The Good Priest (25 page)

Maybe the current lover had received the polish from her? It was not so far-fetched. Jackie Shand was certainly not the sort of man to pick up a dustpan. If he had brought home samples of new lines, it would be his wife who would either use them in the house or dispose of them. Add to that the fact that the stuff had ended up in the possession of a man with a Geordie accent and a deep rumbling voice. How had that happened? The most straightforward answer would be because she had given it to him.

Now deeply absorbed in this train of thought, he took the wrong turning out of Green Road and, minutes later, found himself on the edge of Kinross, going past the AlphaVet's surgery and near the turn-off leading to the road around the loch. On impulse, he decided not to retrace his steps to go to the supermarket as he had originally planned, but rather to continue on to Scotlandwell and talk to Barbara Duncan. While he had been away from there, distracted and obsessed by his own troubles, she would not have lifted her ear from the ground. It
was more likely that a swift would cease to fly. Listening was in her nature. If anyone knew the identity of Mrs Shand's latest lover, it would be her. Both women played bridge, sometimes in the same four, and, crucially, they shared the same hairdresser. Long ago, Barbara Duncan had explained to him, not disguising her amazement at his ignorance, how much could be learned from an intelligent, personable hairdresser. If Eva Braun had tiptoed out of the bunker for a sneaky perm, she had said, World War II would have been over months earlier. Warming to her theme, she had gone on to explain that while trainees dealt in little more than holiday destination chitchat, the stylists and colourers were in an entirely different category. They, like priests, routinely heard confessions. But, not being bound by the seal of the confessional gave them a significant advantage over their clerical competitors. They usually had ample opportunity to double-check their choice snippets of gossip, testing and refining them as they smiled, reassuringly, in the mirror. That process ensured quality information.

When Barbara Duncan came to the door she looked frazzled. A stray lock of white hair had fallen over her forehead and her face was flushed. She was wearing her late husband's blue and white striped pinny, its hem mid-shin on her. At her feet, was a brass coal scuttle, filled to the brim with coal.

‘Vincent …' she exhaled, patting him on the shoulder, ‘thank goodness it's only you. I thought it was Mr Goodenough, my next B&B person. He's coming up from
Lancashire and isn't supposed to be arriving for another hour, but I thought for one horrible moment that he'd arrived early. Come in, come in.'

‘If it's not a good time, I could easily come back later?'

‘It's always a good time to see you,' she said, picking up the scuttle and turning towards the kitchen. ‘Come on, I'm dying for a sit-down and a cup of tea. Mamie said you were back.'

‘I'll take that.'

‘No, no. I'll pick it up on my way back,' she replied, dropping it to the floor again with a thud.

Humming to herself, she put the warmed silver teapot on to the table and sat down in front of it, waiting for the tea to infuse. Three minutes later, unable to resist inspecting it again, she opened the lid, only to drop it in fright when the doorbell rang.

‘Bugger!' she whispered to herself, getting up, pushing the strand of hair off her forehead and inadvertently smudging herself with coal dust.

‘Hang on, Barbara! You've got a black streak!' Vincent said, touching his own forehead to show her where the mark was. Glancing at her distorted reflection in the side of the teapot, she muttered ‘Bugger' again and wiped the smut off with a hankie from her sleeve.

‘Don't go away. Help yourself to everything, you know where it is. I want to hear all your news, Vincent, now that you're back – at last!'

Fifteen minutes later she returned and sat heavily down on a chair. Pouring herself a cup of tea she said wearily, ‘It was him this time. I've left him upstairs in his room.
I'm going to suggest that he goes out tonight, either to the Green or the Grouse and Claret. He's only got one leg, you know. The other's artificial. I know, because his suitcase clanked against it – it sounded hollow. The leg, I mean. Perhaps he's a drug-smuggler?'

‘Hoping to recruit you as his mule?'

‘I'm nobody's mule, thank you. So, just tell me what's been happening, Vincent.'

In between mouthfuls of scone, the priest regaled her with stories about the Retreat, his battle with the Monsignor and the results of the enquiry. For her part, consuming a single finger of shortbread only, somehow managing to make it last a good twenty minutes, she said little but listened intently.

