At this point in his life, Lynley didn’t like churches. He didn’t like the intimations of mortality suggested by their graveyards, and he desired more than anything not to be reminded of mortality at all. Beyond that, he didn’t count himself a believer in anything other than chance and man’s regular inhumanity to man. To him, both churches and the religions they represented made promises they failed to keep: It was easy to guarantee eternal bliss after death since no one came back to report on the outcome of life lived in rigorous acceptance not only of the moral strictures devised by man but also of the horrors man wrought upon his fellows.
He hadn’t been waiting long when he heard the clank of the church door opening and slamming shut with a disregard for things prayerful. He rose at this and left the pew. A tall figure was striding purposefully forward in the dim light. He walked with vigor, and only when he came into the side chapel did Lynley see him clearly, in a broad shaft of illumination that fell from one of the church’s windows.
His face alone betrayed his age, for his posture was upright and his body was sturdy. His face, however, was deeply lined, his nose misshapen by rhinophyma, its appearance akin to a floret of cauliflower dipped in beet juice. Ferrell had told Lynley the name of this potential source of information on the Kerne family: David Wilkie, retired detective chief inspector from the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, once the DI at the head of the investigation into the untimely death of Jamie Parsons.
“Mr. Wilkie?” Lynley introduced himself. He produced his warrant card, and Wilkie put on a pair of spectacles to examine it.
“Off your patch, aren’t you?” Wilkie didn’t sound particularly friendly. “Why’re you nosing up the Parsons death?”
“Was it a murder?” Lynley asked.
“Never proved as much. Death by misadventure at the inquest, but you and I both know what that means. Could be anything with proof of nothing, so you got to rely on what people say.”
“That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. I’ve spoken with Eddie Kerne. His son Ben?”
“Don’t need memory jogging, lad. I’d still be working the job if regulations let me.”
“May we go somewhere to talk, then?”
“Not much for the house of God, are you?”
“Not at present, I’m afraid.”
“What are you, then? Fair-weather Christian? Lord doesn’t come through for you the way you want so you slam the door on His face. That it? Young people. Bah. You’re all alike.” Wilkie dug deeply into his waxed jacket’s pocket and brought out a handkerchief that he wiped with surprising delicacy beneath his terrible nose. He gestured with it to Lynley and for a moment Lynley thought he was meant to use it as well, a form of bizarre communion with the older man. But Wilkie went on, saying, “Look at that. White as the day I bought it and I do my own laundry. What d’you think of that?”
“Impressive,” Lynley said. “I couldn’t match you there.”
“You young cocks, you couldn’t match me anywhere.” Wilkie shoved the handkerchief back to its home. He said, “It’ll be here in God’s house or not at all. ’Sides, I’ve got to dust the pews. You wait here. I’ve got supplies.”
Wilkie, Lynley thought, was definitely not gaga. He could probably have run circles round DS Ferrell in Newquay. Doing so on his hands, at that.
When the old man returned, he had a basket from which he took a whisk broom, several rags, and a tin of polish, which he prised open with a house key and roughly swished a rag through. “I can’t sort out what’s happened to churchgoing,” he revealed. He handed over the whisk broom and gave Lynley detailed instructions as to its use upon and beneath the pews. He’d be following Lynley with the polish rag, so don’t be leaving any spots unseen to, he said. There weren’t enough rags if this lot?here he indicated the basket?got filthy. Did Lynley understand? Lynley did, which apparently gave Wilkie licence to return to his previous line of thought. “My day, the church was filled to capacity. Two, maybe three times on Sunday and then for evensong on Wednesday night. Now, between one Christmas and the next, you won’t see twenty regular goers. Some extras on Easter, but only if the weather is good. I put this down to those Beatles, I do. I remember that one saying he was Jesus way back when. He should’ve been sorted straightaway, you ask me.”