The Black Seraphim (14 page)

The silence which followed this pronouncement was broken by the Dean, who leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily and with what seemed to be genuine amusement.

“My dear Archdeacon,” he said and was convulsed again with laughter. “My dear Archdeacon—”

“You find it funny.”

“You must be joking. How do you imagine that fifty unworldly country clergymen can decide a matter like this?” He chuckled again. “I was reading the other day that Bishop King of Lincoln once said that the clergy of
his
diocese could be divided into three categories: those who had gone out of their minds, those who were about to go out of their minds and those who had no minds to go out of.”

“I’m sure that the members of the Greater Chapter will appreciate that,” said the Archdeacon smoothly.

“Ah, but remember. Everything said at our meetings is confidential.”

“Naturally,” said the Archdeacon.

“Will you have to do it?” said Dora Brookes.

“If the Archdeacon formally instructs me to summon a meeting of the Greater Chapter, I shall be bound to do so. The canons of the Cathedral are quite clear on the matter.”

“And if you do?”

“They will almost certainly support the Archdeacon. For a start, you can be sure that he’ll manage to pass on that joke of the Dean’s.”

“It wasn’t very tactful.”

“It certainly wasn’t. But quite apart from that, I think they’ll be in favour of the Archdeacon’s plan. From the financial point of view, there’s a lot of sense in it. And it won’t worry
them
if we have a factory or a housing estate on our doorstep. They won’t have to live with it.”

When the last of the Canons had gone, the Dean got swiftly to his feet, opened the long windows, as if to let in some fresh air, and hobbled out and down the grass path that led to the lawn at the foot of the garden. At this point the river curved and the current had cut into the far bank, forming a ledge under which lived a trout of formidable size, a cannibal who fed on the small fish that flicked in and out of the weeds in the clear green water. No fly or bait would tempt him. The Dean had spent many hours watching the old villain.

He supposed that if a factory was built on Fletcher’s Piece, the effluent would quickly kill off all the fish. In thinking in this way he was not thinking for himself alone, but for all his predecessors and all his successors. For more than five hundred years Deans of Melchester had sat in the garden where he was sitting, had enjoyed the tranquillity and seclusion which it offered, had thought through the problems and perplexities of their office.

Suppose that journalist was right. Suppose that there had once been a hut or hovel there, from which had come the storm of arrows which had cut the French chivalry to pieces at Crécy and Poitiers. What possible comparison was there between such a place and a brick monstrosity which manufactured transistors? The Dean was a traditionalist. One of his first moves had been to have the telephone removed from the Deanery. If people wished to communicate with him, they could write a letter or call, as people had done for hundreds of years. Another thing he had done was to ban transistors from the Close. Was that particular enemy now coming in from the rear? In the sacred name of progress. Progress which seemed to bring little with it but dirt, dissatisfaction and mindless uproar.

The Dean stumped back to the house.

Rosa Pilcher was at work in the study with a duster. She was a small woman with a sharp nose and large brown eyes which seemed to be set unnaturally wide apart. Like a horse’s eyes, thought the Dean. Made to see things on both sides of her face at once.

She divided her working hours between the Deanery and the Archdeaconry. The Dean had inherited her with the house. He had often wished he could get rid of her, but a substitute was hard to come by.

He said, “I wanted a word with you.”

Rosa folded her duster neatly and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Why did you accuse Masters of theft?”

Rosa stood up like a grenadier to this assault. Only a faint flush at the top of her sallow cheeks showed that it had gone home. She said, “I accused Masters of thieving? I never—”

“Don’t add untruthfulness to your other sins.”

“Sins? Who’s talking about sins? I never took the silver.”

“So you do know what I’m talking about.”

“I see what’s in front of my eyes. I saw him sneaking it out of his bag and passing it across to Alf Carney, and everyone knows what sort of man
he
is.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to make any inquiries before accusing a servant of the Cathedral of theft? It didn’t occur to you that the silver might belong to Masters?”

“How would he get hold of silver?”

