Jason opened the calendar on his laptop to double check; 19 December was the date, definitely, that he had gone to see the Bishop.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We are both talking about the same person, the Very Reverend Robert Parnassus, Bishop of Lewes?’
‘We are.’ The Bishop’s private secretary was sounding frostier by the second.
There was a brief silence while Jason checked the calendar yet again. ‘Well, I came to his house last Wednesday morning and I had a conversation with him. I was delighted to see he had two of my paintings in his office.’
‘Two of your paintings in his office?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Bishop has no paintings in his office. None at all. He has a few personal photographs of his family, but I can categorically assure you he has no paintings or art of any kind in his office. I don’t wish to be impolite, but I think you must be confusing the Bishop with someone else.’
Jason was now seriously wondering if she was right. ‘I just don’t understand, I really did meet with him.’
‘I would know,’ she said. ‘I have nothing in my diary.’
‘Ah,’ he said, his hopes rising. ‘You see, I didn’t have an appointment. Are you not the lady I saw? Does he have another assistant?’
‘No, he does not,’ she said, very firmly. ‘What exactly was the nature of the conversation you claim to have had, Mr Danes?’
‘Well, we’ve just moved into a new house, and we’ve been having some very strange things happening – some odd phenomena – which have been deeply disturbing to my wife and myself. I asked the Bishop if he could help us in any way.’
‘Mr Danes, that’s really not possible,’ she replied, her politeness starting to fray around the edges. ‘I have his diary in front of me. Last Wednesday, December nineteenth, the Bishop was away on a retreat in the township of Soweto, in South Africa. He only returned to England on December twenty-second, to be here in time to carry out his Christmas duties.’
Jason heard this, feeling deeply puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, you must think me mad, but I definitely met with him on December nineteenth. He arranged for the Reverend Gordon Orlebar and the Reverend Jim Skeet to come to my house – and they did come, that afternoon.’
‘Can you repeat those names?’ she asked, distinctly testily now.
‘The Reverend Orlebar and the Reverend Skeet.’
‘You are saying they came to your house? On Wednesday December nineteenth?’
‘Yes. They carried out a communion service, to help a spirit pass over to the other side, if I’m understanding correctly.’
‘Mr Danes, I’m finding what you are telling me very difficult to comprehend. Please don’t think I’m being unhelpful, but what you are saying is simply not possible.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well – both Gordon Orlebar and Jim Skeet did work for the Church in exactly the capacity you mention. Very tragically they drowned in a boating accident off the coast of Senegal, while on a break during a mission for the Bishop’s charity there, five years ago – in fact, almost exactly five years ago this week.’