Susan Howatch

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COPYRIGHT

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1987

Copyright © Leaftree Ltd 1987

Extracts from The Bishoprick Papers, Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson, More Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson and Spiritual Counsels and Letters of Baron Friedrich von Hugel Printed by kind permission of SPCK.

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780006496892

Ebook edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007396399

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PRAISE

From the reviews:

‘Susan Howatch may well be the Anthony Trollope of the 20th century. Howatch is more than just a novelist of ideas … She is a skilled storyteller who makes the reader wonder, and care about her people’

Andrew Greeley, Washington Post

‘Rich in human interest, sex, scandal, moral crises and a good deal of humour, it is a book to keep you hooked throughout’

Sunday Times

‘Howatch writes thrillers of the heart and mind … everything in a Howatch novel cuts close to the bone and is of vital concern’

New Woman

‘Susan Howatch … is writing for anyone who can recognise that mysterious gift of the true storyteller’

Daily Telegraph

‘One of the most original novelists writing today’

Cosmopolitan

DEDICATION

FOR BARBARA,

in memory of our conversations

about the two Herberts.

CONTENTS

COVER PAGE

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

PRAISE

DEDICATION

PART ONE THE MYSTERY

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

PART TWO THE MYSTERY BEYOND THE MYSTERY

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

PART THREE THE CALL

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

KEEP READING

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BY SUSAN HOWATCH

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

PART ONE THE MYSTERY

‘The deeper we get into reality, the more numerous will be the questions we cannot answer.’

Spiritual Counsels and Letters of Baron Friedrich von Hügel ed. DOUGLAS V. STEERE

ONE

‘A bishop, I remind myself, is not quite as other men.’

HERBERT HENSLEY HENSON

Bishop of Durham 1920–1939

The Bishoprick Papers

I

My ordeal began one summer afternoon when I received a telephone call from the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was a hot day, and beyond the window the quadrangle of Laud’s shimmered in the hazy light. Term had ended; the resulting peace provided an atmosphere conducive to work, and when the telephone rang it was with reluctance that I reached for the receiver.

A voice announced itself as Lambeth Palace and proclaimed that His Grace wished to speak to Dr Ashworth on a matter of extreme urgency. Apparently the Archbishop was still infecting his chaplains with his love of melodrama.

‘My dear Charles!’ Dr Lang’s voice, always sonorous, now achieved a pitch of theatrical splendour. He was a member of that generation which regards the telephone as at worst a demonic intruder and at best a thespian challenge, and when I inquired diplomatically about his health I was treated to a dramatic discourse on the more tedious aspects of senectitude. The Archbishop, on that first day of July in 1937, was in his seventy-third year and as fit as an ecclesiastical grandee has a right to expect, but in common with all men he hated the manifestations of old age.

‘… however enough of my tiresome little ailments,’ he concluded as I added the finishing touches to the mitre I had sketched on my memo-pad. ‘Charles, I’m preaching at Ely next Sunday, and because I’m most anxious that we should meet I’ve arranged to spend the night in Cambridge at the house of my old friend the Master of Laud’s. I shall come to your rooms after Evensong, but let me stress that I wish my visit to be entirely private. I have a commission which I wish to entrust to you, and the commission,’ said the Archbishop, milking the situation of every ounce of drama by allowing his voice to sink to a whisper, ‘is very delicate indeed.’

I wondered if he imagined he could arrive at my rooms without being recognized. Archbishops hardly find it easy to travel incognito, and an archbishop who had recently played a leading part in the abdication of one king and the coronation of another was hardly the most anonymous of clerics.

I said politely, ‘Of course I’d be glad to help you in any way I can, Your Grace.’

‘Then I’ll see you on Sunday evening. Thank you, Charles,’ said Dr Lang, and after giving me a brisk blessing he terminated the call. I was left staring at the mitre I had sketched, but gradually I became aware that my gaze had shifted to the last words I had written before the interruption.

‘Modalism appealed to the Church’s desire for monotheism, but in the second half of the fourth century it was propounded that the modalist God metamorphosed himself to meet –’

The impact of Modalism on the doctrine of the Trinity seemed a long way from the machinations of Dr Lang.

I found I had lost interest in my new book.

My ordeal had begun.

II

‘My commission,’ said the Archbishop with a reverence calculated to underline the importance of the subject, ‘concerns the Bishop of Starbridge. Have you met him?’

‘Only briefly. He preached in Cambridge Cathedral during Advent last year.’

We had achieved the private meeting in my rooms, and I had offered the Archbishop a cup of his favourite tea; one of my London friends, visiting Cambridge the previous day, had brought the tea directly from Fortnum’s. Dr Lang, formally attired in his archiepiscopal clothes, was now sipping from one of my best china cups as he sat in my most comfortable armchair while I, wearing my cassock beneath my doctoral gown, was busy repressing the urge for a whisky. My cigarettes had been hidden. I had even left the windows wide open all day to banish any hint of smoke.

Lang took another sip of tea. He was a man whose features cast themselves without effort into an autocratic expression, and as I glanced at him I was reminded of the story which had circulated the Church of England after he had displayed his portrait by Orpen to a group of bishops. Lang had mused: ‘I feel I must object when the critics say the painting makes me look pompous, proud and prelatical!’ Whereupon Dr Henson, the caustic Bishop of Durham, had inquired: ‘And may I ask to which of these epithets Your Grace takes exception?’ The Archbishop was not without his enemies in the Church, and as I remembered Henson of Durham my thoughts turned to Jardine of Starbridge who, so Lang now informed me, was the subject of the mysterious commission.

‘Before I explain further, Charles, answer me this: what did you Cambridge theologians think of Jardine’s speech in the House of Lords ten days ago?’

That was an easy question to answer. During the debate on Mr A. P. Herbert’s Marriage Bill, which advocated extending the grounds for divorce, Dr Jardine had attacked the Archbishop in a speech which had tossed a fireball into the tinderbox of the Church of England.

‘We were all horrified, Your Grace.’

‘Of course he’s a brilliant speaker,’ said Lang, careful to go through the motions of exercising Christian charity by giving credit where credit was due. ‘Technically the speech was a masterpiece.’

‘But a deplorable masterpiece.’

Lang was satisfied. He must have been confident of my support, but it was over ten years since I had been his chaplain and like all prudent statesmen he no doubt felt it unwise to take loyalty too readily for granted. ‘Jardine’s attack was quite inexcusable,’ he said, sufficiently reassured to indulge in the luxury of indignation. ‘After all, I was in the most unenviable position. I couldn’t condone any relaxation of the divorce law; that would have been morally repugnant to me. On the other hand if I had openly opposed all change there would have been much damaging criticism of the Church. Caught between the Scylla of my moral inclinations and the Charybdis of my political duty,’ declared the Archbishop, unable to resist a grandiloquent flourish, ‘I had no choice but to adopt a position of neutrality.’

‘I do see the difficulty, Your Grace.’

‘Of course you do! So do all reasonable churchmen! Yet the Bishop of Starbridge has the insufferable insolence not only to accuse me of “sitting on the fence” – what a vulgar phrase! – but to advocate that multiple grounds for divorce are compatible with Christian teaching! No doubt one shouldn’t expect too much of someone who’s clearly very far from being a gentleman, but Jardine has behaved with gross disloyalty to me personally and with gross indifference to the welfare of the Church.’

The snobbery was unattractive. Lang might long since have acquired the manner of an English aristocrat, but he came from the Scottish middle classes and no doubt he himself had once been regarded as an ‘arriviste’. Perhaps he thought this gave him a license to be virulent on the subject of class but I thought the virulence underlined not Jardine’s social origins but his own.

Meanwhile he had discarded all grandiloquence in order to deliver himself of the bluntest of perorations. ‘In my opinion,’ he said, ‘Jardine’s no longer merely an embarrassment. He’s become a dangerous liability, and I’ve decided that the time has come when I must take action to guard against a disaster.’

I wondered if malice had combined with old age to produce irrationality. ‘I agree he’s controversial, Your Grace, but –’

‘Controversial! My dear Charles, what you and the general public have seen so far is just the tip of the iceberg – you should hear what goes on at our bishops’ meetings! Jardine’s views on marriage, divorce and – heaven help us – contraception have been notorious for some time in episcopal circles, and my greatest fear now is that if he continues to parade his questionable views on family life, some unscrupulous newshound from Fleet Street will eventually put Jardine’s own domestic situation under the microscope.’

‘You’re surely not implying –’

‘No, no.’ Lang’s voice was suddenly very smooth. ‘No, of course I’m not implying any fatal error, but Jardine’s domestic situation is unusual and could well be exploited by a press-baron with an axe to grind.’ He paused before adding, ‘I have enemies in Fleet Street, Charles. Since the Abdication there are powerful people who would like nothing better than to see me humiliated and the Church put to shame.’

The speech was florid but for the first time I felt he was not motivated solely by malice. His words reflected an undeniable political reality.

I heard myself say, ‘And where do I come in, Your Grace?’

‘I want you to go down to Starbridge,’ said the Archbishop without hesitation, ‘and make sure that Jardine hasn’t committed some potentially disastrous indiscretion – because if he has, I want all evidence of it destroyed.’

III

Lang was talking in calculated euphemisms; he was anxious not to blacken the Bishop’s reputation too deeply in the presence of a junior member of the Church’s hierarchy, but at the same time he wished to signal to me that where Jardine was concerned almost any nightmare was feasible. Jardine was not suspected of a ‘fatal error’; that meant adultery, a moral failure which would render a bishop, or indeed any clergyman, unfit for office. On the other hand Lang was raising the possibility that Jardine had committed a ‘potentially disastrous indiscretion’, a phrase which could mean anything from an unwise comment on the Virgin Birth to holding hands with a twenty-year-old blonde.

‘How much do you know about him?’ Lang added before I could speculate further.

‘Just the outlines of his career. I know nothing about his private life.’

‘He’s married to an exceedingly feather-brained little lady who must now, I suppose, be in her early fifties. Jardine himself is fifty-eight. Both of them look younger than their years.’ Lang made this good fortune sound like a breach of taste, and I sensed that his envy of Jardine’s youthfulness was mingling with his dislike.

‘Any children?’ I said, pouring him some more tea.

‘None living.’ He took a sip from his replenished cup before adding, Ten years ago soon after Jardine became Dean of Radbury, a young woman called Miss Lyle Christie was engaged by him to be Mrs Jardine’s companion. Poor feather-brained little Mrs Jardine couldn’t cope with her new responsibilities as the Dean’s wife, and all was the most inappropriate confusion.’

‘And did Miss Lyle Christie bring order out of chaos?’

‘Miss Christie. We’re not dealing here with a double-barrelled name – the misguided parents gave her the name Lyle instead of a decent Christian name such as Jane or Mary. Yes,’ said Lang, setting aside his teacup, ‘Miss Christie’s been keeping her employers’ household in admirable order ever since her arrival. However although this innocent little ménage à trois would normally be unremarkable, there are three aspects of the situation which – after ten years – can and do cause unfortunate comment. The first is that Miss Christie is a good-looking woman; the second is that she shows no inclination to marry, and the third is that Jardine himself has what might be charitably described as a healthy interest in the opposite sex.’ Lang, whose own good looks had ensured a steady stream of feminine admirers throughout his long bachelor’s life, gazed out of the window at this point in order to appear non-committal. As a Christian he was obliged to approve of a healthy sexual interest which led to marriage, but I knew he found a more pervasive carnal preoccupation with women distasteful.

‘In other words,’ I said, easing him around the awkward subject of Jardine’s attitude to the ladies, ‘you’re afraid that if the press start delving into Jardine’s private life they may make some embarrassing deductions about Miss Christie. But with all due respect, Your Grace, why should this worry you? Even the gutter press aren’t above the laws of libel, and they’d never print salacious allegations without written evidence to back them up.’

‘That’s exactly why I’m so worried.’ Lang shed all affectation at last to reveal the canny Scot who still lurked behind his English façade. ‘Jardine keeps a journal. Supposing some newshound bribes the servants and gets his hands on it?’

‘But surely this is a journal of spiritual progress, not an outpouring of girlish chatter?’

‘Spiritual progress can encompass confession.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Let me make my position quite clear. I doubt that any blatantly indiscreet written evidence exists. What I’m much more concerned about is the possibility of an innocent document being quoted out of context and distorted. You know how unscrupulous the gutter press can be.’

In the pause which followed I found I was again sharing his view of an unpalatable but undeniable reality for I could see that Jardine’s private life, no matter how innocent, might well prove to be the Church’s Achilles heel in its current uneasy relationship with Fleet Street. A new king might have been crowned but the memory of the previous king still aroused much sympathy, and Lang’s speech criticizing Edward VIII for abandoning his duty in order to marry a divorced woman had been widely resented for its priggishness. In these circumstances the last thing Lang needed, as he strove to regain the ground he had lost, was a scandal about a sexually alert bishop who lived in a questionable ménage à trois.

‘Well, Charles? Are you going to help me?’

The ringmaster was cracking his whip, but in fact no whip was needed. I was loyal to my Church and despite a considerable ambivalence I was loyal to my Archbishop. ‘Of course I’ll help you. Your Grace,’ I said without hesitation, and the die was cast.

IV

‘How do I start?’ I said, surveying my new role of archiepiscopal spy and at once confronting the depths of my inexperience.

Lang was immediately soothing. ‘Once you’re safely established at the Bishop’s palace I’m sure it won’t take you long to decide whether I do in fact have cause for anxiety.’

‘But how on earth do I establish myself at the palace?’

‘That’s simple. I’ll telephone Jardine and ask him to put you up for a couple of nights. He’s not going to refuse me, particularly when I tell him you wish to visit the Cathedral library in order to do some research for your new book. Have you ever been to the Cathedral library at Starbridge? The chief glory, as you probably know, is that early manuscript of St Anselm’s Prayers and Meditations.’

‘But my new book’s about the influence of Modalism on fourth-century Christology – it’s got nothing to do with St Anselm at all!’

Lang was unperturbed. ‘Then you’d better be writing an article for a learned journal – a reappraisal of St Anselm’s ontological argument, perhaps –’

‘And I suppose that during a discussion of the ontological argument I casually ask Jardine if I can sift his journal for pearls of wisdom, heavily disguised as impure thoughts on the subject of his wife’s companion!’

Lang gave me one of his thinnest smiles. Knowing that my levity had encountered disapproval I said at once, ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I honestly don’t see how I’m to proceed. If you could issue me with some elementary marching orders –’

This appeal to his authority smoothed the ruffled feathers. ‘Ask Jardine about his journal. It’s no secret that he keeps one, and as it’s unusual to find a clergyman continuing that sort of spiritual exercise into middle age I think you’d be justified in exhibiting curiosity on the subject. I want to know if he uses it as a confessional. Then I also suggest you talk to Miss Christie in an attempt to find out if Jardine writes to her when he’s away from home. To be frank, Charles, I’m even more worried about the possibility of indiscreet letters than I am about a journal which is probably kept under lock and key. Men of Jardine’s age are capable of almost limitless folly where young women are concerned, and even though I do doubt the existence of any blatant indiscretion there’s always the chance that I could be wrong.’

‘Surely Miss Christie would burn an indiscreet letter?’

‘Not necessarily. Not if she were in love with him – and that’s why I want you to take a hard look at this ménage to gauge its potential inflammability.’ Lang, who had written romantic novels in his youth, began to exercise a baroque imagination. ‘For example,’ he said, ‘it’s not impossible that Jardine’s wholly innocent but the woman’s in the grip of a grand passion. Jardine may long to dismiss her yet be terrified of doing so in case she causes trouble.’

The plot was dramatic but not, unfortunately, implausible. The attentions of passionate spinsters were an occupational hazard for all members of the clergy, and after allowing a pause to signify that I was giving his theory serious consideration I said abruptly, ‘Supposing I succeed in finding something compromising. What do I do?’

‘Report to me. Then I’ll see Jardine and order him to take action himself. He’d make a much more thorough job of censoring his papers than you ever could.’

I was relieved to hear that my activities were not to include sabotage, but nevertheless I still felt a certain amount of shady behaviour was being sanctioned and I decided that the shadiness should be more precisely defined. I said lightly, ‘If the journal’s under lock and key, Your Grace, I trust you don’t require me to pick the lock? Or am I expected to behave like a Jesuit: all things to be permitted for the good of the Church!’

‘This is the Church of England, Charles, not the Church of Rome. Good heavens, of course I’m not suggesting you behave in any manner unbecoming to a gentleman!’ exclaimed Lang with an indignation which only narrowly failed to ring true, and I knew then he had been hoping I would not press him to define the boundaries of the commission too closely. Naturally he was obliged to repudiate any suggestion that he might be sanctioning shady behaviour. ‘All I’m suggesting,’ he said with a very passable attempt at innocence, ‘is that you “test the water”, as it were, before I dive in. My problem at the moment is that my suspicions are so entirely unsubstantiated that I’m quite unable to confront Jardine with them, but if you too find yourself suspicious after sampling the atmosphere at the palace, I shall feel I can approach Jardine without the fear that I’m making some colossal mistake.’

This statement was credible enough, but I decided the time had come to probe how far he was confiding in me. The more he insisted that he believed Jardine to be innocent of any blatant indiscretion the more tempted I was to suspect the Bishop was giving him the worst kind of clerical nightmares. ‘Your Grace, is there any possibility at all that Jardine could be in very deep water?’

Lang achieved a patient expression as if I were a wayward child who had asked a foolish question. ‘My dear Charles, we’re all sinners and the possibility of error must always exist, even for a bishop, but in this case the likelihood of deep water’s exceedingly remote. Despite all our differences I’m convinced Jardine’s devout; if he’d committed a fundamental error he’d resign.’

This statement too was credible. There might have been loose-living bishops in the past but nowadays no bishop was ever accused of anything worse than senility. However Jardine had not always been a bishop. ‘Has there been any scandal in his past, a scandal which was successfully hushed up?’

‘No. He would hardly have received regular preferment if that had been the case, Charles.’

‘Yet you mentioned this “healthy interest” in the opposite sex –’

‘Occasionally at a dinner party he makes it a little too obvious that he finds a woman attractive, but in truth I find that reassuring. If anything were seriously amiss I’m sure he’d be at pains to conceal it.’

This struck me as a shrewd judgement, and in the knowledge that I was once more dealing with the canny Scot who inhabited the bottom layer of his personality I decided to risk prolonging my cross-examination. ‘What about the feather-brained wife?’ I said. ‘Do we know for a fact that he’s discontented with her?’

‘No. There’s a persistent rumour that the marriage has its difficulties but he always speaks of her loyally enough, and the gossip may merely have arisen because they seem an ill-assorted couple. Don’t jump to conclusions about that marriage, Charles. Very clever men often marry very stupid women, and just because the Jardines seem intellectually unsuited you shouldn’t automatically assume they’re unhappy.’

After this wise warning that I should avoid approaching my commission with preconceived ideas I felt there was only one question left to ask. ‘When do I leave for Starbridge?’

‘As soon as Jardine’s prepared to receive you as his guest,’ said Lang, well satisfied with my commitment to his cause, and finally allowed the warmth to permeate his thin dry politician’s smile.

V

I thought he would leave then but he stayed. For a time we talked of College matters; he wanted to know whether the undergraduates were still susceptible to the evangelical Christianity of Frank Buchman’s ‘groupists’ but I said I thought that influence was on the wane.

‘The tragedy of such movements,’ said the Archbishop who had sanctioned the Buchmanites in 1933 and had probably lived to regret it, ‘is that their good intentions are so vulnerable to abuse. Troubled young men should seek to purge their souls in private confession before a priest, not in the so-called “sharing” of painful experiences with a group who may be spiritually no wiser than they are.’ So subtle was his manipulation of the conversation that it was not until he asked his next question that I perceived the drift of his thoughts. ‘Do you hear many confessions, Charles?’

‘I never seek them. I always stress that the Church of England says only that one may make confession, never that one must. But of course if an undergraduate comes to me, I hear him.’

‘And you yourself? I was wondering,’ said Lang, finally revealing the core of his curiosity, ‘if you might wish to take advantage of this rare private meeting by raising any problem which you feel would be eased by a confidential discussion.’

I allowed only the briefest silence to elapse before I replied, but I knew my silence had been not only noted but reserved as a subject for future speculation. ‘How very thoughtful of you, Your Grace,’ I said, ‘but I’m happy to say that the only serious problem I have at present is to decide what to put in my new book.’

‘A problem which I’m sure your intellect will be more than capable of resolving in due course! But may I ask who your spiritual director is nowadays?’

‘I still go to the Abbot of the Fordite monks at Grantchester.’

‘Ah yes, Father Reid. I wish I had the time to call on him while I’m in Cambridge, but alas! One is always so monstrously busy.’ Lang made a theatrical gesture of despair, glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. My audience was drawing to an end.

I asked for his blessing, and when he gave it to me I was aware of his gifts as a churchman; I remembered how his care and concern had sustained me during the difficult years both before and after my ordination; I recalled how his generosity of spirit, glamorously displayed, had sparked my understanding that Christianity could be not a pallid priggish way of life but a glittering realization of one’s finest possibilities. People can be led to Christianity by infinitely diverse routes, and there was no denying that I had been led by Lang’s worldly success to the creed which rated worldly success unimportant. Beyond the glittering image lay the stark absolute truth. It was a juxtaposition which had fascinated me ever since I had decided to be a clergyman, but as I now looked without effort past Lang’s worldly glamour to all the flaws of his powerful personality, I was conscious of amazement that he should have had such an influence on my life. How had this vain, pompous, arid old bachelor ever inspired me to a discipleship which emphasized the humility and simplicity of Christ? The inspiration struck me as little short of miraculous, but then guilt assailed me because although I owed Lang so much I could no longer view him through those rose-tinted spectacles which I had worn with such unquestioning ease in the past.

He departed. The ensuing solitude came as a relief, and retiring at once to my bedroom I stripped off both gown and cassock before pausing to light a cigarette. At once I felt more relaxed, and as soon as I was dressed with the minimum of formality, I returned to my sitting-room, mixed myself a substantial whisky and soda and began to contemplate my mission to Starbridge.

VI

The more I considered the situation the less enamoured of it I became. It would involve me in deception; although it could be argued by any student of moral philosophy that the welfare of the Church justified a little espionage by the Archbishop’s henchman, I was averse to involving myself in one of those situations where the end was held to justify the means. When I had cited Jesuitical casuistry earlier, Lang had all but quoted Shakespeare’s line: ‘This is the English, not the Turkish court,’ but nevertheless I did wonder, as I recalled our conversation, what game Lang was really playing.

Jardine had humiliated him during that debate in the House of Lords ten days ago. ‘What are the ordinary people of England to think,’ the Bishop had demanded in fury, ‘when on one of the great moral issues of the day the Archbishop of Canterbury says with a conspicuous lack of courage that he can vote neither for this bill nor against it? Is this leadership? Is this the great ecclesiastical pearl of wisdom which so many people have been eagerly awaiting? Is this the ultimate fate of the Church of England – to be led into the wilderness of moral confusion by a septuagenarian Scot who has apparently lost touch with those whom he purports to serve?’

