The Black Seraphim (6 page)

“That’s just my point, sir—”

“And now you come and tell me that one of the servants of the Cathedral, the junior verger, Masters, has been seen selling articles of silver to a trader in the market.”

“Not just any trader, sir. A man with a bad reputation. We’ve had our eye on him for some time.”

“I see. Then it was one of your men who observed this transaction?”

“Well, no, not actually, sir. But it was reported to us.”

“By whom?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“We never reveal the sources of our information.”

“But if the matter comes to court, he or she will be called on to give evidence.”

“If it comes to court.”

The Dean considered this in silence for a full minute while the Superintendent fidgeted. He had never felt comfortable with Dean Forrest. His predecessor had been a great deal easier to deal with. A very agreeable old man. Not a gaunt ruffian like the present incumbent.

“And was this the matter that your Sergeant Telfer came here this morning to discuss with the Archdeacon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Why was a matter affecting the discipline of the Close discussed with the Archdeacon and not with myself?”

“Well, sir, I suppose in this case it was because—” He broke off, realising suddenly that he had nearly been trapped into an indiscretion. He changed the end of the sentence smoothly “—because we don’t quite appreciate these fine points. We thought that administrative matters would be the concern of the Archdeacon.”

“That’s a very curious idea, Superintendent. Tell me, if I had information which affected the reputation of your force . . . I say, if – I’m not implying that I have any such information. Would I not then go to the head of your force? To your Chief Constable, Valentine Laporte? I would not discuss it with a sergeant, or even—” the Dean paused delicately “—with a detective superintendent.”

“I suppose not, sir. If this was a mistake, I must take the blame for it.”

“On general grounds? Or was it perhaps you who suggested that Sergeant Telfer should see the Archdeacon?”

The Superintendent felt himself being forced into a corner. Also he was aware that he was losing his temper and that if he lost it he would put himself at a disadvantage. He said, “On both grounds. And now could I revert to the two points I’ve already mentioned.”

“Two points,” said the Dean, placing the tips of his fingers together.

“First, will you ask Masters for an explanation?”

“Certainly not.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, sir. If you won’t question the man, someone else must. An accusation has been made.”

“All that you have told me so far is that an unnamed informant has told you that they saw Masters selling unidentified silver objects in the marketplace. You have no case at all, and unless you can produce some more substantial evidence, I won’t have one of the Cathedral servants bothered with it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t leave it at that, sir.”

“If you should ignore my direct instructions and seek to harass Masters in any way, I will make it my business to see that he is legally protected.”

The Superintendent hesitated. He was aware that he had no more than suspicions. If the stall keeper had been anyone but Alf Carney, he wouldn’t have given the matter a second thought.

While he was hesitating, the Dean said, “You had a second point?”

“Yes, sir. I had. Sergeant Telfer wants his car back.”

“He shall have it. On payment of the stipulated fine. For a first offense, five pounds.”

“Aren’t you being a little unreasonable, sir?”

“Not in the least. When you were calling on me, I notice you parked your car in my drive. Very reasonable. Why should Sergeant Telfer not have parked his car inside the Archdeacon’s gate, instead of leaving it in a position where it blocked three other cars which were legally parked?”

“Being on duty, I expect he thought it would be in orde”If he thought that, I would suggest a medical check.”

“Sir?”

“Because he must be stone deaf. Mullins informs me that he told him not once, but twice that he was breaking Close regulations.”

Bracher got up abruptly, put down a five-pound note on the table and said, “If you’ll kindly tell me where the car is, I’ll have it fetched.”

The Dean also got to his feet. He said, “Mullins will show him where the car is. And might I give you a word of advice. Inside the walls of this Close
all
routine matters are regulated by the Church through its constituted authority, the Cathedral Chapter. There is no reason for controversy and friction.”

By this time they had reached the front door. The Dean held it open politely. He added, “There are enough troubles in this world, Superintendent, without going out of one’s way to look for more.”

The Superintendent strode down the path, got into his car and drove off without a word.

