9. The Naked Clergyman

Strange doings at Brumpton nick.

DI Glumpy thought his life might be made easier if he went to what was generally known as a cupboard for unwanted rubbish because his prisoner was seemingly getting upset at the absence of a nice white clerical collar. That cupboard, he thought, might be the one place in the whole of Brumpton where such a thing might be stored because he believed it held just about everything, especially if it was unwanted. It was, he decided after a few minutes, likely to be a fool’s errand because a t first glance there didn’t seem to be anything that was even starched white. He was at a loss to try and understand why the Reverend Barney Pickle attached so much importance to so small a decorative garment, but he did.

After only ten minutes he concluded that there was, of course, nothing like any kind of collar in that cupboard unless you counted a frayed and decades old dog collar, so he snorted to himself and decided he was daft to be pandering to the odd demands of a prisoner who hadn’t baulked at the idea of robbing a bank, but before he could return to the shower room (where the Reverend was hopefully drying himself unattended by anyone who might catch a glimpse of his naked flesh), he stumbled across a strange (to him) and very attractive woman. She was dressed in a manner that looked at odds with the severe rather male interior of the police station because the dress she was wearing was both colourful and even quite short for her apparent age.

“Excuse me. Can I help you?” he asked as politely as he could, and added, “I’m DI Glumpy. Ian Glumpy.”

The smile with which she replied to his self-introduction made him wish that he wasn’t married because it was something special. White teeth, not over-done lipstick, and the humour in it went up to her eyes. Yet she was clearly no young thing out for some fun. She must have been fifty if she was a day old.

“I’m Mrs Dresden,” she said, “though you can call me Emma if you like. Emma Dresden, widow of this parish!”

He paused and searched his mind because he knew that he had heard that name quite recently, but nothing registered It would come to him surely, because if anything he was usually good with names.

“Can I help you, Mrs Dresden?” he asked, choosing not to use her first name on account of not liking to seem as familiar as he felt. “Have you lost something? A favourite cat, maybe?”

“Don’t you be so sllly and presumptuous! I’ve lost an employer, not a cat!” she replied, “and I heard today that you’ve locked him up and I think it’s got to be a terrible mistake.”

“Really?” he asked, “tell me more. For starters, who is this missing employer of yours?”

She looked at him querulously, and managed a half-smile. “The vicar,” she replied, “Of Saint Jude’s. The Reverend Barney Pickle.”

“Oh, him?”he muttered, “more trouble than he’s worth. I was trying to find him a collar. In this cupboard.”

“His church collar? Well, why should he need one from you if he’s got a good half dozen nicely starched proper collars at the parsonage? And why is he here? I’ve heard rumours, silly whispers from the ungodly I’m sure… but they can’t be true because the Reverend Pickle wouldn’t ever do anything doubtful even if he thought it might only be slightly naughty.”

“He’s accused of attempting to rob a bank!” explained the DI, “and threatening the staff with a shot gun!”

“You what? Are you having me on or summat?” Mrs Dresden exclaimed disbelievingly, “the man’s a saint, not s sinner!”

DI Glumpy paused for a moment and rewound his thoughts. What if he’d got this very wrong? What if the slow-witted Constable Dedbeat had misinterpreted what he had actually seen and got the whole thing wrong? What had he said? That the two Scumbag boys had also been in the bank and he had escorted them out in order to keep them out of trouble, which they were prone to attracting. What if it had been those two who had somehow caused an alert? And if that was the case, what if he was at the sharp end of a miscarriage of justice? He remembered the dramatisation of the post office affair and how it had caused a major outcry with all those involved in accusing sub-postmasters of wrong doing being named and shamed for absolutely ages. What would it do for his own reputation if he was found to be behind the sickeningly wrong prosecution of a holy man who would never so much as ride his push-bike without a helmet? And here he was, in this police station, desperate for a collar that proclaimed his holiness.

“Tell me about him,” he asked Mrs Dresden, “tell me everything you know, Emma.” He slipped her forename in to make sure she saw him as a man trying to do the right thing and not a moron taking his own bad mood out of a truly good man.

“What? Right here?” she demanded.

“No, dear lady, you are quite right. Come up to my office. This way.” And he led her up the narrow staircase that led up to his own office.

Where, sitting back in his own special chair and tapping his fingers on the desk with an irritated expression on his face was Bishop Pyke.

Meanwhile, down in the damp shower room the Reverend Barney Pickle had just about finished rubbing himself dry and at the same time the seductive Doctor Blanding was looking at her wristwatch for the hundredth time that minute, or so it seemed.

She had patients that needed her. An asthmatic old man who might be about to splutter his own breath into the vacuum of death at any moment, and a pregnant young woman trying to work out who had done the unthinkable to her. And she had the medicine that would save the old man, or hoped that she had, in her bag, though she might not be able to help the young girl.

Where had the silly Inspector gone to? Why did the rather spoilt-boy vicar really need a clerical collar? Wouldn’t a round necked tee-shirt do just as well as a temporary measure?

All this waiting about was frustrating. And she could hear absolutely nothing from the area where the shower was. What if the man had passed out? Had a heart attack? He was young, true, but even young men can have heart failure.

Had she better not check up on him in the absence of anyone else or the fallout from his death, if that’s what it was, would fall squarely onto her own shoulders.

So she made up her mind and walked boldly into the shower room and gasped at what she saw. The Reverend Barney Pickle was standing stark naked with not even a towel draped over him, and he was jabbering to himself in a voice so quiet it was hard to separate the syllables and make sense of what he was mumbling.

“Father, dear father, I’m so sorry that you see me like this? Please don’t hurt me because I truly cannot help it…” she almost interpreted from the featureless jabbering.

And she opened her mouth but no sounds came forth because the holy man was facing her with his hands clasped in prayer, and he was as naked as the day he’d been born.

© Peter Rogerson 05.04.24