Appointed to Die (14 page)

Olivia eyed her cautiously. ‘What exactly do you mean, Miss Unworth?'

‘The way that he has ignored faithful servants of the cathedral by bringing in all these London outsiders – I think it's disgraceful!' The stout woman seemed to swell with indignation like an angry frog. ‘I've been doing flowers in this cathedral for forty years, and as for the food—!' She snorted. ‘My sausage rolls are better than that fancy muck any day!' Lowering her voice to something approaching a roar, she went on, ‘He may have everyone else here fooled, but I tell you, he doesn't fool me. The man is a fraud! Any true churchman – any true Christian – would never treat people the way he has. He has a great deal to answer for, Miss Ashleigh.'

Speechless in the face of this outburst, Olivia struggled for something both soothing and diplomatic to say. But she was forestalled by Evelyn Marsden, who had overheard the tirade. Joining them, the former headmistress took Dorothy Unworth's arm firmly, as though the other woman were a misbehaving pupil. ‘I don't think you're being fair, Dorothy,' she stated. ‘You haven't given the man a chance. He's only just got here, after all. He's young yet, and has a bit of learning to do, about diplomacy and so forth. But I'm sure that he has many excellent qualities, or he wouldn't have been appointed.'

Miss Unworth glared at her, refusing to be placated. ‘Why don't you ask Canon Brydges-ffrench about the Dean's excellent qualities?' she said with a malicious, teeth-baring smile. ‘I'm sure he must have some feelings on the subject.' Looking around, she added deliberately, ‘By the way, where is the Canon? I don't see him.'

Dropping her arm, Evelyn Marsden turned a shade redder and looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, no, as a matter of fact he's not here. He . . . didn't feel well. One of his headaches, I believe – the service did go on a bit, after all. He asked me to give his apologies to everyone.'

‘Humph.' Miss Unworth was clearly unconvinced, as well as unrepentant. Fingering her enamelled Mothers' Union badge, she went on defiantly. ‘I still say the man's a fraud. And that wife of his – not even a member of the Mothers' Union! I asked her, and she said she had no interest in joining! What sort of example is she going to set for the women of the diocese?'

‘Oh, here you are, my dears. Do join us, please,' John Kingsley urged. ‘Pat, George, this is Lucy's friend David Middleton-Brown, come to Malbury at last.'

Plates were put down, hands shaken, and appropriate greetings exchanged.

Fond as she was of Lucy, Pat had worried that this man might turn out to be as unsuitable as the one Lucy had married so many years ago. So it was with considerable relief that she observed David: he had a nice face, rendered rather distinguished by the threads of silver mingling with the brown at his temples and transformed into something even more attractive by a kind smile, and it was clear that he adored Lucy. Pat decided on the spot that she liked David very much. There was an empty seat next to her, and she beckoned him into it.

‘Could I get you something to drink, Mrs Willoughby?' David asked. ‘A glass of wine?'

‘Oh, no, I'm fine – and you've just got here. And please do call me Pat – everyone does.'

They all settled down for a companionable chat; David fitted in so well that within a few minutes they had all forgotten that he was a stranger to Malbury and the cathedral. The conversation, inevitably, centred on the day's events.

‘I thought that your sermon was splendid, Bishop,' remarked Lucy. ‘Forbearance and charity are just what are needed in Malbury at the moment – though I suspect that the guests from London wondered what you were going on about!'

The Bishop smiled wryly. ‘I dare say Colossians 3.12–14 isn't the sort of text one usually preaches on at an installation ceremony: “Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering; Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any; even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye. And above all these things put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness”. But somehow it seemed as though it fitted the situation.'

‘Forbearance is all very well, my dear, but in these particular circumstances—' Pat began tartly, but she was interrupted by a tactful Olivia.

‘What, exactly, are “bowels of mercies”? A peculiar turn of phrase, if you don't mind my saying so.'

The Bishop's deep laugh was genuine and prolonged. ‘An odd quirk of the Authorised Version. The Revised Standard Version says “compassion”, which perhaps sums it all up very well.'

‘It was a lovely sermon,' John Kingsley echoed. ‘Just the thing, George.'