I thought Lang would want to get rid of Jardine after that performance, and the only way Lang could rid himself of a turbulent bishop without a scandal was to find evidence of a disabling impropriety so that a resignation could be extorted in private. In other words, I suspected that I was being used not merely to safeguard the Church but to promote a secret war between two of the country’s leading churchmen.

This was a most unedifying thought. As I followed my Sunday evening custom of making myself a cheese sandwich in the little pantry attached to my rooms, I wondered if I could extricate myself from Lang’s scheme but I could see no way out. I had committed myself. I could hardly admit now that I was suffering debilitating doubts. Lang would be most displeased, and incurring my Archbishop’s displeasure was a prospect on which I had no wish to dwell. I decided my best hope of resolving the dilemma lay in proving Jardine’s private life was as pure as driven snow with the result that the Archbishop’s Machiavellian plans would collapse in an unconsummated heap, but the next moment I was asking myself how likely it was that Jardine was an episcopal saint. Even if one ruled out the possibility of a fatal error there was still room for a variety of smuts on the driven snow; the thought of flirtatious behaviour at dinner parties was not encouraging.

I finished my second whisky, ate my sandwich and brewed myself some coffee. Then I decided to embark on some preliminary research by talking to two people who almost certainly knew more about Jardine than I did.

My first telephone call was to a London friend who worked for The Church Gazette. We had been up at Cambridge together as undergraduates, and later when I had been Lang’s chaplain and Jack had begun his career as an ecclesiastical journalist it had suited us both to maintain our friendship.

‘I confess I’m ringing you out of sheer vulgar curiosity,’ I said after the conventional enquiries had been exchanged. ‘I’m about to stay at the episcopal palace at Starbridge – what can you tell me about its current tenant?’

‘Ah, the vampire who feeds on the blood of pompous archbishops! Brush up your theories on the Virgin Birth, Charles, take a gun and shoot straight from the hip – after dinner at Starbridge when the lovely ladies have withdrawn the conversation will be guaranteed to put you through your theological paces.’

‘Are you deliberately trying to frighten me?’

‘Oh, don’t despair of survival! He likes theologians – they give him a good run for his money. But why are you offering yourself to Jardine for shooting practice?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder. Tell me more about these lovely ladies I shall meet at the dinner table.’

‘The gossips say no man receives an invitation to dine unless he has an attractive wife, but I dare say that’s an exaggeration.’

‘What’s Jardine’s own wife like?’

‘She’s a wonderful, fluffy little thing with a heart of gold and a stunning selection of tea gowns. Everyone adores her. Her favourite topic of conversation’s the weather.’

‘That must make a welcome change from the Virgin Birth. And isn’t there a good-looking companion in the household? What do I talk about with her?’

‘Don’t get excited, Charles – curb your natural inclination to indulge in impure thoughts! Miss Christie’s the original ice-maiden. Starbridge is littered with the bones of those who have died of unrequited love for that particular lady.’

‘Well, I wasn’t seriously expecting to find a nymphomaniac lodged at the episcopal palace –’

‘No, Jardine knows when to play safe. Lovely ladies, preferably titled and always chaperoned by their boring old husbands, are more in his line than nymphomaniacs and ice-maidens. No scandal, of course. He just likes to look and chat.’

‘No doubt he enjoys the chance to talk of subjects other than the weather.’

‘Ah, so you’ve heard the rumour that the Jardines’ marriage has died of boredom, but don’t you believe it, old chap! Mrs Jardine’s still pretty as a picture and I shouldn’t think Jardine gives a damn about her intellect once the lights are out in the episcopal bedchamber.’

‘Jack, are you still working for The Church Gazette? You’re sounding exactly like a hack from The News of the World!’

‘Nonsense! There’s nothing scandalous about a bishop who sleeps with his wife. The News of the World would only bat an eyelid if he started sleeping with someone else, but as far as I know –’

‘Yes, how much of this prurient rigmarole of yours is hearsay and how much is first-hand information?’

‘Well, naturally I’m in league with the chaplain but since he always presents his hero as a cross between St Paul and Sir Galahad he’s hardly a source of spicy gossip. However I do have first-hand experience of the Jardines. Last March I was invited down to Starbridge to report on a Church committee meeting which was discussing special Coronation services in the southern province – Jardine, as chairman, was playing host. Of course he’s rumoured to eat journalists on toast for breakfast but in fact he was very civil to me, and Mrs Jardine was a poppet. She gave me some ginger biscuits and said I reminded her of her nephew.’

‘And the luscious Miss Christie?’

‘She gave me a cool look and told me where to find the lavatory. But I think you’ll like both the Jardines, Charles, and I see no reason why you shouldn’t survive your visit with ease. Just gird your loins when the sinful vintage port starts circulating, and take a deep breath if the Bishop begins to hold forth on the Virgin Birth …’

VII

I next telephoned a man whom I had met at theological college and who was now the incumbent of a rural parish in the Starbridge diocese. Although our paths had diverged since our ordination we had maintained our friendship by letter and I felt I could express without insincerity the hope that we might meet during my visit. However a meeting was to be impossible; he and his family were about to take their first holiday in five years. Keeping quiet about my spring visit to France I said I was sure Bournemouth would be delightful, but I was still repressing a shudder at the thought of the cheap boarding house which awaited him when he asked why I was visiting Starbridge.

To reveal that the Bishop had invited me to stay at the instigation of Dr Lang would have seemed, in the circumstances, an unforgivable piece of bragging so I merely mentioned my desire to visit the Cathedral library and said I would be calling at the palace as a courtesy. What’s your opinion of Jardine, Philip?’ I added. ‘Do you find him a good bishop?’

‘I find him an embarrassment, quite frankly. That speech in the Lords! I felt sorry for Lang. A bishop’s got no business to attack his archbishop in public.’

‘But what’s he like when he’s doing his job instead of chasing every headline in Fleet Street?’

‘Why ask me? I usually only see him once a year for confirmations.’

‘But don’t confirmations give a good indication of a bishop’s conscientiousness? There’s a world of difference between a bishop who can barely disguise the fact that he’s treading a very well-worn path and a bishop who makes the candidates feel the occasion’s as special for him as it is for them.’

‘True,’ said Philip reluctantly. ‘Well, I have to admit Jardine can’t be faulted there – although when he first became bishop five years ago he did seem distrait. However, I put that down to lack of experience. The next year he was quite different, very much in command before the candidates, very relaxed behind the scenes, but all the same … I’ve heard he can be an absolute terror.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he’s supposed to be at his worst when a clergyman wants to get married. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about clergymen being ruined by unsuitable wives, and if he doesn’t think a clerical fiancée’s going to make the grade as a vicar’s wife he has no hesitation in saying so. It makes one wonder about his own marriage – rumour has it that Mrs Jardine’s delightful but incompetent and that the real power at the palace is her companion.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about Miss Christie. Jack Ryder paints her as a femme fatale.’

‘What rubbish! She wouldn’t have lasted ten years in a bishop’s household unless she was propriety personified!’

‘But she’s attractive, isn’t she? Wouldn’t it have been safer to engage a companion who looked like the back end of a tram?’

‘Jardine’s the kind of man who would baulk at confronting the back end of a tram every morning at the breakfast table.’

‘Philip,’ I said amused, ‘I’m receiving the clear impression that you don’t like him, but is this solely because he attacks his archbishop in public and demolishes clerical fiancées? Neither of these unfortunate habits can have affected you personally.’

‘No, thank God Mary and I tied the knot while Jardine was still Dean of Radbury! I don’t dislike him, Charles – he’s always been charming both to Mary and to me – but I do disapprove of him. I think he’s far too worldly, and he’s got a very flashy nouveau riche streak which should have been ironed out before he was let loose on an income of several thousand a year. I’ll never forget the garden party he gave for the diocesan clergy two years ago – talk about extravagance! I was shocked. I kept thinking what all the catering must have cost and calculating how many poor people in my parish could have benefited from the money.’

‘My dear Philip! Aren’t you being a little churlish about your generous bishop?’

‘Perhaps. And perhaps you live in an ivory tower, Charles, and don’t know what’s really going on in the world. How long has it been since you visited a house where the husband’s been unemployed since the Slump, the wife’s half-dead with TB and the children have rickets as well as lice?’

There was a silence.

At last Philip said rapidly: ‘I’m sorry –’

I interrupted him. ‘I’m very conscious, believe me,’ I said, ‘that I lack experience at the parish level.’

‘Nevertheless I shouldn’t have implied –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ There was another pause before I added: ‘Well, I’m sorry I shan’t be seeing you, Philip. Perhaps next time –’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Next time.’

But we both knew ‘next time’ was a long way away.

VIII

On the following morning the Archbishop telephoned to inform me that I should present myself at the palace early on Wednesday evening; Jardine had professed delight at the prospect of offering me hospitality, a profession which Lang cynically suspected derived from a guilty wish to make amends for the bellicose speech in the House of Lords. ‘… and I’m sure he’ll give you a warm welcome, Charles,’ was the Archbishop’s dry conclusion.

‘Did he remember meeting me last year?’

‘Of course! When I mentioned your name he said: “Ah yes, the young canon from Cambridge who thinks the world began not with Adam and Eve but with the Council of Nicaea!”’

So Jardine had at least glanced at the book which had made my name in theological circles. He himself had published no work of historical scholarship, but that never deterred him from writing trenchant reviews of other people’s efforts and I had been surprised as well as relieved when my own book had escaped his characteristic literary butchery. How the escape had been achieved I was uncertain, but possibly he found any discussion of Arianism boring and had decided to rest his pen.

These thoughts about scholarship reminded me that I had not yet decided why I should need to consult the library of Starbridge Cathedral, and aware how important it was that my need should be convincing I spent some time pondering on the problem before I devised a stratagem which would enable me to tell the truth. I had long been contemplating the revision of my lecture notes on medieval thought. I now decided that my undergraduates were going to learn more about St Anselm, and as a conscientious lecturer I naturally felt obliged to cast a glance over Starbridge’s early manuscript of The Prayers and Meditations.

I suffered a further moment of uneasiness as I contemplated the duplicity inherent in this decision, but then I pulled myself together with the thought that no harm could come to me even if Jardine were steeped in apostasy. On the contrary, Lang was bound to be grateful for my help with the result that I would inevitably emerge from the affair with my future prospects in the Church enhanced.

Casting my last doubt aside I began to prepare for my journey.

IX

So I came at last to Starbridge, radiant ravishing Starbridge, immortalized by famous artists, photographed by innumerable visitors and lauded by guidebooks as the most beautiful city west of the Avon. I could remember clearly from my previous visit as an undergraduate the medieval streets, the flower-filled parks and the languid river which curved in an are around the mound on which the Cathedral stood. The Cathedral itself dominated not only the city but the valley. Wider than Winchester, longer than Canterbury, set in a walled precinct which was even larger than the close at Salisbury, Starbridge Cathedral was renowned for embodying in pale stone and vivid glass the most glittering of medieval visions.

The city itself was small, and being encircled on three sides by the river it still gave an impression of compactness despite the recent housing development to the cast. It lay snugly in the middle of its green valley like a jewel displayed on velvet, and the smooth slopes of the surrounding hills added to the impression that the landscape had been designed in order to show the city to its best advantage.

The diocese was primarily rural but it included the port of Starmouth with its sprawling slums so there was a dark underside to the tranquillity which formed the stranger’s immediate impression of the area. Nonetheless I thought Jardine was probably well pleased with his latest preferment. The diocese was rich; his income was well to the fore among episcopal salaries. London was easily accessible by train, a fact which meant he could keep in close touch with the centres of power, both secular and ecclesiastical, and the bishopric conferred an immediate right to a seat in the House of Lords, a privilege not accompanying the majority of bishoprics where the incumbents had to wait their turn for an ecclesiastical seat to fall vacant. Starbridge was not Canterbury and it was not York but it was plush, privileged and pleasing to the eye, and no doubt there were many among Jardine’s episcopal brethren who envied him.

I had decided to travel to Starbridge in my car, not the sports car which I inevitably found myself driving whenever I dreamt of motors, but the respectable little Baby Austin which was cheap to run and easy to manipulate out of tight corners in the busy streets of Cambridge. Whenever I hankered for an MG I reminded myself how fortunate I was to have even an Austin. Most clergymen could not afford a car, and in fact motors were still regarded by the older bishops as an evil which lured parsons on jaunts away from their parishes.

The road began to curve among hills as I approached Starbridge, and soon I glimpsed the Cathedral in the distance. The road curved again, the spire vanished, but at the next twist it was once more visible, slim and ethereal, a symbol of man’s inchoate yearning to reach upwards to the infinite. As the road continued to wind I felt as if it were mirroring life itself, granting glimpses of transcendence only to rush on before the transcendence could be fully experienced, but finally the last fold in the road lay behind me and I could see the entire city shimmering in the valley below.

This view over a settlement was very old. The Romans had built their city Starovinium on the ruined encampment of the British tribe the Starobrigantes, and the ancient name still survived in city landmarks and on official documents. The Bishop, who was theoretically married to his diocese, was entitled to use the surname Staro in his correspondence, and I had proof of this tradition in my pocket. Jardine himself had sent a letter to welcome me to Starbridge.

‘My dear Dr Ashworth,’ he had written in a bold striking hand, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury has informed me that you wish to pursue your studies in the Cathedral library, and may I now confirm that you would be most welcome to stay at the palace from the evening of July the seventh until the morning of the tenth. His Grace thought you would probably arrive by motor, but should you prefer to travel by train, please send a wire to my chaplain, Gerald Harvey, who will arrange for my chauffeur to meet you at the station. His Grace also thought that you would not wish to stay more than three nights, but if you should decide to prolong your visit I hope you will assist me at the early service of Holy Communion in the Cathedral on Sunday. In looking forward to the renewal of our acquaintance, Dr Ashworth, I send my best wishes for a safe journey, and assure you that I remain yours very sincerely, ADAM ALEXANDER STARO.’

The auguries for my visit could hardly have been more favourable. Descending from the hills I drove across the floor of the valley and finally entered the city.

X

The crooked medieval streets were confusing but the way to the Cathedral was signposted and I soon found myself at the gateway of the Close. Slowing the car to a crawl I asked the constable on duty to direct me to the palace; my memory of the Close was hazy.

I drove on, and the next moment the Cathedral was towering above me in an overpowering display of architectural virtuosity. There had been no later additions, no ill-judged alterations. Built during the short span of forty years the Cathedral was uniform, untouched, unspoilt, a monument to faith, genius and the glory of English Perpendicular.

I drove down the North Walk with the vast sward of the churchyard on my right. On my left the ancient houses, dissimilar in style yet harmonious in their individual beauty, provided the perfect foil to the Cathedral’s splendour, and as I turned south into the East Walk I experienced that sense of time continuing, an awareness which is never more insistent than in a place where a long span of the past is visually present.

At the end of the East Walk the palace gates stood open and within seconds I was confronting the palace itself, a Victorian ‘improvement’ on the original Tudor building which had been destroyed by fire in the last century. Dr Jardine’s home was a mock-Gothic travesty built in the same pale stone as the Cathedral, but it was not unpleasing. Smooth lawns and ancient beech trees framed the house, and above the porch the arms of Starbridge were carved in the stone in a brave attempt to unite medieval custom with a wayward Victorian illusion.

Parking my car in a secluded corner of the forecourt I extracted my bag and paused to listen. The birds were singing; the leaves of the beech trees were a brilliant green against the cloudless sky; the town beyond the walls of the Close might have been a hundred miles away. Again I sensed time continuing. I was standing in twentieth-century England yet at the same time I felt a mere pace away from a past which contained the seeds of an alluring future, and suddenly I forgot the harsh realities of the present, the horror of Hitler, the agony of the Spanish Civil War, the despair of those whose lives had been ruined by the Slump. I was conscious only of my privileged good fortune as I allowed myself to be seduced by the subtle glamour of Starbridge, and running up the steps to the front door I rang the bell with all the eagerness of an actor who could barely wait for his cue to walk onstage.

The door was opened by a butler who looked like a character from a Trollope novel – a worldly version of Mr Harding, perhaps – and I stepped into a vast dark hall. Beyond some mock-Gothic furniture of varying degrees of ugliness a handsome staircase rose to the gallery. The walls were adorned with dim portraits of nineteenth-century gentlemen in clerical dress.

‘If you’d care to come this way, sir …’ The butler had already taken the bag from my hand when a woman emerged from the far end of the hall. As the butler paused at once I paused beside him, and the woman moved swiftly, smoothly, silently towards us through the shadows.

‘Dr Ashworth?’ She held out a slim hand. ‘Welcome to Starbridge. I’m Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine’s companion.’

I took her hand in mine and knew without a second’s hesitation that I wanted her.

TWO

‘I pleasantly assured him that in my belief, based on the experience of a long ministry, it would be roughly true to say of the married clergy of the Church of England that probably fifty per cent were ruined by their wives and fifty per cent were saved.’

Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.

I

No one had described Miss Christie to me, and Jack’s reference to an ice-maiden had evoked an image of a tall blonde. However Miss Christie was small, no more than five foot two, with slender ankles, a slim waist, reddish hair and black-lashed dark eyes. She also possessed high cheekbones, a delicately moulded but very firm chin and a subtle mouth which somehow reinforced this hint of a determined character while conveying an impression of sensuality. Her make-up was discreet; her grey skirt and white blouse were restrained in taste, as befitted a lady’s companion in a clerical household; I thought her alluring beyond description, and my first coherent thought was: how could he resist her? Yet I knew that this was a wild question which failed to reflect the reality of the situation. Unless he was an apostate Jardine had no choice but to resist, yet such was Miss Christie’s allure that for the first time I seriously considered the possibility of apostasy.

She showed me to my room. I managed to maintain a polite conversation as we ascended the stairs, but all the time I was thinking about Jardine in the light of what I now knew of Miss Christie. As I calmed down I dismissed the melodramatic notion of apostasy but I now began to wonder if Jardine’s inclination to form harmless friendships with good-looking women was his way of deflecting an inclination which was not harmless at all.

I roused myself from these speculations as Miss Christie led the way into a large bright room sombrely adorned with more massive Victorian furniture. Beyond the window the garden stretched downhill to the river, and on the far side of the sparkling water cows were grazing among the buttercups in the meadows. Starbridge lay east of this outmost curve of the river, and to the west the farmlands stretched across the valley to the hills.

‘What a beautiful view!’ I said as the butler deposited my bag and departed. Miss Christie had moved to the vase on top of the chest of drawers and was restoring the symmetry of the flower arrangement by adjusting an errant rose.

‘The bathroom is at the end of the corridor,’ she said, evidently finding my comment on the view too mundane to merit even a murmur of agreement. ‘Dinner is at eight but we assemble for cocktails in the drawing-room at any time after quarter-past seven. The water’s hot every evening from six o’clock onwards. I trust you have everything you require, Dr Ashworth, but if by any chance something’s been forgotten do please ring the bell by your bedside.’

I thanked her. She gave a brief formal smile and the next moment I was alone.

There was a bible placed on the bedside table to remind visitors that despite the grandeur of their surroundings they were in a clerical household, and in an effort to distract my mind from the temptation to meander down carnal byways I opened the pages in search of an edifying quotation. However this random dip produced only Ezekiel’s diatribe against the harlot. Still thinking of Miss Christie I ploughed forward into the New Testament and eventually found myself lingering on the text: ‘For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.’

That seemed like a good omen for an espionage agent. I closed the bible. Then after visiting the regal lavatory, which remained as a sumptuous memorial to Victorian plumbing, I unpacked my bag and sat down with my prayer book to read the evening office.

II

When I closed my prayer book the time was half-past six. I stripped, washed at the basin to erase all trace of my journey, and decided to shave. I did not usually shave twice a day but I wanted to appear thoroughly well groomed, not only to impress Miss Christie but to impress the Bishop. I sensed Jardine might have strong views on the obligation of a clergyman to present a neat appearance to the world; he himself had been very smart, very dapper, when I had encountered him in Cambridge eight months ago.

The evening was warm and the prospect of encasing myself in my formal clerical clothes was not appealing but naturally I had no choice other than to martyr myself in the name of convention. I spent some time in front of the glass as I coaxed my hair to lie flat. I have curly hair which I keep short, but it has wayward tendencies which water can rarely subdue for long. However I never use hair oil. It makes me look like a bounder, and I was always unaccountably nervous in case my appearance reflected the wrong image in the mirror.

Yet that evening I found my reflection reassuring. Here was no bounder, no shady character from a modern ‘shocker’, but a clergyman who was thirty-seven and looked younger. Playing squash and tennis had curbed an inclination to put on weight as I left my twenties behind, and although I was a little too fond of good food and more than a little too fond of good wine, my appearance proved I had these weaknesses well in control. I saw no heaviness around the jaw, no pouches beneath the eyes, no giveaway lines around the mouth. I looked like the man I wanted to be and the image in the long glass seemed impregnable as I surveyed it in the golden evening light.

Glancing at my watch I saw the time had come for me to make my appearance downstairs. The curtain was about to rise on the stage at Starbridge, and leaving my room I headed for the wings to await my cue.

III

I had no trouble finding the drawing-room. As I descended the stairs I could hear the murmur of voices drifting towards me through the open door on the far side of the hall. A woman gave an attractive laugh, a man protested: ‘No, I’m serious! I’ve always thought Peter Pan was a most sinister story!’ and I deduced that the conversation had arisen in connection with the recent death of Sir James Barrie.

‘But Henry, you can’t possibly describe an innocent fantasy as sinister!’

‘Why not? Captain Hook reminds me of Mussolini.’

‘Everyone reminds you of Mussolini. Oh darling, I do wish you’d forget Abyssinia and look on the bright side for a change – after all, think how well we’re doing! We’ve survived the War, the Slump and the Abdication – and now that dear Mr Chamberlain’s poised to turn the country into a vast version of Birmingham with that divinely businesslike efficiency of his, I’m sure we’re all set for a rosy future!’

‘This sounds like another of Barrie’s fantasies. No wonder you enjoy Peter Pan, my dear.’

I walked into the room. The first person I saw was Miss Christie. She was standing by the French windows and looking formidably aloof. In contrast the other three occupants of the room were exuding that easy camaraderie which arises when people have enjoyed an unaffected friendship for a long time. By the fireplace stood an elderly man with a frank mild face and that air of self-confidence which can only be acquired from a lifetime spent in privileged surroundings. He was drinking a cocktail which appeared to be a dry martini. Perched on the arm of a sofa a handsome woman was also toying with a martini glass, and beyond her a plump, pretty, grey-haired little woman in a lavish lavender evening gown was selecting a water biscuit from a silver dish nearby.

Everyone turned to look at me. Miss Christie at once moved forward to make the introductions, but she was a long way away and the plump, pretty little woman forestalled her.

‘Dr Ashworth!’ she exclaimed, beaming at me. ‘How nice to see you! I hope your motor journey wasn’t too difficult but it must have helped that the weather was fine. Isn’t the weather beautiful? All the sunshine’s so good for the garden.’

