Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

Merrily smiled.

‘Actually,’ Sophie said, ‘thinking about this, his cycling phase might have begun later, although it certainly started at Birchwood. Possibly while he was completing his masterpiece, The Dream of Gerontius.’

‘That’s not set in the Malverns, though, is it?’

‘Merrily, your ignorance of great music astonishes me. It’s set in the afterlife.’

‘Erm… OK. But we can assume Elgar was familiar with Wychehill? Travelling that road – on his bike or on foot – drawing from the landscape and also projecting his imagination into it. Fitting the criteria for an imprint – a recurring image in a particular location. A recording on an atmospheric loop.’

Sophie’s face was expressionless. Merrily wondered sometimes if she believed any of this. Even for someone as unwaveringly High Church as Sophie, Christianity could still be a discipline rather than a journey of discovery.

‘He undoubtedly did draw from the landscape and always saw his music through nature. Even as a boy, sitting by the river, he said he wanted to write down what the reeds were saying. Much later he was to say that the air was full of music and you just took as much as you required.’

Interesting. Merrily made a note.

‘His principal biographer, Jerrold Northrop-Moore, an American, says the Cello Concerto projected to him – in America – an image of a landscape he’d never seen, and when he finally came over to Worcestershire it all seemed strangely familiar. He also suggests that Elgar’s pattern of composition reflects the physical rhythm of the Malvern Hills.’

‘And Lol said that when he was dying…’

‘Either he was being gently humorous in his final hours or he truly believed his spirit belonged in the hills. Does that fit your criteria for an imprint?’

‘Maybe more than that,’ Merrily said. ‘But let’s settle for an imprint for the moment.’

‘And is that necessarily bad? An animation that simply replays itself?’

The phone rang and then stopped as Sophie reached out a hand. She sat back and rearranged her glasses on their chain.

‘Linking Elgar with road-death, however, is abusive to the point of indecency.’

‘People are worried.’

‘And to allay their fears, you call upon God to banish the spirit of a genius?’

The phone rang again, and Sophie hooked it up. ‘Gatehouse.’ She covered the mouthpiece. ‘Might it not be appropriate to bring this whole issue to the attention of the Bishop?’

‘Not yet. Let’s see what happens tonight.’

So where did you go with this?

Perhaps you started by strolling across the Cathedral green to confront the compact, tidy gent in bronze, leaning…

… On his bike. Of course he was.

Mr Phoebus, if this was Mr Phoebus, didn’t have a lamp. But then his wheels didn’t have any spokes either.

It was, Merrily thought, essentially a modest, unobtrusive piece. Life-size, dapper: Elgar the bloke. She sat on the grass in the sunshine with an egg mayonnaise sandwich, contemplating him from a distance while finishing off Elgar – A Hereford Guide.

Finally, she wandered across.

Could you…? Keeping a respectful distance. Could you possibly help me, Sir Edward?

Look, this wasn’t stupid. Sometimes… call it intuition, call it divine inspiration, call it…

But Elgar had higher things on his mind. Overdressed for the weather, he was gazing at the Cathedral tower with its unsightly scaffolding. The Cathedral where he’d spent so many hours – even, in later years, recording some of his music there.

Look, I accept that I don’t know enough about your work. I’m sorry. I hope to deal with that.

No reaction.

No impressions. No guidance. Elgar was miles away, and music was Merrily’s blind spot. In church, anyway. All the trite Victorian hymns she’d been trying to edge out of services for the past two years.

Everything the sculpture had to say to her was written on its plinth. A quote which someone – maybe even a committee – had thought essential to an understanding of the man and his work.

But it was interesting.

‘THIS IS WHAT I GET EVERY DAY. T HE TREES ARE SINGING MY MUSIC – OR AM I SINGING THEIRS?’

Merrily walked around Elgar, looking over his shoulder, following his gaze.

‘You’re asking me?’

Isolated

In the scullery, the answering machine was bleeping petulantly when Merrily got in. Bride’s mother requesting a second rehearsal for one of next week’s weddings – how much time did these people think you had? Then a reminder that she was expected to chair the Ledwardine Summer Fair planning meeting next Monday, and finally a hollow pause, a throat-clearing and this mild but slightly pompous southern Scottish accent.

‘ Mrs Watkins, my name is Leonard Holliday, and this concerns your visit to Wychehill. Pointless calling me back, I shall be all over the place. I simply wanted to say, as the chairman of the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group, that I’ve inspected your Hereford Deliverance website, and frankly I think your presence at the parish meeting would not be helpful.’

Sounded as if he was reading a prepared statement.

‘ I’m afraid there’s been quite an hysterical reaction to some regrettable incidents. Some people are seeking to sensationalize a serious issue, in a way which would only make our campaign look fatuous. Therefore, on behalf of my committee – and we’ve made our feelings clear, also, to the Rector – I’d like to request that you do not attend this meeting. I’m sure you can see the sense of this. Thank you.’

Merrily sat down at the desk, watching the machine reset itself. Some insect rammed the window and bounced away.

Right.

She called Syd Spicer. If there’d been some change of heart in Wychehill, he ought to have told her about it before now.

No answer. Not even an answering machine. What kind of rectory didn’t have an answering machine? With less than an hour to spare before she’d need to leave for the christening, she rang Directory Enquiries and obtained numbers for Preston Devereaux and Joyce Aird.

Devereaux first.

‘No, this is Louis.’ A deep drawl, but a young man’s drawl. ‘He’s out, I’m afraid. Who’s that with the rather sexy voice?’

‘Thank you. My name’s Merrily Watkins, I’m calling about-’

‘The exorcist. Cool.’

‘You’re Mr Devereaux’s son, I take it.’

‘I’m going to be fascinated to see what you do.’

‘You may be disappointed.’

‘I really don’t think so, Mrs Watkins. My little brother found your picture on the Net. I think he’s taken it to his bedroom.’

Merrily sighed. ‘When will your dad be in?’

‘Not for hours. He has meetings all day. But he’ll be back for yours, you can count on that.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Good to know there was still respect for the Church. She hung up and dialled Joyce Aird’s number.

Engaged.

Merrily was close to being late for the christening when Frannie Bliss phoned. ‘As I hadn’t heard from you, Merrily, I assumed you’d stumbled upon something in Wychehill which your conscience was telling you it was inadvisable to share with the Filth.’

‘For once, I don’t actually think I know anything useful – not to you, anyway.’

‘Witnesses never know what they know until it’s squeezed out of them by a master interrogator.’

‘How long would it take to fetch one? I’m a bit pushed right now.’

‘I hope God finds you less offensive, Merrily. All right, I’ll tell you something. Our experts, examining the remains of the Mazda car belonging to the late Mr Lincoln Cookman, killed in Wychehill in the early hours of Saturday, had occasion to remove the spare tyre. And found a neat little package containing forty assorted rocks. And, no, he wasn’t a geologist.’