Appointed to Die (7 page)

‘A solicitor? Sounds fairly boring, Lucy. You're so artistic . . .'

‘. . . nothing to do with you,' she finished with some asperity. ‘And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to pay my respects to Canon Brydges-ffrench.' As she walked away, Lucy realised that her anger was directed more against herself than against Jeremy, because of her failure to be completely honest with him from the very beginning, and because she had so mistakenly interpreted his initial interest in her as being of a very general and friendly sort. It increasingly seemed that she had been wrong about that, but the damage had already been done.

Arthur Brydges-ffrench was deep in conversation with her father as Lucy came up, but his gaunt face broke into a smile at her approach. It was not a pleasant sight; his teeth were uneven, discoloured and heavily decayed. ‘How nice to see you, Miss Kingsley. I must congratulate you on your artwork – I've had nothing but compliments on it. Don't you think that the programme looks stunning?' He held up his copy of the Malbury Festival programme book, with Lucy's painting on the cover: it was the Becket window, but done in so abstract a style that its subject was not immediately evident.

‘It's a beautiful printing job,' she replied modestly. ‘It must have cost a packet to have it done like that with full four-colour treatment.'

Canon Brydges-ffrench frowned suddenly. ‘Yes.' He hesitated a moment, then added in a low voice, ‘Much more than we expected, actually. You see, it was done by the local firm, the one that we've always used for cathedral business. They've always given us a preferential rate. They'd even given me some indication that, in this case, they'd consider a sponsorship – print the programmes at virtually no charge, as long as we'd let them run a full-page advert on the back. But as you can see, there's no advert, and they've sent me a bill for the full amount. No discount at all.'

‘But what happened?' Lucy asked.

The Canon leaned towards her. ‘The new Dean,' he hissed. ‘His installation – it's just over a month away now. Naturally enough, the local printing firm expected the order for the invitations and the orders of service, after all they've done for us over the years.' He frowned again, creating deep furrows in his great domed forehead, and his voice was tinged with bitterness as he went on. ‘But they weren't good enough for the new Dean. He had to use some London firm. Bond Street. Great stiff things the invitations are – we haven't had the bill yet, but they're sure to cost the earth.'

‘I'm sure he must have had good reasons,' John Kingsley said soothingly, if naïvely.

His friend's look was scathing. ‘Good reasons!' He turned earnestly to Lucy again. ‘And that's not all, Miss Kingsley. We've lost two other sponsors for the festival as well! The local caterers, who were prepared to take out an advert in the programme, and give us a good price on the catering for the festival, found out that he's bringing in a firm of posh London caterers for the garden party after the installation ceremony! I for one don't blame them for being upset!'

‘And the other?'

‘Watkins Brewery – they're the big local industry. They have historic ties to this cathedral that stretch back many years. You may not realise it, Miss Kingsley, but they provided the money that founded your father's canonry.'

‘No, I didn't know that.'

‘And they're always more than willing to support the things we do here in a . . . tangible way. Money, of course, but also . . . beer.'

‘Beer?'

Canon Brydges-ffrench nodded in vigorous indignation. ‘They would have given us free beer to sell in the marquee. Barrels of it, all we wanted. Just as they've always provided beer for cathedral events. But . . .'

‘Let me guess. London beer?'

He shook his head lugubriously. ‘No. No beer at all, Miss Kingsley. Our new Dean does not feel that beer is a proper drink for his garden party. Only wine will be served, he says. And Watkins . . . well, can you blame them for feeling it's a slap in the face? For withdrawing the beer from the festival, and their financial sponsorship as well?' Again he leaned towards her. ‘That man,' he said with sad dignity, ‘has a great deal to answer for.' He sighed heavily. ‘It almost seems as if he's done it deliberately – to sabotage
my
festival!'