I did not need to be told that I was being addressed by my hostess. ‘How do you do, Mrs Jardine,’ I said, smiling as I took her hand in mine. ‘It’s very kind of you to have me to stay.’

‘Not at all, it’s spendid for Alex to have someone clever to talk to! Now let me introduce you to everyone. Miss Christie you’ve met, of course, and here –’ she turned to the couple who had been debating Peter Pan ‘– are Lord and Lady Starmouth who have always been so kind to us ever since Alex was Vicar of St Mary’s, Mayfair. They have such a delightful house in Curzon Street and Alex stays there when he has to be up in town for the debates in the House of Lords – oh, heavens, perhaps I shouldn’t mention the Lords’ debates, especially as you’re a friend of the Archbishop’s – Lyle, am I dropping some frightful brick?’

‘Dr Ashworth,’ said Miss Christie, ‘is probably only thinking how pleasant it must be for the Bishop to stay with friends whenever he’s up in town.’

But in fact I was thinking that the good-looking Countess of Starmouth might well be one of Jardine’s ‘lovely ladies’, faithfully chaperoned by one of the gentlemen whom Jack had described as ‘boring old husbands’. However this unflattering description hardly did justice to the Earl of Starmouth who looked alert enough to be entertaining even though he might have been on the wrong side of seventy. Perhaps Lady Starmouth kept him young; I estimated that she was at least twenty years his junior.

‘My wife collects clerics,’ said Lord Starmouth to me as we shook hands. ‘She’ll collect you too if you’re not careful.’

‘I adore clergymen,’ agreed his wife with that aristocratic frankness which never fails to make the more reticent members of the middle classes cringe with embarrassment. ‘It’s the collar, of course. It makes a man seem so deliciously forbidden.’

‘What can I offer you to drink, Dr Ashworth?’ said Miss Christie, middle-class propriety well to the fore.

‘A dry sherry, please.’ No ambitious clergyman drank cocktails at episcopal dinner parties.

A young man in clerical garb bustled into the room, muttered, ‘Bother! No Bishop,’ and bustled out again.

‘Poor Gerald!’ said Mrs Jardine. ‘I really wonder sometimes whether we made the right decision when we installed a telephone. It’s so terribly hard for the chaplain when people ring up at awkward moments … Oh, here’s Willy! Come and meet my brother, Dr Ashworth.’

I was introduced to a Colonel Cobden-Smith, a hale gentleman in his sixties with a pink face, white hair and a cherubic expression. He was accompanied by his wife, a thin energetic woman who reminded me of a greyhound, and by a very large St Bernard dog who padded majestically through the room to the terrace on his way to water the flowerbeds.

‘I know nothing about theology,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith to me as soon as we had been introduced. ‘I always say to Alex that I know nothing about theology and I don’t want to know anything either. As far as I’m concerned God’s God, the Church is the Church, the Bible’s the Bible and I can’t understand what all the arguments are about.’

‘Funny business, religion,’ mused her husband, uttering this dubious remark with such an ingenuous admiration that no clergyman could have found him offensive, and began to talk about a Buddhist monk he had met in India.

The young chaplain bustled back into the room. ‘So sorry, Mrs Jardine, but you know what the Archdeacon’s like when he rings up in a panic …’

I was introduced to Gerald Harvey. He was a short bespectacled man in his early twenties who seemed to be perpetually out of breath, and I wondered whether the Bishop of Starbridge regularly reduced his chaplain to this state of wild-eyed anxiety.

‘… and I’ve heard about your book, of course,’ he was saying, ‘but I confess I haven’t read it because all those ancient arguments about the Trinity simply make me want to tear off my dog-collar and enlist in the Foreign Legion – oh my goodness, there’s the doorbell and the Bishop’s still not down! I’d better go and see if anything’s wrong.’

He dashed away again. I was surprised that Jardine had selected such a plain, unsophisticated and clearly unintellectual chaplain, but before I could speculate on the existence of sterling virtues which would have qualified Harvey for his post, the butler announced the arrival of Mr and Mrs Frank Jennings. Jennings, I soon discovered, had just been appointed to teach dogmatics at the Theological College in the Close. He himself was unremarkable in his appearance but his wife was a pretty young blonde, and remembering Jack’s gossip I wondered how far her looks had qualified the couple for an invitation to the episcopal dinner table.

‘I found your book most stimulating,’ Jennings said to me agreeably, but before he could continue his wife exclaimed: ‘Good gracious, Frank, look at that gigantic dog!’

‘Alex had a dog once,’ said little Mrs Jardine as the St Bernard made a stately return to the room. ‘He called it Rhetoric. But we were living in London at the time and poor little Rhet was run over by such a vulgar Rolls-Royce – really, I’ve never felt the same about motor cars since … Do you have a dog, Dr Ashworth?’

‘No, Mrs Jardine.’

‘Do you have a wife, Dr Ashworth?’ called Lady Starmouth, giving me a friendly look with her fine dark eyes.

I was acutely aware of Miss Christie’s hand pausing in the act of pouring out glasses of sherry for the newcomers.

‘I’m a widower, Lady Starmouth,’ I said.

‘All clergymen ought to be married,’ said the authoritative Mrs Cobden-Smith, offering a handful of water biscuits to the St Bernard. ‘They say the Roman Catholics have frightful trouble with their celibate priests.’

‘They say the Church of England has frightful trouble with its married clergy,’ said a strong harsh well-remembered voice from the doorway, and as we all turned to face him the Bishop of Starbridge made a grand entrance into his drawing-room.

IV

Dr Jardine was a man of medium height, slim and well proportioned, with dark greying hair and brown eyes so light that they were almost amber. The eyes were set deep and wide apart; by far his most arresting feature, they were capable of assuming a hypnotic lambent glaze in the pulpit, a physiological trick which Jardine used sparingly but effectively to underline his considerable gifts as a preacher. His quick abrupt walk revealed his energy and hinted at his powerful restless intellect. Unlike most bishops he wore his gaiters with élan, as if conscious that he had the figure to triumph over the absurdity of the archaic episcopal costume, and when he entered the room he was radiating the electric self-confidence which his enemies decried as bumptious and his admirers defended as debonair.

‘Don’t be alarmed, everyone!’ he said, smiling after the opening remark which had won our attention. ‘I’m not about to secede to Rome, but I can never resist the urge to counter my sister-in-law’s scandalously dogmatic assertions … Good evening, Dr Ashworth, I’m delighted to see you. Good evening, Jennings – Mrs Jennings – now, Mrs Jennings, there’s no need to be shy. I may be a fire-breathing bishop but I’m extremely tame in the company of pretty ladies – isn’t that so, Lady Starmouth?’

‘Tame as a tiger!’ said the Countess amused.

‘We used to have some good tiger-shoots in India,’ reflected Colonel Cobden-Smith. ‘I remember –’

‘I saw such an adorable tiger at the zoo once,’ said Mrs Jardine, ‘but I’m sure it would have been so much happier back in the wild.’

‘Nonsense!’ said the Bishop robustly, accepting a glass of sherry from Miss Christie. ‘If the unfortunate animal had been in its natural habitat your brother would have come along and murdered it. Did you arrive in time for Evensong, Dr Ashworth?’

‘I’m afraid I was late getting here. The traffic around London –’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t award black marks for missing services. Now, Mrs Jennings, sit down and tell me all about yourself – have you managed to find a house yet?’

As his wife was purloined by the Bishop, Jennings began to tell me about his arduous quest for a property in the suburbs. Occasionally I offered a word of sympathy but for the most part I sipped my sherry in silence, eavesdropped on the other conversations and kept a surreptitious watch on Miss Christie.

Lady Starmouth suddenly glided into my field of vision. ‘I think you must be the youngest canon I’ve ever met, Dr Ashworth! Does this mean the Church is at last beginning to believe it’s not a crime to be under forty?’

‘The canonry came with the job, Lady Starmouth. When Archbishop Laud founded Laud’s College and Cambridge Cathedral in the seventeenth century he stipulated that the College should appoint a doctor of divinity to teach theology and act as one of the Cathedral’s residentiary canons.’ I suddenly realized that Miss Christie was looking straight at me, but when our glances met she turned away. I continued to watch as she picked up the sherry decanter again but Colonel Cobden-Smith cornered her before she could embark on the task of refilling glasses.

‘… and I hear you were Dr Lang’s chaplain once,’ Lady Starmouth was saying. ‘How did you meet him?’

Reluctantly I averted my gaze from Miss Christie. ‘He gave away the prizes during my last year at school.’

‘You were head boy of your school, of course,’ said Jardine from the depths of the sofa nearby.

‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ I said surprised, ‘yes, I was.’

‘How clever of you, Alex!’ exclaimed Mrs Jardine. ‘How did you guess Dr Ashworth had been head boy?’

‘No boy attracts His Grace’s attention unless he shows signs of becoming a walking advertisement for Muscular Christianity.’

‘I adore Muscular Christianity,’ said Lady Starmouth.

‘If Christianity were a little more muscular the world wouldn’t be in such a mess,’ said the forthright Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘If Christianity were a little more muscular it wouldn’t be Christianity,’ said the Bishop, again displaying his compulsion to argue with his sister-in-law. ‘The Sermon on the Mount wasn’t a lecture on weight-lifting.’

‘What exactly is Muscular Christianity?’ inquired Mrs Jardine. ‘I’ve never been quite sure. Is it just groups of nice-looking young clergymen like Dr Ashworth?’

‘“Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”’ said the Bishop, raising his eyes to heaven as he quoted Hamlet.

‘More sherry, anyone?’ said Miss Christie, finally escaping from Colonel Cobden-Smith.

‘Dinner is served, my Lord,’ said the butler in a sepulchral voice from the doorway.

V

The dining-room was as vast as the drawing-room and it too faced down the garden to the river. I had wondered if the gentlemen were required to ‘take a lady in’ to dinner, but Mrs Jardine gave no instructions and as we all wandered informally into the dining-room I was hoping I might claim the chair next to Miss Christie. However there were place-cards, and a quick glance told me I was to be disappointed. Although I shared with the Bishop the pleasure of being seated next to Lady Starmouth my other neighbour proved to be the formidable Mrs Cobden-Smith and meanwhile, far away on the opposite side of the table, Miss Christie was once more finding herself trapped with the Colonel; to my irritation I saw he was clearly delighted by his undeserved good fortune.

After the Bishop had said grace we all embarked on a watery celery soup, a disaster which was subsequently redeemed first by poached trout and then by roast lamb. The main course was accompanied by a superb claret. I almost asked the Bishop to identify it, but decided he might subscribe to the view that in Church circles a keen interest in wine was permissible only for bishops or for archdeacons and canons over sixty. With a superhuman exercise of will-power I restricted myself to two glasses and was aware of Jardine noticing as I declined a third.

‘Leaving room for the post-prandial port, Canon?’

‘Oh, is there port, Bishop? What a treat!’ I assumed an expression of innocent surprise.

The dinner surged on, everyone talking with increasing animation as the claret exerted its influence. Mrs Cobden-Smith asked me about my background, and having established the exact shade of my class she was sufficiently reassured to give me the benefit of her opinions which ranged from the futility of giving the working classes houses with bathrooms to the folly of listening to the Indian natives who wanted independence. When I could escape from Mrs Cobden-Smith’s attentions Lady Starmouth pounced and I found myself being subjected to a far more subtle inquisition. Lady Starmouth wanted to know about my wife, but when I volunteered little information in response to her oblique enquiries she decided to probe my views on a topical subject affecting matrimony; I was asked what I thought of A. P. Herbert’s celebrated Marriage Bill which had triggered Jardine’s attack on Lang in the Lords.

The knowledge of how much I owed the Archbishop was never far from the surface of my mind. I said politely, ‘I’m afraid I disapprove of divorce being made easier, Lady Starmouth.’

‘My dear Dr Ashworth, you surprise me! I thought you’d have very liberal modern views!’

‘Not if he’s the Archbishop’s man,’ said our host, breaking off his conversation with Mrs Jennings.

‘I’m no one’s man but my own, Dr Jardine!’ I said at once. I felt unnerved as well as annoyed that he had seen straight through my dutifully conservative stance.

‘Well spoken!’ said Lady Starmouth.

‘Do you approve of divorce at all, Canon?’ said Lord Starmouth with interest.

This placed me in a fresh dilemma. If I wanted to be entirely loyal to Lang, who followed the teaching on divorce in St Mark’s Gospel, I would have to say that I believed marriage to be indissoluble, but I was now anxious to show Jardine that I was no mere sycophantic echo of the Archbishop. On the other hand some loyalty to Lang was essential; I could hardly espouse Jardine’s extreme and controversial views. I decided to seek the diplomatic middle course by jettisoning St Mark in favour of St Matthew.

‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that adultery should be a ground for divorce – for both sexes, just as Our Lord said.’

‘So you disapprove of the rest of A. P. Herbert’s Bill?’ said Jennings, coming late to the conversation and manifesting the teacher’s desire to clarify a clouded issue. ‘You don’t believe that the grounds for divorce should be extended to include cruelty, insanity and desertion?’

‘Precisely.’

‘So!’ said Jardine, unable to remain silent a moment longer, his amber eyes lambent at the prospect of debate. ‘You would approve a divorce, would you, Dr Ashworth, if a man spends ten minutes in a hotel bedroom with a woman he’s never met before – yet you would deny a divorce to a woman whose husband has subjected her for years to the most disgusting cruelties?’

‘I’m not denying the remedy of a legal separation in such a case.’

‘In other words you’d condemn her to a miserable limbo, unable to remarry! And all because you and the other clerics who tow the High Church line insist on clinging to an utterly fallacious interpretation of Our Lord’s teaching in the Synoptic Gospels!’

‘I –’

‘You don’t seriously think Our Lord was talking about divorce as a lawyer, do you?’

‘I think Our Lord was talking about what he believed to be right!’ I was aware that all other conversation in the room had ceased; even the servants by the sideboard were transfixed.

Jardine said truculently, ‘But he wasn’t talking legalistically – he wasn’t, in advance of Christian history, claiming to be another Moses, the supreme law-giver. He was a life-giving spirit, not a legal code personified!’

‘He was indeed a life-giving spirit,’ I said, ‘and he illustrated the true life of Man – he made clear the principles of right human action, and I think we ignore his teaching at our peril, Bishop!’

‘But what exactly was his teaching on divorce?’ demanded Jardine, ripping open the hole in my argument. ‘The Gospels don’t agree! I think the clause permitting divorce for adultery was inserted into St Matthew’s Gospel in an attempt to correct the legalistic way in which the early Church had thoroughly misunderstood the teaching of Jesus –’

‘That’s Brunner’s theory, of course, but Brunner’s notorious for remodelling Christianity to suit the twentieth century –’

‘Brunner’s reinterpreting Christianity in the light of the twentieth century, and what’s wrong with that? Every generation has to interpret Christianity afresh –’

‘Bishop, are you saying that A. P. Herbert has a license to rewrite St Matthew?’

‘– and one of the outstanding aspects of Christianity is that Christ preached compassion and forgiveness, not an inflexible hardness of heart. How long were you married, Dr Ashworth?’

‘Three years. But –’

‘And during those three years,’ pursued Jardine, ‘did you have no glimpse of what the state of matrimony could be like for others less fortunate than yourself?’

‘That’s absolutely irrelevant to the theological point under discussion!’

‘You were happily married, I assume?’

‘Yes, I was – and that’s exactly why I’m opposed to debasing the institution of marriage by a set of fashionable divorce laws which go far beyond the teaching of Christ!’

‘It’s people who debase marriage, not laws – people who would keep a couple yoked together in circumstances which would have made Christ weep! Tell me, how long have you been a widower? It must be hard for you to remain single when you regard marriage as such a blissfully ideal state!’

I hesitated. I was by this time very profoundly disturbed. I sensed I was losing control not only of the debate but of my inner equilibrium, the equilibrium which I had to maintain in order to be the man I wanted to be, and although I knew I had to terminate the conversation I could not see how to do it without a disastrous loss of face.

‘Well?’ demanded Jardine. ‘Why the long silence? Let me ask you again: how long have you been a widower?’

I saw the trap he was setting to expose my hypocrisy but I saw too that there was no escaping it. Pride and prudence combined to make an outright lie impossible. In defiance I said finally, ‘Seven years.’

‘Seven years!’ The amber eyes widened as I gave him the answer he wanted. I felt as if my soul had been X-rayed. Nausea churned in the pit of my stomach. ‘You surprise me, Dr Ashworth! You talk so sanctimoniously about the institution of marriage yet apparently you have little desire to marry again! Is this because of a belated call to celibacy? Or are you perhaps not quite such a stranger to marital unhappiness as you would have us all believe?’

He had tied me up in such a knot that I had no choice but to grab the sharpest knife to slash myself free. ‘I’m certainly no stranger to marital tragedy,’ I said. ‘My wife was killed in a car crash when she was expecting our first child, and I often think I’ll never recover from the loss.’

There was a silence. The light went out of Jardine’s lambent eyes, and for a second I saw the grief mark his face as a memory seared his mind. Around the table no one moved. The room seemed suffocating.

At last Jardine said, ‘I’m most extremely sorry, Dr Ashworth. I’ve no personal experience of losing a wife but I do know what it’s like to lose a child. Forgive me for trespassing so intolerably on what must be a very deep and private grief.’

I was so conscious of shame that I was unable to speak. Jardine might not have exposed me as a fraud to his guests but he had exposed me as a fraud to myself, and I knew that to preserve my fraudulent mask I had taken the cheapest way out when I had had my back to the wall.

I was still groping for composure seconds later when the ladies withdrew and Colonel Cobden-Smith immediately announced his intention of retiring to the smoking-room. Lord Starmouth offered to accompany him, and after helping themselves to a glass of port apiece they departed in search of tranquillity after the débâcle at the dinner table.

‘I’ve such a strong aversion to smoking,’ Jardine explained to Jennings as the door closed behind the last servant, ‘that I insist on confining it to one room of the house.’ He turned to me with careful courtesy. ‘But perhaps you’d care to join the Colonel and Lord Starmouth, Canon – are you a smoker?’

‘Yes, but not when I’m wearing my clerical collar.’ My voice sounded astonishingly casual.

‘How admirable. And you, Jennings?’

‘I’m a non-smoker, my Lord.’

‘Even more admirable. Jennings, you may address me as “Bishop” or as “Dr Jardine” but leave “My Lord” to the servants, if you please. I think bishops suffer quite enough from delusions of grandeur without being addressed as if they’d been born to the purple … Well, gentlemen, you’ve just seen me at my worst and now I must make every attempt to display myself at my best. Dr Ashworth –’ he passed me the decanter ‘– I beg you to help yourself to the largest possible glass of port and to tell me about your new book. His Grace muttered something about fourth-century Christology and St Anselm, but as there appears to be no connection between the two subjects I confess I’m mystified – or are you perhaps hoping to prove that the seeds of the ontological argument were sown at the Council of Nicaea?’ And he gave me his most charming smile.

I smiled back to signal that I had every intention of supporting his attempt to restore a convivial atmosphere, and began to explain my plan to revise my lectures, but it was Jennings, not Jardine, who talked to me about St Anselm. The chaplain interposed a remark about the Cathedral library but sank into silence as the discussion of St Anselm’s theology degenerated into the dreariest type of academic debate.

Suddenly I said to Jardine, ‘I’m sorry, we must be boring you.’

‘Not in the least.’ He sipped his port. ‘I was merely wondering why you turn your back on the present to bury yourself in the remote past. But perhaps modern Church history would involve you in modern Church politics which is a subject best avoided if your views are unlikely to please the people in power.’

I recognized that this subtly dangerous statement was not an attack but an inquiry; he was giving me the opportunity to state that my career had not been distorted by the most unwholesome form of ambition, and I said at once, ‘I happen to find Arianism and Modalism more stimulating than the Oxford Movement.’

Jardine picked up the reference to Anglo-Catholicism. ‘Does that indicate a certain ambivalence about the High Church party?’

He was inviting me to disassociate myself from Lang, and suddenly I knew he would once again see straight through any profession of loyalty which was not entirely sincere. ‘I was sympathetic to Anglo-Catholicism when I was ordained,’ I said in a clumsy attempt at evasion.

‘So was I – that’ll surprise you, won’t it! But I can see now that I was merely trying to reject my Nonconformist background.’ He turned suddenly to his chaplain. ‘Gerald, I’ve promised to lend Mr Jennings that book by Brunner, The Mediator. Take him to the library, would you, and look it out for him.’

That disposed of Jennings and Harvey. I was alone with the Bishop at last and almost before the door had closed I found myself saying: ‘I’m beginning to think you see straight through everything.’

‘I have a first-class try. I sometimes think I know what life must be like for a musician who possesses perfect pitch. I have a well-nigh infallible ear for detecting false notes in a conversation.’

‘During our debate –’

‘During our debate you tried to conceal that your private views on divorce are rather different from your public views. Yes. I know. And that’s why I couldn’t resist the temptation to tear you to shreds, but I am indeed most sincerely sorry that the debate went so wrong.’

‘It’s all right. My hypocrisy got what it deserved. Sorry I took such a cheap way out.’ The conversation was now so far removed from any dialogue I could have foreseen that I was unable to sustain it. Moving to the hearth, the glass of port in my hand, I pretended to examine the carvings on the chimneypiece.

‘Now that,’ said Jardine, ‘is a very remarkable apology. You’re beginning to interest me exceedingly, Dr Ashworth.’ Although I had my back to him, I heard the splash as he refilled his glass. ‘First of all I was tempted to write you off as just another of Lang’s bright young men,’ he was saying, ‘but the truth’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? You no longer find the required mask of sycophancy easy to wear.’

I finished my port before saying, ‘I’m very much in Dr Lang’s debt.’

‘Of course you are. Men of power have a knack of building up extensive credit, but if one is in a position of power,’ said Jardine, moving over to me with the decanter in his hand, ‘one must always be scrupulously careful not to bankrupt one’s debtors by demanding inappropriate methods of repayment. More port?’

‘Thank you.’ I held out my glass with a steady hand.

‘May I give you a word of advice? Your first duty, debts or no debts, is not to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Your first duty is to God who created you as a unique individual in his own image, not as a miraculous facsimile of Dr Lang. Be yourself, Dr Ashworth. Be the man God intended you to be, not the sycophant His Grace’s vanity would prefer. And now,’ said Jardine, having refilled my glass, ‘I shall stop preaching and we shall divert ourselves very briefly, before we join the ladies, by ruminating on an issue which to me is of far greater interest than dear old St Anselm’s meditations. I refer to the search for the historical Jesus – do you think we can ever see beyond the shining image of the Gospels to the man he really was?’

‘I think it can be unproductive to probe behind glittering images,’ I said, ‘and with all due respect I believe your generation has been too preoccupied with Christ’s humanity at the expense of his divinity.’

Jardine smiled. ‘You think that in pursuing the concept of the immanence of God in mankind we’ve wound up losing sight of God and following mankind, as represented by Christ, down a historical blind alley?’