But Pat would not be silenced. ‘Don't you see, though, that charity and forbearance have to work both ways? We must of course be more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it's not easy when he begins like this.'

‘What do you mean?' asked David.

‘Well, naturally one feels badly about the way that Arthur Brydges-ffrench has been treated. But that completely aside, there's this . . . this party, for one thing. It would be all right to do something like this in London, but Malbury isn't London, and it's not appropriate here. It gives completely the wrong impression, you understand.' She hesitated, frowning. ‘And there's the issue of my clergy wives, of course. You know that they were relegated to the south transept, where they couldn't see a thing, underneath all that scaffolding. It was a disgrace.'

David saw an opportunity to change the subject. ‘I haven't had the chance to have a proper look at the cathedral yet, but I noticed the scaffolding,' he said. ‘What is it for?'

‘Yes,' added Lucy. ‘It wasn't there the last time I was here.'

‘Emergency repairs to the Becket window,' the Bishop explained. ‘A few problems came to light several weeks ago, according to Jeremy Bartlett – faults in the stonework. And since that window is our greatest treasure, we couldn't afford to waste any time in seeing to the repairs. The Friends of the Cathedral are helping to fund it, I understand.'

‘It's a shame that I can't see the Becket window on my first visit to Malbury,' David said. ‘I've read so much about it.'

‘But it won't be your last visit, will it?' Pat smiled at him, mollified slightly.

‘No, of course not.'

‘In fact,' Pat added, ‘perhaps I could talk you into coming back very soon – as soon as next weekend, in fact. I was thinking of giving a small dinner party, and we would very much like it if you and Lucy could join us.'

David hesitated a moment, thinking with regret of the separate rooms with their narrow beds. ‘Yes, of course,' he said at last. ‘That sounds lovely. And it will give me a chance to get to know Lucy's father better. That is,' he added, ‘if it's all right with Lucy?' He looked at her and she nodded in confirmation, reaching for his hand.

As the afternoon progressed, the groupings became even more distinct, the crowd more fragmented, as people gravitated like to like. Kirsty Hunt, told by her mother – who wanted Jeremy to herself – to run along and find some young people, had encountered the American Todd Randall, and together they had found their way to the corner table occupied by the cathedral bell-ringers. The bell-ringers were primarily a young crowd, high-spirited and increasingly cheerful as they quaffed Watkins Ploughman's Bitter out of cans.

They tended to keep themselves to themselves anyway, never quite integrating with the rest of the cathedral community, but today they stood out even more than usual, their casual jeans in vivid contrast to the dressy garb of the other guests. But they were not an unfriendly lot, the bell-ringers, and so when the new Dean came to their table, late in the afternoon, they greeted him cheerily.

In the absence of Inspector Michael Drewitt – after putting in a brief appearance, he had gone home to his wife, who had been given to understand that the invitation did not include her – the natural leader of the group was Barry Crabtree, the ringing master. He was a young man, tall and thin, with shoulder-length toffee-coloured hair; at his side was his wife Liz, holding their baby Caroline, who was dressed for the occasion in a frilly pink frock with a matching bonnet on her round bald head. On Barry's other side was his best mate and constant companion Neil Beddoes, who worked with him at Watkins Brewery. Neil, with a gap-toothed grin and an oversized nose, was outgoing and talkative, while Barry tended to be the quiet one, but when he spoke people took notice of him.

It was Barry who spoke first when Stuart Latimer approached the table. ‘Hello,' he said. ‘Nice party. Guess we have you to thank for it.'

As they all remained seated, the Dean was able to look down on them. ‘Yes.' His eyes raked their casual clothes pointedly; he was not at all sure that these people had any right to be here, as none of them had bothered with the receiving line and he had no idea who they were. ‘Most of the guests seem to have dressed up rather more than you have for it.' Realising too late how critical that sounded, he tacked on an unconvincing laugh, trying to make it into a joke.

‘Well, you wanted bells for the service, mate,' Neil said with a grin, refusing to take offence. ‘If you'd ever been up the tower you'd know better than to wear anything fancy.'

‘Ah, so you're the bell-ringers.' His voice warmed slightly.

