Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (6 page)

‘I also know,’ she said, ‘that neither of you can keep yourselves out of any juicy murder that remotely concerns you. Is that what you’re really doing in London?’

I tried hard to keep a straight face. ‘The secretary of the commission sent Alan to get to know Mr Lovelace.’

‘I’m sure he did. And if the two of you just happen to stumble across something that incriminates him, you’ll be ever so surprised. And I, incidentally, will be ever so pleased.’

‘Now, exactly what do you mean by that?’

‘Later. After you’ve seen for yourself.’

Daily Evensong is a fixture in most big London churches, some of them having very fine choirs indeed. Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s are usually jammed with tourists for the service, but I didn’t know what to expect at St Barnabas’, which was in a neighbourhood that could charitably be described as ‘mixed’. I was glad for Alan’s solid, reassuring presence as we walked from the nearest Tube station, some distance away.

‘Maybe we should have taken a taxi,’ I said dubiously.

‘Not a taxi sort of area, love.’

We walked on. ‘Tell me what else you know about Mr Lovelace,’ I said to Alan.

‘I don’t want to prejudice you.’

‘That means you don’t like him. Tell me anyway. I know how to make up my own mind.’

‘Well.’ Alan paused to organize his thoughts. ‘Our dean doesn’t care for him, if I’m reading between the lines properly. He didn’t tell me much after his visit, for the same reason I ought not to tell you anything at all.’

I gave him a look.

‘Yes, all right. I’m told he preaches compelling sermons and inspires a loyal band of volunteers, who do amazing work amongst the poor in the neighbourhood of the church. The parish is said to be growing rapidly, in a time of declining church attendance nationally. We’ve also learned that he has some friends in high places.’

I made a face.

‘Yes, he’s an unabashed politician. But the Church is very politicized these days, and someone who knows how to tread the halls of power without stepping on too many toes can be a real asset to any diocese. Not that he’s entirely avoided treading on toes, judging by some of the emails we’ve received. You know I can’t tell you exactly what the writers have against him, but some of the accusations have verged on the hysterical.’

‘Oh, dear! He sounds horrible.’

‘Then I’ve given you the wrong impression, love. Kenneth says the man has that quality that used to be called charismatic.’

‘I don’t care for that sort. I’ve always distrusted charm.’

‘We’ll soon see for ourselves, my dear.’

The shops that lined the pavements as we walked from the Tube station were small and rather tacky, selling used electronics, cheap clothing, and the like. A few newsagent/tobacconist shops looked dreary and unprosperous. A payday loan establishment, on the other hand, was plainly doing a roaring business. Several shops were empty, the papers pasted over the windows torn and dirty. Beggars stood at corners hawking copies of
The Big Issue
, the chronicle of the poor and homeless.

‘Urban blight,’ Alan commented.

‘The Archbishop should get on that loan place,’ I muttered. ‘A scourge.’ For the Archbishop of Canterbury had launched a campaign against the loan businesses that prey on the poor, with their ruinous interest rates and crippling fees. He proposed setting up small banks actually in the churches, combining low-interest loans with financial counselling, an interesting idea certain to meet with fierce opposition.

As we neared the church, however, the appearance of the neighbourhood began to improve. Several small restaurants, mostly serving Asian food of one nationality or another, looked clean and inviting. The streets and pavements were free of rubbish. No obvious beggars were present; the pedestrians seemed clean and decently dressed.

‘We were told,’ said Alan quietly, ‘that Lovelace has done a great deal of good in his parish. Now I believe it.’

‘Jane said it was his staff who did all the work.’

‘Hmm. Well, whoever has done it, it’s good work.’

The church itself, as we approached it, was large but not at all attractive. Built of red brick with dirty white granite trim, it was typical Victorian grim in style. Its architect had apparently leaned toward the Old Testament school of religion, the God of wrath, the sort who, as a schoolboy is reputed to have put it, ‘watched to see if you were doing anything fun and put a stop to it’. The forecourt, of unadorned paving stones, was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence topped with spikes, and the gate, though wide open at the moment, had a large and business-like padlock attached to the hasp.

‘Brrr,’ I said as we turned to enter.

‘Indeed.’

