Appointed to Die (21 page)

‘Don't be dense, Stuart. You know what I mean.' Taking another gulp of whisky, he waited to be told. ‘In the first place,' she said, ‘you've got to start thinking about making a few friends instead of enemies.'

‘Curry favour with people, you mean?' he asked snidely. ‘That's not my style.'

‘Not your style – except with people like Daddy and his crowd,' she retorted, ice in her voice. ‘You can be nice enough to
them
when it suits you. But I suppose that's different.' There was much truth in what she said, but it sent him back into his glass. Finding it empty already, he rose and went in search of the bottle.

When the Dean returned, his wife tried a different approach. ‘Daddy suggested,' she said in a reasonable tone, ‘that you try to make allies of the Chapter. Wouldn't it make sense to have them on your side, instead of battling against them?'

‘You don't know the Chapter very well,' he muttered self-pityingly. ‘They were prejudiced against me before I ever came, because they all wanted that revolting Brydges-ffrench to get the appointment.'

‘That's not the way I heard it,' she said. ‘I had it from my cleaning woman, who had it from the Greenwoods' cleaning woman, that you'd promised them things before you got here – things that you had no intention of delivering.'

‘Oh, that.' He looked down into his drink, sullen.

‘Yes, that.' Her voice was still quiet but it had a sharp edge to it. ‘It's true, then?'

The Dean frowned. ‘Only those two fools Greenwood and Thetford. If they don't have enough sense to recognise a campaign promise when they hear one . . .'

‘So you
are
a politician after all.' She spoke with satisfaction, almost with congratulation, smiling suddenly. ‘Daddy would approve of that.'

‘But now they're never going to go along with anything I say. They won't—'

‘Then you must get rid of them,' Anne Latimer stated, pragmatically brutal. Her husband was shocked.

‘Get rid of them?'

‘Yes. If they won't work with you, then they'll have to go. I'm sure you'll be able to manage that. These things are easily done: a little pressure, judiciously applied . . .' She nodded decisively. ‘Then you can get your own people appointed, and you can do anything you like. What about the Subdean?'

‘Old Brydges-ffrench is pathetic,' he told her, curling his lip. ‘He's like a whingeing old woman. Completely useless.'

‘And you don't think you'll be able to bring him round to support you?'

‘Not in a million years. He wanted the appointment too badly – he'd oppose me on principle if I was the Second Coming of Christ.'

‘Then he's got to go,' the politician's daughter said crisply. ‘It should be easy to get rid of him – he's old enough to retire, isn't he?'

‘I don't think he'll go without a fight.'

She gave him a Lady Macbeth-like stare. ‘Surely you're more than a match for a pathetic old man?'

Mentally he reached for the dagger. ‘Of course I am.'

‘All right, then. What about the other one? Kingsley, is it?'

The Dean thought for a moment about John Kingsley. ‘Kingsley is a different matter,' he said at last. ‘He's not a man that I could
buy
, but I think he's a man who might listen to reason.' He thought a bit longer. ‘He might even be useful,' he continued, ‘because he knows the rest of them so well, and they respect him. If I could get John Kingsley on my side . . .'

‘Kingsley stays, then,' she decreed. ‘At least if he cooperates. Now, who else is there here in the Close who might be a useful ally?'

The Dean relaxed at last. This was more like it: he and Anne were working together as a team, as he'd always hoped they could; somehow, though, it had never seemed to happen. Leaning back in his chair, he swirled the whisky in his glass pensively. In his mind he ran through the list, discarding most of them.

‘Rowena Hunt,' he said finally. ‘She's a lady who knows what she wants, and as it happens she has a great deal to gain from working with me.'

‘She's the woman who runs the Friends of the Cathedral? The attractive dark-haired one?'

‘That's right. She talked to me after the installation – she didn't waste any time, either. She's interested in taking over all of the cathedral catering, having the Friends run the refectory. That fits in beautifully with my plans – I was planning on sacking that dreadful woman who runs the refectory anyway. I could even offer her the Cathedral Shop as well.'

‘You're getting rid of those poofs, then.' It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Without a doubt. Their lease is due to expire before the end of next year.'

