‘Just curious about why you were out so late. On the other hand’ – Jane put a pensive forefinger to her chin – ‘if you were to turn up at the altar in your dressing gown, a soupçon dés-habillé, it might bring in more blokes, and— You’re not in the mood, are you? What’s happened?’
‘The elderly lady.’ Merrily brought her mug of tea and sat down opposite Jane, morning sunlight piercing the top window, over the sink. ‘The woman Saltash and I were supposed to be helping? She drowned herself last night in the River Teme.’
Jane blinked. ‘Mumford’s mother?’
‘Must have happened while we were no more than half a mile away, talking to a bloke who saw Robbie Walsh fall. Her lying in the water, us theorizing about some bloody stupid old ghost story and wondering—’
‘What old ghost—?’
‘Not important. No more important than me going on to the Bishop about Saltash and Callaghan-Clarke and feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Oh God, Mum…’
‘Deliverance – the fourth emergency service. Have to laugh, don’t you, flower?’
‘I’m not laughing. Was she, you know… confused?’
‘We always assume that, don’t we? That’s what everybody would have assumed last Christmas if Lol hadn’t got to Alice Meek before the cold did. But even if Mumford’s mum was on the slide, there might have been a part of her I could have got through to, with perseverance. And I didn’t really try.’
‘But you did try. You pressured the Bishop into going back with you because he was an old mate of the Mumfords.’
‘Putting the responsibility on someone else.’ Merrily’s head felt congested; she found a tissue in her dressing-gown pocket, blew her nose. ‘Should have tried harder, instead of half-thinking, Yeah, Saltash could be right, this is probably more his show than mine. I don’t know, maybe I just—’
‘Mum, don’t keep doing this to yourself. You did what you thought was best at the time. You always do. So just, like, finish your tea, have a wash, brush your hair, get your kit and… off to work.’
Merrily looked at the kid, who was no longer a kid, and dug out a smile from somewhere.
‘There you go,’ Jane said. ‘Why, there could be as many as, like, four people in that church, just gasping for Holy Communion. Get down there and give ’em… wine.’
So she got through it. No big state of eucharistic grace, no all-enveloping peace, but she got through Holy Communion and Morning Worship – doing the sermon about listening to old people, the real meaning of honouring your father and mother. Not very convincing, really, and she was having problems staying focused. When she closed her eyes, she saw Phyllis Mumford’s drowned face and heard her wispy, untethered voice: Now then… I know who you are… I know who you are now, my dear.
Back in the scullery, she rang Lol, explaining about last night. About the two women who had faded into the picture, one dead, one on the streets of Ludlow in a full-length cape, accompanied by younger people in decadent goth costumes. The shock of recognition.
‘Belladonna?’ Lol said. ‘Are you sure?’
Just after lunch – priests always knew when other priests were most likely to surface on a Sunday – Siân Callaghan-Clarke rang. She’d heard about Phyllis Mumford from Nigel Saltash, who’d heard it on the radio.
‘It’s terrible, but I’m afraid Nigel wasn’t entirely surprised. There’s an area psychiatric support team that ought to have been told about Mrs Mumford. But human resources are terribly stretched these days, largely as a result of increasing addiction problems. Awfully sad, though, because Nigel was going to talk to their GP first thing tomorrow.’
‘Was he?’
‘But thank heavens, Merrily… thank heavens, in a way, that you didn’t take it any further.’
‘Sorry?’
‘From a Deliverance point of view. When you think of the kind of adverse publicity if the media had discovered that you’d performed what they would have seen as some sort of exorcistic rite at this poor woman’s house just hours before she died.’
‘A home-blessing?’
‘It’s not what’s been done, Merrily—’
‘A few prayers?’
‘—It’s who’s done it. You’ve become fairly widely known now, not least to certain sections of the media, as an exorcist. Certain people would put two and two together and make six.’
‘But suppose that – after this exorcistic rite – it hadn’t happened. Suppose Mrs Mumford hadn’t wandered into the river. Was therefore still alive…’
But then she had done it. She’d returned, behind Saltash’s back, and done her rudimentary blessing, and Mrs Mumford had still died.
‘We could play the “what-if” game for the rest of the day, Merrily,’ Siân said, ‘but I doubt exorcism has ever been hailed as a cure for senile dementia.’
‘So, do you think it’s time for me to quit, Siân, before I bring the Church into even more disrepute?’
‘Let’s not be silly,’ Siân said.
Sunday evening, the Bishop rang. Something he thought Merrily should know.
‘Old Reg Mumford phoned me today. Encouraging, really, that he was able to do that.’
‘How is he?’
‘Staying at his son’s house, but insisting on going home tomorrow. He… seemed more focused. And resigned. And in his resignation, behind the loss, one could almost sense, I’m afraid, an exhausted kind of relief. Said he knew Phyllis would never have come to terms with what had happened to Robbie, however long she lived.’
Merrily was taking the call on her mobile, alone in the church, preparing for the Quiet Service. She lowered herself to the edge of a pew opposite the west window, where the evening sun made a ruby in the apple held by Eve.
‘You mean he’d actually thought she might want to die?’
‘Not exactly,’ Bernie said. ‘She was so convinced the boy was still there, in the town, that Reg said he was half-expecting to hear she’d been knocked down in the traffic after spotting Robbie across the road or something and rushing to him.’
‘His… reflection.’
‘Reflections. Exactly. Look… ah… Reg said that, in happier times, he and Phyllis often used to walk by the river. And one fine evening last week, she got him to take her back there.’
‘Oh no.’ Merrily closed her eyes.
‘And it was early evening, and the water was fairly still, even so close to the Horseshoe Weir, and she went and stood near the wall, looking down. And of course…’
‘Robbie.’
‘Looking up at her from the water.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Reg couldn’t take it. He pulled her away. They walked home in silence, nothing to say to one another. The last thing she said to him last night – therefore the last thing she said to him ever – was, “I can’t feel him in here any more. You’ve driven him out.” ’
‘Meaning the mirror – turning it to the wall?’
‘Who knows? And then she walked out, and she was standing at the front of the house, and he could hear her talking to one of the neighbours for a while. When he looked for her, she wasn’t there.’
‘He didn’t tell you this last night?’
‘I think he had to get it clear in his own mind. Anyway, thought I should tell you, that’s all. So that we can draw a line under it, as it were.’
Merrily heard soft footsteps, opened her eyes to the sight of Lol padding into the aisle. Sometimes he’d come to the Quiet Service, though never any of the others. He was wearing his old Roswell-alien sweatshirt. He’d worn this in church before, possibly a signal that he wasn’t yet fully integrated.
‘You really think a line can be drawn, Bernie?’