Appointed to Die (31 page)

Bert smiled thinly. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Wait a minute. Let me think.' Val leaned close and peered at his face. ‘I'll bet it's that Rupert Greenwood. I know he's married, but that don't really mean anything, does it? He's a bit too fond of those choirboys for a happily married man, wouldn't you say?' She winked broadly. ‘Don't worry, I won't tell Victor.'

‘But Mrs Drewitt . . .'

‘Please, call me Val! After all, we're mates, aren't we?' She tucked her arm through his. ‘I'll tell you what, Bert. I'd love a glass of gin. How about it?'

‘You drank the whole bottle on Saturday,' he protested.

‘Oh, come on,' she wheedled. ‘We can go down to the off-licence, and then to my place. Buy me some gin, and I'll tell you things that I'll bet you don't know about the people in the Close. You like gossip, don't you? I could tell you things . . .'

‘That's what you promised on Saturday,' Bert reminded her. ‘But you passed out before you told us anything.'

Val giggled. ‘I did, didn't I? But this time I'll deliver the goods.' She looked up at Evelyn Marsden's first floor window with a knowing grimace. ‘Believe me, mate, I see more of what goes on around here than that dried-up old crow does.'

Just before seven o'clock that evening, Arthur Brydges-ffrench rang John Kingsley's bell.

‘Arthur! Do come in,' the Canon invited, surprised to see the other man.

‘I'm going to supper at the Deanery,' he said abruptly. ‘And I wanted to talk to you first.'

‘Yes, of course.'

The Subdean was carrying a Turkish Delight box which he put down on the hall table. ‘I've brought something for you, John. Something I'd like you to have.'

‘Thank you, Arthur. That's very kind. But . . .'

‘If . . . if I give the Dean my resignation, I may have to leave immediately. We may not meet again.'

‘Oh, surely not,' John Kingsley protested. ‘The Dean wouldn't be that brutal. He'd give you all the time you needed to settle your affairs.'

‘Nevertheless.'

In spite of the fact that he had used the conditional ‘if' when speaking of his resignation, Canon Kingsley sensed that Arthur Brydges-ffrench was a man who had made up his mind at last. Gone were the near hysterics of recent meetings: he was sad, but calm. ‘Would you like a drink before you go to the Deanery?' he offered.

‘No, not that. But I'd like you to hear my confession, John.'

‘Surely that's not necessary.'

The Subdean smiled gravely. ‘Perhaps not, but it would make me feel better. You're not refusing, are you?'

‘Of course not. Anything you like, Arthur.'

So confession was made, and absolution given. Canon Brydges-ffrench made ready to take his leave. ‘I have just one more favour to ask of you, John.'

‘You know I'll do anything I can to help.' Canon Kingsley put his hand on his friend and colleague's sleeve, noticing abstractedly that the cuff of the old black cassock was beginning to fray.

He sighed. ‘I'm a bit worried about tonight, John. The Dean – well, I'm not sure that he'd stop at anything to get what he wants.'

‘Whatever do you mean, Arthur?' He looked at the Subdean keenly.

‘I'm not sure what I mean. But I have a very uneasy feeling about it. The invitation itself seems so uncharacteristic of the man – I'm afraid he's up to something.'

‘I'm sure that he's making a genuine effort to sort things out,' John Kingsley reassured him. ‘I think he's sincere, if a little misguided sometimes.'

‘You always have given people the benefit of the doubt, haven't you, John?' Canon Brydges-ffrench gave a slightly sardonic laugh. ‘I believe that it's your biggest fault. You can't really bring yourself to believe that people are capable of evil.'

‘I don't like to think so,' he admitted. ‘Perhaps that is unrealistic. But in this case, I'm sure . . .'

‘Promise me one thing,' the Subdean interrupted. ‘Promise me that you'll ring the Deanery at ten o'clock. Just to make sure that all is well.'

‘It hardly seems . . .'

‘Promise me,' he repeated urgently. ‘Please.'

‘Yes,' John Kingsley agreed with some reluctance. ‘Yes, I will.'

‘Thank you, John. Don't forget. Ten o'clock.' And with that Arthur Brydges-ffrench departed for the Deanery.

It was ten o'clock exactly; John Kingsley heard the cathedral clock chime as he dialled. The Dean answered after several rings. ‘Stuart Latimer speaking.' His voice sounded somewhat impatient.

Canon Kingsley felt rather foolish; he scarcely knew what to say. ‘Oh, hello, Dean. This is John Kingsley. I . . . just wanted to be sure that everything was all right. With Arthur, I mean.'