‘And you think Rowena Hunt would want to take it on?'

‘I'm sure she would.' The Dean smiled. ‘Yes, I'm sure she would. I suspect she'd love to build a little empire for the Friends – and for herself.'

‘Good. I think that you ought to see her as soon as possible.'

He nodded. ‘Right. I will.'

‘Who else, then? One ally isn't enough.'

Stuart Latimer sipped his drink. ‘Jeremy Bartlett,' he said. ‘The Cathedral Architect.'

‘Ah,' remembered his wife. ‘The chap who was with Rowena Hunt at the garden party? Good looking, bearded?'

‘That's the one. He's a widower, I understand. He's only been here a year or so.'

‘So he hasn't really been around long enough to get in with the Establishment?' she reasoned.

‘There's that, plus the fact that I have a rather attractive carrot to dangle in front of him – professionally speaking, that is.' He rubbed his hands together, pleased with himself. ‘I've decided that the way forward at Malbury – the only way forward – is to build on the green space at the west end. A new refectory, a song school, a Chapter House, and offices. What could be a bigger temptation for a cathedral architect than the promise of immortality?'

Anne Latimer smoothed her fair hair and nodded, satisfied. ‘Get on with it, then,' she ordered. ‘And I'll ring Daddy. I'll tell him that you – that
we –
have it in hand.'

The Dean smiled.

CHAPTER 19

    
Nevertheless, they did but flatter him with their mouth: and dissembled with him in their tongue.

Psalm 78.36

One afternoon a day or two later, Stuart Latimer strode through the Close to the cathedral, his long black clerical cloak flapping in the raw October wind. Somewhat to his own surprise, he found himself humming – a sign of rare good humour. His meeting that morning with John Kingsley had gone well, far better than he could have hoped for. He was going to be able to do business with Kingsley, he told himself gleefully. Not that the Canon had been obsequious or toadying; on the contrary, his manner had been somewhat distant. But he had listened to what the Dean had to say about Canon Brydges-ffrench, and in the end he had been persuaded by the unassailable logic of his arguments. Brydges-ffrench had to go. He'd convinced Kingsley of that, he congratulated himself now. Kingsley had even agreed to act as something of a go-between, to make Brydges-ffrench realise how untenable his position was at the moment, and how advisable – even necessary – it was for him to resign. The recalcitrant Subdean, who would never listen to
him
, would surely listen to a man like Kingsley. Stuart Latimer rubbed his small, hairy hands together with satisfaction as much as with cold as he entered the cathedral. Now it was time to begin phase two of his campaign to enlist allies: now was the time to talk to Rowena Hunt. He hoped, on this afternoon, to find her in her usual spot at the Friends of the Cathedral stall in the south aisle.

He was in luck. Rowena was chatting to a tourist, smiling her winning smile as she reeled off figures on the cost of running the cathedral and keeping it open daily, quoting amounts on a cost-per-hour as well as a cost-per-visitor basis. The tourist seemed impressed; he opened his wallet and wandered off towards the donation box by the door to make a generous contribution. The Dean was impressed as well: this woman is on the ball, he thought. She will make a valuable friend.

She turned her smile on him as he approached. ‘Good afternoon, Dean.'

‘How are you today, Mrs Hunt?'

‘Fairly well, as long as I don't stop to think about how cold it is in here.' She shivered slightly, pulling her cardigan across her chest.

‘It
is
cold,' he agreed sympathetically.

Rowena smiled. ‘I think that the heating system in this cathedral was due to be replaced about . . . oh, about a hundred years ago, I'd guess. But there's never enough money for little things like keeping people warm.'

The Dean was solicitous. ‘Do you feel the cold, then?'

‘Well, I'm the one who's most affected by it – I'm the only person who has to sit in the cathedral all day.' She shrugged. ‘But I cope – I've learned to pile on a few extra layers when it's cold. In other words, about ten months of the year!'

‘You're here all day, then?'

