The Black Seraphim (11 page)

“Do I gather that you don’t approve of pathologists?”

Dr McHarg regarded him with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. He said, “You mustn’t derive general propositions from parteecular instances. I happen to think nothing of the pathologist from South Wessex who would have made the examination if one had to be made. Dr Brian Barkworth—” McHarg leaned heavily on the double letter B “—was a student at Guy’s with me. He had very little knowledge at the time he qualified, and such knowledge as he did have has been dimeenishing steadily over the past forty years. Speaking for myself, I wouldna trust him to do an autopsy on a dead field mouse.”

“Guy’s has produced one good pathologist.”

“You’ll be meaning Dr Summerson. I’d agree with that. I haird him lecture recently on odontological identification. A lucid mind. I must be off. One of the boys is reported to have a stomachache. When I was a boy, stomachaches were treated with gregory powder. I mind the filthy taste yet. Maybe that was why we didna complain about stomachaches. That’s a guid example of preventative medicine for you.”

Dr McHarg stumped off.

When James got back to the school cottage, he found Bill Williams waiting for him. His face was red and it was clear that he was upset. He said, “Look here, I want you to help me.”

“Do what I can,” said James cautiously. “What’s up?”

“That shit Gloag has given Phil Rosewarn his tickets.”

James had to think for a moment. Then he remembered the scene in the bar of the Black Lion. He said, “Why on earth? Philip wasn’t involved in that.”

“He wasn’t involved, but he heard what happened.
And
he’s a friend of mine. That was enough to damn him.”

“Surely he can’t just turn him out. He’d have to give some reason.”

“He doesn’t have to give reasons. Phil was taken on for a trial period. All Gloag’s got to say is that he isn’t up to the work. Which is bloody nonsense. I happen to know that he’s done some damn good work.”

“So what do you propose to do about it?”

Bill had calmed down a little by now. He sat on the edge of the table, swinging his legs. He said, “We can’t make Gloag take Phil back. That’s for sure. But we can make him wish he’d never sacked him. I had a word with our editor, Edwin Fisher. The
Times,
as you may have noticed, is running the Fletcher’s Piece business and supporting the Archdeacon. I understand they’ve got a thundering editorial coming out on it tomorrow. Heavy type and biblical quotations. The obvious thing would be to come out on the other side, but Fisher says: ‘No. Don’t chase other people’s hares for them. Start one of your own.’ What we’re going to do is exhume an old one.”

“Your metaphors are getting a bit mixed. If it’s a dead hare, you can’t chase it.”

“Certainly we can. This is a drag hunt. We draw a piece of stinking meat across the track and the hounds all set off on a different trail.”

“All right. Where do I come into it?”

“It struck me you were just the chap to help. You know the people and you’ve got lots of time.”

“Don’t break it to me gently.”

“I want you to find out exactly what Gloag and his pals paid Mrs Henn-Christie for her property and what they paid Mrs Piper to get out.”

“From which I gather that you’re reviving the supermarket affair.”

“Right.”

“And Mrs Piper, I seem to recall, is the old lady who had the only remaining shop. Where do I find her?”

“She used the compensation money to open another little shop. On the other side of the road outside Bishop’s Gate. Then you will help? That’s very sporting of you.”

“I’ll think about it,” said James.

Bill evidently took this as signifying assent. He said, “That’s splendid. I’ve got to dash.” He sprinted off down the path and James heard his motorcycle roaring into life. He then began to wonder just what he had undertaken and how he could set about it. He needed a plausible excuse for calling, and a reason for discussing their private financial affairs with one old lady he hardly knew and another he did not know at all.

He tried out some possible openings.

“I must apologise for presuming on such a slight acquaintance—” or perhaps, “Money, I know, is an embarrassing topic—”

He was still thinking about this when there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, he found Mrs Henn-Christie standing there. She said, “I do hope you’ll excuse me for presuming on having met you socially, Dr Scotland, but I’m worried and I think you may be able to help me.”

“Come in.”

“Thank you. You’re sure I’m not interrupting something?”

“Not a bit. Won’t you sit down?”

“I’d have gone to Dr McHarg, but I’m certain he’d have been off-putting. He’s so—what should I say?—abrupt.”

“He has got a certain Scottish brusqueness. But I’m sure he’d listen sympathetically to anything you told him. After all, he is your doctor and there’s some ethical difficulty—”

Mrs Henn-Christie was not to be diverted. She said, “This isn’t a medical problem. And it isn’t my problem. It’s Canon Maude. He thinks he’s going mad.”

