on account of the Prossers knew the way to County Hall in Llandrindod.

Mrs Prosser went through to the kitchen, leaving the door open. There was a black suit on a hanger behind the door.

‘We have a funeral this afternoon,’ she explained.

‘I guess councillors have a lot of funerals to attend.’

She looked at him. ‘In this case, it’s for a friend.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We all are. Sit down, Mr Thorogood.’

The furniture was dark and heavy and highly polished. The leather chair he sat in had arms that came almost up to his shoulders. When you put your hands on them, you felt like a dog begging.

Funerals. Was this an opening?

‘So it’s, uh, local , this funeral?’ Boy, how soon you could grow to hate one simple little word.

‘In the village, yes.’

‘So you still have a graveyard – despite no church?’

Mrs Prosser didn’t reply. He heard her pouring coffee. It occurred to him she hadn’t commented on him being American. Maybe ‘from Off’ was all-inclusive; how far ‘Off’ was of no major consequence.

He raised his voice a little. ‘I guess there must’ve been problems with funerals when the old St Michael’s Church was in use. What with the creek and all.’ OK, it might not be in the best of taste to keep on about funerals, but it was his only way into the Reverend Penney, and he wasn’t about to let go.

‘Because of the brook, no one’s been buried there in centuries.’ She came back with two brown cups and saucers on a tray.

‘Thank you, uh, Judith. Hey, I met the vicar. He came round.’

‘Mr Ellis is a good rector.’

‘But not local,’ Robin said.

‘You don’t get local ministers anywhere any more, do you? But he brings people in. Very popular, he is. Quite an attraction.’

‘You like to see new people coming in?’

She laughed: a good-looking woman, in her weathered way. ‘Depends what people they are, isn’t it? Nobody objects to churchgoers. And the collections support the village hall. They’re always very generous.’

‘Just Nick doesn’t seem your regular kind of minister,’ Robin said.

‘He suits our needs,’ said Mrs Prosser. ‘Father Ellis’s style of worship might not be what we’ve been used to in this area, but a breath of something new is no bad thing, we’re always told. Jog us out of our routine, isn’t it?’

‘I guess.’ He tasted the coffee. It was strong and surprisingly good. Judith Prosser put the tray on a small table and came to sit on the sofa opposite. She was turning out to be unexpectedly intelligent, not so insular as he’d figured. He felt ashamed of his smug preconceptions about rural people, local people. So he went for it.

‘From what I hear, this area seems to attract kind of off-the-wall clergy. This guy, uh... Penney?’

‘My,’ she said, ‘you have picked up a lot of gossip in a short time.’

‘Not everybody finds themselves buying a church. You feel you oughta find out the history.’

‘Or the lurid bits, at least.’

‘Uh... I guess.’ He gave her his charming, sheepish smile.

‘Terry Penney.’ Judith sipped her coffee. ‘What’s to say? Quiet sort of man. Scholarly, you know? Had his study floor-to-ceiling with books. Not an unfriendly person, mind, not reclusive particularly. Not at first.’

‘He didn’t live at the farmhouse – our house?’

‘Oh, no, that was always a farm. No, the rectory was just out of the village, on the Walton road. Mr Weal has it now – the solicitor.’

Robin recalled the name from someplace. Juliet Pottinger’s letter?

‘So...’ He put down his coffee on a coaster resting on the high chair arm. ‘The, uh, lurid bit?’

‘Restrain yourself, Mr Thorogood, I’m getting there.’

Robin grinned; she was OK. He guessed the Christ is the Light sticker was just the politically correct thing to do in Old Hindwell.

‘Well, it was my husband, see, who had the first inkling of something amiss – through the county council. Every year Old Hindwell Church would apply for a grant from the Welsh Church Acts Committee, or whatever they called it then, which allotted money to old buildings, for preservation. Although the church was in the Hereford diocese it’s actually in Wales, as you know. However, this particular year, there was no request for money.’

She turned on a wry smile. She was – he hadn’t expected this – enjoying telling this story.

‘The Reverend Penney had been yere... oh, must have been nearly eighteen months by then. Thought he must have forgotten, we did, so Councillor Prosser goes to see him. And Mr Penney, bold as you please, says, oh no, he hasn’t forgotten at all. He doesn’t want a grant. He doesn’t think the church should be preserved!’