Gibbous House 27

The berobed figure could not have put me less in mind of the late Reverend Parminter had it been a woman. It was not merely the high church aspect of his attire, although striking enough in and of itself; nor was it the sickly pallor of his countenance, such that I straightway thought him a consumptive. It was the manner of his movement and the frailty of his figure and their conspiring to give the impression of something barely corporeal drifting through the gloom. This fancy was exposed for a nonsense the moment he began to speak in a fluting and musical tenor, so jolly that I expected to him to burst into a verse or two of something from a Free and Easy at Morton’s Canterbury in Lambeth. So powerful was this sentiment that I had to restrain myself from drawing 6d from my pocket for admission.

‘One should not treat any book thus, much less the word of God, sir.’
The good-humoured voice robbed it of any effective reproof, but I found myself apologising nonetheless:

‘I have ever been clumsy, Reverend … or is it Father?’

Once again Maccabi became a passive observer, not deigning to introduce this strange cove and absently studying some stone-carved New Testament admonition, although it was clearly of no interest to one of his persuasion.

‘As you please, sir, though I am Vicar of this parish, you may call me Ezekiel, if you so desire,’ the clergyman replied equably.

With a dark look at the d____ fellow, Maccabi. I made myself known to the Reverend Ezekiel Harbinger, and enquired of him what he knew of the necessity of my diversion to the home of his flock.

‘Oh, at last, you have come. I suggest we conduct our business in the more laic -and comfortable, dare I say it- accommodations of the Vicarage, gentlemen?’

He went so far as to laugh during the delivery of this proposal, and I felt the rage in me and thanked the stars above that I had learned to curb such passions and await the opportunity to gratify them in safety and at leisure. Maccabi and I followed him through the Vestry and out of a mean wooden door onto a path with a lych gate at one end. The Vicarage itself was John Constable’s idea of a countryman’s cottage and I thought just so authentic:

‘Somewhat more recent than the church, your home, Ezekiel?’

To his credit his cadaverous face acquired a little colour as he admitted:

‘It was built a few years ago thanks to the magnanimity of your late benefactor, Mr Moffat.’

On opening the door we found ourselves immediately in a parlour. We were not alone. A young woman of perhaps 18 years stood demurely in the clothes of a lady’s companion or governess. Her colour and embonpoint hinted at pleasure at some future time, while her demeanour insisted such time would not be soon. She gave a curtsey as Harbinger announced her name as Ellen Pardoner, while Maccabi studied the bookcase on the other side of the room. Harbinger bade we visitors sit and despatched the girl to bring sherry and seed cake.

The Vicar of St Mary the Virgin eyed me closely, as if character could be read from outward appearance. Maccabi continued as mute as John Bill, averting his gaze as Miss Pardoner delivered his libation. I would soon have been quite out of temper had not Harbinger finally cleared his throat and began:

‘Ah… Mr Moffat, with inheritance come oft responsibilities; particular duties, if you will.’

I interrupted the man with some heat:

‘I’ll not be gulled of money by idle promises of salvation hereafter and if you have me here to beg my indulgence, I’ll gladly disappoint you, sir.’

Again, the corpse’s face took a little colour:

‘Oh, dear me, no… don’t think… no, it’s quite another matter, sir.’

Maccabi interjected in a voice replete with annoyance and misery in equal measure:

‘For the sake of your God, if not mine tell him!’ and he stared once more at the bookcase.

Harbinger held out a hand to the young woman:

‘Ellen Pardoner of course is a ward of the estate, at least until majority. As such she is…’

But I smiled at him and finished his utterance for him:

‘a most particular duty that falls to me, I think.’

Maccabi dropped his glass, spilling sherry on the floorboards.