Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (18 page)

‘If he’s found guilty of embezzlement from St Barnabas’, his ministry for some time may well be in one of Her Majesty’s prisons.’

‘They’ll have to find him first.’

‘They will.’

‘And speaking of finding …’

‘Ah, yes. I wanted to wait until you were fully awake. I had a text from Jonathan this morning, just before you woke up. It was brief, as such things always are, and somewhat cryptic, but if I interpreted it correctly, he’s on Walter’s trail and hopes to track him down very soon.’

‘Oh, that is a relief. Almost. Three cautious cheers, then. But don’t let’s tell Jane or Sue until we’re sure.’

Alan smiled. ‘Of course not. More coffee?’

We finished our meal and tidied up the kitchen. ‘We’re going to have to tell Jane something, if we’re leaving again and want her to look after the cats. I swear those animals aren’t going to know us when we finally settle back down at home.’

‘They’ll survive,’ said Alan. ‘Cats are good at that. But I wasn’t planning to go right away. I’d rather stay where we can get to London easily, in case something blows up about Lovelace and/or Walter.’

‘That suits me. There’s laundry and housework to be done, and I’m just plain tired of being away so much. The old lady’s getting set in her ways and wants her familiar comforts.’

‘So does her old man. I thought we’d leave on Saturday, perhaps. Then we could take in a Sunday service at Chelton.’

‘Sounds fine.’ I yawned. ‘Along with the housework, I plan to take regular naps.’

So, for a couple of days, we enjoyed a leisurely life, or we would have, if it hadn’t been for concern about Walter. A couple of cryptic messages from Jonathan didn’t do a lot to reassure us, but, with the police on the trail as well, there wasn’t much we could do, except fret. Jane, bless her heart, understood that and kept the traditional stiff upper lip.

One afternoon, when I was just thinking about a nap, and the cats were quite willing to join me, the doorbell rang. The Cathedral organist, Jeremy Sayers, stood there with his partner, Christopher Lewis, who taught at Sherebury University. Jeremy, after happily playing the field for years, had finally settled down with a man whom Alan and I both liked. They had moved into a Georgian house not far from ours and spent all their free time making it into a showplace, where they loved entertaining. They visited often, but there was something about their manner now that told me this was not a social call.

I settled them both in the parlour, called Alan, offered a choice of drinks, poured sherry, and waited to hear what they had to say.

To their credit, they came straight to the point. ‘We’ve known both of you a long time,’ said Jeremy. ‘And we debated a long time before deciding to come to you with this.’

‘We argued,’ said Christopher. ‘Let’s call a spade a bloody shovel. I said we had no right to take advantage of a friendship. Jeremy was determined to come and at least talk to you. So here we are, but I want it on record that I’m here under protest.’

‘This will be about the bishop appointment, I presume,’ said Alan, and he sounded weary.

‘However did you guess?’ said Jeremy, in a rather pathetic attempt at levity. ‘Alan, Dorothy, I actually agree with Chris. I don’t like to use a friendship, and if this weren’t so desperately important, I wouldn’t think of it. But –’ he spread his hands – ‘this may be the only chance we’ll ever have to influence church policy, and we can’t let the opportunity pass.’

He put down his sherry glass and leaned forward. ‘We’ve been C of E all our lives, Chris and I. We love the church, and this Cathedral has always treated us decently. But we have friends – we could tell you stories – well, I
will
tell you one. No names. A distant friend, another organist, was caught with some gay porn sites on his computer. His personal computer, nothing to do with the church, and nothing to do with children or anything horrid like that. He was harassed, eventually turfed out of his job. He ended up on the streets, got mixed up with a very rough bunch, got AIDS, and died. Hounded to death by bigots.’

I was appalled. ‘Jeremy, that’s a dreadful story! I had no idea such a thing could happen in this day and age. I’m so very, very sorry.’

Jeremy shrugged. ‘I didn’t know the man well. I told the story only to make you understand that the bigotry is still very much alive. And a bishop could do so much to change attitudes. Archbishop Welby has already done a bit, with his appearance of tolerance, though he’s still … well, time will tell how he turns out. But at least he isn’t sweeping the issue under the carpet, and that’s a step. A bishop in this diocese who cared about gays could be
so
important to us.’

