Glittering Images

But of course this last statement would be untrue. I knew now that I was the approaching catastrophe bent on breaking up the triangle, and once the triangle disintegrated the marital disaster would be poised to unfold.

I was still contemplating this prospect with appalled fascination seconds later when someone rapped loudly on my door.

I jumped, sprang to my feet and pulled on my dressing-gown. ‘Come in!’ I called, assuming I was addressing a servant sent to deliver either a telephone message or perhaps a letter which had arrived by the afternoon post, and turned aside to extinguish my cigarette in the ashtray.

The door banged open and the Bishop blazed across the threshold.

‘Now, Dr Ashworth,’ he said abruptly as I spun round in shock, ‘I think it’s time you told me the truth – and when I say the truth I mean the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Exactly why did you come to Starbridge and what the deuce do you think you’re playing at?’

SIX (#ulink_0c5e7a54-d82a-53d8-b0e8-975f8a30c472)

‘The sexual appetite (which is the most insistent and the most important of our bodily desires) presses for satisfaction … So we start with the certainty that sexual indulgence will be popular and that Christianity will be most difficult precisely at that point.’

More Letters of Herbert Hensley Henson Bishop of Durham 1920–1939 ed. E. F. BRALEY.

I

In the second which followed I saw the Bishop with photographic clarity and noticed that his brown eyes were no longer brilliant but opaque. His mouth was set in a tight line, his hands were clasped behind his back as if to conceal clenched fists and his whole stance radiated pugnacity. ‘Well, Dr Ashworth?’ he demanded, and his pugnacity was formidable indeed. ‘Speak up! What do you have to say for yourself?’

I knew at once that I had to stop him thinking I could be intimidated but unfortunately I was far from being completely unperturbed. Some form of defensive action was clearly called for. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Jardine,’ I said, ‘but I refuse to conduct an interview with a bishop while I’m wearing only my underclothes and a dressing-gown. You must allow me a moment to dress.’

There was a short tense silence. Then Jardine laughed, exclaimed, ‘I admire your nerve!’ and sat himself down at the table by the window.

Scrambling into my clerical uniform I found I could all too easily deduce what had happened. Lady Starmouth had complained about my interrogation, the chaplain had revealed my interest in the palace ménage, Mrs Cobden-Smith had disclosed what an excellent listener I was and Lyle had reported my episcopal obsession. I was about to be exposed as a deplorably unsuccessful espionage agent, but on the other hand my findings were all in Jardine’s favour. If I allowed his rage to run its course I might have a chance of pacifying him when he subsided into mere indignation. It seemed the best I could hope for. However meanwhile I had to cope with his rage.

‘Thank you,’ I said when fully dressed at last I sat down opposite him at the table. ‘Now I feel more civilized. First of all, Bishop, let me apologize from the bottom of my heart –’

‘Spare me the apologies. Give me the truth. Why are you here?’

‘Dr Lang sent me.’

Jardine showed no surprise. ‘The Archbishop should take care,’ was his acid comment. ‘He’s showing a talent for ecclesiastical skulduggery unmatched since the days of the Borgia popes. And what was his objective – or rather, what did he tell you was his objective?’

‘He’s acting to protect you, Bishop. He’s afraid his enemies in Fleet Street might use you in an attempt to smear the Church, and he sent me here to estimate how vulnerable you are to scandal.’

‘That may indeed be what he told you – but of course the real truth is that he’s sent you here to spy on my private life in the hope that you’ll find evidence which he can use to compel my resignation!’

‘Bishop –’

‘Monstrous! Archbishops have been executed for less!’

I felt I had no choice but to attempt my patron’s defence. ‘Bishop, His Grace doesn’t suspect you of any gross failure or even of any serious indiscretion, and I must absolutely insist that he’s not trying to get rid of you –’

‘No? It sounds to me as if he’s recently travelled incognito to the Old Vic to see a performance of Murder in the Cathedral – with the result that he’s now declaiming, in the manner of Henry II: “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest”!’

‘Dr Lang,’ I said firmly, ignoring this shaft, ‘is worried primarily about the existence of a minor indiscretion which an unscrupulous journalist could distort. He’s also worried in case your unusual domestic situation should be misunderstood. Bearing in mind the enormous amount of attention you’ve been receiving from the press lately, do you really think it’s so reprehensible that Dr Lang should send someone he trusts to survey the landscape to make sure you’re not vulnerable to the worst form of exploitation by Fleet Street?’

Jardine controlled himself sufficiently to say in an even voice, ‘You’re making heroic efforts to defend the Archbishop for his inexcusable trespass on my privacy, and I respect your loyalty to him, but didn’t it occur to His Grace that I’m perfectly capable of constructing my own defences against any assault from the press?’

‘The Archbishop merely wanted to make sure you hadn’t accidentally left a chink in your armour.’

‘And dare I ask what kind of chink His Grace had in mind?’

