Cargrim had in his eye the rectorship of a wealthy, easy-going parish, not far from Beorminster, which was in the gift of the bishop. The present holder was aged and infirm, and given so much to indulgence in port wine, that the chances were he might expire within a few months, and then, as the chaplain hoped, the next rector would be the Reverend Michael Cargrim. Once that firm position was obtained, he could bend his energies to developing into an archdeacon, a dean, even into a bishop, should his craft and fortune serve him as he intended they should. But in all these ambitious dreams there was nothing of religion, or of conscience, or of self-denial. If ever there was a square peg which tried to adapt itself to a round hole, Michael Cargrim, allegorically speaking, was that article.
With all his love for the father, Dr Pendle could never bring himself to like the son, and determined in his own mind to confer a benefice on him when possible, if only to get rid of him; but not the rich one of Heathcroft, which was the delectable land of Cargrim’s desire. The bishop intended to bestow that on Gabriel; and Cargrim, in his sneaky way, had gained some inkling of this intention. Afraid of losing his wished-for prize, he was bent upon forcing Dr Pendle into presenting him with the living of Heathcroft; and to accomplish this amiable purpose with the more certainty he had conceived the plan of somehow getting the bishop into his power. Hitherto—so open and stainless was Dr Pendle’s life—he had not succeeded in his aims; but now matters looked more promising, for the bishop appeared to possess a secret which he guarded even from the knowledge of his wife. What this secret might be, Cargrim could not guess, in spite of his anxiety to do so, but he intended in one way or another to discover it and utilise it for the furtherance and attainment of his own selfish ends. By gaining such forbidden knowledge he hoped to get Dr Pendle well under his thumb; and once there the prelate could be kept in that uncomfortable position until he gratified Mr Cargrim’s ambition. For a humble chaplain to have the whip-hand of a powerful ecclesiastic was a glorious and easy way for a meritorious young man to succeed in his profession. Having come to this conclusion, which did more credit to his head than to his heart, Cargrim sought out the servant who had summoned the bishop to see the stranger. A full acquaintance with the circumstances of the visit was necessary to the development of the Reverend Michael’s ingenious little plot.
‘This is a sad thing about his lordship’s indisposition, said he to the man in the most casual way, for it would not do to let the servant know that he was being questioned for a doubtful purpose.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the man. ”Tis mos’ extraordinary. I never knowed his lordship took ill before. I suppose that gentleman brought bad news, sir.’
‘Possibly, John, possibly. Was this gentleman a short man with light hair? I fancy I saw him.’
‘Lor’, no, Mr Cargrim. He was tall and lean as a rake; looked like a military gentleman, sir; and I don’t know as I’d call him gentry either,’ added John, half to himself. ‘He wasn’t what he thought he was.’
‘A decayed clergyman, John?’ inquired Cargrim, remembering Graham’s description.
‘There was lots of decay but no clergy about him, sir. I fancy I knows a parson when I sees one. Clergymen don’t have scars on their cheekses as I knows of.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Cargrim, mentally noting that the doctor had spoken falsely. ‘So he had a scar?’
‘A red scar, sir, on the right cheek, from his temple to the corner of his mouth. He was as dark as pitch in looks, with a military moustache, and two black eyes like gimblets. His clothes was shabby, and his looks was horrid. Bad-tempered too, sir, I should say, for when he was with his lordship I ‘eard his voice quite angry like. It ain’t no clergy as ‘ud speak like that to our bishop, Mr Cargrim.’
‘And his lordship was taken ill when this visitor departed, John?’
‘Right off, sir. When I got back to the library after showing him out I found his lordship gas’ly pale.’
‘And his paleness was caused by the noisy conduct of this man?’
‘Couldn’t have bin caused by anything else, sir.’
‘Dear me! dear me! this is much to be deplored,’ sighed Cargrim, in his softest manner. ‘And a clergyman too.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, he weren’t no clergyman,’ cried John, who was an old servant and took liberties; ‘he was more like a tramp or a gipsy. I wouldn’t have left him near the plate, I know.’
‘We must not judge too harshly, John. Perhaps this poor man was in trouble.’
‘He didn’t look like it, Mr Cargrim.