He sat back, blinked away tears, and picked up his glass in an unsteady hand. Chris reached over to take his hand.

Alan had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘I’m glad you came, both of you. You know that the issue is moot for the moment, and, of course, I am only one voice on the commission, so I can promise nothing, even when discussions begin again.’

‘We understand,’ said Christopher, rather grimly. ‘But
we
can tell
you
things. I still think coming to you like this is unfair, but you might as well know that most of the gay community hopes Bill Robinson will be appointed.’

I was surprised. ‘We quite liked him when we met him, but I had an idea you both really liked Dean Smith.’

‘We do,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s just that, on this particular issue, Robinson seems to be the best man. True, he’s very Low. You wouldn’t care at all for his churchmanship, and nor do I. But I’d put up with Rite Q or whatever, even in the Cathedral, for the sake of the chance to feel that Christopher and I were truly accepted in the life of the church.’

I sighed. ‘I won’t say I understand, Jeremy, because I can’t put myself in your place. I’ve never been despised just for what I am, so I don’t know bigotry from the inside. But I know you two well enough to sympathize.’

‘I do, as well,’ said Alan. ‘But remember what I said. My influence is very, very limited.’

Both the young men nodded, and we turned with relief to other subjects. But after they left, I spent a good part of the evening trying to imagine how I’d feel if I were hated and reviled for being white, or American, or old, or any of my other attributes that I could do nothing about. It was a sobering idea.

Alan had apparently been thinking about it, too. As we sat at breakfast the next morning, he said, out of the blue, ‘Americans feel a good deal more strongly than the English about homosexuality, don’t they, Dorothy?’

I blinked. ‘I suppose they do. I haven’t lived there for so long, I don’t know what it’s like now. Certainly there was a good deal of ill feeling about gays in Indiana, when I lived there, but I think attitudes are changing.’

‘And what about you? Any opinions on the matter?’

I put down my coffee mug. ‘I don’t know that I have any opinion about gays and lesbians in general. I don’t like treating people as generalities. If you ask me about Jeremy and Christopher, I like them very much and enjoy being with them. And as an American etiquette columnist once wrote, “I don’t need to know what my guests plan to do after they leave the party.” The one thing I’m sure about is that there is only one person whose behaviour I’m entitled to judge.’ I pointed to myself.

By Saturday we were ready to venture forth again, and by mid-morning we were in the car on our way to Chelton. We had somehow missed this pretty little city when we took a walking tour of the Cotswolds a few years ago, so I was glad we were giving ourselves enough time for a little sightseeing. It was a beautiful Saturday, warm and sunny, with spring just beginning to give way to summer. I had never seen the English countryside look lovelier. It’s true, of course, that when the countryside includes hedgerows along the road, one can’t see much of it from a car. But every so often the hedges gave way to dry-stone walls, and then the lovely rolling fields of green wheat and yellow rapeseed, the meadows alive with sheep and lambs, the tiny groupings of houses, with ancient steeples giving them anchor – these sights so delighted me that I forgot all about Walter and embezzlement and bishops, and just drank in the beauty.

‘England’s green and pleasant land,’ I said, sitting back with a contented sigh.

‘Do you know, Dorothy, one of the things I love most about you is your capacity for enjoyment? You look right now like a child who has just been given a marvellous Christmas present.’

I sighed again and waved my hand in a sweeping gesture. ‘Alan, look at it! What’s not to like?’

Alan chuckled, and we drove on in companionable silence.

We had to stop for lunch, and a couple of times to accommodate Watson, but then we began to look for Chelton. The road sign, when we spotted it, was one of the modern ones, not the old fingers-on-a-stick kind, which were picturesque but almost impossible to read. It read in large clear letters ‘Chelton 2.’

‘I hate to disturb your idyll,’ said Alan, ‘but perhaps we should refresh ourselves a little about Brading before we start talking to people about him.’

‘Ultra-conservative and rigid, right?’

‘Kenneth Allenby summed him up as a man who tried to pretend the Oxford Movement never happened. He was opposed to virtually every innovation in the church for the past hundred years. He detested High Church practices: candles, vestments, incense, the lot. He wanted Matins and Evensong always to be the principal services, with the Eucharist only on especially solemn occasions, and even then with as little ceremonial as possible. Women in the priesthood were, of course, anathema.’

