A Dead Man Out of Mind (6 page)

CHAPTER 4

    
Blessed is he that considereth the poor and needy: the Lord shall deliver him in the time of trouble.

Psalm 41.1

Martin Bairstow took out his pipe and fiddled with it, then decided it wasn't appropriate to light it in church – not even in the vestry – and put it back in his pocket. ‘He should be here soon. Let me do the talking,' he instructed his fellow churchwarden, not for the first time.

‘Where did you find this solicitor bloke?' queried Norman Topping.

‘One of the wardens from St John's, North Kensington, recommended him. Apparently he did some work for them about a year ago, when they were threatened with closure unless they came up with the money to repair the roof,' Bairstow explained. ‘He negotiated the sale of the school and the church hall to some property developers – really saved the church's bacon, apparently.'

‘And we're . . . you're . . . going to tell him . . . ?'

‘What we've discussed.' Bairstow's tone was brusque. ‘It should suffice for the moment. Eventually we may have to tell him the whole truth, but I don't see why that should be necessary for a while, if at all.'

Topping furrowed his brow. ‘And what about the Vicar?'

‘What about him?'

‘What are we going to tell
him
?'

‘I've already had a brief word with Father Keble Smythe, and have explained what we intend doing – at least as much as he needs to know. I don't think he'll look into it too closely – he's got enough other things on his plate at the moment, without worrying about this.'

‘Is he coming to this meeting?' Topping asked.

‘I've mentioned it to him, but he may be too busy preparing for the service. Perhaps he'll drop in.'

‘Surely, though, the solicitor will have to be instructed by the Vicar and churchwardens, and not just . . .'

Bairstow's heavy jaw was thrust out farther than usual. ‘Just leave it to me, Norman. And let me do the talking.'

Leaving Victoria Underground station, David looked at his watch. The church was about a ten-minute walk from the station, he reckoned, and he'd told the churchwarden that he'd be there by six. He'd allowed plenty of time for the tube journey, but it was the Friday night rush hour, and he wasn't going to have much time to spare. He walked briskly through the busy commercial area around Victoria, soon reaching the quiet streets of Pimlico, where rows of white houses gleamed with austere prosperity in the chill, misty evening.

He'd been to St Margaret's before, in the church-crawling days of his youth. Though that had been twenty or more years ago, he now found the church easily, and spent a moment or two surveying the exterior. Built of soft Kentish stone, it had weathered rather less well than other churches of a similar age. But it had evidently been well cared for, and the window tracery showed signs of having been recently renewed. Lights shone welcomingly through the stained glass; David shivered in the cold and headed for the door.

The churchwarden had mentioned during their telephone conversation that there would be a service that evening – hence the early starting time for their meeting – so David was not surprised to find the church unlocked and well lit. He couldn't for a moment think what festival the service was to commemorate, but as he entered the church he discovered that pride of place for the evening had been given to a large oil painting of King Charles the First. It stood near the chancel entrance, attended by an arrangement of white lilies and a votive candle stand. Of course, he said to himself. The feast of the Martyrdom of King Charles. A church like St Margaret's
would
mark that feast.

David stood for a moment, assimilating the building's interior. It was a large Victorian church, built in an uncluttered Gothic style, with exceptionally wide side aisles and a lofty roof; the overall impression was of space and light. The chancel, with its polychromed vaulting, had evidently been re-done at a later date, and was ornately gilded and decorated with Pre-Raphaelite murals. As he moved towards the chancel, David realised that he was not alone in the church: a man in a cassock was kneeling in front of the altar. He turned at David's approach.

‘I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your prayers,' David apologised.

The man laughed. ‘Oh, I wasn't praying.' He held up a fine-tooth comb. ‘I was smartening up the altar.' Demonstrating, he began running the comb through the silk fringe of the superfrontal. ‘We've put the red martyrs' set on for tonight, of course, and they do get a bit
déshabillé
with handling.' He half turned and squinted up at David. ‘Can I help you with something?'

‘I'm meant to be meeting the churchwardens here at six,' he explained. ‘They don't seem to be here, unless I'm not looking in the right place.'