‘I wonder what the Monsignor was playing at,' she said finally.

‘How do you mean?'

‘Dragging his feet like that, then suddenly treating it as so urgent?'

‘Well, when pushed I can be quite forceful …'

‘Quite, dear, quite.'

A head appeared round the kitchen door and a man with too many teeth in his mouth said, ‘So sorry to interrupt, but I can't find the TV in the room.'

‘There isn't one,' Barbara Duncan replied, ‘but you're welcome to watch the set in the sitting-room until you go out.'

‘Thank you so much. I'm desperate to catch the news – see if the poor old PM can extricate himself,' her guest said, waving a hand at them before disappearing.

‘Perhaps I will offer him supper here. He's a widower, on his own. I've a loin of pork I could do. What would go with it, d'you think? You could become my wine consultant, unpaid, of course. Neville used to insist on Chianti but, frankly, I don't think he had much of a palate, nose or whatever.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘After he retired he took up cookery. Not from recipe books, obviously, nothing so mundane. Every dish was created by him, including haddock in cranberry sauce and eggs Neville, like eggs Benedict except instead of spinach, he substituted cabbage, and sprinkled the whole lot with ginger.'

‘Maybe no nose but a cast-iron stomach by the sound of things. I'd have the pork with one of the new Australian Viogniers, they're difficult to better …'

‘Where on earth would I get those?'

‘You could try my favourite shop on earth, the Markinch Wine Gallery. Now, there is something, Barbara, that I particularly wanted to ask you.' He came to an unexpected stop, catching her eye, and adding, ‘It's a bit delicate.'

The woman grinned and said brightly to him: ‘Snap!'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Me too. I need to ask you something … a bit delicate.'

‘If it's about Sarah Houston,' he began, disappointed in her, ‘I told you. There's nothing more to tell.'

‘Goodness, no. There's nothing I don't know about her,' she said dismissively. ‘What do you take me for? A rank amateur? Of course it's not about that odd, odd woman.'

‘I hadn't realised she was so odd.'

‘I know that, but, frankly, I'm amazed you were taken in by her. I saw it immediately. No, I'm interested in something else. I'm interested in Father Bell.'

‘What do you want to know?' he enquired as evenly as he was able, pouring another cup of tea for himself and then for her. Her words had both stung and annoyed him, inferring he was naïve, overly susceptible to women.

‘It'll be cold,' she said, wrinkling her nose as she lifted the teapot lid and looked inside. Then picking the pot up she went towards the sink, saying, ‘Why don't I make us some more?'

‘Don't worry,' the priest said, his cup to his lip, ‘I like it as it is. Now, Father Bell?'

‘We hear nothing – nothing whatsoever from on high, you'll appreciate. All everyone knows is that the presbytery's empty again. Is he coming back or is he off for good or what? Has he gone somewhere else? It's all very sudden.'

‘He's away for good.'

‘Has he gone somewhere else then, within the diocese?' she asked, emptying the contents of her cup into the sink. ‘Posted elsewhere?'

‘No,' the priest said ‘he hasn't been shuttled about the diocese. He, like so many others, has decided to leave the priesthood. So he'll not be back here – or in any parish – as a priest.'

‘Would the words “struck off” be appropriate in this context?'

‘I don't know about that.'

She said nothing, looking at him quizzically.

‘Really, I don't. What I am sure of is that he won't be anyone's priest ever again. It's in the diocese's hands. In this climate, if anybody's complained about anything, they're bound to have alerted … well, the appropriate authorities. They'd have to.'

‘I see. Not as much as I'd like to, but I see. Will we get someone new?'

‘I suppose so, but I've no idea who.'

‘OK. Now what can I do for you?' she asked, curiosity lighting up her small grey eyes.

‘Jemima Shand, as we both know, has close male friendships …'

‘“Close male friendships?”'

‘She seems to know men other than her husband – she seems to have men, other than her husband …'

‘Oh, spit it out, Vincent, for Heaven's sake! On second thoughts, I'll do it, it'll be quicker. Really, at your age, why can't you just call a spade a spade? Jemima Shand has affairs – is that it? If so, it's hardly news.'

