Susan Howatch - Glittering Images

‘Steady on, Amy!’

‘But my dear, Alex is the first to admit his upbringing left a lot to be desired! That peculiar old father and that dreadful little villa in Putney –’

‘The great thing about the Bishop,’ said Lord Starmouth, ‘is that he’ll own to the little villa in Putney. A lesser man would simply draw a veil over it.’

‘He had the veil firmly in place when he met Carrie,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘Steady on, Amy!’ The Colonel was now clearly nervous. He shot a wary glance in my direction, but I was more interested in Miss Christie; she had left Mrs Jardine, now happily talking about choirboys to Mrs Jennings, and was approaching us with the coffee-pot.

‘Is Carrie all right?’ murmured the Colonel as his cup was refilled.

‘Yes, all’s well, Colonel, don’t worry.’

‘Dr Ashworth still looks a little white around the gills,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘That hardly says much for the power of the Bishop’s port,’ said Miss Christie drily, sweeping away again with the coffee-pot.

‘That’s a very strange girl,’ mused Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘but so good with Carrie.’

I said casually, ‘She must be a great asset in the household.’

‘That hardly does her justice. When I think of that time at Radbury before her arrival –’

‘My dear,’ said the Colonel with surprising firmness, ‘I don’t think we’ll talk about that at present, if you please.’

I was disappointed, and with reluctance I realized that it might pay me later to cultivate Mrs Cobden-Smith.

I had apparently resumed my role of spy. Did this mean I was regaining my equilibrium after the bizarre scene with Jardine? I supposed it did, yet I had no wish to think of spying and no desire whatsoever to dwell on bizarre scenes. Easing myself away from the Cobden-Smiths I succeeded in cornering Miss Christie at the side-table where she was stacking the coffee-cups on to a tray.

‘What time is Communion tomorrow?’ I said, offering the most inoffensive question I could devise.

‘Eight o’clock. Breakfast is at nine.’ She looked past me at the drawing-room door. ‘Here come Mr Jennings and Gerald – will you excuse me? I must order fresh coffee for them.’

I lost her, and it occurred to me then that a quiet mild approach was going to make no impression whatsoever on Miss Christie. However if she thought she could brush me aside merely by juggling coffee-cups she had made a big mistake.

I resolved to adopt a much tougher line in future.

It was after eleven when I regained the sanctuary of my room, and having stripped off my clothes I smoked a cigarette as I tried to work out what had happened. Some strange bond seemed to have been forged between me and my host but it seemed to be my duty to ignore it. It was not my business either to like or to loathe Jardine; my task was merely to estimate how vulnerable he was to scandal.

However I found I now had a stronger desire than before not to connive with Lang in any secret plan to oust Jardine from the Bench of Bishops. Jardine was clearly innocent. A man of such integrity would be incapable of living a secret life as an apostate steeped in adultery, and I was also sure he was far too shrewd to engage in any middle-aged folly which fell short of an adulterous liaison. It seemed obvious that he exercised his flirtatious streak harmlessly with his lovely ladies and had long treated Miss Christie as part of the palace furniture.

This conclusion was reassuring enough, but I still had to answer the question of what went on in Miss Christie’s mind while Jardine behaved like the good man he undoubtedly was. I reminded myself that Jardine could still be vulnerable to scandal if Miss Christie decided to play the neurotic spinster by transforming herself into a furnace of frustrated passion, and although she hardly gave the impression of being a neurotic spinster I felt there was something odd about her extreme self-containment.

I decided I had a moral duty to investigate Miss Christie further and an absolute moral duty to discover how likely she was to transform herself into a furnace of passion.

No Jesuit could have achieved a more satisfying casuistry. With a smile I stubbed out my cigarette, retired to bed and began to plot my espionage for the morrow.

‘I have seen so many clerical careers arrested, and (to all outward seeming) definitely marred, by the clergyman’s marriage, that I never hear of a clergyman’s becoming “engaged” without a shiver of anxiety.’

Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.

I awoke violently at seven. Naturally I had been dreaming of Miss Christie. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, but I decided that I had no excuse for breaking any of the minor rules by which I achieved self-discipline, and one of those rules was that I never smoked before breakfast. With an effort I read the morning office. Then making another random dip into the Bible I eventually encountered the appropriate words: ‘Seek and ye shall find’.

As I dressed it occurred to me that I still had to seek and find a great many facts about Jardine before I could report convincingly to Lang that the Bishop’s private life was as pure as driven snow; my impression of innocence would carry little weight unless it were supported by a thorough understanding of Jardine’s psychology, and I could hardly establish a psychological portrait without much more information about his past. Apart from gauging Miss Christie’s ability to become a furnace of passion my main task was clearly to talk to as many people as possible about the Bishop without making them suspect they were being interrogated, but I doubted that this would prove difficult. People always enjoy a gossip about a famous man, and when a famous man is personally known to them the temptation to reveal how much they know is all the greater.

Leaving my room, I padded downstairs. I met no one, although I could hear the distant rattling and banging of servants pursuing their early morning rituals. Opening the front door I stepped out into the porch, and the brilliant sunlight flooded into my eyes so that for a second I saw only a shimmering green pattern of beech leaves and grass. Beyond the drive the pale stone of the Cathedral soared into a cloudless sky, and after opening the white gate which was set in the wall of the churchyard I headed along the north side of the building to the porch.

A passing verger directed me to St Anselm’s Chapel where the weekday Communion services were held. There was no time to gape at the glory of the nave; I wanted to clear my mind in preparation for worship, and as soon as I had chosen my seat in the chapel I knelt to sharpen my concentration. However I had instantly noted Miss Christie’s absence.

This failed to surprise me. Weekday Communion is seldom attended by hordes of laymen, and in fact I saw no one I knew from the palace in the small congregation. Then Gerald Harvey hurried into the row behind me, and seconds later at eight o’clock the Dean and the Bishop appeared, preceded by the verger.

As the service progressed I thought how preposterous it was to imagine a bishop administering the sacrament when he was not in a state of grace, and again I remembered the integrity which had emanated from Jardine during our private conversation over the port.

My moment came to receive the sacrament. Erasing all thought of my commission I focused my mind on the spiritual reality confronting me and it was not until I had returned to my seat that I allowed myself to think again of Jardine. I vowed to remember that my first duty was not to the Archbishop of Canterbury. I asked for the strength to overcome my weaknesses. And at the conclusion of the service I let the familiar prayer of Christ echo in my mind: Let thy will, not mine, be done.