Death in Holy Orders (33 page)

“My husband was not welcome in this place, Commander, but I know that no one at St. Anselm’s could possibly have killed him. I refuse to believe that a member of a Christian community could be capable of such evil.”

Dalgliesh said, “This is a question I have to ask. Had your husband any enemies, anyone who might wish him harm?”

“No. He was much respected in the parish. One might say that he was loved, although it wasn’t a word he would have used. He was a good, compassionate and conscientious parish priest, and he never spared himself. I don’t know whether anyone has told you that he was a widower when we married. His first wife committed suicide. She was a very beautiful but disturbed woman and he was greatly in love with her. The tragedy affected him deeply, but he had come through it. He was learning how to be happy. We were happy together. It’s cruel that all his hopes should come to this.”

Dalgliesh said, “You said that he wasn’t welcome at St. Anselm’s. Was this because of theological differences, or were there other reasons? Did he discuss his visit here with you?”

“He discussed everything with me, Commander, everything that hadn’t been told him in confidence as a clergyman. He felt that St. Anselm’s had outgrown its usefulness. He wasn’t the only one who felt that. I think even Father Sebastian realizes that the college is an anomaly and will have to close. There were differences of churchmanship, of course, which didn’t make things any easier. And then, I expect you know about the problem of Father John Betterton.”

Dalgliesh said carefully, “I gained the impression that there was a problem but I don’t know the details.”

“It’s an old and rather tragic story. Some years ago Father Betterton was found guilty of sexual offences against some of his choirboys and was sentenced to prison. My husband uncovered part of the evidence and was a witness at the trial. We weren’t married at the time—it was shortly after his first wife’s death—but I know it caused him much distress. He did what he saw as his duty and it caused him a great deal of pain.”

Dalgliesh privately thought that the greater pain had been suffered by Father John.

He said, “Did your husband say anything to you before coming on this visit, anything to suggest that he might have arranged to meet someone here or that he had reason to suppose that this visit would be particularly difficult?”

“No, nothing. I’m sure no meeting was arranged other than with the people here. He wasn’t looking forward to the week-end but he wasn’t dreading it either.”

“And had he been in touch with you since he arrived yesterday?”

“No, he hadn’t telephoned and I wouldn’t have expected him to. The only call I had apart from parish business was from the diocesan office. Apparently they’d lost my husband’s mobile-phone number and wanted it for the records.”

“What time was this call?”

“Quite late. I was surprised, because it must have been after the office was closed. It was just before half-past nine on Saturday.”

“Did you speak to the person who rang? Was it a man or a woman?”

“It sounded like a man. I thought at the time that it was a man, although I couldn’t swear to it. No, I didn’t really speak except to give the number. He just said thank you and rang off at once.”

Of course he did, thought Dalgliesh. He wouldn’t want to speak an unnecessary word. All he wanted was the number he could get in no other way, the number he would ring that night from the church to summon the Archdeacon to his death. Wasn’t this the answer to one of the problems at the heart of the
case? If Crampton had been lured to the church by a call on his mobile, how had the caller discovered the number? It wouldn’t be difficult to trace that nine-thirty call, and the result could be damning for someone at St. Anselm’s. But there still remained a mystery. The murderer—better still, think of him as Cain—wasn’t unintelligent. This crime had been carefully planned. Wouldn’t Cain have expected Dalgliesh to speak to Mrs. Crampton? Wasn’t it possible—no, more than possible—that the telephone call would come to light? Another possibility occurred to Dalgliesh. Could this have been precisely what Cain had intended?

A
fter the fingerprinting, Emma collected some papers she needed from her guest set and was setting off for the library when she heard quick footsteps in the south cloister and Raphael caught up with her.

He said, “There’s something I want to ask you. Is this a good time?”

Emma was about to say, “If it isn’t going to take too long,” but after a glance at his face, stopped herself. She didn’t know whether he was seeking comfort but he certainly looked in need of it. She said instead, “It’s a good time. But haven’t you a tutorial with Father Peregrine?”