‘That's right.' Barry introduced himself and the others by name. ‘Have a seat, Dean,' he invited, indicating an empty chair.

‘No, thank you.'

‘Want a beer?' Neil asked, proferring a can.

The Dean froze. ‘Beer?' he said stonily. ‘No provision was made to offer beer at this party.'

‘No, that's why we brought our own,' Neil explained. ‘Watkins Ploughman's Bitter, the best there is. And we should know, shouldn't we, Bar? Go on, Dean – have one.'

There was a long moment of silence as the Dean stared first at the beer, then at the ingenuously friendly faces of the bell-ringers. He clasped his hands together; his knuckles were white. ‘You have insulted me by bringing that beer here today,' he said at last with controlled fury. ‘It's a scandal and a shame, and a disgrace to the cathedral.
You
are a disgrace to the cathedral! All of you!'

As he turned to stalk away, Barry called him back. ‘Just a minute, Mr Latimer.' His voice was soft, but carried sufficient authority to stop the Dean in his tracks.

‘Yes?'

Barry chose his words carefully. ‘If you think we're a disgrace, Dean, I suggest that you look at what's going on down in the cathedral. If there's going to be any scandal or shame, that's where it's going to come from, not from us up in the tower.'

‘What do you mean?' demanded the Dean. The young man crossed his arms across his thin chest with dignity. ‘I'm not saying any more. But if you know what's good for you, you'll make it your business to find out what I'm talking about.'

Stuart Latimer stared at him, aghast.

CHAPTER 12

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

Psalm 21.11

The following day, a Sunday, Dean Stuart Latimer took his first service at Malbury Cathedral. Although the people present at the main morning service of Holy Communion did not begin to reach the numbers of the previous afternoon, it was the feast day of St Michael and All Angels and the cathedral was by no means deserted.

There were, of course, no reserved seats for this service, but David and Lucy arrived early enough to secure seats in the Quire, giving them an excellent view of the proceedings. The canons were all present in their stalls for the feast day, and the Bishop occupied his throne.

The choir, too, were out in force. In honour of the festival, and in an attempt to impress their new master with their skills and accomplishments, the organist had made an over-ambitious choice of anthem: William Harris's ‘Faire is the Heaven'. The piece requires a double choir and impeccable tuning; the first requisite they could just about manage, but the second was beyond their capabilities. At any rate it was a noble effort, David judged. It was a favourite piece of his, and so he listened and watched carefully.

Ivor Jones's skills on the organ were limited, but he took his role as choir trainer seriously, sensing himself to be a part, albeit a small part, of the great ongoing Anglican choral tradition. That morning the organ scholar was playing, so the organist threw himself wholeheartedly into his conducting duties. His small frame seemed to swell with emotion as he coaxed from the boys the best they were capable of delivering; he breathed heavily, he grimaced, he quivered, he shook his fist, he mouthed the words at them, and the boys in response produced a rough approximation of the ideal Anglican sound, pure and strangulated.

At the climax of this performance, out of the corner of his eye David caught an abrupt movement from the Dean's stall. He turned slightly and looked at the Dean: the man was leaning forward, staring fixedly at the organist, a frown drawing his heavy brows together and his lips compressed. What, David wondered, had the Dean seen to evoke such a reaction?

There was much to talk about on the drive back to London that evening. The south Shropshire hills, steeply rolling and bespattered with sheep, flew past the car's windows as the sun dipped towards the horizon and the shadows gathered mysteriously in the folds between the hills. But the miles between south Shropshire and South Kensington sped by unnoticed as Lucy and David relived the events of the weekend, analysing and speculating; it was, after all, the first chance they'd had to talk, the first time they'd actually been alone together since their arrival in Malbury on Friday.

Given his insecurities, it was not surprising that it was Jeremy who was uppermost in David's mind. He'd awoken in the middle of the previous night thinking about Jeremy: there was something about the other man that David didn't like, and he was trying to convince himself that there was some basis for his suspicion of Jeremy other than the architect's obvious attraction towards Lucy. Although he couldn't put his finger on anything specific, he was inclined to believe in his own instincts. ‘I suppose he's a good architect,' he said, almost wistfully.