Appointed to Die (28 page)

Psalm 122.4

It was Saturday morning at the Deanery, and all was in readiness for the afternoon's hospitality: ranks of cups, saucers and plates had been lined up in the drawing room, cakes and scones had been baked, and now it was time for Anne Latimer to give her husband a pep talk.

This was administered, briskly, over breakfast in the dining room. ‘I know,' she said, offering him the milk for his cornflakes, ‘that you think this is a waste of time.'

‘A waste of time
and
resources,' he confirmed, not bothering to hide his scorn.

‘And so it may be. But the fact remains, Stuart, that it must be done, and it must be done well.'

‘But all of those dreadful old dragons from the Mothers' Union . . .' he began peevishly.

His wife pressed her lips together. ‘It won't hurt you to be nice to them, just for one afternoon. And I'm not just talking about the tea, Stuart. I'm talking about the whole day. I want you out there, around the cathedral precincts, shaking hands and kissing babies. All the rustics will expect it, and you'll give it to them. And I'll be right there with you, smiling like the perfect Dean's wife.' She stood up, slim and elegant in her pale blondness, dressed already in her well-cut woollen suit and pearls. ‘It's just a shame,' she added, ‘that the boys couldn't be here. They'd make a good impression on the old dears, handing round cups of tea.'

The Dean's face, as he finished his cornflakes, was as sulky as a recalcitrant child's. But he knew, and she knew, that he'd do as she said.

Things began happening quite early in the refectory. It was there that the beer for the bell-ringers was delivered and set up, and there also that the Mothers' Union gathered for morning coffee and cakes. The morning hospitality, in contrast to the afternoon affair at the Deanery, was provided by Dorothy Unworth, who was in addition to her other responsibilities the diocesan chairman of the Mothers' Union. As the thirsty bell-ringers gathered at one end of the refectory, making an early assault on the barrel of Ploughman's Bitter, the more genteel phalanx of the Mothers' Union began to arrive, each parish representative armed with her banner. The banners would be left in the refectory, in Dorothy's safekeeping, throughout the day's festivities, until they were required for Evensong.

The Dean, in his black cassock and with his wife smiling serenely at his side, was very much in evidence throughout the morning, as was the Bishop, in his purple; Pat Willoughby, however, was occupied entertaining the diocesan clergy at the Bishop's House. Victor and Bert hovered around the refectory as well, armed with a camera. Victor marshalled each parish ringing company, in turn, into an artistic arrangement, flanked by the purple cassock on the one side and the black on the other, while Bert recorded the moment for posterity. ‘Say Brie,' ordered Bert each time, while Victor cooed approval.

‘Ooh, Bert! Some of those bell-ringers don't half have nice muscles,' Victor couldn't help whispering. He was quite enjoying his side of the enterprise, which sometimes entailed – perhaps more often than was strictly necessary – grabbing those selfsame muscular arms to move the ringers into position.

‘It's pulling on those heavy bell-ropes, you know,' Bert explained. ‘Develops upper-body strength.'

‘Maybe
I
ought to take up bell-ringing, Bert dear. What do you think?'

Mid-morning there was a lull in the photo taking, as the ringers concentrated on their beer and the Mothers' Union on their coffee and cakes. Bert and Victor pinched a few cakes, fastidiously avoiding the Bakewell tarts. The Dean sloped off to the library, housed in the medieval storey above the cloister, where Jeremy's plans for the Cathedral Centre were on display for the inspection, primarily, of the diocesan clergy. ‘I must put in an appearance there,' he explained to his wife. ‘I've got to sell the idea to the clergy – we may want their help in fundraising.' Anne Latimer went back to the Deanery to oversee final preparations for tea, and Dr Willoughby returned to the Bishop's House to mingle with the clergy.

In the refectory, a raucous voice suddenly cut through the concentrated sounds of drinking and munching. It would perhaps be an exaggeration to say that everyone in the refectory was instantly aware of it, for by that time many of the bell-ringers were rapidly losing awareness of where they even were. But Victor and Bert, half-hearted at best in their enjoyment of their purloined food, moved quickly in the direction of the woman who had stumbled in and was moving somewhat erratically towards the beer. ‘Is that them bell-ringers?' demanded Val Drewitt, her slurred voice indicating that she'd already had more than beer to drink that morning. ‘Is my husband there, that lousy no-good bastard?
He's
a bloody bell-ringer. Or at least that's what he tells me. He's probably too busy screwing that stuck-up bitch to get near a bloody bell these days.'

