And then there was the strange behaviour of Mr Wellington, the minister. Like most churches these days, Mr Wellington’s was sparsely attended, although the organizations connected with the church were as busy as ever. Most women in the village belonged to the Mothers’ Union, of which Mrs Wellington was the chairwoman. The Boy Scouts and Girl Guides were both well attended. But gradually the church began to fill up on Sundays and Hamish was surprised to see members of the Free Presbyterian Church, members from the Free Church of Scotland, and from the Unitarians all neglecting their own kirks to go and hear Mr Wellington preach. What could be the reason? Hamish decided to find out. He told Willie to man the phone in the police office and went along to the church himself, meeting the fisherman, Archie Maclean, and his wife on the way.
“I’ve never known you to go to the kirk before,” said Hamish.
“Aye, but this is different,” said Archie. “Mr Wellington preaches a rare sermon. We’ve heard naethin’ like it since the auld days.”
Hamish was intrigued. On his rare visits to church, he had tried to keep awake as Mr Wellington’s gentle scholarly voice wrestled with one of the more esoteric points of the Bible. Hamish often thought it sounded as if the minister were reasoning with himself.
He slid into a pew at the back.
The hymns were of the variety now frowned upon by liberal churchmen of all denominations as being too militant: ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Soldiers of the Lord’, and ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.
Then the minister climbed up into the high pulpit and looked down at a sheaf of yellowing notes. Hamish was surprised. Before, the minister’s sermons had been extempore, or rather so well rehearsed that he spoke without notes.
Then he suddenly looked down at his flock and said in a harsh voice Hamish had never heard him use before, “There are many of you here who will all burn in hell!”
There was a pleasurable indrawing of breath. Mrs Maclean edged a peppermint into her mouth. For some reason it was considered all right to eat peppermints in church, although chocolates would be considered downright sinful.
“Yes,” went on the minister, “there are many of you who are liars and fornicators, and your lot will be to be cast into the pit where your flesh will fry, yea, and your crackling skin will be pricked with pitchforks by demons.”
The sermon ranted on for one hour and forty minutes. Hamish sat stunned. It was only when the minister summed up by asking them all to pray to God to protect them from the evil that was Napoleon Bonaparte that a glimmer of understanding began to dawn in his hazel eyes.
Curious and beginning to be half-worried, half-amused, he also went to the evening service. He was late and had to stand at the back, for the church was full to overflowing.
He was among the last to leave. He shook Mr Wellington’s hand and said quietly, “Can I drop up to the manse and have a word with you?”
“Yes, Hamish,” said the minister absent-mindedly. “I shall be there to hear your troubles.”
“It’s your troubles I’m thinking about,” said Hamish, but the minister was already shaking hands with a couple behind him and receiving their plaudits.
Hamish went up to the manse later, glad to find the minister on his own.
“What can I do for you?” asked Mr Wellington.
“What’s come over you?” asked Hamish. “You never were a one for all that fire and brimstone.”
“It brings people to church and instills a fear of God in them which is what I am here for,” said the minister primly.
“But it’s not like you,” expostulated Hamish. “You know what I think? I think that one day you couldn’t think of a sermon and so you found some old ones and used one of them instead. Instant success! So you went on doing it. You’re a walking horror movie. You’ll have the children terrified to go to sleep at night. You don’t even listen to what you’re saying, which is why you left in the bit about Napoleon.”
The minister flushed angrily and glared at the wall.
“Come on, what’s been happening?” asked Hamish gently.
Mr Wellington clasped his hands and swung to face Hamish. “I’ve lost my faith,” he said. “No words of mine have any meaning any more. In despair, yes, I used old sermons I found in a box in the attic. It’s what they want. It brings them to the kirk.”
“Aye, so would a strip-tease. Surely you’ve lost your faith afore? It happens from time to time.”
“No, never.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Has this anything to do with Sean Gourlay?”
“He did question me,” said the minister awkwardly. “People here do not question ministers, and maybe they should. We get complacent, arrogant. He showed me pictures of refugees stumbling along roads pitted with bomb craters, of thousands dying after floods and tornadoes, and he asked me seriously how I could believe in a God of love.”
“But you can’t defend the indefensible,” said Hamish wearily. “Blind faith’s the only answer, you know that. You must have had all thae arguments dinned in your ears when you were a student.”
“I am out of the world up here, Hamish. As Sean rightly pointed out, I have an easy life while millions are starving and suffering under the lash of the God I worship.”
“There are millions who would suffer a damn sight more if they didnae have something tae believe in,” said Hamish angrily. “How dae ye think they would feel if they were told that this is it, this is all there is, and after the grave, there is nothing?”
“My wife feels the same as I do,” he said heavily. “It has affected her badly. She is a shadow of her former self.”
Spiritually but not physically, thought Hamish, who had seen the large tweedy bulk of Mrs Wellington in church that evening. “Don’t make any rash decisions,” said Hamish. “Give it a few months. Talk to some other members of the clergy. Father Peter along at the Roman Catholic church seems a good man, and a clever one, too. Have a word with him.”
The minister smiled wryly. “I do not know what my flock would think if they saw me consulting a Roman Catholic.”
“We’re all ecumenical these days,” pointed out Hamish. “Anyway, no one need know. Run along and see him. It’s all the one God.”
When Hamish left, he strolled along the waterfront wondering if he himself believed anything he had said, wondering if there really was anything far beyond the first stars which were beginning to glitter in a pale-green sky.
With a sigh he went into the police station, to be met with a delicious smell. “You’re late for dinner,” said Willie, sliding a plate of beef casserole, which smelt of rich wine sauce, on to the table.
“Where did this come from?” asked Hamish.
“Mr Ferrari,” said Willie, deftly opening a bottle of Italian wine.
He’s been cleaning the restaurant stove again, thought Hamish, but was too grateful for the delicious meal to say so.
After dinner, the phone rang. It was Jimmy Anderson from Strathbane. “I took pity on ye, Hamish,” said the detective, “and contacted the Yard. Sean Gourlay’s got a record.”
“Tell me about it,” said Hamish eagerly.
“Nothing great, mind you, petty larceny, possession of cannabis, disturbance of the peace. Nothing for the last three years. Was in Hong Kong, where he got his first driving licence. Let it lapse and took the test in Glasgow.”