How the details of the bishop’s corrupt actions made it to
the first page of the national tabloids by next morning was to remain a mystery.
Even Dorothy was not to know that Cleo had connived with the journalist to help
him to the scoop of his career. Suffice it to say that the ambiguous heading that
had not been thought up by Cleo had the desired effect on the citizens of Middlethumpton
and District.
“Have you seen the paper?” was the usual approach. “First I
thought you’d been led up the garden path by a loose woman, but fortunately I
then read the whole article. Your wife’s a real Sherlock Holmes, Robert. You
must be very proud of her.”
Robert Jones was thankful that people had taken the trouble
to actually read the report, otherwise they might all have come to entirely the
wrong conclusions. Some did say that they thought the headline was a bit saucy
considering the seriousness of the matter.
“Embarrassing, you mean.”
Robert Jones was concerned that Cleo had possibly told the
papers the story they had printed. He would ask her.
“Oh come on, Robert. You know what journalists are like.
Anything to sell a story and this one is certainly worth its weight in gold.
Fancy the bishop getting up to such dirty tricks.”
With a shop full of people exchanging their opinions on the bishop’s
conduct, Robert was having a hard time getting them to place their orders.
“Well, that journalist certainly didn’t waste any time,” Robert
said, wondering what Cleo would say when she read the headline.
“Where is your wife now, Robert?”
“Not my wife yet. She’s gone to her office.”
“Well, I think she deserves a medal. No one wants a
supermarket in Upper Grumpsfield, do they?”
This question, posed by a very vociferous customer to no one
in particular, was greeted with “Never!” from the crowd and very soon a
deputation had been established to make sure that the property developers got
nowhere near St Peter’s. If necessary, they would organize a sit-in. You can’t
demolish a building if there’s someone inside it.
“You can’t stop those property gangsters forever if they
have a legal contract,” Robert said. “But with a bit of luck the whole scheme
will be dropped now the corruption has come to light.”
“One thing really puzzles me,” one of the customers said. “And
that’s the bishop’s real name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”
“No one has. He’s always been referred to as The Bishop. He
wanted it that way.”
“Perhaps his name would reveal something we should not find
out about him,” remarked someone.
“He had to use it on the contracts for the sale of the
parish land, and quite by chance my wife got copies of them His name is signed
on them.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“James McDuff.”
“There’s nothing strange about that name.”
“He’s hiding something,” someone said. “What if he isn’t
what he says he is?”
“What happened to the bishop before him?”
“He died.”
“Well, that can happen to anyone. Were there mysterious
circumstances?”
“I don’t think so. He was over 90.”
“Not really fit to choose his successor then!” someone
shouted and was rewarded with a round of applause.
It occurred to Robert that the old vicar might have been
forced to recommend the new one, but surely that’s not the way bishops were
appointed.
It was with some difficulty that an Inspector from
Middlethumpton police was able to squeeze through the reception committee that
had formed outside the shop.
“What’s all this about?” he called.
“It’s the headlines this morning,” said Robert. “I think there
must be an informer.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said the officer. I’m D.I. Gary
Hurley and we decided publicity was the best deterrent in this case. The archbishop
will deal with everything now he knows that a criminal was in charge of the
diocese.”
“Does that mean that you have been conniving with Miss
Hartley?” said Robert.
“We talked on the phone,” said Hurley.
“Did you say the bishop is an imposter?” someone asked.
“We don’t know the details yet, but it’s on the cards that the
man named James McDuff was not the person appointed bishop. The old bishop put
in a good word for him, but it’s a mystery how he got away with it this long. That’s
why I’m here. To make sure none of his cronies turn up to sort you out, Mr Jones.”
“What about Miss Hartley? She’s in real danger. Don’t bother
about me.”
“We’re onto it. She’s under surveillance.”
“Do you know how often has the bishop been to this parish?” Hurley
wanted to know.
“There wasn’t much with him until the choir festival last
year, when the vicar invited him to judge. He came too. He must have had plans
even then!”