‘And this man was being considered for the See of Sherebury.’ I shook my head. ‘I still can’t believe it, political pull or not. And I admit, with shame, that I’m not as sorry as I should be that he’s dead. He sounds like a thoroughly disagreeable person.’

‘Well, one reason we’re here is to find out who, if anyone, found him disagreeable enough to kill him. And here, in fact, we are.’

W
ell, in a manner of speaking. We were in Chelton, but it took a little while to find our B and B. English towns are laid out not on a grid, but with streets that wind and change their names every little whipstitch. Alan can apparently navigate by instinct; he got mildly lost only once.

Our hostelry was a dignified house called Lynncroft (I do love the names the English give their houses) on the edge of town, probably once part of a farm, with green fields stretching off behind it. It was built of the traditional honey-coloured Cotswold stone, set off with touches of a white stone over windows and doorway. It would have looked severe had it not been for the riot of colour in the front garden. Every spring flower imaginable seemed to be trying to outdo the others in luxuriant display. I kept a tight hold on Watson’s leash as we stepped out of the car. I didn’t want to even think about what he could do to those flowers if he decided their bed was a good place to dig.

Our hostess, however, had the situation in hand. ‘You can’t see it very well, but there’s an electric fence around the flower beds, put there long ago to keep our own dogs out. They’re gone now, but we found the fence useful when guests brought their dogs, so we’ve kept it up. And the back garden is walled, so he can run and play as much as he likes there, with no danger from the road. He’s a lovely boy, isn’t he?’

This last was addressed to Watson, who responded with increased tail wagging and excited little yips. He’s been taught not to jump on people, but he still wants to, when he likes someone. He was rewarded with pats and praise, and trotted off happily with me to the broad walled-in expanse of grass behind the house, where I let him off the leash to explore as he wanted.

Alan and I got ourselves situated in our room and then went down to the tea our hostess had prepared for us. It was simple, but the tea was excellent and the scones fresh and as light as feathers.

‘I like to get acquainted with my guests, you see, and tea is a good time to do it. Breakfast is too rushed.’

I nodded. ‘Everything has to be done at once, and nothing will stand sitting for very long. A lukewarm fried egg …’

Mrs Stevens nodded her head in fervent agreement. ‘Fit for nothing but to patch a tyre. And bacon can’t be reheated, and mushrooms get watery. No, breakfast must be served at once. But tea is a leisurely meal, at least when I have only a few guests.’

‘How many can you accommodate?’

‘Twelve at a pinch, but I don’t like to have more than six, especially now that my husband’s gone. He was such a help. I have a cleaner who comes in daily, and a gardener to do the heavy work, but the rest is on my plate. Last week we were full up, so I’m very glad that you’re my only guests at the moment.’

‘Goodness, so am I! You need a rest. I can’t imagine cooking and all the rest of it for twelve people – and strangers at that.’

‘Oh, no one stays a stranger for long! My tongue’s hung in the middle, my husband always said, but I do seem to get on with most of my guests. Is this your first visit to the Cotswolds?’

I gave Alan a quick smile behind Mrs Stevens’ back. It wasn’t going to take her long to find out all there was to know about us. All we wanted to let her know, at any rate.

Alan gave her a truncated biography. No, we’d visited the Cotswolds once before, doing a walking tour. We lived in Sherebury and were both retired. (He carefully didn’t say what he’d done before he left his working days behind.)

‘And you’re American, aren’t you, dear?’

I admitted that I was. ‘I moved to England after my first husband died, and was lucky enough to meet Alan.’ I anticipated her next question. ‘I never had any children, so it took Alan’s daughter to make me a grandmother.’

‘Oh, how lovely for you! Charles and I had four daughters, and there are twelve grandchildren now and three great-grands! Now, you’ll let me make you some more tea – no, no, it’s no trouble at all, the kettle’s hot – and I’ll show you my darlings.’

She carried the teapot to the kitchen, thereby observing the strict rule of ‘take the pot to the kettle, not the kettle to the pot’, and I grinned at Alan. ‘Did you choose her on purpose because she’s a talker, or is this just luck?’