It was loud enough that even Dorothy Unworth heard, and she turned, quivering with indignation; such language, to her knowledge, had never before been heard in the sacred precincts of the Cathedral Close. ‘Get her out of here,' she hissed at Victor and Bert.

But Mrs Drewitt arrived at the nearest of the bell-ringers' tables before they could reach her. ‘Is he here?'

Barry Crabtree, as the ringing master of the cathedral ringers and thus the self-appointed host, rose politely. ‘He's not here, Mrs Drewitt. I think he may be up in the tower. Would you like some beer?' he added.

She frowned bellicosely and fumbled for a cigarette. ‘No, I don't want your bloody beer! Isn't there any real drink around this place? Gin?'

Victor and Bert flanked her, one on each side. ‘Come with us, Mrs Drewitt,' Bert urged. Hearing the masculine voice, she turned on him with an automatic flirtatious smile, then realised that her charms were wasted.

‘We've got a bottle back at the shop,' Victor added with a persuasive smile.

With a sudden mood swing, she dropped her belligerence and her expression turned to one of calculated cunning. ‘Don't mind if I do. And if you're extra nice to me, boys, I may tell you some things you don't know about one or two people around here!' She glared around at the assembled company. ‘People think I don't know anything, but I keep my eyes open, and some of these holier-than-thou types aren't exactly what they seem to be. And I don't just mean that Hunt bitch!'

Dorothy Unworth bristled with angry indignation, but at the bell-ringers' table, Barry Crabtree caught his friend Neil's eye and nodded thoughtfully.

* * *

The Friends of the Cathedral's contributions to the day's events were two-fold. On behalf of the Friends, Inspector Mike Drewitt – unaware of his wife's surprise appearance – had organised and was conducting tours of the tower, primarily for the benefit of the country clergy and their families. And in the retro-choir, Rowena had arranged a small exhibition sampling the cathedral's treasures: the Victorian cope, several rare books from the cathedral library, and, with pride of place, a few pieces of plate, most notably an Elizabethan silver-gilt alms dish. The exhibition was presided over by Canon Brydges-ffrench, who insisted that he would trust no one else with the cathedral's treasures.

‘Though,' as he said to Evelyn Marsden, who stopped by to bring him a sandwich at lunch-time, ‘I hardly know why I'm bothering. In a few months it may all be gone.' He sighed heavily. ‘The books and the plate. Probably the cope too, for all I know.'

‘Surely not!'

Arthur Brydges-ffrench lifted the alms dish lovingly, squinting at his distorted face as reflected in its rich patina. ‘This was presented to the cathedral – when it was Malbury Parish Church – by a grateful parishioner nearly four hundred years ago,' he said softly. ‘When the Cromwellians came, looking for things they could melt down, someone hid it and kept it safe until such time as it could be brought out again. Like Brother Thomas hiding St Malo's head, generations before. Now,' he went on, his voice rising on a swell of bitterness, ‘he wants to sell it. That unspeakable man, that Vandal! And this time there's no one to hide it – no one to stop him!'

‘But surely,' stated Evelyn, shocked, ‘he
must
be stopped!'

The Subdean merely shook his head with a shuddering sigh.

David and Lucy decided, that afternoon, to go up to the cathedral library to have a look at the plans for the Cathedral Centre. The Dean had left by that time, returning to the Deanery for the afternoon's festivities; to David's dismay it was Jeremy who stood by the display to explain it to interested parties.

With the barest of greetings to the architect, David turned to study the display with every evidence of great interest. Lucy, however, moved over to speak to Jeremy, and soon they were deep in conversation. Unsure whether or not he really wanted to know what they were talking about, David alternated spells of reluctant eavesdropping with periods of deliberately ignoring them, concentrating his mind on the drawings. It was during one of the former episodes that he overheard a disturbing exchange.

‘Thanks,' said Jeremy in an almost conspiratorial whisper – David had to strain to hear him – ‘for not telling anyone about the building. The Dean would not have been amused if he'd known I'd told you at that early stage.'

