on one knee and kiss the Bishop’s ring — the last time he had met a Bishop, he had been an unworthy candidate for confirmation amidst the breathy guilts of puberty.
He introduced DS Blake. Lucy was ready to shake hands, but the Bishop merely nodded his acknowledgement of her name. She noticed his beautifully manicured nails, longer than her own, and wondered how long it was since Bishop Hogan had last washed the dishes. Percy fought down an impulse towards deference which was wholly foreign to his normal behaviour, and said, “You have things to tell us about the late Father Bickerstaffe, I believe.”
“I have indeed. Excuse the full regalia: I have an engagement as soon as we have finished here. Do sit down.” Bishop Hogan indicated a choice of comfortable chairs with a wide sweep of his episcopal arm. It was a large room, with a high, stuccoed ceiling from an earlier era and windows on three sides. From the number of seats available, it seemed that it was used for informal meetings of various kinds. Peach and Blake perched gingerly on the edge of wide, deeply upholstered armchairs. Dangerous chairs, in Percy’s opinion: you could settle back in one of these and fall asleep during one of Tommy Bloody Tucker’s interminable briefings.
There was no danger of that with Bishop Hogan. He was ready to come straight to the point; if they had only known it, he was as anxious to have this conversation over and done with as his visitors were. But first there was a rattle of teacups in the corridor outside. The Bishop’s chaplain took over the wagon from the aproned woman at the door and pushed it rather self-consciously into the room. Good sign that, thought the experienced DI Peach: confidential information, not suitable for tea-ladies’ ears, must surely be on offer very shortly.
He was right. The Bishop waited until they each had a home-made cake and a cup of tea to balance, then nodded to his chaplain to withdraw. He said, “First let me check my facts. I understand that you are treating Father Bickerstaffe’s death as suspicious.”
Peach nodded. “And that, as you probably know, is police-speak for saying we think he was murdered. I can tell you that we are now quite certain that Father Bickerstaffe was killed by person or persons unknown, some ten to twelve days before his body was found. As yet, we have no idea who that person or persons might be. We are trying to build up some kind of picture of the sort of man Father Bickerstaffe was and how he lived out the last months of his life.”
The Bishop nodded sadly. “Which is why I contacted you and asked you to be so kind as to come here.”
A diplomat, this man, thought Percy; with his ascetic good looks and his polished grasp of procedure, he might have been an ambassador in lay life, or even a politician, if he had chosen to misuse his social skills. Not many people greeted a police visit with the thought that they had been kind enough to come here. He said with a trace of his normal aggression, “Anything you have to say about the dead man at this stage will be useful to us. You shouldn’t hold anything back.”
The bishop smiled. This squat and aggressive little man seemed a little nervous in his presence; brought up a Catholic, he shouldn’t wonder. Bishop Hogan was an expert by now at recognising the symptoms, which usually involved an uneasy combination of a residual deference from childhood and a determination to be brusque and treat a church dignitary with as much consideration as the local grocer. “I have no intention of holding anything back, Inspector. I shall say what I have to say, then answer any questions you may have as fully as I can. Now, I understand that you have already visited Miss Hargreaves at the Presbytery at St Thomas’s. Indeed, I know you have, for you were there when I spoke to you this morning. What did you learn from Miss Hargreaves?”
Percy glanced instinctively at DS Blake. These days, he tended not to assume
He introduced DS Blake. Lucy was ready to shake hands, but the Bishop merely nodded his acknowledgement of her name. She noticed his beautifully manicured nails, longer than her own, and wondered how long it was since Bishop Hogan had last washed the dishes. Percy fought down an impulse towards deference which was wholly foreign to his normal behaviour, and said, “You have things to tell us about the late Father Bickerstaffe, I believe.”
“I have indeed. Excuse the full regalia: I have an engagement as soon as we have finished here. Do sit down.” Bishop Hogan indicated a choice of comfortable chairs with a wide sweep of his episcopal arm. It was a large room, with a high, stuccoed ceiling from an earlier era and windows on three sides. From the number of seats available, it seemed that it was used for informal meetings of various kinds. Peach and Blake perched gingerly on the edge of wide, deeply upholstered armchairs. Dangerous chairs, in Percy’s opinion: you could settle back in one of these and fall asleep during one of Tommy Bloody Tucker’s interminable briefings.
There was no danger of that with Bishop Hogan. He was ready to come straight to the point; if they had only known it, he was as anxious to have this conversation over and done with as his visitors were. But first there was a rattle of teacups in the corridor outside. The Bishop’s chaplain took over the wagon from the aproned woman at the door and pushed it rather self-consciously into the room. Good sign that, thought the experienced DI Peach: confidential information, not suitable for tea-ladies’ ears, must surely be on offer very shortly.
He was right. The Bishop waited until they each had a home-made cake and a cup of tea to balance, then nodded to his chaplain to withdraw. He said, “First let me check my facts. I understand that you are treating Father Bickerstaffe’s death as suspicious.”
Peach nodded. “And that, as you probably know, is police-speak for saying we think he was murdered. I can tell you that we are now quite certain that Father Bickerstaffe was killed by person or persons unknown, some ten to twelve days before his body was found. As yet, we have no idea who that person or persons might be. We are trying to build up some kind of picture of the sort of man Father Bickerstaffe was and how he lived out the last months of his life.”
The Bishop nodded sadly. “Which is why I contacted you and asked you to be so kind as to come here.”
A diplomat, this man, thought Percy; with his ascetic good looks and his polished grasp of procedure, he might have been an ambassador in lay life, or even a politician, if he had chosen to misuse his social skills. Not many people greeted a police visit with the thought that they had been kind enough to come here. He said with a trace of his normal aggression, “Anything you have to say about the dead man at this stage will be useful to us. You shouldn’t hold anything back.”
The bishop smiled. This squat and aggressive little man seemed a little nervous in his presence; brought up a Catholic, he shouldn’t wonder. Bishop Hogan was an expert by now at recognising the symptoms, which usually involved an uneasy combination of a residual deference from childhood and a determination to be brusque and treat a church dignitary with as much consideration as the local grocer. “I have no intention of holding anything back, Inspector. I shall say what I have to say, then answer any questions you may have as fully as I can. Now, I understand that you have already visited Miss Hargreaves at the Presbytery at St Thomas’s. Indeed, I know you have, for you were there when I spoke to you this morning. What did you learn from Miss Hargreaves?”
Percy glanced instinctively at DS Blake. These days, he tended not to assume
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