Appointed to Die (20 page)

‘David and she have to be going,' the man in question interrupted, coming up from behind and taking her arm. ‘Lucy,' he addressed her, ‘I've just promised Pat that we'd take those daft dogs of hers for a walk, and get them out from underfoot. It was either that or washing up the coffee cups, and you know how I hate washing up.'

‘Goodbye, Jeremy,' Lucy said, shamefully glad to be reprieved. ‘I'll see you again soon.' And to deflect David's questions about her conversation with Jeremy, she began with a diversionary tactic. ‘Do you
see
Rowena over in that corner with Mike Drewitt?' she asked as they collared the wayward dogs. ‘Just like that day at Fortnum's –
now
do you believe me?'

Breakfast at the Deanery that morning was a quiet affair. As was customary on the occasions when they were both at home, Stuart Latimer and his wife breakfasted in the dining room, distanced from each other by the length of the polished mahogany dining table. The central heating had not yet been switched on, and the blinds had been pulled against the intrusive sun – which did no good to the furniture, and nothing but harm to the carpet – so there was a definite chill in the air.

They began as always with muesli, purchased expensively in London, while Anne Latimer discussed the morning post. ‘One or two tradesmen's bills,' she said. ‘Which reminds me –
are
we going to be able to find a decent butcher here in Malbury? We can manage with everything else, but it's a bit of a nuisance to have all the meat sent from London.'

‘I'll ask the Bishop,' promised the Dean.

‘Or his wife,' she suggested, glancing again at the post.

‘Letters from the boys?' asked Stuart Latimer; their two sons were boarders at Marlborough and wrote dutiful weekly letters which usually arrived on Saturday.

‘From Christopher. He says that Stephen's had a tummy bug. Nothing serious, I'm sure, or the school would have let us know.'

‘I'm sure.' He tried to sound hearty and reassuring.

Anne Latimer plucked a crustless triangle of toast from the silver rack beside her plate; the large stone in her ring glittered down the length of the table at her husband like the eye of some great dead fish. For a moment the only sounds in the room were the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the dry rasp of the knife spreading a thin glaze of Flora on the toast.

The Dean cleared his throat. ‘Bad business about the organist.'

His wife put down her knife. ‘Since you brought the matter up,' she said coldly, ‘I have something to say to you about that.'

‘Yes?' He clenched his hands together, trying to hide his nervousness.

‘I heard all about it yesterday, Stuart. About what
you
did to trigger his suicide. From my cleaning woman! My cleaning woman!' she repeated for emphasis, her voice maintaining its genteel chilliness. ‘Do you realise how embarrassing that was? To find out from my
cleaning woman
what my husband had been up to, and to learn that the entire Close is talking about him? That they all hate him, and want him to go back to where he came from? Stuart, that's just not on!'

‘I'm sorry, Anne. I should have told you.'

‘It's not good enough, Stuart.' She raised her chin and glared at him defiantly. ‘Daddy stuck his neck out, and called in a lot of favours, to get this job for you – this bloody cathedral in the back end of beyond that you wanted so badly! – and in the space of a week you've managed to ruin it!' She tapped her manicured fingers on the polished table, waiting for a reply, but the uncharacteristic profanity had shocked him into silence. After a moment she continued, ‘Daddy will not be pleased to hear about this, Stuart. He will not be at all pleased. I shall leave this afternoon for London. I must ask Daddy what can be done to salvage this appalling situation.'

Stuart Latimer bowed his head, silently acquiescent.

CHAPTER 18

    
All thine enemies shall feel thy hand: thy right hand shall find out them that hate thee.

Psalm 21.8

Late one evening the following week, the day of the Bishop's return from London, John Kingsley opened his door in response to the bell to find his old friend on the doorstep, his breath hanging in frosty white puffs like clouds of incense wreathing his genial face. ‘Come in, George,' the Canon greeted him, beckoning him indoors. ‘Cold, isn't it?'

‘Bitter, especially for this time of year,' he confirmed. ‘It's not too late for you, is it, John?'