James was lacking in experience, but he had been a doctor long enough not to say anything silly. He said, “Are you sure?”

“Not sure that he is, no. But sure that he thinks he is. He told me so.”

“I should say that’s an encouraging sign.”

“Oh, why?”

“There are two things to remember about people who really are insane. The first is that they have no idea about it themselves. In the ordinary way when someone says, ‘I think I’m going mad,’ he means that he finds himself forgetting things he ought to remember or behaving illogically. If he really
was
mad, he wouldn’t have noticed anything wrong.”

“I suppose not,” said Mrs Henn-Christie doubtfully. “What’s the other thing?”

“That’s even simpler. A madman is no longer capable of doing his job properly. You’ve seen Canon Maude in Cathedral. Does he still seem to be functioning all right?”

“Yes. I suppose he is. He took Evensong yesterday and he did it all right. We never get a large congregation at weekday services, so we all sit up in the Choir and I should certainly have noticed if there’d been anything wrong. In fact, I remember thinking that he read the lesson rather better than usual. It was the one about Elijah slaying four hundred and fifty of the prophets of Baal by the brook Kishon.”

The thought brought a glint into Mrs Henn-Christie’s eye. James seized the opportunity deftly. He said, “I often think it’s a pity we can’t use such direct methods with the prophets of Baal today. You were telling me at tea about that man Gloag—”

Five minutes later he had the whole story.

“Two thousand pounds was his first offer. Can you believe it? Well, I mayn’t know a lot about land values, but I wasn’t falling for that. I had a word with Henry Brookes. I wanted him to handle it for me. He’d sold his practice, but I knew he kept an eye on the market and at least he’s honest. He said, ‘Don’t take a penny less than five thousand.’”

“And that’s what you got?”

“In the end. Of course, it turned out to be worth a great deal more, but I’m not blaming Henry for that. He didn’t know the traffic was going to be diverted. That’s what made all the difference.”

“Did it occur to you to consult your solicitor?”

“No. Ought I to have done?”

“I imagine he’s a local man. He’d have his ear to the ground.”

Mrs Henn-Christie thought about this. She said, “If I’d gone to anyone, it would have been Elliot Macindoe. He’s good, but he’s expensive. I didn’t see any reason to involve him. It was just a matter of fixing the price and being paid the money.”

James agreed with her, uttered a few more comforting words about Canon Maude and went in search of Mrs Piper. He found her in the room behind her small shop and she needed neither excuse nor encouragement.

“That Gloag,” she said, “he must have thought I was soft in the head.”

She did not look soft. She looked cheerful and spry.

“You’d hardly credit it, but he came right into the shop – not this one, the shop I had in Station Road – forty years I’d been there – and offered me two hundred pounds to clear out. Slapped it down on the counter, just as if he’d been buying twenty cigarettes.”

“And what did you say?”

“What did I say? I said, ‘You must be joking.’ He said he wasn’t joking. The place was going to be pulled down and two hundred pounds was better than nothing at all. I told him he was wasting his time. When he saw I meant what I said, he raised the price a bit. Creeping up, like, by fifty and a hundred pounds a time until he got to five hundred. ‘That’s my last offer,’ he said, banging his fist on the counter. Quite angry he was by this time and shouting. ‘I’m staying here until you accept it.’ He’d brought a bit of paper with him he wanted me to sign. ‘You’re
not
staying here,’ I said. ‘This is a shop and unless you’re planning to buy a box of boiled sweets or maybe a packet of Gold Flake, there’s only one place for you and that’s out in the street.’ ‘I’m not going until you sign,’ he said, ‘not if I have to stay here all day. Let’s make it five hundred and fifty.’ Well, luckily, my son was home on leave. He’s a physical instructor in the Army. He’d heard the shouting and banging and came in from the back room and said, ‘What’s up, Ma?’ And I said, ‘I asked this gentleman, quite polite, to leave the shop and he won’t go.’ ‘Oh, won’t he?’ says my son, looking him up and down. That was all he said. ‘Oh, won’t he?’”

Mrs Piper gave a throaty chuckle as she recalled the scene.

“And he went.”

“With his tail between his legs. But, of course, that wasn’t the end of it. He started writing letters. I didn’t answer them. I took them round to Mr Macindoe.”

