Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Nearly as exciting as Leighton Buzzard,' Hans said. 'Makes me realise how much I love Bridelow. Its hardness, its drama.'

Cathy said nothing. Right now Bridelow had more drama than Beirut could handle.

Hans leaned forward in the chair, lowered his voice – even though, apart from the Rev. Offertory Box, they were alone in the lounge. 'I'm finished, aren't I, Cathy? I'm out.'

'Bollocks,' Cathy said, with less conviction than the choice of word implied.

Hans shook his head. 'Really wouldn't mind so much if it was going to be anybody but Joel. Thinks he's a New Christian, but he's actually more set in his ways than that poor old sod.'

Cathy squeezed his hand. 'You'll be back in no time.'

'No. I won't. Joel, you see… he's like one of those chaps in the old Westerns. Come to clean up Bridelow. Vocation. And Simon Fleming sees Joel as his vocation, and as long as he's archdeacon…'

'Joel might have bitten off more than he can chew, Pop. He put on his first Sunday service this morning, and nobody came.'

'You're not serious.' Cathy watched her father's mouth briefly wrestling with a most unchristian, spontaneous delight.

'Honest to God, Pop. A totally unorganised boycott. You know what Bridelow's like. Sort of communal consciousness. Apparently a few people started to drift along, got as far as the churchyard, realised the usual merry throng was not gathering as usual – and toddled off home. Does your heart good, doesn't it?'

'Certainly not,' said Hans, recovering his gravitas. 'It's actually quite stupid. Just get his back up, and then he'll do something silly. I don't mean go crying to Simon or the bishop or anyone, he's too arrogant. He'll want to sort it out himself. Damn.' Hans looked gloomy. 'That was really quite stupid of them. I can't believe Ma Wagstaff allowed it.'

'Ah.' Cathy lowered her eyes. Hans was wearing tartan bedroom slippers; somebody must have had a battle to get him into those.

'What's wrong?'

'I'm sorry, Pop,' Cathy swallowed. 'Something I haven't told you.'

Hans went very still. The customers didn't stay long after Lottie had her flare-up. Led by tactful Frank Manifold Snr, they drank up smartish.

'What about you, pal?' Frank said to Inspector Ashton as he deposited his empty glass on the bar top. 'Haven't you got some traffic to direct or summat?'

Lottie said, it's OK, Frank. It's me. I'm overwrought.'

She turned to Ashton. 'Have another. On the house.'

'No, this chap's right,' Ashton said. 'You've enough problems without me.'

'No,' Lottie said, 'I want your advice. I've had… intruders.' Then Joel arrived to take up residence at Bridelow Rectory, and found Alfred Beckett replacing a broken window in the pantry.

He stood over the little man. Perhaps, he ventured sarcastically, some explanation was due.

'Well.' Mr Beckett thumbed a line of putty into the window-frame. 'I would have been theer, like. Never missed a morning service in thirty year. Except in an emergency.'

Like this problem here. Which, as Mr Beard could see, he was at this moment putting right before it started raining again causing everything in the pantry to be soaked through and ruined.

'Mr Beckett,' Joel snarled. 'You are the organist.'

'Aye,' said Mr Beckett uncomfortably. 'That's true, like, but…'

'But nothing! You knew there would be no congregation. You knew no one would come.'

'Nay,' said Mr Beckett. 'Nobody come? Well, bugger me.'

Joel felt a red haze developing behind his eyes. He wondered briefly if the hypocritical little rat hadn't smashed the Rectory window himself as a lame excuse for his non-appearance.

'Bloody vandals,' Mr Beckett said, expertly sliding in the new pane of glass. 'Never used to get no vandalism in this village, and that's a fact, Mr Beard.'

Joel stared at him.

You're nobbut a thick bloody vandal wi' no more brains than pig shit.

Joel snatched the ball of putty from the window-ledge and sent it with a splat to the pantry floor.

'Mrs Wagstaff,' he said icily. 'Mrs Wagstaff is behind all this.'

'Nay,' said Mr Beckett.

'Why can't any of you people tell the truth?' This devious little man was the only villager who derived a small income from the Church and doubtless could not afford to lose it. 'When I came past her cottage not half an hour ago, Mrs Wagstaff had not yet deigned to draw back her curtains. What, pray, is your interpretation of that?'

Mr Beckett scraped up his ball of putty.

'Cause she's bloody dead,' he said. 'Why d'you think?' Feeling his holy rage congealing into a hideous mess, Joel walked numbly through the kitchen, down the hall and into Hans Gruber's study.

Had the old woman spoken to neighbours of her encounter yesterday by the pagan shrine? He remembered, with no pleasure now, the gratification he'd allowed himself to feel as he left her in the churchyard and watched her stumping angrily away. The feeling that he finally had her on the run.

Had she run hard enough to bring on a stroke? To give her a heart attack?

Was there a general feeling that he, Joel, was responsible for her death? And for Hans's collapse at the graveside? Was that what this was all about?

Joel sat bowed across Hans's desk, his fingers splayed over his eyes. Was this to be his reward for following his Christian instincts, reacting fiercely and publicly as God's blunt instrument?

Was it?

Joel lowered his hands and saw a tower of books before him on the desk. Amidst the acceptable, routine theology, he saw inflammatory titles as The Celtic Way… The Virgin and the Goddess… Pagan Celtic Britain… The Celtic Creed… The Tenets of Witchcraft. Evidence of Hans's attempts to rationalise this evil, the way one might seek to explain crime in era of social deprivation.

When it came to basics, Joel had no great illusions about himself. He was not a scholarly man. His strength was… well, literally that. His strength.

He wasn't going to be able to work in this study. He'd lock the door on Hans's collection of pornography, just as he'd locked the dungeon door behind him. Ante-rooms to hell, both of them.

With a sweep of his arm which sent the books in the pile spinning to the four corners of the room, he experienced again the sublime grace of movement he'd felt as he leaned from the ladder and slashed the cord which bound the Autumn Cross.

Bound to be casualties. But he would go on. He must. She led him out of the back door to an old barn of a place only a few yards from the main building. Unlocked the door.

'How did they get in?' Ashton asked,

'I don't know.'

'No windows forced?'

Lottie shook her head, bewildered.

'What's been taken?'

Lottie still shaking her head. 'Nothing. Nothing I can see.'

Ashton looked hard at her and let her see that he was looking. Was this a wind-up? Or was there a mental problem?

He didn't think so. She was standing in the middle of the barn, hands on hips, the sleeves of a bulky Scandinavian-type cardigan pushed up to the elbows.

She had firm, strong arms.

'Mrs Castle…'

'I know. You think I'm off my head.'

'I didn't say anything

'Well, me too, Mr Ashton. I think I must be cracking up.'

'Gary,' he said. 'And I'd like to help. If I can.'

'You not got better things to do? One of the lads was saying there's a big police hunt up on the moors.'

'That's South Yorkshire's,' Ashton said. 'Our manor finishes just this side of the Moss. We'll help if we're asked, but we've not been asked. I'm off-duty anyroad.'

'Who're they looking for?'

'Farmer. Don't ask me his name. Went off after some trespassers last night and didn't come back. Had his shotgun with him, that's the worry. Why? You think it might be the same hooligans broke in here?'

Lottie shook her head again. It wasn't so much a denial, Ashton thought, as an attempt to shake something out.