Murdering Ministers (5 page)

“Nice day for a walk, Vicar,” Oliver said cheerfully when Piltdown drew level with him. Piltdown continued to barrel along the pavement for a second, as if Oliver's comment needed more than one attempt to clear the bar of his attention. Then he stopped abruptly and spun around, frowning.

“Ollie, it
is
you,” he exclaimed. “Sorry, I thought I must be dreaming. You're the last person I expected to see.” He looked away, and Oliver realized the comment was not motivated by joy. Piltdown began to adjust his clerical collar fussily.

“I'm paying a visit to Nigel Tapster,” Oliver declared. “I presume you had the earlier appointment.”

“What?”

“You've just been to see the Tapsters?”

“Oh yes. Yes, I saw him.” Piltdown thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

“I'm surprised he didn't tell you I was coming. I'm planning to interview him for the article—to get the full breadth of Diaconalist belief.”

Piltdown didn't react, but studied his feet thoughtfully. Oliver wondered if he was feeling cold.

“Look, I don't want to keep you,” he continued brightly, “but since I'm here in Plumley, I was hoping I could drop round to the manse later, after I'm finished with the Tapsters.”

“Finished with the Tapsters,” Piltdown echoed. He looked up suddenly. “Sorry, Ollie, what? You want to come round later?”

“If that's all right. We didn't really get much of a chance to talk the other evening.”

“Yes, that's okay,” Piltdown said distractedly. “Whenever you like. I'll be in.”

Oliver's desire to catch up with his old friend was genuine, but he also felt he owed the minister an explanation and an apology. He suspected that when the editor of
Celestial City
had selected Piltdown's church for the forthcoming article, he had not explained that the piece was going to be satirical. Despite the possibility of disappointing Ben and the certainty of annoying Geoffrey Angelwine, Oliver had more or less decided to abandon the assignment, unless Nigel Tapster proved to be the Antichrist and so a worthy target for the ferret's scorn. But was Piltdown in the forgiving vein? Oliver wondered, as the minister stood awkwardly in the street, his face and collar yellow under the streetlamp.

“Paul, I don't mean to pry, but are you all right?”

Piltdown frowned again and blinked several times. “I'm sorry, Ollie. No, there's nothing wrong. Nigel and I just had some words, if you must know—a few doctrinal differences. It's probably my fault, I may have let those comments last Sunday rankle a little. I think I need to cool off.” He smiled weakly. “Come around later. I'll be fine by then.”

He turned abruptly and headed off down the street without looking back. Oliver approached the Tapsters' front door, realizing that he had forgotten to ask Piltdown for directions to the manse. He could hear loud music, which did not break off after he rang the doorbell. He tried the bell again, but the music finally stopped when he resorted to a loud rattle of the knocker. A moment later, Heather Tapster opened the door and ushered him into the hall.

“We didn't get to meet the other evening, Mr. Swithin,” she said pleasantly, taking his coat. “I'm so glad that my husband's words made you want to learn more about our witness and our ministry with the young people. Perhaps you may become a regular visitor yourself? You're always welcome to our prayer meetings, or to join us for private prayer and spiritual fellowship.”

Heather paused in her expert evangelism and Oliver had his first opportunity to see her close up. She was a little older than him, clearly attractive, but either oblivious or contemptuous of the fact. Not only did she wear no makeup, but she didn't seem to use the remedial cosmetics that would have reduced her skin's oiliness and eliminated the small outcrop of pimples on her forehead. Her long brown hair was unstyled and hung limply on either side of her head, as if she had delegated its care to gravity.

“I'm afraid Nigel is currently occupied,” she continued, having given Oliver a similar mute appraisal, which for some reason broadened her smile. “The Reverend Piltdown paid us a surprise visit. But you're welcome to join us in the living room until Nigel's free.”

Oliver became aware of a thin teenager standing in the doorway to the front room. He was about fourteen, with reddish hair and a face that reminded him of somebody he'd seen recently. A battered Fender Stratocaster hung on a strap around his torso, and a coiled red wire trailed into the room.

“I just passed Paul on the street,” Oliver informed her.