“That’s postponed. I’ve been sent for by the police. I’m on my way now to be grilled. That’s why I needed to see you. I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to tell Dalgliesh that we were together last night? After eleven o’clock’s the crucial time. I’ve got an alibi of sorts until then.”

“Together where?”

“In your set or mine. I suppose I’m asking if you’d say that we slept together last night.”

Emma stopped walking and turned to face him. She said, “No I wouldn’t! Raphael, what an extraordinary thing to ask. You’re not usually so crass.”

“But not an extraordinary thing to do—or is it?”

She began striding quickly ahead but he kept pace with her. She said, “Look, I don’t love you and I’m not in love with you.”

He broke in, “That’s a nice distinction. But you might just think it possible. The idea might not utterly repel you.”

Emma turned to face him. “Raphael, if I had slept with you
last night I wouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. But I didn’t, I wouldn’t and I shan’t lie. Apart from the morality of lying, it would be stupid and dangerous. Do you think it would deceive Adam Dalgliesh for a moment? Even if I were a good liar—and I’m not—he’d know. It’s his business to know. D’you want him to think you killed the Archdeacon?”

“He probably thinks it already. The alibi I’ve got isn’t worth much. I went to keep Peter company to help him through the storm, but he was asleep before midnight and I could easily have crept out. I expect that’s what Dalgliesh will believe I did do.”

Emma said, “Assuming he does suspect you—which I doubt—he’ll certainly do so more strongly if you start fabricating an alibi. It’s so unlike you, Raphael. It’s stupid, pathetic and insulting to both of us. Why?”

“Perhaps I wanted to find out what you thought of the idea in principle.”

She said, “You don’t sleep with a man in principle, you sleep with him in the flesh.”

“And, of course, Father Sebastian wouldn’t like it.”

He had spoken with casual irony, but Emma didn’t miss the note of bitterness in his voice.

She said, “Of course he wouldn’t. You’re one of his ordinands and I’m a guest here. Even if I wanted to sleep with you—which I don’t—it would be a breach of good manners.”

That made him laugh, but the sound was harsh. He said, “Good manners! Yes, I suppose that’s a consideration. It’s the first time I’ve been turned down with that excuse. The etiquette of sexual morality. Perhaps we should introduce a seminar into the ethics syllabus.”

She asked again, “But why, Raphael? You must have known what answer you’d get.”

“It’s just that I thought that if I could make you like me—or perhaps even love me a little—I wouldn’t be in such a muddle. Everything would be all right.”

She said more kindly, “But it wouldn’t. If life is a muddle we can’t look for love to make it all come right.”

“But people do.”

They were standing together in silence outside the south
door. Emma turned to go in. Suddenly Raphael stopped and took her hand and, bending, kissed her on the cheek. He said, “I’m sorry, Emma. I knew it was no good really. I just had a dream. Please forgive me.”

He turned, and she watched him striding back through the cloister and waited until he had passed through the iron gate. She let herself into the college, confused and unhappy. Could she have been more sympathetic, more understanding? Did he want to confide and should she have encouraged him? But if things were going wrong for him—and she thought they were—what use was it looking to someone else to put them right? But in one sense hadn’t she done just that herself with Giles? Tired of the importunities, the demands for love, the jealousies and rivalries, hadn’t she decided that Giles, with his status, his strength, his intelligence, could provide her with at least a semblance of commitment so that she could be left alone to get on with that part of her life which she valued most, her work? She knew now that it had been a mistake. It had been worse than a mistake, it had been wrong. After she returned to Cambridge she would be honest with him. It wasn’t going to be an agreeable parting—Giles wasn’t used to rejection—but she wouldn’t think further about it now. That future trauma was nothing compared to the tragedy at St. Anselm’s, of which inescapably she was a part.

