Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 12

If another member of the clergy visits to take a service, there is a reasonable expectation that they should return home in full working order. It is not expected, for example, that they should be discovered in the burnt out remains of the church, dead, with their trousers round their ankles. Sadly, this was the fate of the Rural Dean, Reverend Canon Torbut Smythe.

“Perhaps if you tell me what happened?” I asked the police inspector.

“This morning, a patrol car noticed Torbut Smythe’s car parked on double yellow lines with a flat tyre, just down the road from here. One of the officers decided to run a check on it. To cut a long story short, the Diocesan Office said that he hadn’t turned up for work, and the officers decided to see if he was nearby. They found him in the church, crushed by fallen masonry.”

“With his trousers round his ankles?”

“Yes. His upper body was covered by rubble, but the rest was exposed.”

“What on Earth was he doing there?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

“Well, he took a service here, and after the service, I showed him the church, cautioning him against the unsafe areas. But why he’d chose to go back there is beyond me.”

“We’re thinking that he was coming back here for help with his tyre.”

“Well, I suppose he might have taken a short-cut through the church yard, but surely he’d have enough sense to skirt the building itself. It’s fenced off, after all.”

“And then there’s the business with the trousers.”

“Indeed. Perhaps he was caught short? But he wouldn’t do that in the church. It is still consecrated ground, after all, and it would only take a few more seconds to get here.”

“Bit of a puzzler, isn’t it? You don’t suppose there was some kind of – ah – liaison, shall we say?”

“It would be remarkable if that was so. Besides the obvious moral implications, I doubt he’d have had the imagination.”

“Yes, well, I had to ask. Who was at the meal?”

I listed the people who attended. He sighed when he heard of the Hells Angels, but as he said, it wasn’t the kind of thing they’d get involved in. Petty crime, yes. Luring Rural Deans to their death via activities that leave one’s trousers around one’s ankles - not really.

We went around the houses a few more times, but with no conclusions. It was apparent that he’d died shortly after leaving, but no one had seen him since he left. The interview concluded, and I returned to my work.

The next day, I was taking my first assembly at the local school. Many clergy are afraid of school assemblies, which, I confess, I find surprising. They are quite simple. Do something a bit bizarre, ideally something that will discomfort a senior member of staff, and then hang a very simple moral message off it. In this case, I stuck my finger up the headteacher’s nose, and told them that Jesus did many unexpected things, such as being friends with people that no one else would touch. Then I finished up by saying, “And next time you pick your nose, remember that Jesus made friends with those who have no friends.” Like I said, it’s simple, and was well received by the children.

After school, I pondered something that perhaps I should have addressed earlier: What to do about Abigail?

After she had confessed in confidence to me that she had murdered her husband – while standing over his freshly stabbed body, I might add - she had left me in a situation where I couldn’t break that confidence, because she had invoked the sacrament of confession. As it would not have been right to have left someone in the house where their husband had been killed, I had offered to put her up at the vicarage. To do otherwise would have looked strange, and I might have been put in the position of implicating her by default. The last few weeks she had busied herself in the role of my housekeeper. It worked well, but it seemed time to work out what to do with her next.

After lunch, I called her into my study.

“Well, Abigail, I was wondering if you can tell me what your plans are.”

“It’s up to you, I suppose. I’m considering putting the bungalow on the market. I never really liked the place, if I’m honest.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame you for that. It’s more a question of how you want to handle it. Now, you’ve been acting as a housekeeper for me, and I’m very grateful for that. I haven’t been as well fed in a long time, and the vicarage is cleaner than it’s ever been. But it doesn’t seem very fair to you.”

“Are you saying you want me to leave?”

“No. In fact, it’s very convenient for me having you here, and I have the space, after all. But you’re doing unpaid work, which might look a little odd to some people.”

“Look, David, I did years of unpaid work for Arnold, the same work as I’m doing for you. More work, because he was far less tidy that you. In return I got food and shelter and little else. I don’t see it as being any different.”

I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t looked at it that way.

“Besides, you still haven’t granted me absolution for killing Arnold.”

“That is because I still don’t believe you’re sorry.”

“True.”

“So, if I understand your position, you would like to remain as my unpaid housekeeper in return for food and lodging?”

“Yes. I don’t need money, and I’m happier here than I’ve been for years. It’s more interesting, too.”

I nodded. It had been interesting of late. So, I agreed that she could stay indefinitely.

“Oh, one more thing, David…”

“Yes?”

“I need you to hear my confession again.”

Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson’s approach to school assemblies lacks the calmness and dignity normally expected of a member of the clergy.