Appointed to Die (22 page)

‘Yes? What is that?' She leaned forward in anticipation, her interest caught.

‘The lease for the Cathedral Shop will also be coming up for renewal next year,' the Dean said circumspectly.

Her eyes registered comprehension along with satisfaction, but she was determined to make him spell it out. ‘I assume, though, that Victoria and Albert will wish to continue.'

It was the first time he'd heard that nomenclature, and it amused him. ‘I have no doubt that they will,' he said with a smile. ‘But it is not my wish that they should be granted a renewal. I find their merchandise inadequate, and their behaviour . . . inappropriate. If you understand me.'

Rowena understood him very well. ‘And you wondered whether the Friends might be interested in taking it on as well?'

‘The thought had crossed my mind.'

She appeared to take a moment to consider the idea, though they both knew what the answer would be. ‘I think,' Rowena said at last, ‘that it might be a very good thing for the Friends to take on.'

‘Consider it done,' said the Dean.

They smiled at each other, knowing that a bargain had been struck, and both understanding the terms perfectly. For Rowena knew that the knife cut both ways: as long as she did things on the Dean's terms, all would be well. But if she failed to produce the goods, or withheld her loyalty from him, she would be just as expendable as Dorothy Unworth. Rowena was very fond of her house in the Close, and had no intention of losing it. If that meant casting her lot with Stuart Latimer, then that was what she would do.

His reservations about calling on Rowena Hunt at home did not extend to Jeremy Bartlett, so that evening Stuart Latimer set out for the architect's house. Although it was immediately adjacent to the Deanery, the wall which ran the entire length of its garden meant that there was no direct access, and the Dean found to his annoyance that he either had to traverse the Close completely, going around the west end of the cathedral, or alternatively use his keys to cut through the cathedral, entering through a small private door into the south choir aisle – by tradition called the Dean's door because of its proximity to the Deanery – and exiting through the south transept into the remnant of the cloister. He decided upon the latter course as being far shorter, and indeed it brought him out virtually at Jeremy's front door.

He had not informed Jeremy of his intention to call, feeling that the element of surprise might well work in his favour on this occasion. He knew that he was taking a chance on finding the architect at home, but it seemed that he was in luck: a crack of light showed between the drawn curtains of the front room, and the faint sound of music drifted out into the night. The Dean was no expert on music, but he recognised the melancholy strains of the Elgar cello concerto as he rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting for a response to the bell.

Jeremy opened the door cautiously, not expecting callers at that hour. ‘Dean!' He hesitated a moment, caught by surprise. ‘Would you like to come in?' he asked at last.

‘Thank you, Mr Bartlett. I hope it's not an inconvenient time to call.'

‘Not at all.'

They stood for an uneasy moment in the entrance hall; the Dean volunteered no information as to the reason for his visit. ‘Could I offer you a drink?' Jeremy said, finally.

‘Yes, please. That would be very nice.'

Leading the Dean into the sitting room, Jeremy asked over his shoulder, ‘Brandy? Whisky? Something else?'

‘Whisky, please.' Stuart Latimer surveyed the room quickly and chose the largest chair. When Jeremy had dispensed the drinks and had settled down on the sofa, looking at him quizzically, he repeated his opening remark. ‘I hope it's not an inconvenient time to call.'

‘I was just . . . listening to some music.' Jeremy indicated the stereo. ‘It's what I do most evenings.'

The Dean leaned back and took an appreciative sip of the single malt whisky. ‘I suppose you're wondering why I've come.' Jeremy nodded but said nothing, so after a moment he went on. ‘There's something I wanted to speak to you about, in private. Before I talk to anyone else about it, and before it becomes general knowledge.'

‘Yes?' The architect displayed polite interest, nothing more.

‘It has become very clear to me that Malbury Cathedral is lacking in certain basic facilities – a Chapter House, for one, and a song school. And there are other services, such as the refectory, that we could provide much more efficiently in new, purpose-built premises.' He went on, concisely, to outline his plans for building on the green space at the west end of the cathedral. ‘I think that it's the only way ahead for us,' he finished. ‘It will take Malbury Cathedral into the twenty-first century – put us streets ahead of Hereford and Worcester, for example.'

