Smile and be a Villain (16 page)

Beads of perspiration appeared on the priest's forehead, though it was not warm in the room.

‘It seems that Mr Abercrombie would have been severely disciplined, probably excommunicated, even defrocked, had he stayed in his diocese. He was accused of having stolen more than one hundred thousand dollars from the coffers of his parish. If the crime was proven, he would of course have faced severe civil penalties as well.'

‘A hundred thousand dollars!' I couldn't keep my voice down. ‘We had no idea …' Too late, I shut my mouth.

‘What my wife is saying, Mr Lewison, is that we had some inkling of this sort of thing, learned from various people. The scale of it, however, is staggering.'

‘You knew? But why did you not tell me? These parishioners are my flock only temporarily, but this news will be devastating to them. Further, I must make a decision now about his burial. If this is true, I would have scruples about burying him in consecrated ground. I should have known as soon as possible.'

‘We were told a story in confidence, Father.' I used the title out of habit. ‘We didn't feel at liberty to pass it on. Now I suppose it would be better to tell you the whole thing.'

I told him Alice's story as simply as I could, shorn of all but the essential facts. At some point in my narrative, Alan slipped out of the room.

‘And I'd better tell you what else we've heard. It doesn't make good hearing, but it has a bearing on your burial decision, among other things.' I looked around for Alan, but he hadn't returned. ‘It concerns, indirectly, another of the parishioners, Harold Guillot.'

‘I don't believe I know him. But tell me, please.'

I tried to leave my emotions out of it, but I couldn't. I was near tears by the time I finished the story. ‘If it were my decision, Father – which thank God it is not – I wouldn't bury the man within ten miles of consecrated ground. But you have to remember that both stories are hearsay. It's remotely possible that they're not true.'

‘The report from his bishop is certainly true. There's been an audit. The diocesan lawyers were preparing a case when he disappeared.'

The man sounded near tears himself. Where, I thought desperately, was Alan? I need some support in this thing.

He walked into the room at that moment, carrying a large paper bag. ‘I had a feeling we required sustenance,' he said, taking a bottle, some glasses and a small box out of the bag. ‘Sherry. I hope you like Amontillado, Mr Lewison. And digestives. Sorry about the plastic glasses. At least they're approximately the right size and shape.'

T
he wine and biscuits helped restore a more normal atmosphere in the room.

‘Thank you,' said the priest after downing half a glass. ‘I was distraught. I am still, for that matter, but your hospitality has helped. Mr Nesbitt, as a policeman, what do you think I should do? Should any of this appalling history go to the police?'

‘Since they know about the American charges, and since nothing can be done about the matter, with the accused lying dead, I see no reason to fill in any of the details. To the police, that is. You must decide for yourself what to tell the vicar of this parish, and the bishop.'

‘The bishop, yes. The decision about burial must be left to him. It's a weighty matter, refusing Christian burial. And what I'm to tell the dear ladies of the parish I do not know. They adored the man! And I confess I was completely taken in by him myself. His manner was above reproach, and he was a genuine help in so many ways. I blame myself very much.' He was actually wringing his hands.

‘But plainly the vicar thought the same, or he would not have allowed the man to continue in his activities,' said Alan.

‘And at least,' I added, ‘since he'd not yet passed the various screenings, he was not allowed to act as a priest. You can be grateful for that, at any rate. You don't have to worry about any possibly invalid sacraments.'

‘No. You're right. We must be grateful at least for that small blessing.' He put his glass down. ‘I must go and offer what comfort I can to poor Mrs Small. I don't know what I shall tell her, but I trust I will be guided.'

‘Let us know how she's doing, will you?'

‘Certainly. Mr Nesbitt. Mrs Martin.' He gave the slightest of bows and hurried off.

‘
Well!
' I kicked my shoes off. ‘That was a stunner, all right. Even though we knew most of it. Having it confirmed officially …'

‘And the amount of money! That's – what – sixty thousand pounds or so?'

