Murder in a Cathedral (20 page)

A moment later he put the phone down.

‘What happened?’

‘She’s starting a meeting in a few minutes and wanted to ring back in an hour, but when I said we were going out she said, “I’ll ring tomorrow,” and hung up. Does she ever say things ordinary people say? “Hello” or “goodbye”, for instance?’

‘No. Jack regards such social niceties as a waste of her valuable time. What did she want to ring back about?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘I expect she’s thinking. She
was
listening to you, wasn’t she?’

‘There was no reaction, except a grunt towards the end.’

‘It has to be said in her favour,’ said Amiss grudgingly, ‘that when she listens, she listens and when she thinks, she thinks.’

‘Not making much progress, are you?’

‘If there’s one thing I hate more than somebody who rings me an hour before I normally wake, it’s one who does so in order unreasonably to chide me. Considering the constraints under which Ellis and I are operating, I think we’ve done as well as we possibly could.’

‘Skip the self-congratulation. You have to do better. Got to speed things up. Ellis has less than a week’s leave to go, and if we’re not careful, it’ll end up with the case formally closed, you two having come up with no alternatives and Ellis leaving just at a time when further bloodshed is likely.’

‘So you think Jeremy was murdered?’

‘I don’t know, but I think his violent death is more than likely to be followed by another. Everyone – or nearly everyone – is lying. When the truth comes out it will not be pretty, but we’d better find it sooner rather than later.’

‘What do you mean, “we”?’

‘I mean, “we”. I’m about to take a hand. Catalyst.’

‘Who? Which?’

‘Me.’

‘True. You are frequently a catalyst. Indeed I might go as far as to say far too frequently. Could you be more precise?’

‘Got to shake things up. Clearly you two can’t sort it out without help. Is David in tonight?’

‘Um… yes… I think so. What day is today?’

‘Saturday, you dimwit.’

‘He’ll be here. The reception for the fund raisers was cancelled as a mark of respect to Jeremy.’

‘Good. Are you listening?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m listening,’ said Amiss testily. He turned over and moved the telephone to his other ear.

‘Right. Here are your instructions. “Action this day,” as Churchill used to write on memoranda. Tell David he’s giving a dinner party this evening in honour of the dean, Tilly the Tosspot and the chapter – oh, and me.’

‘Are Ellis and I invited to this?’ asked Amiss coldly.

‘Yes, of course. After all, you’ll be preparing it.’

‘What is its purpose?’

‘Stirring things up. Put all these people in a pressure cooker, stick the lid on tight and see what happens.’

‘An explosion, probably.’

‘Quite.’

‘And do you expect me tamely to agree to this?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve done many things for you which I had reservations about, but even you have not until now had the gall to demand that I prepare dinner for ten to satisfy a whim.’

‘What do you mean “whim”? This is a strategic decision. Besides, you’ve got Ellis to help.’

‘On what scale would you like this entertainment?’

‘Did you ever see a film called
Babette’s Feast
?’

‘I did indeed. To the best of my recollection, it involved someone spending a substantial legacy and months of organization and preparation on a dinner party for depressed Scandinavians.’

‘Well, we’ll have to cut the corners a bit, but think in those terms. Push the boat out. We want to seduce them into indiscretion. Got the idea?’

‘I haven’t woken up sufficiently to know whether I have or not. All I know is that I am lying here feeling cross bat resigned.’

‘Good. I’ll see you at seven. Summon them for seven-thirty.’

Amiss burrowed under the bedclothes, to be interrupted half an hour later by Pooley and a cup of tea. Pooley responded to Amiss’s aggrieved account of the instructions from Cambridge with surprising equanimity.

‘She’s right, Robert. This is not an orthodox investigation, so we might as well be unorthodox. Amateur sleuths have to take advantage of the weapons they’ve got. Look upon this as Nero Wolfe getting Archie Goodwin to deliver all the suspects to his study.’

‘I don’t recall Nero Wolfe expecting Archie Goodwin to make them dinner.’

‘Oh, stop crabbing.’ Pooley took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Come now, we’ll decide on the menu and make the list. I need to drop in at the station and spend some time on the telephone, so you can do the shopping. But I’ll be back in plenty of time to help you prepare dinner.’

‘We haven’t any guests yet.’

‘You’re the diplomat. You’ll find a way of getting them here.’

