Appointed to Die (12 page)

‘They didn't see you, did they?'

‘I'm sure they didn't.' Lucy smiled. ‘The way it looked to me, they only had eyes for each other. But I could be wrong . . . Anyway,' she added, ‘next weekend you'll have a chance to meet them. Then perhaps you can see what you think.'

For a moment he looked blank, then comprehension dawned. ‘That's right – the big do for the new Dean is coming up, isn't it? With the move and everything I'd completely forgotten that we were going to Malbury next weekend.'

‘You
do
want to go, don't you?' she asked.

‘Of course I want to go. I want to meet your father.' David's smile was a bit self-conscious. ‘I think it's past time for the two main men in your life to meet, don't you? And I want to meet all these interesting people you've been talking about for the past few months.'

‘It's supposed to be quite an affair, from what I hear. Have you taken a proper look at the invitation? It's in the sitting room, on the mantelpiece.'

While Lucy laid the table, David wandered into the sitting room and returned with the invitation. ‘Good Lord,' he said. ‘This must have cost a bomb – look how thick the card is.'

‘From a posh Bond Street firm, I was told. One of the many complaints against the new Dean.'

‘His extravagance?'

‘That, and his insistence on using London firms for everything – for the catering, the flowers, and the printing. He's offended all the local Malbury firms, and seemingly most of the Chapter as well.'

‘This sounds intriguing.' Still fingering the invitation, David sat down to eat. ‘The man's not even installed yet, and he's already made enemies – it doesn't sound as though he can expect the customary honeymoon period, does it?'

‘No, not really. Do you know anything about him?' Lucy asked.

David looked at the invitation again. ‘Stuart Latimer. I've heard of him, of course. He's made a bit of a name for himself in the London diocese. But I don't think he's known as a scholar, particularly, or for his spirituality either. More as just a man on his way up, if you know what I mean. His father-in-law's an MP,' he added cynically. ‘It was obviously a political appointment. Father-in-law calling in a few IOUs, you know.' He reached for the pepper mill. ‘Now tell me about Malbury – what the cathedral is like, and the people. You haven't really adequately prepared me for this weekend.'

Lucy considered, twisting a lock of hair; she knew that he was talking about the actual cathedral building, but she deliberately misunderstood him. ‘The Cathedral Close is like . . . well, it's like it has an existence all its own. It's a self-enclosed community. Claustrophobic, I find it – like living in a goldfish bowl. Everyone seems to know each other's business. It's interesting as an outsider but I don't think I could bear to live there.'

‘Start from the beginning,' he encouraged her. ‘The Chapter – tell me about them.'

‘Well, there's my father, of course.' She smiled. ‘But I'm not exactly an unbiased source when it comes to him, so I'll leave you to make up your own mind when you've met him. And then there's Arthur Brydges-ffrench, the Subdean and Treasurer. Malbury Cathedral has been his whole life – he started out there as a chorister back in the thirties. He'd convinced himself that he was going to be appointed Dean, and was absolutely shattered when it didn't happen that way. And he's a very eccentric man.' She went on to describe the Canon's appearance and habits, then continued in the same vein with the Precentor, the Canon Missioner, and various other inhabitants of the Close.

They had finished eating and were in the midst of washing up, Lucy continuing her discourse with questions and promptings from David, when the phone rang.

‘Can you get it, darling?' Lucy requested. ‘I'm up to my elbows.'

His mobile mouth twisted in a self-deprecating grimace. ‘You know how I hate to answer the phone – and anyway, it's not even
my
phone.'

‘You're living here too, now,' she pointed out. ‘It could even be for you.'

‘Not very likely.' But he went into the hall to answer it; he picked up the receiver and stated the number.

There was a fractional hesitation. ‘Oh, hello,' said a pleasant male voice. ‘You must be David.'

‘Yes . . .'

‘Is Lucy available?'

‘I'm afraid it's not very convenient for her to come to the phone right now. Could I take a message? Perhaps have her ring you back later?'

‘Just tell her that Jeremy rang. It's not important – I just wanted to have a chat. Tell her that I'll ring back in a day or two. Before the weekend, anyway.'

‘Yes, I'll tell her.'

A minute later, Lucy turned to see him come back with the beginning of a puzzled scowl. ‘Double glazing salesman?'