Heather looked surprised. “Really? I didn't hear him leave. But then Billy and I were practicing for the Nativity play and we do tend to get a little enthusiastic. I wonder why Paul didn't pop in to say good-bye? That's very rude, especially for a minister of the church. And where's Nigel in that case?”

As if in answer, a toilet flushed upstairs, followed by the sound of running water. Oliver remembered that Patience Coppersmith's son was named Billy and understood the resemblance he had noted, although the youth's hair was longer than his mother's. A door opened above them.

“Is that our guest?” The lanky figure of Nigel Tapster came into a view, treading carefully down the stairs, and not taking his eyes off Oliver.

When Oliver had first seen Tapster the preceding Sunday, he had placed the preacher in the category of people who were better suited to casual dress than more formal wear, at least judging from the way Tapster's long limbs had easily outdistanced the arms and legs of his cheap, wrinkled suit. But he looked almost as uncomfortable now, in an old pair of gray flannels, a shapeless red sweater, and the same black socks and black wing-tips that he must have worn for work.

It took Oliver about a second to assess Tapster's clothes. And that was all the time he had before he became distracted by the intensity of Tapster's dark-eyed gaze, which hadn't left Oliver's face. It was as if, for those few moments, every other human being in the world had ceased to exist for Tapster. Dimly, Oliver noticed that his host was reaching down a hand, and he let his own hand be clasped in a firm, damp handshake.

“Good evening, Mr. Swithin,” Tapster said in that nasal voice that should have begun to undo the spell he had cast on Oliver, but didn't. “Forgive me, I didn't dry my hands very thoroughly after washing them. But you can be sure they're clean.” He had stopped on the first stair and beamed around at his audience. “We're great believers in hygiene in this household, aren't we Heather? Aren't we Billy? Cleanliness being next to godliness, as they say.”

Heather murmured her joyful assent to this banality, and Billy laughed triumphantly as if Tapster had just delivered a successful commentary on the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“I trust your journey here was a satisfying one, Mr. Swithin?” said Tapster, catching Oliver again in his hypnotic gaze.

“It was fine. A little slow. Rush hour, you know.”

“Rush hour.” Tapster savored the phrase, as if the words were new to him and he was relishing their fresh-minted strangeness. “Yes, how trying.”

“I always carry a book to read,” Oliver added.

“A book? How wise. How very wise. Your mind must be in a state of constant nourishment. I admire that. Truly, I do. And I pray that you feel our meeting will continue to feed you, perhaps spiritually as well as mentally. Well, why don't you follow me upstairs to my study, so we don't disturb these accomplished musicians.”

“Would you like some tea?” Heather asked, as Tapster began to climb the narrow staircase. He stopped, his head bowed, as if the question had untold theological significance for him. Oliver predicted that he was going to repeat “some tea” thoughtfully and then comment on his wife's generosity. And indeed he did.

Tapster had turned one of the bedrooms into his office, which was decorated with several bright South American paintings—naive scenes of country life or possibly Bible stories that hung incongruously over the faded wallpaper. A low, overflowing bookcase was also a stand for a collection of carvings in black wood, which seemed both religious and pagan at the same time. Similar carvings stood on the windowsill and on Tapster's battered desk.

“A remarkable collection,” Oliver commented politely, sitting in an easy chair placed at the end of the desk.

“In many ways. They are Heather's, from her time as a missionary in South America. She was there for eight years altogether. Unfortunately, these trinkets are not all tokens of the Lord's coming triumph, but symbols of the warped religious practices she was battling.”

“Is that how you met?”

Tapster pinned Oliver with his dark stare again. “Alas, Mr. Swithin, I have not had the opportunity to serve my heavenly father overseas. A bout of rheumatic fever in my childhood means I have to avoid the kinds of stress that Heather faced with such courage in Brazil. No, Heather and I met two years ago, when we were both worshipping at the same church a few miles from here, in Thripstone. She had just returned from South America.”

“That must have been quite a contrast—from the darkest Amazon jungles to the London Borough of Thripstone.”

