Appointed to Die (5 page)

Lucy turned the news over in her mind, twisting a curl around her finger. ‘Why did the Bishop ring you?'

‘As I said, he was worried about Arthur. He didn't take it at all well. George thought that perhaps I could talk to him. I've known Arthur a good many years, you know.'

‘And did you talk to him?'

‘Yes, I rang him just now. I know it's late, but George said he'd still be up. He was, of course. In a real state, he was. Poor Arthur.' John Kingsley sighed feelingly, took off his spectacles, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘There wasn't really much that I could say. All I could do was listen to him, and share his pain.'

‘I'm sure that was worth a great deal to him,' Lucy said with a rush of love for her gentle, empathetic father.

‘I wish I could believe that. It's been a terrible year for him, you know – his mother died last winter.'

Lucy stared. ‘His mother? But she must have been ancient!'

‘Oh, she was – well over ninety, I think. But she'd kept house for him ever since he came to Malbury. Very healthy right up to the last, apparently – she'd never been sick a day in her life, Arthur claimed, then she caught the flu and was dead within a week. A dreadful shock it was for him. They were devoted to one another. And this on top of it. I just don't know how he's going to cope.'

‘You don't think he'd do anything . . . foolish?'

‘Oh, no,' said Canon Kingsley. ‘No, I don't think so.' But he looked even more troubled.

With an effort, they turned their conversation to a less distressing topic over a second round of hot chocolate. But, in discussing the forthcoming music festival, they couldn't get away entirely from the subject of Arthur Brydges-ffrench.

‘What exactly did they want you to do for them?' the Canon asked his daughter. ‘Arthur seemed very keen to have you come down for this planning meeting. What did he have in mind?'

‘Oh, he wants me to do a painting for the cover of the festival programme. Something that they can use on posters and other things as well,' Lucy explained.

‘But the festival is at the end of August – next month. Isn't that leaving it a bit late?'

‘Absolutely.' Lucy laughed, pushing her hair back. ‘Fortunately, though, things are a bit slow for me at the moment, and I'll be able to do it rather quickly. Probably within the next week or so.'

‘They
will
pay you, won't they?' he asked anxiously. ‘I told Arthur that you were a professional artist, and that he couldn't expect you to do it for free.'

She smiled. ‘Oh, I'll send them a bill. But, of course, I won't charge the going rate. And I won't hold my breath until I'm paid!'

The lateness of the hour, as well as the emotions of the evening, fostered a rare intimacy between father and daughter as they sat together in the cosy room. The room itself was unfamiliar to Lucy, but the furniture was all well remembered from the rambling country vicarage of her childhood. There they lingered over their chocolate, saying little, both unwilling to break the mood.

Lucy loved her father deeply, but they had never had the kind of relationship that involved sharing confidences. Canon Kingsley was a diffident man who had never pried into his children's lives, and Lucy had always been a very private person, finding it difficult – and unnecessary – to discuss her personal life with anyone, especially her quiet, saintly father.

So when he broached the subject later that night, emboldened perhaps by their closeness, Lucy realised the depth of his concern for her.

‘You seemed to be getting on well with Jeremy Bartlett tonight,' he ventured obliquely.

Lucy's reply was noncommittal. ‘Yes. He seems a very nice man.'

‘He's been quite lonely since his wife died.' John Kingsley paused, pressing together the tips of his long white fingers, then went on gently, ‘I worry about you being lonely, my dear. London is such a big place, and you're . . .'

‘Not as young as I used to be, Daddy?' Lucy laughed. ‘Don't worry about me.' For a long time she'd felt that she needed to tell her father about David; now seemed like the time. ‘As a matter of fact, there is a man I'm . . . very fond of.' Her father nodded encouragingly, but said nothing, and after a moment Lucy went on. ‘His name is David. David Middleton-Brown. He's a solicitor. I've known him for about a year.'

‘He lives in London, then?'

‘Actually, he's been living in Norfolk. But he's moving to London quite soon. He's got a new position, at a firm in Lincoln's Inn. Quite a prestigious old firm,' she added, unable to keep a note of pride from her voice. ‘They do a lot of work for charities, including the Church of England.'