“ It is possible that the bishop was preparing some kind of
deal, “ said Hurley. “I’m just surprised that your vicar – what’s his name
again? – was so naive.”
“Mr Parsnip’s a good man, but he takes everything at face
value and he’s nervous about people he perceives to be his superior.”
In the meantime, the noise and bustle had woken Mr Morgan. He
flung open the window over the shop and shouted “What’s going on here at this
ungodly hour?”
“Ungodly deeds,” someone shouted back.
“What?”
“The bishop’s crimes have been discovered.”
“What bishop? What crimes?”
“Haven’t you seen
this morning’s paper?”
“I don’t get a newspaper. I can read Mr Jones’s when he’s
finished with it now I live here.”
“Well you’d better get dressed and come down. Then you’ll
find out what’s up,” said Hurley.
It didn’t take Mr Morgan long to get dressed, drag a comb
through his pomaded hair and leap down the stairs to join the throng.
“The bishop name is James McDuff and we think he might be an
imposter,” said Hurley, looking askance at the little man with greasy hair and
extraordinary clothes.
“Never. He was so enthusiastic about my music. Asked me all
sorts of questions about the church, too. Really interested, he was.”
“He would be, wouldn’t he? That was part of his plan.”
“What plan?”
“To sell the parish land to a property developer working for
a supermarket chain,” said Hurley.
“You’ve certainly done your homework,” said Robert.
“Part of the job, Mr Jones. We have a corpse on our hands
and a seriously injured bishop. That’s why the homicide squad was called in. We
don’t know if the car accident was an attempt to assassinate the bishop.”
Mr Morgen looked frightened.
“It could have been me. Is that why he offered me a new job?”
“Are you sure he did that?” Hurley asked.
“Well not exactly, but he hinted that I might have to move
on and asked would I be interested in a new position?”
“Are you sure he was talking about a job, Mr Morgan?”
“Well, to be truthful, he didn’t actually mention what the
job would be, but I thought...”
“Think again,” interrupted Robert. “You’ve been fooled as
much as the rest of us round here.”
Anxiety had taken the place of Mr Morgan’s cockiness.
“I’d better go and
see how things are at the vicarage,” said Gareth Morgen “They probably need my
support.”
“What makes you think that?” said Robert. “You shouldn’t go
to the vicarage now. Mrs Parsnip doesn’t know that we called the police in and
she doesn’t need to be worried by any of this just yet.”
But Edith Parsnip had read the newspaper article. The vicar
had thoughtlessly left the newspaper on the kitchen table. She phoned Dorothy.
“Is it all true?” she wanted to know. “Have they arrested
him?”
Dorothy thought that as long as he was laid up in hospital
and his whereabouts known to the police and they would just keep an eye on him.
“It’s my fault,” Edith said. “If I hadn’t lost my memory
like that...”
“If you hadn’t lost your memory, the whole scandal would not
have been discovered and St Peter’s would probably have been closed by next
week. Property developers move fast once they have the land in their
possession. Just be thankful that you DID lose your memory, Edith.”
Dorothy realized that it had been a near thing with the takeover
of the parish land, an action that was now known to be due to a scrupulous deal
being made by a phony bishop.
“Of course I’m sure. Cleo Hartley is investigating, so we
can be sure that no stone will be left unturned. She can go places and ask questions
they can’t. This evening we shall know more.”
“How can I thank you all?”
“Just keep calm and wait for more news, Edith. I’ll keep you
posted.”
Dorothy wondered if Frederick Parsnip had really had no idea
that the bishop was up to no good. The bishop had put on a very convincing act
whenever he had turned up in Upper Grumpsfield. Under normal circumstances the
contract with the developers would have been signed and sealed by now. Why had the
bishop not simply gone ahead and just done it? Did the seduction of poor Edith
take precedence in that man’s evil mind?
Dorothy watched a lot of whodunits on TV and had seen many a
criminal go just a step too far for one reason or another. She decided that the
bishop had been planning to keep the act going until his cut in the deal was
safely tucked away in some bank account or other and the demolition of the
church and the vicarage could start. If necessary he would subject poor Edith
to more humiliation. When the deal was in the bag the bishop would disappear
with the spoils.