“Yes, it must,” said Tapster approvingly, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Although her time with the savages was limited. She spent most of her time in the city of São Paulo, working in the favelas with the poor, trying to convert them to Christianity.”

“I applaud her humanitarian work, of course, but I thought Brazil was already Christian?”

“Oh no, the Roman Church is very strong there, I'm afraid, but Heather won many souls for Christ. For a while, she was considering a new mission to Spain, to bring lifelong Catholics to true Christianity. But she chose to join me in my ministry here, and I thank the Lord for her help every day. Her price is above rubies.”

“Above Ruby's?” muttered Oliver distractedly, choking back his astonishment at this casual intolerance, even hatred of another denomination. Surely they had the same goals? What about Christian unity, ecumenism? Tapster smiled indulgently and stood up to answer a thump at the door.

“‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies,'” he quoted. “‘The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.'” He opened the door for Heather, who carried a tray into the room and placed it on the desk. Tapster kissed her on the cheek.

“‘She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.'” he concluded, resuming his seat. “Proverbs thirty-one. Thank you, my dear.”

“I didn't hear the parson leave,” Heather commented coldly. “He didn't stay long.”

“You and Billy were making sweet music all the way through his visit,” said Tapster fulsomely. “My wife is the musician in the family, the partnership, I should say. The Lord has blessed her greatly. Do you know, she has perfect pitch? I, alas, cannot equal her in talent. It's as much as I can do to hit the right notes.”

Don't flatter yourself, thought Oliver, remembering Tapster's thin singing voice and his labored attempts to tune his twelve-string guitar. Heather left the room, and Tapster poured two mugs of tea. A few moments later, the piano music resumed downstairs, punctuated by sustained wails from an electric guitar.

“Forgive me this impertinence, Mr. Swithin,” said Tapster, “but I must ask you something very important at this stage.”

Here it comes.
Are you saved? Do you believe? Have you given your life to the Lord? How would Tapster phrase it?

“Would you like milk or sugar?” Tapster continued, smiling slyly in a way that suggested he had followed Oliver's thoughts. “Or honey, perhaps? Personally, I take my tea flowing with milk and honey, if you'll pardon my playing with the words of the Good Book. Exodus, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The promised land—a land flowing with milk and honey. First mentioned in the book of Exodus.”

“Oh.” Why did Oliver feel he was being patronized? Time to get back into the game. “Of course, you could ‘pile honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey.'”

Tapster knitted his eyebrows. “A biblical reference?”

“No, it's from Lamb's essay, ‘A Chapter on Ears.' He claimed not to have one. An ear. Musical, that is.” (
Like you,
Oliver added silently.)

Tapster looked surprised and gratified at the literary turn. “Lamb,” he said appreciatively.

By now, Oliver had been studying Tapster's style for ten minutes, and found himself developing a perverse admiration for the preacher's technique. Nobody could feel insignificant in Tapster's presence—and despite the thinning hair and sparse, untidy beard, you could not deny that the man had presence. When you were the focus of those intense brown eyes, he made you feel that it was a permanent appointment, and that whoever may have held his attention a moment earlier had slipped out of the galaxy in the meantime. At a social gathering, Tapster would never look over your shoulder for other, more interesting encounters, or check his watch or fiddle unconsciously with his car-keys. Small talk would rapidly grow up. Your every utterance would be treated as a profundity, and no remark, no matter how mundane or facetious, could escape without being carefully weighed and hailed as a new discovery. No wonder adolescents flocked to him, especially those with old-fashioned parents like the Quarterboys, who were uncomprehending of their children's slavery to peer approval and of the hormones sloshing though their sprouting bodies. What teenager could fail to believe that Tapster truly understood and respected him or her?

“You hold meetings with the young people in your home,” Oliver was saying. “Why do you feel the need for a separate community from the main church?”

Tapster put his mug down and licked a stray trickle of honey from his fingers. “We are not separate, Mr. Swithin. All are welcome to join us here. Every house can be a house of worship, and every man a minister of the Lord's word. The very earliest Christian communities met in the homes of believers, and witnessed many miracles of the spirit, despite being persecuted and despised.”