A bit eerie. A lot disturbing.
What the hell was this bloke trying to achieve, digging himself in, like a big mole, under the very heart of Bridelow?
'Talk,' Hans said. 'You say there's been talk. What kind of talk?'
Joel walked back to the centre of the room, stood in front of the piano, his hands behind his back, the polished cross flashing from the black of his cassock. Like a cheap medallion, Hans thought from the sour darkness of his pain.
'I'm not a humble man,' Joel said.
Hans, coughing, nearly choked.
'I know this,' Joel said. 'And I pray one day Almighty God will let me come to humility in my own way. But not ...yet.'
His hands whipped round from behind his back. One was an open palm and the other a fist. They came together with a small explosion in the still, fusty air of the Rector's study.
'Not yet.' Joel Beard said softly, turning back to the window. Still, presumably, no sign of the woman in black.
Whichever of them it was, Hans thought, she would do well to depart quickly and discreetly, the way they could when they wanted to.
'It's not the time, you see, for humility.' Joel standing behind Hans's chair now, blocking his light. 'The clergy's been humble and self-effacing for so long that it amounts to downright indolence. It's time, I believe, to remember the other Christ. The one who ejected the traders and the money lenders from the temple. There's worse than that here. Isn't there?'
'Look ...'
Joel spat out, 'It's the Devil's lair!'
'It's ...' Hans tried to get out of his chair, felt suddenly dizzy.
'That's what the talk's about.' Joel's eyes burning in the afternoon gloom. 'Satan walking openly in the street. Satan walking, bold as brass, to the very door of this church, where that filthy whore parades her ... her parts.'
'No.' Hans felt old and ineffectual. 'It's not true.'
'Yes! There's a cult of Satan, making blood sacrifices on the moors, and this is where it's emanating from. God only knows how long it's flourished here.'
Cathy breathed in, hard.
Half an hour ago, Joel had caught her spying. Stood and watched her coming up the steps from the cellar, smiling at her from the vestry doorway. Cathy, red-faced, mumbling, 'Just seeing if there was anything I could do. To, er, to make you a bit more comfortable down there.'
Could have bitten her tongue off. She supposed lots of women would find him awfully attractive, with the tight golden curls, the wide smile - and that physique. Perhaps she really
was gay.
Certainly she hated the man now. How could he say these things?
... that filthy whore parades her parts ...
Our Sheila?
You're insane! She wanted to fling open the study door and scream it at him.
Joel said reasonably, 'We're not asking you to do anything yourself. Obviously, you've had to live with these people for a very long time. Big part of your life. And we all realise you're not well ...'
'And who?' Hans asked wearily, as if he didn't know, 'are we?'
Joel, for once, was silent.
'The Bishop? Our newly appointed archdeacon? Perhaps he fancies you, Joel, have you thought about that?'
Joel Beard turned away in distaste. 'Christ says ...'
'But... but you're not Christ, Joel,' Hans said, horrified at the hollow weakness of his own voice. He slumped back into the chair, into the endless cavern of his pain, his eyes closed. The Rev. Joel Beard laughed agreeably. 'We'll crack this thing together, Rector. You and me and God.'
Hans heard him rubbing his hands. 'Well. Time's getting on. Funeral to conduct. Though I can't think why you left it until so late in the day.'
'Family request,' Hans mumbled, lying. 'Some relatives had ... long way to travel.'
'Hmm. I see. Well, come on, old chap.' Joel's strong Christian hand on his shoulder. 'Soon be over.'
From behind the door, Cathy scurried away, pulling on her coat. He'd caught her once today. He'd never catch her again.
The two of them stood at the bottom end of the churchyard, not far from the lych-gate. There was a monument here on its own, stark and pointed, like an obelisk, one word indented on a dressed-stone plaque.
HORRIDGE
'It was always pretty scary, Shaw said, 'to think that one day I'd be under that too.'
Therese, in her ancient fox-fur coat, walked all round the monument. 'Is it a vault?'
'Something like that. I didn't take too much notice when they stuck my father in there. I'm sure that one of the reasons I was determined to unload the brewery was to avoid being buried here. I mean, I didn't think about it at the time, but it must have been at the back of my mind. To break the family ties with Bridelow, get the hell out of here. For good. I mean ... not have to come to people's funerals who you hardly knew, because you're a Horridge. I reckon the old man would have sold out himself if he'd had half a chance.'
'Where would you like to be buried?'
'Somewhere warm. If it has to be in this country I'd prefer to be cremated.'
'I wouldn't mind.'
'Being cremated?'
'Being buried here,' Therese said. 'I like vaults.' She smiled, her eyes glinted. 'You can get out of them.'
Shaw shuddered, a feeling he was growing to enjoy. She looked very edible today, as ever. However, for the first time, he rather hoped she was not naked under that coat. It was so cold, though, that he didn't really imagine she could be. She'd attached a scarf-thing to it today, with the fox's head on the end. Shaw, who'd ridden to hounds two or three times whilst staying with friends, didn't find this offensive but suspected there were people in Bridelow who would; they appeared to have strong views about killing animals for pleasure.
She said, 'Have you ever seen him, your father?'
He knew her well enough by now to know exactly what she meant by that, but he pretended he didn't. 'Of course I've seen him. He didn't die until I was twenty-five. Come on, let's get a drink before the show starts.'
'It's your family vault, after all,' Therese said. 'You've got rights of access. Why don't we pop in and visit him one ...'
'For God's sake, Tess ...' Not his bloody father, the sanctimonious old sod.
'I've told you before,' she said coldly. 'I don't like to be called Tess.' Then she turned her head and looked up into his face, and the fox's glass eyes were looking at him too. 'We could ask him, you see.'