‘Look!’ exclaimed Markham, ‘What’s the matter with the dog?’
The animal seemed to be following its master at a measured distance, it dodged and hung back and swerved almost as if leaving room for something else; moreover it kept its nose close to the ground, tracing the line of some invisible path. Forward. Sideways. Back a little. And always sniffing, sniffing. The rain dripping relentlessly off its coat made no impression on the creature; intent, it trotted on never once raising its head.
‘Oh, there must be something running along under the ground. I feel sure I’ve seen that kind of behaviour before—yes, I’m certain I have. Probably a mole.’
‘In the middle of winter?’
But they were not country folk, either of them; and lacking any precise information they speedily lost interest in Mr Bernays and his dog. Preparations for the Christmas feast occupied the next couple of days, they were expecting a group of young companions from London. It is doubtful whether Paul would have given the matter another thought save for one exasperating fact: it kept on raining. By the third day the lack of his raincoat became a serious inconvenience; taking an umbrella and thinking rather uncharitable things about his uncle he set off across the fields to visit the rectory of St Wilbrod’s.
He had never been there before: the matter of the inheritance produced coldness on the one side and embarrassment on the other; it was impossible not to feel that he had deprived his relation (possibly unjustly) of a home. How fortunate that the Reverend Alaric stepped forward to provide Uncle Nicholas with a roof over his head. He must have known Uncle Nicholas pretty well—and even played a part in the long-forgotten quarrel between that gentleman and his father. Paul considered the matter as he walked; what had taken place, what could have persuaded a solid conventional pater familias to disinherit his son? Life’s a rum business, thought Paul; with which solemn platitude he looked up and saw the rectory before him.
It was a great rambling building of quite remarkable ugliness. Remarkable, too, for it stood alone amongst ploughed fields, no other house appeared to be anywhere near and more oddly still, no church. He blinked. The rectory crouched like some grey animal against the wide curve of the sky, there were a couple of wind-torn elms beside it, a line of fencing badly in need of repair. There was no church.
‘But where is St Wilbrod’s . . . ?’
He had been made welcome by the rector, his uncle had it seemed gone out.
‘St Wilbrod’s? A commonplace story, my dear sir. There used to be a thriving village here in the last century, oh yes, oh dear me yes, a sizeable community. By some unlucky chance—failed crops, disease, bad husbandry, I cannot precisely identify the cause—the people moved away. What was the village of Barscombe has moved quite five miles to the east. A shift in the population which has, I fear, done nothing to enlarge my parish.’
‘Has the church gone too?’
‘Good heavens, no.’ Alaric rose with a cold smile, and drew the young man towards the window. He had very soft white fingers which stuck to Paul’s arm like so many enlarged slugs. ‘Some things are not easily destroyed, I assure you. There is my church.’
It lay behind the house, invisible from the main path. It astonished by reason of its shape, for it was tiny, a tiny Norman building. A squat tower with a little spirelet or ‘Sussex cap’; surely incredible that such a miniature affair should have warranted this great barn of a rectory. Paul said as much. His host nodded, drawing hairy eyebrows together, dark eyes gazed at the boy.
‘It has been a matter of some concern to the Church authorities. The ever-present question of finance! We live in difficult times, my son, singularly difficult times. Perhaps you would care to examine St Wilbrod’s? It has great historical though little artistic merit.’
He led the way across a path made slippery by decayed leaves; the debris of autumn lay around them, there had been no attempt to clear the ground and an unpleasant musty small contaminated the air. The rain had stopped leaving a pervading dampness. As they went, Paul felt constrained to explain, to excuse himself—though he had done no wrong and merely chanced to benefit from a family quarrel.
‘I trust my uncle keeps in good health, sir?’
‘Tolerably.’ Again the wintry smile.
‘I am very conscious he has been unfairly treated . . .’
‘Life is not fair, Mr Bernays. Fascinating. Complex. But not fair.’
‘Does he hold my good fortune against me?’
‘Oh come, Mr Bernays! You have the money. You really must not expect to be popular as well.’
‘Perhaps if I made him a small allowance, in recompense?’
‘I think not,’ said the Reverend Alaric evenly; and motioned him inside the church.
It was bare to the point of emptiness; a simple altar, two Early English lancets in the chancel, a stained glass window of no merit whatsoever. Paul sat down. He was rehearsing a suitable comment when the priest murmured:
‘You must excuse me. I think I hear your uncle on the drive, he may not have a latch key.’ The next instant he had gone, fading noiselessly into the shadows. His guest remained seated, lost in a conflicting whirl of emotion; he did not wish to harm anybody, anybody in the world, and surely he could not be blamed for inheriting . . . He closed his eyes and composed a brief prayer. Dear Lord bless this house and me and Uncle Nicholas.
He stiffened. There seemed to be a murmur, the dry patter of innumerable lips. Consciously he knew that he sat alone in a country church; yet he felt most powerfully that behind him opened a vast nave; a huge assembly of people were seated just out of sight behind his back. The very air opened up, he must be in the centre of a great cathedral . . .
Paul jerked round.
Bare walls, almost within touching distance. A few empty pews, stained and scratched with age. Dusty altar hangings. Needless to say, nobody was there. His bewilderment still lay strong upon him when the Reverend Alaric slipped from the gloom and, bending over him, whispered:
‘Your uncle has returned and is most eager to see you. Come, follow.’
The second encounter with Mr Nicholas Bernays proved even more tedious than the first. He stammered his apologies, how monstrously careless to have forgotten the raincoat, and in this weather too! He seemed incapable of looking anybody in the face, his balding head twisted from side to side and when by chance Paul caught his eye the man blinked as if stung. By contrast, the Reverend Alaric Halsey appeared totally at his ease; he talked learnedly of St Wilbrod’s, its history and its architecture; he spoke of the Saxons and the influence Christianity had had on them.
‘And vice versa, of course! You do know that Easter derives from the Saxon word Eostre, a festival celebrating the goddess of Spring? Our somewhat confusing habit of fixing Easter by the full moon must surely be pagan in origin; it is also linked to the Jewish Passover. As for Christmas—why, it seems tolerably certain that whenever Our Saviour was born, it was not in the middle of winter! You may remember that a decree went forth at the time of His birth that all the world should be taxed? In the ancient world taxes were levelled at harvest time, therefore we can immediately discount December the twenty-fifth. But that date is the winter solstice, the Mithraic birthday of the Unconquered Sun. It would seem that the early Fathers of the Church found it paid them to be reasonably accommodating in the matter of dates. We have here a combination of Mithraism, Judaism, and who knows what pagan nature worship!’ The Reverend Alaric smiled, he had a compelling manner and some degree of charm; after a while he proposed to show their visitor the Rectory, a tour which Paul had no desire to make and found himself quite incapable of refusing.