Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘Only fragments of knowledge seem to remain. Apparently it was thought that there were twelve choirs in a circle, like a big clock. But, as I say, only fragmentary… Three Choirs. Twelve choristers. The figures one and two adding up to-’

‘Who told you all this?’

Winnie Sparke’s voice was distant, as if she was looking away from the phone, into space.

‘Of course, you can explain anything with numbers. Biblical scholars do it all the time, but… chanting, in any religion you can name, is designed to induce a higher state of consciousness. And something – psychological or whatever – something certainly seemed to work when Tim Loste put choirs of twelve into three churches, one in each of the three counties. Two ancient churches and Wychehill, which was built on an ancient site.’

‘You did some homework.’

‘I had help. We… don’t have a record of Druidic chant, but Gregorian chant goes back a long, long way. And Elgar… while Elgar’s music is modern, it arose from his grounding in the Catholic church and I think much of it was nurtured and developed by the Three Choirs Festival.’

The festival rotates among the cathedrals of Hereford, Worcester and Gloucester, right? Lol had said. All of which are at least medieval. Obviously, Loste doesn’t have access to cathedrals, but little-used ancient parish churches are easier, and the three he chose are roughly equidistant to Whiteleafed Oak, where the counties converge. And there’s more…

‘Over the years, Elgar wrote a lot of music for the Three Choirs, I believe,’ Merrily said. ‘Having been connected with the festival since, I understand, the age of nine. Or, if you want to be esoteric about it, that would be three times three.’

‘Listen.’ Winnie Sparke’s voice was higher now, and sounding satisfyingly abraded. ‘I don’t have time for this right now.’

‘You keep saying that.’

‘You don’t understand. I have to go collect Tim.’

‘Where from, his self-defence class?’

‘Goddamn you, Merrily-’

‘I’m sorry, that was- You have something planned for tonight, don’t you? Choirs singing in the three counties from nine p.m. till three a.m. Is that because this is the last chance you’ll get to approach what you-?’

‘That your doing?’ Winnie’s voice was like cracking ice. ‘Getting us kicked out of the church?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. It had already happened when I…’

Merrily waited, the big phone clammy against her ear.

‘OK, listen,’ Winnie said, ‘I spend all of Friday and Saturday evenings with Tim. When the Royal Oak starts up. He’ll go crazy, else. I get down there well before dark and sometimes we have to get out of Wychehill. We go… we go someplace.’

‘Like Whiteleafed Oak,’ Merrily said. ‘Was that where you sent Tim when the parish meeeting was on in Wychehill?’

‘Why can’t you just leave us alone?’

‘I wish I could, but I can’t.’

‘ Why can’t you?’

‘Because nobody tells me the whole truth. And when so much is being hidden-’

‘Sometimes things have to be hidden, you stupid woman. For the sake of preservation.’

‘I didn’t mean that. This is-’

So difficult. So easy for the cops, but a priest had no right to demand answers and you were on shaky ground even asking questions.

‘Malcolm France,’ Merrily said. ‘Do you know about that?’

‘Who?’

‘Malcolm France was found dead this afternoon, at his office in Hereford.’

Two seconds of silence almost sizzling on the line.

‘What are you doing?’ Winnie screamed. ‘Why are you lying? Why are you giving me this shit?’

‘France was murdered. He was shot, repeatedly. I’m sorry if-’

Winnie’s breathing was turning to panting.

‘I want to help,’ Merrily said. ‘I would like to help you.’

And then she kept quiet, not wanting to give away how little she knew.

‘France was killed?’

‘In his office.’

‘Listen… this is crazy. That was a personal thing. Nobody was supposed to… I got fucking human rights…’

And this was a terrible mistake. How could Merrily possibly know about Winnie being a client of France’s? If Winnie chose to push this, it would rebound heavily on Bliss.

Winnie said, ‘Who else knows this?’

‘Probably half the county – it’s been on the radio.’

‘No, the oak. The oak.’

‘Just me. And my friend Lol, who you met last Monday night. The guy you thought was the exorcist.’

‘OK, listen,’ Winnie Sparke said. ‘You wanna talk about all of this, we’ll meet you. We’ll meet you there in an hour. Give me time to talk to Tim. We’ll meet you there. But you have to promise to leave us when I say. Before nightfall. OK?’

‘Sure… OK.’

‘Park where you can and go through the five-bar gate and keep walking. You won’t miss it. Nobody could.’

‘Won’t miss what?’

‘It’s about the only goddamn place I feel safe.’

‘Winnie…’

‘One hour.’

‘Where?’

‘The oak.’

Neighbours

Gomer and Jane drove to the east of the city, down the deep shadow of St Owen’s Street, with its heavy, brooding Shirehall, where two police cars and a van were parked.

‘Small town, see, Janie,’ Gomer said when they stopped at the lights. ‘Calls itself a city, but it en’t like Worcester and Gloucester. Small town, out on its own on the border. Even smaller back in the 1920s. So everybody of a partic’lar class knowed each other. And them bein’ neighbours for years…’

‘It could make a difference,’ Jane said. ‘Couldn’t it? In Ledwardine?’

‘Mabbe. But mabbe not. Don’t get your hopes up. Still don’t prove that ole line’s any more’n a bit of a sheep track.’

‘Yes, but now we can show that Alfred Watkins knew about it, and it was really important to him… and he wasn’t the only one.’

‘Dunno, girl. Comes down to it, it’s just a couple ole boys helpin’ each other out.’

They rattled through the lights to the Hampton Bishop road where Jane had come with Eirion the other day in search of Alfred Watkins. This fairly pleasant tree-shaded suburb, and the river wasn’t far away. Gomer turned the old jeep left into Vineyard Lane, where they’d looked for Alfred’s house, and then they got out into the smell of rich mown grass and walked back to the main road, towards the setting sun.

The big white Victorian house was on the corner, converted into flats now. The usual plaque revealing its historic importance. Jane hadn’t even noticed it the other night with Eirion, although it had been mentioned a few times in school, over the past couple of years.

Plas Gwyn. The white place.

For nine or ten years, these two men had been close neighbours, even if only one of them had been famous at the time.

It wasn’t really Jane’s idea of a nice house, although back in Edwardian days she supposed it must have looked really modern and flash. It had four floors and a verandah. It was… well, functional.

In those days, Mrs Kingsley had told them, there weren’t many houses around here, and Plas Gwyn had had major views across the river and the water meadows to the Black Mountains… across the border country to Wales, and Elgar had loved the idea of that when, newly knighted, at the height of his fame, he’d moved here in 1904 with his wife Alice and his daughter Carice.

Wow.

Mr Alfred Watkins and Sir Edward Elgar. It made total sense that they should’ve been mates. Elizabeth Kingsley had drawn up a chart showing that they’d been almost exact contemporaries – Elgar had been born in 1857 and had died in 1934, Watkins was born in 1855 and died in 1935.