‘That's very nice, my dear.' Canon Kingsley smiled with relief, then fell silent again. Lucy was silent too, thinking about David. She'd meant to be in Norfolk with him this weekend, helping him to get his house ready to put on the market. That plan had had to be abandoned when she'd had the call from her father, urgently requesting her help with the preparations for the music festival. She couldn't very well have refused to come – her father asked so little of her. But poor David, she thought. She could understand why he'd been upset and disappointed at the last-minute change of plans. The house itself wasn't too bad: he'd done a great deal of redecoration after his mother's death the previous year, and he was by inclination a tidy man, who in addition had been well trained by his mother to keep the house in reasonable condition. But the garden was another matter; David's weekends were invariably spent with Lucy in London, and his garden had been sadly neglected as a consequence. She'd been looking forward to a satisfying if undemanding weekend of pulling weeds and pruning shrubs in the hot July sunshine. Instead, it seemed, she'd plunged headfirst into the disappointed ambitions and frustrated passions of the Cathedral Close.

When they parted at last for the night, at the door of the spare room that Lucy was using, Canon Kingsley kissed his daughter on the forehead. ‘Thank you for coming,' he said. ‘Good night, Lucy dear, and God bless you.'

His tender benediction, remembered from so many nights of her childhood, put Lucy into a reflective mood as she got ready for bed in the unfamiliar room. It had been a long day, beginning with a lengthy and less-than-straightforward train journey from London to Malbury, and ending here in this bed. In between so much had happened: so many new faces to assimilate.

There was, of course, the unfortunate Canon Brydges-ffrench, his appearance as eccentric as his reputation. She had been struck by his very tall figure, his frame cadaverously thin and stooped, and by his expansive domed forehead above bushy, expressive brows. The forehead would have been remarkably high even if it had been met by hair at its upper reaches. As it was, the hair – longish, greasy, and a yellowish grey – was restricted to the sides and back of his head, and the forehead merged uninterrupted into a shiny bald dome. A remarkable man.

Then there were the others at the meeting – handsome Rupert Greenwood and the small, dark organist Ivor Jones, quiet almost to the point of sullenness. And of course the dinner party. Jeremy.

Had she been fair to Jeremy? Had she led him on? She hadn't thought at the time that she was leading him on – she'd found him a pleasant dinner companion, and had sincerely enjoyed their evening together, discussing shared interests and partaking of his extensive knowledge of the cathedral and its environs. It hadn't occurred to her that he might want to take it further. Her unavailability – the strength of her commitment to David – was taken so much for granted by her that she hadn't even thought to mention it until it was too late. And had she really made it clear, even then? Jeremy certainly didn't seem prepared to accept it as final.

He probably thought, Lucy realised now, that the reason that she and David were not married, or even engaged, was that he hadn't asked her. This, of course, was far from the truth: David had asked her repeatedly and insistently to marry him. It was the lasting legacy of a short-lived early marriage to a man completely unsuitable that Lucy quailed at making this final commitment to the man she loved. She knew that her refusals made David unhappy: he was a deeply conventional man, and craved the security of marriage. But her efforts to overcome her own deep-seated antipathy to the institution had not been successful. Their current arrangement of spending weekends together was less than satisfactory, she knew; it would be an improvement when David moved to London within the next few months. The house he had inherited would not be available for occupancy for some time, so he would be moving in with her for the time being. It was almost the same as being married, Lucy told herself – at least she hoped that David would think so.

And Jeremy? He was a nice man, and undeniably attractive. She'd better edit her account of the weekend, when she shared it with David, to leave out Jeremy Bartlett. He was still so insecure about their relationship that he would find it difficult to cope with the idea of Jeremy, a self-professed rival for her affections. Lucy knew that Jeremy was no threat, but David would be profoundly threatened nonetheless – at least she could spare him that worry.