‘Are we going to introduce ourselves to him?’

‘Perhaps after the service.’

The bells began to ring for the service just then, and I was surprised to find them melodious, in tune and well rung. I was surprised, too, to see a steady stream of worshippers turn in at the gates and move toward the door. There weren’t hundreds of them, but in an area of working people, it was heartening to find more than a handful of old ladies to attend a church service at three thirty in the afternoon.

Inside, the church was comfortably warm. I looked at Alan in surprise. Virtually all English churches house a chill that even the warmest summer day seems unable to dispel. He nudged me and pointed to the base of the wall. Under each window sat a low electric heater, in the style of American ‘baseboard’ heating.

Good grief. Central heating in a huge church. Amazing!

For the church was huge, the vaulted roof high overhead, the nave wide. Even the clutter of tombs and memorials that spoils the proportions of any old church couldn’t destroy the impression of immensity. It was not beautiful. Actually, the pseudo-Romanesque styling reminded me of a railway station with garish stained-glass windows. But it was undeniably impressive.

A verger was directing people to the front pews – pews, not chairs, I noted – and I exchanged glances with Alan again. Apparently, they expected a large congregation that needed to be properly seated.

And the expectation was fulfilled. The stream of people grew, slowly and then more rapidly, so that by the time the bells ceased their clamorous invitation nearly a third of the church was full. The worshippers were of all ages and descriptions, from the predictable old ladies, most of them white, to young Pakistani mothers with their babies, to Chinese couples, young and old, to young black men. My surprise had by now turned to astonishment. This simply couldn’t be happening in an inner-city London church in the twenty-first century. I pinched myself, but the crowd was still there.

The organ struck up a voluntary, and yet again I looked at Alan. I had thought I was beyond surprise, but instead of the reedy sound I’d expected, this was the glorious full-throated sound of a proper pipe organ. I looked around for the pipes.

‘Electronic,’ Alan whispered in my ear, pointing to a speaker high overhead. ‘Not bad, eh?’

Then the choir entered on an opening hymn, and it was more like what I had expected. Obviously not professional, the choir was mixed, with women taking the place of the boys of the usual cathedral choir. But they sang on key, they sang enthusiastically, and the congregation joined them with a will. I watched them file into their pews to one side of the altar, not a formal quire as in a Gothic church, but adequate for their needs. The singers were led by a verger and followed by a clergyman in cassock, snowy surplice, and stole. The rector, presumably.

He turned around to face us, and I was stunned. The man was gorgeous. There is simply no other word for it. His silver hair, thick and wavy, set off a tanned face with eyes that rivalled Paul Newman’s: blue, blue, blue. His smile was enough to light up the church, even had the sun not been shining through those ugly windows. He moved with a springy grace that positively radiated energy and belied the evidence of his hair. Surely he was prematurely grey? This had to be a young man, or youngish, anyway.

He spread his arms wide. ‘Welcome, brothers and sisters! God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.’

From the moment of that simple and familiar sentence, I was mesmerized. The Reverend Geoffrey Lovelace’s voice matched his appearance – deep, warm, compelling. It forced me to really listen to the words of the service rather than just repeat them by rote. His voice was actually more musical than the choir’s music. They sang short, simple settings of the Psalms and canticles, and did them competently, but I waited impatiently for them to stop, so I could listen again to the rector.

At last he ascended to the pulpit, and an expectant hush spread through the church. The congregation, too, had eagerly awaited this moment.

He repeated his opening gesture and words. ‘Welcome, my brothers and sisters, welcome. Whether friend or stranger, you have come to a place of healing, a place where all may bring their broken and troubled lives and be made whole. Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He said, “My peace I leave with you.” St Paul spoke of the “peace that surpasses all understanding”. We live in troubling times, my friends. We all have pain in our lives. We must seek the peace, the rest, that Jesus has promised us, and it is my job to help you find it.’

I hung on every golden syllable. This, I felt, was a man who could change my life, a man who could work miracles. He spoke of new directions for the neighbourhood, new initiatives from St Barnabas’ Church. I didn’t care what he said. He could have recited lists of laws and rules from Leviticus, and I would still have listened in awe.