‘Exactly. Speaking for myself, I’m much more interested in the modern doctrines asserting God’s transcendence and the importance of revelation – I think we should focus on the message Christ presented, not on the shadowy figure behind the glittering image,’ I said firmly, and escaping with profound relief into the world of scholarship, I began to talk of the writings of Karl Barth and the challenge of Crisis Theology.

VI

On our return to the drawing-room Jardine announced: ‘I’m glad to say that Dr Ashworth and I have quite resolved our differences so there’s no need for anyone to remain embarrassed by our debate … Lady Starmouth, come outside and take a turn with me on the terrace.’

‘Coffee, Dr Ashworth?’ called Miss Christie.

‘Yes – thank you.’ I was just moving towards her with alacrity when I was intercepted by a distraught Mrs Jardine.

‘Dr Ashworth, I’m so very sorry – my husband was terribly upset afterwards, I know he was – it was when you mentioned the baby –’ As she broke off I saw to my horror that her eyes were full of tears.

‘My dear Mrs Jardine – please – don’t distress yourself –’

But Miss Christie had come to the rescue. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said to Mrs Jardine, and I was struck by her use of an endearment. ‘Dr Ashworth understands. Come and sit down – Mrs Jennings and I were just discussing the choirboys’ concert.’ And passing me my cup of coffee she steered Mrs Jardine to the cluster of chairs where Mrs Jennings was waiting. I found myself abandoned to the company of the Cobden-Smiths, but Lord Starmouth was no more than six paces away by the fireplace and as our glances met he said without emphasis: ‘The Bishop’s passions get the better of him sometimes, but he’s a good man.’

‘One doesn’t look for passion in a bishop,’ said the Colonel with unexpected tartness. ‘Bad form.’

‘Very bad form,’ agreed his wife, ‘but then of course if one’s not brought up to know the difference between good form and bad form one’s bound to cause chaos in later life.’

‘Steady on, Amy!’

‘But my dear, Alex is the first to admit his upbringing left a lot to be desired! That peculiar old father and that dreadful little villa in Putney –’

‘The great thing about the Bishop,’ said Lord Starmouth, ‘is that he’ll own to the little villa in Putney. A lesser man would simply draw a veil over it.’

‘He had the veil firmly in place when he met Carrie,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘Steady on, Amy!’ The Colonel was now clearly nervous. He shot a wary glance in my direction, but I was more interested in Miss Christie; she had left Mrs Jardine, now happily talking about choirboys to Mrs Jennings, and was approaching us with the coffee-pot.

‘Is Carrie all right?’ murmured the Colonel as his cup was refilled.

‘Yes, all’s well, Colonel, don’t worry.’

‘Dr Ashworth still looks a little white around the gills,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith.

‘That hardly says much for the power of the Bishop’s port,’ said Miss Christie drily, sweeping away again with the coffee-pot.

‘That’s a very strange girl,’ mused Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘but so good with Carrie.’

I said casually, ‘She must be a great asset in the household.’

‘That hardly does her justice. When I think of that time at Radbury before her arrival –’

‘My dear,’ said the Colonel with surprising firmness, ‘I don’t think we’ll talk about that at present, if you please.’

I was disappointed, and with reluctance I realized that it might pay me later to cultivate Mrs Cobden-Smith.

I had apparently resumed my role of spy. Did this mean I was regaining my equilibrium after the bizarre scene with Jardine? I supposed it did, yet I had no wish to think of spying and no desire whatsoever to dwell on bizarre scenes. Easing myself away from the Cobden-Smiths I succeeded in cornering Miss Christie at the side-table where she was stacking the coffee-cups on to a tray.

‘What time is Communion tomorrow?’ I said, offering the most inoffensive question I could devise.

‘Eight o’clock. Breakfast is at nine.’ She looked past me at the drawing-room door. ‘Here come Mr Jennings and Gerald – will you excuse me? I must order fresh coffee for them.’

I lost her, and it occurred to me then that a quiet mild approach was going to make no impression whatsoever on Miss Christie. However if she thought she could brush me aside merely by juggling coffee-cups she had made a big mistake.

I resolved to adopt a much tougher line in future.

VII

It was after eleven when I regained the sanctuary of my room, and having stripped off my clothes I smoked a cigarette as I tried to work out what had happened. Some strange bond seemed to have been forged between me and my host but it seemed to be my duty to ignore it. It was not my business either to like or to loathe Jardine; my task was merely to estimate how vulnerable he was to scandal.

However I found I now had a stronger desire than before not to connive with Lang in any secret plan to oust Jardine from the Bench of Bishops. Jardine was clearly innocent. A man of such integrity would be incapable of living a secret life as an apostate steeped in adultery, and I was also sure he was far too shrewd to engage in any middle-aged folly which fell short of an adulterous liaison. It seemed obvious that he exercised his flirtatious streak harmlessly with his lovely ladies and had long treated Miss Christie as part of the palace furniture.

This conclusion was reassuring enough, but I still had to answer the question of what went on in Miss Christie’s mind while Jardine behaved like the good man he undoubtedly was. I reminded myself that Jardine could still be vulnerable to scandal if Miss Christie decided to play the neurotic spinster by transforming herself into a furnace of frustrated passion, and although she hardly gave the impression of being a neurotic spinster I felt there was something odd about her extreme self-containment.

I decided I had a moral duty to investigate Miss Christie further and an absolute moral duty to discover how likely she was to transform herself into a furnace of passion.

No Jesuit could have achieved a more satisfying casuistry. With a smile I stubbed out my cigarette, retired to bed and began to plot my espionage for the morrow.

THREE

‘I have seen so many clerical careers arrested, and (to all outward seeming) definitely marred, by the clergyman’s marriage, that I never hear of a clergyman’s becoming “engaged” without a shiver of anxiety.’

Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.

I

I awoke violently at seven. Naturally I had been dreaming of Miss Christie. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, but I decided that I had no excuse for breaking any of the minor rules by which I achieved self-discipline, and one of those rules was that I never smoked before breakfast. With an effort I read the morning office. Then making another random dip into the Bible I eventually encountered the appropriate words: ‘Seek and ye shall find’.

As I dressed it occurred to me that I still had to seek and find a great many facts about Jardine before I could report convincingly to Lang that the Bishop’s private life was as pure as driven snow; my impression of innocence would carry little weight unless it were supported by a thorough understanding of Jardine’s psychology, and I could hardly establish a psychological portrait without much more information about his past. Apart from gauging Miss Christie’s ability to become a furnace of passion my main task was clearly to talk to as many people as possible about the Bishop without making them suspect they were being interrogated, but I doubted that this would prove difficult. People always enjoy a gossip about a famous man, and when a famous man is personally known to them the temptation to reveal how much they know is all the greater.

Leaving my room, I padded downstairs. I met no one, although I could hear the distant rattling and banging of servants pursuing their early morning rituals. Opening the front door I stepped out into the porch, and the brilliant sunlight flooded into my eyes so that for a second I saw only a shimmering green pattern of beech leaves and grass. Beyond the drive the pale stone of the Cathedral soared into a cloudless sky, and after opening the white gate which was set in the wall of the churchyard I headed along the north side of the building to the porch.

A passing verger directed me to St Anselm’s Chapel where the weekday Communion services were held. There was no time to gape at the glory of the nave; I wanted to clear my mind in preparation for worship, and as soon as I had chosen my seat in the chapel I knelt to sharpen my concentration. However I had instantly noted Miss Christie’s absence.

This failed to surprise me. Weekday Communion is seldom attended by hordes of laymen, and in fact I saw no one I knew from the palace in the small congregation. Then Gerald Harvey hurried into the row behind me, and seconds later at eight o’clock the Dean and the Bishop appeared, preceded by the verger.

As the service progressed I thought how preposterous it was to imagine a bishop administering the sacrament when he was not in a state of grace, and again I remembered the integrity which had emanated from Jardine during our private conversation over the port.

My moment came to receive the sacrament. Erasing all thought of my commission I focused my mind on the spiritual reality confronting me and it was not until I had returned to my seat that I allowed myself to think again of Jardine. I vowed to remember that my first duty was not to the Archbishop of Canterbury. I asked for the strength to overcome my weaknesses. And at the conclusion of the service I let the familiar prayer of Christ echo in my mind: Let thy will, not mine, be done.

Lang’s will immediately became as unimportant as my own. I felt comforted, and rising to my feet at last I left the chapel to find Gerald Harvey hovering in the side-aisle.

‘Waiting for the Bishop?’ I enquired with a smile.

‘No, for you.’

I was impressed by this courtesy and at once I felt guilty that I had written him off as ineffectual. ‘How nice of you,’ I said. ‘Sorry I’ve kept you hanging about.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t apologize for taking extra time for prayer!’ said Harvey shocked. He was so young and ingenuous that he made me feel old and world-weary. ‘How did you like the service?’

I paid the Bishop a suitable compliment and was glad I did not have to be insincere for the sake of politeness. We walked through the porch on to the sward. Beyond the wall of the churchyard the houses of the Close basked in the sun and a horse was drawing a milk-cart slowly along the North Walk. I could hear the birds singing in the cedar tree nearby.

‘I must confess the Bishop intrigues me,’ I said idly at last. ‘What would you say was the fundamental nature of his belief? God-centred? Christ-centred? Rooted in the Trinity?’

‘Well, it’s all those things,’ said Harvey, ‘but I suppose he’s fundamentally Christocentric. He has an overriding belief not just in Christ’s compassion and forgiveness but in Christ’s honesty and truth, and that’s why he can’t bear hypocrisy – he sees it as a re-enactment of the Pharisees’ behaviour in the Gospels and he feels called to attack it just as Our Lord did.’ He shot me a shy glance. ‘Please forgive him for last night,’ he said rapidly. ‘He didn’t mean to hurt you. He just misjudged your sincerity – I think he suspected you’d only adopted your point of view out of loyalty to Dr Lang and of course he was wrong, but anyone can make a mistake, can’t they, and he really is the most wonderful man, absolutely the best, believe me.’

I realized belatedly that he had sought my company in order to defend his hero, and I knew I should signal that I was willing to be convinced of Jardine’s heroic qualities. I said with interest, ‘He’s been good to you?’

‘That’s an understatement!’ In his enthusiasm Harvey became confidential. ‘When I was at the Cathedral School at Radbury my parents died and Dr Jardine – he was Dean of Radbury then – simply took me over, paid my school fees, had me to stay in the holidays – and it wasn’t as if I was one of those appealing children who look like angels and win all the prizes. Then later when I wanted to be ordained I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to pass the exams but Dr Jardine just said, “Nonsense, of course you can!” and when he offered to coach me in his spare time I knew he really believed I could do it. I’d never have passed if it hadn’t been for him, and afterwards when he asked me to be his chaplain … Well, you can imagine how I felt! Of course I was terrified I’d be no good and in fact I’m sure he could get someone better, but I try very hard and I seem to muddle through somehow.’

‘I’m sure you do very well.’ It was impossible not to be touched by his honesty, and suddenly I knew why he had appealed to Jardine.

Meanwhile our conversation had taken us through the palace gateway and I was rapidly framing some questions which would take advantage of his confidential mood. ‘Tell me about life at the palace,’ I said. ‘Miss Christie evidently has an important role in the household – she seems very close to Mrs Jardine.’

‘Oh, Mrs Jardine thinks of her as a daughter, I know she does.’

‘How does she get on with the Bishop?’

‘People always want to know that,’ said Harvey, pausing to extricate his latchkey as we approached the front door, ‘and they’re always surprised by my reply which is: “Better than they used to” and not the expected “Magnificently well”.’

‘There’s been friction?’

‘Well, not exactly friction … but they’ve had their cool spells. The first was after she came to Radbury – that was around the time I started staying with them in the holidays – and then there was a second cool period after they arrived in Starbridge five years ago. I remember saying to Lady Starmouth once that I was afraid Lyle might leave if the Bishop became much cooler, but Lady Starmouth told me not to worry. She said it’s not always easy for a married couple to live in close proximity to a third party, and of course Lyle’s much more involved with both the Jardines than I am. I’m fairly peripheral in their private life, even though I see so much of the Bishop in his professional role.’ He finally found his latchkey but when the front door swung open it became wedged against a pile of envelopes. ‘Heavens above, look at all this post!’

‘Is this abnormally substantial?’

‘Yes, we’re still dealing with the correspondence on the A. P. Herbert Bill. We even had to engage additional secretarial help last week,’ said Harvey, becoming flustered at the memory, and bustled away into the library as if he feared the envelopes might multiply in his hands.

I made a mental note to ask Lady Starmouth about the difficulties of a married couple obliged to live in close proximity to a young and attractive third party. Then I retired to the dining-room in pursuit of breakfast.

II

I was early. I found no one in the dining-room, but the morning papers were laid out on a side-table and I began to browse among the cricket reports in the Daily Telegraph. I was still digesting the unfortunate news that Oxford had defeated Cambridge by seven wickets when Jardine walked in.

‘I was glad to see you at the service,’ he said after we had exchanged greetings. ‘I was glad to be there myself. Sometimes one so strongly needs to wipe the slate clean in order to come fresh to a new day.’

There was a pause while we both thought of the dinner party, its unhappy memory now purged from our consciences, and before either of us could speak again the Starmouths entered the room. They were followed by Miss Christie, immaculate in a navy-blue skirt and white blouse, and at once I noticed the discreet, perfectly proportioned curves of her figure above the waist; I even found myself toying with the erotic image of a pair of empty champagne glasses.

‘Good morning, Dr Ashworth,’ she said formally, while I was grappling with these most unclerical thoughts, but the next moment she was turning to Jardine. ‘Carrie’s decided to stay in bed for a while, Bishop, and she’s asked me to have breakfast with her.’

The Bishop showed no surprise but Lady Starmouth inquired in alarm if Mrs Jardine were unwell. Miss Christie, however, had already retreated to the hall and it was left to Jardine to answer idly as he turned a page of The Times, ‘It’s merely the aftermath of insomnia. At two o’clock this morning, acting out of a strong sense of self-preservation, I was obliged to retire to my dressing-room in order to resume the bliss of unconsciousness. The chief disadvantage of Carrie’s insomnia is that she’s always overcome with the urge to share it with me.’

My immediate reaction was to reflect that Jack had been right in assuming that the Jardines still shared a bedroom. My second reaction was to accuse myself of becoming more prurient than any reporter from The News of the World, and in an effort to beat back all thoughts which were unbecoming to a clergyman I began to consider how I should spend my morning. I would have to go to the library; it would look too odd if I postponed my encounter with the St Anselm manuscript, but I thought I could use the fine weather as an excuse not to linger indoors. During breakfast the Earl announced his intention of fishing in the river at the bottom of the garden while the Countess confessed an urge to paint a watercolour of the long herbaceous border, and I thought both of them might be in the mood for a little casual conversation about our host.

‘Do you have any special plans for this morning, Mrs Cobden-Smith?’ I asked as I finished my eggs and bacon.

‘Oh, I shall write some letters, go to the shops, “fill the unforgiving minute”, as Kipling would say …’ Mrs Cobden-Smith spoke with such energy that I immediately felt exhausted. ‘Willy will take George for a walk –’ The St Bernard looked hopeful as his name was mentioned ‘– and then … What are you going to do after that, Willy?’

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Colonel Cobden-Smith.

‘Good man!’ said Lord Starmouth.

‘Well, at least the clergy are preparing for a morning of unremitting toil,’ said Lady Starmouth, and gave me yet another of her radiant sophisticated smiles.

III

The most notorious fact about the work which passes under the name of The Prayers and Meditations of St Anselm is that it is uncertain how much of the material can be attributed to St Anselm himself. In 1932 Dom Wilmart had ascribed nineteen of the prayers and three of the meditations to the saint, who had been Archbishop of Canterbury at the time of William Rufus, but the matter was still of interest to scholars and much of the interest had always centred on the Starbridge manuscript which showed the work before the insertion of many of the additions.

After the required exchange of courtesies with the librarian I embarked on my reading. The manuscript was written in a clear hand which I mastered without trouble, but there were slips in the Latin which indicated that the scribe might have been a young monk who suffered from wandering attention. To support this thesis I found some entertaining embellishments in the margin, in particular a sketch of a prancing cat with a mouse in his mouth, and I thought how odd it was that this manuscript, perhaps regarded as no more than a tedious copying chore by its scribe, had survived to become a document of profound importance. The young monk had been dead for centuries but his work for God lived on; idly I speculated how I might introduce the subject into a future sermon, and at once I thought of the famous text from Isaiah: ‘The grass withereth, the flower fadeth but the Word of Our God shall stand for ever’.

I took notes for over an hour as I compared the text with my copy of Wilmart’s book, and then leaving the library I returned to the palace, parked my briefcase in the hall and strolled outside again into the garden.

I saw Lady Starmouth at once. She was sitting on an artist’s folding stool, her sketchpad in her lap, and gazing meditatively at the long border which stretched downhill in a blaze of colour towards the river. When she saw me she smiled, beckoning me to join her, and as I crossed the lawn I could see the Earl fishing in the distance by the willows.

‘I thought it was going to be a watercolour?’ I said as I saw the pencil in her hand.

‘I always do a rough sketch first and I’ve only just begun – I’ve been chatting to poor Carrie.’

‘Is she better?’

‘Yes, but still distressed about that ghastly scene last night. I’m afraid that sometimes she’s much too sensitive for her own good and never more so than when the conversation turns to lost babies … Did you know about the Jardines’ child?’

‘Dr Lang only mentioned that they had no children living. What happened?’

‘Am I being given the chance to gossip about the Bishop? Yes, I am – how delightful! Do sit down, Dr Ashworth, and help me postpone the dreaded moment when I have to open my paintbox and pretend to be an artist!’

To encourage her I said, ‘If you’re in the mood to gossip, I’m certainly in the mood to listen – after my clash with the Bishop last night I find I’m gripped by a curiosity to know more about him.’

‘In the circumstances,’ said Lady Starmouth drily, ‘I’d say curiosity was an admirably charitable reaction. Now let me see, shall I launch straight away into the saga of the baby or shall I begin with Jardine’s arrival in Mayfair? I warn you, I’m rather a menace when I start talking about the Bishop because I find him so intriguing that I tend to prattle away happily for hours.’

‘I’m sure you never prattle, Lady Starmouth – I can only imagine you discoursing alluringly!’

She laughed. ‘How wonderful to have such a flattering audience! Very well, let me try to discourse with all the allure at my command!’

Lounging on the lawn beneath the hot sun I prepared to give her my fullest attention.

IV

‘Jardine’s had the most unusual life,’ said Lady Starmouth. ‘I’m not sure how much you already know about his career, but twenty-one years ago in 1916 he was promoted from an obscure chaplaincy in North London to St Mary’s, Mayfair – and of course that’s one of the smartest parishes in the West End. Henry and I did our best to welcome the new vicar, and because he was unmarried I made a special effort to introduce him to suitable girls. Did you know Jardine married late? He was thirty-seven when he met Carrie, but before the move to St Mary’s he couldn’t afford a wife. Unfortunately he had a most peculiar father who had wound up heavily in debt, and Jardine had to support the family on his small stipend.’

‘Someone mentioned a peculiar father –’

‘The whole family,’ said Lady Starmouth confidentially, ‘was most odd. In addition to the peculiar father there was a very strange Swedish stepmother and two sisters, one of whom went mad –’

‘This sounds like a Jacobean tragedy.’

‘No, they didn’t all kill each other – unfortunately – but you’re right to relate it to literature. It was like a novel by Gissing about the ghastliness of genteel poverty.’

‘Were the Jardines so genteel? What did the peculiar father do for a living?’

‘Nobody knows. In fact I’ve never plumbed the depths of Jardine’s lurid family background because he prefers not to talk about it, but the sister – the one who didn’t go mad – was painfully genteel, poor thing, a very refined accent and a ghastly way with a teacup – and my guess is that they were all upper-working-class but trying to be lower-middle. God, how crucified so many people are,’ said the aristocratic Lady Starmouth carelessly but with genuine feeling, ‘by the English class system.’

‘Did the whole family accompany Jardine to Mayfair?’

‘No, the peculiar father and the mad sister were dead by that time, but Jardine moved into the vicarage with his surviving sister and his sinister Swedish stepmother and immediately began to cast around for a wife –’

‘– whom you obligingly provided for him!’

‘Not quite! But I did go to the dinner party where he and Carrie met for the first time. The meeting was wildly romantic, love at first sight, and four days later he proposed.’

‘Four days?’

‘Four days,’ said Lady Starmouth, enjoying my astonishment. ‘Carrie’s family were in a tremendous tizzy, of course, because of Jardine’s odd background, but on the other hand he had this stunning position as Vicar of St Mary’s and that made it hard to object to him as a suitor.’

‘Did the family make trouble?’

‘They somehow managed to restrain themselves. I suspect it was because Carrie wasn’t so young any more and the family had begun to worry that she might wind up on the shelf.’

‘It’s hard to imagine someone as pretty as Mrs Jardine winding up on the shelf.’

‘True, but one of the cruellest facts of life, Dr Ashworth, is that men prefer pretty women to be under thirty. After that women need to rely more on other resources.’

I sensed the implication that Mrs Jardine had no other resources on which to rely, but all I said was, ‘So nothing impeded Dr Jardine’s stampede to the altar?’

‘On the contrary, the Swedish stepmother then made a scene and said she wouldn’t live in any house where Carrie was mistress. So she retired with the poor plain sister to a flat in Putney – which Jardine had to pay for, of course.’

‘But surely wasn’t this a good thing? Isn’t it better for a woman to start married life without a stepmother-in-law breathing down her neck?’

‘Of course. Carrie was thrilled. But Jardine was dreadfully upset. He adored this stepmother, although God knows why – she was twenty years older than he was and she weighed sixteen stone and she had very pale eyes and a very thin mouth and she spoke with a very heavy foreign accent – oh, she was sinister, she really was! After the row I thought she’d refuse to come to the wedding but she turned up looking wrathful – what a deathshead at the feast! The poor sister was hardly cheerful either – she wept throughout the service, but at least she was only crying out of sentimentality. I liked the sister. Poor thing, what a wretched life she had! She died of cancer eventually, of course. I say “of course” because she was the sort of person who inevitably dies of something beastly … But I must stop digressing. You’re being wonderfully patient, Dr Ashworth, but I really am getting to the baby now, I promise –’

‘Don’t apologize, Lady Starmouth. I’m enrapt by the sinister stepmother.’

‘Well, after the wedding she sank into darkest Putney, thank God, and the Jardines floated off on their honeymoon. When they came back Carrie immediately started planning the nursery, so of course we all thought … But nothing happened. However finally the baby started. We were all so relieved, and no one was more relieved than Jardine – apart from Carrie herself, of course. He started talking to Henry about which schools the child should go to and Carrie started adding the finishing touches to the heavenly nursery – oh, what a mistake it is to count one’s chickens before they’re hatched! Eventually the worst happened and the baby – a boy – was born dead.’