Before the interval was over, they were joined by a pair of young people – unlikely candidates to seek out the company of Arthur Brydges-ffrench, Lucy thought as they came up. The girl, who looked about twenty, was extremely pretty in an animated way, with masses of loose dark curls, very blue eyes, and expressive hands that wouldn't stay still as she talked. The young man at her side was tall, well-built and broad-shouldered; he had a pleasingly open face, and when he smiled, his beautiful and plentiful white teeth couldn't have been a greater contrast to those of Canon Brydges-ffrench. They were both casually dressed: she in white trousers and a brightly flowered, oversized cotton shirt, and he in a T-shirt emblazoning ‘Ohio State University' across his chest above the inevitable jeans.

The girl smiled at Lucy, nodded in recognition and acknowledgement to John Kingsley, and to Lucy's astonishment, gave Canon Brydges-ffrench a hug that nearly spilled both their drinks. ‘Oh, Uncle Arthur!' she burbled. ‘Isn't it absolutely fabulous? I've never seen “Murder in the Cathedral” before, and I think it's the most marvellous thing!'

The Subdean regained his composure and smiled fondly at the young woman. ‘You're enjoying it, then?'

‘Oh, yes. That bit about the Archbishop actually
wanting
martyrdom – what an incredible way to look at it! I can't see how anyone with so much to live for could be tempted by death like that. Do
you
think he was?'

‘It wasn't death he was tempted by, my dear. It was martyrdom. Two different things.' The Subdean seemed prepared to launch into a lecture, but suddenly recalled his manners. ‘Miss Kingsley, I don't believe you've met Kirsty Hunt. Or Todd Randall. Todd is an American theological student, spending a year with us here at Malbury. He's been helping me to catalogue my papers.'

Lucy acknowledged the introductions, then said, ‘I didn't realise that you had a niece in Malbury, Canon. Or is she just visiting?'

He looked perplexed and the girl Kirsty laughed, a charming bubbly laugh. ‘Oh, he's not my real uncle, Miss Kingsley. But I've known him nearly all my life, and I've always called him Uncle Arthur. Haven't I?' She tucked her arm through his affectionately, adding, ‘My mother runs the Friends of the Cathedral.'

Lucy stared at her for a second as the penny dropped. ‘Oh, you're Rowena Hunt's daughter! I'm sorry, I didn't realise. I thought for some reason that her daughter was . . . much younger than you are.'

Kirsty laughed again, unabashed. ‘I'm not surprised, Mummy likes to give that impression.' Speaking in a humorously affectionate tone, she went on, ‘She doesn't like people to think that she's old enough to have a daughter at university, you see. If she could, she'd still have me in plaits and a gymslip when I'm in Malbury.'

Feeling embarrassed for the girl as well as for her mother, Lucy shifted the subject and asked, ‘So you're at university, then?'

‘Yes, at Cambridge. I've just finished my first year, reading law. But that's another story . . .'

Canon Brydges-ffrench interposed quickly. ‘Miss Kingsley is an artist. She did the painting for the cover of the programme.'

‘Wow!' The American spoke for the first time. ‘I'm really impressed!' His broad vowels had all the redolence of the mid-west; Lucy altered her mental picture of him, removing the imaginary surfboard and substituting a placid pet cow. ‘You sure are talented,' he added.

Lucy gave the only possible response to such ingenuous effusion: a gracious smile and a slight inclination of her head. ‘Tell me, Mr Randall,' she said, ‘are you enjoying the play?'

He looked horrified. ‘Please call me Todd,' he insisted. ‘Mr Randall is my
father
!' He grinned at her, then continued. ‘I'm enjoying it a lot. It's just too bad that . . . well, that there aren't more people here. You must be awfully disappointed, Canon,' he added.

Canon Brydges-ffrench shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I wasn't really expecting a huge crowd tonight. After all, it
is
the last night of the Three Choirs Festival.' He gave a self-deprecating titter. ‘And we're not quite as well known as they are . . . yet. No, I expect to do much better tomorrow, when people leave Hereford. Probably a good many of them will come straight on here. With the Friends of the Cathedral flower festival in the afternoon, the Festival Evensong, and the big concert tomorrow night . . . well, things are bound to pick up.'

Lucy admired his optimism while doubting its foundation in reality. Just then the bell went to signal the end of the interval. Canon Kingsley, who had remained very quiet up till then, looked at his watch. ‘That means we'd better be making a move, Lucy my dear.'

