“Ah,” said Svein. “Unusual for a clergyman’s wife. I’d have to admit I can’t see a Norwegian congregation standing for it.”
“I think not indeed. And in fact, many members of the congregations we get here are Norwegians: the children of one or other English parent, or the husbands and wives of Norwegians, or just people who prefer something a bit brighter than the standard Lutheran service of the state church here. No, really, I cannot see a Norwegian congregation standing for it, as you put it. Though of course there will always be one or two who mention Mary Magdalene.”
“Mary M—. That wouldn’t be the Virgin Mary, would it?”
“By no means.”
“Wait a sec. The woman taken in adultery!” said Svein, triumphantly.
“Popularly believed to be so. But we should not confuse adultery with prostitution. And we have no evidence Mary Magdalene went off and married a rabbi.”
“All very interesting,” said Svein, rubbing his hands in dirty-minded glee so that we swerved to avoid a red squirrel. “This will be a nice change for Loyd and me. We don’t even get much divorce work these days, now everything is so amicable, and laid down by law. Now, I believe the lady was not in the congregation today.”
“No. Very regrettable, but of course my schedule of visits is fixed months in advance. She was on holiday with her sister in Nice, so I’ve unfortunately missed seeing her. She’ll be back on Tuesday. In the meanwhile I have a picture of her — a photo.”
He handed it over. Before looking at it, Svein asked: “The question is, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go to the South of France and get evidence one way or the other.”
“I have no French.”
“All the French speak English these days. It sticks in their throat, but they do it. And you will have your photograph.”
Svein looked at it.
“Very nice! Obviously a tremendous looker in her time. And still very easy on the eye.”
The bishop coughed a disapproving but forgiving cough. We were approaching Bergen airport, and he gathered his things together.
“I regret greatly not seeing the lady — er, the vicar’s wife. It presents a better face to the question if I have actually seen, or even talked to, the object of the... approaches to me. Nothing to be done about it. I leave the case to you, and I rely on you to do the job as speedily and as economically as such a case can be done.”
“Of course, I shall need to get a pet’s passport for my dog,” said Svein. The bishop’s eyebrows rose.
“Your dog? What use can a dog be in a case like this?”
“You don’t know Loyd. And brothels in France, particularly Marseilles, are notoriously rough, lawless places.”
“Really? I suppose that’s possible. One hears about pimps and people like that. Well, I rely on you, and of course on Loyd. I trust you will be discreet. This is a matter full of dreadful possibilities for scandal, scoffing, and general unseemly hilarity. Absolute discretion must be the watchword.”
Svein assured him that discretion always was our watchword, but the bish seemed to think he should be vouchsafed something special not given equally to the hoi polloi, and he went off towards the air terminal looking dubious, as if he had landed himself in uncharted waters and was fearful of finding himself in the maelstrom.
Svein took his time. He had an old policeman’s feeling (which I share) that a crime is a crime, and is something urgent, whereas something morally whiffy in the past is something that can be taken slowly, savoured. We had all the injections done on Monday, which I endured with truly canine stoicism, and on Wednesday we went on a visit to the Rev. Humbleby. An excuse for the visit took Svein some time to work out, but in the end he took a glove.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said when the Rev. Humbleby opened the door, “but the bishop thought he must have picked this up by mistake when he had lunch here on Sunday. He found it in his pocket when he was going for the plane.”
“I don’t think this is one of—” began Humbleby, no doubt wondering why anyone should have gloves lying around in September when the worst that the Bergen climate throws at you is rain, followed by rain, followed by more rain. But he was interrupted by a charming voice.
“Ah — quel charmant chien! What a ’andsome boy. Is ’e a boy? ’E ’as so much ’air ’e is modesty personified.”
I wagged my tail like crazy. It’s something I’ve never been able to stop myself doing, where what I should show is an official lack of interest. Charming women, especially dusky, mature, and incredibly sexy women do not feature much in Svein’s lifestyle, though they do sometimes in his official investigations.
“This is Loyd,” he said. “He used to be my most trusted police dog.”
“Oh, bring ’im in. I came back and found lots of cold meat left over from Sunday. Cold meat I habominate, and all leftovers. If the meal is good, there is no leftovers.”
We were in the vicarage’s sitting room, and Chantal bustled out into the kitchen and came back with a plate of slices of meat which I did justice to.
“You have been away?” asked Svein. “I didn’t see you on Sunday.”
“I ’ave been to Nice.”
“That’s nice,” said Svein, not making a joke but just showing the poverty of his vocabulary. “I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Loyd has managed to put away your beef very quickly.”
“I must be getting away, too,” came a voice from a far corner of the room. A thin man, short by Norwegian standards, stood up. He spoke perfect English. “We’ve done our business. Good to have you back with us, Mrs. Humbleby.”
We all trooped to the door and made our farewells. The vicarage was a small but charming house in Fana, and we went out into the weak autumn sunshine. The man introduced himself as Stan Shawston, one of Humbleby’s parishioners. As we walked towards our cars Svein made use of his new contact.
“Very charming woman, Mrs. Humbleby.”
“Delightful. A real addition to the congregation. Numbers have gone up on Sundays, I can tell you!”
“Oh really? I heard there’d been a lot of talk.”
“Did you? I suppose it got to the ear of the bishop, did it? He’s a bit of a figure from the past. That’s the sort who get to be bishops. The people like Humbleby are at the cutting edge: They have to move with the times or they lose their congregations.”
“I see,” said Svein. “There was one allegation that I must say would have caused a lot of mischief if it had concerned one of our pastor’s wives.”
“Oh, I think I know the one you mean. Nobody has taken much notice. To me it’s probably just talk. One or two of our members have been merchant seamen. They go around the world, often half-stoned. It’s probably a case of mistaken identity.”
“I see. So the women in the congregation haven’t been causing the trouble?”
“I see what you’re getting at. No, they haven’t been causing trouble. If this was happening twenty years ago, then maybe they would have kicked up a fuss. Made representations to the bish — that kind of thing. But nothing like that has happened this time. We’re in the twenty-first century now. And as Christians we have to judge people on what they are, not what they have been in the past. Otherwise what does repentance mean? What is the point of grace? I tell you, I act as Humbleby’s eyes and ears with the congregation, and everybody — women included — is delighted to have Chantal. She’s such a lovely person.”
So that was that. Pollyanna couldn’t have put it better. That was a view of the congregation’s opinion as authoritative as we were likely to get. But I could see that Svein was puzzled. Someone had approached the bishop — perhaps had assumed new and multiple identities to make it seem like a general unease. Who? The Rev Humbleby’s daughter, perhaps. The bishop had implied that she did not welcome her new stepmother, and Chantal’s remarks about leftovers from a meal Miss Humbleby had probably cooked suggested an incipient feud.