‘And then I lead the way into the church, carrying the Paschal Candle, and-,’ Father Damien broke off at the sound of a knock on the door of his study. He looked up from the leather-bound missal that lay open on the round meeting table in front of him. Who could that be? There was nobody in the house to answer the front door, so whoever it was must have come through the interconnecting passage from the church. There was work going on in there to fix problems caused by a recent roof leak. Please God this was not more bad news about the fabric of the building. It was going to be touch and go whether the current renovation work would be completed in time for the Easter Vigil, as it was. The knocking came again, louder this time.
‘Come in!’
The door opened a few inches and a man’s face appeared round it. Fr. Damien’s heart sank as he recognised Keith Boswell, the organ builder who was restoring the pipe organ. His expression made it clear that he had not come to report good news.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Father, but …,’ he paused as if reluctant to go on.
‘That’s alright,’ Fr. Damien assured him. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘There’s – we’ve found – there’s something you ought to see.’
‘Could it wait just a few minutes?’ Fr. Damien inclined his head towards his confirmation candidate, who was sitting in silence a little further round the table.
‘I – I think – I’d rather you came now. Arthur’s all shook up about it. I really think you ought to see it right away.’
‘Alright.’
The priest got to his feet. What could have happened to cause such disquiet in the usually placid organ builder? Numerous setbacks and mishaps had left him completely unperturbed up to this point. He had brushed away Father Damien’s anxious enquiries as to whether the organ would be ready in time for the Easter Masses with calm equanimity. No need to worry: the replacement parts would arrive; the damage was more extensive than he had thought, but there was no question of the instrument being beyond repair; the job was taking longer than expected, but there was plenty of time.
There must be something seriously wrong to turn Keith Boswell’s round, red-cheeked face so grey and make his speech so faltering.
Father Damien crossed the room, turning back as he got to the door, to address the tall man with fading red hair who was still sitting patiently at the table.
‘Sorry about this, Peter. I’d better go and see what this is all about. Carry on looking through the liturgy. I don’t suppose I’ll be long.’
The organ builder led the way at a brisk walk, along the passageway from the presbytery, through the door into the vestry, and out into the church.
‘You remember there’s this wooden platform that the organ’s on?’ he said, speaking rapidly and in a rather breathless voice.
Father Damien nodded. ‘Mmm?’
‘The rain must’ve rotted the boards. Arthur was on it, fixing a new panel ready for getting the tracker action and the console back up there. He stepped back and his foot went right through.’
‘That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, should it?’ Father Damien asked, relieved that the hitch seemed to be a relatively simple one. ‘I’ll get on to the builder right away and get him to replace the boards.’
‘It’s not the boards I’m worried about. It’s what’s under them.’
‘Oh?’
‘We didn’t know how bad the rot was, so we ripped up a couple of the boards and then we saw it.’
‘What? What did you see?’
They crossed the chancel to reach the organ – or rather the place where the organ should have been. The disastrous leak in the roof above where it had stood had necessitated it being stripped down and rebuilt, a process that had been predicted to take three weeks and which was now threatening to exceed three months. Indeed, in his darker moments, Father Damien was beginning to worry that it might extend to three years!
Arthur, Keith’s son and assistant, was sitting on a chair in the area on the south side of the church where the pews had been removed and replaced with comfortable chairs and small tables to facilitate socialising after the Sunday Mass. Fr Damien looked at him anxiously. Was he ill? His face was very white and he kept moistening his lips and running his fingers through his hair.
‘Come and have a look for yourself,’ Keith continued, stepping up on to the platform and taking a small torch out of his pocket. Father Damien clambered up beside him and they both crouched down next to a jagged hole in the floorboards.
‘There!’ Keith said, ‘shining the torch down into the hole and pointing with his other hand. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Peter Johns dutifully studied the rubric of the Easter Vigil. After nearly forty years as a police officer, he found it hard not to be distracted by thinking about the safety implications of the rituals. Who would be responsible for the fire that was to be set alight, outside in the small courtyard at the back of the church? Once it had been used to light the Easter candle, and the congregation had gone inside, would the bonfire be left there to burn out unattended? With the church in complete darkness as they all trooped in, how would they avoid trips and falls? Was it really wise to allow up to a hundred or more people, including a good number of children from the church’s associated Primary School, to carry lighted candles in procession?
Peter told himself sternly that none of this was his concern and that he should be concentrating on the symbolism of the rites. This was all part of a brief service of light, according to the book. The whole point was that they would begin in complete darkness and then the lights would go on as a sign of the resurrection. Nevertheless, he hoped that those children would be well supervised and that there would be safe holders where they would deposit their candles once they had reached their places.
After that came something called the liturgy of the word. Father Damien had asked Peter to read one of the Bible passages. Perhaps he had better check that it didn’t contain any unpronounceable names or tricky sentence constructions. He did not want to make a fool of himself in front of what Father Damien had assured him would be the largest congregation of the year. Disconcertingly, he was himself expected to be a big draw: they did not often have adult converts at St Cyprian’s.
The mobile phone in his pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and looked down at the screen. It was Father Damien. What could he want? And why had he chosen to telephone instead of coming back to speak to Peter in person?
‘Peter? Can you come through to the church? I think we need to call the police, but I’d like your opinion first.’
What had happened? A break-in perhaps? Had some of the church valuables gone missing?
‘OK. I’ll come right away.’ Peter slipped the phone back into his pocket and headed for the door.
When he got into the church, he saw Father Damien and Keith Boswell sitting on a raised area beyond the choir stalls. Two broken floor boards lay next to them, overhanging the platform. Peter hastened across to join the others. Father Damien handed him the torch and pointed to the hole in the floor.
‘Have a look down there and tell us what you think.’
Peter did as he was told. For a few moments, he could see nothing but splinters of wood, cobwebs and dust. He moved the torch, rotating the beam slowly, trying to work out what it was that he was supposed to be looking at. There was a dead mouse and several spiders, but those could hardly be causing the others so much concern. Then the light from the torch picked out something smooth and brown. Peter gasped as he moved the beam slightly and bent lower to get a better view.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ the organ builder said from behind him.
‘I think so, but I don’t understand. This part of the church has been undisturbed for … how long?’
‘Since the organ was installed,’ Father Damien told him. ‘That’s thirty – thirty-five years ago.
‘So I would have expected decomposition to have been … well, pretty much complete. And yet …,’ Peter sat back on his heels and looked round at Keith and Damien. ‘It looks almost as if he’s asleep, doesn’t it? Well, apart from all the dust and spiders’ webs all over his face.’
‘You don’t think it could be …? I mean, could it just be a dummy?’ Father Damien suggested hopefully.
‘I don’t think so. The teeth look too real, somehow. I mean – they’re not perfect enough for a dummy. And the hair – a dummy would have much better hair, and it wouldn’t have gone that strange dull brown colour ... or at least I don’t think it would.’ Peter put his head back down the hole and shone the torch around again. ‘The whole body seems to be intact, but I can’t be sure because there’s so much dust and debris down there.’
So what do we do now?’ Father Damien asked. ‘Should I call the police?’
‘I’ll do that,’ Peter volunteered, settling down with his legs over the edge of the platform and fumbling in his pocket for his phone. ‘I think maybe you ought to see if you can do anything for the lad over there. He’s looking a bit shaken up.’