Lady Starmouth paused as if to choose her next words with care. ‘I wonder how I can convey to you how dreadful this was for the Jardines. Of course a dead baby is always a tragedy, but in this case … You see, Carrie was so absolutely sure that her one talent was for motherhood. It’s not easy for any woman to be married to a brilliant man and Carrie thought that motherhood would give her the chance to excel in a way which would command Jardine’s very special respect. And Jardine himself was longing for a family. He wanted to recreate the family life which he could remember existing before his mother died – a life which he’d almost certainly idealized but which represented to him some intensely desirable goal of domestic bliss. So both he and Carrie were united by these very urgent and powerful dreams – and that was why it was so terrible when the stillborn child tore those dreams apart.’

She paused again and I allowed the silence to lengthen to signal my sympathy before I asked, ‘There were no other children?’

‘No, and in a way that was the ghastliest part of all because no doctor could tell her why nothing happened. So she went on hoping and so did he – in fact Alex once told me he went on hoping until … well, until no hope was possible any more. There! I’m calling him Alex – very improper, isn’t it, to call a man by his Christian name when he’s not a member of one’s family, but I’ve known him so long now and we’re such good friends and Henry doesn’t mind if I call Jardine “Alex” occasionally … I expect you’ve wondered about my friendship with the Bishop, haven’t you!’ she added, giving me an indulgent smile. ‘Perhaps you’re even a little shocked!’

‘Not at all, I’m deeply envious! I’ve heard about Dr Jardine’s so-called Lovely Ladies, and obviously you’re the Lovely Ladies’ Leader!’

She laughed. ‘I simply must add you to my clerical collection!’ she said. ‘You’re such an exceptionally charming listener!’

‘I could listen to you indefinitely, Lady Starmouth. Tell me more.’

She sighed. ‘It really is too dreadful how little encouragement I need … But what shall I tell you next? I’ve told you about the ghastly background and the romantic marriage and the stillborn child –’

‘Strike a lighter note,’ I said, ‘and tell me about Dr Jardine’s Lovely Ladies.’

V

‘Of course Alex has numerous acquaintances among the opposite sex,’ said Lady Starmouth, adding another line to the obscure pattern on her sketchpad, ‘but there are only three of us who could truly be described as friends. We all met him in 1916 during his first year as Vicar of St Mary’s.’

I was immediately intrigued. ‘Why was he so prone to friendship in 1916?’

‘Moving to Mayfair was a huge change for him, and at first he was very lonely and unsure of himself.’

‘Who are the other two ladies?’

‘Sybil Welbeck and Enid Markhampton. Alex liked us because we were all absolutely safe – happily married, churchgoing women, firmly anchored to the conventions … Heavens, how dull that sounds! But we’re all tolerably amusing, I promise you –’

‘You hardly need to assure me of that, Lady Starmouth, but what amazes me is Dr Jardine’s luck in finding three safe Lovely Ladies all at once! Did he never add to his collection?’

‘No,’ said Lady Starmouth, examining the point of her pencil. ‘He didn’t.’

‘Was that because he felt you were all so incomparable that no other woman was fit to join your ranks?’

We laughed before Lady Starmouth said easily, ‘He married soon after he met us, and perhaps he was afraid Carrie wouldn’t take too kindly to any new close friends of the opposite sex.’

‘Speaking as a clergyman,’ I said, ‘I find the whole idea of close friendships with married women fraught with the most hair-raising possibilities.’

‘Ah, but you’re of a different generation, aren’t you?’ said Lady Starmouth. ‘Such friendships may seem strange now but when I was young they weren’t so unusual. The War changed so many things, and one of the first casualties of the new freedom afterwards was the concept of the amitié amoureuse.’

‘Nevertheless I can’t help thinking that if I’d been Dr Jardine I might have had a hard time preventing myself from falling in love with one of you.’

Lady Starmouth gave another indulgent smile but answered seriously, ‘I can assure you that Alex has never been in love with either Enid or Sybil or me. At the risk of sounding horribly snobbish, I’ll say that we’re not in the league which he would consider accessible as far as the ultimate intimacies are concerned.’

I was again much intrigued. ‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ I said, wondering how I could lure her on over such delicate ground, but Lady Starmouth had no need to be lured. I had forgotten that the aristocracy, unlike the middle classes, fail to find the subject of sex embarrassing.

‘When Alex was growing up,’ she said, ‘the women in his life were – at most – lower-middle-class. Then his years up at Oxford gave him enough confidence to marry an upper-middle-class girl like Carrie Cobden-Smith. But I think if he’d been offered the chance of deep intimacy with someone from the aristocracy, he’d have backed away. He’d have found the prospect too intimidating.’

I knew at once that this was a vital detail in the portrait I was constructing of Jardine. The Bishop was safe with his Lovely Ladies, not necessarily because of any indestructible virtue on his part, but because there was a psychological barrier keeping him in check. Jardine would be aware of this; a clergyman is taught to know himself well so that he may learn the best way to control his weaknesses and Jardine, liking the company of the opposite sex, would only have trusted himself with women whom he felt were ultimately beyond his reach.

‘Talking of lovely ladies,’ said Lady Starmouth, adding another line to her sketch, ‘have you fallen in love with Miss Christie?’

‘Miss Christie!’ I was so startled that I sat bolt upright.

‘I saw the smouldering looks you were giving her in the drawing-room last night. My dear Dr Ashworth, will you allow me to take advantage of my numerous years of seniority by giving you some friendly advice? Don’t bother with Miss Christie. She’s spent the last decade proving she’s quite uninterested in men.’

I said lightly, ‘She doesn’t nurse a secret passion for the Bishop?’

‘I suspect it’s much more likely she nurses a secret passion for Carrie.’

I exclaimed appalled, ‘But that’s impossible!’

‘My poor Dr Ashworth, you are smitten, aren’t you! Of course I’m not implying the passion’s reciprocated – Carrie adores Alex. But you tell me this: why is an attractive intelligent girl like Miss Christie content to remain as a companion when she’s had numerous proposals, some of them from very eligible men?’

I said suddenly, ‘How do the Jardines explain Miss Christie’s continuing spinsterhood?’

‘Well, the official story is that she suffered a broken engagement before she met them, and that this left her perpetually disenchanted with the opposite sex. But I find that hard to believe – Miss Christie strikes me as the sort of woman who would consider it a matter of pride to recover completely from a broken engagement.’

‘Does Dr Jardine ever talk to you about her?’

‘Her name comes up occasionally, but not as much as it used to. Of course there have been moments in the past when he’s found the situation a bore.’

I sensed we were approaching the difficulties of a married couple who had to live in close proximity to a third party. ‘A bore?’ I repeated, anxious to lure her on again. ‘Why was that?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s class again! Alex didn’t grow up in a house where certain employees lived en famille and the presence of a third party tended to grate on his nerves, but fortunately the move to Starbridge seems to have solved that particular problem. There’s more space here for third parties than there was in the Deanery at Radbury – and besides, when all’s said and done the Jardines’ marriage is quite successful enough to withstand the presence of a stranger … Dr Ashworth, my husband’s waving at you. I expect he’s getting bored with the fish and wants to be diverted – but come back and see me again after you’ve entertained him!’

We exchanged smiles. I said, ‘Am I securely in your collection now?’ and when she laughed I scrambled to my feet, dusted some flecks of grass from my trousers and strolled off down the garden to interview my next witness.

VI

‘I was hoping a little conversation would disturb the fish,’ said the Earl as I approached. ‘They all seem to be either asleep or dead.’

Beyond the river the herd of cows was grazing again in the meadows. It was a very English scene which the Earl in his country clothes enhanced, and as I leant against the trunk of the nearest willow I was once more aware of the subtle allure of Starbridge as the morning melted into a shimmering afternoon. It was a day conducive to mirages. I was conscious not only that I was a clergyman pretending to be a spy – or was I a spy pretending to be a clergyman? – but that the Earl was a great landowner pretending to be a humble fisherman. The Earl himself, with his open countenance, looked as if he were a stranger to play-acting, but the atmosphere of that Starbridge noon was reminding me how hard it was to know the truth about even the simplest individuals.

‘I daresay my wife’s been chatting to you about the Bishop in an effort to ensure you weren’t put off by last night’s glimpse of the rough diamond,’ the Earl was saying. ‘He was undoubtedly a rough diamond when we first knew him, but he’s got plenty of gentlemanly polish nowadays when he puts his mind to it.’

‘He certainly put his mind to it over the port … Were you disconcerted, Lord Starmouth, when a rough diamond turned up at St Mary’s in 1916?’

The Earl smiled. ‘I was more intrigued than disconcerted.’

‘You hadn’t met him before?’

‘No, but I’d heard of him. He was always writing letters to The Times. However I had little idea what sort of man he was until I came home from my club one night and my wife told me the new Vicar had called. She said, “He’s got beautiful yellow eyes and a harsh ugly voice and he’s not sure how to behave and I’m mad about him!” Well, my wife’s always had a soft spot for clergymen so I didn’t take her too seriously, but then next Sunday when he preached his first sermon I suddenly saw what all the fuss was about. I was used to dozing during the sermons, but this time I stayed awake all the way through – and in fact at the end I was sitting on the edge of my pew. Damn it, I can even remember the text! It was: “I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance”, and when he was hammering home his message his voice seemed to make the church vibrate and his eyes glowed like a cat’s. Extraordinary. Of course I saw at once he was going to go a long way.’

‘What did you think when you had the chance for a private conversation with him?’

‘I was surprised how shy he was – shy and awkward. He spoke all right; Oxford had ironed out any suburban accent, but he had the trick of either talking too much and too aggressively or else not talking at all. However that was just nervousness. Once my wife took him up and petted him and tried to marry him off he very quickly blossomed. All he needed was a bit of social self-confidence.’

‘Perhaps Oxford had given him a chip on his shoulder.’

‘More than likely, yes. The Varsity can be hard going for someone who doesn’t have the right background – well, I must admit to a bit of prejudice against him myself during the early days of our acquaintance, but then one day he spoke up to me; it was a criticism, a justifiable criticism too, I might add, and suddenly I thought: it took courage to say that. And I respected him for it. He was no sycophant. He was willing to accept a bit of patronage in the form of my wife’s kindness but he wasn’t going to let that stop him speaking the truth as he saw it. Very exceptional. A man of high moral principle. He’s deserved his great success.’

‘How very gratifying it must have been for your wife to see her protégé go all the way to the top of the Church of England!’

‘Yes, I always say she made a small but significant contribution to his career. He needed someone who would invite him to the right dinner parties and ensure he developed the essential poise his position required. Mrs Welbeck and Lady Markhampton also helped him in that way, but Evelyn was the one who did the most.’

‘Your wife’s just been telling me about Dr Jardine’s devoted band of Lovely Ladies – I must say, I’m deeply envious!’

The Earl laughed. ‘I have moments of envy myself! Do you know either Mrs Welbeck or Lady Markhampton?’

‘I’m sorry to say I don’t.’

‘They’re both charming. But to tell you the truth the Lovely Lady I really fancied in the old days was Loretta Staviski. No doubt my wife mentioned her. She’s arriving from America next weekend to stay with us, and I’m greatly looking forward to seeing her again.’

There was a silence. The river went on flowing and in the meadows the cows continued to graze. I looked at the Earl, who was still peering into the water for a glimpse of a fish; I looked back at the Countess who was still sketching by the herbaceous border, and at last I heard myself enquire in the most casual voice I could muster: ‘No, your wife didn’t mention her. Who is she?’

FOUR

‘Who does not know that no clergyman, however hard-working and devoted, can maintain his spiritual influence if his domestic life be ill-ordered and unhappy?’

HERBERT HENSLEY HENSON

Bishop of Durham 1920–1939

The Bishoprick Papers

I

When I returned to Lady Starmouth I found her looking critically at her sketch. ‘I’m afraid this is no good,’ she murmured. ‘I seem to have lost my touch … How were the fish?’

‘According to your husband they’re all either asleep or dead.’ For a moment I remained motionless, watching her. Then I said casually, ‘Lady Starmouth, I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but may I ask why, when you were telling me about Dr Jardine’s Lovely Ladies, you failed to mention Professor Staviski?’

Lady Starmouth’s reaction was swift. ‘Loretta?’

‘Your husband’s just mentioned her. There were four of you, weren’t there? Not just three.’

‘Only for a short time, during the War.’ Lady Starmouth tore the sketch from the pad, crumpled the paper into a ball and put her pencil away in a wooden box. She said nothing else, and her silence was in such stark contrast to her earlier fluency that I felt obliged to say, ‘I’m sorry – obviously I’ve given you offence.’

‘My dear Dr Ashworth –’ Lady Starmouth spoke in the voice of one who finds herself in the most tiresome of dilemmas ‘– of course you haven’t given me offence! I’m merely annoyed with myself for not mentioning Loretta because, of course, it’s only natural that you should wonder why I left her out when I was prattling so freely about the Bishop’s past. However the truth’s very simple. I didn’t mention her because Alex hasn’t seen her since she returned to America in 1918 so she hardly qualifies now as one of his Lovely Ladies.’

‘She hasn’t visited England since then?’

There was another silence.

‘Forgive me, I’m being intolerably inquisitive –’

‘Pardonably inquisitive, you mean. Of course you’re wondering why I’m tying myself up in such knots.’ Suddenly and most unexpectedly she laughed. ‘Good heavens, anyone would think I had a guilty secret to hide whereas all I want to cover up is a little private embarrassment!’

‘Lady Starmouth, please don’t feel obliged to say another word! I’m only sorry that I –’

‘My dear young man, now you’re the one who’s behaving as if there’s a guilty secret to hide! I can see that the most sensible thing I can do is to enlighten you before you’re tempted to exercise a colourful imagination, but you must promise me you’ll be discreet. The story’s not scandalous, just sad, and I don’t want it repeated.’

‘I give you my word I shall hold everything you say in the strictest confidence.’

‘Very well, then let me say that Loretta has indeed returned to England for visits since the War, but she and Alex no longer have any communication with each other. I’m sorry to say that although Alex always treated her with absolute propriety Loretta fell in love with him and their platonic friendship went very disastrously wrong.’

II

‘Forgive me. Lady Starmouth,’ I said, ‘but in fact I’d been unable to resist wondering if Dr Jardine’s platonic friendships were just a little too good to be true. I still say that any clergyman who dabbles in close friendships with the opposite sex is playing with fire.’

‘Well, in this case I have to admit he got singed … Dr Ashworth, do sit down again – I find you disconcerting when you tower over me like this. It makes me feel I’m being interrogated.’

I sat down at once on the grass but she cut short my apology. ‘No, I know you’re not really interrogating me – it’s all my fault for encouraging your questions earlier, but before I close up like a clam let me just say a little more about Loretta so that you can see why for her sake I prefer to treat the incident as closed. She and I first met in 1917 but I’d heard about her for years because my mother, who was American, had been friends with her mother in childhood and they’d always kept in touch. When Loretta finally came to England she was in a terrible mess. She’d been married young to this man Staviski who was a diplomatist; when America entered the War he was transferred from Washington to London, and almost as soon as he and Loretta arrived in England the marriage went to pieces.’

‘He left her?’

‘She left him. But she was the innocent party – he’d made life quite impossible for her, so I had no hesitation in coming to her rescue. She stayed with us while she recovered, and of course she soon met Alex. Well, to cut a long story short I’ll just say that she was so successful at concealing her true feelings that for a long time neither Alex nor I had any idea she was in love with him, but eventually the truth surfaced and Alex was obliged to end the friendship. Loretta was dreadfully upset. I felt so sorry for her. It was all horribly awkward and pathetic, just as any unreciprocated attachment always is, and later we agreed never to speak of it again.’

‘What happened to her afterwards?’

‘When she returned to America she embarked on an academic career and now she teaches history at some college on the Eastern Seaboard. She’s never remarried but I still wonder if she might one day. She’s much younger than me, perhaps only a few years older than you, and although by fashionable standards she’s plain she’s by no means unattractive … However a lot of men don’t like a woman to be too clever.’

But I thought of Jardine, enjoying with Loretta Staviski all the intelligent conversation he was unlikely to encounter at home, and I was unable to resist saying: ‘Dr Jardine must have been sorry to lose her friendship – was he never tempted to see her again during her later visits to England?’

‘How could he? How could he possibly have renewed a friendship which had been so painful to her and so potentially dangerous for him?’

‘But was she herself never tempted to –’

‘This is an interrogation, isn’t it! My dear Dr Ashworth, aren’t you taking rather too much advantage of your very considerable charm?’

I privately cursed my recklessness and attempted to beat a smooth retreat. ‘I’m so sorry, Lady Starmouth, but many a clergyman has to deal occasionally with the sort of difficulty Dr Jardine faced here, and I’m afraid my personal interest in the subject got the better of me. I do apologize.’

She gave me a searching look but decided to be indulgent. ‘I’ve no objection to a sympathetic interest,’ she said, ‘but perhaps it’s lucky for you that I have a soft spot for clergymen … Heavens, here’s Mrs Cobden-Smith!’ Rising to her feet she folded the stool and picked up her artist’s satchel. ‘For your penance, Dr Ashworth, you can listen with an expression of rapturous attention to the stories of how she and the Colonel civilized India.’

‘You two seem to be having a very cosy little tête-à-tête!’ called Mrs Cobden-Smith as she approached us. ‘I’ve just been urging Carrie to get dressed. It’s no good lying in bed after a touch of insomnia – I told her to get up and have a busy day so that she’d be thoroughly tired by bed-time. I remember when I was in India –’

‘I was only saying to Dr Ashworth how interesting you were about India – but do excuse me, I must go and see Carrie myself,’ said Lady Starmouth, and escaped adroitly across the lawn.

My next witness had delivered herself to me with an admirable sense of timing. Fighting my reluctance I smiled at Mrs Cobden-Smith and suggested that we might sit on the garden bench to enjoy the sunshine.

III

‘It’s nice to sit down for a minute,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith. ‘I’ve been rushing around the town trying to buy horsemeat for the dog and the right cough-syrup for Willy. If Willy doesn’t have a dose of cough-syrup every night he coughs like a chimney-sweep and if George doesn’t have horsemeat three times a week he gets lazy – and talking of laziness, it seems you’ve been shirking your work, young man! I thought you were supposed to be closeted in the Cathedral library, not dancing attendance on Lady Starmouth! You’re as bad as Alex – he likes to dance attendance too, but of course in his case he’s just savouring the fact that Adam Jardine from Putney is now the clerical pet of a peeress. Did you know Alex spent the first thirty-seven years of his life being called Adam? It’s his first name. But when Carrie fell in love with him we said’ to her: “My dear,” we said, “you simply can’t marry a man called Adam Jardine – it sounds like a jobbing gardener!” So she found out his second name was Alexander and we rechristened him Alex. His stepmother was livid, I can’t think why.’

I finally had the chance to speak and I thought I had been offered a promising opening. ‘What a coincidence!’ I said. ‘Lady Starmouth was just telling me about Dr Jardine’s stepmother.’

‘Everyone was always rather appalled by the old girl,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith comfortably, quite uninhibited by any desire to be discreet about a dead relative of her husband’s brother-in-law. ‘She was a very strange woman – Swedish, and of course we all know the Scandinavians are peculiar. Look at their plays.’

I ignored this dismissal of the giants of the modern theatre. ‘But I’m told the Bishop was very fond of his stepmother.’

‘Devoted. Very odd. Carrie hated her, but when Alex’s sister died something had to be done about the old girl, who was by then confined to a wheelchair with arthritis and so of course Alex announced: “She’s coming to live with us!” Ghastly. Poor Carrie. I can’t tell you the havoc that decision caused.’

‘How did Mrs Jardine cope?’

‘You may well ask,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, using a phrase which I was soon to realize was a favourite of hers. ‘It was five years ago, just after the move to Starbridge from Radbury, and Carrie was going through the – well, it was an awkward time for her – and everything was at sixes and sevens. I said to Willy, “Carrie will have a nervous breakdown, I know she will”, but of course I’d reckoned without Miss Christie. The old girl took to Miss Christie in the biggest possible way, gave Carrie no trouble and died good as gold six months later. I said to Willy, “That girl Christie’s a miracle-worker”.’

‘Is there any problem Miss Christie can’t solve?’

‘You may well ask,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith a second time. ‘It was strange how she tamed the old girl, I must say. I remember it occurred to me once that there was a curious resemblance between them – not a resemblance in looks, of course – the old girl weighed a ton while Miss Christie’s so small and slim – but there was some odd resemblance of the personality. I suspect that the old girl, when she was young, had that same cool competence which Miss Christie now displays so noticeably. Alex’s real mother died when he was six, the father was left with eight children under twelve, or something frightful, and the stepmother restored order to the home – rather as Miss Christie pulled the Deanery together when she first came to Radbury.’

I was now offered a choice of two openings; I was tempted to ask about Radbury, but I was also curious to discover more about Jardine’s obscure background. Finally I said: ‘What happened to all the other little Jardines?’

‘One sister went mad and died in an asylum, three brothers went to the Colonies and died of drink or worse, one brother went bankrupt in London and hanged himself and the last brother simply disappeared. That left the younger sister, who eventually looked after the old girl, and Alex.’

‘Dr Jardine obviously had a miraculous survival!’

‘It was the hand of God,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith with that matchless confidence of the layman who always knows exactly what God has in mind. ‘Of course none of us knows for certain what went on in that family, but I’ve pieced a few lurid details together over the years and there’s no doubt the background was a nightmare. I used to talk to Alex’s sister Edith – a nice woman she was, terribly common but a nice woman – and she occasionally let slip the odd piece of information which made my hair stand on end.’

‘Lady Starmouth liked her too, said she’d had an awful life –’

‘Unspeakable. The father was a lunatic – never certified, unfortunately, but quite obviously potty. He suffered from religious mania and saw sin everywhere so he wouldn’t let his children go to school for fear they’d be corrupted.’

‘But how on earth did Dr Jardine get to Oxford?’

‘You may well ask,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith once more, enjoying her attentive audience. ‘It was the stepmother. She finally got him to school when he was fourteen and kept his nose to the grindstone until he’d won the scholarship.’

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘since Dr Jardine owed her so much, wasn’t it a rare and splendid piece of justice that she should spend her final days with him in his episcopal palace?’

‘I dare say it was,’ conceded Mrs Cobden-Smith with reluctance, ‘although Carrie didn’t see it that way at the time. Thank God Miss Christie tamed the old girl before poor Carrie could have another nervous breakdown!’

‘Another nervous breakdown? You mean – ?’

‘Dash, I shouldn’t have said that, should I, Willy would be cross. But on the other hand it’s an open secret that Carrie’s a prey to her nerves. I’ve often said to her in the past, “Carrie, you must make more effort – you simply can’t go to bed and give up!”. But I’m afraid she’s not the fighting kind. I’m quite different, I’m glad to say – I’m always fighting away and making efforts! When I was in India …’

I let her talk about India while I waited for the opening which would lead us back to the subject of Mrs Jardine’s nervous breakdown. The characters in Jardine’s past were revolving in my mind: the eccentric father, the doomed siblings, the surviving sister who had had ‘a ghastly way with a teacup’, the mysterious Swedish stepmother who had exerted such a vital influence – and then after the years of darkness, the years of light and a new world with new people: Carrie and the Cobden-Smiths, the subtle charming Lady Starmouth, the clever American girl struggling from the ruins of a disastrous marriage –

‘– disastrous marriage,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, remarking how fortunate it was that Carrie had avoided marrying an officer in the Indian Army. ‘She would never have survived the climate.’