There was a sharply indrawn breath. ‘Well, in fact, Arthur's being . . . awkward.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘At first he was fine. We seemed to be getting on quite well, and making real progress in our discussion. We had a nice, civilised meal, with no daggers drawn. But just a few minutes ago, he suddenly said that he was not prepared to resign under any circumstances. He said that in his opinion I was attempting to destroy the cathedral, and he would never forgive himself if he took the easy way out and stood aside to let me do it. He said that he would never willingly resign, and that I couldn't force him.'

‘But I don't understand. I thought . . .'

‘
You
thought!
I
thought!' The Dean's puzzlement flared into anger. ‘Damn it, John! The man's impossible! There's just no way to deal rationally with him!'

‘Perhaps if I were to talk to him again . . .'

‘What good would that do? We could both talk to him till we're blue in the face, and he wouldn't pay a blind bit of notice.' He laughed ironically. ‘No, John, I'm beginning to think that for all our efforts, we're going to be stuck with Arthur Brydges-ffrench until death us do part!'

And yet, an hour or so later, when John Kingsley was roused from his sleepless bed by the ear-splitting screech of the ambulance, he was not prepared for what had happened. His emotions were complex: shock, grief, and guilt over his own complicity in the events of the evening; he, after all, had been the one to suggest that meal at the Deanery. For it was all too clear what had happened when Arthur Brydges-ffrench was carried out on a stretcher, near death, and when, a short while later, Dean Stuart Latimer, dwarfed by the two muscular officers who flanked him, accompanied the police to the station to ‘assist them with their enquiries'. How had such a thing ever happened? How had it come to this? But how could he blame himself? He couldn't possibly, thought John Kingsley, have seen it coming.

Act III

CHAPTER 30

    
O go not from me, for trouble is hard at hand: and there is none to help me.

Psalm 22.11

‘Poisoned!' David stared at Lucy incredulously. ‘Arthur Brydges-ffrench?'

‘That's what Daddy said.' She, too, looked stunned.

Todd spoke for the first time. ‘He's dead?' Todd, a grimy red nylon rucksack slung round his shoulders, had arrived unannounced late the previous afternoon, and had spent the night on the sofa-bed, but had been strangely reticent about his reasons for leaving Malbury so precipitously.

Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, he's dead. He died in hospital during the night.' She sat down abruptly and looked at the two men across the breakfast table, twisting a curl around her finger. In as few words as possible she related the substance of her father's telephone call. ‘He went to supper at the Deanery. He'd told my father before he went that he was worried that something might happen, but Daddy didn't believe him. After supper he was taken ill, the Dean called for an ambulance, and he died later in hospital. All they know at this point was that it was poison – they're not sure what sort, or how it was administered, but they've taken the Dean in for questioning.'

‘The Dean?' gasped David. ‘Good Lord! But surely the police don't think the Dean of Malbury Cathedral has committed cold-blooded murder?' As soon as he said it, he realised that he could quite easily believe the Dean capable of committing murder, if he were sufficiently motivated: he was single-minded enough, and certainly ruthless and selfish. The great surprise, really, David thought, was that it wasn't the Dean himself who had been murdered – for that crime there would be a multitude of likely suspects.

‘He hasn't been charged yet, as far as Daddy knows.'

‘It's a bit early for that,' David said.

She nodded. ‘But the Bishop has gone to see him, and Daddy will get back to me as soon as he knows any more.' Lucy hesitated, realising that she was about to tread on delicate ground. ‘He asked me to get in touch with you, darling, to see if perhaps . . .'

‘No,' he stated resolutely. ‘Absolutely not. I'm not getting involved in this. My firm would never allow it. They don't touch criminal work.'

She decided to bide her time. ‘All right. I'll tell him that when he phones again.'

Throughout this exchange, since his initial involuntary utterance, Todd Randall hadn't said a word. Now he spoke at last, shaking his head rapidly as if to clear it. ‘I can't believe it,' he said. ‘I was with him yesterday. He can't be dead.'

But dead he was, and in the event it was Pat Willoughby rather than John Kingsley who made the next phone call. She had a few words with Lucy, then asked, ‘Is David there?'

Lucy hesitated fractionally. ‘Yes.'

‘I thought he might be. Could I speak to him, please?'

David had come out into the hall, but was surprised when Lucy covered the mouthpiece and held the receiver out to him. ‘It's Pat. She wants to talk to you.'

‘You told her I was here?'

‘She seemed to expect you to be.'

He took the phone with a great show of reluctance. ‘Hello, Pat.'

‘Good morning, David,' came her brisk voice down the wires. ‘I'd hoped I'd catch you before you left for work.'

‘I was just going,' said David, who in fact had no intention of leaving the house until he'd satisfied his curiosity about the momentous developments in Malbury.

