Appointed to Die (19 page)

‘I think,' said Pat, ‘that he might be in the Quire. I heard some noises coming from that direction.'

‘Ah.' Evelyn sighed in relief. ‘In that case, I'm afraid I shall have to decline your kind invitation. Arthur will need looking after – I shall take him home and feed him.'

‘He's included in the invitation, of course.'

‘Very kind,' Evelyn repeated, ‘but I don't think he should be with other people just now. I'll see to him.'

‘Perhaps that
would
be best,' agreed Pat.

Evelyn hurried off towards the Quire as Rowena paused and spoke to Pat. ‘Mike . . . Inspector Drewitt . . . has been up in the tower, tolling the passing bell. I assume he's invited as well?'

‘Yes, of course.' Pat's face, well-schooled as it was, betrayed nothing of her curiosity at Rowena's telling question, and the degree of intimacy exposed by her unintentional use of the Inspector's Christian name. ‘Will you let him know? I'd be most grateful.'

‘Yes, I'll do that.' As Rowena turned to go, Pat's eyebrows rose a fraction. Rowena and Mike Drewitt? she asked herself, filing it away for future reference.

Approaching the door to the spiral staircase in the south transept which led eventually to the tower, Rowena stopped and drew back as she saw the compact figure of the Dean moving in the same direction with a determined stride. He reached the doorway just as Mike Drewitt emerged from the staircase.

‘Were you responsible for ringing the bell just now?' the Dean demanded belligerently, drawing his brows together.

Mike Drewitt's face was impassive. ‘Yes, Dean.'

‘Were you aware that I had forbidden the bells to be rung, Inspector?'

Calculating that it would infuriate the Dean even more, he took his time in answering. ‘Well,' he said at last, deliberately, ‘today
is
the feast day of St Faith. I couldn't let that go by without ringing the bells.'

‘That's ridiculous! Have you ever rung the bells for St Faith before? In other years?'

‘Well, no,' drawled Inspector Drewitt. ‘But you can be sure that I will from now on. Every year, as a commemoration of what's gone on here today, Dean.'

The Dean went purple. From Rowena's vantage point, they were almost ludicrously mismatched: powerfully-built Drewitt, standing on the last step, towered over the Dean, emphasising his small stature. And Drewitt's amused composure made the Dean seem like nothing so much as a spoiled child, insisting on his own way. ‘I've had enough of your insolent behaviour!' snapped Stuart Latimer, contriving to seem menacing but sounding only petulant and childish.

Mike Drewitt smiled, showing his teeth. ‘I'm not answerable to you for my behaviour. You may be able to bully everyone else around here, but you don't frighten me with your tough talk. So if you'll excuse me . . .' He pushed past the Dean and strode off towards Rowena.

Although the sun was shining, it was a chilly morning, and the Aga in Pat's kitchen threw off a welcome warmth. It was a large room, but the heat from the stove made it cosy; the red quarry-tiled floor was covered with colourful woven throw-rugs and dotted about in the corners with a cheerful clutter of green wellies and dog dishes. The dogs themselves, Cain and Abel, joined their mistress in welcoming her guests, bestowing indiscriminate sloppy kisses as Pat collected coats and jackets and handed out mugs of steaming coffee. Trays of bacon were waiting in the Aga, and soon everyone was feasting on thick slabs of juicy bacon wedged into fresh bread rolls, served on paper napkins to save on the washing up. People who, an hour earlier, might have said that they weren't in the least in the mood for food – wouldn't be able to imagine eating that day, in fact – suddenly found themselves ravenous when faced with Pat's bacon rolls.

‘I haven't forgotten that you're a vegetarian,' Pat assured Lucy, giving her instead a warm roll with melted cheese. ‘And there's plenty of fruit, as well.'

‘You don't know what you're missing,' stated David with relish, biting into his bacon roll. ‘This is wonderful.'

Lucy eyed it. ‘I must admit, it looks good – almost enough to turn me back into a carnivore. I think I need some moral support – where are the Thetfords?' She looked around for the vegetarian canon and his wife. ‘Or should I say the Thetford-Fairbrothers?'