Amiss sat up, laughed and took a sip of tea. ‘What a shame you were born too late to be sent out to run India. Very well, then. Sit down, Sergeant Pooley, and let’s plan the menu.’

As Pooley perched on the end of the bed, the phone rang.

‘Caterers by appointment to the Empress Troutbeck,’ said Amiss.

‘I’ll bring all the booze, the cheese and the caviar.’

‘Caviar?’

‘Someone brought me lots from Iran the other week. We’ll have blinis.’

The phone went dead. Amiss laughed again. ‘I’m mollified. The old bag has an unerring ability to notice when she’s gone too far and you’re really fed up with her, and then to put things right in grand style. OK, let’s get planning.’

Interrupted by just one more instruction – ‘Get little Wolpurtstone in to help; she must be at a loose end without her shamans and lezzies’ – the menu and shopping list proved surprisingly painless. Amiss looked with deep admiration at the list Pooley handed him, written in handwriting as clear as type and divided into five categories of shopping to ensure maximum efficiency. ‘I don’t know why I’m the personal assistant, Ellis. You’d be any tycoon’s delight.’

‘But I wouldn’t keep him as happy as you would, Robert. You make people feel good, while I struggle not to show my irritation.’

‘You mean I’m more of a creep than you. Pity it isn’t a more marketable commodity.’

It would be if you could bring yourself to boast of interpersonal skills. Now stop jabbering. It’s eight-fifteen and you’d better get a move on. You’re the one that has to break this news to the bishop.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t dream of going against Jack’s wishes. But why does she want this dinner party?’

‘She feels that the simple act of breaking bread together… I speak figuratively,’ added Amiss, remembering the caviar, ‘might help ease the obstacles to communication.’

‘Of course, of course. I should have thought of this myself. After all none of these people is bad. It is just that the dean is perhaps a little overzealous and the others perhaps rather too set in their ways.’

Amiss smiled at him affectionately. ‘You really are a Christian, aren’t you, David? Jesus couldn’t have put it more charitably.’

The bishop looked worried. ‘No, no. You are too kind. Those that say I am feebly well meaning are probably more accurate.’

‘Either way, you’re happy about the dinner.’

‘Very. And it is most kind of you to offer to organize it. Had there been time I would have brought in caterers, but I will of course pay for everything. Now where is my wallet?’

‘Don’t worry. I promise I’ll bill you afterwards.’

‘I’m so sorry I can’t help. But I’ll be back shortly after six and I would hope to be of some use to you then in some unskilled job – chopping carrots or something.’ And with a sweet smile and a goodbye stroke to Plutarch, the bishop retired from the kitchen to change from tracksuit into canonicals.

Amiss tailored the invitations to the recipients. To the dean he explained that the bishop apologized profusely for the short notice, but hoped the Coopers would be kind enough to forgive him and agree to be guests of honour at an informal supper that evening to be attended by the inhabitants of the close: it was, he said, a celebration of neighbourliness. The dean sounded positively touched, and agreed immediately.

He announced to Davage the happy news that Lady Troutbeck was coming to stay and His Lordship was throwing a dinner party, which though nominally in honour of the dean, was really for her: the response was ecstatic. Trustrum didn’t like the idea for the predictable reasons – he was already looking forward to his Saturday pork chop – but he grudgingly agreed that in the interests of harmony, he should turn up. Fedden-Jones havered for a moment because of his commitment to a supper party in town, but excited at the thought of seeing the baroness again, concluded that he was sure Moira Gloucestershire would understand and forgive him.

When it came to Alice, Amiss simply rang up and said, ‘Help.’ Her initial eager desire to come to his aid was dampened by the discovery that he wanted assistance in preparing a dinner in honour of the dean which he also expected her to attend. Forgiveness was one thing, she pointed out, but it was a bit early to expect her to forget he had given her a nasty bruise over her right ear and accused her of being a Satanist. However, as Amiss had expected, she was a pushover for an appeal to her better nature. It took him only a few minutes to convince her that the death of Jeremy Flubert required the dean and chapter to sink their differences and work towards the common good: within half an hour he was in her car and bowling along to the supermarket.

Chapter 16

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The day turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Homely discussions around the supermarket distracted both Alice and Amiss from their apprehensions about the evening, and when Pooley joined them for lunch he found her laughing and drinking white wine without any evident signs of guilt about self-indulgence.