‘More than that, at the present rate. The last time I looked, that would amount to about sixty-five thousand. Major money. How on earth did he manage to sift off that much from a parish budget?'

‘Large, wealthy parish, would be my guess. And criminally inadequate oversight!'

‘Indeed. And Alice Small's sister gets a sniff of it, and dies for her pains. I am reminded of something Lord Peter once said about an ingenious and diabolical criminal: “My religious beliefs are a little ill-defined, but I hope something really beastly happens to him in the next world.”'

‘Of course, if we were all to get our just deserts …' said Alan.

‘Oh, you're right, of course. And I'm not to judge. Take it as read. All the same, I really can't work up a lot of enthusiasm for tracking down his murderer. If there is one.'

‘Nevertheless, I think we need to talk to Mr Guillot, if we can find him.'

‘Do we have to do it today, though? It's Sunday, and somehow …'

‘I understand. No, I don't imagine one day will make much difference. Why don't we go and find ourselves a proper Sunday lunch, and then go down to the harbour and ride the train?'

‘Ride it to where?'

‘Nowhere in particular. That's part of the fun. Come, let's see who serves Sunday lunch.'

We stopped and asked someone on the street and were told that Le Pesked, despite their French-sounding name, did an excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and as it was almost next door, we decided to try it. ‘I wonder what a “pesked” is?' I mused. Alan didn't know.

We weren't sorry about our choice. We discovered that our stomachs were set to somewhat different clocks than most of Alderney; we were the only customers in the place when we walked in. But the staff was friendly, the service was fast and the food delicious. It was indeed traditionally English, but with a subtle French flair.

We never did find out what ‘pesked' meant, though the sign implied that it was some sort of fish. Alderney French, perhaps.

I was ready for a nap, but the train left at two thirty, and we had to get out of our church clothes and then get down to the harbour to catch it, so we ambled, full of food, down Braye Road to the station, and Alan told me about the train.

‘It was originally built to carry materials from the quarry down where they were building the breakwater. That was in the middle of the eighteenth century. Over the years its function and location have changed somewhat, but its main use for most of its career was hauling stone. Now it's simply an excursion train for tourists, and runs only in summer except for Easter and Christmas, when they have special runs, mostly for children, with eggs at Easter and presents at Christmas.'

‘Where do you
get
all this stuff?'

‘From the source of all wisdom, O best beloved. The Internet.'

‘You don't have a computer here.'

‘I looked up a good deal before we left home. I like to plan ahead.'

‘But where does it
go
? The island isn't that big.'

He took his map out of his pocket, unfolded it and showed me the route that was laid out. ‘I'm told the lighthouse is well worth a visit, if we want to stick around and come back on the second run.'

‘Why not? We can pretend we're on vacation.'

The train was driven by Suzi, the hedgehog lady. I'd grown accustomed to the many roles played by Alderney people and was only mildly surprised. I
was
surprised, and amused, to see that the train cars (all two of them) were from the London Underground, complete with the maps above the windows. ‘Look,' I said, pointing. ‘We're headed for King's Cross.'

‘Long journey,' said Alan. ‘Especially since we're leaving from Swiss Cottage, which isn't on the same line.'

He pointed out the sign posted above the door to the tiny station. I giggled. ‘I was wrong when I said we were in a Christmas village. No. We've gone Through the Looking Glass to the place where everything is backwards and upside down.'

We started with much important blowing of whistles and clanging of bells, and headed out, past a few houses and then into open country. We crossed a road or two, again with whistles; at one crossing, a man and his dog waited patiently for us to pass, and waved as we went by. The wildflowers were spectacular.

The quarry, when we came to it, was as ugly as most quarries. Long disused machinery sat rusting, a blot on the landscape. ‘Someone ought to clean that up,' I whispered to Alan. ‘A disgrace to Alderney.'

‘Costs money, love. And it wouldn't be easy, given the terrain and the remote location. Look in the other direction.'

I looked and saw the sea, glittering in the sun, and smiled. ‘All in one's point of view, isn't it?'