‘No, probably not. Mrs Cobden-Smith, talking of survival –’

‘Of course, Carrie’s had a hard time surviving marriage to a clergyman,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, playing into my hands before I could risk a direct question about Mrs Jardine’s difficulties at Radbury, ‘although the ironic part is that in many ways she’s cut out to be a clergyman’s wife – everyone likes her and she’s a very good, devout, friendly little person, but she should have been the wife of an ordinary parson, not the wife of a fire-breathing adventurer who periodically runs amok through the Church of England. It’s a terrible tragedy there are no children. Of course children can drive one up the wall, I’m not sentimental about children, but they do give a marriage a focal point, and although Alex and Carrie are devoted to each other any stranger can see they don’t have much in common. How ghastly it was when that baby was born dead in 1918! No wonder Carrie went to pieces, poor thing.’

‘Was that when she had her nervous –’

‘Well, it wasn’t really a nervous breakdown,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith fluently. ‘I was exaggerating. A nervous breakdown means someone climbing the walls, doesn’t it, and having to be whisked away to a private nursing home, but Carrie’s collapse was quite different. She just lay weeping on a chaise longue all day and when she finally had the strength to leave it she started consulting spiritualists to see if she could get in touch with the dead child – terribly embarrassing for Alex, of course, to be a clergyman whose wife consulted spiritualists, so it was arranged that Carrie should have a little holiday with her parents in the country. That did her the world of good, thank God, and afterwards she was fine until they moved to Radbury.’

‘Someone did mention that she found the move a little difficult –’

‘Poor Carrie! If only Alex had been made vicar of some quiet little parish in the back of beyond! But no, off he went to Radbury to run that hulking great Cathedral, and Carrie found herself put on public display as Mrs Dean – hundreds of new people to meet, all the residents of the Cathedral Close watching critically to see if she made a mistake, new committees to master, endless dinner parties to organize, Mrs Bishop looking down her nose from the palace, all the Canons’ wives trying to interfere –’

‘When did Mrs Jardine make the decision to engage a companion?’

‘Alex made the decision, not Carrie. Carrie was soon in such a state that she couldn’t make any decisions at all – although of course,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘she wasn’t having a nervous breakdown. Not really. She just went shopping every day to buy things she didn’t need – I think it took her mind off her troubles – and when she wasn’t shopping she was always so tired that she had to stay in bed. However finally she bought some really frightful wallpaper – the last word in extravagance – and Alex decided she needed someone to keep an eye on her during her little shopping sprees. Miss Christie turned up and was an immediate success. Alex used to refer to her simply as “The Godsend”.’

‘The Bishop must have been concerned about his wife,’ I murmured, selecting an understatement in the hope of luring her into further indiscretions, but Mrs Cobden-Smith merely said: ‘Yes, he was,’ and shifted restlessly as if aware for the first time that a stranger might read into her frank comments rather more than she had intended to reveal. I suspected that like most people of little imagination she found it difficult to picture what was going on in any mind other than her own.

‘Where does Miss Christie come from?’ I said, changing the subject to soothe her uneasiness.

‘Rural Norfolk – one of those places where there’s lots of inbreeding and everyone talks in grunts. She has a clerical family background, of course.’

‘How suitable. But Mrs Cobden-Smith, one thing does puzzle me about Miss Christie: why has she never married?’

‘Ah!’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith. ‘That’s what we’d all like to know! There’s a rumour that she was once badly jilted, but I think she put that story in circulation to cover up a far less respectable reason for staying single.’

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘And what would that be?’

‘I strongly suspect,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘that Miss Christie has a lust for power.’

IV

The sense of an absurd anti-climax was so strong that I had to fight a desire to laugh but fortunately Mrs Cobden-Smith was more anxious to explain her theory than to see if I kept a straight face.

‘Of course the popular rumour,’ she was saying, ‘is that Miss Christie’s secretly in love with Alex, but that’s nonsense because I can’t see her being such a fool as to waste ten of the best years of her life being hopelessly in love with a married man. No, you mark my words, Dr Ashworth, she’s mad about power. Some women are; not all women want to marry, and I think Miss Christie simply loves being in charge here, running the palace, looking after Carrie, helping the Bishop, meeting all the Church dignitaries and all the aristocratic guests like the Starmouths. In my opinion,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith decisively. ‘Miss Christie’s merely an unusual example of a modern woman who’s wedded to her career.’

Having conquered my fou rire I could see now that Mrs Cobden-Smith’s theory was not so absurd as I had supposed; it was certainly more attractive than Lady Starmouth’s wild assertion of lesbianism. However before I could make any comment Mrs Cobden-Smith exclaimed: ‘Ah, there’s Carrie – downstairs in time for luncheon, thank God! And there’s Willy with George. Will you excuse me, Dr Ashworth? I must see George eats his horsemeat.’

She set off briskly across the lawn, and as soon as I was alone I became aware that I was uncomfortably hot. I decided to cool off in my room before lunch while I reviewed the evidence produced in such profusion by my interviews.

By the time I reached the terrace Mrs Cobden-Smith had disappeared with the Colonel and George, but Mrs Jardine was waiting for me with her warmest smile. Now that I knew more about her the smile seemed poignant, and again I was aware of reality submerging itself beneath illusion in the heat of that Starbridge noon.

‘How are you, Mrs Jardine?’ I said as I mounted the steps to the terrace. ‘I was sorry to hear you were feeling so tired.’

‘Oh, I’m much better now, thank you! So stupid about my insomnia, I must have had too much coffee by mistake last night, and then after I’d gone to bed I started thinking about your poor wife and the baby and … Well, you know how it is, I dare say, when one’s thoughts go round and round, especially in the early hours of the morning, and suddenly I felt so frightened, I don’t know why, I do get moments of panic sometimes, especially when the weather’s so hot. Do you think there might be a storm coming, Dr Ashworth? The air’s very sultry, so close and threatening, and I feel as if something dreadful’s going to happen.’

The sky was cloudless and although the air was hot there was little humidity. I said gently, ‘I agree it’s very warm – shall we go inside?’ and I gestured to indicate she should precede me into the house but Mrs Jardine hesitated, looking uncertainly up and down the terrace. ‘I was wondering if we should have drinks out here,’ she said, ‘but I can’t make up my mind. Alex never drinks at midday but my brother and sister-in-law do and so do the Starmouths. Do you drink at midday, Dr Ashworth?’

‘Not usually, no.’ Beyond the open French windows Miss Christie and the butler were entering the drawing-room. I heard Miss Christie say: ‘No, it’s too hot outside, Shipton,’ and the butler set down his tray of glasses on a side-table.

‘Lyle says it’s too hot out here,’ said Mrs Jardine, relieved that the decision had been taken out of her hands. She called to Miss Christie: ‘Dr Ashworth doesn’t drink cocktails at midday either, dear, so we’ll be one extra for lemonade.’

‘Yes, I’d anticipated that,’ said Miss Christie, coming out on to the terrace to join us. ‘Good morning again, Dr Ashworth. I hope you’ve been enjoying sunbathing in a clerical suit.’

‘I have indeed,’ I said. ‘In fact the morning’s been so enjoyable that I’m resolved to have an equally enjoyable afternoon. Will you come for a drive with me after lunch?’

Miss Christie had given an inch and I had taken a yard. At least no one could accuse me of wasting my opportunities, but Miss Christie showed signs of regretting the conceded inch. Without hesitation she said: ‘I’m not a free agent, Dr Ashworth. I have my duties here at the palace.’

‘Oh, but I shall only be resting this afternoon!’ protested Mrs Jardine. ‘Do go for a drive with Dr Ashworth, dearest – why not!’

‘Why not indeed?’ said a familiar harsh voice, and swinging round I found that Dr Jardine was watching me from the threshold of the drawing-room.

V

There was a pause. I glanced back at Miss Christie but she had already reached the practical decision that it was now less awkward to accept the invitation than to refuse it. She said politely: ‘Thank you. A drive would be very pleasant,’ and then she escaped past the Bishop into the drawing-room where the butler had just deposited a large jug of lemonade.

‘It’s abominably hot, isn’t it?’ said Jardine as I watched both the butler and Miss Christie disappear into the hall. ‘Carrie, you look on the verge of sunstroke. Come in at once.’

‘I feel so odd, Alex –’

‘I propose we launch an immediate assault on the iced lemonade.’

The shade of the drawing-room came as an exquisite relief, but as Mrs Jardine sat down on the edge of the sofa I noticed the nervous movements of her hands and sensed her tension more strongly than ever.

‘Well, Dr Ashworth!’ said Jardine, passing a glass of lemonade to his wife and holding out a second glass to me. ‘Do I assume that the glories of the Cathedral library left you cold? As far as I can gather you’ve spent the morning talking to one attractive woman and you now propose to spend the afternoon talking to another.’

I said with a smile, ‘Having spent well over an hour admiring the glories of the Cathedral library, I felt entitled to spend far less than an hour –’

‘– admiring the glories of Lady Starmouth. Quite.’ The Bishop was taking care to sound amused but I sensed his amusement was wafer-thin and I began to feel uneasy.

‘But I thought you were talking to Amy, not Lady Starmouth!’ said Mrs Jardine to me. She sounded abnormally confused.

‘Oh, Dr Ashworth’s been talking to just about everyone!’ said the Bishop, and I could now clearly hear the acid note in his voice. ‘He seems to be suffering from an ungovernable urge to display the gregarious side of his nature!’

‘He hasn’t been talking to me,’ said Colonel Cobden-Smith entering the room as I began to wonder if Lady Starmouth had lodged a complaint about my interrogation.

‘That’s because you’ve been exercising that unfortunate hound in this appalling heat and offering yourself as a candidate for a heart attack – and now I suppose you’ll say you want a pink gin!’

‘The heat’s so bad for everyone,’ said Mrs Jardine in an agony of anxiety before the Colonel could reply. ‘I’m sure there’s going to be a storm, but according to the weather forecast –’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Carrie!’ exclaimed the Bishop in a paroxysm of irritability. ‘Stop talking about the weather!’

Mrs Jardine began to cry.

‘Ye gods and little fishes,’ muttered Jardine as the Colonel and I stood transfixed, and yelled at the top of his voice: ‘Lyle!’

In walked Miss Christie. It was almost as if she had been waiting in the wings for her cue.

‘Lyle, Carrie can’t take this heat. Do something, would you?’ said the Bishop, and stooping awkwardly over his wife he kissed her before murmuring, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Darling,’ said Miss Christie to Mrs Jardine, ‘you must drink all your lemonade at once and then you’ll feel better. It’s very important to take lots of liquid in hot weather.’

Jardine remarked: ‘Maybe I should take lemonade regularly to prevent irascibility after an arid morning in my study. I’ve just been reading the latest crop of letters on the Marriage Bill from people who think I was the clergyman in charge of Edward VIII’s wedding, and I’m now wishing more fervently than ever that my deplorable namesake had been called by any name other than Jardine.’

This was a skilful attempt to manipulate the conversation back within the bounds of normality, but before a more relaxed atmosphere could be established Mrs Cobden-Smith swept in. ‘Willy, George won’t eat that horsemeat. Do you suppose – oh my goodness, what’s going on? Carrie dear, you simply must make more effort! I know the heat’s trying, but –’

‘Amy,’ said the Bishop, ‘would you kindly stop addressing my wife as if she were an Indian peasant ripe for civilization by the British Raj?’

‘Well, really, Alex!’

‘Mrs Cobden-Smith,’ said Miss Christie with unprecedented charm, ‘I wonder if you’d be terribly kind and help me take Carrie upstairs to lie down? You must have had such a broad experience of heatstroke in India and I’d so value your advice – should we call the doctor?’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, greatly mollified, ‘but perhaps she does need to lie down. Come along, Carrie.’

The chaplain then chose an unfortunate moment to rush into the room with bad news. ‘Bishop, the Archdeacon’s on the phone again and he’s in a frightful panic!’

‘Oh, hang the Archdeacon!’ exploded the Bishop. ‘And hang that abominable instrument the telephone!’ But he seized the chance to make a swift exit from the chaos caused by his irritability.

VI

I was surprised how quickly order was restored. Coaxed by Miss Christie, Mrs Jardine drank all her lemonade and said she felt better. The Starmouths arrived, and while they debated what to drink I could hear the Cobden-Smiths discussing George who presently made a lacklustre entrance. Miss Christie summoned the butler to replenish the lemonade jug, but before I had the chance to speak to her about our outing four guests appeared from various corners of the diocese and all opportunity for private conversation was curtailed.

Lunch passed smoothly if tediously. I busied myself by being sociable with a large matron whose favourite topic of conversation was the Mothers’ Union, and although Miss Christie never looked in my direction I occasionally caught Lady Starmouth’s sympathetic glance across the table.

However, by half-past two the party had dispersed and I was preparing in my bedroom for a country excursion far removed from a clerical duty. Off came my clergyman’s uniform. Having pulled on my coolest informal clothes I unbuttoned my shirt at the neck, adjusted the angle of my hat and once more turned to survey my image in the long glass. Immediately I wondered if I had gone too far with the informality; I fancied I looked like a commercial traveller taking a rest from hawking some dubious product, but when I decided to wear a tie I felt much too hot. Shoving the tie back in the drawer I undid the top button of my shirt again and made up my mind that I looked exactly what I was: an off-duty clergyman about to take a pretty woman for a drive in the country.

But then I looked in the glass and saw the spy beyond the clergyman, the image beyond the image, and beyond the spy was yet another man, the image beyond the image beyond the image. Reality blurred; fantasy and truth became inextricably intertwined. I told myself I had imagined the distant stranger but as I felt my personality begin to divide I covered my face with my hands.

Sinking to my knees by the bed I whispered: ‘Lord, forgive me my sins. Deliver me from evil. Help me to serve you as well as I can.’ After that I felt calmer, and when I glanced again in the glass I found that the off-duty clergyman was now the only visible image. He was wearing a severe expression as if to stress that I had no business to let the heat addle my brain, and immediately erasing all morbid thoughts from my mind, I set off to meet Miss Christie.

FIVE

‘Experience has made it certain that the clergyman’s wife must either throw in her lot unreservedly with her husband’s difficult and distinctive career, and reap her reward with a range and depth of personal influence which are unequalled in the case of any other married woman, or she must separate herself from his work and life with consequences ruinous both to his success and to her own credit, and, we must add, to the happiness of both.’

HERBERT HENSLEY HENSON

Bishop of Durham 1920–1939

The Bishoprick Papers

I

Miss Christie was wearing a pale-green short-sleeved frock, which exposed her slim arms, and flat white sandals, which emphasized her slender ankles. Other fleshier curves were erotically concealed beneath the prim cut of her frock. She was sheltering beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.

‘Trying not to be recognized?’ I said as we met in the hall.

‘I might ask you the same question!’

‘Well, at least you haven’t said –’

‘– “Oh, how different you look out of your clericals!”’

We laughed, and as I led the way outside to my car it occurred to me that if Miss Christie could cope with every conceivable crisis in an episcopal household she could cope with a Doctor of Divinity who was mad enough to be afraid of his own reflection. Conscious of relief, happiness, nervous anticipation and sexual desire in pleasantly stimulating proportions I decided the afternoon was going to be a success.

Miss Christie suggested that we might drive to Starbury Ring, a megalithic stone circle high on the Downs, and after she had directed me out of the city we headed up the valley to the north. The surrounding hills curved with a voluptuous smoothness in the limpid afternoon light. Leaving the main road we passed some farms and once were trapped behind a slow-moving cart, but otherwise nothing deflected our attention from the steadily unfolding views.

Suddenly Miss Christie said, ‘I ought to take Mrs Jardine for a drive like this. It would do her good. We could even take a picnic and disappear for an entire afternoon.’

‘What about the Bishop?’

‘Oh, I’d leave him behind. He hates eating alfresco. His idea of relaxation is to write a letter to The Times.’

‘I hear that was how he made his name before he became Vicar of St Mary’s, Mayfair.’

‘Yes, he didn’t have much else to do when he was a chaplain in North London.’

I saw the chance to pursue my investigation. ‘No one’s yet explained to me,’ I said, ‘why he was living in such obscurity before the translation to Mayfair. What happened to him after he was ordained?’

‘He was given a parish in this diocese – in the slums of Starmouth. He stayed there for seven years and made a success of it, but it was desperately hard work and in the end his health broke down.’

‘That often happens to clergymen in sordid parishes,’ I said, and the next moment I was remembering my friend Philip’s accusation that I lived in an ivory tower. Some guilty impulse drove me to add: ‘However, you mustn’t think I speak from experience. I’m afraid my ministry’s always been among the affluent.’

‘Christ preached to the rich as well as the poor, didn’t he?’ Miss Christie said composed. ‘And Dr Jardine says that spiritually the rich can be just as impoverished as any family on the dole.’

I glanced at her with gratitude but she was looking out of the side-window at the curving hills. After a pause I said, ‘Tell me more about Dr Jardine – what happened when his health broke down?’

‘On the doctor’s advice he resigned his living and borrowed the money to take a long holiday. The rest helped but he still didn’t think his health could stand the strain of another parish so he decided to do some writing and research at Oxford. I expect you know he’s a Fellow of All Souls. However his financial difficulties in those days were so acute that he had to have some sort of benefice, and finally the Warden of All Souls got him this obscure hospital chaplaincy in North London – the living was in the gift of the College.’

‘I gather Dr Jardine had considerable family obligations in Putney.’

‘He was supporting his father, his stepmother and his two sisters,’ said Miss Christie drily. ‘Although he didn’t starve he was hardly well nourished. However the chaplaincy suited him – the hospital was very small, no more than a large alms-house, and as there wasn’t much work to do he used to spend the days in the middle of the week up at Oxford. He wrote some articles, preached various guest-sermons – he already had a reputation as a preacher – and sent letters regularly to The Times. Eventually, without Dr Jardine’s knowledge, the Warden of All Souls approached Mr Asquith, who was then Prime Minister, and asked him if something could be done to improve the situation since it was obvious that Dr Jardine’s health was quite restored. Mr Asquith had been enjoying the letters to The Times and he immediately remembered that the new vacancy at St Mary’s was in the gift of the Crown.’

‘That’s what we clergymen call an edifying story,’ I said. ‘After many vicissitudes the good get their reward.’

‘I can’t see why you should sound so envious,’ said Miss Christie as if she felt she had been too friendly and was now obliged to redress the balance. ‘You’re obviously in line for the choicest of bishoprics.’

‘You think so?’ I said. ‘I’m flattered. But do you honestly believe I’m fit to be a bishop just because I’ve published a book on the Early Church and can survive at Cambridge Cathedral without quarrelling with the Dean?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to judge your fitness, Dr Ashworth. I leave that to God and Dr Lang.’

I knew I had to demonstrate that I was not prepared to tolerate an asperity drummed up by a guilt that we should be getting on so well. Grinding the car to a halt I switched off the engine, swivelled to face her and demanded, ‘Why the hostility?’

She went white. At first I thought she was white with anger but then I realized she was white with alarm. When she protested, ‘I’m not hostile!’ I said at once, ‘No – so why pretend?’ and leaning forward I kissed her on the mouth.

This was fast behaviour for a gentleman on a sedate afternoon drive with a lady he had known less than twenty-four hours, and for a clergyman the behaviour was so fast that I felt I was travelling at the speed of light. Indeed my speed so stunned Miss Christie that for the first five seconds after our lips touched she behaved as if she were paralysed. Five seconds is a long time when two mouths are joined in a kiss. However on the sixth second the response came, and contrary to my expectations the response was far from hostile. Her mouth opened beneath mine. At once I pulled her closer, but the next moment she was shoving me aside and with reluctance I let her go. Her face was no longer white but a pale pink. I had no idea what colour my face was but I felt as if I had run a hundred yards at high speed, and my mind was swirling not only with thoughts of empty champagne glasses but with images of bright swords, dark tunnels and other ambiguous objects blighted for all time by Freud.

Miss Christie smoothed her skirt – which I had not touched – and as she did so I noticed that she wore a signet-ring on the third finger of her left hand. Finally she said, ‘We met yesterday for the first time. We’re not even on Christian-name terms. Aren’t you behaving a little curiously for a clergyman?’

‘At least I now know you well enough to call you Lyle.’

‘Dr Ashworth –’

‘My name’s Charles. Yes, of course I’m behaving curiously for a clergyman, but whenever someone makes a remark which implies a clergyman should be some sort of stainless-steel saint I want to quote Shylock’s speech from The Merchant of Venice – you know the one, the speech where he says he bleeds and suffers just as other people do –’

‘Well, I wasn’t implying –’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘Dr Ashworth –’

‘Charles.’

‘– I’m afraid I’m simply not a candidate for a whirlwind romance –’

‘No, don’t pretend you’re not interested in me! I saw you listening with bated breath last night when Lady Starmouth asked if I had a wife!’

‘I –’

‘Look.’ I adopted my calmest, most rational manner. ‘I could proceed in the conventional way. I could pay you nice, safe little compliments and write you harmless little billets-doux and send you flowers and come down to Starbridge every fortnight to take you out to tea – I could do all that; I’m perfectly capable of behaving like a gentleman and playing the game according to the rules, but where would it get me? Absolutely nowhere. I found that out last night when I made that mild approach and you dodged away around the coffee-cups. Well, dodging around the coffee-cups may be great fun for you, but frankly I’m not prepared to be treated as a minor inconvenience. I want to get to know you very much better as soon as possible – which is why I suggested this drive –’

‘Then why aren’t we driving? I don’t want to spend all afternoon in front of this five-barred gate while you regale me with impassioned nonsense!’

I started the engine and we drove on.

II

Within minutes we had emerged on to a broad plateau, and ahead I could see a track leading away from the road towards the ridge which marked the summit of the Downs.

‘Stop the car on the verge by that path,’ said Lyle. ‘This is where we begin the trek to the Ring.’

‘There’s no need to sound as if you wished you were chaperoned!’ I said lightly as I halted the car once more. ‘Now that I’ve defined exactly where I stand I promise I’ll behave like a stainless-steel saint for a couple of hours.’

‘What happens after a couple of hours?’

‘We’ll be back at the palace and you can hide behind the Bishop.’

As I opened the passenger door she said, ‘You’re very interested in the Bishop, aren’t you?’

‘Is there anyone in the Church of England who isn’t?’

We set off up the track. I wanted to hold her hand but I exercised an immaculate self-discipline and kept my fists shoved deep in my pockets. However I was not dissatisfied with my progress. At least she had neither slapped my face nor called me a cad nor demanded to be returned immediately to Starbridge.

‘If you want to know me better,’ she said at last, ‘why don’t you set the pace by helping me to know more about you? Most men usually can’t wait to recite their life-histories, but you seem peculiarly reticent.’

‘I didn’t intend this to be a history lesson. I’d rather talk about the present.’