‘Far be it from me,' Lucy smiled, ‘to get you in trouble with the Dean.'

As soon as Jeremy was engaged in explaining why the Cathedral Centre was an essential step forward to a curly-haired, cherubic-faced clergyman, David beckoned Lucy out of earshot, leading her to a secluded area of the library between two rows of shelving. He turned to face her, speaking quietly but with intensity. ‘What did he mean, thanking you for not telling anyone about the building?'

‘David! You were eavesdropping!'

He had the grace to look abashed. ‘Well, yes. I was. But what did he mean? When did he tell you?'

Lucy thought for a moment before answering, deciding at last that it was time for honesty; compounding the lies at this point would only make matters worse, she realised. Her voice was gentle, and she put a hand on his arm. ‘He told me about a month ago. I ran into him in London, purely by accident – he was there in connection with the plans. We had lunch together. I didn't tell you about it because I didn't want to upset you, darling. I know how insecure you are. I was wrong not to tell you, but I honestly thought I was doing the best thing – for you, for us.'

The hurt on his face, in his voice, was palpable. ‘You had lunch with Jeremy in London and didn't tell me?' David turned away and blundered towards the steep stone staircase that led down to the cloister. Lucy, realising that perhaps it was best for him to be alone, didn't follow.

Scarcely aware of where he was going, he went out of the cloister, past the Bishop's House, and around to the west front of the Cathedral. There he stood for a long time, staring at the vast green space which, he reflected, if the Dean had his way, would soon be covered with a very large and probably extremely unsightly building. That, he realised at the back of his mind, was being uncharitable, for all other considerations aside – considerations of his own personal feelings, and of Jeremy's professional integrity – Jeremy Bartlett was a skilled architect with a real feel for ancient buildings, and he could be counted on at least for a sympathetic design. Still, it was a great pity that this open space, which gave the cathedral much of its charm, would be lost. By force of will he concentrated his thoughts on the Cathedral Centre, resisting the tug back to the subject of Lucy and Jeremy. It was just too painful to think about right now. Lucy had lied to him. What else was she concealing?

‘Pretty, isn't it?' spoke a voice at his side. Pat had joined him, gazing out at the green. ‘In the summer, the children play there.' David could picture it in his mind: young children in brightly-coloured clothing, rolling in the warm grass on a long, twilit summer evening. Now, though, it was the province of a few large crows, strutting about self-importantly. ‘I don't know if you know its history,' she went on conversationally. ‘As in so many of the monastic churches, the town owned part of it. At the Reformation, when the Abbey was closed, the townspeople tore down their bit – this part, at the west end – mostly so they could re-use the building materials, the stones and the lead. But they soon realised that they'd been rather short-sighted, as they no longer had a church. So they bought the rest from the Crown for use as the parish church, which it remained until it was elevated to cathedral status in the last century.'

‘How interesting.'

Pat turned to look at his troubled face appraisingly. ‘I don't often see you on your own. Where is Lucy?'

‘In the library. Talking to Jeremy.'

Perceptive as she was, she was able to read a great deal into those stark sentences; Jeremy's interest in Lucy over the last several months had not escaped her attention. ‘Is something wrong?'

Her genuine concern was almost enough to finish David off, but he managed to maintain control, at least at first. ‘No. Well, perhaps,' he admitted wretchedly. ‘Jeremy . . . he fancies Lucy. I can tell.' He was tempted to go on and confide in her about his suspicions of Jeremy's trustworthiness, but decided that such a confidence would be premature as well as inappropriate to share with the Bishop's wife.

‘But Lucy loves
you
, not Jeremy,' stated Pat.

‘Oh, I know. Or at least I think so. And I love her more than I ever thought possible. But . . . it's so difficult when we're here in Malbury. It seems as if we never have any time alone together – we almost seem to lose touch with each other somehow.' David looked out at the green, unable to meet her eyes.

‘Ah.' Reading between the lines, Pat considered the problem. ‘Well,' she said practically, ‘I think it's now high time for you to spend some time alone together. What are you waiting for? Go back up to the library this minute and get her. Take her to the nice little teashop in town, out of the Close.' She thought further, going on in a brisk voice, ‘Or better yet, take her back to her father's house for tea, and spend some time . . . talking.'