It was a brief journey. We pulled into the station at the north end of the line and saw the lighthouse just over the hill. Alan asked Suzi about the schedule and was assured that we had plenty of time to go and see it. ‘We'll signal ten minutes before we're ready to leave. And we'll wait for you if you're not here. There's no rush.'

That seemed to be the philosophy on Alderney. No rush.

The path to the lighthouse was a little harder going than I had anticipated, and I wished I'd worn boots instead of slippery sneakers. But with the occasional help of Alan's arm I made it unscathed, and there it was, gleaming white with a broad black band.

‘I never realized a lighthouse was so big. They don't look huge in pictures.'

‘Ah,' said Alan. It's one of his favourite non-reply replies, usually meaning he found my comment too inane for a reasonable rejoinder. Well, he was perhaps right about that. This time.

There was a small admission fee to tour the place, and when we had paid we joined the small crowd gathered around our guide.

Robin!

Why didn't that surprise me? He was an authority on local history, and the lighthouse was historic. I wondered if we'd have any chance to talk to him privately.

He greeted us with the same impersonal smile he bestowed on everyone and launched into the story of the structure.

It seemed the lighthouse had an active life, with a light keeper, of a little over eighty years, during most of which the light was fuelled by kerosene (he called it ‘paraffin'). The enormous rotating lens magnified the light's power, so that it could be seen for many miles out to sea, and the fog horn had amazing range and power as well. Sadly (to my mind), the light was altered for electric power in the seventies sometime, and was now decommissioned altogether, replaced by two LED lights on the outside of the tower. The light keeper was long gone, and though the giant horn remained on the tower, it no longer sounded. The whole thing was now controlled electronically from somewhere in England.

‘There is
no
romance left,' I muttered as Robin explained that modern navigational aids made powerful lights and foghorns unnecessary.

But the impressive lens was still there, if disused, and the views from various levels of the tower were terrific. The climb to the very top, up a steep ladder with handholds in the steps, was a bit scary, but I managed it and felt triumphant.

‘Well,' I said as we got back to the bottom and were ready to head back to the train, ‘now I've seen a lighthouse. It wasn't on my bucket list, but it would have been had I known they were so interesting. Now, where's Robin?'

‘We haven't a lot of time to get back to the train, Dorothy. And it's rather a long walk back to the harbour on a hot day.'

‘No rush,' I said airily, inwardly smiling at Alan's description. A ‘hot day' in southern Indiana meant temperatures and humidity levels both in the nineties. A temperature in the sixties with a fresh sea breeze was not ‘hot' to me, though I admitted the sun was a bit warm. ‘Ah, there he is.'

Robin was chatting to a pair of elderly ladies, pointing to various parts of the house surrounding the tower. I moved up beside them and tried to catch his eye. He steadfastly ignored me. They talked on and on.

I heard the whistle of the train. Alan came up beside me and touched my arm. ‘We must get back, Dorothy.'

‘They won't leave without us. Suzi said so.'

The two ladies left, reluctantly, and Robin turned to go, still ignoring us.

‘Robin, wait.' He turned, and the look he gave me wasn't encouraging.

‘Have you heard the news?' I asked.

‘About what?' He sounded forbidding.

‘The Americans have told our police that Abercrombie was on the verge of being arrested for theft.'

‘The least of his sins, I'd have thought.'

‘But don't you care that the story has been confirmed officially? It made us feel – I don't know – vindicated, somehow.'

‘I was never in doubt about any of the stories. Nothing that man did would surprise me. Unless he was found to have been altruistic and compassionate.'

The whistle sounded again, several toots.

‘But will you tell Harold, please?'

‘Why? It makes no difference. The man is beyond the reach of human justice and is now incapable of making restitution for any of his many crimes against humanity. You'd better go.'

We went, at a speed that surprised even me. Suzi, from the window of the little engine, gave us a look as we bounded onto the platform. We hurled ourselves through the doors just as they were closing.