‘No.' He picked up his tea towel. ‘But who,' he asked, ‘is Jeremy? And how does he know who I am?'

CHAPTER 10

    
Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord: or who shall rise up in his holy place?

Psalm 24.3

‘Daddy,' said Lucy brightly, with a touch of nervousness, ‘this is David. David Middleton-Brown.'

John Kingsley took the younger man's proffered hand and smiled, liking what he saw. Solid, he thought approvingly. Solid and dependable; nothing flashy. Just what Lucy needs. ‘How very nice to meet you, David. Welcome to Malbury.'

‘Thank you, Canon. I've been looking forward to this meeting for a long time.'

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' the Canon offered. ‘I've just put the kettle on. You must be tired after your long drive.'

‘Oh, yes please, Daddy. Shall I make it?' Lucy suggested.

‘No thank you, my dear,' he assured her. ‘I have everything ready. Perhaps you'd like to show David upstairs while I bring the tea through to the sitting room. I've had the daily make up the room next to yours for him – I hope that's all right.'

‘Yes, of course,' she said quickly, not daring to look at David.

David followed her up the stairs, stunned into silence. ‘Separate rooms?' he said at last, outside the door that she indicated with a sheepish wave. ‘Didn't you tell your father . . . ?'

‘No, of course not,' she whispered, following him into the room. ‘He wouldn't understand.'

‘Wouldn't understand? But surely . . .'

Lucy shook her head. ‘My father is a very naïve man in many ways. It would never occur to him, I'm sure, that two people who weren't married would want to sleep together.'

‘All the more reason why you should marry me,' David declared with self-conscious melodrama, clapping his hand to his heart. ‘I quite agree with him that it's high time you made an honest man of me. This living in sin is all very well as far as it goes, but . . .'

She rolled her eyes. ‘Please, let's not get into that right now. And besides,' she added, smiling, ‘you don't know my father very well. I don't think he would even understand why two people who
were
married would want to sleep together!'

‘But, Lucy! He has four children! Clearly somewhere along the line . . .'

‘A source of constant amazement to me,' she laughed. ‘And no doubt to him as well. Come on, David darling. Let's go downstairs and have some tea. It's only for one weekend,' she added conciliatorily, giving him a brief but reassuring kiss and taking his hand; he returned her smile at last.

‘The flowers are incredible, aren't they?' Lucy whispered to David as they took their reserved seats in the Quire of the cathedral a short while before the Service of Installation was to begin.

‘A London florist, didn't you say?'

‘I don't suppose flowers like these have ever been seen before in Malbury,' she nodded. ‘White and lime green – they must have cost the earth.'

‘The bills haven't come in yet, but I suspect you're right,' was the wry confirmation of Olivia Ashleigh, seated next to David. Although she was dressed suitably for the occasion, her dress was severely tailored and with her heavy black-rimmed spectacles she still managed to look twenty years older than her age.

Lucy introduced David to the Bishop's secretary. ‘Miss Ashleigh has been landed with making most of the arrangements, from what I hear,' she explained to him. ‘You must be glad that the great day has finally arrived, Miss Ashleigh?'

‘Please, call me Olivia,' the serious young woman insisted. ‘And yes, I'm delighted that we've finally got this far. But I'm afraid it's not over yet.' She looked around with an apprehensive smile. ‘The potential for disaster today is almost unlimited.'

‘What do you mean?' David asked, intrigued. ‘It all looks very well organised, and well under control.'

‘Oh, nothing
technical
will go wrong – it's all been planned like clockwork, and rehearsed to death. But ruffled feathers, hurt feelings, injured pride, trampled dignity – call it what you will.
That
is going to be the problem today.' Olivia lowered her voice. ‘See all those people on the other side of the chancel? In the best seats in the house, so to speak? They're all the new Dean's political contacts. Or more precisely, his father-in-law's political contacts. Fellow MPs, some of them, even a couple of Cabinet ministers, and the bigwigs of the local Tory party. Plus the County, of course. The empty seats are for the Lord Lieutenant, the High Sheriff and the Mayor's party.'

‘What's wrong with that?' Lucy wanted to know. ‘Isn't that customary?'

