Appointed to Die (11 page)

Judith entered the conversation for the first time. ‘You're not taking Caroline up in the tower with you, are you?'

‘Well, I was going to,' Liz replied defensively. ‘I know it's not very safe, but there's no one to leave her with, and she
does
have her reins. I attach them to the ladder, and then she can't get underfoot when we're ringing.'

‘Oh, please!' said Judith. ‘Please let me watch her.' Her face shone in its intensity. ‘I promise that I'll take good care of her. Please!'

Lucy looked on in fascination, and made her mind up to ask her father what he might be able to tell her about the background of this troubled woman.

CHAPTER 8

    
For they intended mischief against thee: and imagined such a device as they are not able to perform.

Psalm 21.11

It was early the next week when an agitated Arthur Brydges-ffrench found Rupert Greenwood alone in the Quire, setting out his music for Evensong.

‘I must have a word with you,' the Subdean said tensely, looking round to make sure that they were alone.

‘Yes?' Canon Greenwood paused.

‘It's about the music festival.'

‘Can it wait? Evensong . . .'

‘It's important,' Canon Brydges-ffrench insisted, moistening his lips with a nervous tongue. ‘Most important.'

‘All right then.' Rupert Greenwood sat down in his elaborately carved stall, labelled ‘Precentor' in gothic lettering.

The Subdean found it difficult to begin. ‘About the music festival,' he repeated.

‘Yes. The music festival.'

Canon Brydges-ffrench licked his lips again. ‘You know – you must know – that the festival lost rather a lot of money.' Rupert Greenwood said nothing, but nodded in encouragement to continue, and after a moment he went on defensively. ‘I don't think that anyone can blame
me
. I did my best. Not
my
fault that people didn't come on here after the Three Choirs Festival. Not
my
fault about the weather. And the new man' – here he sighed bitterly – ‘did his best to sabotage all the sponsorship. But . . . well, Rupert, it's dashed awkward. Don't you see?'

‘Yes, of course. But I don't quite see what you expect me to do about it, Arthur.' The Precentor picked up a piece of music and began studying it, distancing himself from his colleague's discomfort.

‘Rupert!' The old man's voice was heavy with sorrow, and it compelled Canon Greenwood to look up in spite of himself. ‘I expect you to support me, Rupert.
You
helped in planning it all.
You
chose the music. You assured me that it would be a success and a triumph, and that it would put Malbury on the map. But no one came, Rupert! I should think that now . . .'

‘Well, yes.' The Precentor drummed his fingers on his desk rhythmically and thoughtfully. What about the Friends?' he asked at last. ‘They made a pile of money at their flower festival on Saturday. Perhaps Rowena . . .'

‘Don't I know it!' frowned Canon Brydges-ffrench. ‘Thousands! And don't think I haven't thought about that.' He paused and lowered his voice. ‘But I've already spoken to Rowena. And she's made it very clear that she's not parting with one penny of the money.
Her
money, she calls it,' he added bitterly. ‘As if she earned it all herself. And as if the Friends would have had
any
of it if it hadn't been for the music festival.
My
music festival.
Our
music festival,' he amended, looking slyly at Rupert Greenwood.

‘But I rather thought that Rowena was being especially nice to us these days,' Canon Greenwood said with rare perceptiveness. ‘To all of the Chapter, that is. I had rather formed the idea that she was up to something and wanted us all on her side.'

‘Oh, yes,' confirmed the Subdean with a sour smile. ‘That's exactly the way of it. And she laid her cards on the table with me. I'll give the woman that – at least she's honest. She
did
say that she'd be willing to help cover our . . . um . . . shortfall. But her terms were . . . unacceptable.'

At last Rupert Greenwood was intrigued. ‘Just exactly what did she want?'

Arthur Brydges-ffrench leaned over from his considerable height and whispered, ‘Our support. It was blackmail, to put not too fine a point on it.'

‘Blackmail? Support for what?'

