The Black Seraphim (13 page)

“Red currant jelly with it, sir?”

“Thank you,” said James, “I think I’d rather have mint sauce.”

Why had she confided in him? A number of explanations occurred to him, some more flattering than others. She was a serious girl. No doubt about that. With very definite ideas about life – and death. She was also, probably, still a virgin. Though damned nearly not. Damned nearly deflowered and dead. He visualised her father watching silently while his enemies destroyed themselves. What had she said about that? If he had done such a thing for his Church, it would have been justified. But not to save his own daughter. He had regarded
that
as a sin which merited penance. That was a hard, bitter philosophy.

“Will you take the sweet, sir?

“Will you take the sweet, sir?”

“I’ll have the raspberries.”

“With some cream?”

“Yes, I’d like some cream.”

By the time he had finished his second cup of coffee, he was alone in the dining room and the waiters were beginning to lay the tables for breakfast. He paid his bill and strolled out into the street. It was a black, heavy night. The moon and stars were hidden by an overcast sky. Not a night when sleep would come easily. He decided to make a gentle detour to the south of the town to stretch his legs. By the time this leisurely circuit had brought him to the River Gate, it was shut. The Bishop’s Gate would be shut too. He would have to circle the Close wall widdershins to reach the High Street Gate. By the time he got there, it was a few minutes short of eleven and he was surprised to find the Close Constable absent from his post. Mullins was usually waiting inside the gate to count in the latecomers and close the gate as soon as the last of his flock was inside.

A short cut across the school playing field brought James to the north front of the Cathedral. Here he stopped. There was a light showing, shining out through the clerestory window. It was a single light and he guessed that it must come from the organ loft. A moment later this was confirmed. He heard the sound of the organ being played. It could only be Paul Wren. Paul had, he knew, a private key of the cloister door and sometimes practised in the evenings, but not often at eleven o’clock at night. He decided to investigate.

The cloisters, which formed an open square at the southwest corner of the Cathedral, were in deep shadow. James felt his way along. As he reached the far end, something moved in the blackness. James threw up an arm in an instinctive gesture of defence, then lowered it again. It was Mullins. James said, “Does he often do this?”

“Never before,” said Mullins. “I thought I’d better come along and have a look. Ten to one he’ll forget to lock the door when he goes. Then it’s me that gets into trouble.”

When he opened the door, a very faint reflection of the light from the organ loft emphasised the vast emptiness of the Cathedral. The organist was improvising, starting one cadence and breaking off into another, using the softest stops, in little runs and trills.

“Odd sort of music,” said Mullins.

“He isn’t playing. He’s talking to the organ and the organ’s answering him back.”

“Then I hope it soon tells him to go to bed.”

At this moment the music reached a sort of resolution and stopped. The light in the organ loft went out. The next thing they saw was the pinpoint of a torch coming toward them along the transept. It was Paul Wren and he was not hurrying. He could hardly have avoided seeing the two men by the door, but he gave no sign of having done so and walked slowly past them. They watched the light of his torch bobbing down under the cloister arches and disappearing at the far end.

Mullins said, “Just like as if he was saying goodbye to his girlfriend and didn’t want to leave.” He added, “And he
didn’t
lock the door. I told you he wouldn’t.”

“The simplest arrangement,” said the Dean, “will be for each of you to take a month in residence in turn until we get a new Canon installed. Then, if you find that more convenient, we can revert to four three-monthly tours of duty. That will mean that you finish October, Archdeacon. Mervyn takes November and you take December, Francis.”

“Which means that I get Christmas,” said Canon Humphrey. “Thank you very much.”

“We may have a new Canon by then.”

“Not a chance. When Canon Carstairs died, it took them four months to choose me and another two months before I was installed.”

“I have already alerted the secretary of the Appointments Committee. We can only hope they’ll be a bit quicker this time.” The Dean consulted some notes he had made. “Tom’s funeral will be on Tuesday week. We couldn’t fix it sooner because the Archbishop had expressed a wish to officiate. He was a great admirer of Tom’s.”

“We shall have to alert the stewards,” said Canon Humphrey. “It will be a packed Cathedral. We don’t want a repetition of the sort of trouble we had when the Queen came down.”

“Tickets only,” said the Archdeacon.

“I’ll consult the chief steward,” said the Dean shortly. “I don’t like turning a service into a theatrical performance. Next point, the college. We shall have to put someone in charge there temporarily.”

“Openshaw,” suggested the Archdeacon.

