The door of the office opened and Father Wingate said, ‘The house has been in continuous occupation since ancient times. It started as a simple settlement which grew into a castle. My ancestors built a manor house on the castle’s foundations some time around the 1600s. Of course it’s been much altered since then, but for centuries all the farms and homesteads in the district paid fealty to it.’
‘And it belonged to your family for all that time?’
‘Until I bequeathed it to the Church.’
‘So you speak with God as one Lord to another.’
‘No one is equal to God.’ Father Wingate’s voice was frosty.
‘You’ll have to forgive my sense of humour, Father.’ The man was unapologetic. ‘It’s not PC, but it’s helped me survive.’
Magnus caught a quick impression of dark hair and blue shirt as the stranger walked past the cupboard.
Father Wingate called, ‘Malachy?’
‘Yes?’ The man sounded impatient. He stepped back into Magnus’s line of vision. He was not as short as Magnus had anticipated, just an inch or two beneath his own height, he guessed, but stockier, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered in a way that made him look bullish and out of proportion. His blue dress shirt was more suited to a business suit than the pressed jeans he was wearing, but he had left the shirt untucked, to hide a weapon or in concession to a permanent post-apocalyptic dress-down Friday.
Father Wingate said, ‘You’ll remember to tell your men about distributing the punch? It’s always been the duty of the big house to offer some hospitality to the district. My mother used to arrange for urns of tea and fruit scones when she hosted the garden fête. Even after I handed the house over to the Church we held the occasional open day; tea for the grown-ups, orange juice for the children, that kind of thing.’
‘They’re not my men, but I’ll tell them.’
Father Wingate said, ‘I think alcohol will be the right thing on this occasion. Strong drink can be a great comfort.’
Malachy laughed. ‘I’ll say amen to that.’
Magnus waited until the sound of the newcomer’s boots had faded and then stole from the cupboard into Father Wingate’s office, closing the door gently behind him. The old man greeted him with a smile.
‘My son, we thought we had lost you.’ He slid the book in his hand back on to its shelf. ‘Have you encountered our visitors?’
‘I’ve been avoiding them.’ Magnus kept his voice low. ‘You said you’d give me time to prove Jeb innocent.’
‘Events have moved on.’
Father Wingate eased himself into the same high-backed chair he had insisted on, on the afternoon when Jacob had persuaded Magnus to stay and help with the harvest. He nodded towards an armchair.
Magnus ignored him and leaned against the desk where he could see the door. Father Wingate’s boyish smile was wide, but there was an excited edge to the priest that Magnus did not like. He said, ‘Why are you so keen to execute Jeb?’
‘I hope I’m not giving the impression of being over-eager.’ The priest was unfazed by the question. ‘Jacob acknowledged that the sweats were a sign that we should return to Old Testament times. He would approve of what we are doing.’
Jacob had used the phrase ‘Old Testament times’ in the cornfield when he had confided his doubts about Melody’s death, but he had been uneasy; weighed down by sorrow and responsibility. Magnus said, ‘Jacob might have feared a need for harsh punishment, but he would never have considered using it as entertainment. These men are building a stage on the lawn and you’re planning on serving refreshments.’
Father Wingate let out a scandalised laugh. ‘It does sound bad when you put it that way. But what you fail to recognise is that death can also be a joyous occasion.’
‘Joyous?’
‘We can incarcerate your friend indefinitely or we can grant him the opportunity to cleanse his sins and offer up his life as a sacrifice to God. Until recent times such occasions were always a public spectacle.’ Father Wingate’s voice turned grave. ‘It is a serious thing to take a life. The whole community must be involved. We are all guilty of survival.’
Magnus faltered, grasping for words the priest would understand.
‘Jeb maintains his innocence. He’s not Jesus Christ, he isn’t going to offer up his life to God. He’s more likely to go raving blasphemies.’
Father Wingate leaned forward. His face was sympathetic, as if Jeb were already dead and Magnus a bereaved relative. ‘Do not worry about your friend’s dignity. There are ways to ensure a solemn end.’
It was like talking to a madman. Magnus said, ‘What are you going to do? Hypnotise him? It’s possible that the person who really killed Jacob murdered other people too. Doesn’t that worry you?’
The old man clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap. ‘Death is not as important as what comes afterwards. We had lost sight of that before God, in His mercy, chose to visit the sweats on us. I am eighty-two years old, but I remember my youth, my childhood, as if it were yesterday.’ The priest paused, as if he could see the house in full splendour. ‘Life is a blink of the eye, eternity is everlasting. Will you pray with me?’
Magnus pushed himself off the desk and stood up straight. ‘I’d rather get up on that platform with Jeb than go down on my knees with you. I didn’t agree with everything Jacob did, but he was a good man who was trying to build a community. If there’s an afterlife then he deserves to rest easy, but what you’re doing is enough to call him back from the dead.’
Father Wingate crossed his legs. ‘Jacob was a good man and he will have his resurrection, but he was only human. He believed that if we built a community people would come and join us. Malachy has taken a more dynamic approach. He has gone to the people.’
‘What people?’ Magnus had started to pace the floor, moving like he did on stage. It was a waste of energy, but anger had blasted him with adrenalin and it was impossible to sit still.
‘Malachy and his group have been touring the district looking for somewhere to settle. There are pockets of survivors all around the parish.’
‘And you think they’ll come to Jeb’s execution? The idea’s sick.’
‘When I was a boy, harvest was the most joyous festival in the countryside. It was more popular than Christmas. In those days there were fewer crops and so farms reaped them at the same time. When it was done, communities came together to worship and celebrate.’
It was like one of his father’s reminiscences. Magnus perched on the edge of the easy chair, trying to make up his mind about what to do next. The old man’s words rolled on.
‘Some corn would be taken from the final sheaf shorn and made into a corn dolly to be presented to the prettiest girl who had taken part in the harvest.’ The old man looked up, suddenly anxious. ‘Do you know what a corn dolly is?’ Magnus nodded and Father Wingate continued, satisfied that his story was making sense. ‘You can imagine the feuds that were caused by that.’ His laugh was gleeful. ‘They all wanted to be queen of the harvest.’ The priest looked at Magnus, suddenly serious. ‘You’re a country boy. You must surely understand the natural cycle of things.’
Magnus recited one of his mother’s favourite verses: ‘There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.’
Father Wingate beamed and nodded his head. ‘I knew you were a good Christian, but you forgot, “a time to tear down and a time to build”.’