Lady Fallingford’s cottage was at the far end of a row of cottages along the west wall of the Close. It was rather bigger than the others and had a sizable garden. James found Mrs Henn-Christie there, with Francis and Betty Humphrey. Paul Wren, the organist, arrived soon after he did.

“I thought of having tea in the garden,” said Lady Fallingford, “but the flies are really intolerable.”

“I don’t mind flies,” said Mrs Henn-Christie. “It’s mosquitoes by night and wasps by day. Toby was stung on the nose yesterday and made a terrible fuss about it.”

Toby, James gathered, was a Siamese cat.

Since everybody knew everybody and everybody talked at once, it was not easy for James to ask the question he was dying to ask. A fleeting opportunity occurred when their hostess was distributing second cups of tea. He said, “Can someone please tell me. What exactly
did
happen to Leo Sandeman’s hat?”

This produced a laugh and everyone tried to answer the question at once. In the end Mrs Henn-Christie had to call the meeting to order. She said, “If you all talk at once, the poor young man won’t hear any of you. It’s your story, Constantia. You tell him.”

“He’s a terrible little man,” said Lady Fallingford. “He does nothing but make trouble for everyone. He’s on the Council, you know. He’s got some special job. I forget what it is.”

“Chairman of the Roads Committee,” said Canon Humphrey.

“Is that right? But what he revels in is his other job. He’s local boss of Newfu. You’ve heard of Newfu?”

“I’m afraid not,” said James. “It sounds like a health food.”

“It’s the National Estate Workers Federated Union. They managed to recruit all the men who work on the big estates, particularly the ones that are open to the public. People like the Weldons of Kings Sutton House and the Bridports at Bayford Castle. Last summer they brought them out on strike. I expect you read about it.”

“I think I did,” said James untruthfully. Among so many strikes this one had hardly caused a ripple.

“The owners had to give in. It was the beginning of their season, and if their workers wouldn’t work and pickets blocked the entrance gates, they weren’t going to get any visitors at all.”

“What was the strike about?”

“What strikes are always about. More money. Lady Weldon said they had to pay so much more that it took away any profit there was. Not that they ever made much. This year they won’t be opening the house at all and most of the staff have lost their jobs. So what good was it supposed to have done?”

“Union organisers never think about that,” said Betty Humphrey. “Mostly they organise strikes to make themselves feel important.”

“Well, anyway,” said Lady Fallingford, “the next thing that happened was they tried to rope in the staff here. Sam and young Ernie and the builders. Sam went to see the Dean. He told Sam they were to have nothing to do with it. So, early this summer Newfu tried to blockade the Close.”

“They did
what
?”

“It’s quite true. They put pickets with banners on all three gates. Can you imagine it?”

“I can indeed,” said James. “What happened?”

“The Dean was very angry. Particularly as it was the day of the Diocesan Women’s Institute service. They come in, you know, from all over the diocese. Hundreds of them. The Dean took his largest stick and hobbled down to the High Street Gate. People who saw him said he was white with fury. I’m sure he’d have broken a few heads with that stick. Luckily, he didn’t have to use it. Because just as he got there, the head of the Women’s Institute procession reached the gate. They were good solid women with solid sensible shoes. They’d come a long way and they weren’t going to let a miserable little picket stop them. They walked straight over it. Do you know the hymn they sing at their meetings? Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’.”

“’And did those feet in ancient time’,” hummed Paul Wren happily, “’walk upon England’s mountains green?’ They certainly walked upon Newfu. Sandeman’s hat got knocked off and a very large woman trod on it. The press had been expecting trouble and that young man from the
Melset Journal
was on the spot. The one who plays football.”

“Bill Williams.”

“That’s the man. He got a beautiful photograph of it. It was published in the
Journal
next day.”

Mrs Henn-Christie said, “I thought it was so funny I cut it out and stuck it up in the kitchen. I have a good laugh every time I look at it.”

“So what happened to the strike?”

“It fizzled out. The Dean announced that preventing people coming to church was sacrilege. And that sacrilege was a felony, and if the police refused to do anything, the Chapter would institute a private prosecution.”

