‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Valentine, studying the picture, juggling a cigarette into his mouth.
‘He is Olaudah Equiano,’ said a voice behind them. Shaw jumped, despite himself, and Valentine coughed back an apology for the blasphemy, but the man was already laughing. ‘While you …?’
Shaw stepped forward, holding the warrant card at eye level. ‘DI Peter Shaw — DS Valentine. Just some routine inquiries.’ Shaw wondered if anyone, anywhere, believed that cliche any more.
‘It is a bit of a surprise — isn’t it?’ said the man, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Pastor Abney, John Abney. Just “John”.’
Shaw shook it, thinking the pastor was dressed like a travelling salesman, in a cheap suit with shiny black shoes. He looked like the kind of man who’d own a trouser press.
Abney studied the pictures. ‘This man,’ he said, opening a hand out to the portrait of the white man, as if offering a sugar lump to a horse. ‘This man is our founder — Webster Barents. Barents was a follower of Wesley until he decided to set up the church here. That was in 1778. He was a patron of the arts — especially poetry and narratives written by slaves and ex-slaves. It was all part of the movement — the great movement against the slave trade.’ As he said the word ‘great’ he raised his hands for emphasis. ‘Equiano wrote an autobiography in which he told the story of the Zong massacre — do you know this story?’
Valentine, tiring of the lecture, walked off, examining a list of the church’s previous pastors written in white on black wood. Shaw leant against a pew end, folding his arms across his chest.
Abney ploughed on. ‘The Zong was a ship, carrying slaves to the Americas from West Africa. Halfway through her passage it was clear that virtually none of the slaves would survive long ashore due to disease on board. The captain faced a dilemma. Under the insurance contract for the cargo — that’s the slaves, of course — he would get nothing if he landed them alive and they died before sale. But if they died en route he would get his money — so he threw them overboard.’
Abney stopped for emphasis, and in the silence they heard a ship’s foghorn out on the Cut.
‘It was called the “jettison clause” — and was perfectly legal. He threw a hundred and ten live slaves overboard, and ten more threw themselves over — as an act of empathy, I would guess, or possibly just despair. Anyway, Equiano’s telling of this incident caused a sensation.’
Valentine coughed. He was pointing at the list of pastors.
‘George Gayton Melville,’ he said, ‘1807 to 1843.’
Shaw tried to work the generations out. It could be Nora’s grandfather. ‘The Melvilles,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’re here, Pastor. A woman called Nora Tilden, nee Melville, was buried in the cemetery at Flensing Meadow in 1982 — we’ve just recovered her remains. There are some issues we need to clear up. She was buried wearing a silver fish — a brooch.’
‘She was one of the Elect, then — those chosen to be saved by God.’ Abney released a fold in his tie from beneath the waistcoat. On it was a small silver fish. ‘George Gayton Melville was a wealthy merchant. A Cambridge man — Sidney Sussex. He bought and sold fish oil from the whaling trade. He paid for this building to be renovated and modernized out of his own pocket. And he bought the Flask.’
‘The pastor bought a pub?’ asked Valentine, smiling. ‘That’s my kind of religion.’
Abney studied his feet, but when he looked up the smile hadn’t slipped. ‘Well, all the pastors were — and are — part-timers like me. In civvy street I’m an insurance agent.’ He looked at them as if this should be a great surprise. ‘George was a merchant, as I said. When he bought the pub it was actually a kind of seaman’s mission. There was always a bar, but also rooms, a small library, a soup kitchen — you know, hearty food for a few pennies. Beer was just what people drank then — you wouldn’t have touched the water. But the bar was popular and it made him another fortune. Which provided the money to keep our church beautiful.’
Abney picked up an overcoat and started to shrug himself into it.
Behind him, in the east wall, a door Shaw hadn’t noticed opened and a man stepped through carrying a coal scuttle.
‘Ah,’ said Abney. ‘Just the man. I must go — but this is Sam Venn. Sam runs the London Road Shelter — you know, for the homeless. Great work. And, more importantly, he’s our boiler man. It’s all a bit antique, Victorian coal-fired. Only Sam knows how, like his father before him …’ Abney stopped, suddenly inarticulate, as if he’d said something shocking.
He fumbled with the buttons on his raincoat. ‘He’ll know about this woman if anyone does.’ He turned to Venn. ‘Nora Tilden, Sam? These gentlemen are from the police and they’re making inquiries about her burial.’ He looked at them all briefly, then said, ‘Goodbye. A mystery — you can let me know what it’s all about later.’ He broadcast a smile.
Venn stood awkwardly still, watching the pastor leave. He was slight, with very narrow shoulders and an unsettling face: it slumped on one side, as if it had been made in wax and left in front of a fire, the effects of what Shaw guessed to be cerebral palsy. The right eye was much lower than the left, lazy and, Shaw guessed, blind. And the mouth on that side turned down as well. He was middle aged, dressed well in a thermal jacket and moleskin trousers, and he said nothing, instead waiting confidently for a question.
Shaw showed him his warrant card.
‘Mr Venn,’ he said. ‘Nora Tilden. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Venn put the scuttle down and Shaw noticed for the first time that he held his right arm awkwardly, as if it was in an invisible sling.
‘Yes. Yes, I remember Nora. But what is it — nearly thirty years? It’s a very hazy memory, I’m afraid.’ He looked around, as if speaking to a delegation. Venn’s voice was strong, educated, with only a slight inflection of the Norfolk accent, and his manner was smooth. Shaw was ashamed to think he’d presumed his character would reflect in some way his damaged body.
‘Nora was a devout woman, so most of our church members would have been at the graveside. I was there — but, as I say, it’s a long time ago. All those who could have attended would have. Her grandfather had been pastor …’ Shaw nodded. ‘I’m sure her soul’s with the Elect. Her faith was her life in all things.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Shaw, failing to keep a note of animosity out of his voice. There was nothing like the hint of dogma to spark a flash of the Shaw family temper.
‘Calvin taught us, teaches us, that we should live according to the principles of our church in everything we do. And that we should be regulated in our worship. And we are. To step outside the Word invites his retribution.’
On the word ‘retribution’, Venn’s left hand crossed to touch the damaged right.
‘Does that include music and dancing?’ asked Shaw.
‘Yes, we allow both. Some of the churches which were once our sisters and brothers ban certain forms of music and dance. But they are not proscribed by the Scripture. And we follow the Word in all things. Without exception.’
‘Alcohol?’ asked Valentine, happy to indulge in his favourite subject.
‘Calvin made sure there was a copy of the Bible in every tavern in Geneva. Moderation was his teaching, not abstinence.’
Venn was struggling, under cross-examination, to keep the smile going. ‘What is this about, may I ask?’
‘I can’t be specific,’ said Shaw. He could have told Venn the facts, as he’d told Fletcher, but something made him want to keep the man guessing. ‘Nora Tilden’s body has been disinterred as part of the ongoing work at the cemetery. There are some irregularities — we need to clear them up. She was murdered by her husband, I believe — is that right?’