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Authors: J. M. Gregson
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Matthews wasn’t a chaplain with an established chapel, like those in the older and larger universities. He had been grudgingly allotted a terrapin building on the edge of the campus, with an old industrial oil heater which seemed to give off more fumes than heat. He held services here twice a week and gave Communion on Thursdays. In the ecumenical spirit of the new century, he had encouraged his Roman Catholic, Methodist and Islamic fellows to come and use the building and minister to their flocks, but there had so far been little enthusiasm from either clergymen or students. Well, it was early days, yet.
And Thomas Matthews himself, although an official appointment, was only a part-time chaplain. He had a parish of his own, two miles away on the edge of the industrial town of Brunton; his meagre stipend there was considerably supplemented by his salary for two days a week at the new university.
Tuesday and Thursday were his official days. But the Reverend Matthews spent most of the Monday after the death of the Director on the UEL campus. He saw the entrances of Paul Barnes and Gary Pilkington into the Bursar’s office on the first floor of the old mansion, as well as their discomfited exits. He wanted to speak to them, to offer them spiritual support, and to find just what they had been up to that they were of such interest to the police.
But neither of them was a regular attender at the distant wooden building with the distressingly small sign announcing ‘University Chaplaincy’ on its wall. And neither of them, despite their distress, showed any signs of seeking spiritual consolation when their ordeals had finished. The Reverend Matthews, DD, despite his anxiety to know just what was going on, had more sense than to invite a rebuff by approaching them.
Sometimes he envied the Romans their sacrament of confession.
In the afternoon, he secured himself a seat by a west-facing window on the first floor of the library. He could just see the garage of the Director’s house from here, though the house itself was hidden in the trees. He watched the grey polystyrene ‘shell’ being taken from the police van and then returned with its grim contents, to be driven slowly away and off the site. He watched the various comings and goings of the Scene of Crime team, saw little groups of students collect around the path to the house, then melt away, as they realized they were going to discover nothing of the action within it.
At four o’clock, as the first rain began to fall from the now cloudy skies and the early November dusk moved towards darkness, the chaplain emerged from the library, turned up his collar, and strolled quickly along the path beneath the trees and past the Director’s house. There were still two police cars in front of the double garage, and plastic tape on an improvised fence, cutting off access to the house itself and the area around it.
The Reverend Matthews took this in, but he did not stop, despite the cloak of near-darkness. He walked on, to his deserted wooden chaplaincy at the edge of the site. He climbed into his car and drove slowly home to his small modern vicarage, beside the tall, blackened stone church which was now much too big for its congregation.
He felt safe once he had shut the door of the vicarage behind him, here in his small, modern, private world. He went into his study and picked up the phone there. He exchanged terse greetings, then said, ‘The police are still in there. There’s every sign they’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sure they won’t find anything. But the best thing you can do is to keep well away.’
Seven
Peach enjoyed the drive to Kendal. The M6 north of Preston becomes ever more attractive as it runs towards Scotland. Most of the heavy traffic has turned off for Manchester, Liverpool and the numerous smaller industrial towns of north-west England: the horrendous reputation of the M6 for roadworks and traffic hold-ups is confined to the area between
And Thomas Matthews himself, although an official appointment, was only a part-time chaplain. He had a parish of his own, two miles away on the edge of the industrial town of Brunton; his meagre stipend there was considerably supplemented by his salary for two days a week at the new university.
Tuesday and Thursday were his official days. But the Reverend Matthews spent most of the Monday after the death of the Director on the UEL campus. He saw the entrances of Paul Barnes and Gary Pilkington into the Bursar’s office on the first floor of the old mansion, as well as their discomfited exits. He wanted to speak to them, to offer them spiritual support, and to find just what they had been up to that they were of such interest to the police.
But neither of them was a regular attender at the distant wooden building with the distressingly small sign announcing ‘University Chaplaincy’ on its wall. And neither of them, despite their distress, showed any signs of seeking spiritual consolation when their ordeals had finished. The Reverend Matthews, DD, despite his anxiety to know just what was going on, had more sense than to invite a rebuff by approaching them.
Sometimes he envied the Romans their sacrament of confession.
In the afternoon, he secured himself a seat by a west-facing window on the first floor of the library. He could just see the garage of the Director’s house from here, though the house itself was hidden in the trees. He watched the grey polystyrene ‘shell’ being taken from the police van and then returned with its grim contents, to be driven slowly away and off the site. He watched the various comings and goings of the Scene of Crime team, saw little groups of students collect around the path to the house, then melt away, as they realized they were going to discover nothing of the action within it.
At four o’clock, as the first rain began to fall from the now cloudy skies and the early November dusk moved towards darkness, the chaplain emerged from the library, turned up his collar, and strolled quickly along the path beneath the trees and past the Director’s house. There were still two police cars in front of the double garage, and plastic tape on an improvised fence, cutting off access to the house itself and the area around it.
The Reverend Matthews took this in, but he did not stop, despite the cloak of near-darkness. He walked on, to his deserted wooden chaplaincy at the edge of the site. He climbed into his car and drove slowly home to his small modern vicarage, beside the tall, blackened stone church which was now much too big for its congregation.
He felt safe once he had shut the door of the vicarage behind him, here in his small, modern, private world. He went into his study and picked up the phone there. He exchanged terse greetings, then said, ‘The police are still in there. There’s every sign they’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sure they won’t find anything. But the best thing you can do is to keep well away.’
Seven
Peach enjoyed the drive to Kendal. The M6 north of Preston becomes ever more attractive as it runs towards Scotland. Most of the heavy traffic has turned off for Manchester, Liverpool and the numerous smaller industrial towns of north-west England: the horrendous reputation of the M6 for roadworks and traffic hold-ups is confined to the area between
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