A Dead Man Out of Mind Read Online Free PDF Page B

She had it done for me, for Christmas. Uncommonly good, don’t you think?’
    Bairstow studied the representation of the rather horse-faced young woman with a noncommittal expression. ‘Very nice, Father.’ An old-fashioned Anglo-Catholic, he disapproved of married clergy, and regretted the fact that St Margaret’s affiliation with St Jude’s in a united benefice had given it a vicar with rather different standards. St Margaret’s had certainly never had a married vicar before, and although Miss Morag McKenzie – so often spoken of – had yet to be seen in the parish, that looked set to change at some time in the future. It was the thin end of the wedge, as far as Martin Bairstow was concerned.
    Father William Keble Smythe smiled at his wardens across the desk. Dressed in his black cassock with its thirty-nine buttons, he was everything that a young, upwardly-mobile priest should be: good-looking, personable, well-educated and evidently well-connected. He had been Vicar of St Jude’s for something over five years, and in that time he had slightly, yet perceptibly, raised the churchmanship of that staid parish without alienating any of his wealthy parishioners: no mean feat. Three years ago when the benefices had been combined he had also been named Priest-in-Charge of neighbouring St Margaret’s, where the churchmanship was traditionally far higher than at St Jude’s; there he was admired for his avowed adherence to Catholic practices, though in actuality he rarely took a service at St Margaret’s. Within the diocese of London it was acknowledged that Father William Keble Smythe had never put a foot wrong, had never rocked the boat, and was undoubtedly destined for bigger things.
    â€˜Do you know why we’ve asked for this meeting?’ Martin Bairstow began.
    The Vicar’s cordial smile betrayed nothing. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he invited.
    Ignoring his fellow warden, Bairstow addressed the Vicar. ‘You must know that the staffing situation at St Margaret’s has become intolerable. To put not too fine a point on it, Father, we’re absolutely desperate for a new curate.’
    â€˜You promised us a month ago that you’d do something as soon as possible,’ Norman Topping put in.
    â€˜And things have got worse since then,’ Bairstow continued. ‘We’ve just about managed on Sunday mornings, with the goodwill of curates from neighbouring parishes. But the weekday Masses have been a real problem – I don’t know if you realise.’
    â€˜I thought that Father Travis—’
    â€˜Father Travis means well,’ said Bairstow, frowning. ‘But he always was absent-minded, even when he was active. Now that he’s retired – well, he just can’t be relied upon. Last week he failed to turn up on three consecutive days. Three days without a Mass! You must agree, Father – that just isn’t on!’
    Father Keble Smythe put his fingertips together. ‘No, that’s not acceptable. But you must realise that I’m just as inconvenienced as you are – this is a very large parish – two parishes! – to run without the help of a curate. I’ve—’
    â€˜In January it’s bad enough,’ interrupted Norman Topping. ‘But with Lent coming up soon, and then Holy Week and Easter, we just can’t go on like this. Something has to be done. We’ve got to have a new curate, as soon as possible.’
    Inclining his head, the Vicar went on in a somewhat pained voice. ‘As I was about to say, gentlemen, I’ve made this my top priority. That is the reason I was late for this meeting – I’ve spent the afternoon seeing the Director of Ordinands, the Archdeacon, and then the Bishop.’
    The two churchwardens’ expressions changed in an instant to ones of hopeful expectation. ‘And?’ prompted Martin Bairstow.
    Father Keble Smythe