“That wasn’t what stopped them,” said Canon Humphrey. “Your keen trade unionist likes being prosecuted. What Sandeman couldn’t stand was being laughed at.”

“You can’t keep a man like that down,” said Betty Humphrey. “I’ll warrant that he’s the man behind this business about Fletcher’s Piece.”

This produced a brief silence while people thought about Fletcher’s Piece. Canon Humphrey said, “Are you sure about that, my dear?”

“I couldn’t prove it. But he’d give anything to get his own back on the Cathedral, and it’s just the sort of meddling thing he’d be bound to have a finger in. You see if I’m not right.”

“I always suspected he might have been one of the people behind the supermarket scheme, too,” said Mrs Henn-Christie. “I’m sure I was swindled. Not that I could prove that, either.”

“Come now,” said Canon Humphrey. “Just because we don’t like the man, we mustn’t turn him into a universal villain. There’s good in most of us somewhere.”

“You’re too charitable, Francis,” said his wife. She was gathering up her things. “We’ll have to be getting along. We’ve got a lot to do to get things ready for this evening. We’re starting at eight o’clock sharp. We’re expecting about forty people.”

“And you’d better not be late,” said Canon Humphrey. “Because we’ve only got about forty chairs.”

With this advice in mind, James had an early supper in the town and was in the West Canonry garden by a quarter to eight. Four music stands and four spindle-legged chairs had been set out on the lawn, which sloped gently down to the river. In the meadow on the other side, brown-and-white cows were grazing. House martins and swifts were dive-bombing the riverbank for insects. It was one of those long late-summer evenings that seem to go on forever.

James recognised many of the people as they arrived, identifying some who had been players in the chess game. The two vergers, who had been the white knights, came together. The senior verger, Grey, with the deportment of a ducal butler, and the young cricketer, Len Masters. Canon Maude had his mother with him. The Archdeacon rolled in, with a train of theological students. Since he was there, James guessed that the Dean would not turn up, and, sure enough, at the last moment Amanda arrived alone. One of the few empty chairs was beside him and he willed her to come and sit in it. For a moment he thought he had lost her to the Consetts, but she ignored Penny’s wave, hesitated for a moment by Canon Lister, then came over and joined him. She said, “Peter told me you knew about music. So you can explain what’s being played and whether it’s good or not. I’m hopeless at things like that.”

“If you’d come in at the right time, you’d have got a programme.” He gave her his. “It’s a feast of seventeenth-century chamber music. Purcell, Mattheson, Christopher Sympson and William Brade. And ‘Beauty Retire’ by Samuel Pepys.”

“You mean the man who wrote the diary?”

“He did other things, too.”

The players took their seats. Paul Wren had a tuning fork, and the three recorder players each sounded a trial note.

“Like birds starting up the dawn chorus,” said Amanda.

James remembered very little of the performance. It was a ritual which depended for most of its charm on the setting and the sense of history which it imposed. Just so a group of peruked and periwigged clerics and their womenfolk must have sat three centuries ago; some enjoying the music, some pretending to enjoy it, some frankly bored. Henry Brookes was smoking cigarette after cigarette, putting the stub carefully in the lid of his cigarette case. Penny Consett was flirting with Peter. Mrs Henn-Christie was keeping an anxious eye out for mosquitoes. Canon Lister seemed to be asleep. The Archdeacon was motionless, but he was not asleep. His black eyes were open. Penny was right: he really was rather like a bear. Big, deceptively clumsy and slow, but capable of a lightning pounce when the occasion called for it.

The last piece was Purcell’s Golden Sonata. The September dusk had closed in, and the faces of the listeners were indistinguishable, but they were all sitting still now, gripped by the liquid simplicity of the playing. As the last notes of the viol died away into silence, they gave a sort of communal sigh of pleasure before breaking into a round of applause. James drifted out into the Close with Amanda beside him.

As they were passing the school cottage, he saw that there was a light in the sitting room window. He said, “Come into our bachelor retreat and have a cup of coffee.”