‘George wants to know how quickly you can get to Malbury. It would appear that the Dean is likely to be charged, and he needs to see a solicitor as soon as possible.'

‘No,' he repeated, as firmly as he had spoken to Lucy. ‘I can't get involved, Pat. Tell Bishop George to get in touch with the Dean's father-in-law – I'm sure he has all sorts of tame solicitors in his pocket, the type of high-powered chap he needs.'

‘But you know the setup here, and you know all the people involved. George and I have agreed that you're by far the best person for the job.'

‘It's out of the question, Pat. My firm would never agree. Fosdyke, Fosdyke and Galloway don't take on criminal work. Why, old Fosdyke, the senior partner, would have a coronary on the spot if I even suggested such a sordid thing.'

‘Is that Crispin Fosdyke?'

‘
Sir
Crispin Fosdyke,' he amplified.

‘I've known him for years,' the Honourable Pat informed him with considerable satisfaction. ‘He was at school with my older brother – used to come home with him for the holidays. Fossil Fosdyke actually quite fancied me at one time, if you can believe it. I'll deal with him – you needn't worry on that score.'

‘But . . .' he protested weakly.

‘So how soon can you and Lucy be here?'

David tried again. ‘I just don't know, Pat.' Even if he
wanted
to take on the case, and he wasn't by any means sure that he did, there were other problems to contend with: he thought about the separate rooms in John Kingsley's house, and about the uncomfortable proximity of Jeremy Bartlett.

‘One other thing,' she said, as if reading his mind. ‘You may have to stay in Malbury for some time, and it's not really fair to expect Lucy's father to put you up. John loves having you both, I know, but he's used to being on his own, and I'm sure it's stressful for him to have to think about meals and all that palaver. We have a nice spare room here at the Bishop's House, and you'd be most welcome to stay with us for as long as necessary.' The offer was tactful and delicately put, but its meaning was unmistakable.

‘Bless you, Pat,' he said, acknowledging defeat. ‘All right. We'll come. If you can really clear it with Fosdyke, that is.'

‘Oh, that should be no problem,' Pat chuckled. ‘Leave it to me. Though I may have to resort to blackmail. You see, I know a few things about Fossil Fosdyke that I don't think he'd like me to tell his new associate. So we'll see you soon?'

‘As soon as possible,' David agreed. Lucy looked at him questioningly as he put down the phone with a bemused smile. ‘Fossil Fosdyke. Well, I never!'

David went upstairs to pack while Todd helped Lucy to wash up the breakfast dishes. ‘Well, you had a short visit in London!' she said. ‘I hope you don't mind.'

‘I'd really rather not go back to Malbury right away,' Todd demurred. ‘I think it would be best if I didn't have to face Evelyn for a while.'

‘But whatever has happened?' Lucy probed curiously.

The tall American looked chagrined. ‘I'd really rather not tell you the details. It doesn't have anything to do with . . . what happened afterwards, I'm sure. But she and Canon Brydges-ffrench had sort of a . . . scene. And I overheard it by accident – it was really embarrassing, for me and for her. I don't think she'll want to see me just yet.' He thought for a moment ‘I don't know what to do. Maybe I'll just go to Cambridge for a few days and see Kirsty. I'm sure she could find me a bed someplace.'

‘You don't have to do that,' said Lucy. ‘You can stay here if you like – keep an eye on the house, and feed Sophie. That would save me having to put her in the cattery while we're gone. And you could explore London at your leisure.' As if summoned by her name, the marmalade cat materialised on the kitchen table, poking her nose daintily into an empty cereal bowl.

‘Yeah, that sounds like a great idea – you know I love animals.' Todd scratched Sophie's ears and was rewarded with a purr. ‘As long as you and David don't mind, Lucy.' He sat down at the table abruptly, and his face creased with unsuppressible pain. ‘And that way we can talk on the phone and you can tell me the details of what happened. I just can't believe that he's dead. I keep trying to tell myself, but I can't take it in. He was such a nice man, Lucy – a little odd, but harmless. He'd never hurt a fly. How could someone want to kill him? Maybe it was just an accident – maybe he took something by mistake, some pills or something. If I'd stayed in Malbury, maybe he'd still be alive . . .'

Lucy put a comforting arm around the young man's shoulders. ‘You mustn't think that, Todd.'

The guest room at the Bishop's House was spacious and well proportioned, yet there was a cosy homeliness about it, from the cheery sprigged spread on the double bed to the pile of well-thumbed books on the bedside table to the vase of over-blown late roses and greenery from the garden that adorned the chest of drawers. And the view was magnificent: the large sash window overlooked the south-west corner of Malbury Cathedral, with its remaining range of medieval cloister.

