Appointed to Die (29 page)

‘But her father . . .'

‘Her father is at my house, chatting with some of his old friends. I will contrive to keep him there until Evensong, by force if necessary! So you won't be interrupted. You have an empty house, and nearly two hours before Evensong. Now
go
!'

He raised his head, galvanised to act. ‘Yes, I will. Thanks, Pat.'

‘Don't mention it.' She grinned and gave him a conspiratorial wink as he turned and strode back towards the cloister with determination.

In due time, after their tea at the Deanery, the Mothers' Union processed into Evensong with their parish banners aloft, filling the Quire and overflowing into the Nave. David and Lucy, arriving almost at the last minute, were afraid that they might have to sit in the Nave, where the visibility was almost nonexistent, but Pat had thoughtfully saved them seats. They were flanked on the other side by Todd, who greeted them with a cheerful grin. ‘Doesn't the cathedral look nice?' he whispered, indicating the gold festival hangings on the altar.

David nodded. ‘And I see that they've got the scaffolding down in time for the Patronal Festival.'

‘Yes, and they've done a fantastic job of repairing that window. It looks exactly the same as it did before.'

The verger entered, bearing his verge in front of him solemnly; they all stood as the clergy and choir processed in to take their places.

‘O Lord, open thou our lips,' intoned Rupert Greenwood's pure voice; the service had begun.

It was a beautiful service: the choir, under Rupert's tutelage, had never sung better, and the darkness of the sky outside lent a kind of hushed magic to the candlelit Quire. The climax, for John Kingsley, was the Nunc Dimittis; Noble in B minor was not the showiest or most spectacular setting of the Canticles in the repertoire, but the Canon found its old-fashioned simplicity deeply affecting. ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,' the trebles sang. John Kingsley glanced at the next stall, where Arthur Brydges-ffrench sat with head bowed, then looked up towards the Bishop's chair and caught George Willoughby's eye. He knew that they were both thinking the same thing: Lord, please let Arthur go in peace.

CHAPTER 28

    
Thy rebuke hath broken my heart; I am full of heaviness: I looked for some to have pity on me, but there was no man, neither found I any to comfort me.

Psalm 69.21

After the early communion service on the following Monday, John Kingsley sought out the Dean for a brief word. The Dean had taken the service, so the Canon followed him to the sacristy, where they would not be overheard.

‘It's about Arthur Brydges-ffrench,' he said. ‘I had a long talk with him last night, after Evensong.'

‘Yes?' the Dean tried not to sound impatient, but he was anxious to get home to his breakfast.

‘I believe that he has just about made up his mind to go.'

The Dean turned on him with a smile. ‘Ah.'

‘He has nearly made up his mind,' Canon Kingsley repeated for emphasis, ‘but he will not be forced. Not by me, and not by you. You'll have to take it very carefully from here.'

This brought a frown to the Dean's face. ‘Well, what do you suggest I do?'

John Kingsley chose his words carefully, aware of how much was at stake. ‘I think that you need to tell him that you are as concerned about the cathedral's future as he is – that you're only doing what you feel you must do to ensure its survival. And it might be more effective if you could do it in a non-threatening situation – say, if you were to invite him over for a meal, and spend some time just chatting. Then it might come up naturally, and it wouldn't seem so calculated or deliberate. I wouldn't wait very long, though – he could change his mind again any time.'

‘But Anne is away in London this week. I'm not really set up for entertaining on my own.'

‘I think it would be even better this way,' urged the Canon. ‘Just a simple supper – some bread and cheese, perhaps. And if you really want to please Arthur, and convince him of your sincerity, you could get a box of crème de menthe Turkish Delight.'

The Dean looked baffled. ‘Crème de menthe Turkish Delight?'

Smiling, the Canon explained, ‘Arthur loves it – he eats it by the boxful. It's his greatest weakness.'

‘But where on earth would I find such a thing?'

‘At the Cathedral Shop. Victor and Bert keep it in stock for him.'

The Dean nodded decisively, making up his mind to do what had to be done. ‘Very well, then. It may as well be tonight. I shall go immediately and ask Canon Brydges-ffrench to have supper with me this evening.' By this time he had finished in the sacristy, so he hurried off, hoping to catch the Subdean before he left the cathedral.