At last he pronounced the blessing and there was a final hymn. Choir and clergy filed out in procession while the organ played a postlude, and Alan took my arm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

He sounded urgent. I would have stayed to listen to that remarkable organ, but I rose and followed him out.

‘I thought you wanted to meet the rector. Alan, slow down!’ I was panting to keep up with his long stride.

‘Sorry, love, but it’s good to breathe some fresh air.’

‘But, Alan …’

He gave me rather a grim smile and, taking my elbow, steered me up the street to a respectable-looking, if rather plain, pub.

When he had fetched pints for both of us and brought them to the scarred table, I said, ‘All right. What’s eating you?’

He downed a large quaff of beer and sighed with satisfaction. ‘Ahh. That’s better. I’d had a bellyful of the Reverend Mr Lovelace.’

I frowned in disappointment. ‘I was actually rather impressed. He’s such a powerful speaker.’

‘Is he? What did he say?’

‘Alan, you heard him! He talked about peace, and the needs of this area, and … well, I can’t quite remember everything offhand, but I know he was good.’

‘Anything about Christian love? Redemption? Loving God and one’s neighbour? Anything about Easter, recently past, or Whitsunday, soon to come?’

‘I tell you I don’t remember the details.’ I sipped my beer and tried to remember just what Mr Lovelace had, in fact, said, and my mind began to clear. ‘I think I begin to see what you mean,’ I said slowly after some reflection. ‘He didn’t actually say anything very specific, did he?’

‘Except for rather a lot about how much he’d done for the parish. Oh, he used the word “we”, but it was obviously the royal, singular “we”. He also mentioned, fairly subtly, how much more he could do if the parishioners would only shell out a bit more cash. And you lapped it up, didn’t you?’

I opened my mouth to utter an indignant reply, but it died on my lips. Yes, I had indeed ‘lapped it up’.

Later, back at the Andersons’, I was rueful. ‘I’m more than a little annoyed with myself.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m not usually susceptible to a flim-flam artist. I’m feeling very stupid.’

‘Don’t,’ said Lynn. ‘I was taken in at first, too. Tom and I had heard so much about him, we went one Sunday, and I thought he was marvellous for about five minutes. I think he employs a form of mass hypnotism, actually.’

‘I admit the thought that came to my mind when I first heard his voice was “mesmerized”. But I’ve always thought I was one of those people who can’t be hypnotized.’

‘You probably can’t,’ said Alan, ‘not when you have any idea what’s happening. You have a strong will, so you set yourself against anyone who tries to manipulate your mind. But in this case you had been lulled into a receptive mood by music and the soothing, familiar words of the service. You were open to suggestion. And the fellow has a golden voice and uses it, I have to admit, to maximum advantage.’

‘So why didn’t you succumb?’ I still felt stupid and, illogically, annoyed with Alan.

Alan covered my hand with his. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, love. I didn’t succumb, as you put it, because, for one, I’m a male. A honey-voiced Greek god has limited appeal for me. Second, I’m a policeman, trained to look behind a façade. What I saw beyond his wasn’t very pretty. And third, I remembered what Kenneth had said about the man’s “charisma”, so I was on my guard.’

Lynn said, ‘Tom was livid with the man that one time we went, said he was an Elmer Gantry of the worst sort. He wasn’t very happy when the man ended up on your shortlist, Alan, and if we’d known you were on the commission, I imagine you’d have heard from him. We’re not C of E, and we don’t even go to church all that often, but the man has ambitions, and we’d hate to see him get to be Archbishop. Anyway, enough of that. What will you have to drink?’

After a leisurely cocktail hour and dinner, Tom and Lynn asked about our plans for the next day. ‘I trust you’re not rushing back on the first train,’ said Lynn. ‘Because I thought you and I could do some shopping. There are some new spring hats at Harrods you’d adore, Dorothy.’

‘You know quite well I can’t afford their hats, and I don’t need a new one, anyway.’

‘When did that ever have anything to do with it?’ asked Alan. ‘A hat is not an object that one needs, except in the coldest of weather, and very few of yours, my dear, are made so as to keep your ears warm. Here’s my credit card. Go and buy yourself a spectacular hat, and we’ll call it your birthday present.’