“They were cups that he got hold of by his skill and prowess on the cricket field.”

“Oh. Is that his story?”

“It’s not his story. It’s the story of the man who bought them. The cups have been seen by a number of people. There’s no question that what I have told you is the truth.”

Rosa said, “Oh,” again, but this time with less confidence.

“I’ve two things to say to you. The first is, don’t make accusations unless you’re sure of your facts. Do you understand?”

Rosa gave a bob of her head which might have indicated that she understood.

“The second is more important. If you have any complaint to make about a member of the Cathedral staff, make it to me, not to the Archdeacon.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. Can I go now?”

The Dean was on the point of saying, “Yes. And don’t come back,” when he remembered, in the nick of time, the Deanery party for the Friends of the Cathedral at which Rosa’s assistance would be vital. But as soon as he could find a substitute, that woman would have to go.

From his office, late that evening, Gloag telephoned Leo Sandeman. He said, “It looks as though we’re winning. We’ve not passed the post yet, but we’re on the run-in.”

“Did the Archdeacon swing it?”

“The vote was two all. That means it goes to the Greater Chapter.”

“Who the hell are they?”

“A lot of dozy clergymen in the sticks. The betting is they’ll support the Archdeacon. He’s almost the only member of the big five they know.”

“He’s the one who gets around,” agreed Sandeman. “I met him down in Westport the day before yesterday, doing a stint in the docks. When do the backwoodsmen meet?”

“They haven’t been officially notified yet. But probably not for about a fortnight.”

“I think we could extend the option until then.”

“I think we might,” said Gloag with a grin.

James was dreaming.

It was not the old, hopeless sort of nightmare which had hagridden him lately. He had left those behind in London. But it was extraordinarily vivid. He was in the organ loft, looking down along the nave toward the great west door, wide open to admit the crowd of people who were pressing through it. He was not in the least surprised to observe the Medical Registrar from Guy’s and with him Archdeacon Henn-Christie.

“And look there,” said Paul Wren. “If that isn’t old Dean Lupton himself.”

This did seem a little odd since he was walking arm in arm with the present Dean. James said, “Surely not.”

“Of course it is,” said Paul. “Look quickly, or he may disappear.” So strongly did he feel about this that he shook James by the arm. James woke to find Peter standing beside his bed.

“Sorry,” he said, “but there’s a bit of a panic on. Amanda said to call you. Better put on a sweater or something.”

James swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still half asleep. He said, “Sweater? Wassup?”

“And shoes. We’ve got to go out. But hurry.” He clattered off downstairs, and James, pausing only to push his feet into a pair of sandals and pull a sweater over his head, ran down after him. By the time he reached the front door, he was wide awake. Amanda was standing there. She, too, had clearly dressed in a hurry. She said, “Come along. I’ll tell you as we go,” and led the way at a brisk pace past the dark front of the school building.

“It’s Canon Maude,” she said. “You know his old mother. Eighty plus, but a game old girl. She knocked us up at the Deanery five minutes ago. Father’s gone along. He told me to fetch you in case a doctor was wanted.”

By this time they had reached the door of the North Canonry. It was open and the light was on in the hall. The Dean, in a long grey dressing gown, was leaning forward, one hand on his stick, the other on Mrs Maude’s shoulder as he listened to what she had to say. As the others came up, he looked around and said, “Splendid. I’m so glad you could get here.” He might have been welcoming latecomers to a party. If James had known him better, he would have realised that this particular tone of voice meant that the situation was serious.

“Canon Maude has locked himself into his study. From a note which his mother found, it seems that he meant to take his own life.” As the Dean spoke, he was leading the way toward the door at the end of the passage. “We have tried shouting, but he seems to have blocked the gap under the door and he can’t or won’t answer.”

James stooped toward the keyhole. The smell was unmistakable.

He said, “Is there some way in at the back?”

“From the garden, yes. But the windows have been shuttered on the inside.”

“Then we shall have to break down this door.”

“Can we help?”

