Iwas up early the next day, and began my day with a visit to the church. The attitude of the priest the day before had persuaded me that I should make more of an effort to show willing. He had been unwelcoming, or so it had seemed to me. In the past year, he and I had not always agreed on matters. His predecessor had believed I was responsible for a murder, which tended to spoil any pastoral relationship between us, and his replacement was a younger, rather thuggish sort who looked like he had enjoyed happy pursuits, such as standing alone against a charging football team before destroying the entire side. In short, he was the sort of man who could have held Calais against the French army on his own.
Today he was on his top form. Which is not to say that his competency was ever of a high standard. He ran more to insults and issuing threats about his congregation’s likely demise on the Day of Resurrection, when they would inevitably be cast into the inferno for eternity.
It was not a cheerful sermon.
He was the sort of priest whom a fellow would see in his nightmares. I have occasionally thought that he was a warning to all: If you do not wish to see this face again, turn from your sinful pursuits, because this is the kind of demon the Devil employs to torment his victims. It was a relief to leave the church and cross the road to walk to my home.
I was almost there when I saw a small group of men at the entrance to my street beside the church. I offered them a ‘good afternoon’, ducking my head politely, since none of them was familiar. There was no sign of my blackmailer or his remaining mobile rock, and I was about to walk past them to my house, when one, a particularly fretful-looking cove in his middle fifties, with a head all but shorn of hair, and an apprehensive expression on his long, donkey-like face, stepped in front of me.
‘Are you Master Blackjack?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I am the parish constable, and you are suspected of murder in …’
‘Murder?’ The rest of his words washed over me. He was telling me that I was required to go with him to my old parish to answer to the murder and robbery of a Dutchman called Vanderstilt. My mouth fell wide at this unwelcome news. ‘But … I thought there was no body. Everyone thought he had run away, to escape his debts to me!’
‘So you admit it? Where did you put the body?’ a man demanded.
I stared at him, then back at the constable. ‘I have no idea. I haven’t seen Vanderstilt for days, but he was fine when I saw him last!’
‘Others say different. You were seen outside his house, you were heard to threaten him, and since his debts have increased, it’s likely he was killed by someone owed money by him,’ the constable said. He was a pedantic old donkey, I reckoned.
‘I had nothing to do with it! I have been here all the time. And he repaid my debt. Ask my servant!’
‘We did. He said you had no money from him.’
You recall I said I would regret telling Raphe not to mention the payment Vanderstilt had made? I did now. ‘Let me speak with my servant; he will speak the truth now—’
‘Oh, yes,’ said number two. ‘So you can tell him what to say to us, eh? I don’t think so, master!’ He was a nasty-looking fellow, all black hair and beard, with a vicious squint. I didn’t like him.
‘Look, it must sound curious, I admit …’
‘You confess, good,’ said the constable, and suddenly my wrists were gripped, and I found myself being led back towards my old haunts, the innocent victim of a vicious twist of fate that was entirely unamusing, and somewhat ironic, bearing in mind my assumed occupation.
And there, under lock and key, I was to remain.