Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (27 page)

‘Suspects.’ Well, I had learned that Brading’s wife was apparently on good terms with her husband. I left her on the list anyway. Appearances can be deceiving, and I intended to pump Martha a little more on the subject of possible infidelity on the part of one party or the other. Other relatives, if any, also needed to be discussed, and certainly I wanted to know a lot more about the congregation. I wasn’t ready to cross the Colonel off the list yet, either. If he truly loved the cathedral, and Brading was damaging the cathedral, might he have thought Brading should go? And there might be, among the former congregants, some who hated Brading enough to kill him.

So that list read: Mrs Brading, Other Family, Former Congregants, and Archie Pringle. I thought of Archie Bunker, and snickered. Actually, with his extreme conservatism and outmoded ideas, the Colonel was not unlike his namesake. How he would hate the comparison!

The next list, ‘Facts about the Murder’, had been filled in fairly well at our discussion. I didn’t yet know exactly where the body had been found, though, and surely Martha could tell me. Could show me, perhaps, if the cathedral was still open. That was another thing I needed to know, come to think of it. Had it been open all day, every day, when the dean was alive? If so, the murderer might have been lying in wait for his or her victim. If not, then it was quite possible that the dean let him or her in, which implied that he knew his killer or, at the least, found the person non-threatening.

Now. ‘Facts about Brading’. I thought I might be able to scrap the idea of an affair. If neither Ruth nor Martha had heard even a hint of such a thing, and if they were as good at gossip as dear Jane, then there had been no affair. Drat. Sexual jealousy is such a powerful motive. But there are other sorts of jealousy. Any time anyone covets something possessed by someone else, there’s jealousy and a motive to violence. God got it right, I thought irrelevantly (and probably irreverently), when he gave Moses only the ten forbidden actions. Those ten led to all the others.

So, what are some of the other motives created by jealousy? A lust for power was certainly one. That led directly to the other candidates for our mitre. There was no doubt that Lovelace had lusted for power. I wanted to explore that much further. There might, of course, be someone at Chelton Cathedral – one of the canons – who wanted Brading’s job. If he was afraid Brading wouldn’t be named as Sherebury’s bishop, then might he have taken the other way to make sure the dean needed to be replaced? I made a note: who wanted to be dean of Chelton? Or, as a corollary, who dearly loved someone who wanted to be the dean? Love has prompted murder before now, and not always from the sex angle.

I mentally went through the other deadly sins. Greed seemed an unlikely motive. The clergy aren’t at all well paid. Although some of the bishops do get to live in gorgeous historic palaces, and the deans in ancient deaneries, I couldn’t imagine that anyone would kill to occupy such inconvenient homes. Gorgeous they may be, but the plumbing is frantically unreliable.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, on the other hand, is paid reasonably well. And, of course, that was what Lovelace was aiming for. His motives were becoming stronger and stronger.

Pride. Well, that was at the root of all evil, wasn’t it? I couldn’t see how it applied specifically to this case, though, except in relation to ambition.

Sloth was a terrible burden, but a lazy person doesn’t often hit someone on the head. Too much trouble. Anger, though … there was a real killer. I groaned over my mental pun. Who was so angry with Brading, who hated him so much as to incite murder? Had he done something frightful to one of the cathedral staff or congregation, or someone in his family, something perceived as unforgiveable?

I made copious notes, and then looked at what I’d written. There was plenty of food for thought there, but my instinct told me that anger and/or hatred was the most likely motive. It fit the crime. A cold-blooded murderer plans a crime. An intelligent one plans it so well that he may never get caught. It’s the man or woman in the grip of sudden uncontrollable rage who hits someone over the head in a place where the victim is bound to be found, where traces of the murderer’s presence will lead to certain conviction.

But only, I reminded myself with a sigh, if the person matching those traces can be identified.

I made myself a last cup of tea and went to bed.

I went down to breakfast with no very clear idea of what I would do with my morning. There were so many possible avenues to explore that I hardly knew where to begin, and I kept reminding myself that my time was not unlimited.

Ruth brought in my breakfast, enough cholesterol to keep my arteries clogged for the rest of my (shortened) life. It was delicious. I ate every bite and was just wondering if there was more coffee when Ruth came in with a fresh cafetière. ‘You’ll want to let it steep for a minute or two, dear. I just put in the water. And would you mind if I shared a cup with you?’