‘Certainly not on that scale. And this side is reserved for the cathedral people and the Chapter families – the Bishop insisted on that, of course – so everyone else has to squeeze into the nave. That includes the whole of the local Conservative party, as well as the Reverend Mr Latimer's London parishioners, friends, relations, and well-wishers. Which rather leaves the rest of the diocese out in the cold. To be more specific, shoehorned into the transepts, where the visibility is absolutely nil. Or in some cases left out entirely. Do you see that empty seat?' she whispered, gesturing. In the front row on the cathedral side, next to Judith Greenwood and Claire Fairbrother, was a prominently vacant stall. ‘The Bishop's wife's reserved seat.'

‘But where
is
Pat?' asked Lucy, looking around. ‘Surely she wouldn't miss this . . .'

‘Somewhere in the south transept, with the diocesan clergy wives. She was absolutely livid that they were being stuck back there where they couldn't see, and said in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to accept preferential treatment when her clergy wives were being treated like that.' Olivia smiled ruefully. ‘It's put me in a very awkward position, I can tell you. The Bishop is my boss, but as far as this whole affair goes, I've had to take my orders from the new Dean. It's his show, and he knows exactly what he wants. He wouldn't listen to a word I – or Bishop George – said. Or anyone else, for that matter.'

‘Who is that?' inquired Lucy in a whisper as an elegant woman and a distinguished-looking older man ostentatiously took their seats in the front row of the opposite side.

‘That's Mrs Latimer and her father. Things must be about ready to get under way.' Olivia consulted her watch. ‘Yes, just on time.'

Conversation was curtailed as the congregation stood and the official parties began to process in; Lucy took the opportunity to observe Mrs Latimer surreptitiously. It was difficult to determine the woman's age: hers was a highly polished and well-preserved elegance, speaking unmistakably of wealth and privilege. She was very fair, with blond hair skimming her shoulders in a page-boy, timelessly fashionable. Her lids were lowered demurely over pale blue eyes; her nose was long and patrician, and her lips thin and pale pink. Gloved hands were clasped in the front of her Tory blue suit, and on her lapel sparkled a diamond bow brooch. Her father, beside her, was sleek and prosperous-looking, with wiry grey hair combed straight back from a fleshy pink face, and diagonal eyebrows angling sharply above slightly bulbous eyes.

After the Mayor, the High Sheriff and the Lord Lieutenant had taken their seats, the clergy procession moved into the chancel. Scores of diocesan clergy were followed by the Cathedral Chapter; Lucy caught her father's eye and smiled. The Precentor's golden-haired charms aside, John Kingsley was the most distinguished-looking cleric in the procession, his daughter decided, with his graceful carriage and his silver hair. He was wearing one of the cathedral's original Victorian copes, threadbare but beautiful. The Bishop, portly and smiling under his mitre, was no match for him, in spite of the impressive beard.

And then at last came the Reverend Stuart Latimer, Dean-elect, to the sound of bells and a trumpet fanfare. Lucy wasn't sure quite what she'd expected, but she would never have pictured Stuart Latimer as he now appeared before the assembled company. In contrast to Arthur Brydges-ffrench's towering height, he was positively insignificant, small of stature and slightly built. He was wearing a new cope, commissioned by him especially for the occasion; it was heavily appliquéd and embroidered in a contemporary design, but its bulk was not sufficient to disguise his smallness. And he was young, much younger than Lucy had anticipated – scarcely forty, by the look of him. It was with complete self-assurance, however, that he moved into the chancel of Malbury Cathedral, to lay claim to his new kingdom.

A closer look at Stuart Latimer, in the receiving line at the garden party, proved even more unsettling. As John Kingsley formally introduced his daughter to the new Dean, the words popped unbidden into her head, ‘Esau was a hairy man.' Hairy he was: thick dark hair grew down low on his brow, and his jaw was already covered in shadow by mid-afternoon. The backs of his hands and even his fingers were densely matted with dark hairs. But if his appearance was Esau-like, his manner, in contrast, was all Jacob: oily and smooth, concealing a deep self-serving cunning. It was instantly clear to Lucy that he was a man who would get what he wanted, in one way or another. All of the things that she'd heard about him suddenly coalesced into a picture that was consistent, and deeply worrying.