“Would you say that this action was unusual on the part of someone of his standing?”
“I fear that Dr Corbishley from my observation was a man under considerable mental strain due to the conflict between his desire to find his friend and his desire for monetary gain.”
The psychological implications of the case were taxing the sergeant’s understanding. “I see,” he said slowly. “Have you any idea of the cause of the accident? I believe your staff were there before us?”
“They reported that the car was so badly damaged that they could not detect the cause. They were also searching for him on the property and in the bay for most of the night after the break-in. As it was noted that the car was still parked near Pataratara shortly before dawn, it’s possible that the unfortunate man started driving back just after dawn and was half asleep.”
“So he might have been inattentive about his belt. Not that it would have made any difference, except in finding the body.”
The handkerchief went again to the eyes. “Whatever his faults, Sergeant, it is a terrible way to die.”
“Do you want us to check your property?”
“There is no need. We have already done so, and there is nothing missing.”
The sergeant completed his report. Sir Charles Hawthorne was held in such regard locally that he did not look for or interview any further witnesses. He noted the missing man’s two actual break-ins and a third contemplated break-in to the sanctuary. He did not think there would be any prosecution. When the body was found, there would probably be a rahui, and he could then close the file.
Sir Charles sat solitary on the terrace looking out over the bay enjoying a gin and tonic. It was a perfect January afternoon. The sunlight bedecked the blue waters with hosts of dancing jewels. The Pacific rollers having lost their strength lapped lazily on the beach at the head of the bay where the golden sand was streaked with the scarlet of the lately fallen pohutukawa blooms. The bush, alive with cicada, rose from the beach in a riot of rata. The terns wheeled and called in a cloudless sky.
He came here to find peace. But for some reason peace eluded him. In the law courts he reigned supreme: by his oratory he carried all the jurors with him, by his cross-questioning he intimidated and bedazzled the witnesses and by his cherubic smile and by his handkerchief and carefully controlled tear and dimple he charmed and beguiled. In the grand parties in his Epsom house and garden he towered above his guests and moved gracefully among them. He spoke to everyone because he knew them all intimately – in many cases he knew far more than they could ever have suspected. At society dinners his great laugh boomed around the room as evidence of his bonhomie. His munificence was legendary. Some even saw him as “the father of Auckland”, another Sir John Logan Campbell.
Yet strangely enough he had very few close friends and he had never married. Was this it because he did not wish to share his deepest thoughts? Or was it because he was used to acting a part? Leading roles at King’s and at Oxford had won for him a reputation of being able to submerge himself completely in the person he was playing. If he had not become a Q.C., he could have been an actor with the reputation of a John Gielgud or a Ralph Richardson.
The skill was fortunate in one way. For who could bear the burden that he bore, the memories that came increasingly to dominate his life?
In Africa it took a long time to kill a man with a machete. They had to cut the hamstrings first to prevent them running away. They talked of the blood running down the dirt street in little rivulets, of the hundreds of bodies floating in the river.
He thought of the sick old man with a deeply lined, hollow face, sitting hunched at a table with his arthritic fingers painfully and ponderously labouring on an ancient typewriter in a room bursting with documents, letters and newspapers, while outside on the former model farm the gorse grew again and the sheds rotted among rank weeds.
There came to him the words which he had spoken as Hamlet:
“I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon nap, Mr Chairman.”
The broad American voice came from a tall man who had appeared on the terrace like an apparition. He was big, raw-boned and a little ungainly, and had deep blue eyes under a wide lined forehead and a mop of sandy hair. In his hand he held a book.
“Not at all, dear friend; I see you have your Bible.”
CHAPTER 23
“He’s just completely out of touch with the modern world.”
The Bishop of Auckland, who was of the progressive school, was just waiting for the vicar of St Peter’s-on-the-Hill to retire. He considered that the appointment as Archdeacon by the ageing previous bishop would have been made in one of his most absent-minded moments. Harry Mountjoy had not shown the slightest interest in the programmes on inclusive language which were just beginning to be promoted by the Bishop. He continued to use liturgies which still referred to God as “He”, refused to have Groups for Living instead of Evensong, and his views on current moral issues had a predictable inflexibility.
Harry Mountjoy himself had no ambition to be a popular vicar. He had but two aims. One was to make sure the services were properly and reverently celebrated. The other was to get to know his parishioners as well as he possibly could. Because of this latter aim it was acknowledged by his small but faithful congregation that he had at least one good point. He was an indefatigable visitor.
In fact for the vicar no other activity occupied more time than visiting. As he did not attend the many seminars, conferences or training sessions arranged by the Bishop and the Diocese, parishioners were likely to see him, any hour of the day or evening, quite without notice.
“I was just passing your way, and I thought I’d call in.”
If there were no answer at the front door, he would go round to the back. If there were no one in the house, he would wander down into the garden where the man of the house was cutting the hedge or building a playhouse or a sandpit. Quite often he would lend a hand with the job before everyone decided it was time for a drink. If his parishioners were away at work during the day, he would call in at the office or the shop where his white collar would cause either embarrassment or scarcely concealed mirth. In the evening he would call in sometimes when the family were sitting down to a meal, in which case he was happy to form one of the family and crack a joke with the younger members.
New parishioners were initially disconcerted by his sudden appearances. They felt they would have liked to get out the good tea set and be better dressed. However, regular St Peter’s parishioners accepted their vicar’s visiting habits.
All except one. This was the vicar’s warden, Dr Randall Richardson.
The vicar called around immediately to see Eleanor as soon as she rang early on Thursday morning to tell him about the search being called off. He tried to think of something that would give comfort. “Perhaps we could have a little service…”
“I don’t want any kind of service,” she broke in with spirit. “Stan would be horrified.”
Harry was a little taken aback. “Is there anything else?”
“I’ve been thinking about that young geologist.”
“I’m sorry his story upset you. I am afraid young people today are a little tactless.”