Cleo Hartley was optimistic when she left her cottage
early on Monday morning. The bishop had not known that he would be rumbled and would
not have covered his tracks. Now he was out of action, he could do little to protect
his selfish interests. This was an ideal opportunity to get to the bottom of
what was going on.
Back numbers of various newspapers and journals produced
only one lead, but one she was sure would be of use. It was a plan for a large
trading centre in Upper Grumpsfield with tenders invited for a large site on
which to build it. Stapled to the article was a copy of a memo addressed to the
bishop’s office and containing only two possible building sites: the land
between Monkton Abbey and Monkton Way, which had, however, been earmarked by
the National Trust for when the owner became known, and – sure enough – the
land surrounding St Peter’s Parish Church, which would also entail demolishing
all the buildings on it. But the land would first have to be made available by
the owner. The owner was the Church of England. The person responsible for the
diocese was the bishop. Unfortunately, there was no signature, so there was
little hope of tracing the author of the original memo. The journalist doing
research pocketed it. He would find out who was responsible. It was
hand-written. Graphology was one of his other interests. They exchanged names
and phone numbers and promised to keep each other posted.
An hour later, Cleo had reached the bishop’s office and
was chatting up a young girl who claimed to be in charge.
‘I’ve come straight from the bishop,” Cleo told her. “He
asked me to collect the documents for the Upper Grumpsfield negotiations and
take them to him. He’s going to deal with the business by phone while he’s
recovering from his little accident.”
The girl was shocked to learn that the bishop had had an
accident and enquired solicitously into the health of the bishop. All the rest
of Cleo’s story was, of course, pure fantasy, but the girl swallowed it and
turned to the filing cabinet to fish out the requested papers while Cleo was
thinking to herself that it was all too good to be true. The original of the
informer’s memo was actually in the ring binder, but not signed. That was not
unusual for a memo, especially as it was illicitly provided information. Cleo
thanked the girl, told her to take the rest of the day and the rest of the week
off on special orders from the bishop and set off for home. She would study everything
and then decide on the next step. There was no danger that her identity would
become known prematurely. She had given the girl a fictitious name, worn
glasses and ahead-scarf, and spoken without any trace of American accent.
Better safe than sorry.
Later that day the bishop recovered consciousness and
immediately demanded a telephone to attend to what he defined as urgent clerical
affairs. But Cleo was already several steps ahead of him. His office phone was
unattended, so he did not find out about Cleo’s visit from anyone and was
unlikely to that week since the girl was taking an official holiday and would
be unlikely to be available for work. In fact, it was likely that she would
avoid any contact with the bishop since that might be instructions to return to
the office immediately.
That same evening, Cleo had some explaining to do to
Robert, who was a bit anxious about the wisdom of meddling into the bishop’s
business. He was also shocked that Cleo would use such dubious means of getting
at her information, though it had been worthwhile. Cleo’s assurances that it
was all in a good cause eased his concern for her safety but she called him an
old woman for meddling in things he did not understand and a fine friend for
not trusting her judgement.
Sometimes Cleo had her doubts about Robert’s ability to
think outside the box, but the main issue now was how to tell the vicar who, in
Cleo’s opinion, did not even want to know that there was a box to be outside
of.
When Dorothy phoned Cleo to ask about the impro theatre event,
Cleo immediately had the bright idea of inviting her round to the cottage for
an impromptu meeting the following evening. She then phoned Mr Parsnip and
invited him to attend a theatre show meeting, without mentioning the results of
her detecting, but explaining that it would be better not to have the meeting
at the vicarage while Edith was still recovering from her ordeal. With Edith’s
recovery going so well, they should not risk spoiling things. After all, Edith
would expect to sit in on the meeting, as usual, even if she didn’t contribute
anything beyond light refreshments, and that might be too much for her.
Since Tuesday was one of Laura’s choir practice evenings,
at which Mr Morgan would be playing the piano, it was a good excuse for not
inviting those two members of the committee. And that was just as well, since
Mr Morgan’s discretion could not be relied on and none of it was any concern of
Laura’s.
Next morning Cleo brought Clare up to date during their
brief lunch break. Clare was shocked, dismayed and disgusted in turn. Their
suspicions had been confirmed beyond doubt. The bishop was planning to sell out
Upper Grumpsfield parish church and almost certainly for personal gain. He
would have to be stopped. But how?
“Well, you could go to the hospital tomorrow afternoon
and find out how things stand,” suggested Cleo.
“As Clare or as Edith?”
“As Clare. We don’t want to risk the bishop getting even
more obscene ideas about poor Edith. I’ll be interested to know if he makes a
pass at you instead. Tell him you’ve been out of town for a while and play the
innocent.”
“Cat and mouse.”
“Only you’ll be the cat. He’s been in that role for long
enough.”
Cleo had just finished rustling up some savouries and
cookies to hand round when Dorothy Price and Frederick Parsnip turned up at the
cottage. Robert said he would be around but did not want to participate. He
would just listen.
The meeting started harmlessly enough. Cleo produced the
list of would-be actors for inspection. To everyone’s relief it was a long one
and Dorothy was delighted to see that there would be enough men and boys to
save her having to cast women in the male roles.