‘I’d love it,’ I said, and mused about the odd situation a B and B hostess finds herself in. An employee of sorts in her own house, asking permission of her guests to sit down in her own dining room.

‘There! I knew you weren’t the haughty sort.’ She pulled out a chair. ‘The fact is, I wanted to talk to you for a bit. I didn’t like to say so in front of Martha, but that Dean Brading was Not Liked in Chelton.’

I could hear the capital letters, and inwardly I rejoiced. This was
just
what I needed. Aloud, I said, ‘Really? Why not?’

‘He put people’s backs up. He was always right, you see. Anyone who disagreed with him was simply wrong, and he never minded telling them so. Oh, he battled with everyone. He had a run-in with the mayor over a car park. The mayor wanted to tear down that frightful youth centre, which hasn’t been used in donkey’s years except for a handful of people on Sunday morning. He was going to build a car park for churchgoers to use on Sundays, and shoppers on weekdays. He was prepared to find the money for it, and he thought the dean would be delighted. I think that coffee’s ready now, dear. Would you like me to pour it out?’

I shoved my cup over. ‘I’d have thought that was a wonderful idea. The parking around the cathedral is pretty sparse, as far as I could see, and you’re right: the youth centre is a sinfully ugly building. The dean didn’t like the mayor’s proposal?’

‘Tore a strip off the mayor. The building was church property and could not be touched. Car parks were a work of the devil. People should walk to church. I think his father and grandfather came into it, walking at the head of a long file, coming piously to worship, heeding the bells calling them to God.’

‘I thought he didn’t approve of bells.’

‘Only those in days of yore. The demonic practice of change-ringing had turned the simple call to prayer into an entertainment, you see.’

‘Whew! Then there was no love lost between him and the mayor.’

Ruth grinned. ‘Actually, he viewed the mayor as an enemy from then on, but it did the mayor a lot of good politically. The youth centre is a blight on the city centre, and the extra parking on weekdays would have been a boon to merchants. So the dean turned much of the city against him from that moment.’

‘Ruth, you’re not a churchgoer. How did you hear all this?’

‘From a woman you know. Or at least you’ve met her, when you and your husband went to church on your last visit here. Her name’s Caroline White, and she says you asked her about coffee after the service.’

‘Oh, yes, I do remember her.’ I chuckled. ‘She told us we wouldn’t enjoy the gathering at the youth centre. She was quite right, as it turned out, although meeting Martha was a delight. I got the impression that Mrs … um –’

‘White.’

‘White, yes – that she wasn’t a great fan of Dean Brading. Or of the present cathedral clergy, for that matter. Does she go to church as a matter of habit, or for fire insurance, or what?’

‘Fire insurance?’

‘What some of my irreverent American friends call it. Just in case that story about hell is true.’

Ruth laughed. ‘I see. I’ll have to remember that. No, I think she goes because she thinks it’s the right thing to do. Not socially. She doesn’t really care what people think. But she has a strong sense of right and wrong, and she thinks some form of worship is necessary. She’s argued it with me many a time.’

‘Do you know, I think I’d like a chance to meet her.’

‘So she can tell you who really hated the dean?’

‘Partly that, and partly … well, she just sounds like a person I’d like to know.’

‘Nothing easier. I’ll just clear away, and then I’ll ring her up.’

‘I’ll help. This morning would be good for me, if it works for her,’ I added, stacking my breakfast dishes.

‘No, no, that’s my job.’

‘Look, Ruth. I’m still an American at heart. This distinction between hostess and guest – landlady and lodger if you will – just doesn’t work with me. You’ve become a friend. Granted, a friend who happens to be sharing your home with me, and I’m paying you for the privilege because I’m not a sponger, but if you don’t mind, I’ll still act like a friend. Here, if you’ll hand me the tray, the cafetière will fit, too.’

Ruth rolled her eyes but handed me the tray. ‘You are the oddest guest I’ve ever had stay here.’

I grinned. ‘And probably the most troublesome. Can you get the door?’