“You can help best, sir, by taking Mrs Maude and your daughter right out of the house. Or if you won’t do that—” he noted the obstinate look in the Dean’s eyes “—take them into the dining room and shut the door. And don’t let anyone stand directly in front of the windows. Actually, it would be best of all if you could induce the women to get under the dining room table.”

“I see,” said the Dean. “Then you think—”

“I think that we are in just as much danger as Canon Maude. It depends what pressure has been built up and what friction we set up when we break down the door.”

“Very well,” said the Dean. Both his charges seemed prepared to argue, but he shepherded them into the dining room and shut the door.

“Now what?” said Peter.

“Now we break the door down. I think we could handle that bench between us. But we’d better pad the end.” He got a cushion out of the drawing room and lashed it to the end of the bench with one of the curtain cords. “Turn the light out. And leave the front door wide open.”

They stood in front of the study door and swung their homemade battering ram. It was a heavy bench, but the door was a stout one. They were both sweating now.

“One more good one and aim for the lock.”

The door gave inward as the lock tore away from the hasp. The gas rolled out in a cloud. Peter ignored the figure of Canon Maude slumped over his desk. First he turned off the control tap of the big gas cylinder, then gently eased open first the shutters and then the windows. The through draft to the open front door had already started to clear the room.

“Give me a hand and we’ll take the old boy into the drawing room. Try not to knock anything over while we’re doing it.”

They carried Canon Maude between them, a hand under each arm. He was red in the face and breathing heavily, but seemed to be coming around.

“Silly old buffer,” said James. “I suppose he didn’t know the difference between coal gas and methane.”

“One of the defects of a classical education,” said Peter. He was looking at Canon Maude, who had started to mutter to himself. “All the same, even if he couldn’t poison himself, he might have suffocated if he’d stayed in there long enough, I suppose.”

“The danger was detonation, not suffocation. Once he’d built up a concentration in the room, the slightest spark, even the heat of a light bulb, would have set off an explosion which would have taken out this house and the houses on either side and started a fire as well. I saw the results once in Woolwich and wouldn’t much care to see it in Melchester Close. There, I think it should be safe enough now.”

He opened the dining room door. The Dean was sitting at the head of the table. He had found a book of Canon Maude’s which interested him and was reading it. Amanda and old Mrs Maude were sitting together on a sofa.

“I thought I told you to get under the table.”

“We suggested it,” said Amanda. “But Mrs Maude wouldn’t hear of it. She said she’d been in London during the blitz and had slept through every single night of it.”

The Dean looked up from his book and said, “I assume that the excitement is over. Could you explain what happened?”

When James had explained, the Dean said, “Yes. I see,” and closed his book carefully. “I’d better have a word with Mervyn, and all you young people had better get back to bed. Thank you for helping.”

James said, “We’d better put that gas cylinder back in the kitchen where it belongs and hitch it up to the stove.” They found Mrs Maude in the study, pottering around the room, tidying things up. James took the cylinder and carried it out. It was quite light. It would have been a lot heavier when it was full, he thought. “I wonder how the old boy managed it. He must have been fairly desperate.”

“And why did he bother to move it at all?” said Peter. “He could just as well have done it in the kitchen.”

“Suicides get odd ideas,” said James. “I expect the study was his favourite room. He didn’t want to die among a lot of pots and pans. He wanted his books round him.”

As they moved out into the hall and passed the dining room, they heard Canon Maude say, “I’m a silly old man, Dean. I’d be better dead.” And the Dean’s voice in reply. They were too far away to catch the words, but the tone was not sympathetic. It was rough and austere, a cold douche of water quenching Canon Maude’s apologies.

As they reached the front door, Mrs Maude came pattering after them. She seized James by the arm and said, in the sing-song voice of the deaf, “He’s a wicked man.”

Curiously, James had no doubt who the wicked man was.

“He was here earlier this week. Talking to Mervyn, upsetting him. Making him do things he didn’t want to. He’s a wicked man. Someone must stop him. You understand me, don’t you?” She gave his arm a shake.