‘No, not at all. I was just going to have a cup of cocoa – would you like to join me?'

‘Sounds just the thing,' the Bishop agreed. He divested himself of his tatty old sheepskin jacket and his even tattier college scarf and hung them over the bannister, following John Kingsley into the kitchen.

The Canon found two mismatched mugs while the milk heated. ‘What brings you out on a cold night like this, George? Not that it isn't always a pleasure to see you.'

‘I think you can guess.' The Bishop blew on his chilled fingers. ‘Pat sent me – she thought that I ought to tell you about what happened in London. I would have come in any case, of course, but I probably would have waited till daylight.'

‘Good trip?'

‘Oh, as good as could be expected. I don't really like London, you know,' he admitted. ‘Much too dirty and crowded for my taste. Give me Malbury any day, John.' He added, ‘And I hate leaving Pat, even for a few days. I'm glad it doesn't have to happen very often.'

‘The train was all right, then?'

‘Could have been worse.' The Bishop grinned. ‘You'll never guess who travelled back on the same train.'

‘Surprise me.'

‘Mrs Latimer.'

John Kingsley looked bemused. ‘You didn't have to sit with her, did you?'

‘Good heavens, no!' The Bishop laughed his rumbling belly-laugh. ‘She was travelling first class. The Latimers may be able to afford that sort of nonsense, but Pat would have my guts for garters if I tried putting on those kind of airs. No, as it happens, I didn't see her until we were getting off the train, and we shared a taxi back to the Close. I would have walked, of course, but she insisted. Not befitting my dignity as a bishop to walk, she said!' He laughed again. ‘Can you imagine?'

They carried their mugs into the sitting room and made themselves comfortable. ‘So,' said John Kingsley. ‘How did it go at Lambeth Palace?'

Bishop George shook his head. ‘Well, it was about what I expected. But the long and short of it is, we're stuck with Stuart Latimer. For as long as he chooses to stay.'

His friend sighed. ‘Yes, I thought so.'

‘Not that the Archbishop wasn't completely sympathetic,' the Bishop added. ‘But there's nothing he can do. Just “continue to monitor the situation”, whatever that means.' He pulled a wry face. ‘You know and I know – and the Archbishop knows – that Stuart Latimer was directly responsible for a man's death. But unless the Dean actually commits cold-blooded murder, no one can touch him. The Archbishop told me in confidence,' he went on, ‘that it was a real set-up job, the appointment. As you know, Deans are always appointed by the Crown, which means, of course, the Prime Minister. Mrs Latimer's father had been angling for a Cabinet post after the last General Election but didn't get one, and according to the Archbishop, this was his consolation prize from the PM – a Deanship for his son-in-law. So once the Reverend Mr Latimer decided he wanted to come to Malbury, it was a foregone conclusion. And the Prime Minister isn't answerable to anyone for the appointment – it can't even be raised in Parliament, either before or after the event.'

‘So where does that leave us?'

The Bishop regarded him shrewdly. ‘Well, John, our positions are slightly different. I can't do anything
but
stay out of it, which in a way makes it easier for me. But you're a member of the Chapter. You have to deal with the man, to make it all work one way or another. Do you think you can do that?'

Looking into his cup, John Kingsley formulated his careful reply. ‘I shall have to. I don't like the man – I don't like what he stands for, or the way he operates, let alone what he's done. And you know me, George – there aren't many people I can't get on with! But for the sake of the cathedral, I shall have to work with him.'

‘What about the rest of the Chapter?'

The Canon shook his head. ‘I don't know. It's not a very hopeful situation. From what I've been able to gather, he's already double-crossed both Philip and Rupert by reneging on promises he made to them before he got the appointment, and they both loathe him for that. They're not likely to come around. And poor old Arthur, of course, will never be reconciled.'

‘How is Arthur doing?'

‘Not well at all. He takes it all as a personal insult. I don't think he will ever come to terms with being passed over for the appointment.' John Kingsley lowered his voice. ‘To be perfectly honest, George, as much as I hate to say it, the way that Arthur has been behaving recently makes me realise that perhaps it was just as well he
didn't
get the appointment. Perhaps he's a little too emotionally unstable to make a good Dean.'