“We’ll meet at six p.m. and I’ll cast the actors in
whichever fairy-tale they are to perform. I’ll write all the stories out so
that they know exactly what’s going to happen.”
“I can type them for you, Dorothy,” Cleo offered.
“No need, Cleo. I’ll print them from my laptop.”
“Wow!” said Cleo.
“I could not just have a computer and no printer, Cleo. I
felt helpless.”
The vicar was impressed. He still used a pencil to make
notes if he hadn’t sharpened them all to extinction.
“We’ll let the audience
in from seven o’clock and start the entertainment half an hour later.”
“I’ll organize some drinks,” offered Robert, who had
ostensibly been reading the paper but had heard every word. “Just soft drinks
and no alcohol. Actors need to lubricate their throats, not deaden their brains.
Shall I include coffee, Cleo.”
“Great, Robert. And tea, of course. Hands up those who accept
Robert’s offer of drinks for the show.”
There was unanimous approval.
The vicar wanted to know what they could award as prizes
that didn’t cost much.
“I think the complete plays of Shakespeare in one volume would
be appropriate,” said Dorothy. ”There’s a special Christmas offer on at the
bookshop in Middlethumpton and I’ve already bought one for my niece Victoria.”
Cleo offered to get more of them. Of course, only the
winning team would get one each, but they could raffle some off with the
audience if they sold the tickets at the door.
“That’s a good idea,” approved the vicar.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Dorothy.
The vicar wanted to get home, but Dorothy was still not satisfied
with the arrangements.
“One other problem is how we’ll decide who is going to
win.”
“Let’s let the audience decide,” Cleo suggested. “They’ll
decide which group was the most entertaining and we’ll give prizes to the actors.”
“That sounds like a sensible idea,” said Dorothy.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said the vicar, rising to
leave. He was truly thankful that everything had gone without a hitch.
“Wait a minute, Mr Parsnip. We have another more serious
matter to discuss. It’s connected with Edith.”
“But now Edith has recovered most of her memory
everything will be all right.”
“Not everything, Mr Parsnip.”
Cleo opened the file with the damning evidence against
the bishop.
“There’s the small matter of selling the land on which St
Peter’s stands to a property developer.”
Mr Parsnip sat down again.
“I suppose it was inevitable.”
“What do you mean, Frederick?” Dorothy asked. She was up
in arms. There had been rumours, but she hadn’t believed them.
“The bishop wants to integrate the parish into
Middlethumpton. I’ve been fighting it and I thought we were making progress,
thanks to our new activities. But now I realise that it was all in vain.”
“But you will lose your job and your home,” said Dorothy.
“Don’t you want to fight for them?”
“How?” he replied.
“We can’t allow it to happen.”
“What do you mean, Cleo?”
Mr Parsnip had no idea what had been going on behind his
back.
Cleo held up the documents from the bishop’s office.
“When you’ve read these, you will realise that the bishop
is only interested in his own profit. He would sell his grandmother if someone
made him an offer.”
The vicar was starting to look bewildered.
“Just let me look at those papers,” said Dorothy.
“Listen to this, Frederick,” she started and proceeded to
read aloud the details of the contract between the bishop and the investors
finalising the sale of the parish land.
“I think he was in a hurry on Sunday morning because he
had made up his mind to sign that contract without further delay after he had
been thwarted in his attempt to get at Edith. The car accident stopped him in
his tracks, but for how long?”
“He can’t sign the contract if we’ve got it, can he?”
said the vicar.
“He’ll get the company to print another one. That small
detail won’t hinder him.”
Mr Parsnip was stricken.
“So we can’t stop him,” he said.
“I know how we can stop him.”
Cleo chose her words carefully.
“We can expose the bishop’s plans to the media. That will
make enough of a scandal to stop him in his tracks. After all, he isn’t the
most powerful member of the Church of England.”
The vicar nodded. That was a tiny flicker of hope.
“But he will have to be exposed as a blackmailer, too. He
tried to blackmail your wife, Mr Parsnip.”
“Oh dear, I don’t think so...”
Involving Edith was the last thing Mr Parsnip wanted.
Hadn’t she gone through enough?
“Negative publicity is the key to saving St Peter’s, Mr
Parsnip,” said Cleo.”
Dorothy Price was as shocked as the vicar at the
implications of Cleo’s suggested course of action.
“You’ll have to bite the bullet, Frederick,” she told
him.
“We have no time to lose,” said Cleo. “I’m going to call
the police now and tell them of the bishop’s abusive behaviour towards Edith
and Clare posing as Edith. Believe me, Mr Parsnip, we have no choice.”
“And you will phone the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office
and report on what has been going on. You are now in possession of the contract
the bishop is about to sign, selling St Peter’s to a supermarket chain.”
“If you say so, Cleo,” said the vicar, impressed and
overawed by Cleo’s energy. She was a pagan, after all.
“Trust me, Mr Parsnip. The only chance of saving the
Upper Grumpsfield congregation is to take action immediately. It may already be
too late.”
“Can I phone from here, Cleo? I wouldn’t want Edith ....”
“Sure, Mr Parsnip. Just go ahead. The sooner we set the
ball rolling, the better.”
And so the vicar, alarmed and distressed as he was about
the whole business, picked up the phone to make the most important call of his
life. There was no going back now.
