The work she could stand. But Clarence Clary’s endless sermons, his loud, dramatic voice and his unending pious meanness was degrading. Then, too, the periodic teas and afternoon socials in the homes of wealthy parishioners never ceased to humiliate her. On these trying occasions, she had to sit, cup in hand, ashamed of her clothes, and listen to the petty gossip, the glittering fashion talk, and the self-righteous church talk.
Last Sunday, after the evening service, Elizabeth Clary’s degradation had become complete when, at a meeting of the Elders in the little room behind the choir stalls, the great Reverend Clarence Clary, ever mindful of his duty, had agreed with the stingy elders that the Parish couldn’t afford a regular janitor any longer, and that his wife could clean out the church every week, and he, the rector, would look after the furnace. Beaming with soulful self-sacrifice, Clarence had roared into the little house beside the church and informed her of his noble decision. The money saved, he said, would be added to the missionary fund.
Boredom and frustration had accumulated inside Elizabeth Clary, atom upon vicious atom, and now she was ready to explode. She settled herself in the garden chair and planned her break for freedom. Clarence Clary, zealot, bigoted tyrant, had to die. It was the only way. He would never let her go, never. His pride was too great. Clarence was so wrapped up in ritual and conventional religious patterns he couldn’t see the face of God for the walls of pagan rigamarole he’d built around himself. Early in their marriage, Elizabeth had tried to debate, voice opinions, talk about God intelligently. Clarence had been shocked, outraged and angry. Seizing the Bible, he had thumped it loudly, informing her that all he needed to know was within those covers.
His formula was immensely successful. With Clarence Clary in the pulpit, his parishioners were worry-free and conscience-clear. He never attacked them with guilt-raising ideas or thought-provoking arguments. He preached the same sermons their grandfathers had preached, in the recognized loud voice. Entirely devoid of creative ability, without an idea in his head, Clarence Clary just reworked and rewrote old sermons, heady, wishy-washy things he’d heard in Divinity School or read in some staid religious publication. He said nothing and did nothing, which was exactly what was expected of him. His parishioners were happy, and lip service was the complete service. Only Elizabeth, drab, uninteresting and silent, was unhappy.
Even in her bitterness, frustration and panicky desperation, Elizabeth knew in her heart there was a God. Clarence Clary was the cause of her misery. He didn’t need a wife, just a housekeeper. She had been reduced to just that. Elizabeth Clary knew the only way out of the corner was to attack.
Now, revitalized and quickened to action by her decision, Elizabeth left the chair and started toward the house, a new, deliberate spring to her step. Clarence Clary had to die.
Clarence, his pale face brooding, cloudy in reproof, met her at the door. “You didn’t listen to my sermon.” His lips protruded sullenly. “It’s your duty, you know.”
“I am quite aware of my duties, Clarence.” She walked past him to the kitchen. “All of them.”
He followed her in vindictive haste. “What’s come over you, Elizabeth? Doesn’t my success mean anything to you anymore?”
“Your success?” The words shot out, dry, crackling with bitter humour. “Oh, I am quite proud!” she waved a thin arm. “After all, I am part of your success, aren’t I. Don’t you see that?”
“Then why don’t you listen to my sermons anymore?”
“Because, my dear man,” Elizabeth smiled sweetly, “I know you and I know your sermons. The parishioners always get what they deserve. You don’t need my ears, Clarence. Your sermons speak for themselves.”
Puzzled, but appeased, the Reverend Clarence Clary left the kitchen. The door had hardly closed behind him before Elizabeth and her strangeness was forgotten and he was deep in thought, wondering just what tones he should use to deliver this, his best sermon.
It was nearly dark when Elizabeth let herself into the church through the side door. She paused, listening, then crept past the altar, along by the choir stalls to the little oak door. Beyond that door was the little room Clarence used as his office, study, and clearing room. It was here that all money collected for the church was kept until it reached sufficient proportions to warrant a trip to the bank.
She was about to knock and enter when she heard voices from inside. She leaned closer and listened.
“Wonderful!” Her husband was speaking, his thick, velvety voice gushing with joy. “A real Godsend, Austerberry.” Then his voice dropped into a sad dirge. “Too bad poor old Mrs. MacDonald had to die before we could have enough funds to complete the new wing on the Sunday School. When did the poor soul pass away, Austerberry?”
“Just half an hour ago, Reverend!” Arthur Austerberry’s voice was juicy with importance. Elizabeth could imagine his, thin, wizened face screwed up, thin lips writhing as he churned out the words. “I wanted to fetch you soon as she took the bad stroke, Reverend, but Doc Adams said it was too late. Instead, he gave me the package with your name on it and told me to hustle-over here and give it to you, in person. Seems that was poor Sara MacDonald’s last request.”
“You did right, Arthur,” Clarence Clary said soothingly. “Thank you and bless Sara MacDonald’s soul. May she rest in peace.”
“Amen!” echoed Arthur Austerberry. Then, “Ain’t you going to open the parcel, Reverend?”
“Right now, but I must say, I think I already know what’s inside the package, Arthur.”
“You do, Reverend?” Austerberry was loud in wonder. “What would it be now?”
“Money!” Reverend Clarence Clary sounded like a judge pronouncing sentence. “Ten thousand pounds, Arthur, that’s what’s inside the package. Ten thousand pounds!”
“Blimey!” Arthur Austerberry’s voice crackled through the closed door. “Ten thousand quid!”
“Yes,” Clarence sounded smug. “Doctor Adams was good enough to telephone and tell me you were on your way, Arthur.” The deep voice became stern. “I must say you took your time getting here.”
“I hurried, Reverend!” Austerberry whined. “Fast as me poor old legs would carry me. Ran near all the way, I did.”
“All right, Arthur.” The sound of paper tearing reached Elizabeth’s ears. “You didn’t guess what was in this package? Well I knew, for the last two years, that Sara, bless her, was giving this money to me — I mean to the church. You see, Arthur, she confided in me. This parcel, ten thousand pounds, has been resting under her mattress for two years!”
“Blimey!” Arthur Austerberry gasped.
“Where will you keep it, Reverend?” Austerberry was breathing heavily. “It’s an orful lot of money.”
“Right here.” Clarence Clary was firm. “It belongs here, with me. I’ll get it to the bank in the morning.”
The sound of a chair scraping on the stone floor made Elizabeth move away. Hastily she stole to the side door and let herself out in the moonlit churchyard. Taking a shortcut through the old weedgrown graveyard, she let herself into the rectory and stood staring through the kitchen window, her pale face glowing.
Ten thousand pounds! In cash! In Clarence Clary’s bony hands!
Outside the window, night, velvet sprinkled with diamonds, was serene, peaceful.
Inside Elizabeth Clary, turmoil and tension pounded and throbbed endlessly. Here was her one chance to freedom and a fling at life before she was too worn out and old to enjoy it. The key to her freedom was inside the church, and if she knew Clarence Clary, he was caressing it right now, note by note.