‘What’s wrong with your past?’

‘It’s boring. I was born in the right county in the right residential neighbourhood of one of the right towns. My father has the right sort of profession and my mother indulges in the right sort of hobbies. I went to the right schools and the right university, got myself ordained at the right age and began my right career at the right time with the right man. Then I taught at the right places, wrote the right book and eventually became a Canon of the right cathedral. It’s all very dull, isn’t it? Dr Jardine’s past is so much more interesting than mine.’

All Lyle said was, ‘You’ve left out the right marriage to the right wife.’

‘So I have. Careless of me. I suppose that was because she did the wrong thing and died.’

We walked on. The sun blazed on the grassy hills dotted with sheep, and as we moved towards the summit of the ridge the view began to expand in every direction. It was uncannily quiet.

At last Lyle said, ‘You don’t give much away.’

‘Does anyone, even the people who rush to recite the carefully selected facts of their life at tedious length?’ I was trying to establish a line of conversation which would tempt her to rebut my argument with disclosures about herself, but she merely said with detachment, ‘I agree that the exact truth about people is usually impossible to know, but I think most of the time one can make an accurate guess about what goes on.’ She paused to look back across the valley behind us. ‘Take the Starmouths, for example,’ she said. ‘The Earl’s a good decent Englishman of the old school who takes a conscientious interest in his estates, does his bit for the country by a regular attendance at the House of Lords, and is devoted to his wife and children. Lady Starmouth probably gets a bit bored with him but she’s fundamentally good and decent too so she doesn’t rattle around like a society hostess but amuses herself instead with the safest class of men – clergymen, who have a strong stake in sticking to the proprieties. Now, I’m not saying this is the exact truth about either of the Starmouths, but I think the odds are I’ve given you an accurate thumbnail sketch. I mean, I don’t seriously believe, do you, that Lady Starmouth is a secret drug-fiend while the Earl keeps a mistress in St John’s Wood?’

‘Lady Starmouth is certainly not a secret drug-fiend. But –’ I thought of the Earl’s candid admiration of Loretta ‘– I don’t think I’m as sure as you are about that mistress in St John’s Wood. Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s impossible to make reliable guesses about anyone’s intimate life.’ Without looking at her directly I was nevertheless poised to analyse her reaction.

But she merely said, ‘Isn’t the Earl a little old for fun and games in St John’s Wood?’

‘He might consider a mistress rejuvenating. But no,’ I said with a smile as we moved on again towards the summit of the ridge, ‘I confess I don’t really believe the Earl has a secret love-life any more than I believe Lady Starmouth is burning to seduce the Bishop.’

She laughed. ‘Lady Starmouth’s whole success with the Bishop lies in the fact that she at least would never play the over-passionate female in his company!’

‘Are there so many over-passionate females besieging Dr Jardine?’

Lyle suddenly chose to treat the subject seriously. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘A bishop’s more on a pedestal than an ordinary clergyman, but there were one or two very tricky women when he was Dean of Radbury, and apparently when he was Vicar of St Mary’s he was forever fending off society women who were far less principled than Lady Starmouth.’

I said equally seriously, to show that I understood the problems which could exist for certain clergymen, ‘But surely troublesome women reserve their most ardent attentions for bachelors?’

‘Oh, no doubt life became fractionally less hectic once he was married but unfortunately many women even today are tempted to write Mrs Jardine off as insignificant and imagine that the Bishop’s languishing in an unhappy marriage. However that’s rubbish, of course. The Jardines may seem to a stranger to be ill-assorted but anyone who knows them well will tell you they’re devoted to each other. It’s an attraction of opposites.’

We had reached the top of the ridge while she was speaking, and as we paused to survey the view we found that the outlines of the landscape soon faded into the heat-haze. Abandoning the obscure prospect across the valley I turned my attention to Starbury Ring which was now visible less than fifty yards away. The Ring consisted of two dozen tall rocks, planted several thousand years ago for purposes which were no longer known but which at once conjured up images in my mind of human sacrifices and other horrors of heathen worship. I thought how comforting it would be to believe that all bloodstained idolatry in Europe now lay sealed in the past, and for a moment I wished I were a Victorian who still had faith in the doctrine of progress. How delightful it must have been to look forward with confidence to the time when mankind would have achieved its inevitable perfection! How soothing to be able to picture an immanent, cosily accessible God who could be known with the aid of reason and a good education! But now the War had destroyed the illusion of progress, bloodstained idolatry was once more invading Europe, and the powerful mind of Karl Barth had perceived that God was remote, utterly transcendent, capable of being known only by revelation.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said suddenly to Lyle. ‘The sight of pagan stones sent me off at a theological tangent. You were saying the Jardines were devoted to each other –’

‘Yes, Mrs Jardine adores the Bishop, and the Bishop, like all men, adores being adored. Of course she gets on his nerves occasionally – well, you saw that this morning, didn’t you? – but on the whole he considers a little irritation a small price to pay for a wife who’s genuinely good, very popular and thoroughly loyal to him in every way.’

‘The Bishop seems to have a most remarkable talent for surrounding himself with adoring women!’

‘The talent’s probably developed in reaction to his bleak childhood. Adoration was in short supply then.’

‘I thought he had a devoted stepmother?’

‘She wasn’t demonstrative. Until he was eighteen he hadn’t a clue how she felt.’

‘What happened when he was eighteen?’

‘He went up to Oxford, and when he said goodbye to her she cried. It was her supreme moment of triumph, you see. She’d singled him out as the best of the bunch and put him on the road to Oxford, but he’d always thought he was just a hobby for her as she had no children of her own.’ Lyle paused before adding: ‘I think probably in the beginning he really was just a hobby for her, but after a while she found that her ambition for him gave her the determination to endure a difficult marriage. “It was worth it all for Adam,” she said to me at the end of her life. She used to call him Adam. She hated the name Alex, thought it was frivolous, a nasty affectation of the Cobden-Smiths. “Adam’s not really Alex,” she said to me once. “Alex is just a mask, and beyond the mask there’s the Adam nobody knows except me.” That was a sinister thing to say, wasn’t it? I look at the Bishop sometimes and think: there’s an Adam in there somewhere! What a mysterious thing personality is, how eerie, how unfathomable …’

We were now standing in the middle of the stone circle. The stones themselves, stark and dark beneath their green-brown lichen, heightened the mystery of the Ring as it stood in that empty landscape, and seemed to bring the remote past deep into the present. I felt as if the Druids were brushing shoulders with Karl Barth as one bloodstained century merged into another in defiance of any conventional conception of time.

‘This seems an appropriate place to discuss mysteries,’ I said, ‘and particularly the mystery of personality. Let’s sit down for a moment.’

When we were chastely settled two feet apart in the shadow of one of the stones I offered her a cigarette. ‘Do you smoke?’

‘Only in my bedroom. But if you’re going to have a treat I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one too.’

‘You look like the kind of woman who smokes “Craven A”.’

‘Oh, so you see me as an adventuress!’

‘Let’s just say I have trouble seeing you as a companion in a clerical household.’ As I lit our cigarettes I noticed that her hands were small and that the large signet-ring emphasized the delicate curve of her finger. The skin on the inside of her wrist was very white.

‘Are you sure you’re not going to pounce on me again?’ she said after her first puff. ‘You’ve got a pounce-ish look.’

‘That’s because you’re so pounce-worthy. Now stop egging me on by putting impure thoughts in my head and tell me more about this Swedish stepmother. I’m interested in the influence she must have had on Dr Jardine.’

III

‘I first met her at Radbury,’ said Lyle. ‘She visited the Jardines there a couple of times, but then travel became too difficult because of her arthritis. The Bishop used to visit her in Putney whenever he could but I myself never saw her again until she came to live with us in Starbridge at the end of her life.’

‘It’s nice to think she ended her days with her Adam in his palace.’

‘Another edifying tale? Yes, I suppose it was, although the situation wasn’t entirely a bed of roses because poor Carrie was terrified of her stepmother-in-law. However,’ said Lyle, effortlessly glossing over the crisis which had shaken the palace to its foundations, ‘we all got on very well in the end. Old Mrs J. had decided that God was giving her a chance to redeem her previous coldness towards Carrie.’

‘She was religious?’

‘Yes, she’d been a Lutheran originally, like so many Swedes, but she’d been married to a man who thought institutional religion was rubbish, so she hadn’t been a regular churchgoer.’

‘But I thought Dr Jardine’s father was a religious fanatic!’

‘The fanaticism took an anti-clerical form. He thought all clergymen were instruments of the Devil.’

‘How extraordinarily difficult for Dr Jardine!’

‘Being married to a religious crank was hardly easy for old Mrs J.!’

‘Did she confide in you? It sounds as if she did.’

‘Yes, she enjoyed telling a sympathetic stranger about all the ghastliness she’d endured in the old days so that “her Adam”, as you called him, should survive his appalling home. Her first big battle was to get him to school. Old Mr J. thought schools were sinks of iniquity.’

‘He certainly sounds the most tiresome husband. Did she never consider abandoning Putney and bolting for Sweden? Or did her religious beliefs, such as they were, make an escape out of the question?’

‘There’s no doubt religious belief played a large part in her decision to stay – she became convinced she’d been sent into the family in order to save that child. “I felt it was a call from God,” she said. “I felt no other action was possible.”’

‘But surely once Dr Jardine was grown up – once he’d got to Oxford –’

‘Then the really ghastly problems began. The scholarship only covered his fees, and the beastly old father wouldn’t give him any money for his keep. Old Mrs J. used to starve herself so that she could send money from her housekeeping allowance – the old man only climbed down when she was half-dead with hunger.’

I said amazed, ‘But wasn’t the old man pleased that his son was up at Oxford?’

‘He thought all universities were dens of vice. However the Bishop survived and was awarded not only a first but a fellowship of All Soul’s –’

‘Happy ending!’

‘Good heavens, no – quite the reverse! Old Mr J. then said, “I’ve kept you all these years – now it’s time for you to keep me!” and it turned out that as he’d been living beyond his means for years while he pursued a life of gentlemanly idleness, his capital was now exhausted.’

‘What an old scoundrel! So Dr Jardine had to keep the family on the income from his fellowship?’

‘Yes, for a time he didn’t think he could afford to go into the Church but eventually he made the decision to be ordained –’

‘– and of course the old man disapproved.’

‘I gather the two of them nearly killed each other.’

I said appalled, ‘But couldn’t the old man see his son was opting for a good straight decent life?’

‘Oh, he never thought his son would succeed in living decently, no matter what profession he chose. The old man saw him sinking inevitably into corruption.’

‘But this must have been terrible for Dr Jardine!’ I was now having trouble finding the words to express my horror, and Lyle was looking at me in surprise. ‘Terrible – monstrous – intolerable –’

‘It got worse. The Bishop became vicar of the slum parish in Starmouth, and as he was unable to afford to marry and as he desperately needed a housekeeper he turned for help to his father, who was sitting in Putney being waited on hand and foot by a wife and two unmarried daughters. However old Mr J. refused to let either of the girls go to look after their brother. He had an obsession with female purity and thought they’d be ravished the moment they left his household.’

‘But surely if the Bishop was supporting them all he had the whip-hand?’

‘The old man still wouldn’t budge. Said he’d rather starve than risk his daughters becoming fallen women.’

‘Didn’t the girls have any say in the matter?’

‘Don’t be silly, this was well before the War and he’d ruled them with a rod of iron for years!’

‘No wonder one sister went mad!’

‘Mrs J. thought she’d go mad herself, but of course she came to the rescue. She said to the old villain, “If you won’t let either of those girls go, I’ll go”, and when he still clung to the girls she went.’

I dropped my cigarette and scuffled to retrieve it before it could burn a hole in my trousers. ‘But how could Dr Jardine, as a clergyman, justify depriving a husband of his wife?’

‘Oh, the old man wasn’t too deprived – she used to go home for a visit every fortnight. Besides, neither she nor Dr Jardine believed, when she originally went to Starmouth, that the arrangement would be other than temporary; they thought the old man would eventually release one of the girls, but as he wasn’t rational on the subject he didn’t.’

‘So she stayed on?’

‘Yes, she loved it after the gloom and doom of Putney. She involved herself in parish work, met new people –’

‘But what happened –’

‘– in the end? She went back. The elder sister began to go insane, and Mrs J. felt morally bound to go home since her husband’s need for her had become acute. However once she’d gone Dr Jardine couldn’t cope; he was already exhausted by the parish and he couldn’t withstand the loss of her help.’

‘So when he lost her he broke down!’

‘What an extremely ambiguous statement! All I meant was –’

‘What happened next in Putney?’

‘I’ve no idea. Mrs J. skated over that, but a year later the sister died in an asylum and the old man went senile. Old Mrs J. told me placidly it was the judgement of God.’

‘How did the Bishop deal with the new crisis?’

‘By that time he was in North London. The house allocated to the hospital chaplain was small but he rescued his father, stepmother and surviving sister and squeezed them in somehow. The father died six months later. Then old Mrs J. and the sister lived with the Bishop till his marriage.’

I decided it would be politic to prove to her that my mind did not always leap to the most dubious conclusions. ‘I can’t quite see why old Mrs J. made such a fuss about that marriage,’ I said innocently. ‘Surely she wanted her stepson to make a good marriage as soon as he could afford to do so?’

‘She didn’t look upon it as a good marriage. Carrie only had a hundred a year. Also Carrie was a bit old – thirty-two. Mrs J. thought that was suspicious, wanted to know why she hadn’t got off the shelf earlier … But of course the real truth was that although Mrs J. wanted her stepson to marry, no girl was ever going to be good enough in her estimation.’

‘Obviously it was for the best that she decided not to live with them after the marriage. But wasn’t she tempted to move closer to Dr Jardine once he left Mayfair? Radbury’s a long way from Putney.’

‘She was afraid of quarrelling with Carrie. That was why she stayed away until she was too infirm to stay away any more.’

‘I see now,’ I said, unable to resist angling for an indiscretion by using a suggestive remark as bait, ‘that the Starbridge finale isn’t just an edifying resolution of the problem of old Mrs Jardine – it even qualifies as a romantic ending.’

Lyle immediately looked annoyed. ‘It was a happy ending, certainly,’ she said in the tone of voice of someone who considers romance a breach of taste. ‘But romantic? That makes a complex and remarkable relationship seem banal.’

‘Have you got some grudge against romance?’

‘Of course – it’s the road to illusion, isn’t it?’ said Lyle carelessly. ‘Any realist knows that.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I think it’s time we went back to the car – you’ve got that pounce-ish look again.’

‘I suppose you do realize, don’t you,’ I said, extinguishing my own cigarette, ‘that you’re pushing me back with one hand yet beckoning me on with the other?’ And before she had time to protest I had taken her in my arms.

IV

This time I did not have the advantage of surprise and she had her defences firmly in place. As I pulled her towards me she said: ‘No!’ in a voice which precluded argument and shoved me aside as she scrambled to her feet.

I caught up with her halfway across the Ring but before I could speak she swung to face me and demanded, ‘What exactly are you up to? You take me for a drive so that you can get to know me better and yet all you do is ask questions about the Bishop!’

‘But I do know you better now! I know you smoke cigarettes in your bedroom, think romance is the invention of the Devil and have a profound admiration for that formidable lady, the late Mrs Jardine!’

‘I wish I’d never told you about her!’ said Lyle furiously. ‘It’s obvious you think she had some sort of obscene passion for her stepson –’

‘Wouldn’t “romantic affection” be a more accurate description?’

‘It was not a romance!’

‘Not in a tawdry conventional sense, no. But she sacrificed her life for his, didn’t she, and isn’t that really the unsurpassable romantic gesture? Dickens certainly thought so when he wrote A Tale of Two Cities but no one’s yet accused Sydney Carton of an obscene passion for Charles Darnay.’

‘I thought Carton sacrificed himself for Lucy’s sake, not just for Darnay’s. Maybe you should start rereading Dickens!’

‘Maybe you should start redefining romance. Cigarette?’

‘Thanks. I feel I need one after that exchange.’

When our cigarettes were alight we wandered on across the ridge. The Ring disappeared behind us as the track led over the brow of the hill, and in the distance we could see my car, crouched like a black beetle beside the dusty ribbon of the road.

‘I did admire old Mrs J.,’ said Lyle, ‘because I knew what hell she’d been through for the Bishop, but I have to admit she could be an awful old battle-axe. During her two visits to Radbury she reduced Carrie to pulp, and what was worse she used to enjoy it. Poor Carrie!’

‘You’re very fond of Mrs Jardine, aren’t you?’

‘She’s the sort of mother I always wanted. My own mother was an invalid – she had a weak heart – and it made her very querulous and self-absorbed.’

‘And your father?’

‘He was a soldier, one of the clever ones, very quick and bright and tough. He was killed in the War, of course, like all the best soldiers, and when my mother died in sympathy I went to Norfolk to live with my great-uncle. He was an ancient vicar who took me in out of Christian charity because no one else wanted me.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Twelve. It was 1914. You were wondering about my present age, weren’t you?’

‘Now that I know you’re thirty-five allow me to tell you that I’m thirty-seven. How did you find Norfolk?’

‘Dreadfully dull. I ended up writing my great-uncle’s sermons just to stave off the boredom.’

‘You don’t write Dr Jardine’s sermons, do you, by any chance?’

She laughed. ‘Not yet!’

We strolled on down the track. ‘Nevertheless,’ I said, ‘you’ve been described to me as the real power at the palace. How would the Jardines get on if you left?’

‘Oh, but I’m not leaving,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘How lucky for the Jardines! But where does that leave you?’

‘Exactly where I want to be – looking after my adopted mother and running the palace for the Bishop. I’m not interested in doing anything else.’

‘No, obviously there’s no time for other interests,’ I said. ‘Keeping that marriage glued together must be a very all-consuming occupation.’

She stopped dead. I stopped too, and as we faced each other I knew I had caught her off her guard.

‘Don’t misunderstand,’ I said swiftly. ‘I’m not calling you a liar. Earlier you made it plain that the marriage, despite its surface irritations, was a happy one involving that well-known phenomenon the attraction of opposites, and I see no reason to disbelieve that. Lady Starmouth also told me she thought the marriage was a success. But its success depends on you, doesn’t it? If you weren’t there to do all the things Mrs Jardine can’t do, the marriage would go to pieces along with Mrs Jardine – just as it did at Radbury before you arrived with your jar of glue to stick the pieces together again. Well, it’s always gratifying to one’s self-esteem to feel that one’s indispensable, but do you really think that once the Jardines are dead and you’re on your own at last you won’t look back and regret a lifetime of missed opportunities? Or are you simply going to say, as old Mrs Jardine said at the end of her life, “It was worth it all for Adam”?’

She was so pale that for the first time I noticed the faint freckles across her cheekbones. It was impossible not to conclude that I had shot an arrow into the dark and scored a bull’s eye, but all she said in the end was a stony, ‘I don’t call him Adam.’

‘Well, I should hope you don’t call him Alex either,’ I said, ‘or my imagination would really run riot. I’ve noticed he calls you Lyle whenever he isn’t referring to you as Miss Christie and I suppose it’s natural enough after ten years that he should follow his wife’s example in treating you as a highly favoured employee, but I’d certainly raise an eyebrow if you started calling him by his Christian name.’

‘Oh, shut up! You’ve made quite enough snide remarks for one afternoon!’

‘I thought I was making some intelligent observations in an attempt to solve the mystery!’

‘What mystery?’

‘The mystery you present to any man who admires you, the mystery of why you’re content to go through life as a mere companion –’

‘I’m beginning to think you’re the real mystery here, Charles Ashworth, with your interest in the Bishop and your Don Juan manners and the wife you won’t talk about and the past you gloss over so smoothly! Why are you going through this elaborate charade of making torrid passes at me?’

‘It’s no charade. I knew as soon as we met yesterday that I was deeply attracted to you –’

‘That’s the most unreal opening a sentence could have! You know nothing about me! You’re obviously deep in a romantic fantasy!’

‘Why don’t you tell me about this broken engagement of yours which has given you such a horror of romance?’

‘I’m telling you nothing more!’ She was taut with anger. ‘Take me home at once, please – I find this entire conversation deeply offensive!’

We walked on in silence, she hurrying as fast as she could without breaking into a run, I lengthening my stride to keep pace with her. At the car I said, ‘I’m extremely sorry if I’ve given you offence but please believe me when I say my admiration for you is genuine.’

‘I don’t want your admiration.’ Wrenching open the door she collapsed in a heap on the passenger seat; evidently I had shocked her to the core.

V

We did not speak throughout the journey back to Starbridge but as I halted my car in the palace drive I said, ‘Please give my apologies to Mrs Jardine and say I won’t be making an appearance at tea. I must do some work in my room on my St Anselm notes.’

‘Very well.’ She had regained her composure and although she was still pale her voice was calm.

I wondered how long it would take her to decide – greatly against her better judgement, of course – that she wanted me to make another pounce.

VI

Upstairs in the cavernous Victorian bathroom I filled the bath to the halfway mark with cold water and sat in it for a while as I sluiced away both the sweat of my afternoon’s exertions and my very carnal thoughts on the subject of Miss Lyle Christie. Then I returned to my room, pulled on some underclothes and cast an eye over my St Anselm notes, but the glance was a mere formality. I wanted only to give a veneer of truth to my statement that I was missing tea in order to work, and eventually, my conscience assuaged, I began to imagine what I would have said to the Archbishop if he had appeared beside me and demanded a progress report.

I now knew very much more about Jardine than I had known before my arrival and I was certainly well on my way to building up a psychological portrait which would enable Lang to decide whether his enemy was the kind of man who could be disastrously exploited by Fleet Street, but I had still elicited no information about Lang’s chief worries, the journal and the possible existence of indiscreet correspondence. I myself was now convinced that Jardine was far too shrewd to commit epistolary indiscretions, but the journal remained an unknown quantity. No one had mentioned it to me yet, but this silence was hardly surprising if the journal were a long-standing hobby which everyone took for granted.

I meditated on the subject for a while but came to the conclusion that Jardine would have been unlikely to use the journal as a confessional during the lifetime of his stepmother. Why confide in an impersonal notebook when one had a confidante who provided limitless sympathy and understanding? I could imagine him tossing off some lines in a frenzy if his stepmother had been inaccessible, but I was sure that a ruthless censorship would have taken place once the sympathetic understanding had been obtained.

I then asked myself if he might have used the journal as a confessional since his stepmother’s death, but all my witnesses had testified that after the upheaval surrounding old Mrs Jardine’s arrival in Starbridge Jardine’s life had been unpunctuated by crises; possibly no confessional had been required. The chaplain had said Jardine had been getting on better with Lyle; Lady Starmouth had remarked that a spacious palace made it easier for a married couple to live in close proximity to a third party; Mrs Cobden-Smith had implied that by this time Lyle had been at her zenith as a miracle-worker. I suddenly remembered my friend Philip saying that Jardine had seemed distrait during the first year of his episcopate, and this observation from a stranger harmonized with the facts I now knew: the rocky start to the Starbridge career followed by years when Jardine was able to pursue his calling against a background of tranquillity. I decided that the journal was probably as dull as sackcloth and quite unworthy of a reduction to ashes.

