Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘It was just an idea,’ Tim said. ‘Played around with different permu- permutations. Different churches. Winnie…’

‘It was Winnie’s idea?’

‘It was all Winnie’s idea, at first.’

Tim’s voice down to a whisper.

‘Dan was telling me about Wychehill Church,’ Lol said. ‘St Dunstan’s. He was a patron saint of music, wasn’t he? Was that the quarry guy, Joseph Longworth’s idea? He was paying for it so he got to choose?’

‘St Dunstan was an Abbot of Glastonbury.’

‘Where one of the original perpetual choirs was said to be.’

‘Yes. Winnie… spotted that at once. She always says that once something is put in train, all sorts of wonderful coincidences occur in a pre-ordained sort of way.’

Tim fumbled around in the straw and then looked up, dismayed.

‘Didn’t bring it, did I? I always bring water from the Holy Well. Can’t understand-’

‘Maybe you dropped it somewhere.’

‘No, I-’ Tim was clenching and unclenching his fists like the grab mechanism on a crane. ‘Must’ve left in… in a hurry.’

‘Never mind,’ Lol said. ‘Why did Winnie want you to come to Wychehill?’

I’m the chap who’s come to see God.

‘Well… the church had been built for the performance of choral music. Longworth wrote to Elgar asking what he could do to make amends

… having heard that Elgar and Bernard Shaw were jolly miffed about the damage caused by the quarrying. Elgar… not in the best of moods at the time… wrote him a cursory reply saying something like, Oh, go and build a damn cathedral! Winding Longworth up, really. Quite surprised when Longworth wrote back saying, where do you want your cathedral, then?’

‘Where did you find out about this, Tim?’

‘Parish records. It’s all documented. More or less. So when Elgar realized the chap actually had a few quid to spare, he decided that he’d better give it some thought, and he consulted some people. Blackwood and a chap he knew in Hereford. Watson. Ley-line man, you’ve probably heard of him – all you Whiteleaf Oakies, as Winnie used to call them, are into… all that.’

‘You mean Watkins? You mean Alfred Watkins?’

‘I… sure. Yah. Watkins. Friend of Elgar’s when he lived in Hereford. He’d been doing some work around the Beacon, mapping out his lines, and he’d come across the foundations of what appeared to be an ancient chapel or a monk’s cell at Wychehill and told Longworth that if he built his church there it would be a very significant thing to do.’

‘So what you’re saying… Watkins and Elgar advised Longworth to build his church on the ley from Whiteleafed Oak along the Malverns. Was Blackwood involved in this, too?’

‘Winnie was sure he must’ve been. Former member of… something or other…’

‘The Golden Dawn.’

‘That’s the outfit. Studied magic.’

‘Blackwood wrote a novel, The Human Chord, about a man’s attempt to recreate celestial music. Call out the secret names of God.’

‘You really know your stuff, don’t you? Glad we met. But you know, I don’t think I’m even supposed to talk about this.’

‘Tim, is it possible that Elgar – in later years, perhaps by talking to Blackwood – did know about the supposed significance of Whiteleafed Oak?’

‘Winnie thought he must have been at least instinctively aware ofWhy am I here? Do you know? I don’t remember. I don’t-’ Tim began to tremble like he’d been hot-wired, his engine coming alive. ‘What am I doing? Can you help me?’

Lol bit his lip, hands pressing into his knees.

‘God?’

Tim’s eyes filled with panic.

‘Ed,’ he said. ‘Where’s Ed? Can’t do it without Ed.’

Tennis Courts

No choice. Merrily had to go with Spicer.

And she was close to frantic.

‘It’ll take twenty minutes. Please.’

They were getting into Spicer’s Golf outside the rectory. His car, he could call the shots.

‘Merrily, if there was one thing I learned in my former life it’s that preparation and intelligence are invariably more important than skill, technique and courage, all that stuff from the comics. There’s something I need to know before we go anywhere. Something I need to check before we pick up your Mr Robinson. It won’t take long, and it won’t wait.’

‘Are you going to phone the police, then, or shall I?’

‘I told you, it’s in hand. I made a call while you were screaming at poor Winnie. Thought you needed to get that out of your system.’

‘Good of you.’

‘I’ve a trusted friend who’ll contact the right person in the police and explain it fully. Otherwise it could get messy. And another thing you need to know. Tim Loste didn’t kill Winnie. You got that? He didn’t kill Wicklow and he didn’t kill Winnie.’

She stared at him, his face flecked with the colours of the dashlights.

‘On what basis can you possibly -?’

‘Oh, and I didn’t either, in case you were considering that possibility. This is not what you thought. There is evil here. On an almost unimaginable scale. And we do need to collect your friend at some point. Right now, though, there are things I need to know that could save us all some grief.’

‘Grief?’

‘I blew it, Merrily. I left things too late. If it’s anybody’s fault, what’s happened to Winnie, it’s mine. Should have got them out of that church a week ago. Should never have let them in.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Nor me, yet. Not fully.’

Spicer turned left.

‘This is the road to-’

‘Old Wychehill Farm.’ He put on the headlights. ‘Now listen to me. We’re going to be quite open about this. If Preston’s here, it’s best you stay in the car, and I’ll run some parish business past him. It’ll be unconvincing but it doesn’t matter a lot at this stage. I don’t think he’ll be here, but I need to be sure.’

Spicer drove carefully into the valley, on full beams, and pulled up conspicuously in the centre of the courtyard, gravel spurting.

There were lights in the big house and a couple of wrought-iron lanterns twinkling romantically among the stone holiday units. But the outbuildings themselves were in complete darkness and there were no other cars around. No signs of holidaymakers in residence. The Victorian turret, the pines and the monkey puzzles were stage-set silhouettes against the pale, powdery night.

The idyllic effect spoiled only by the figure, naked from the waist up, legs braced, the shotgun levelled at the windscreen of the Golf.

‘ You fucking stop there! ’

Spicer kept the engine running.

‘Best if you don’t get out just yet, Merrily.’

‘You really think…’ Merrily was sinking slowly down the passenger seat ‘… I’m going to get out?’

‘ Get fucking back! I’ll take your fucking head off! ’ Spicer lowered his window.

‘Hugo?’

‘ One more step I’ll blow your fucking windows out! ’

The twelve-bore vibrating, shards of moonlight on the twin barrels.

‘Kid’s a bag of nerves,’ Spicer murmured. ‘Something took him over the edge.’ Shouting out of his side window. ‘Syd Spicer, son. Come for your old man.’

‘You’re fucking lying!’

‘Been a bad night, ain’t it, Hugo? Don’t make it worse. I’m coming out. All right? I’m gonner walk under the lamp, to your left, so you can see it’s me. Promise you I won’t come any closer. Just under the lamp, yeah, so you can ID me?’

‘You keep back…’

A jerk of the shotgun.

‘No worries.’ Spicer got out of the car, walked across to a wrought-iron lamp projecting from one of the buildings. ‘Now. See?’

‘Who’s that with you?’