Murder in a Cathedral (5 page)

The baroness waved at them airily. ‘The trouble with you, Robert, is that liberal wetness at times fatally undermines your common sense. Make an issue of sexual orientation, force confrontation over ordination, and one of two things will happen. The conservatives will win and thousands of decent and effective homosexual priests will be driven out of the Church of England or the radicals will win and there’ll be wholesale defections of straight clergy and flock. Which do you prefer?’

‘I’ll reserve judgement. You really have a remarkable gift for portraying liberals as nihilists.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fortunately, I can’t hang around any longer arguing my shaky and ill-informed position, for I must run. One of my lunch companions wants to prance me round the cathedral. And he’s dying for you to come too.’

‘Nothing doing. Far too much to get on with. I’m off to the hotel to make phone calls and order people around.’

‘He’ll be very disappointed.’

‘Tell him I’m playing hard to get. Enjoy yourself. And pick me up around seven.’

‘Sorry,’ said Amiss coldly. ‘I forgot to pack a crane.’

‘Come in.’ She was lying on her bed in a silk paisley dressing gown watching the news and sipping what looked like a whisky and soda. ‘Grab a drink.’ She waved towards the fridge.

Amiss helped himself to a gin and tonic and fell into the armchair. She pressed the remote control. ‘Nothing to worry about. The world appears to be in no more of a mess than it was this morning, despite my absence from the centre of things.’

Amiss closed his eyes.

‘You’re looking a bit dazed.’

‘You’d be dazed if you’d had the Father Davage tour.’

‘Smart of me to avoid it. What’s the matter? Aggressively queer, is he?’

‘Coots run from him.’

‘He wasn’t making passes at you in the cathedral, was he? Even I would think that in rather poor taste.’

‘No, no. He’s not like that. It’s not what he does that bothers me. It’s what he says. And worse, what he showed me.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

Amiss screwed up his antimacassar and threw it at her. ‘This is serious. That cathedral is completely over the top.’

‘What’s bothering you? Too many candles for your austere tastes? I admit those cartwheel chandeliers are a bit of an eyeful. Marvellous, though.’

‘An eyeful? Did you realize they each have a candle for every day of the year?’

‘Really? Bit of a maintenance problem, I should think.’

‘To Father Davage’s deep distress they’re lit only on great occasions. No, the candles don’t bother me, even though I was taught they had something to do with selling indulgences. Nor was I upset by the highly decorated tabernacles in front of which Father Davage kept prostrating himself. What rocked me was the unProtestant worship of the Virgin Mary.’

‘You’ve got this wrong. Even Catholics don’t worship her. She’s prayed to as an intermediary.’

‘Tell that to Davage. He gives every impression of treating her as a goddess – or rather, as goddesses.’

‘You speak in riddles.’

‘He took me to this extraordinary shrine – otherwise known as the lady chapel.’

‘Nothing wrong with that. Lots of cathedrals have lady chapels.’

‘I would be surprised if other cathedrals sported a representation of the mother of Jesus which bears a striking resemblance to Bette Davis.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re imagining things.’

‘I’ll take you there en route to dinner and you can see for yourself. Besides, Cecil – we’re on first-name terms now – told me all about it.

‘Apparently the artist was a protégé of the late dean. I’m told that among the treasures of the deanery – now mostly in Cecil’s possession – were a rather nice Boy David and a rather rough and macho John the Baptist. He is, incidentally, very bitter that the Boy David was left to his colleague, Dominic Fedden-Jones, whom he loves to hate. The implication was that Fedden-Jones was for a time the dean’s catamite, but in later years failed to look after the old man as Davage thought he should.

‘Two years ago the dean and chapter commissioned this youth to provide a painting to hang at the back of the altar of the lady chapel. So here, in amid the canopies of blue, white and gold – which are bad enough – we have this extraordinary piece of art which is intended to show Mary the cosmopolitan. As Cecil explained, she appears in various guises to demonstrate how she would be represented in different parts of the world. Thus, though a dark-skinned Jew, here she has traditionally been represented as a blue-eyed blonde. So the artist wanted to show that she was all things to all races.’

‘Sounds a bit modern to me, but otherwise inoffensive.’

‘In this substantial canvas there are perhaps twenty small alternative faces of Mary, all surrounding the major central representation – a pouting Miss Davis.’