‘I hope this will suit,' said Pat, throwing open the door.

‘Oh, Pat, it's lovely,' Lucy assured her.

‘Perfect,' added David fervently, catching Pat's eye; she gave him a quick wink.

‘Go ahead and unpack if you like – there are hangers in the wardrobe if you want to hang up your clothes. I'll go down and put the kettle on – join me when you like. We have a lot to talk about.'

‘Thanks, Pat,' David said. ‘For everything.'

When they came down into the kitchen a few minutes later the kettle had just come to the boil. Pat deftly filled the teapot as they sat down around the table.

‘Well,' remarked David, ‘I must say that when we left on Sunday I wasn't quite expecting to be back in Malbury on Tuesday.'

Lucy was concerned about her father. ‘Did Daddy know that we were coming?'

‘Yes, and I told him that you would be staying here – I just said that we had plenty of room for both of you.' Pat smiled wryly. ‘He understood the logic of it. He'll be round to join us for supper tonight.'

‘So what is going on?' David demanded, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. ‘And when am I to go and see the Dean? Is he still being held at the police station? Has he been charged?'

‘Hold on!' Pat laughed. ‘One thing at a time! No, he hasn't been charged. Yes, he's still being held. And you can see him . . . soon.' She poured a drop of tea into her cup to test its strength, finding it still rather weak.

‘Has he asked to see me?'

‘Well, no. Not exactly. That is, George has been to see him,' Pat explained. ‘First thing this morning. And as I told you on the phone, George and I agreed that you were by far the best person to take this on. But . . .'

‘Doesn't the Dean want me? I could have saved myself a long trip if I'd known that.'

‘It's not that he doesn't want you,' Pat put in quickly. ‘But he says he won't talk to any solicitor until he's seen his wife. And she's not back from London yet. She's not expected back until late afternoon.'

David sighed. ‘Well, I suppose you may as well fill us in on what you know. Lucy and I work as a team, you understand,' he added. ‘I don't have any secrets from her.'

‘I approve of that.' Pat nodded. ‘George and I have always been a team.'

‘What I really want to know,' Lucy interposed, ‘is – did he do it? Did the Dean really poison Arthur Brydges-ffrench?'

Pat raised her eyebrows expressively. ‘Well, that's the question, isn't it?'

‘Did he?'

‘He says not.' She tested the tea again; this time it was ready, so she poured it out. ‘He told George that he didn't poison him, that he doesn't have any idea how it happened. He said that they had supper – just some tinned soup, and some bread and cheese, and he'd bought some of that Turkish Delight that Arthur was so fond of, as a sort of peace offering. The Dean didn't eat any of the Turkish Delight – he had some fruit instead, but Arthur ate several pieces of it. Then a bit later Arthur became violently ill, with nausea and chest pains. The Dean called the doctor, who sent the ambulance, but by the time they arrived it was too late. He died a few hours later in hospital.'

‘How terrible,' Lucy said, frowning. ‘Poor Canon Brydges-ffrench.'

‘And the poor Dean,' added Pat. ‘Everyone wants to believe that he did it, you know. You're not going to be very popular here in the Close, trying to prove otherwise.'

‘Do
you
think he did it?' David asked shrewdly.

She chose her words with care. ‘I believe that he was capable of doing it – Stuart Latimer is not a nice man. But if he tells George that he didn't do it – and George is his spiritual director – then I have to believe him. The difficult thing is, though, that if the Dean
didn't
kill Arthur Brydges-ffrench, it means that someone else here in the Close did. And I hate to think where that line of thought will take us.'

‘Yes,' said David. ‘I see what you mean. I'm beginning to think that I should have followed my first instincts, and stayed in London!'

Just then the phone rang in the hall; Pat went off to answer it, returning after a moment. ‘It was Anne Latimer,' she told David. ‘She wants to see you at the Deanery. Immediately.'

CHAPTER 31

    
For thou shalt save the people that are in adversity: and shalt bring down the high looks of the proud.

Psalm 18.27

David had only met Anne Latimer once, briefly – at her husband's installation. His memory of her as a chilly blonde had been reinforced by comments that others in Malbury had made about her; Jeremy Bartlett always referred to her as ‘The Ice Queen'. The impression was not dispelled as she met him at the entrance of the Deanery: dressed in arctic blue, she extended a formal hand to him, and her fingers were as cold as her blue eyes. ‘Good evening, Mr Middleton-Brown. Thank you for coming so promptly.'

She led him into the drawing room and offered him a drink. Though her glass looked as if it contained pale sherry, David felt that he could really do with a whisky, so that is what he asked for, and hoped that he was imagining the disapproval that he thought he saw in her eyes as she gave it to him.