‘Aye, the will of God,’ Dowling repeated solemnly. I looked at him in surprise. His face was blank and wore no expression that I could read.
‘Providence.’ The rector turned, suddenly animated. ‘There exist three possible reasons why the foul deed took place at Bride’s. You should know this; it may help you in your investigation. The three reasons are providence, popery and maleficium. We will deal with each in turn. Providence we shall dismiss first.’
This man reminded me of the odious intellectuals I escaped from at Cambridge. Never consider the obvious, for it means you can’t quote the Holy Book.
‘Why does it have to be any of the three? Why not chance?’
The rector looked at me as if I was a fool. It was a feeling I was used to in my life so it had no influence on me. ‘There is no such thing as chance, sir. The woman was not bound to the pulpit of my church and struck down by satanic agents by chance. She was killed for a reason, and she was killed at Bride’s.’
I resisted the urge to growl. ‘Whoever killed her had to kill her somewhere. Bride’s is as good a place as any.’
Laughing like Betty Howlett, he made a noise that was loud and shrill. I exchanged glances with Dowling — it was not a sound you expected to come from the rector’s big lips. ‘Sir.’ He spread his palms and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘A church is not as good a place as any to commit a murder. Were a man to kill in so abominable a fashion with no clear intention as to where he would do the deed, then providence or maleficium should intervene, else he would do it somewhere more appropriate. He would commit the foul deed in a place quiet and desolate, where the deed was unlikely to be discovered. Would you not say so?’ To my annoyance he turned to Dowling.
‘Aye.’ Dowling nodded slowly, lower lip protruding in serious contemplation. I considered poking him in the ribs. Why was he encouraging this bumble-turd?
‘So. Then we must consider why the deed was done at Bride’s. As I said, there are three possible causes. First, providence. Providence is God’s will.’ He nodded at me as if I did not know the meaning of the word ‘providence’. ‘You will accept that I do not favour the theory of providence, for it implies that God has no regard for the good fortune of one of his own.’
‘You, you mean?’ If I was God, then this was precisely the kind of fellow I would like to strike down with a thunderbolt or two.
‘Yes, sir. I mean me. If it was God’s will, then it was God’s will that it happen at one of his own houses, in this case the house that I look after on his behalf. Were it providence, then it is difficult to consider why he should want to desecrate one of his own houses were it not to comment upon the keeper of that house.’
‘Or the people in it?’ I looked sideways to see what Dowling was thinking. His face was bright and innocent and he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
‘Yes sir, or the people in it. And it is indeed true that we have some of the worst vagabonds and ne’er-do-wells of London in this parish. There are those who come to my church every prayer time, always late, and proceed to chat and gossip with their neighbours, or even fall asleep. I have had to have serious words with some young men of this parish, who I know for certain come here to meet young ladies and proposition them. Those are the ones that come. The ones that don’t come go bowling or drinking. We have most of the City’s whores living in Fleet Alley and most of its criminals in Alsatia. This is clear, but it does not make the theory of providence any easier. For if the death of the woman is providence, then it suggests that the parish is beyond redemption and the efforts of its minister hopeless.’ The rector leant forwards with his hands upon the desk.
Indeed I imagined that his efforts probably were hopeless. About as hopeless as a dog with no balls.
‘This is, however, a credible theory, and one which the people of this parish will be considering even now. England is God’s chosen land and yet the efforts of its children are lewd, wicked even, in honouring God for that privilege. My flock are amongst the lewdest, and look forward to the day when they may return to the wine and the dancing and the bawdy houses. They seek the easy route to salvation, and would have me provide it for them.’
‘So we may dismiss the theory that Anne Giles was killed at Bride’s because it was God’s will,’ Dowling summarised before I could argue with the man’s conceited logic. The summary was for my benefit, I realised, that I waste no further time upon an argument that we both knew to be ludicrous in any case.
‘Granted,’ the rector nodded, as if the logic was ours. ‘So now we will dismiss popery, the work of the Catholics.’ He placed his forefingers at the top of his nose. ‘This is not so clear, for I have heard of such things before. In this case, though, I cannot see any reason why Catholics should have chosen my church.’ The rector looked to Dowling again, eyebrows arched and palms spread wide. Clearly he did not want to debate it with me, which was just as well, for I had little tolerance for those that blamed the Catholics for everything that went wrong in their lives.
‘I don’t see why Catholics should select your church, good sir, unless you have particular argument with them. Even if you did, then I would not credit even the Catholics with the devilry that took Anne Giles.’
Well spoken, butcher — I commended him silently.
‘The Catholic Church is led by the Antichrist, and I am not so certain that the nature of the deed excludes popery, but as you say — why choose Bride’s? Which leaves maleficium. Maleficium, as you know, is that power to do harm by use of supernatural powers.’ He was looking at me again.
Enough of this nonsense. ‘How many keys are there to Bride’s?’ I demanded. The rector didn’t answer, just looked at me with his mouth slightly open.
‘Good sir, the man that killed Anne Giles entered your church with a key — betimes you left the door unlocked,’ Dowling explained gently.
The rector shook his head vigorously. ‘Impossible.’
‘Unless you left the door open, how else may we explain the fact that there is no damage to the door?’
‘Well, I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it. As you say, it is very strange. This is an interesting piece of information that would further support a theory of maleficium. That someone managed to enter the church even though the door was locked points to witchery and sorcery.’
Godamercy — the man was ingenious. ‘How many keys are there?’ I asked again, unable to suppress from my tone the impatience that gnawed at my guts. Looking down, the rector slowly pulled open a drawer of the heavy chiselled desk. He poked about it with a long elegant forefinger before slowly closing it. ‘There are two keys,’ he said at last, ‘and one is missing from my desk. I don’t know who took it.’ He didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish.
‘The man who took that key was likely the man that killed Anne Giles, else gave it to the man that killed Anne Giles,’ Dowling rightly identified the need to spell out the obvious.
‘Yes, sir. That is a credible theory, but do not rule out maleficium. It should be easy for a witch to take the key and spirit it away without even having to enter the house. Or perhaps persuade one of my servants to take it against their will and outside their waking memory.’ The rector looked into space, apparently deep in thought.
‘It seems to me, sir, that the theory of maleficium is most attractive to you only because it permits you to be done with the notion that it was providence,’ Dowling remarked. I regarded the butcher with a new admiration. Now we were getting closer to the point.
‘Not so,’ the rector blinked. ‘You forget that the murder was bloody and very wicked. The woman was not by any account a wicked person, yet the deed itself was wicked. The curse of the Lord is in the house of the wicked, not the house of the Lord himself. And all of this reminds me of something that happened not so long ago.’