Bones and Silence. Reginald Hill

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       CHAPTER THREE

      The Reverend Eustace Horncastle was a precise man. It was through exactitude rather than excellence that he had risen to the minor eminence of minor canon, so when he said to his wife, ‘The woman is pagan,’ she knew the word was not lightly chosen.

      Nevertheless she dared a show of opposition.

      ‘Surely she is merely exuberant, dramatic, full of life,’ she said with the wistful envy of one who knew that whatever she herself had once been full of had seeped away years since.

      ‘Pagan,’ repeated the Canon with an emphasis which in a lesser man might almost have been relish.

      Looking at the object of their discussion who was striding vigorously across the Market Square ahead of them, Dorothy Horncastle could not muster a second wave of disagreement. Eileen Chung’s silver lurex snood was a nod in the direction of religiosity, and there was perhaps something cope-like in the purple striped poncho draped round her shoulders. But devil-detection begins at the feet, and those zodiac-printed moccasins with leather thongs biting into golden calves each separately sufficient to seduce a Chosen People, were a dead giveaway. Here was essence of pagan. If you could have bottled it, the Canon’s wife might have bought some.

      The clerical couple were almost at a canter to keep up with those endless legs, so when Chung stopped suddenly there was a small collision.

      ‘Whoa, Canon,’ said Chung amiably.

      ‘A canon indeed, but little woe,’ said Horncastle to his wife’s amazement. He rarely aimed at wit and when he did was more likely to try a Ciceronian trope than plunge into a Shakespearean pun. A suspicion formed in Dorothy’s mind, to be brushed away like a naughty thought at Communion, that her husband might have invited her presence this morning not simply to represent the views of the laity (his phrase), but because he felt the need of a chaperone!

      There had been one full meeting of the Mysteries committee which had been as long as an uncut Hamlet and not nearly as jolly. The combined verbosity of a city councillor, a union leader, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a mediaeval historian, a journalist and Canon Horncastle, had defeated even Chung’s directorial expertise and she had resolved thereafter to pick them off singly as she had picked them on singly in the first place. The diocese contained many worldlier, merrier clerics who would have given half their tithes to be religious advisers on such a project, but Chung’s homework had told her Horncastle was the man. Heir apparent to the senescent Dean, he was the key figure in the Cathedral Chapter on matters relating to sacred sites and buildings, and the Bishop was said to respect his views highly, which her interpreter assured her was Anglican for being shit-scared of him.

      ‘I thought this might be a good site for one of the pageants,’ said Chung. ‘The sun will be coming round behind the Corn Market at that time of day and it’ll light up the wagon like a spot.’

      ‘If the weather is clement,’ said the Canon.

      ‘I’ll rely on your good offices for that,’ laughed Chung.

      Dorothy Horncastle waited for her husband’s expected rebuke at this meteorological blasphemy but it didn’t come. Instead something horribly like a simper touched his narrow lips. The unbelievable notion rose again that perhaps he really did need protection! Not sexually, for the frost in those loins was surely proof against the most torrid touch, but there were other temptations in this pagan’s armoury. She’d been mildly puzzled when at breakfast this morning Eustace had started reminiscing about his seminary triumph in the chorus line of Samson Agonistes. If Lucifer could fall, why not a minor canon?

      It was time for a dutiful wife to come to the rescue.

      She said, ‘Won’t the market stallholders object to their customers being turned into an audience?’

      Horncastle turned his cold gaze upon her, no simper now deflecting the straight line of those lips.

      ‘Monday is not a market day in normal circumstances, I think you’ll find. When it happens also to be a Bank Holiday, it seems more than ever unlikely that there should be any commercial activity, wouldn’t you say, my dear?’

      The heavy sarcasm, though hardly novel, still had power to bruise. Chung, sensitive to drama, stepped in swiftly.

      ‘Hasn’t he told you that we finalized our timetable at the meeting, Mrs Horncastle? That’s a man for you, thinks we’re all psychic! Well, we’re going for the first week in June, which has the feast of Corpus Christi in it, that’s the traditional time when these Mysteries were performed, and also this year it happens to be the week of the Spring Bank Holiday which means we can use the holiday Monday for our grand opening procession without getting snarled up with all the usual commercial traffic. So, this way everyone’s happy, Church, holiday-makers, shop-keepers, historians and traffic cops!’

      ‘It must be gratifying to make so many people happy,’ said Dorothy Horncastle, smiling wanly.

      She’s really rather pretty, thought Chung. Ten minutes with the Leichner box, an auburn wig to match those eyes, plus a rich red gown with a fret of mourning black lace at the throat, and she’d make a perfectly presentable Olivia. Instead, unmade-up, her fine features skeletally honed by the biting wind, her hair invisible under a shapeless wool hat and her body unguessable under a shapeless tweed coat, she looked like a Village Thespians’ shot at Mother Courage.

      They moved on, entering the narrow skein of mediaeval streets which curled around the cathedral. Chung modified her pace so that she came between the Horncastles and modified her tone also, talking earnestly of her desire to recapture those days when the spiritual and temporal were inextricably intertwined and the Church was the one true centre of civic life. At the same time her eyes were taking in every detail of the winding cobbled ways flanked by close-crowded shops and houses whose timbered gables often threatened to meet overhead. And through her mind’s eye, heavily screened so that not the slightest verbal hint should slip out to give the Canon pause, ran pictures brimming with colour and excitement of the great pageant wagons rumbling over the cobbles, heralded by music and dancers and trailing a long wash of jugglers, tumblers, fire-eaters, fools, flagellants, giants, dwarves, dancing bears, merry monks, cut-price pardoners, knights on horseback, Saracens in chains, nubile Nubians … At about this point in his solo session, her university mediaevalist had demurred but she had silenced him with a cry of, ‘Shit, man! This show’s for your person-in-the-street. Ask yourself, do they want it authentic, or do they want it fun?’ And then had won his cooperation by squeezing him well above the knee and laughing, ‘OK. So maybe we’ll hold the Nubians. That СКАЧАТЬ