‘He was concerned in particular about the existence of unwise entries in your journal and the existence of indiscreet correspondence.’

Jardine burst out laughing. Then he exclaimed with the most withering scorn, ‘What kind of a fool does he think I am?’

‘I know it sounds preposterous, but Dr Jardine, it’s a fact that men of your age – even brilliant men of your age – do sometimes go off the rails, and His Grace felt he had to make absolutely sure – not only for the sake of the Church but for your own sake –’

‘Quite. Very well, I take your point. I suppose if one’s Archbishop of Canterbury one should always allow for the possibility of a bishop going stark staring mad, and His Grace no doubt interpreted my attack on him in the Lords as the onset of lunacy. However let me try and allay His Grace’s melodramatic fears as swiftly as possible.’ Jardine leant forward, placing his forearms on the table, and clasped his hands purposefully. ‘First: my journal. It’s not an adolescent’s diary reeking of carnal allusions. I comment on the books I’ve read, record my travels, note the themes of my sermons, remark on whom I’ve met and generally try to reflect what it means to serve God as a churchman. I won’t say I’ve never used the journal to record personal difficulties because I have, but as I’ve always excised the pages later and burnt them, you can tell the Archbishop that my journal in its present state would send any reporter from The News of the World straight to sleep … Or do you find that impossible to believe?’

I said truthfully, ‘No, I’d already reached the conclusion that you’d edit your work. I was only wondering –’ I broke off.

‘Well?’

‘No, my next question would have been impertinent.’

‘You may as well ask it. Since I’m apparently surviving the Archbishop’s monstrous assault on my privacy without suffering a stroke, one little piece of impertinence from you is hardly likely to dent my miraculous sang-froid. What’s the question?’

‘I was wondering when you last felt impelled to excise entries from your journal.’

Jardine raised an eyebrow, gave me a searching glance but concluded I was anxious only about the possibility of recent difficulties in his private life. ‘You needn’t worry,’ he said drily. ‘My life’s been singularly uneventful for some time now. It’s been five years since any pages from my journal were consigned to the library fire.’

‘Was that when you were still at Radbury?’ I said, certain that the answer was no but hoping to egg him on to a further revelation.

‘No, I’d just moved to Starbridge – and I trust, Dr Ashworth, you won’t graduate from a minor to a major impertinence by asking me what was going on in my life at the time.’

‘No, of course not, Bishop.’ I thought of Mrs Jardine drifting again towards a nervous breakdown as she grappled not only with the arrival of her stepmother-in-law but also with what Mrs Cobden-Smith had described as ‘an awkward time’, a euphemism I had translated as the menopause. I could well imagine the Bishop relieving his feelings in his journal as he waited for the arrival of his confidante.

‘I had a difficult decision to make,’ said the Bishop unexpectedly, ‘and I needed to set down the situation on paper in order to clarify my mind.’

That did surprise me. I could not immediately see what decision had had to be made. Possibly he had been debating with himself whether in view of his wife’s mental health, he had had a duty to install his stepmother not at the palace but in the best Starbridge nursing home.

‘Very well, so much for the journal,’ Jardine was saying briskly. ‘Let’s turn now to my correspondence. There are four women to whom I write regularly. First and foremost: my wife. Whenever we’re apart I try to write her a line every day. I’d say that was fairly normal behaviour for a man of my generation who detests the telephone, although a young man like you might think it rather an extravagant use of writing paper. After my wife the next woman on my list would be the incomparable Lady Starmouth to whom I pen a line about twice a week. Our chief topic is clerical gossip, but we also discuss literature and politics – topics which interest Mrs Welbeck and Lady Markhampton to whom I write regularly but less frequently than I write to Lady Starmouth. Am I making myself clear? My correspondence with all three of these delightful ladies, stimulating as it is, can’t possibly be described as the kind which would encourage a husband to challenge me to pistols at dawn. You may assure His Grace he has no cause for alarm.’

‘May I risk another minor impertinence?’

‘You’re a brave man, Dr Ashworth. But continue.’

‘Do you ever write to Miss Christie?’

‘Only when I have essential information to impart. For example, the last time I wrote to her was in May when my wife and I were in London for the Coronation. I sent Miss Christie a line to say that Carrie and I would be staying up in town an extra day in order to dine with some old friends from Radbury.’

‘Why didn’t Miss Christie go to London with you?’

‘That’s not an impertinent question, Dr Ashworth, but as far as I can see it’s an irrelevant one. I had a part to play in the Coronation ceremony and my wife had a seat in the Abbey. Rather than risk being crushed to death by the multitudes lining the processional route, Miss Christie sensibly decided to stay at home and “listen in” to the proceedings on the wireless. Do you have any other irrelevant questions, or am I now allowed to inquire what kind of report you intend to present to Dr Lang?’

I smiled at him before I said, ‘I shall tell His Grace that in my opinion every chink in your armour’s sealed.’