‘I don't think they're coming,' said Pat. She surveyed the gathered company; Judith Greenwood, pale in her black dress, sat alone at one end of the scrubbed pine table; her husband had collared John Kingsley and was hovering near the Aga, discussing the procedure for replacing the organist. ‘Excuse me a moment,' Pat added. ‘I want to have a word with Judith.'

Judith looked up with a smile. ‘The food is lovely. It's very kind of you to do this.'

‘Not at all.' Pat drew up a chair and lowered herself to Judith's level. ‘I just wanted to tell you how marvellous your singing was, my dear. Quite extraordinary. Thank you so much for doing it.'

Blushing, Judith lowered her head. ‘I . . . I wanted to. I
had
to, in a way.'

Pat regarded her appraisingly for a moment. ‘Why,' she said gently, ‘have we never heard you sing before, my dear? What a talent you've been hiding under a bushel!'

When Judith answered, there was a surprising note of bitterness in her voice. ‘Why?' she replied. ‘Because there are no women in the cathedral choir. Because there are no opportunities in a place like Malbury for a female singer.' She paused, looking down at her hands on the table, and started again more softly. ‘When we lived in London, just after we were married, I did a lot of singing. With some of the professional early music groups, mostly – ensemble work, solo work, even one or two recordings. I . . . I loved it. It gave a real purpose to my life. But here in Malbury . . . there's nothing for me. Here I'm only . . . Rupert's wife. Less than that, even: the Precentor's wife,'

Impulsively, Pat covered the young woman's hands with her own and gave them a brief squeeze, thinking of the unspoken component to Judith's problem, her childlessness – a pain that she had also suffered, and had dealt with in her own way. It could never be mentioned, of course, but it gave her a real feeling of empathy for the young woman; her voice, when she spoke, was matter-of-fact, practical. ‘I know what you mean, Judith. It's something every clergyman's wife has to come to terms with, in one way or another. It's been easier for me, of course – I've got my garden, and my dogs, and I've been happy here in Malbury. Partly it's my generation, as well – it's not so easy for you young ones. You're better educated, more qualified than we were. I'll tell you what,' she added briskly. ‘You ought to have a chat with Lucy Kingsley. She's not a clergyman's wife, but she's near your age, and she's a woman who's managed to do something with her life in spite of a few . . . setbacks.'

‘
And
she lives in London, not Malbury. I don't know how she could help. I don't know what
anyone
can do to help.' Judith looked up suddenly. ‘But yes, I think I
will
talk to her. It can't hurt. She's nice. And it would be good to . . . just to have a friend.'

Pat's kind heart contracted with pity, and with guilt that she hadn't done more to make this lonely young woman feel more welcome in Malbury, in the Close. She'd spent years traversing the diocese from one corner to the other, cosseting various clergy wives; here was one under her very nose, desperately hurting, and she'd failed her. She hadn't even known that Judith could sing . . . Cain, the black dog, pushed a large wet nose into her hand, recalling her from her pensive mood. ‘Good boy,' she said absently, scratching his ears, then, wasting no time, she got up and led Judith to where Lucy stood with David. ‘I was just telling Judith what a marvellous treat it was to hear her sing,' she addressed them.

In a moment Lucy and Judith were deep in conversation, and Pat moved on to dispense more food; efficient Olivia had seamlessly taken over while she'd been with Judith, but after all it was
her
kitchen.

David was disappointed: the dinner party that had been the reason for the weekend trip to Malbury had of course been cancelled, and he'd hoped to have the chance for a long chat with Pat. Feeling distinctly superfluous, he wandered over to Todd Randall, whom he'd met at the garden party with Kirsty Hunt. The tall young American, with the golden Labrador lying contentedly at his feet, looked faintly ridiculous, standing as he was under the wooden clothes-drying rack which was suspended from the ceiling. His head nearly grazed a pair of the Bishop's enormous spotted drawers, giving David a conversational opening. ‘I see that he doesn't wear purple underneath it all.'

Todd looked blank, then, glancing upward, grinned in appreciation. ‘Green polka-dots. Not really what you'd expect of a Bishop, is it? Where
is
the Bishop, by the way?' he added.

That recalled David to the solemn occasion that had brought them there. ‘In London, I believe,' he replied circumspectly. That led on to a discussion of the events of the last few days, a subject which most of the people present in Pat's kitchen were trying to avoid, having talked of nothing else for the past twenty-four hours.

