Gibbous House 26

But complete the crossing we did, although the nag pulling us stepped high and skittish as the waves lapped at his cannon bones. Maccabi’s silence for the majority of our journey had allowed me to ponder something which had perplexed me since his unexpected arrival at the Olde Cross. How had he known I would try to avoid his reception, why was it in his - or Brown’s - interest that I should take up my inheritance? I realised that I had been careless in not reading every pen scratch on the papers presented to me and had missed the opportunity to quiz the Notary on the peculiar wording of Coble’s will. Regret at my own arrogance was of no use. Plainly I would have to dissemble, pretend to the servant that he had my confidence, so soon as I took up residence in my new home.

The Northumbrian coast north of the mouth of the river Aln is as wild and bleak as any place in England, but never in my life had I seen so desolate a landscape as that on the island of Lindisfarne. What had possessed the monks to retreat to that place? I had sooner seen the face of the Devil than the Almighty in the raging of the sea on the rocks, did I but believe in the existence of either. It was already quite dark as the carriage rolled wearily to a stop as if so exhausted as the horse. The Church of Saint Mary the Virgin seemed to me a strange name for an Anglican institution, and the building itself betrayed no extravagant popery in its architecture. It was a simple rectangle with a tower rather than a spire, due to the weathering of the sandstone it looked as venerable as one of the Island’s former inhabitants and perhaps that accounted for its simplicity.

It was raining again, and I was mightily relieved to note the church doors were not locked, merely heavy with absorbed rain. There were few candles either in sconces or in examples of the Church’s silver. Simple pews were void of hassocks or cushions and the stone flags bore the wet footprints of the recently devout, although the church appeared empty. Naturally, several of the stained glass windows would have limned the eponymous Virgin, but the light was so poor as to prevent the discernment of anything but dark pools of colour. Unbeliever though I was, I never set foot in a place of religion without feeling a certain distaste. For want of anything better to do, I approached the lectern at the front of the nave. I looked at the heavy bible. It was open at Ezekiel, chapter 22 verse 12: somehting Maccabi would have recognised as a Yad pointed to the verse:

‘In thee have they taken gifts to shed blood; thou hast taken usury and increase, and thou hast greedily gained of thy neighbours by extortion, and hast forgotten me.’

I slammed the Bible shut as a thin, ascetic figure in a cassock emerged from the vestry.