The more she thought about it, the more horrific did Dorothy
find the scenario. How had James McDuff inveigled the old bishop to put in a
good word for him? Unless the Archbishop had indeed appointed a successor and
the real bishop was done away with by his imposter. Whoever it was knew a lot
about church affairs. Dorothy decided that there was a lot more to this whole
business than met the eye. In fact, it was on the cards that James McDuff was a
murderer, as well.
Meanwhile Cleo Hartley was continuing with her own
investigations. How could James McDuff have taken the place of the elected bishop?
The previous bishop had died of natural causes, at least, that was the conclusion
everyone had come to. An elderly man dying did not raise suspicion. If he had
been murdered, it was too late to do anything about it. The old man had been
cremated. There was no way of finding out if he had died a natural death. A new
one had been appointed, as was customary in such cases. What had prevented the
legitimate new bishop from taking up his position?
A phone call with Dorothy in which Dorothy voiced similar ideas
on the case tied in Cleo’s instinct that the fake bishop had managed the whole
business. She decided she would first have to find out who James McDuff really
was.
Cleo remembered the archives at the library. They were not
consulted much these days. People were more concerned with what had happened
the previous day than what had happened in the past. The archives contained all
the diocese newsletters going back to the year dot thanks to the previous
librarian’s hobby interest in parish affairs and her collector’s passion.
Combing through them was a challenge so Cleo decided to start with the most
recent newsletter and work backwards in the hope that something would turn up. To
her relief, she found recent records of clerical appointments. What she
discovered in the one dated from the month the new bishop had been appointed was
mind-boggling. The man on the photograph was the spitting image of the fake bishop.
Her next task would be to track down a family named McDuff who probably had
identical twins or two boys you could not tell apart. That might explain why
the phony bishop had got away with it for so long. But that still did not
explain why Mr Parsnip had not noticed anything amiss, and it did not shed
light on the idea that one brother could be a high churchman and the other a
criminal.
Cleo fished around in her capacious handbag for the bit of
paper with the journalist’s phone number. She would put him onto it.
“Rick, I’ve got a big favour to ask you.”
“Cleo. That was quick. Seen the newspapers this morning?”
“Sure. Were you responsible for the headline?”
“Sorry about that, but it’s a hot story and even hotter if
you get people really hyped up. We sold an extra two thousand plus of that
issue.”
“Who was the horse? I thought I’d told you quite a bit
confidentially!””
“A cop named Hurley. You should meet him. Cleo. He’s a good
cop and does not tell idle stories.”
“Does he know that I’m not a butcher’s wife?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Does it matter?”
“It’s OK for me, but my fiancé is probably in shock.”
“Hurley called us with the story and asked for immediate publication.
I happened to have night duty. I had to pretend I didn’t know you.”
“Definitely better than telling everyone I’m a private investigator.”
“Are you?”
“I am now, Rick.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“Find out if that family named McDuff had identical twins or
look-alike kids born between forty and fifty years ago. It’s a tall order, but
if anyone can deal with it, you can, Rick. At least one of them may have a
criminal record.”
“I won’t waste time asking why you need the information.
Surely one McDuff is enough.”
“The guy must have had at least one accomplice, Rick. Who
better than a brother?”
“Give me an hour or two. Can I reach you at the library?”
“Sure. I’ll be waiting.”
Cleo did not have to wait long. Rick was an experienced
journalist who knew exactly where to tap into information. The name McDuff was
Scottish. He would start in Scotland. It was child’s play in the end. The
Mcduff family came to fame through the birth of triplets, three identical boys,
Robert, John and James. The Glasgow Herald sponsored the family for 10 years.
After that, the family moved to south of the Scottish border and the newspaper
lost interest. Further research revealed that one of them had entered the
church, another had learnt accountancy and the third was living on his wits.
Awesome! So there were three McDuffs. Cleo knew that one of
them was almost certainly in the Middlethumpton hospital. The next task would
be to locate the other two.
