The raven did a double-take and shuffled left to look closer with his good eye. He’d been right the first time – someone was making the most of the general disorder that always accompanied the collection being taken up, and was stealing the very coins he was supposed to collect. The offender: Barnabas Brittle, a popular parishioner and one who Father Cadman considered a fine fellow.
The raven had watched the collection process enough times and he was fairly positive that stealing money was not part of it. The procedure went like so: you stood at the end of every pew, took the wooden bowl as it came around the line, and then passed it on to the next pew. Everyone would nod and smile and keep a tight fist around their money until they’d placed it very firmly on the bottom of the bowl. Unless, of course, it was that paper kind. If it was, you were supposed to waft it into the bowl as though it couldn’t get enough air time.
Quite bizarre, but it was the same every week, and the raven – a creature of habit himself – appreciated the simple repetition of it. But now here was this penny-pincher, this Barnabas Brittle, reaching in with his long fingers and swiping a few coins almost every time the bowl got handed to him. He tucked them into the ends of his shirt cuffs, just like a magician, before passing it on with his kindly face giving away nothing of his treachery.
The raven watched aghast as Brittle stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, obviously depositing the coins while he waited for the bowl to come round again.
On behalf of Father Cadman, the raven was outraged. This collection was the priest’s treasure, just like the shining pile in the corner of the raven’s den. Treasure was to be collected and admired and put to good use; the raven knew this because he was a treasure hunter, an expert in the field. Nipping a stray bauble off some old lady’s hat when she wasn’t looking was perfectly acceptable – it was an important step in the gathering process. But nipping a coin from a treasure already collected – that was just plain cheeky.
No one else noticed, of course, because they weren’t privy to the raven’s view. So he took it upon himself, for the benefit of the congregation, to watch Barnabas Brittle like a hawk (excusing the expression, because a hawk’s eyesight really had nothing on a raven’s, and yet they still took all the glory).
When mass finished, the raven tailed the thief to the church office and watched through the keyhole as Brittle counted out the combined collection and smiled and remarked on everyone’s generosity. He shook Father Cadman’s hand and patted him on the back as though his hands were not those of a traitor. As people dawdled out of the church he fiddled about on the altar, pretending to clean and tidy up until he was sure everyone was gone. Then he strode, oh-so-casually, to the back of the church, glanced around, and slipped through the chewed-up front door and into the ruined belltower.
The raven wedged himself into the poor-box shelf. It was not quite large enough to fit his girth, and he had to tilt his head at a very ungainly angle to see what Barnabas Brittle did next.
Gloom had settled in the old belltower, but Brittle steered expertly through the shadows and bits of shale and junky furniture until he came to the organ. He lifted up one of the old pipes and slid out a glass jar. Hopping from foot to foot, he emptied the stolen money from his pockets into the jar, replaced the lid, hoisted the pipe again and slid the jar under. Then, dusting his hands, he tiptoed back towards the door and let himself out into the deserted church.
The raven exploded out of the cramped space, somersaulting across the floor in a tempest of dust. His eyepatch came off and got caught in his claws, sending him crashing against a cracked vase. The raven scowled and blew grit from his feathers. He could not believe he had just witnessed criminal activity in his very own church. A thief’s haven, and right under his own den – in his own home!
He waddled about, mulling over what he should do. This was a human affair. By rights it didn’t concern him. Yet what Barnabas Brittle had done was plainly unacceptable. Further, he had tarnished the reputation of the raven’s church.
Still, the raven could not help but think should some rapscallion steal from his own treasure pile, no one would give two hoots (another unfortunate expression – there was nothing that wonderful about owls. A lot of distinction for very little effort).
Eventually the rumble of organ chords roused him from his reverie, and he found his way back into the church. Father Cadman was there, in normal clothes now, playing ‘Ave Maria’, with his head thrown back and his fingers finding a beauty in the melody that the mass organist never could.
The raven considered him. He hopped silently down the centre aisle, in and out of the muted bars of sun, his claws catching at the carpet. He looked from Father Cadman to the belltower and back again. He thought of how grateful the priest would be to hear what the raven had discovered. He imagined being a hero, the praise that would be showered upon him. He opened his beak to speak and then –
He remembered Father Cadman sending him off to the cherry tree when he must have known about the bees. He thought about the stings, and how they had almost ruined his good looks. And then there was the trust he had placed in the priest, the joy he had allowed himself to feel in anticipation of the lovely voice he would soon have.
Father Cadman had let him down.
And so he turned and slunk away without even letting the priest know he was there. Father Cadman, oblivious, played on. The forlorn chords of ‘Ave Maria’ followed the raven out.