‘You may be right. What . . .' the Bishop hesitated delicately. ‘What can be done about Arthur? As long as he's in such a state, he's not doing anyone any good, himself included.'

The Canon took his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. ‘I've been giving it a lot of prayerful thought lately. And I think that perhaps it would be best for everyone – best for Arthur himself – if he were to . . . retire. Resign. He's over sixty. He could take retirement now quite respectably, and no one would think any the worse of him for it. If he stays on here, with the way things are now – and seem likely to continue – he will only make himself ill, and possibly even have a nervous breakdown. For his own good he should go of his own free will, before he cracks up and has to go, or before the Dean finds some way of getting rid of him. Which I have no doubt he will do in time, and probably sooner rather than later,' he added.

Bishop George nodded, relieved. ‘Yes, you're right, John. That would be best. Do you think that perhaps you . . . might have a word with Arthur? Try to make him see the wisdom of it? He'd take it from you – he knows that you have his best interests at heart.'

Canon Kingsley bowed his head, his eyes closed, as if in prayer. At last he said, heavily, ‘It's a great deal to ask of me, but I shall try.' Forcing a smile, he made an attempt at humour. ‘But you'd better watch out, George. Now that I've practically got a solicitor in the family, you may find me suing you for misrepresentation! Remember when you talked me into taking this job? You said that it would be a nice easy way to end my career.' He paused to deliver the punch line. ‘Believe me, George – in spite of the occasional power-hungry churchwarden, megalomaniac lay reader or temperamental organist, parish ministry was never like
this
!'

That same evening, predictably, around the bend of the Close at the Deanery, another dialogue was taking place.

Stuart Latimer, never much of a believer in the restorative powers of cocoa, had poured himself a stiff drink to help him through the evening. His wife permitted herself only a small dry sherry, to aid her digestion and to combat the chill of the Deanery drawing room.

‘Your father is well?' he asked with false heartiness. Strategically, he had chosen the most massive chair in the room.

‘Daddy is very well.' She decided on a full frontal attack, hoping to catch him unprepared. ‘At least he
was
, until he heard about what has been going on in Malbury.'

The Dean groaned inwardly. So it was to begin already – clearly no quarter was to be given. Hoping to postpone the evil moment, he tried to turn it into a joke. ‘Why – did he know Ivor Jones?'

Her scathing response was what he deserved. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Stuart. That's
not
funny. It's in the worst possible taste, under the circumstances.'

‘Sorry.' He wasn't, really – only sorry that it hadn't worked.

‘If you're not going to take this seriously, I might just as well have stayed in London for a few more days – do you think I
like
being in this godforsaken place, or intend to spend any more time here than is absolutely necessary?' she demanded, then went on with cold dignity, ‘Do you or do you not want to know what Daddy had to say about the mess you've got yourself into?'

There was nothing for it, he realised. He was going to have to take his medicine. With a quick gulp of his drink to fortify him, he said humbly, ‘What did Daddy have to say?'

Anne Latimer arched her finely shaped eyebrows, looking significantly at the whisky glass. ‘First of all, it must be said, he doesn't know how you've managed to make such a balls-up of it in just a week. Those are
his
words,
not
mine,' she added primly. ‘He's handed you this cathedral on a silver plate, and you've—'

‘We've been through this bit before,' he interrupted, his voice weary and verging on the petulant. ‘Get on with it. What does he suggest that I do now?'

‘He suggests,' she said, deliberately putting the knife in, ‘that you pull your socks up and get on with it. That you start thinking like a politician instead of a woolly-minded cleric.'

He winced. ‘And what does he mean by that?'

‘You've got to
sell
yourself a bit, Stuart! You've got to think about your image.'

The Dean had a fleeting nightmare vision of powder-blue cassocks, elevator shoes, electrolysis treatments, and cosmetic surgery. ‘Image? You mean I'm to market myself, like soap powder?'