‘She wants . . .' he paused impressively. ‘She wants to run the refectory and the Cathedral Shop. She wants Dorothy Unworth out. She wants Victor and Bert out. She thinks that the Friends could do a much more professional job in running them. Add some much-needed class to a run-down cathedral, she said! Run-down! I ask you!' he finished indignantly on a rising note.

Rupert Greenwood looked thoughtful. ‘And what did you tell her?'

‘I told her that it was out of the question, of course. Victor and Bert are my friends. Dorothy Unworth has served this cathedral faithfully for many years. It just wouldn't be . . . proper! I told her that her price was too high, and she should be ashamed of herself for even suggesting such a thing.'

‘And what did she say?'

‘She said,' replied Canon Brydges-ffrench, looking pained, ‘that she always gets what she wants. In the long run. She implied that . . . that the new man might be much more favourably disposed to her plans than I.' He took out a handkerchief and mopped at his shining dome of a forehead. ‘And the worst thing is, Rupert, she may well be right!'

The Precentor gave him a warning look as the volume of his voice increased and someone else entered the Quire from the south aisle.

It was Jeremy Bartlett, appearing from behind a pillar like the serpent coming from behind the forbidden tree in the Garden of Eden. He hesitated for a moment, then approached the two men with a wide smile. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen. I was in the south transept just now, and I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation.'

Appalled, Arthur Brydges-ffrench clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Oh!'

‘But don't worry,' Jeremy quickly added. ‘I'm in total sympathy with your problem. I'm sure that I can help you . . .' He paused. ‘And I believe that you might find
my
terms . . . acceptable.'

In a moment he outlined an ingenious solution to their financial dilemma; all he required from them in return was their promise to support his plans to develop the cloister, and the Subdean's agreement that a major fabric restoration appeal would be launched within the year. Arthur Brydges-ffrench and Rupert Greenwood agreed with relief and alacrity. The cloister development was not the sort of thing that Canon Brydges-ffrench would, in the ordinary course of things, have approved of, but it seemed to him that he had little choice, and it was certainly preferable to Rowena Hunt's blackmail. At any rate, he told himself, anything might happen to prevent it.

For his part, Jeremy was delighted with the bargain he'd made. He smiled to himself as he left the Quire – not only the cloister, but a major restoration appeal as well! A bonus, skilfully negotiated. And he thought to himself with great satisfaction of what he'd overheard just before he made himself known to the two conspirators: he now knew what Rowena Hunt wanted. That knowledge might prove to be extremely useful one day in the near future.

CHAPTER 9

    
Thou hast given him his heart's desire: and hast not denied him the request of his lips.

Psalm 21.2

David Middleton-Brown, looking for a hanger for his suit jacket, peered into Lucy's rather full wardrobe. He was a man in his early forties, pleasant looking and reasonably trim if not particularly handsome, with hazel eyes that crinkled attractively at the corners when he smiled, as he was doing now. ‘Are you sure there's going to be room in here for my clothes?' he asked wryly. ‘Or are we going to have to call the whole thing off?'

It was still technically the afternoon, and Lucy and David had been home for only a few minutes, but she was already in bed waiting for him. Now she sighed with exaggerated impatience. ‘Isn't it a bit late for that? And it's a fairly weak excuse – I thought you
wanted
to move in with me,' she laughed. ‘And whatever's happened to the old passionate David? You never used to hang up your clothes before we went to bed. It hasn't even been six months – don't tell me you're bored with me already!'

‘Bored?' The jacket fell to the floor, forgotten, as he made an exuberant dive for the bed. ‘We'll see about that, woman.'

Later, while Lucy drowsed, contented, in his arms, David lay awake thinking. There was much to think about, and it was after all only early evening, though the day had been an eventful one. It had been only that morning, a morning late in September, that he had overseen putting the last of his furniture into storage, loaded up his car, signed the final papers, and turned over the keys of his house – the house where he'd lived most of his life – to its new owner.

