Appointed to Die (35 page)

Lucy looked satisfied. ‘Something like murder, for instance? Or perhaps she just didn't want you to know that she was entertaining Inspector Mike Drewitt in her bedroom on his night off, and was too . . . involved . . . to hear the sirens.'

‘Lucy! You can't know that for sure!'

She smiled. ‘No, but I know Rowena. Don't forget,' she added, ‘that she bought a box of Turkish Delight on Saturday. Why would she do that, if not for some devious purpose? A kindly impulse doesn't exactly fit in with her character.'

David stopped and called the dogs. ‘It's getting dark – I think we ought to go back.' He turned to her as a sudden thought struck him. ‘If you're going to say that about Rowena,' he said agitatedly, ‘then why not say the same thing about your great friend Jeremy? He bought Turkish Delight, too, you know. And he had as much reason as Rowena to want to get rid of Canon Brydges-ffrench – the Subdean wasn't exactly a strong advocate of the Cathedral Centre! No, Lucy, I won't accept what you say about Rowena. If I have to put my money on anyone, I'll put it on Jeremy Bartlett.'

That evening Inspector Drewitt paid another call at the Bishop's House. He found them much as before: Pat and George Willoughby with Lucy and John Kingsley around the kitchen table, though this time David was there as well.

Pat made him welcome and found him a seat at the scrubbed pine table. ‘We're just about to have our pudding,' she told him. ‘You'll join us, won't you?'

‘I shouldn't, but I will.' The policeman grinned, patting his trim waistline.

The Bishop looked down at his own substantial paunch with a rueful twinkle. ‘I promise I won't tell your wife.'

‘Have you met David?' interposed Lucy. ‘My friend, David Middleton-Brown?'

‘No, I don't believe we've actually met.' Drewitt extended his hand across the table. ‘Though I've seen you about the place once or twice. I understand you're representing the Dean.'

‘That's right.'

Pat dished up the fruit crumble. ‘Any news, Mike? Any developments in the investigation?'

The Inspector cast a dubious glance at David. ‘I shouldn't really be here, you know. But as long as you all understand that this is strictly off the record . . .'

‘Yes, of course,' David put in quickly. ‘Any help that you can give me will be very much appreciated, of course, but I won't say a word.'

Drewitt relaxed slightly. ‘Mind you,' he laughed, ‘I don't know why I should do anything to help the Dean's case. The man is a total shit.'

‘Don't I know it,' David agreed with feeling. ‘And that's off the record, as well.'

‘Think of it as helping Malbury Cathedral instead,' suggested Pat.

‘Yes. I don't like seeing the cathedral receiving this kind of bad publicity,' the policeman agreed.

Pat prompted him again. ‘So do you have anything to tell us?'

‘Yes, one or two things, as a matter of fact.'

They all turned to him and waited expectantly; he ate a spoonful of his crumble, nodded in approval, then went on. ‘The Deanery was searched immediately after the murder, of course. We took away quite a few things to have a look at. One of them – well, it's given us something to think about in terms of motive.'

‘What's that?' Pat looked at him keenly.

‘We're not sure yet exactly how, or if, it fits in,' he cautioned. ‘But it's something that might be significant. The books for the Malbury Music Festival, which the Dean had in his study. One of our men who knows something about accounts took a look at them, and he says that they don't make sense, though he can't put his finger on exactly what's wrong. We've sent them away to an accountant to go over them with a fine-tooth comb, so we won't know for a few days what the problem is. But it gives us something to think about, doesn't it?'

‘You think someone's been cooking the books?' Pat asked with her customary bluntness.

‘Well, it's possible. All I can say is that our man thinks there may well have been a hand in the till somewhere along the line. We're hoping that the accountant may be able to tell us whose hand, and that that might shed some light on what's happened. After all, the music festival was Canon Brydges-ffrench's baby, and presumably he kept the books.'

‘And if the Dean found out or suspected that something was wrong . . .' David thought aloud.

‘You might ask him,' Drewitt suggested.

