All property is theft

You might have gathered, from the strange tale of the Chalices, that Fr Crusty had promised to straighten things out with Monsignor Porter vis a vis the sale of Sr Myra Cain's pottery chalice, which the Monsignor had kindly donated in a fit of youthful enthusiasm, to the monks of Trollfast, on his return from Rome in the early 1960s. As diocesan archivist, I had been been privy to many of his writings upon the subject of the Pastoral Council better known to the hoi polloi as Vatican II. He had also ventured into the cellars of the episcopal palace on occasion to bring me copies of The Tablet -  with the many  letters and articles by his own good self therein  helpfully circled in green ink, and stood over me while I found a space for them on the top shelf.

Lagulavin Distillery, dear home of Fr Crusty's heart

I was puzzled as to why Father Crusty (my predecessor as archivist) had not seen fit to set up an archive as he had for the Catholic Herald, or The Universe, and asked him casually, over the Lagavulin, one Christmas, upon his seemingly uncharacteristic dereliction of archiving duty in failing to file Mgr Porter's musings away for posterity. "Ah", quoth the good prelate, whose eye was twinkling like the candle in a distant bothy seen across an Islay peat bog in the gloaming and whose accent was gradually taking on the delicate aroma of the tincture he was imbibing in the manner of an extra in Whisky Galore , "Tm a wee deal deef, and I thocht he was asking my to file it away fer posteriors."

It is beyond the scope of this blog to tell the full story of Fr Crusty's shenanigans over the years in relation to the re-ordering (or as he would term it "wreckovating") of various churches within the diocese. He has always managed to maintain what our erstwhile colonial cousins might term "plausible deniability", but it has been noted in a series of anonymous denunciations (written in green ink, sealed in a plain brown envelope and pushed under the door at odd times of the day and night) that he frequently keeps company with desperadoes such as Miss Eileen O'Dowd, (a retired spinster schoolteacher of traditionalist leanings with a nephew who runs a construction business) and a Mrs Florence Cutley, who is blessed with a large number of outbuildings attached to the demesne of Trollbury Manor. Suffice it to say that the twinkle in  Fr Crusty's eye  seldom leads o'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent as far as Mgr Porter unless he has some news to impart that would annoy the great and diligent moderniser.

I had better leave off here, as all this talk of whisky has reminded me that I have a small hot toddy to assemble on the instructions of Mrs McElhone, as I caught a chill today while conducting Hettie and Charlie through a ditch into which we had unexpectedly diverted to escape being run over by a large builders' lorry while we were on the way to see Mrs Cutley about the plans for the Jubilee celebrations. She left me standing on the doorstep for quite a while , and I could hear muffled bangings and shouting from within. When she finally appeared she looked pink with exertion, and (although it may be my imagination) a little distracted, although I can't blame her for restricting us to the boot room, as both the cavaliers were unfit for polite company or antique carpets after their experiences. TTFN