‘What do the other Marys look like?’

‘I easily identified Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe – and I think the black one was Diana Ross and the Indian, Indira Gandhi.’

She looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. What’s the attraction of these for queers?’

‘Don’t you know anything about gay icons?’

‘Certainly not. Just because I’m catholic in my sexual tastes doesn’t mean I know about homosexual popular culture.’

‘The more camp type of homosexuals have a particular passion for legendary female stars, whether waiflike and vulnerable like Garland and Monroe, glamorous like Dietrich, melodramatic like Joan Crawford and Bette Davis or brassy and vulgar like Mae West and Bette Midler. I fancy it is your resemblance to Ethel Merman that explains why little Davage was so keen to meet you.’

‘Beats me. Why should you fancy someone you don’t want to fuck?’

‘This is a philosophical matter for another day. Let us concentrate for now on the implications of the New Testament according to Hollywood.’

‘Didn’t the locals go mad?’

‘Davage did mention that there was a bit of screaming – or rather thcreaming – but that it died down after a bit. He expects the same to happen over the controversial memorial to the late dean.’

A happy anticipatory grin spread over the baroness’s face.

‘Whatever that is going to be, I think I’m going to enjoy it. Tell me all.’

‘Can’t. He said he couldn’t do justice to it without having the drawings to hand. Apparently they’re with David at present, so we’ll see them tonight.’

‘Well there’s certainly enough going on to take David’s mind for a while off grace and sin.’

‘Huh?’

‘He’s refighting the battle between Augustine and Pelagius at the moment. I’m sure you’ll remember all about that from your youthful exploration of fifth-century theology.’

‘Not my period, old girl.’

Her attention had wandered. ‘Never mind. You’ll pick up whatever’s necessary about the Early Fathers of the Church during the next few weeks.’

‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no!’ Amiss followed up this fusillade by consciously setting his face in an expression of inflexible grimness. To his irritation, all his effort appeared to be wasted on the baroness, whose eyes were focused on the middle distance and whose face wore an expression of rapt concentration as she exhaled a mighty mouthful of pipe smoke.

‘Did you hear me. Jack?’

‘What? No. Thinking.’

‘Get it into your fat skull that I am not going to become the bishop’s nursemaid, nor, after tonight, get involved in any way whatsoever in his little problems in Westonbury. I don’t mind lending a sympathetic ear over dinner, but that’s it.’

‘Relax, my lad. You really must not allow yourself to become so overwrought.’ She heaved herself off the bed. ‘Now have another drink while I tart myself up. One must always look one’s best for one’s old flames.’

‘I thought you were trying to deter him from getting any ideas.’

‘Between showing my knickers, smoking a pipe and dropping in the occasional profanity, I’ve successfully disabused him of the notion that I’d make a good wife. However, I’m keeping an open mind about any other job vacancy.’ And winking salaciously, she shot into the bathroom.

Chapter 5

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‘Shall we move to my study for coffee? It’s cosier there.’

The baroness cast an appraising glance around the dining room. ‘Cosy certainly isn’t the word I’d choose for this. Baroque, maybe. Or do I mean rococo?’

‘It rather passed me by at lunch time,’ said Amiss, ‘but it certainly comes into its own at night.’

‘It’s the lighting,’ said the bishop unhappily. ‘It points up all the gilt on the cornices…’

‘Not to speak of those fetching little cherubs peeking out of the corners…’ put in the baroness.

‘And that striking frieze of gold tassels,’ added Amiss, gazing in awe at the red velvet curtains.

‘Stick in a four-poster bed and it’d pass for an up-market whorehouse,’ pronounced the baroness as she stood up. ‘Not quite your style, David, I’d have thought.’

‘I hate it. Mostly I eat in the kitchen.’ He led the way down a long corridor, up a staircase and ushered his guests through a door on the left. ‘This is quite pleasant, don’t you think?’

‘By your predecessor’s standards, it’s positively minimalist,’ said the baroness, making a beeline for the chaise longue and draping herself along it.

‘Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back with the coffee very soon.’

‘Can I help?’

‘No, thank you, Robert. Keep Jack company and pour yourselves some brandy.’

As Amiss removed the bottle she yowled.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t like stingy measures.’