‘Did you search Canon Brydges-ffrench's house as well?' Lucy asked.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Anything significant?' Pat questioned.

‘I don't think so,' the Inspector admitted, ‘though of course we may discover something later. On the desk in his study there was an opened box of Turkish Delight, with several pieces missing – nothing surprising in that. Whacking great piles of books everywhere for the men to trip over. Heaps of papers on and around his desk, but nothing that seemed to relate to the music festival. The paper that was on top of everything else on his desk – so presumably it was the last thing he was working on – was some sort of list of Scripture references. Sermon notes, I suppose.' Drewitt sighed. ‘Poor old bugger. That was one sermon he never got to preach.'

‘Arthur never was a very inspiring preacher, I'm afraid,' the Bishop put in, apropos of nothing.

John Kingsley looked at him with reproach. ‘George, the man is dead.'

But Pat had the last word. ‘That doesn't alter the fact that his sermons were nothing to write home about.'

* * *

As Inspector Drewitt made ready to leave, David caught his eye tentatively. ‘Would you mind if I asked you a question?'

‘Fire away.'

‘Presumably the police have checked with everyone in the Close about that night, and would have on record everyone's whereabouts. Would it be possible for me to know what they found? To put not too fine a point on it, who has an alibi and who doesn't?'

‘I'll see what I can do,' the Inspector promised. ‘I'll drop by tomorrow evening, if that's convenient.'

‘That would be very kind,' agreed David with gratitude.

After the policeman had gone, they all nursed their coffee in silence for a few minutes, thinking about the implications of what he had told them.

Pat was the first to speak. ‘I don't know what to think. Maybe the Dean
did
murder Arthur after all.'

For almost the first time that evening, John Kingsley spoke. ‘Oh, no, I don't think so.' His voice was mild but definite, and everyone's head swivelled to look at him.

‘Why do you say that?' queried Lucy.

‘Because, my dear, of what he told me on the phone that night. He told me that Arthur was being difficult, was refusing to resign under any circumstances. And after we'd all been so hopeful that he was about to see reason.'

‘But I don't see . . .' David began.

‘All the more reason for him to murder him, I should have thought,' the Bishop stated.

‘But don't you understand? If he'd decided to murder him – had in fact already poisoned the Turkish Delight – he wouldn't have told me that. It gives him a motive that he wouldn't have had if Arthur had carried out his promises and gone quietly. He needn't have told me that Arthur had changed his mind – he could have let me go on thinking that Arthur was willing to resign, knowing that Arthur would be dead and couldn't contradict his account.' The Canon shook his head and took off his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. ‘No. As convenient as it would be in many ways to believe that the Dean was guilty, in that phone call he proclaimed his own innocence.'

David exchanged glances with Lucy, recognising the truth of what had been said, and acknowledging as well an enhanced respect for her father.

CHAPTER 35

    
God shall wound the head of his enemies: and the hairy scalp of such a one as goeth on still in his wickedness.

Psalm 68.21

The next morning, Friday – the day that the story of the Malbury murder hit the front page of the weekly
Church Times –
David arranged to see his client in Shrewsbury prison, for the first time since the remand hearing. He found Stuart Latimer's temperament unimproved by two days of incarceration; the Dean drummed his hairy fingers on the table of the interview room and glowered at David as he entered. ‘I see you haven't managed to get me out of here yet,' he greeted him.

‘It's only been two days.' David took a seat opposite his client, noting that he looked none the worse for his ordeal; he was clean-shaven and neatly dressed.

‘The longest two days of my life. How much longer do you expect me to put up with this?'

David was determined not to let the Dean's ill humour get to him. ‘As long as it takes, Dean,' was his mild reply. ‘You're being treated well, I trust?'

The Dean laughed mirthlessly. ‘They haven't started using the thumbscrews on me yet, if that's what you mean. But this isn't exactly the Savoy, is it? The food is absolutely appalling.'

‘As you say, it's not the Savoy.'

‘Well, what progress have you made towards getting me out of this place?' Stuart Latimer demanded, adding with a sneer, ‘Isn't that what I'm paying you some vastly inflated fee to do?'