At this point I paused in my meditations to light a cigarette but as I shook out the match my thoughts once more turned to the Lovely Ladies. I had already decided that because of the Bishop’s psychological constraint on the subject of class I could tell Lang with confidence that there was no risk of any scandal with an aristocratic Englishwoman, and although the incident with the foreigner Loretta Staviski could certainly be regarded with suspicion, I had believed Lady Starmouth when she had vouched for Jardine’s good behaviour. Jardine was popular with the ladies; that sort of clergyman always risked fatally attracting a parishioner, but in the vast majority of cases the clergyman was innocent of misconduct and I was sure that Jardine, newly married and no doubt burning to make a success of his splendid preferment, had had powerful reasons for treating Loretta with propriety.

I had almost argued myself to the conclusion that Jardine was as pure as driven snow, but I had left the most ominous possibility to the last.

I began to think about Lyle.

I had noticed that although she had admitted she regarded Mrs Jardine as a mother she had not said she regarded the Bishop as a father. Yet she had described her own father as ‘clever’, ‘bright’, ‘quick’ and ‘tough’, all adjectives which could be applied to Jardine. Obviously she was fond of the Bishop; obviously she respected and admired him, but there was no hint in her manner of a schoolgirl’s crush or a spinster’s frustrated passion, and I was driven to suspect that her feelings here too were filial. In fact I now found I shared Mrs Cobden-Smith’s conviction that Lyle stayed with the Jardines not because of a passion for the Bishop but because of a passion for power – and not merely the power of running the palace but the power of keeping that marriage glued together, the power springing from the fact that she made it possible for the Bishop to continue his ministry. What happened to a bishop whose marriage went to the wall? It was a spine-chilling thought, and I thought it was a chill to which Jardine’s spine had become well accustomed.

I did speculate about the possible ill effects on Lyle of a broken engagement, but on this point I could form no more than the tentative conclusion that some adverse romantic experience seemed likely. Her response to my kiss indicated she was sexually normal; her repudiation of it indicated an abnormal fear of romantic involvement. Ignorance prevented me from expanding my theory further, but nevertheless I felt I could say to Lang that Lyle’s aversion to marriage was more likely to spring from a broken engagement than from any inappropriate feelings towards the Bishop.

Having summed up Lyle’s probable attitude to Jardine I turned the relationship around and began to consider Jardine’s probable attitude to Lyle. This was easier because as a clergyman I could mentally put myself in Jardine’s shoes without any undue strain on my imagination: I had married in haste but had almost certainly repented at leisure, and as the result of my rashness I now had a wife who was capable of being a crippling liability. I was an eminent cleric beyond hope of divorce so the most nerve-racking question in such nerve-racking circumstances inevitably became: how did I survive my marriage? Lyle was the heaven-sent answer, and because Lyle was so vital not only for the welfare of my marriage but for the welfare of my increasingly illustrious career, I would take no risks whatsoever and exercise an iron control over any insane but pardonable desire to flirt. I would, of course, find Lyle immensely attractive, and that would make it difficult to adjust to her presence in the household – I would even tell Lady Starmouth I found the presence of a third party an intrusion on my marriage – but with prayer and willpower and plenty of deliciously risqué chats with my safe Lovely Ladies I would control myself, diverting the emotion into harmless channels whenever possible and suppressing the emotion which could not be diverted. I was Adam Alexander Jardine, a mature survivor trained in the hardest of schools, and I was neither weak nor a fool.

That left only one more vital question to be answered before I stepped out of Jardine’s shoes. I was a man of volatile temperament with plenty of physical energy and a strong liking for women; did I or did I not live like a monk? I did not. I slept with my wife, who was still pretty, still adoring, still mildly lovable in her own maddening way and – most important of all – still available. Certainly no one else was and married clergymen, like beggars, can’t be choosers.

I decided this was not merely a plausible interpretation of the Jardine ménage but the only interpretation which made sense. I felt I could now say confidently to Lang: ‘The girl, who probably has strong psychological reasons for not marrying, regards the woman as her mother and regards the man as satisfying her hankering for power. The woman regards the girl as her daughter and regards her husband with adoration. The husband regards his wife as a liability but as a source of sexual satisfaction, and regards the girl as a godsend but as sexually taboo. The marriage is entirely safe so long as this triangle is maintained and I see no sign of any approaching catastrophe.’

But of course this last statement would be untrue. I knew now that I was the approaching catastrophe bent on breaking up the triangle, and once the triangle disintegrated the marital disaster would be poised to unfold.

I was still contemplating this prospect with appalled fascination seconds later when someone rapped loudly on my door.

I jumped, sprang to my feet and pulled on my dressing-gown. ‘Come in!’ I called, assuming I was addressing a servant sent to deliver either a telephone message or perhaps a letter which had arrived by the afternoon post, and turned aside to extinguish my cigarette in the ashtray.

The door banged open and the Bishop blazed across the threshold.

‘Now, Dr Ashworth,’ he said abruptly as I spun round in shock, ‘I think it’s time you told me the truth – and when I say the truth I mean the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Exactly why did you come to Starbridge and what the deuce do you think you’re playing at?’

SIX

‘The sexual appetite (which is the most insistent and the most important of our bodily desires) presses for satisfaction … So we start with the certainty that sexual indulgence will be popular and that Christianity will be most difficult precisely at that point.’

More Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.

I

In the second which followed I saw the Bishop with photographic clarity and noticed that his brown eyes were no longer brilliant but opaque. His mouth was set in a tight line, his hands were clasped behind his back as if to conceal clenched fists and his whole stance radiated pugnacity. ‘Well, Dr Ashworth?’ he demanded, and his pugnacity was formidable indeed. ‘Speak up! What do you have to say for yourself?’

I knew at once that I had to stop him thinking I could be intimidated but unfortunately I was far from being completely unperturbed. Some form of defensive action was clearly called for. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Jardine,’ I said, ‘but I refuse to conduct an interview with a bishop while I’m wearing only my underclothes and a dressing-gown. You must allow me a moment to dress.’

There was a short tense silence. Then Jardine laughed, exclaimed, ‘I admire your nerve!’ and sat himself down at the table by the window.

Scrambling into my clerical uniform I found I could all too easily deduce what had happened. Lady Starmouth had complained about my interrogation, the chaplain had revealed my interest in the palace ménage, Mrs Cobden-Smith had disclosed what an excellent listener I was and Lyle had reported my episcopal obsession. I was about to be exposed as a deplorably unsuccessful espionage agent, but on the other hand my findings were all in Jardine’s favour. If I allowed his rage to run its course I might have a chance of pacifying him when he subsided into mere indignation. It seemed the best I could hope for. However meanwhile I had to cope with his rage.

‘Thank you,’ I said when fully dressed at last I sat down opposite him at the table. ‘Now I feel more civilized. First of all, Bishop, let me apologize from the bottom of my heart –’

‘Spare me the apologies. Give me the truth. Why are you here?’

‘Dr Lang sent me.’

Jardine showed no surprise. ‘The Archbishop should take care,’ was his acid comment. ‘He’s showing a talent for ecclesiastical skulduggery unmatched since the days of the Borgia popes. And what was his objective – or rather, what did he tell you was his objective?’

‘He’s acting to protect you, Bishop. He’s afraid his enemies in Fleet Street might use you in an attempt to smear the Church, and he sent me here to estimate how vulnerable you are to scandal.’

‘That may indeed be what he told you – but of course the real truth is that he’s sent you here to spy on my private life in the hope that you’ll find evidence which he can use to compel my resignation!’

‘Bishop –’

‘Monstrous! Archbishops have been executed for less!’

I felt I had no choice but to attempt my patron’s defence. ‘Bishop, His Grace doesn’t suspect you of any gross failure or even of any serious indiscretion, and I must absolutely insist that he’s not trying to get rid of you –’

‘No? It sounds to me as if he’s recently travelled incognito to the Old Vic to see a performance of Murder in the Cathedral – with the result that he’s now declaiming, in the manner of Henry II: “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest”!’

‘Dr Lang,’ I said firmly, ignoring this shaft, ‘is worried primarily about the existence of a minor indiscretion which an unscrupulous journalist could distort. He’s also worried in case your unusual domestic situation should be misunderstood. Bearing in mind the enormous amount of attention you’ve been receiving from the press lately, do you really think it’s so reprehensible that Dr Lang should send someone he trusts to survey the landscape to make sure you’re not vulnerable to the worst form of exploitation by Fleet Street?’

Jardine controlled himself sufficiently to say in an even voice, ‘You’re making heroic efforts to defend the Archbishop for his inexcusable trespass on my privacy, and I respect your loyalty to him, but didn’t it occur to His Grace that I’m perfectly capable of constructing my own defences against any assault from the press?’

‘The Archbishop merely wanted to make sure you hadn’t accidentally left a chink in your armour.’

‘And dare I ask what kind of chink His Grace had in mind?’

‘He was concerned in particular about the existence of unwise entries in your journal and the existence of indiscreet correspondence.’

Jardine burst out laughing. Then he exclaimed with the most withering scorn, ‘What kind of a fool does he think I am?’

‘I know it sounds preposterous, but Dr Jardine, it’s a fact that men of your age – even brilliant men of your age – do sometimes go off the rails, and His Grace felt he had to make absolutely sure – not only for the sake of the Church but for your own sake –’

‘Quite. Very well, I take your point. I suppose if one’s Archbishop of Canterbury one should always allow for the possibility of a bishop going stark staring mad, and His Grace no doubt interpreted my attack on him in the Lords as the onset of lunacy. However let me try and allay His Grace’s melodramatic fears as swiftly as possible.’ Jardine leant forward, placing his forearms on the table, and clasped his hands purposefully. ‘First: my journal. It’s not an adolescent’s diary reeking of carnal allusions. I comment on the books I’ve read, record my travels, note the themes of my sermons, remark on whom I’ve met and generally try to reflect what it means to serve God as a churchman. I won’t say I’ve never used the journal to record personal difficulties because I have, but as I’ve always excised the pages later and burnt them, you can tell the Archbishop that my journal in its present state would send any reporter from The News of the World straight to sleep … Or do you find that impossible to believe?’

I said truthfully, ‘No, I’d already reached the conclusion that you’d edit your work. I was only wondering –’ I broke off.

‘Well?’

‘No, my next question would have been impertinent.’

‘You may as well ask it. Since I’m apparently surviving the Archbishop’s monstrous assault on my privacy without suffering a stroke, one little piece of impertinence from you is hardly likely to dent my miraculous sang-froid. What’s the question?’

‘I was wondering when you last felt impelled to excise entries from your journal.’

Jardine raised an eyebrow, gave me a searching glance but concluded I was anxious only about the possibility of recent difficulties in his private life. ‘You needn’t worry,’ he said drily. ‘My life’s been singularly uneventful for some time now. It’s been five years since any pages from my journal were consigned to the library fire.’

‘Was that when you were still at Radbury?’ I said, certain that the answer was no but hoping to egg him on to a further revelation.

‘No, I’d just moved to Starbridge – and I trust, Dr Ashworth, you won’t graduate from a minor to a major impertinence by asking me what was going on in my life at the time.’

‘No, of course not, Bishop.’ I thought of Mrs Jardine drifting again towards a nervous breakdown as she grappled not only with the arrival of her stepmother-in-law but also with what Mrs Cobden-Smith had described as ‘an awkward time’, a euphemism I had translated as the menopause. I could well imagine the Bishop relieving his feelings in his journal as he waited for the arrival of his confidante.

‘I had a difficult decision to make,’ said the Bishop unexpectedly, ‘and I needed to set down the situation on paper in order to clarify my mind.’

That did surprise me. I could not immediately see what decision had had to be made. Possibly he had been debating with himself whether in view of his wife’s mental health, he had had a duty to install his stepmother not at the palace but in the best Starbridge nursing home.

‘Very well, so much for the journal,’ Jardine was saying briskly. ‘Let’s turn now to my correspondence. There are four women to whom I write regularly. First and foremost: my wife. Whenever we’re apart I try to write her a line every day. I’d say that was fairly normal behaviour for a man of my generation who detests the telephone, although a young man like you might think it rather an extravagant use of writing paper. After my wife the next woman on my list would be the incomparable Lady Starmouth to whom I pen a line about twice a week. Our chief topic is clerical gossip, but we also discuss literature and politics – topics which interest Mrs Welbeck and Lady Markhampton to whom I write regularly but less frequently than I write to Lady Starmouth. Am I making myself clear? My correspondence with all three of these delightful ladies, stimulating as it is, can’t possibly be described as the kind which would encourage a husband to challenge me to pistols at dawn. You may assure His Grace he has no cause for alarm.’

‘May I risk another minor impertinence?’

‘You’re a brave man, Dr Ashworth. But continue.’

‘Do you ever write to Miss Christie?’

‘Only when I have essential information to impart. For example, the last time I wrote to her was in May when my wife and I were in London for the Coronation. I sent Miss Christie a line to say that Carrie and I would be staying up in town an extra day in order to dine with some old friends from Radbury.’

‘Why didn’t Miss Christie go to London with you?’

‘That’s not an impertinent question, Dr Ashworth, but as far as I can see it’s an irrelevant one. I had a part to play in the Coronation ceremony and my wife had a seat in the Abbey. Rather than risk being crushed to death by the multitudes lining the processional route, Miss Christie sensibly decided to stay at home and “listen in” to the proceedings on the wireless. Do you have any other irrelevant questions, or am I now allowed to inquire what kind of report you intend to present to Dr Lang?’

I smiled at him before I said, ‘I shall tell His Grace that in my opinion every chink in your armour’s sealed.’

‘Splendid! And are you also going to inform His Grace that in addition to entering my household under false pretences you’ve been further abusing my hospitality by playing fast and loose with my wife’s companion?’

I felt as if I had been felled on the rugger field by an unexpected tackle. It took a considerable effort to look him straight in the eyes and say strongly, ‘I may be playing fast but I’m not playing loose.’

‘No? Miss Christie thinks your behaviour lacked stability, and I must say I agree with her. Don’t you think you were a little rash to subject a respectable woman to passionate advances less than twenty-four hours after your first meeting with her?’

‘No more rash than you were at my age,’ I said, ‘when you proposed to your future wife on the strength of a four-day acquaintance.’

There was a silence. We stared at each other. Jardine’s amber eyes were dangerously bright.

‘That was a major impertinence, Dr Ashworth.’

‘And so, with all due respect, was your last remark, Dr Jardine. No man, not even a bishop, tells me how to run my private life.’

‘What an extraordinarily arrogant statement! Are you saying you’re never in need of spiritual direction?’

‘I –’

‘Who’s your spiritual director? Or are you so adrift as to believe you don’t need one?’

Beneath the table my fists were clenched. Somehow keeping my voice level I said, ‘My spiritual director is Father James Reid of the Fordite monks at Grantchester.’

‘Oh, I know the Grantchester Fordites from my days at Radbury – and of course I remember Father Reid, the best kind of cosy old monk, very gentle and saintly and kind. But don’t you need someone rather tougher than a cosy old monk to advise you on your spiritual life, Dr Ashworth?’

I said nothing, and when Jardine realized I had no intention of replying he said in a voice which was unexpectedly compassionate, ‘Don’t think I can’t remember what it’s like to be thirty-seven and unmarried. But impulsive romantic action isn’t the answer, Dr Ashworth, and you’re quite intelligent enough to know that for those of us not called to celibacy the pressures of a celibate life can lead to emotional instability unless there’s regular and effective counselling by someone who knows exactly what problems are involved.’

Again he paused and again I remained silent. Finally he said, ‘Have a word with your bishop. See if he can recommend someone more suitable than dear old Father Reid who’s been celibate so long that he’s probably forgotten the male organ has a purpose other than urination. Cambridge is a good man, even if he does spend too much time writing theses about whether Ezra came before or after Nehemiah, and I’m sure he’d do his best to help you.’

Once more the silence lengthened but eventually I was able to say, ‘Thank you, Dr Jardine. And now, of course, since I’ve so thoroughly abused your hospitality, you’ll want me to leave your house at the earliest opportunity.’

Jardine leant back in his chair and regarded me as if I presented some difficult but fascinating problem. ‘My dear Dr Ashworth,’ he said as he rose to his feet, ‘if you cut short your visit and leave the palace under a cloud, you’re going to trigger exactly the kind of gossip Dr Lang is so anxious to avoid. Can’t you imagine the report in the gutter-press? “We have it on good authority – ” (that would be the eavesdropping second housemaid) “ – that a storm erupted in the Cathedral Close at Starbridge when Canon Charles Ashworth was expelled from the palace after an assault on the virtue of the Bishop’s attractive young companion, Miss Lyle Christie.” (Naturally they would omit all mention of my wife.) “We are reliably informed that the ravishing Miss Christie returned from a motor drive à deux with the handsome Canon only to rush sobbing to the Bishop, ‘He unleashed his passion at Starbury Ring!’ whereupon the Bishop stormed to the Canon shouting: ‘Never darken my door again!’ …” And so on and so on. Oh no, Dr Ashworth! I’m not falling into the trap of asking you to leave! We do, after all, have a duty to the Archbishop to keep up appearances, even if he does insult us both by treating you as a spy and me as a fool.’

During this speech the Bishop had crossed the room. He now opened the door and looked back. ‘You will complete your visit, you will behave like a gentleman and you will consider my advice on the subject of spiritual direction,’ he said, ‘and meanwhile I look forward to resuming our theological discussions over the port tonight. I should very much like to hear your views on the Virgin Birth.’ And he walked out, banging the door abruptly behind him.

II

I had been warned off.

I began to wonder how far the Bishop had interfered with Lyle’s other romances. Most clerical suitors would have backed away in fright if the Bishop had bared his teeth, but I was far from being a vulnerable young cleric and I was not prepared to be intimidated. Anyone who had Lang’s patronage was not obliged to worry about the approval of the Bishop of Starbridge, and I saw no chance of Jardine ever moving into a position which could affect my career; he had too many enemies among the politicians to receive either of the two most exalted preferments, the archbishoprics of Canterbury and York.

Having removed my collar I lit a cigarette to steady my nerves. I was wondering if I could place a sinister interpretation on the fact that Lyle had run straight to the Bishop, but I could only conclude that I should have predicted such a response. Obviously a close partnership between Lyle and the Bishop had developed over the years, and once I had accused her of providing the glue which prevented the Bishop’s marriage disintegrating, her natural reaction would have been to warn him that I was bent on rattling the skeleton in his cupboard. In these circumstances it was small wonder that Jardine had decided to rattle his sabre in return, particularly if Lyle had also considered it her duty as a loyal employee to warn the Bishop that I showed signs of wanting to demolish his ménage à trois. If the welfare of his marriage and career depended on Lyle he not only had to rattle his sabre; he had to lunge straight for my jugular vein.

However although I was willing to concede that the Bishop’s belligerence was understandable I thought his attitude from a spiritual point of view was unhealthy. I had a very Christian desire to remarry. He seemed bent on foiling my current attempt to attain that goal. Moreover both Lyle’s welfare and mine could be adversely affected, and after prolonged reflection I found myself unable to resist the conclusion that he was in the wrong.

I suddenly realized I had missed Choral Evensong again, and with an exclamation of annoyance I stubbed out my cigarette, replaced my collar and sat down to read the evening office.

Halfway through the Nunc Dimittis it occurred to me that Jardine must often have faced the possibility that Lyle would leave one day; he had not employed a woman who was so unattractive that her future was entirely predictable. I decided that if I were Jardine I would long since have formed a contingency plan which I could put into operation if Lyle handed in her notice, and the contingency plan would revolve around the fact that I would always have a suitable replacement in mind. Large numbers of companions were drawn from clerical homes where there was little money to support girls trained only to be ladies, and as a bishop I would be in a good position to survey the available candidates. Of course it would be difficult to find someone who equalled Lyle’s ability to be a godsend, but since an acceptably pleasant, competent woman could probably be tracked down without too much trouble, it could be argued that Jardine was now only fighting to save himself some inconvenience. Lyle’s departure would certainly represent an earthquake in the episcopal household, but people do recover from earthquakes; life does eventually return to normal.

Yet anyone would imagine, from Jardine’s pugilistic behaviour towards me, that if the earthquake happened at Starbridge all life at the palace would cease.

I told myself I was still smarting from the assault on my jugular vein, and returning to my prayer-book I made a new effort to concentrate on the office, but long before I reached the end the inevitable possibility was seeping into my mind. I told myself to suppose, for the sake of argument, that my plausible explanation of the ménage à trots was in fact entirely wrong; I told myself to suppose, again for the sake of argument, that I suspended belief and started to think the unthinkable. If Lyle were Jardine’s mistress it would explain both her reluctance to marry and Jardine’s pugilism towards a dangerous suitor.

The only trouble with this theory, which seemed at first glance preposterous and at second glance so unpleasantly plausible, was that it fell apart as soon as it was submitted to a close examination. For a start I could not imagine that Mrs Jardine would continue to treat as a daughter the woman who was sleeping with her adored husband. Mrs Jardine was not the cleverest of women, but I thought she would be sufficiently intuitive to know if the two most important people in her life were having an affair. However the real difficulty with the theory remained that I could not see a man of Jardine’s integrity leading a spiritual double-life. I was still willing to bet heavily that he was not an apostate, and unless he were an apostate adultery was inconceivable.

Somehow I reached the end of the office and began to prepare myself for dinner. All things were possible, even the unlikeliest of apostasies, but it was a waste of time for me to think the unthinkable unless I found some indication, however small, that Jardine was capable of unthinkable behaviour.

I stopped flattening my hair and stared into the glass.

Other clergymen fell into error. Why not Jardine? Suddenly, for clouded reasons beyond my comprehension, I felt an urge to prove that Jardine had at least once since his ordination been guilty of a serious moral failure – and that was the moment when I first started speculating seriously on the subject of Loretta Staviski.

III

Jardine’s threat to discuss the Virgin Birth with me over the port was never realized. One of the lay dinner-guests, Starbridge’s most distinguished architect, proved to be a non-smoker who could not be dispatched to the smoking-room, and out of courtesy Jardine at first avoided splitting theological hairs. However after a discussion of the arrests which had recently taken place in the German Evangelical Church the architect said deferentially, ‘Talking of clerical matters, Bishop, I hope you won’t mind me mentioning the A. P. Herbert Bill. I’m interested in your opinion of it, particularly as I too think that the grounds for divorce should be extended, but I’m still not sure how you justify your views theologically. What makes you so sure that Christ wasn’t laying down the law on this particular subject but only stating an ethical guideline?’

This was clearly an intelligent sympathetic layman who deserved to be encouraged. Jardine said kindly, ‘Well, the first thing you must remember is that Our Lord wasn’t a twentieth-century Englishman brought up in a culture which glorifies the modest understatement. He came from the Middle East and in the culture of his day people communicated important truths by the use of striking word-pictures, statements which we would call exaggerations. A well-known example of this is when Christ says: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God”. A modern Englishman would merely say: “He can’t do it”.’

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