‘It's a real shame about the organist,' said the young man ingenuously. ‘He was an okay guy, I thought. Not very friendly, but I guess maybe he was just shy.'

David thought aloud; there was something that had been bothering him, nagging at his legal brain, since John Kingsley had recounted the story to them the day before. ‘The one thing I don't understand,' he said, ‘is why the Dean thought that Ivor Jones was . . . interfering with the choirboys. From what I hear, he accused him outright. And if it wasn't true, he can't have had any evidence. What would even give him the idea?'

Todd's placid forehead wrinkled in concentration. ‘I'll bet I know the answer to that,' he offered. ‘Last Saturday, at the garden party, Kirsty and I were sitting with the bell-ringers, having a beer. The Dean came along, and got kind of nasty with us, mostly about the beer and stuff. He said that we were a disgrace, if you can believe it. All we were doing was having a few beers! So Barry, one of the bell-ringers, got pretty mad, and said to the Dean that the real scandal was happening down in the cathedral. I'll bet that's what gave him the idea. He was just looking for trouble after that, I guess,'

‘Good Lord. I wonder what they meant?' David absorbed the story thoughtfully, then with determination attempted to lighten up the conversation. ‘Kirsty's not here today?' he asked.

‘No, she's gone back to Cambridge. She left yesterday morning.'

‘Oh, that's right. She did say that it was her last week in Malbury before term started. Did she . . .' He hesitated delicately. ‘Has she decided to go on with the Law, or is she still planning to change her course?'

‘She's going to read Theology,' Todd said. ‘Her mind was made up.'

‘Well, I rather thought so when I talked to her. I don't know why her mother thought it would do any good for me to talk to her about it,' David added self-consciously. ‘I felt a right prat doing it, too. But her mother insisted.'

‘Yeah, Rowena's like that.' Todd laughed easily. ‘Not the easiest mom in the world for poor old Kirsty.'

‘You'll miss her, I expect.'

‘Oh, yeah. We've sort of hung out together this summer, I guess you'd say. Just friends. No strings or anything like that – I've got a girlfriend back home in Springfield. But Kirsty's a nice kid.'

‘What exactly are you doing here in Malbury? I'm not really clear on that.'

‘Oh, I'm spending a couple of semesters on leave from my theology studies. Helping Canon Brydges-ffrench to catalogue his papers, and working with him on a couple of research projects. One of my professors knew Canon Brydges-ffrench a long time ago, and set it up for me. It's been real interesting. I've always wanted to see England.'

‘You live in the Close?'

‘Yeah, I lodge with Evelyn – Miss Marsden. She's a real nice lady, and a good cook.'

‘And have you seen much of the country?' David asked.

‘Not as much as I'd like. I spend most of my time stuck in Malbury.' The young man made a wry face. ‘Some weekends I manage to get away, take a train someplace and see some sights.'

‘If you're ever in London,' David heard himself saying somewhat against his better judgement – but he liked the forthright young American – ‘do look us up in South Kensington. We'd be happy to show you around a bit. I know a few nice churches . . .'

Todd grinned with pleasure. ‘Why, that's really nice of you, David! I might just take you up on that one of these days.'

At about the same time, Lucy was writing down her address on a spare paper napkin for Judith Greenwood. ‘You must come and see me some time,' she said. ‘Any time.'

‘Does that invitation go for me as well?' asked Jeremy, strolling up, eyebrows raised.

Judith scuttled away shyly, leaving Lucy alone with him. ‘Well, I'm not so sure about that.'

‘You're a hardhearted woman, Lucy Kingsley.' His voice was lightly mocking.

‘That's what they all say,' she laughed.

‘All of your discarded suitors? Are they all as goodlooking as me? Or as persistent as me?'

‘No,' she said. ‘You're in a class of your own, Jeremy Bartlett.'

‘Good.' His expression grew serious. ‘Honestly, Lucy, I would like to see you some time.'

‘It's just not possible,' she stated quietly.

‘Because of David?'

‘Because of David.' Deciding that it was perhaps the time for some painful honesty, she looked at him squarely. ‘You see, Jeremy, David and I—'