‘I usually keep the stall open until it's time for Evensong.' She indicated her stall, with its neat stacks of brochures and its rack of post cards; a few books were displayed as well. ‘I find that I do quite a good trade in post cards – not everyone makes it to the Cathedral Shop, and people appreciate being able to buy a card or two here. And Victor and Bert's selection of books tends towards the frivolous, so I have a few things available here. I also like to be available to answer questions and generally keep an eye on things. The vergers,' she said dismissively, ‘aren't always as well informed, or as vigilant, as they might be.'

Even more impressed, the Dean asked, ‘Don't you ever get a break, then?'

Rowena nodded. ‘Oh, there's a rota of volunteers from the Friends who take over for an hour at noon, so I can slip home for a bit of lunch.' Or something else, she thought. Smiling, she added, ‘Once in a while someone takes pity on me, and brings me a cup of tea in the afternoon. And sometimes I even get a day off.'

With a frown he looked around the near-deserted cathedral. ‘Isn't there anyone here now who could take over from you for a few minutes? I was hoping you'd join me for a cup of tea in the refectory.'

‘I would love to join you for a cup of tea,' she said immediately, looking at her watch. ‘It's after four, and I haven't been very busy today – too cold for the tourists. I'll just close down early, if you don't mind.' The Dean nodded his permission, so she locked the cash box into a drawer, pocketed the key, and set a ‘Closed' sign on the counter.

* * *

Having successfully avoided Dorothy Unworth's Bakewell tarts, though they did not escape the baleful glare of that worthy woman herself, the Dean and Rowena settled down at a secluded table with their red plastic pots of tea. The refectory was as empty of people as the cathedral, so it was not difficult for them to conduct a private conversation without fear of being overheard by other customers. The Dean had considered calling on Rowena at her home, or asking her to come to his office at the Deanery, but had decided that on the whole a very public meeting would be best: Rowena was such an attractive woman that a private meeting might engender unhelpful gossip at best, or vicious rumour at the worst, in the small world of the Cathedral Close.

‘You indicated to me during our previous discussion,' the Dean said without preamble, ‘that you would be willing to undertake the coordination of the cathedral catering on behalf of the Friends.'

‘Yes, that's right.' Knowing that Dorothy Unworth was hard of hearing, Rowena nonetheless looked in her direction; it gave her a sort of perverse pleasure to know that the woman who watched them so avidly and whose future they were discussing so dispassionately couldn't hear a word they said. She put a hand in front of her mouth, just in case Miss Unworth was a skilled lip-reader. ‘Though talking about it here, with her watching us, seems a bit like “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies”. I doubt, somehow, that Miss Unworth will be very keen on the idea.'

He laughed with appreciation, remembering that Rowena was a clergy widow. ‘No, I don't think you could say that her “cup runneth over” at the moment.'

‘How will you manage it?' she asked baldly. ‘She won't give it up without a fight.'

‘Oh, don't you worry about that, Mrs Hunt,' the Dean assured her. ‘It will be an easy matter. I'm sure you're aware that she's granted the contract to operate the refectory on the payment of an annual fee to the Chapter. It has to be renewed annually, at the beginning of each calendar year – up till now it's always been an automatic renewal. This time, though, we'll just decline to renew her contract as of 1 January. Couldn't be simpler. Then you take over. You must know how it works,' he added. ‘You occupy your house in the Close under a similar arrangement, I believe.' If there was a veiled threat behind his words, it was carefully hidden in his smile.

‘But . . .' Rowena hesitated, searching for a delicate way to articulate her doubts. ‘Won't it have to be voted on by the Chapter as a whole?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘And . . . can you be sure that they'll vote the way you want them to? I mean . . .' she floundered, uncharacteristically, ‘I didn't think you were exactly on the best of terms with the rest of the Chapter at the moment.'

‘Just leave the Chapter to me, Mrs Hunt,' the Dean stated with confidence. ‘As of 1 January, the refectory will be yours.'

Rowena relaxed, leaning back in her chair. ‘All right, then. I shall begin to make plans accordingly.'

‘I think that we will work together very well, Mrs Hunt. And with that in mind, there's one other possibility that I wanted to . . . explore with you.' He looked down at the table but watched her out of the corner of his eye, and was pleased to see her unguarded reaction.