Lady Lucy smiled at him. ‘You’ve got one letter left, Francis. Do you think there’s any hope there?’
Powerscourt slit open his last envelope. ‘Encouraging start,’ he said. ‘“The Prime Minister has no doubt of the veracity of the proposition you outline in your letter . . .”’ He skimmed through the next section. ‘Few more sentences along the same lines. Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Powerscourt glowered at the letter, ‘I think we’ve had it. The Prime Minister has gone away for Easter and asked his colleagues to deal with the matter. “I’m afraid I have to report,” says Private Secretary McDonnell, “that there is a lack of unity among the colleagues. The Home Secretary believes it to be a matter for the Church of England. As the Archbishop does not take it seriously, the Home Secretary proposes to ignore it. The government law officers believe it would be impossible to act before a crime has been committed. Even then they are uncertain which particular law or laws would be broken. The foremost authority on ecclesiastical legislation is on a walking tour of the Pyrenees at present and cannot be contacted. The Lord Chancellor believes it is a matter for the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council which cannot be summoned before the week after Easter. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, who has always taken a keen interest in religious questions and in everybody else’s business, is of the opinion that it is for the two Archbishops and the senior bishops to resolve. In short, Lord Powerscourt, you have fallen between the cracks in the shaky edifice of Church and State. May I offer you my commiserations and express the hope that you can find some means of settling the business without further bloodshed. Schomberg McDonnell.”’
Powerscourt folded his two letters very carefully and put them back in their envelopes. He smiled at Lady Lucy.
‘It’s like that line in the Messiah, Francis,’ she said, ‘you’re the voice of one crying in the wilderness.’
‘Don’t think I’d like to be John the Baptist very much, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘my head served up on a platter in front of Salome like a roasted ham. Mind you, I should get some better prayers from the Archbishop. I might have to move from Tuesdays to a different day.’
‘It’s like the poet says, Francis,’ said Johnny, moving towards the cupboard with the drinks, ‘a prophet is not without honour save in his own country.’
Powerscourt looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t think that’s a poet, Johnny. That’s St Matthew’s Gospel, chapter thirteen if I remember right. And the unfortunate Christ had to walk on the water in the next chapter to convince the unbelievers. I don’t think I’m up to that either. But that’s what we need, a miracle. A miracle in Compton. None of the authorities are going to lift a finger. Maybe we should blow up the railway lines after all. We’re on our own. Nobody can stop them now.’
23
All through Friday and Saturday Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald kept a discreet watch on the comings and goings round the Cathedral Close. Sometimes they watched from Anne Herbert’s upper window, regular supplies of tea and home-made cake fortifying them in their vigil. Sometimes one of them would walk round the streets, the cathedral itself standing impassive as it waited for the Resurrection.
On both days the pattern was the same. A quartet of clergy would set off from the Archdeacon’s house shortly after nine o’clock, heading at a sedate pace towards the Bishop’s Palace, the Archdeacon himself accompanied by Father Barberi and the two gentlemen from Rome. Then there would be a gap. Between ten and ten thirty a steady trickle of members of the Chapter and the choir would present themselves at the Bishop’s front door. About half an hour later they would emerge, looking rather happier than when they had gone in. Sometimes Patrick Butler would join Powerscourt and Fitzgerald, taking careful notes of the times of entry and departure of all the participants.
‘What a story,’ the young man said cheerfully to Powerscourt on the Friday afternoon. ‘I think it’s the biggest story I’ve ever come across. Maybe I can make my name with the Saga of Compton, its murders, its conversions, like William Howard Russell did in the Crimea for The Times. Then Anne and I could be rich and move to London!’
Powerscourt smiled at the young editor. ‘Do you know what’s going on with all this religious traffic?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I think I can guess but I’m not sure.’
‘I’ve been reading up on all this stuff, Lord Powerscourt. You have to in my business if you’ve got the time. Very discreetly, of course. I haven’t asked anybody in the Close about it. But I think that all the members of the Chapter who weren’t already Catholics are being received into the faith. Maybe the Archdeacon’s friends are doing them in relays. And they may also be ordaining them as Catholic priests and deacons at the same time. Mass conversion, mass ordination, if you ask me.’
And with that the young man returned to his offices, dreams of fame and glory floating through his brain. Powerscourt was thinking of betrayal, the betrayal by Judas that led to the crucifixion on this day nearly two thousand years before, the betrayal of their religion by all these Anglican priests in the name of a higher calling. He didn’t think it was going to be a very good Friday for Compton.
On the Saturday evening Powerscourt and Lady Lucy and Johnny Fitzgerald assembled at Anne Herbert’s house on the edge of the Close. There were notices all over the town advertising the great bonfire due to take place on the Green late that Saturday night. Anne Herbert reported that her father, normally a phlegmatic and reserved individual, had been astonished at the number of people arriving at his station. The number of extra trains was greater than he had ever seen. Every railway worker for miles around was on duty to ensure safe passage for the visitors.
At seven o’clock a team of workmen began building the bonfire that was to be the centrepiece of the night’s attractions. Powerscourt and Patrick Butler watched, fascinated, as cart after cart and wagon after wagon drew up alongside the site.
‘Christ, Patrick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘it’s going to be enormous.’
‘They say in the town,’ Patrick Butler replied, ‘that it’s going be to be the biggest bonfire Compton has ever seen. The wood was ordered from all over the county weeks ago.’
‘I wonder how many heretics you could burn on it when it’s finished,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I doubt if even Bloody Mary herself could have provided enough bodies for it.’
‘Careful how you speak of the Catholic Queen in these parts at this time, Lord Powerscourt. Tomorrow you might be struck down or popped on to the pyre yourself for such blasphemy.’
Powerscourt was thinking about Arthur Rudd, burnt on the spit in the kitchen of the Vicars Hall. He thought of the monk of Compton, burnt to the west of this Cathedral Close in 1538. He had passed a small memorial to his life and death set into a wall during his perambulations round the Close the day before.
From time to time Patrick Butler would dash off into the town or to inspect the building of the bonfire at first hand.
‘He’s like a puppy, really,’ said Anne Herbert affectionately, ‘he just can’t sit still. He has to be running about all the time. Do you think he’ll calm down later on, Lady Powerscourt?’
Lady Lucy laughed. ‘I’m not sure he will, you know. He wouldn’t be Patrick if he wasn’t like that, would he?’
Patrick Butler reported that another pair of carts were approaching the bonfire, bringing not wood but candles. He also reported that the streets of the city were virtually impassable. Shortly after nine o’clock the workmen began erecting a monstrous scaffold, whose peak was almost as high as the top of the bonfire itself. ‘That’s for the Archdeacon to address the crowd,’ said Patrick. ‘God knows if we’re going to get a sermon. I do hope not.’