John Kingsley remained in the sacristy for a moment, fixing his eyes on the crucifix and saying a silent prayer. At last he spoke aloud, half to God and half to himself: ‘How I hope I've done the right thing.'

Arthur Brydges-ffrench had been in his stall throughout the service, kneeling almost motionlessly; he hadn't even gone forward to receive communion. His mind was in turmoil, and he prayed fervently that God would give him a sign, show him a way out of what seemed to be an impossible situation. The service ended without his noticing as he prayed on, oblivious to the ache in his knees.

‘Arthur?' The Dean spoke quietly, standing in front of him; interrupted, Canon Brydges-ffrench gave a violent start. It was the first time, he realised, that the Dean had ever addressed him by his Christian name. Was this the sign he'd waited for?

‘Yes, Dean?'

‘I was wondering whether you might be free to join me for supper this evening. Anne is away, so it won't be anything elaborate – just a simple meal, and just the two of us.'

For a moment the older man blinked up at him uncomprehending, licking his lips nervously. He said nothing, so the Dean went on in a rush, almost as if he were trying to convince himself as well. ‘I think it's about time for us to have a little talk. Get to know one another. Try to reach an understanding.'

Canon Brydges-ffrench reared back on his heels, suddenly aware of his aching knees. He stood, stretching to his full height with a little groan, and looked down at the Dean. ‘Yes. All right,' he agreed. ‘All right.'

‘About eight, then?' He had to tilt his head back to see the Subdean's face; he felt that it put him at a real disadvantage.

‘I shall be there.'

* * *

Today, Stuart Latimer resolved, would be the day in which he would sort out all the little issues that had been pushed to the bottom of the list, all the necessary evils that had to be accomplished before his plans could reach fruition. This morning he would inform Evelyn Marsden of his intention to raise her rent, and then he would tell Dorothy Unworth and Victor and Bert that their days were numbered. The bully in him rather looked forward to these encounters, for in them he would unquestionably have the upper hand.

He had prepared a letter for Evelyn Marsden, setting out the proposed rent increase, but he intended to deliver it in person, so that he could see her face when she realised that she would be losing her home.

Miss Marsden opened the door to him with well-concealed puzzlement; the Dean was not known for paying calls in the Close, either alone or with his wife. ‘Would you like a coffee?' she offered. ‘I've just fixed myself some.'

‘Yes, that would be very pleasant,' he agreed, rubbing his hands together.

She led him to her first-floor sitting room with its unimpeded view of the cathedral, the Close, and most particularly the entrance to the Deanery. Her chair was by the window; as she assumed what was clearly her accustomed seat with an automatic glance down into the Close, it was very clear to the Dean that she spent much of her time sitting there, spying on his comings and goings. In his mind that justified, somehow, what he was about to do to her – the nosy old cow, he thought self-righteously.

She poured him a cup of coffee from a little filtered pot – no instant granules for Miss Marsden – and sat back to await some indication of the reason for his visit. The coffee, the Dean had to admit, was extremely tasty, as was the home-made biscuit that she offered him. He must not allow himself to be deflected, but perhaps a bit of small talk would be in order.

Casting his eye around for a likely topic of conversation, he spotted a bag of knitting next to her chair. ‘What are you making?'

‘Oh, this.' Her laugh was self-conscious as she held it up. ‘It's a sleeveless pullover, for Arthur. To wear under his cassock. He's not as young as he used to be, you know, and I do believe he feels the cold more than he used to. With winter coming on . . .'

The Dean didn't really want to discuss Arthur Brydges-ffrench. ‘You enjoy knitting, then?'

‘Oh, yes. It relaxes me, I find – and I've been doing it for so many years that I can do it without looking.' As if to demonstrate, she picked up the black wool and within a moment the thin steel needles were clicking rhythmically, though her eyes never left the Dean's face.

‘A useful talent,' he declared heartily. ‘My wife could never be bothered to learn to knit.'

‘Somehow I never imagined that Mrs Latimer was a knitter.' She said it in a humorous way, intending to be friendly, but it reminded the Dean once again that this woman was in the habit of spying on his family. He put his hand to his pocket and drew out the letter.