The other man jumped to his feet. He was tall, with an ugly rubbery-looking face that reminded David of a frog. ‘Oh, the wardens are in the vestry. Waiting for you, I expect. It's through that door on the north side, by the organ.'

‘Thanks.'

David turned to go, but the man seemed reluctant to have him leave. ‘I'm the sacristan, by the way. Name's Robin West.' He thrust out his hand – the one without the comb – so David was obliged to return and shake it.

‘David Middleton-Brown.'

Robin West looked him up and down, taking stock. ‘Are you staying for the service?'

‘I hadn't planned to,' David admitted.

‘Oh, do!' He made a sweeping gesture towards the portrait of the martyred king. ‘It's one of the highlights of the year at St Margaret's! No one else in London does anything like it – there will be all sorts of visiting clergy, and the red copes, and lots of lace. Well worth seeing, I promise you! We're even using the 1637 Prayer Book service!'

‘Sounds tempting.' While he was speaking, David looked at the altar furnishings; he was passionately interested in ecclesiastical silver, and was always interested to see what various churches possessed. The silver altar cross was disappointing, he decided: overly ornate, and not particularly well made. The six candlesticks were a mixed bag, one pair of which might be reasonably good. He wished that he could have a look at the hallmarks.

‘And I shall be thurifer, of course. You really
must
stay.' Robin West smirked. ‘You'll even have a chance to see the Vicar – not something that happens very often at St Margaret's, I can assure you!'

That caught David's attention. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Oh, our Vicar is
far
too busy at St Jude's down the road – where all the money is – to honour us with his presence very often,' the sacristan declared with an arch look. ‘But tonight he'll be here – after all, this is the place to see and be seen on the Feast of King Charles the Martyr, if no other time.'

‘I see.'

‘Father Keble Smythe would like us all to think that he's such a good Catholic, after all.'

‘And isn't he?'

Robin West twitched the skirts of his cassock. ‘I really wouldn't like to say,' he stated demurely. ‘Most people believe it. I suppose that's the important thing.' As David seemed about to move off, he reached out and touched his sleeve with a delicate finger. ‘You
will
stay, won't you? Promise me that you'll stay?'

The man made David nervous, but he didn't know how to say no. ‘All right, then. I'll stay.'

‘Oh, you won't regret it. It's the best show in town. And if you're free for a drink after . . .'

David didn't stay to hear the rest of the suggestion, or to reply.

Martin Bairstow came straight to the point. ‘What we're interested in, Mr Middleton-Brown, is some advice and assistance in selling a few bits and pieces. I assume that faculties will need to be applied for, and we thought that perhaps you could advise us on the best way of finding the appropriate buyers as well.'

This wasn't really what David had expected; he thought for a moment. ‘Let's start at the beginning. Why do you want to sell these things, and what are they?'

‘Just a few pieces of old silver,' the churchwarden explained. ‘We want to raise some cash to refurbish a house in the parish.'

‘Magdalen House, it's called,' Norman Topping interjected; he was quelled immediately by a look from his fellow warden.

‘Magdalen House,' Bairstow repeated. ‘It was founded by the Community of St Mary Magdalen, an Anglican sisterhood, back in the 1880s, as a home for what they so quaintly called “fallen women”. But the last of the sisters died a few years ago, and the house is now under the jurisdiction of the parish.'

‘I don't suppose there are so many fallen women these days, in any case.'

Bairstow didn't return David's smile. ‘No,' he said seriously. ‘In the recent past it has served as a curate's house, but it is no longer being used for that purpose.'

‘Do you have another use in mind for it, then? That would require it to be refurbished?'

Bairstow's eyes flickered to Norman Topping, then back to David. ‘My colleague and I feel that we have a responsibility to address the terrible problem of homelessness in London,' he stated solemnly. ‘As trustees of Magdalen House, we agree that it should be converted into a shelter for the homeless.'

David nodded. ‘That sounds entirely reasonable. But to sacrifice your church's silver, even for such a good cause . . . ?'

