15 THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

The calm before... the storm?

“Now what have you been up to,” asked a twinkling-eyed librarian when Sophia stomped up to the enquiries desk, scowling like she’d never scowled before.

“Today’s not going well, so don’t you start,” snorted Sophie.

“I’ve had the police in here, asking about you,” grinned Constance, “quite a nice young woman, I thought. But very concerned about what you and I were up to last night!”

“What did you say?” asked Sophia, surprised that Constance had been dragged into something that had very little to do with either of them.

“I told them exactly what we did, and all about the brick incident,” replied Constance, “she seemed most concerned about times. Like what time did we leave and what time was the brick thrown… I felt I was under an attractive version of third degree!”

“I went back to the Presbytery this morning, and it was me who discovered the body,” sighed Sophia.

“The body? What body?” asked Constance, her twinkling expression being replaced by one of shocked concern.

“The damned Priest, excuse my language. But when he didn’t answer his door I peered through his window and there he was, lying on the floor and obviously as extinct as the famous dodo!”

“Really and truly?”

“Yes, really and truly. And you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. Because it was me who spotted the body through the window and we who were the last to see him, the big-headed dick of a detective assumed it was me who’d killed him, and gone back next day to make sure I’d done the job properly!”

“How awful!”

“Then it turned out that he had’;t been murdered at all but that his death was due to what they call natural causes, though if there was anything natural about that Priest I’d like to know what it was! I went with the new fellow...”

“What new fellow?”

“His replacement. Apparently the Bishop got wind that there was something very wrong with our Priest and had arranged to have him retired to a cosy monastery somewhere that he couldn’t get up to any mischief. He, that is the new bloke, spotted me walking along and asked me for directions, and I told him I was going there anyway, so he offered me a lift.”

“So you found the body together?”

“We did! And it wasn’t the most pleasant thing for a woman to discover, I can tell you, but the up side is I got quite a few good ideas about a rather unpleasant policeman who will no doubt cause some kind of chaos in my next book! With him and a Priest in it there’s bound to be quite a bit of interest.”

“Ssh! Remember Bernard, the old man who took one of your books out, not knowing the sort of book it was? Well, look who’s coming!”

Sophia looked round and recognised the elderly gentleman who was returning the library book that had been issued to him last time she’d seen him.

“Did you enjoy the book, Bernard?” asked Constance, amused.

He looked at her, then nodded his head. “I’ve never read owt like it!” he said, “folks falling head over heels and then falling out with each other, then meeting again, then quarrelling, then getting hitched. I fair enjoyed it, though I dared say it’s what comes under the banner of chick lit that I’ve read is quite popular these days, especially with the ladies.”

“Oh, it’s certainly that, Bernard,” sighed Constance.

“It fair took me back! Though there’s nowt in it that’s smutty, so I could read it with a calm heart and the forgiveness of my late misses. There’s too much smut about these days for my liking. Love ain’t all smut, is it?” he mumbled thoughtfully.

“Well, if you liked it, I’ve got a treat for you,” grinned Constance.

“What? For me? Are you trying to pull me … or pull my leg?” he asked, semi-seriously.

“I’m being straight with you, Bernard. You see this lady I’m talking to, the one just here?” asked Constance, indication Sophia.

“Aye, and the one you were talking to last time as I was here,” nodded Bernard.

“Well, and this is no word of a lie, this is the woman who wrote that book, and a whole lot of others too, if you’re interested.”

“You are? You did?” gasped Bernard, staring at her, his eyes open wide, “My goodness, you must be clever, with all them words, and you must have lived! You must have had a right good time if what you write’s anything to do with it.”

“I wish it were,” sighed Sophia, “but I’m just a plain woman who lives on her own, and I’ve spent all my life so far not finding a man of my own!”

oo0oo

Jonathan O’Donnelly knocked on the Presbytery door. He might have rung the bell, but he knocked, and he could tell that the sound of that knock was echoing into the house. It filled him with a kind of odd satisfaction. He was in charge, if of nothing else, of that knock!

He wasn’t really surprised when the door was opened, and by his appearance he could tell that the man who stood before him was high up in the ecclesiastic hierarchy.

“Yes?” asked the man.

“I’ve come to report an incident,” said Jonathan, deliberately obscurely. After all, he didn’t know who the ecclesiastic gentleman might be, though he guessed at Bishop.

“You have?” asked the other.

“So who am I talking to? I mean, are you the right person?”

“I’m the Bishop,” came the reply, rather grandly. I am here to attend to matters pertaining to the ministry of the church in Brumpton. Now would you care to explain your business and what incident you think you ought to report?”

“I rather hoped you were a bit more elevated than a Priest,” said Jonathan. His head was still providing him with a dull ache as a residue of last night’s excesses, but he had things to say and when he heard that the Priest who had so offended him was dead he rather hoped that someone else would be at the Presbytery, someone with a bit more authority than a man who proclaimed himself to be a Christian but who clearly wasn’t.

“Then you’re in luck,” came the Bishop’s reply, “how might I help you?”

“I’m the widower of the woman the deceased Priest refused to bury,” he said, briefly, watching the Bishop’s face for any sort of reaction. After all, he’d both written and emailed to the Bishop’s address and hoped that his messages had reached their intended destination.

“Ah, Mr O’Donnelly,” replied the Bishop, “a most unfortunate incident, most unfortunate indeed, and probably the first indicator of Father Tinder’s illness. Do come in and we’ll discuss matters.”

Jonathan followed him into the front room where the body of the dead Priest had been discovered and from where it had been taken to the mortuary. He could see his brick where the Priest must have placed it before he died, or maybe even the police who had supposedly been called, and not far from it, neatly folded, the note that he’d attached to it.

The Bishop smiled warmly at him. “Now, Mr O’Donnelly, let me explain matters as I see them.” he began, “Father Tinder, or Sammy as he is known in some quarters, must have been suffering for some time from a condition that placed an unusual amount of pressure on his brain and thus altered his mental functions, and it was that aberration that killed him last night. He must have suffered greatly in the last minutes of his life before he gave up the ghost, so to speak. I’m sure you can sympathise with that?”

“He may have been ill,” said Jonathan thoughtfully, “he may have not known what he was doing. He may have been blind drunk so far as I know. But I have protested about the events surrounding my dear wife’s funeral and neither you nor any other member of your church has so much as approached me with any kind of explanation...”

“Maybe a little recompense for your additional expenses?” suggested the Bishop, mentally wrestling with his memories of the church funds, “how would a thousand pounds help?”

“A thousand … you think it’s got anything to do with money?” gasped an astounded Jonathan O’Donnelly, “my wife is dead. Gone. Been taken from me in her prime and no amount of money can compensate for that! I teach religion at the local comprehensive, and I can foresee one thing: I can foresee quite plainly how the accent I put on my attitude to not only your church but all churches will have been modified by a Bishop who thinks that a thousand pounds can pay for a woman’s life!”

And he turned round, walked out of the Presbytery, without looking back, scowling, his face like thunder and his own heart thumping.

© Peter Rogerson 21.01.19