‘Fine, thank you for that. Has she got a new one?'

‘She certainly has one at the moment,' she replied, finding herself on the defensive purely out of habit, then remembering their agreed bargain she added, ‘So what do you want to know about her?'

‘Do you know anything about the present incumbent?'

‘I do. Tinker, tailor, shopkeeper, policeman, farmer, rich man, poor man, bank manager, thief – I could go on. Take your pick.'

‘Well?'

‘You'd like to know?'

‘Of course, I'd like to know. You know I'd like to know!'

‘The latest one is a bit younger than her. That much is obvious. I've been told that he's some kind of specialist in antiques – and that's not a cruel dig about her, so save your breath. He “does”, sorry, restores Regency furniture. The real stuff, apparently, not your usual jumble. What else? Imogen reckons he comes from Newcastle way, she said he's got a lovely, deep voice.'

‘Do you know his name?'

‘No – well, not his full name at least. He's got a nickname of some sort, but I can't remember it. Henry's his Christian name.'

‘Where's his shop?'

‘In Milnathort, just along from Robertsons. He moved in, or rather set up shop there, when you were away. He's got a boy, or is it two? They were in Cove, Helensburgh, somewhere like that, somewhere over on the west. He's got shops all over, I gather.'

‘Our house, I have to say, is much duller without you,' Sister Monica confided, leading him into the sitting-room where the rest of the community had already gathered. The TV was on but the sound was down.

‘Bugger off, bugger off, bugger off!' Bertie squawked on seeing him enter, then shook himself violently and spat out a couple of sunflower seeds. A stray grey feather drifted to the bottom of his cage.

‘And the same to you!' the priest said, taking a seat beside the bird.

‘Off the park with him! Off the park with him!'

‘That's not a very welcoming thing to say to Father,' Sister Claire said, approaching the cage, staring into the parrot's unblinking eyes and then relenting sufficiently to poke a quarter of peeled apple through the bars.

‘And that's not a reward, mind,' she said, ‘for your vile language!'

‘Really, Claire! Apple is
not
good for him,' Sister Jane said sharply. ‘They don't eat apples in the jungle.'

‘He,' Sister Claire replied, rolling her eyes heavenwards, ‘has never been near the jungle, dear. He was hatched in Plymouth or Tavistock, somewhere down there. That's what the brewery man told me. So you need have no fears on that front. Alopecia, maybe … psittacosis, possibly, but apple poisoning, no.'

Woken by the burst of animated chatter, Sister Agnes, slumped in the depths of her over-large chair, opened a single rheumy eye and fixed it on the newcomer.

‘Have you done the milking yet?' she enquired of Vincent.

Seeing Sister Monica looking hard at him and nodding vigorously, he replied, ‘I have, yes. My fingers are sore with it.'

But by the time he had reached the end of his sentence, the single eyelid had closed and the old lady appeared, once more, to be deeply asleep.

‘It's better,' Sister Monica whispered, looking down fondly at the slumbering figure, ‘to go along with it. Otherwise she gets worried, frets that … well, that she's not altogether with it. This way she doesn't worry.'

‘I've been “Nanny” twice today,' Sister Jane piped up, dropping her knitting-needle accidentally on to the floor and stooping to recover it, ‘though whether as a person or a goat I've no idea.'

‘A goat, dear,' Sister Monica said sweetly.

‘She's not eating properly,' Sister Frances murmured, going over towards Sister Agnes and covering her spindly legs with a tartan rug. Looking at her as she slept, she continued, ‘She's disappearing before our very eyes.'

‘
I am not!
' came a high-pitched rejoinder from the chair.

Startled, the nuns exchanged glances with each other, unsure whether to be pleased or not at this unexpected bout of lucidity.

‘It just comes and goes,' Sister Monica murmured to Father Vincent, and the other women nodded. Nonetheless, they were rather chastened, each wondering what else untoward they might have said in this apparently not so oblivious presence.

‘Are you
still
here?' Sister Agnes said wearily, looking up at the priest with her single, open eye.