‘Well, it
is
lovely stuff, especially the altar cross, but we think the cause is one that's worth the sacrifice,' Bairstow said, lifting his chin in a noble look. ‘I'm not sure exactly what we might expect to get for it, but we're hoping that it will fetch a few thousand pounds. And we can replace it with some nice modern pieces.'

David kept his opinion of the altar cross to himself, and decided to reserve judgement on the value of the rest until he'd seen it. ‘Would it be possible for me to have a look?'

Bairstow rose. ‘Yes, of course. We were hoping that you'd be able to advise us on its value. My colleague at St John's said that you knew quite a lot about church silver.'

‘Not at all.' David shook his head with customary modesty. ‘I'm just an amateur. But I
am
very interested in it.'

‘I don't suppose any of the clergy have arrived yet, so it's all right if we go to the sacristy,' Norman Topping contributed.

Martin Bairstow led the way. The sacristy was not, however, empty; the door was ajar, and a man with a face like a death's head was seated at a table, pen in hand. He looked up at them impatiently as they entered. ‘I'm getting the service register ready for tonight,' he explained.

‘We won't get in your way,' Bairstow assured him. ‘We just wanted to have a look at the silver. Mr Middleton-Brown, this is Stanley Everitt, the Parish Administrator.'

The men exchanged pleasantries as Bairstow opened the safe with a long, old-fashioned key. ‘Here we are.' He pulled out a cloth bag and unwrapped a chalice.

‘Ah.' David assessed it in an instant: it was mass-produced, late in date, and of very little value. ‘Interesting,' he said diplomatically.

‘There's more.' Bairstow brought out a ciborium, an incense boat, a large alms dish, and an assortment of candlesticks. ‘Then there's the altar cross, as well.'

‘I see.' Searching for a tactful way to break the news, David picked up the incense boat. ‘Nice.'

Norman Topping was watching him eagerly. ‘Do you like it? Is it worth something, then?'

He didn't give a direct answer. ‘Is this all you have? Don't you have a thurible, or a monstrance?'

‘Well, the rest of the plate is only copper-gilt,' Bairstow explained with an apologetic shrug. ‘There's a whole set of it, as a matter of fact. But it's really hideous Victorian stuff – not worth anything. After this is sold, we'll have to use it until we can get some new pieces.'

‘Show it to him,' Topping urged.

Bairstow reached into the safe and pulled some pieces from the back. ‘Here's the thurible.' He handed it to David.

‘Oh, yes.' David turned the heavy thurible over in his hands with surprise and rising excitement. ‘This is a lovely piece.'

The taller churchwarden straightened up and stared at him. ‘It is?'

‘It's very fine.' He pointed to the hallmarks. ‘You see? It's not copper-gilt at all. It's silver-gilt. Very tarnished with age, but definitely silver-gilt.'

‘Silver-gilt?' Topping echoed, his eyes lighting up at the implication.

‘Yes. And unless I'm very much mistaken, it was designed by Pugin. The design is certainly very characteristic of his work.' David was trying to be cautious, but he couldn't help betraying a certain degree of anticipation in his voice. ‘You say there's more? Could I see the rest, please?'

Bairstow lined the pieces up one by one on the counter. ‘Two ciboria, flagon, monstrance, and processional cross.'

‘It's a lovely set,' David stated. ‘And the fact that it was probably designed by Pugin certainly adds to its value.'

‘How much?' Norman Topping demanded baldly. ‘What is it worth?'

‘The market for ecclesiastical silver is rather depressed right now, but you should certainly get a few thousand for it. Possibly a bit more, since, as I say, it's by a prestigious designer like Pugin. And as it's a set.' Suddenly he realised that something was missing. ‘But where is the chalice?'

The two churchwardens looked at each other. ‘I'm afraid it's been stolen,' Bairstow said slowly. ‘There was a burglary. A month or two ago.'

‘Stolen?' David was dismayed.

‘I'm afraid so,' interjected Stanley Everitt, looking even more lugubrious than usual. ‘The police said that it happens all the time.'