She flatly refused to let me help load the dishwasher. ‘I despise the thing, but when the house is full it’s a help, I suppose. It’s the inspectors who say I must have one. I must say, I never poisoned any of my family when I was doing the washing-up in the sink, but …’ She shrugged elaborately and continued loading the few plates and cups and cutlery. ‘Now, you go and do whatever you need to do, and I’ll come up as soon as I’ve talked to Caroline.’

I had barely washed my face and brushed my teeth when Ruth was knocking on my door with news that Mrs White would meet me at the cathedral at ten thirty. ‘If that’s not too soon.’

‘That’s perfect. Thank you, thank you. I’ll be off, then.’ I gave Ruth a hug as I headed down the stairs, calling Alan as I went to give him my morning’s itinerary, such as it was.

I was early at the cathedral, but Mrs White was ahead of me. She came out of the shadows, looking at my hat, this time a modest pull-on affair. ‘Knew I’d know you,’ she said without preamble.

‘I know. Nobody except the royals still wears hats. I like them.’

‘Good for you. Do what you want. I always have. Do you want some coffee?’ She gave me a sly smile.

‘Not right now. I’ve had what a southern friend of mine used to call “a gracious plenty” this morning. But I’d be happy to buy you some if you know a place where it’s drinkable.’

‘Don’t drink the stuff. Ruth Stevens tells me you want to know who killed the dean.’

I searched my mind frantically for some misleading response and decided it wasn’t worth the effort, not with this forthright woman. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you know?’

‘No. But I have some ideas. This isn’t the place to talk about it.’

‘No. Too many echoes, and it seems wrong, anyway. But can you show me where he died?’

‘Show you where they found him. Might not be the same, you know.’

‘I do know. My husband is a retired chief constable.’

She made no reply, but led me up the north aisle, past tombs and memorials, some very elaborate, some very ugly. I spared a moment of pity for Dean Brading, who had not been able to strip his church of these offenses to his austere sensibilities.

A turn into the north transept took us to a very small chapel, screened off with a curtain and the usual sign saying it was reserved for private prayer. It was empty, so Mrs White and I were free to talk. She pointed to the altar rail, a simple marble affair of two railings, each set into the wall at the far end and supported by a short marble post in the middle, next to the opening that led to the altar. The posts were square in cross-section, like fence posts, and were topped by two squares of marble, a larger one resting on the post and a smaller one atop that. They had very sharp corners.

‘Was that …?’ I whispered.

‘They don’t know. He was found lying on the kneeler, his head close to one of the posts. No blood on the post or the newels, but there wasn’t much blood anywhere. A bit on the kneeler.’

There was no kneeling pad on the chilly marble now. Presumably they had taken it away for cleaning, or perhaps for replacement.

The atmosphere was oppressive, despite the chill of the place. I turned my head away, and Mrs White followed me out of the chapel. ‘I think I could use that coffee after all,’ I said.

The café was several grades above any Alan or I had found. Bright yellow curtains and tablecloths lent cheer, and the coffee was excellent. Mrs White had tea and a cream bun that looked both delicious and calorie-laden. The room was nearly full, and the gentle buzz of conversation gave us privacy at our corner table.

Nevertheless, I chose my words with care. ‘You said you had some ideas,’ I prompted.

‘He was not a popular man,’ said Mrs White. ‘Lots of enemies. Don’t know if any of them would have gone so far, but some might’ve. I made a list.’

She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out an old envelope, torn at the top. In tiny, cramped handwriting on the back were three paragraphs. Each seemed to be headed with a name, followed by a few words I couldn’t decipher at all.

Mrs White watched me squinting and moving the envelope closer to my eyes. She snorted. ‘I forgot Americans can never read English handwriting.’

By now I thought I had the measure of this woman. ‘It’s my belief no one on this earth could read this writing.’ I said it with a smile, and, to my relief, she smiled back.

‘A trifle small, perhaps. I thought of it just before I left home, and the only paper I could lay hands on right then was that envelope.’

‘Can’t you just tell me?’

Her eyes scanned the room. ‘More discreet this way. Get Ruth Stevens to read it to you.’

‘I will, and then I’ll copy it. But could you at least give me a brief rundown? I’m not going to be in Chelton very long, and I want to check out these people.’