As she drifted off to sleep at last, Lucy thought about David, alone and lonely in his bed. Suddenly she missed him dreadfully. When would she see him again? Next weekend wasn't soon enough. She determined that after the morning service at the cathedral, and after Sunday lunch – they'd been invited to lunch with the Bishop – she would go to him: she would take the train back to London, and from there on to Norwich. She probably wouldn't arrive till very late, but she would stay with him for a few days. Canon Brydges-ffrench and his programme cover could wait – she needed David.

Jeremy Bartlett stood outside the house in the quiet Cathedral Close for a very long time. He had drawn into the shadows, where he would not be observed, and from whence he could watch the windows of the house. John Kingsley had not bothered to close the curtains of the sitting room, so Jeremy had a good view of the conversation between father and daughter. As he was not a lip-reader, its subject matter escaped him, but that was not important; he had much to think about.

Lucy Kingsley. From the moment he'd met her, Jeremy had found her fascinating. It wasn't that she'd been flirtatious, or even conscious of her charms; indeed, her naturalness was perhaps a large component of her attraction for him. Since the loss of his wife, and even before, he was used to women – women like Rowena Hunt – who signalled their availability to him in ways subtle and not so subtle. Occasionally, through the years, he'd succumbed to this direct approach – he was after all only human – though on the whole he found it a turn-off. But Lucy Kingsley hadn't been like that. During their evening together he'd tested her, had given her a number of openings to flirt with him, but she'd never taken the bait.

And now she'd told him that she was in fact unavailable. In some perverse way that excited him, and challenged him. She was the most interesting woman he'd met in years, and he wasn't about to give up just because of some other man's prior claim. He would pursue her, he told himself, and he would have her. It might last for a few months, or perhaps for just one night, but that didn't matter. The chase was all.

Jeremy held his breath as, at long last, the lights went out in the sitting room; a moment later the window above his head on the first floor was illuminated and Lucy came into the room. He stepped back from the house to get a better view of her, but to his disappointment she immediately crossed to the window and drew the curtains.

With a philosophic shrug, Jeremy turned and headed back towards home. Passing Rowena Hunt's house, he automatically looked up at her front bedroom. Rowena was not so discreet: the Holland blinds were only partially lowered, and the light from the bedside lamp framed Rowena, seated at her dressing table, drawing a silver-backed brush through her glossy black hair with sensuous strokes. At this distance, with her beautiful skin and her firm body clearly visible in a lacy black night-gown, she looked no more than a girl. Under other circumstances Jeremy might have lingered. But not tonight. Rowena interested him not in the slightest.

And yet by the time he'd reached his house Jeremy had decided to ring Rowena, his curiosity piqued by the remembrance of Canon Brydges-ffrench's non-appearance. Perhaps she'd tell him more on the phone than she'd been at liberty to reveal in the gathered company.

She answered quickly from the extension in her bedroom. ‘Rowena Hunt speaking.'

‘Rowena? Jeremy here. I'm sorry to be ringing so late,' he began.

Rowena smiled into the phone. ‘No problem. I was still up.'

‘I wanted to thank you for a delightful dinner party,' he said smoothly. ‘The food was delicious.'

‘I'm glad you liked it.'

‘Arthur Brydges-ffrench missed a superb meal. I hope he had a good excuse.'

‘As a matter of fact . . .' Rowena hesitated for a fraction of a second, then went on, ‘Jeremy, you must promise that you won't pass this on, but I found out later why Arthur cancelled.'

Jeremy kept his voice neutral. ‘My lips are sealed.'

‘I was a bit worried, so I rang him up after everyone left,' she explained. ‘It's not really like Arthur to be rude, and the sudden illness didn't really sound very convincing.'

‘And?'

‘You won't believe it, Jeremy! He's been passed over for the appointment!'

‘My God! Then who . . . ?'

‘A chap called Stuart Latimer, from London. Arthur just found out this evening, and it won't be announced for a few days yet.'

‘Ah.' There was a long, thoughtful pause as Jeremy worked out the implications. Then he laughed softly. ‘Well, well, well. This changes everything, doesn't it? All bets are off. Just as a matter of interest, Rowena, how do you see it? Will it make it easier or harder to get what you want?'