“That’d be Elliot Macindoe?”

“That’s right. Porter, Pallance and Macindoe. They look after the Cathedral business. A very nice firm. Mr Macindoe said, ‘You’ve got him over a barrel, Mrs Piper. You leave it to me.’ A bit later he came to see me. Right into the shop. A very nice gentleman, Mr Macindoe. He said, ‘What’d you say to four thousand pounds? It’d be enough to buy you the lease of a little property in East Street, behind the Cathedral, and pay your moving expenses and something over.’ ‘You handle it for me, Mr Macindoe,’ I said, ‘and then I know it’ll be done proper.’ And so it was.”

James thanked Mrs Piper warmly, admired a photograph of her son, who looked capable of dealing with any number of Gloags, bought a packet of cigarettes and walked back to the Close. As he walked, he was doing sums. If the Gloag gang paid £5,000 for the freehold and £4,000 to the redoubtable Mrs Piper and maybe another £1,000 in expenses, that involved an outlay of £10,000. Nothing, really, split between a group of businessmen. If they sold the plot, as rumour had it, to the supermarket for a figure near £100,000, that would have given them an ample float for their next venture, Fletcher’s Piece. And every inducement to push ahead with it. Success breeds success.

By this time he had reached the Close and was walking up the broad path which ran between the school playing field and the flank of the Cathedral. The single bell had started tolling for morning service. A file of choristers in their cloaks and square black caps swung out of the school building and across into the diagonal path leading to the north door. They stared steadily ahead of themselves. James watched them until the porch had swallowed them. Here came Canon Humphrey, hurrying from the West Canonry, to take the service, followed by a group of theological students from the college and two old ladies. A normal weekday congregation.

Two hawks were circling the base of the spire, volplaning down the wind currents set up by the mass of the building.

James was watching them so closely that he nearly collided with Amanda, who said severely, “Birdwatching. At your age.”

“Aren’t hawks lovely?”

“The pigeons don’t think so. You haven’t forgotten that we’re going for a walk this afternoon. Half past two start.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” said James.

He hadn’t forgotten. He had been thinking about it a good deal.

The next person he met was Dora Brookes, coming through the High Street Gate encumbered with the results of her shopping. He relieved her of one of the bags and fell in beside her. She said, “I like to do most of the week’s shopping on Thursday if I can. By Friday the shops are beginning to get crowded, and on Saturdays, of course, they’re impossible. It’s very kind of you. I do hope I’m not taking you out of your way.”

“I haven’t got a way,” said James. “I’m a drone, not a worke”Henry was telling me that you’d been overdoing things and had been ordered to have a lay-off. I only wish I could get him to do the same. When he had his estate agent business – particularly toward the end, when things were all going wrong – I got very worried about him. He was smoking too much and he used to come home in the evenings looking like nothing on earth and collapse into a chair. I had to coax him to eat a bit of supper and pack him off to bed. Not that it did much good, because he used to lie awake half the night. He didn’t tell me how serious things were, because he didn’t want to worry me. Bless the man, if he’d told me, it would have been much easier for both of us. Then, about two years ago it was, Gloag came along with his offer. It wasn’t very generous, but it cleared off the old debts and let him get out just the right side of the ledger. And when I was wondering what we were going to live on, this job came along and I thought all our troubles were over.” Mrs Brookes laughed, but not bitterly. “And so they were, for a time. There now, I’ve taken you right out of your way. Would you care to come in and have a cup of coffee?”

James said he would like to do this. It was not that he was fond of coffee, but he thought that anything he could learn about the troubles in the Close might be valuable and Mrs Brookes was clearly itching to talk.

As soon as they were settled down with their coffee, she went on from exactly the point at which she had left off. “First it was Archdeacon Henn-Christie dying. Henry never had any trouble with him. ‘He does his job, I do mine,’ he used to say. Then Dean Lupton retiring. He died soon after. All within two or three months. And there we were, all of a sudden, in a real old tangle.” Mrs Brookes spread her hands as though she was demonstrating a piece of knitting that had gone astray. “We got Dean Forrest and Archdeacon Pawle. Mind you, I’m not saying that one’s all wrong and the other all right. They’re both strong-minded men. Left to themselves, they might get on quite well. It was having them both here together that was so difficult. And it won’t be any easier now that Tom Lister has gone. They both respected him. There’s to be a Chapter tomorrow to rearrange the duties until they can get a replacement.”