‘It was nice meeting you, Lucy,' said Todd immediately, having learned her Christian name. ‘I guess we'll be seeing you around this weekend.'

‘Yes, I'm sure.'

As they all turned and moved back in the direction of the cathedral, Lucy looked towards the table where they'd sat with Jeremy. He was still there, all alone and looking unhappy; she was overcome with guilt at the way she'd treated him. ‘I won't be a minute, Daddy,' she said impulsively, ‘but I must go and apologise to Jeremy for . . . something I said.'

CHAPTER 6

    
Such as are planted in the house of the Lord: shall flourish in the courts of the house of our God.

Psalm 92.12

On Saturday morning, Malbury Cathedral – or to give it its proper title, the Cathedral and Abbey Church of St Malo and St Thomas à Becket at Malbury – was the scene of an almost unprecedented frenzy of activity as the Friends of the Cathedral, in the form of various flower-arrangers, sprang into action. Ordinarily everything would have been completed the evening before the flower festival, but the performance in the south transept on Friday night had precluded that, and had necessitated a very early start on the Saturday. The flower festival would open at noon, and all must be in readiness by then.

Rowena Hunt, as head of the Friends, had been there first, preparing the battle-stations. The arrangers arrived to find their spots clearly labelled by name and provided with all that was needful (save the flowers themselves): appropriate containers and lumps of pre-soaked Oasis.

Things were already well under way when John Kingsley arrived to take the eight o'clock service. The service would be held in the Lady Chapel, in the centre of the retro-choir at the far east end of the cathedral, so the majority of the arrangers would be unhampered by it; only Evelyn Marsden, who was doing the Lady Chapel flowers, was affected.

Lucy had accompanied her father to the cathedral that morning. It was a gesture that pleased and somewhat surprised Canon Kingsley; he'd protested mildly that it wasn't at all necessary and suggested that she have a lie-in instead, but she had insisted that she wanted to come.

She was a bit surprised herself. Although she had, obviously, grown up in the Church, she had reacted against her upbringing in a drastic way: at eighteen she had married, and almost immediately divorced, a very worldly and unsuitable man. Thereafter, during her years of living on her own in London, her connection with the Church had been tenuous, and her attendance sporadic. But in the year that she'd known David, and especially in the five months since they'd become lovers, both her attitudes and her habits had been changing gradually. The Church was very important to David, and David was supremely important to Lucy. So she'd begun to go with him to church during their weekends together, and his appreciation for the beauty of worship – and the buildings where worship took place – had communicated itself to her. She thought about it now, as she sat in the Lady Chapel waiting for the service to begin. A year ago, she reflected, she wouldn't have come with her father. A year ago she wouldn't have recognised the gilded English altar and the other chapel furnishings as being the work of Sir John Ninian Comper, and absolutely typical of the work that great church architect and furnisher did during the 1920s. Now she did recognise it, with a small shock of pleasure. She would have to remember to tell David about it, Lucy thought.

David had really wanted to come with her this weekend. He shared Lucy's love of music, and while he agreed with her that the music which had been chosen for the Malbury Music Festival was frightfully obscure and even somewhat eccentric, he had hoped to be able to attend. They both agreed, as well, that it was past time for him to meet Lucy's father, thus making even more concrete his role in her life. But David's imminent move was overshadowing everything else at the moment: his house in Wymondham had been sold, and there was much to do in preparing to leave it. He would be putting all of the furniture into storage until the future became more definite, but the accumulated detritus of three lifetimes – David's, his mother's, and his father's – had to be dealt with somehow; there certainly wouldn't be room for much more than his clothes in Lucy's small London house. And in addition to the personal side of the move, he had much to occupy him at work, clearing away paperwork and tidying up loose ends before his final departure in just over a month. So, to the regret of both David and Lucy, she was on her own in Malbury yet again.

John Kingsley entered the chapel, the silvery green colour of his chasuble emphasising the silver of his hair. As he turned to the tiny congregation, gracefully raising his hands in greeting, he looked more than ever like a medieval saint. ‘The Lord be with you,' he said, solemnly yet sweetly. The Mass had begun.