David frowned; his voice was quiet but firm. ‘Dean, if you're not happy with my services, you're quite free to find someone more to your liking. But I won't be bullied by you. Insult me all you like – I'm still your best hope for getting out of here in due course, and I suggest that you remember that.'

Crossing his arms across his chest, the Dean subsided into sulky silence.

After a moment David went on in a normal tone of voice. ‘I came to see you today to ask you about something. About the books for the music festival.'

‘What about them?'

He decided to reveal as little as possible of what he had learned in an attempt to discover what the Dean might know. ‘I understand from Canon Kingsley that you asked for the books to be handed over, and that subsequently Canon Brydges-ffrench gave them to you.'

‘Yes, that's right. But what does that have to do with anything?'

David replied obliquely with another question. ‘You examined the books, I suppose?'

‘No, as a matter of fact I didn't. I had much more important things to do than to spend my time working through Brydges-ffrench's miserable crabbed handwriting. I put them in my study – I imagine they're still there, if you want them for some good reason.'

It would be necessary to be more direct, David realised. ‘Canon Kingsley says that you were very insistent about having the books turned over to you. Did you ask for the books because you suspected that there might be some . . . irregularity . . . in them?'

‘Good heavens, no.' The Dean waved a dismissive hand. ‘I knew that Brydges-ffrench was stubborn and obstructive, but I never suspected him of dishonesty.'

‘Then why were you so insistent?'

‘That should be fairly obvious, even to you,' he said with snide emphasis. ‘To show them who was boss, of course.' Seeing the expression on David's face, he leaned forward suddenly. ‘You're not telling me that there
was
something fishy about the books, are you?'

‘Well,' David admitted reluctantly, ‘it's just possible that there might have been. The police seem to think that someone had their hand in the till. They're not sure yet who it was, or how . . .'

The Dean burst into peals of humourless laughter. ‘Oh, that is rich!'

Puzzled, David said, ‘I don't really see what is so funny . . .'

‘Don't you?' Stuart Latimer pressed his fingertips together and looked at them rather than at David. ‘It's just that all that time I had the books right there in my study. They were all in on it together – you can mark my words about that. Brydges-ffrench, Thetford, and Greenwood – if one of them was guilty, they were all guilty. It all makes sense to me now, all that whispering in corners. They must have been terrified that I'd find out. That's the biggest joke of all – I had the means right in my own hands to get rid of the whole useless lot of them, and I didn't even realise it!'

Inspector Drewitt was as good as his word. He returned that evening, joining them at the kitchen table and producing a small notebook.

‘You asked me about alibis,' he addressed David, consulting his notes. ‘There's not really a great deal to say. Almost everyone was home for the evening, pretty much from Evensong on. The married people can give each other alibis – Canon and Mrs Greenwood, and Bishop George and Mrs Willoughby.' He smiled sheepishly at the Willoughbys, apologetic that they even had to be mentioned. ‘Claire Fairbrother worked late at the clinic that night, and wasn't home until just after nine, so her husband Canon Thetford was on his own at home till then. And the people who live on their own – well, none of them really have alibis. They all just said that they were home by themselves. That's you, Canon Kingsley,' and again he looked apologetic, ‘Miss Marsden, Mr Bartlett, and Mrs Hunt. Todd Randall, who lodges with Miss Marsden, was away that night.' He snapped his notebook shut. ‘I don't know if that's any help or not.'

‘Thank you very much, Inspector,' said David. ‘It remains to be seen if it's any help!'

‘Tell me,' interjected Lucy with an innocent look, ‘were the bell-ringers practising that night?'

‘No, we always practise on a Tuesday,' the policeman explained.

‘So you weren't in the Close that evening?'

He didn't hesitate, even fractionally. ‘No, I was on duty that night. I was called out later, of course, to the scene of the crime, but as I said, I was subsequently taken off the case.'

Lucy and David exchanged brief quizzical glances. If Rowena Hunt hadn't been with Mike Drewitt, their eyes communicated to each other, what had she been doing that she was so anxious not to talk about?