Death in the Opening Chapter by Tim Heald

personages were cold to the point of cadaverousness, but not Ebenezer Lymington. You wanted to snuggle up to him and bask.
    â€˜Nice to see you, Bishop,’ said Bognor. ‘Sorry about the circumstances, but still good to see you around.’
    It was indeed good to have a senior man of God around, and one who could not possibly be a suspect. No Reverend Green, no lead piping in the library, no spanner in the conservatory. Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet, Professor Plum: all possible. But not Bishop Ebb. His alibi was perfect, quite apart from the fact that he was far too saintly. Loren Estelman or Sarah Paretsky might have had a killer prelate in the mean streets of Detroit or Chicago, but no such person would disfigure the pages of a mystery set in rural England. The bishop didn’t do it. And in England, couldn’t. Not so elsewhere.
    â€˜So, penny for your thoughts,’ said the Rt Rev. Ebenezer. ‘Our friend the Lord Lieutenant would have us believe that Sebastian killed himself. He could be right, even if his reasons are wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. Sir Branwell doesn’t like anything to interfere with the status quo, but, in my experience, life and death aren’t like that. They say that God’s joke is men making plans for the future. There’s a lot in that. I have predicated my life on the notion that tomorrow is an illusion and that one is constantly taken by surprise. It’s the only way to retain a semblance of control. Branwell believes that if you talk slowly and loudly enough, everything will pan out according to his wishes.’
    â€˜And sometimes that happens,’ said Bognor.
    â€˜That’s what I mean about being right for the wrong reasons,’ said the bishop. ‘It all comes down to God moving in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. They are wonders, He is mysterious. That’s part of the point. If it was all clear-cut and logical, we’d all be like Dawkins, which would be very boring.’
    â€˜Up to a point,’ he said.
    The bishop ignored this.
    â€˜Like you,’ he said, ‘I’d like to see a result, and the right one as well. I don’t happen to think Sebastian killed himself. But there you go. I also don’t believe in sweeping things under the carpet. My God is a messy God. It’s one of the reasons I worship him.’
    He paused. Bognor reflected that he liked the bishop.
    â€˜Christianity,’ continued His Grace, ‘requires an act of faith. An awful lot of people, on both sides of the fence, don’t understand this. If it were a question of logic, none of us would be Christians. It doesn’t make what we laughingly call “sense”. That’s why we talk about “faith” and “belief ”. You have to have one and suspend the other, if you’re going to belong to the church.’
    â€˜Then why,’ asked Bognor, who tended to just such an irrational subscription to the established church, ‘do so many churchmen, prelates such as you, try to justify Christianity as if it were, well, defensible?’
    Bishop Ebb rolled his eyes and splayed his hands.
    â€˜That’s their decision!’ he said. ‘I think they play into the hands of atheists and agnostics, but there you are. It’s up to them. I believe that belief requires a leap of faith.’
    â€˜I see,’ said Bognor, not seeing anything at all, but feeling that some sort of vision was expected.
    â€˜And it was a leap that poor dead Sebastian was finding increasingly difficult.’
    â€˜ Really? ’
    â€˜Yes, really. We’d discussed the matter several times in the last few weeks and months. Sebastian was concerned that he was losing his vocation.’ The bishop sighed. ‘Which is one reason why I am retaining an open mind on the subject of his death. Suicide for a man of the cloth is particularly dreadful. So’s loss of faith for