Moving to London, to a new, interesting and prestigious job, and to be with the woman he loved – even if she wouldn't marry him – was certainly what David wanted for himself at this time in his life. But it was not without regret that he had left Wymondham, a place that encompassed so much of his personal history. Even though many of the memories were unhappy ones – his mother had been a tyrant, demanding and difficult to live with, and his personal life had been characterised by much loneliness – they were
his
memories, and his life. And he had loved his church, Wymondham Abbey, the place that had inspired his interest in the Church in all its many facets.

He had taken little with him as he left Wymondham; his law books and his files had been boxed and shipped to his new firm to await his arrival there in about a fortnight's time. And the move to Lucy's tiny mews house in South Kensington was only meant to be a temporary one: as soon as a complicated estate was settled, he would inherit, and be able to take possession of, a large Georgian mansion near Kensington Gardens. So that morning he had loaded into the boot of his car only his clothes and personal things, a few boxes of books that he couldn't bear to be without, and a small number of favourite compact discs – ones that were not duplicated in Lucy's collection.

Lucy had had to make a trip to Bond Street earlier in the day, to talk to a gallery owner who was interested in exhibiting a few of her paintings, so they'd arranged to meet for tea at Fortnum's as he arrived from Norfolk. Tea had been a festive event, celebrating his move to London. It was also one reason why he was not particularly hungry now: they'd eaten sandwiches and scones and cream cakes, and drunk pots of tea, before coming back here. David remembered, now, an odd incident during their tea. She'd been telling him about her experience at the gallery, when she'd stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Oh!' she'd said softly. ‘Don't turn around, David. There are some people that I'm
sure
I recognise, sitting in that corner behind you. I don't think they've seen us.'

‘Who are they?' he'd asked, reasonably. ‘I'm not ashamed of being seen with you . . .'

‘No, but I don't think they'd want us to see
them
.' She'd shaken her head and smiled. ‘I'll tell you all about it later,' she'd promised.

He thought about it now; he'd managed to catch a glimpse of them as he and Lucy had left: a strikingly attractive raven-haired woman and a powerfully built man with a moustache, neither of them young. Who were they, and why didn't they want to be seen? And why would they not expect to be seen, having tea at a public place like Fortnum's?

‘Lucy?' he murmured tentatively.

‘Mm?'

‘Are you awake?'

She opened one eye and squinted at him, smiling. ‘More or less.'

‘Who were those people in Fortnum's?'

‘Oh, them.' She laughed, stretched, and turned to rummage on the floor for her dressing gown. ‘The woman was Rowena Hunt, the head of the Friends of Malbury Cathedral. And the man . . .' Breaking off, she turned back to him. ‘I'm absolutely starving, David darling. Let's get up and make something to eat – some eggs or something. I'll tell you about them in the kitchen.'

‘I'm not really that hungry,' he protested, reaching for her. ‘Why don't we just stay here? We might as well – it's night now.'

She managed to evade him. ‘Oh, David! We can't spend
all
our time in bed!'

‘I don't see why we can't try,' he grinned, unrepentant.

They continued the conversation as they prepared their makeshift supper. ‘Who was the man?' David asked. ‘In Fortnum's?'

‘His back was turned to us, so I couldn't really see him that well, but I'm almost positive that it was Inspector Michael Drewitt of the Malbury police. Rowena Hunt I'm sure about – she was facing us, and I'd know her anywhere.'

‘But why wouldn't they want to be seen? After all, Fortnum's is a rather public place.'

Lucy looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps there's nothing in it after all. But he's a married man – even if his wife is rather frightful.' She hesitated. ‘And he's not really Rowena's
class
, if you'll forgive the categorisation. Not someone she'd spend time with, in the normal course of things. If you knew Rowena, you'd understand what I mean. She's an extremely proper lady.'

‘So you think . . .'

‘I'm not sure what I think,' she said quickly. ‘It just seems odd, that's all. And as for Fortnum's being a public place, it's not so public if you live in Malbury. They could reasonably expect to have tea there without being seen by anyone they know. It was just a coincidence that we were there.'