At some point during the narrative Jeremy had jumped up and begun pacing the room, trying to take it all in. Now he turned to the Dean with barely suppressed excitement. ‘And you want me to be involved?'

‘Of course. You're the Cathedral Architect. You're here on site. And I presume that you know the people who matter in London.'

‘It's a big job . . .'

‘It will be an enormous job. But of course you will have all the assistance you require.'

‘It will cost a bomb. The money . . .'

‘You needn't worry about that,' said the Dean dismissively. ‘I'm not expecting you to be a fund-raiser as well as an architect! The money will come. My father-in-law is in a position to tap into corporate grants, and so forth. The money won't be a problem.' He tilted his head back to meet the eyes of the standing Jeremy. ‘Are you with me?' he asked.

‘Yes, of course I'm with you!'

‘Then I'd like you, as soon as possible, to prepare some preliminary costings, based on the sort of requirements we've been talking about. If you want to sketch out some ideas at this point, I'd be happy to look at them. I'd like to have something to present to the Chapter at the next meeting, the end of this month, and I understand that the Patronal Festival is coming up in the middle of November. That might be a good time to unveil the preliminary plans.'

Jeremy frowned. ‘That doesn't give very much time.'

‘I'm sure that you'll be able to manage.'

Thinking aloud, he said, ‘I shall have to go to London early next week.'

‘I leave it to you.' Stuart Latimer rose. ‘Thank you for the drink, and for your . . . cooperation. We'll talk again soon, Mr Bartlett. And . . . I'm sure I don't need to mention that at this point, it goes no farther than this room?'

‘Of course.'

‘And,' added the Dean, ‘that in return I expect your complete loyalty? To me personally, rather than to the Chapter?'

There was no hesitation. ‘That goes without saying, Dean.' Jeremy saw the Dean to the door, then returned to the sitting room and automatically poured himself another drink. The cello concerto had ended, but he didn't notice.

It was unbelievable. Major building projects like this didn't go on at cathedrals any more – none of them had the money. It was an architect's dream – the sort of thing they all thought about, and hoped for, while knowing, if they were at all realistic, that they were in fact there to keep those magnificent medieval edifices from crumbling to dust, preserving them in their anachronistic beauty for yet another generation of sightseers and God-seekers. This was, thought Jeremy, more than he could ever have hoped for, and what every architect yearned after: the perfect way to crown a career and leave a lasting monument to one's talents. Immortality.

There was only one little problem: Brydges-ffrench and the music festival accounts. If only he hadn't been so stupid and offered his help to the blundering old fool. Clearly he'd acted too quickly, and had backed the wrong horse. For the quid pro quo he'd extracted from the Subdean – the cloister development and the fabric appeal – was a mere drop in the bucket to the promises made by the Dean. If the Dean were to find out . . . Resolutely Jeremy pushed the thought from his mind. He knew that he was clever enough to manipulate the situation, to ensure that he wasn't caught out. The Dean wouldn't find out,
mustn't
find out. That would be fatal.

Into his musings another element intruded, bringing an involuntary smile to his face. London, he thought. Next week.

Lucy. He was obsessed with her, he realised. Thus far his attempts to win her had met with no success at all, which merely fuelled his obsession. Next week he would be in London. One way or another, he would manage to see Lucy Kingsley.

CHAPTER 20

    
Lord, I have loved the habitation of thy house: and the place where thine honour dwelleth.

Psalm 26.8

Interlude: Sunday afternoon, Malbury Cathedral Close. The lull between Sunday morning's service of Holy Communion and Evensong, a quiet time for Sunday lunches and Sunday papers and tea. A family time, often lonely and protracted for people on their own, people like Rowena Hunt and Jeremy Bartlett, like John Kingsley and Evelyn Marsden. But on this day John Kingsley was not alone: he had enjoyed a bountiful lunch with the Willoughbys, eating his fill – and more – of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, fresh vegetables, and Pat's renowned apple crumble with great dollops of custard.