‘I have a letter here for you, Miss Marsden,' he said without preliminary. ‘I believe that it is self-explanatory, but I have delivered it in person in case you have any questions.'

She put down her knitting, took the letter from him, opened it without any evident apprehension and began to read; the Dean watched her as the blood drained from her face. At last she raised stricken eyes to him. ‘What is the meaning of this?' she asked in a choked whisper.

‘As I said, I think it's self-explanatory. The figure named will be your new rent, as from next year.'

‘But . . . but I can't possibly afford that much!'

The Dean looked suitably grave. ‘I'm sorry to hear that. In that case, I shall have to begin looking for a new tenant.'

Evelyn took a deep breath. ‘But it's monstrous! I've lived here for over thirty years, and my rent has never gone up before!'

‘My point exactly, Miss Marsden. Your rent has been artificially low – far too low – since you've been here. This property must be made profitable – the cathedral is not in the business of charity, much as we would like to be. If you tell me that you can't afford the increase . . .'

‘I'm living at the limit of my income as it is!'

He shook his head sympathetically. ‘Then it seems we have no choice. Much as we may regret the fact, Miss Marsden, we must all live within our means. You should, I suppose, count yourself fortunate that you've been able to stay here in the Close for so many years.'

Her voice trembled as she tried to take in the enormity of what was happening. ‘But I have nowhere else to go . . .'

‘This has come as quite a shock to you,' he said with unctuous composure. ‘You will have a few months to make alternative arrangements, and I'm sure that when you've had a chance to calm down and think about this rationally, you will be able to find a solution to your little . . . problem.'

A short time later, Evelyn Marsden stood at the door of Canon Brydges-ffrench's house, holding herself rigid to counteract the trembling sensation in her legs. She took a deep breath before pressing the bell; the old-fashioned chime sounded faintly somewhere in the house, barely audible to her.

After a moment the Subdean appeared, blinking, as if his mind were elsewhere. ‘Hello, Evelyn.' He summoned up a courteous smile and looked expectantly at her hands; she often called on him like this with some little token of friendship, a cake or a pot of marmalade or a pair of hand-knitted socks. On these occasions he never invited her in, but accepted her offerings on the doorstep.

So he was surprised that her hands were empty, and that she was looking beyond him into the dim entrance hall. ‘Can I come in, Arthur? I must talk to you.' Her voice was controlled, but only just.

‘Yes, of course.' He stepped aside to let her past.

She had not been inside his house in quite some time, she realised – probably not since just after his mother's funeral, nearly a year past. During the reign of the formidable Mrs Brydges-ffrench, Evelyn had occasionally been invited round to take tea with that lady and her son, but now she was the one who entertained Arthur, when any entertaining was done. The change in the house since she had last been there was marked: all traces of Mrs Brydges-ffrench's rigorously immaculate housekeeping had been eradicated, and there was a dusty, almost seedy, feel to the place. How shocked Gertrude Brydges-ffrench would have been, thought Evelyn, to have known that one could have written one's name in the dust on her hall table.

He stood irresolute in the hall, unsure where to take her, then led her into his study. Sitting behind his desk, he indicated a chair to her, but she remained standing, clasping her hands in front of her as if in unconscious supplication.

‘The Dean has been to see me this morning,' Evelyn began, keeping her voice steady.

‘Yes?' He now had some idea what this might be about.

‘He gave me a letter to inform me that next year my rent would be raised to an absolutely ridiculous figure. Were you aware of this?'

The Subdean lowered his head and busied himself with an untidy pile of papers. ‘Yes, I was. But I'm afraid there is absolutely nothing that can be done about it.'

‘Can't you use your influence, Arthur?' Her voice quavered, just a little. ‘Surely it will require a vote in Chapter.'

Canon Brydges-ffrench sounded weary, and he shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘I've done all that I possibly can do. I've protested to the Dean, but he has failed to heed me. It
will
require a vote in Chapter, but with Rupert going and Philip set to follow him in deserting us, the Dean will win. He won't call a vote until he's sure it will go his way.'