J
ust before twelve o’clock Father Sebastian rang Father Martin, who was sitting in the library marking essays, and asked if he might have a word. This was his usual practice, to telephone personally. From the first days of his taking over as Warden he had been careful never to summon his predecessor through an ordinand or a member of staff; the new and very different reign would not be marked by a tactless exercise of authority. For most men the prospect of a previous Warden staying on in residence and in a part-time teaching post would have been to invite disaster. It had always been considered seemly for the outgoing Warden not only to depart in well-organized dignity, but to take himself as far as possible from the college. But the arrangement with Father Martin, originally intended to be temporary to cover the unexpected departure of the lecturer in pastoral theology, had continued by mutual consent to the satisfaction of both parties. Father Sebastian had shown no inhibition or embarrassment in occupying his predecessor’s stall in church, taking over and reorganizing his office and sitting in his place at head of table, nor in introducing the changes he had carefully planned. Father Martin, unresentful and a little amused, perfectly understood. It would never have occurred to Father Sebastian that any predecessor could be a threat either to his authority or to his innovations. He neither confided in Father Martin nor consulted him. If he wanted information about administrative details, he got them from the files or from his secretary. The most confident of men, he could probably have accommodated the Archbishop of Canterbury on his staff in a junior capacity without difficulty.

The relationship between him and Father Martin was one of
trust and respect and, on Father Martin’s part, of affection. As he had always found difficulty during his own stewardship in believing that he was in fact Warden, he accepted his successor with goodwill and some relief. And if he sometimes hankered a little wistfully for a warmer relationship, it was not one he could envisage. But now, seated by invitation in his customary chair by the fireplace and watching Father Sebastian’s unusual restlessness, he was uneasily aware that something was needed from him—reassurance, advice or just the mutual sympathy of shared anxiety. He sat very still and, closing his eyes, murmured a brief prayer.

Father Sebastian stopped his pacing and said, “Mrs. Crampton left ten minutes ago. It was a painful interview.” He added, “Painful for both of us.”

Father Martin said, “It could not have been otherwise.”

He thought he detected in the Warden’s voice a small peevish note of resentment that the Archdeacon had compounded his previous delinquencies by so inconsiderately getting himself murdered under their roof. The thought sparked off another, even more disgracefully irreverent thought. What would Lady Macbeth have said to Duncan’s widow had that lady come to Inverness Castle to view the body? “A deplorable affair, madam, which my husband and I deeply regret. It was a most successful visit until then. We did all we could to make His Majesty comfortable.” Father Martin was amazed and shaken that an idea so perversely inappropriate could have come into his mind. He must, he thought, be getting light-headed.

Father Sebastian said, “She insisted on being taken to the church to see where her husband died. Unwise, I thought, but Commander Dalgliesh gave in. She was adamant that she wanted him, not me, to accompany her. It was inappropriate but I thought it expedient not to protest. Of course it must mean that she saw the
Doom
. If Dalgliesh can trust her to keep quiet about the vandalism, why not trust my staff?”

Father Martin didn’t like to say that Mrs. Crampton wasn’t a suspect and they were.

Father Sebastian, as if suddenly aware of his restlessness, came and sat opposite his colleague. “I was unhappy about her
driving home alone and suggested that Stephen Morby might accompany her. Of course it would have been inconvenient. He would have had to take the train back and then a taxi from Lowestoft. However, she preferred to be alone. I did ask if she would like to stay to lunch. She could have had it served quietly here or in my flat. The dining-room would hardly have been suitable.”

Father Martin silently agreed. It would have been an uncomfortable meal, with Mrs. Crampton sitting among the suspects and being politely passed the potatoes, perhaps by her husband’s murderer.

The Warden said, “I’m afraid I failed her. One uses well-worn phrases on these occasions but they cease to make any sense, just a mutter of commonplace sounds with no reference to faith or meaning.”

Father Martin said, “Whatever you said, Father, no one could have done it better. There are occasions that go beyond words.”

Mrs. Crampton, he thought, would hardly have welcomed, or indeed needed, Father Sebastian’s encouragement to Christian fortitude or his reminder of Christian hope.

Father Sebastian shifted uneasily in his chair, then willed himself into stillness. “I said nothing to Mrs. Crampton about my altercation with her husband in the church yesterday afternoon. It would have caused her additional distress and could have done no possible good. I regret it deeply. It is distressing to know that the Archdeacon died with such anger in his heart. It was hardly a state of grace—for either of us.”