Neither was Evelyn Marsden alone. In the months that Todd Randall had been lodging with her she had enjoyed cooking for him – fattening the boy up, she called it to herself – and Sunday lunch was an especially good time for her to show off her cooking skills. This day, however, was even more special: Arthur Brydges-ffrench had consented to join them for lunch. Todd always had a good appetite, though he never seemed to put on an ounce of weight, Evelyn thought ruefully as she switched on the kettle for tea; it seemed that she only had to
look
at food to add to her already thickening waistline. Todd would be sure to do justice to the cake she'd baked for tea – a layered sponge, slathered with cream and decorated with precious raspberries from the freezer. She hoped that Arthur would appreciate the cake. He hadn't eaten much at lunch; he'd seemed to enjoy the pork, but he'd only picked at the vegetables, and the extra portion of crackling that she'd served him had been left on his plate. Poor dear Arthur was so thin – thinner even than Todd, she fretted. It was clear that, being on his own as he was since his mother's death, he wasn't used to eating enough to keep a bird alive.

At least he seemed to be in a better humour today, Evelyn reflected. Last week, after the service for Ivor Jones, he had been so distraught that, though she'd managed to get a few morsels of food into him, he had hardly been able to speak. Today, over lunch, he'd been undeniably less cheerful than of old, but he'd chatted with Todd about some project they were working on, and he'd even made a few feeble jokes about the Dean's size. ‘I wonder if he has to buy his clothes in the children's department? Or maybe in
London
they have special shops for midget clerics,' he'd said, with his hooting laugh. It was a good sign.

‘Tea?' she said brightly, carrying the heavy tray into the sitting room. Todd jumped up to take the tray from her; Arthur Brydges-ffrench remained seated, a few faint lines creasing his brow as he contemplated the half-finished
Times
crossword puzzle, saved over from the previous day to be enjoyed at leisure, in his lap.

Farther along the Close, Philip Thetford finished the washing up while his wife prepared a speech about teenage pregnancy to be presented to the WI; next door Rowena put the finishing touches on a tea tray of delicacies, expecting a visitor. And at the Precentor's house the Greenwoods were also preparing to have their tea.

Throughout lunch, and the balance of the afternoon, the Precentor had been telling his wife about the difficulties of finding and employing a new organist, and of keeping the cathedral music ticking over in the interim.

‘I won't have time for more than a quick cup, you know,' Rupert warned. ‘I've got to get back and get the music sorted before Evensong.' He picked up a piece of sheet music from the table in the sitting room and looked at it. ‘Sumsion in G. It's on the music list for today so we've got to do it, but the boys always have trouble with the opening bit. I don't know why.'

Judith poured his tea. ‘Rupert,' she said, her voice quiet but laden with emotion. ‘Rupert, we've got to talk.'

‘Hmm?' He looked up. ‘Oh thanks.' He took the tea and resumed his study of the music. ‘Trouble is, until we can get a new organist, I've got to conduct the choir so I can't sing the office. John Kingsley is all right, I suppose – he's got a fairly nice voice,' he admitted begrudgingly, ‘but it's not fair to expect him to do it indefinitely. Not part of his job.'

‘And conducting the choir isn't part of
your
job, either,' Judith put in sharply. ‘Rupert . . .'

‘But can you imagine old Arthur singing the office?' Rupert laughed, amused. ‘He's got a voice like a rusty gate. Philip's not much better, of course. Can't say that I've ever heard the Dean sing, but a pipsqueak like that can't have much of a voice, can he? So I guess it's got to be John until we get a new organist. At least the organ scholar is competent enough to play for the services, even if he's not brilliant. But then Ivor wasn't exactly the world's greatest organist, either.' He took a sip of tea. ‘Any biscuits?'

Silently she proffered a plate of chocolate digestives.

‘Thanks.' Again he flipped through Sumsion. ‘Good piece of writing, even if my boys don't do it justice. Still, I'm not sure I don't prefer Sumsion in A.'

Judith tried once again. ‘Rupert, there are some things we really need to talk about.'

He looked up. ‘Did you say something, dear?' Over her shoulder he caught sight of the clock. ‘Is that really the time? I must dash!' He jumped up, and with a last gulp of tea, he was gone.