Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘There are Internet sites that are actually urging people to take their own lives?’

‘That’s the implication, according to Jane. And chat-rooms. Bit like the Samaritans in reverse, isn’t it?’

Sophie’s expression didn’t alter. Sophie was a Samaritan.

‘Merrily, if you think this woman might be connected with one of these organizations, it’s surely our duty to expose it.’

‘In what capacity? It’s not a Deliverance issue, is it?’

‘Isn’t the woman fascinated by ghosts?’

‘That isn’t, in itself, a Deliverance issue, either. Anyway, if I follow agreed procedure and consult the Deliverance Panel, are they going to let me get within ten miles of Mrs Pepper? Mumford’s already been warned off by Annie Howe, with whom Siân Callaghan-Clarke says she “gets on well”. Probably attend the same kick-boxing classes.’

‘This is a mess, Merrily.’ Sophie folded her reading glasses, snapped them in their case. ‘Everything seems to be a mess at the moment.’

The Bishop arrived before lunch. He looked pensive. He sat on the edge of Sophie’s desk, picked up a pen and kept tapping its top into the palm of his left hand.

‘George Lackland, Merrily. You haven’t met him, have you?’

‘Mayor of Ludlow.’ She had her sunglasses back on. ‘Vice-chairman of the Police Committee.’

‘That’s the one.’ He unbuttoned his jacket, and his purple shirt strained over his stomach. ‘Long-standing county councillor, magistrate. George is… the epitome of Old Ludlow.’

‘And your old friend.’

‘Yes. An honourable man. Conservative in every conceivable sense of the word, of course. Retails traditional furniture, as distinct from so-called antiques.’

‘He sounds… very influential,’ Merrily said.

The Bishop looked pained. ‘I realize that, to you, attaining power and influence means being as bent as… as…’

‘A crozier?’

‘Thank you, Merrily, I’m all too conscious of the opportunities for personal gain afforded to an unscrupulous bishop. But some of us do our best, and so does George Lackland.’

‘Sorry, Bernie.’

‘Anyway, he’s been in touch. Called me last night, and we spoke again this morning. As you can imagine, George is very concerned – as are many people in the town – about these deaths at the castle. Everything that happens in Ludlow, he takes personally, always has. It’s that kind of town – people feel privileged to belong to it.’

‘Mmm.’

‘That part of the castle – the Hanging Tower – has now been closed to the public, for obvious reasons. But already, sightseers have been turning up on the other side of the wall – where this girl fell. Can’t do anything about that: it’s a public right of way.’

‘What sort of people?’

‘Young people, mainly. A group of them were observed last night. They’d gathered with candles. Singing and chanting. There’s an old yew tree. They were clustered around it. Near where she fell.’

‘Jemima.’

‘And, ah, the other one.’

‘Robbie?’

‘Marion,’ the Bishop said.

‘Why would they gather there, Bernie?’

‘Would you expect a coherent reason? Everything seems to become a shrine these days.’

‘Well, perhaps if they knew the full facts, they’d find it less romantic.’

There’d been nothing in the Mail or anywhere else, presumably, about the heroin overdose.

‘They’ll draw their own conclusions, anyway. As some people in the town are now doing.’ The pen was going tap-tap on the Bishop’s palm again: agitation. ‘You see, George Lackland’s always been a man of the Church. Senior churchwarden until his civic duties became too onerous. Seen by many of the older residents as something of a figurehead, and not only in a temporal sense, especially with David Cook still in convalescence. So George has… been approached.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t look at me like that, it’s how things are done there. People worried about the town’s reputation have made… approaches.’

‘Tourist association?’

‘Well, yes, but also church people. All kinds, not just us. The RC church, various Nonconformist chapels. Individuals who fear for the spiritual health of the community. People who might feel happier talking to the Mayor than to each other.’

‘And what are they saying?’

‘ “Hinting” would be a safer word. No more than whispers. Undercurrents.’

‘Mmm?’

‘You’re not getting me to say it, Merrily.’

‘Some people are suggesting that the recent spate of tragedy is somehow rooted in… whatever happened on the same site over eight hundred years ago?’

‘Ah…’ The Bishop cleared his throat, uncomfortable. ‘I don’t imagine anyone’s expressed it with that degree of… exactitude. Rumours trickle through the streets about a place becoming unlucky, and they gather momentum. Even when I was there, you’d get people saying the town was becoming ungodly, selling out to Mammon – new restaurants, rich incomers.’

‘How does that relate to two teenagers and an elderly woman?’

‘Well, it… That is, George says some people were suggesting the Walsh boy had become a little too obsessed with the past. Aspects of the past, that is, that should be left to, ah…’

‘Has he seen the papers this morning?’

‘For once, it seems, the papers are only echoing what’s already been whispered. It’ll die down in the press, probably before the week’s out. The media always treat these stories as a joke. Not in the town, however. Things will be blamed on it that have no connection whatsoever.’

‘So what’s the Mayor want?’

‘A meeting. He’s asked me to go and see him. Tonight. I’ve told him I’d like to bring someone with me who knows more about the elements being, ah, hinted at. Are you free tonight, Merrily?’

‘I could be.’

‘Good. Excellent.’

‘Right, then,’ Merrily said. ‘So, do you want me, or Sophie, to inform the Deliverance Panel?’

The Bishop looked blank.

‘Procedure,’ Merrily said. ‘All possible cases must be referred to the panel for assessment before any action is taken.’

‘Who decided that?’

‘The panel.’

‘Well, I think’ – the Bishop stopped tapping and closed his hand around the pen – ‘that we ought to regard this as a preliminary and essentially informal discussion. Don’t you?’

‘If that’s what you think, Bishop.’

‘Oh yes. I do.’ He placed the pen carefully on the desk. ‘I… your eyes, Merrily. Is there something wrong with your eyes, or are you trying to look sinister?’

THE MAYOR CLOSED his heavy front door, and they stepped into a hall that was cream-panelled and bright with shards of crystal light from an electric chandelier. Through Merrily’s new glasses it glowed amber and pink, like a rose garden at sunset.

‘This is the Reverend Mrs Merrily Watkins,’ the Bishop said. ‘Merrily is my, ah, Deliverance Consultant.’

‘Oh yes?’ The Mayor shook hands stiffly. He wore a mid-brown three-piece suit, with a watch chain, and you didn’t come across many of those any more. ‘I see.’

He obviously didn’t see at all. You could be close to the church your whole life without being aware of what went on in the crypt. Bernie Dunmore didn’t explain; Merrily felt he was still faintly embarrassed, even in Ludlow, about perpetuating a tradition as medieval as hers.

‘Come on through, Bernard,’ the Mayor said. ‘Let’s sit down in the drawing room and hope to discuss all this in a civilized manner.’

George Lackland’s home was above and behind Lackland Modern Furnishings, midway down Corve Street. The Corve was the more modest of Ludlow’s two rivers, and this ancient street sloped steeply down from the town centre to meet it. The shops here didn’t look like shops at night; most were fabricated inside historic buildings, and the owners hadn’t been allowed to enlarge windows or put up new signs. Much of Corve Street was frozen in various eras, all of them pre-neon.