‘That wasn’t a stingy… Oh, what’s the point of arguing?’ He poured her another healthy double, helped himself to a modest portion and wandered around the book-lined room inspecting furniture. ‘Why do you think he’s got a lectern in his study?’

‘He works standing up. It’s no wonder he’s so straight-backed.’

Amiss wandered over to the mantelpiece, picked up a large photograph of a substantial and cheerful woman and showed it to the baroness. ‘Cornelia?’

‘Yes.’

‘David’s tastes clearly tend towards the Amazonian.’

‘But with brains.’

‘And bossy to boot.’

‘But benignly so.’

She took a healthy swig and sighed gustily. ‘I feel quite nostalgic for my sporty youth.’

‘You are speaking of David?’

‘There was more to my youth than sex, I’ll have you know. You didn’t know I was a rowing champion, did you?’

‘I certainly did. How could I forget that you were one of the foursome who won the Winifred Wristbardge Ladies Rowing Challenge Cup? I remember poor Dame Maud speaking of it.’

‘Um, not bad, young Robert. Do you know aught else of my exploits?’

He shook his head.

‘Clearly I haven’t been bragging enough. That year I also pulled off the Hortense Tottman-Hocker Cup for individual sculling, and took seven wickets in the Oxford-Cambridge ladies’ match.’

‘I didn’t realize you were a cricketer, but had I known, I’d certainly have guessed you’d be a demon bowler.’

‘I was no mean batsman either, I’ll have you know. Five sixes in that match and I’d have been top scorer if I hadn’t absent-mindedly hooked a googly to long leg.’

‘You’re so predictable, Jack.’

‘I will admit, however, that my achievements were as nothing to David’s: there wasn’t much female competition in cricket, or even in rowing, in which David got his blue. And we weren’t allowed to play rugger, in which he got another.’

‘So you shared more interests than nooky.’

‘Don’t be coarse. The trouble with you is—’ She broke off as the bishop entered with the coffee.

‘You can’t put it off any longer, David. Tell us all about what’s worrying you.’

The bishop tugged his hair energetically. ‘Oh, Jack, if only I could. I know hardly anything. I was never very good at reading character or understanding politics. I relied on Cornelia for all that. I’ve only ever really related to people through games or teaching.’

‘H’m.’ The baroness sighed. ‘That ruled out a lot of the human race, didn’t it? Especially women.’

The bishop went pink. ‘I don’t know if you remember, Jack, but we actually met on the river.’

‘I remember very well.’

Amiss broke the silence. ‘Why don’t you start with the bare facts? A who’s who in the cathedral. The dean, for instance?’

Relieved, the bishop leaped up and took a book from a shelf beside his desk. ‘They’ll all be in
Crockford’s
. Let’s see. Norman Cooper was born in 1944, educated Queen’s University, Belfast, College of the Resurrection Theological College in Yorkshire, curate in Lancashire and then London, vicar in Grimsby and then for the last four years in Battersea.’

‘Doesn’t sound like the kind of chap who gets made a dean.’

‘You’re absolutely right, my dear Ida.’ He caught her eye. ‘Sorry, my dear Jack. But Cornelia had heard that he had tremendous success in both his parishes in increasing attendance and straightening out finances, which, I suppose, helped him to become a member of the General Synod’s Board of Mission and later the Decade of Evangelism Steering Group. I suppose he was thought to be a good administrator and just right to wake Westonbury up a bit.’

‘What’s he like to speak to?’

‘I haven’t seen enough of him to say. As you saw, he’s rather large and rough looking. A bit like Ian Paisley, in fact.’

‘Face like a tombstone, a voice like an angry corncrake with laryngitis and an accent like a hacksaw, you mean.’

‘Really, Jack. That’s a little unkind. We must never judge by appearances. I will admit his accent is a little rasping, but he’s been perfectly civil to me so far. But you must understand we’ve only met a couple of times and that on business.’

‘What’s the gossip?’

‘I don’t hear gossip. I’ve never been a member of the General Synod and I’m just not interested in ecclesiastical politics. Cornelia used to pick up whatever information she needed from wives, but all she mentioned to me was that Cooper was known to be on the evangelical wing and given a bit to demotic preaching. Oh yes, and a bit strait-laced. But there was no suggestion that he was a fanatic.’