Having heard from Davage that Fedden-Jones had been babbling about the well-born policeman, Amiss had met the issue head-on. ‘You remember the red-haired sergeant you met yesterday?’

‘Just about. He didn’t say anything except “hello” and “goodbye”.’

‘Well, in his private life he’s my close friend Ellis Pooley, who’s staying with me at the moment, so you’ll meet at lunch time today. You have much in common quite apart from a refusal to use your courtesy titles.’ He went on to dilate on the principle and selflessness that had caused Pooley to extricate himself from a background of privilege, hinted delicately at great domestic resentment at his becoming a policeman and did not pass on the information that the reactionary but generous Lord Pooley had forgiven his son sufficiently to set him up financially for life.

‘You’ve met Canon Wolpurtstone,’ said Amiss as Pooley arrived in the kitchen. ‘Now meet Alice. Alice, meet Ellis. You have in common deep shame about a background for which Dominic Fedden-Jones would have sold his soul.’

They shook hands and smiled at each other rather shyly: Alice actually blushed. But jollied along by Amiss, the two of them relaxed over lunch, gossiped about the ghastliness of county society and then settled down companionably to prepare vegetables.

At 6.30 the doorbell rang long, loudly and several times. ‘That’ll be Jack,’ said Amiss. ‘She always rings as if attempting to acquaint the deaf with the news that their house is on fire.’

The bishop put down the cutlery and rushed for the dining-room door. ‘Let me greet her.’ He returned beaming. ‘Doesn’t she look wonderful?’

Amiss gazed at the voluminous kilt, the green velvet jacket, the cascade of white ruffles and the enormous Celtic brooch. ‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Burns Night. Yes, yes, I know it was a few months ago, but I haven’t had time to mark it this year so I thought this as good an opportunity as any.’

‘I thought you were unrelievedly English.’

‘Half Campbell on my mother’s side.’

‘Suitably warlike. But excellent taste in formal wear, I grant you.’

‘I think she looks marvellous,’ said the bishop. ‘Now, Robert, will you look after Jack? I must change.’

‘Put on your purple waistcoat, David. We’ll cut a dash together.’

Pooley and Alice were doing efficient things in the kitchen with various pots.

‘Smells excellent,’ said the baroness. ‘Good evening, Ellis. Now who is this?’

‘Canon Wolpurtstone.’

‘Alice, please.’

The baroness smiled benignly. ‘And you must call me Jack.’

She took two large jars out of her handbag and handed them to Pooley. ‘Here’s the caviar – which we will refer to as fish roe for fear of shocking the dean. Right, what are we eating?’

‘Blinis and sour cream with the caviar; a vast leg of lamb with baby leeks, mangetouts—’

‘Don’t like them.’

‘So don’t eat them,’ said Pooley with a touch of asperity. ‘ – asparagus tips, ratatouille, carrots and Lyonnaise potatoes; followed by Elizabeth Moxton’s Posset.’

‘Ooh, yummy. I’m surprised your puritan soul would countenance anything so fattening and self-indulgent, Ellis.’

‘Just following orders. Besides, all this is very modest by comparison with Babette’s feast.’

‘True, but she had more time to prepare.’

Alice came in hesitantly. ‘I’m a little worried, Robert. Aren’t the Coopers teetotal?’

‘Yes,’ said Amiss.

‘But there’s a lot of white wine in the posset and you’ve just poured almost a bottle of red into the roasting pan.’

‘Yes, but they’re not recovering alcoholics or anything like that. It’s not like vegetarians. Teetotallers don’t mind alcohol in food: it’s just that they don’t actually drink. Adding a little wine to cooking is fair enough: it improves the taste and just might cheer them up a little.’

‘Quite.’ The baroness turned to Alice. ‘Stop fretting, my dear. Let us leave the men to get on with the little last-minute feminine touches. Can you help me carry provisions from the car?’

It took two expeditions to retrieve the cheese and the drink. The baroness directed Alice to carry cartons into the dining room and drawing room, while she transported to the kitchen the champagne and white wine, which had been sitting in the boot in a large basin of ice. ‘Do something with ice buckets, somebody,’ she called, as she sped out the back door. ‘I must see to the punch.’