‘Just for example, if the Bishopric of Coutances hears about it you could be in bad trouble; the Bishop has something called a Right of Interference in anything concerning a priest criminally.
‘Then there’s a particularly horrid Papal Bull of l483 which is still in force wherein Pope Sixtus IV protects Jersey churches against all sorts of things with an automatic sentence of “excommunication, anathema, eternal malediction and confiscation of property”. Shouldn’t worry too much about that unless you happen to be a Papist – the confiscation of property bit wouldn’t hold much water today.’
‘Oh good,’ I said heavily. ‘And now have you exhausted all the possibilities? I mean, I’ve heard about the man in New Orleans who’s serving 999 years, but I am no longer a young man, you know.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’m afraid there could be quite a lot more. You see, there’s practically no codified statutory criminal law in Jersey; virtually all offences are Common Law ones. What that means, to the ordinary customer, is that the Attorney-General can prosecute you for anything deemed offensive or anti-social simply by sticking the word “unlawfully” in front of a description of whatever it was that you did and was objected to. Do you follow me?’
I whimpered assent.
‘But let me bring a little sunshine into your life. All domestic motor insurance policies are automatically invalidated when the vehicle is used for an illegal purpose, so they’ll certainly nab George Breakspear for driving uninsured. Yes, I thought that might cheer you up a bit. Oh, and by the way, you’re lucky that your nasty little ceremony didn’t actually succeed in raising up the Devil in person: there’s a foot-and-mouth restriction in force at the moment and they would have got you under the Diseases of Animals Act for transporting a cloven-footed beast without a licence, ha ha.’
‘Yes, ha ha indeed. In the meantime, what do I do?’
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘and pray.’
I hung up.
Neither waiting nor praying is a skill I can boast of. Thinking was what was required – but thinking requires Scotch whisky, as all great thinkers agree and I had, in an idle moment, made an absurd promise to Johanna. The clock stood at ten to three. I turned the hands on to five-past six and rang the bell for Jock. He brought in the life-giving drinks-tray in what I can only call an insubordinate manner and wordlessly corrected the clock.
‘Jock,’ I said as the decanter gurgled, ‘I rather fancy I am in the shit. It’s because of Fr Tichborne dying, you see. Difficult to control the thing now.’
‘Wasn’t his fault, was it?’ said Jock sulkily.
‘Of course not, he was an excellent chap, the soul of courtesy; wouldn’t have dreamed of embarrassing us on purpose. But the fact remains that it’s made everything very difficult. What’s to be done?’