“He should be able to handle it,” agreed Canon Humphrey.

“As a stopgap, then.” The Dean looked at Canon Maude, who had been sitting unhappily at the far end of the table and had so far contributed nothing to their discussions. Becoming aware that people were looking at him, he said, “Yes, yes. Of course I agree.”

“Then perhaps you would record that, Henry. Now, is there anything more?”

“Two things,” said the Archdeacon. “I have been in correspondence with Bernard Lovett. As you know, he is at the moment assistant organist at Worcester. He is a medallist of the Royal College and was chosen to play at the Three Choirs Festival this summer. I have always thought that he would be just the man for us here. Two days ago I heard that he was agreeable – in principle. The details would have to be worked out, of course.”

“Where does that leave Paul Wren?” said Canon Humphrey.

“I’m sure he would be very happy to work under such a distinguished man. If not, he could always apply for a post elsewhere.”

The Dean said, “I don’t agree with that.”

“I’m not happy about it either,” said Canon Humphrey. “I think Paul is a fine musician and has a remarkable rapport with the choir. Several people have told me that they’ve never heard them sing better.”

“But surely,” said the Archdeacon, “a cathedral like Melchester cannot be content with anything less than an associate of our own Royal College.” He looked across at Canon Maude, who jerked himself back into the proceedings and said, “Yes. Of course. I agree with that.”

“Since we seem to be equally divided,” said the Dean, “we shall have to postpone a decision. If Wren gets a firm offer of a top job elsewhere, it might be different.”

“Even then I should be against it,” said Canon Humphrey. “The man’s a genius.”

“With some of the defects of a genius,” said the Archdeacon. “I’m afraid he’s a little unbalanced.”

The Dean said, “I think we must leave it there for the time being. You had a second point, Archdeacon?”

“There is one other matter. And if it had not been both urgent and important, I should not have raised it at a moment like this. Yesterday I received a letter from Gerald Gloag—”

“Really, Archdeacon. Do you think—”

“I think I had better read it to you. It refers to his earlier letter making us the offer of a hundred and eighty thousand pounds for Fletcher’s Piece. It says:

‘You will appreciate that men who are prepared to raise money on this scale cannot allow it to stand idle. The consortium concerned is pursuing a number of projects, of which Fletcher’s Piece is only one. I have to tell you, therefore, that they must have agreement, if only in principle, by the end of next week or the offer will be withdrawn.’”

The Dean’s face had set like stone. He said, “And do you require our comments on this letter?”

“If you please.”

“Then the first thing I would say is that I find it extremely distasteful that you should have raised the matter at all. We are all aware that Tom Lister was opposed to this project. Is it your suggestion that, now that he is dead, we should immediately reopen it in order to get a different decision from the Chapter?”

“I am simply suggesting that the letter needs an answer.”

“Then let the answer be short and simple. We note that the consortium intends to withdraw their offer. We are content that they should do so.”

The Archdeacon, who had managed so far to keep his temper, said, “Might I suggest that it merits our serious consideration. The rights and wrongs of the matter are already the subject of public comment.”

“Public comment!” said the Dean. “If you mean that piece of juvenile nonsense which purported to be a leading article in today’s number of the
Melset Times,
I think we could safely ignore it.”

“I read it, too,” said Canon Humphrey. “And it did strike me that Arthur Driffield seemed curiously well informed about our deliberations.”

“The same point had, of course, occurred to me,” said the Dean. “I did not intend to raise it, but since you have done so, may I say that I hope—” he refrained so pointedly from looking at the Archdeacon that he could hardly have made his meaning clearer “—I hope that the confidentiality which we have always enjoyed in our meetings has not been breached.”

There was an awkward silence. The Archdeacon said, “If that was aimed at me, Dean, it is wide of the mark. I have had no communication of any sort with Driffield. On the other hand, I have never made any secret of my views on Cathedral finances. As you know, I have only just been able to begin my detailed investigation of the main Cathedral accounts, some of which are so complex that I begin to suspect that my predecessors deliberately got them into a state in which no one could understand them.”

“I’m afraid,” said Canon Humphrey pacifically, “that Henn-Christie’s mind was more on things eternal than things temporal.”

“However, it did not need a close investigation to unearth one point. We are living beyond our means. In commercial terms, we are running a bankrupt company. And doing so without informing our shareholders.”

“Your conclusions,” said the Dean, “might have been more acceptable if your investigations had been made in a more impartial spirit.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I mean that ever since you came to Melchester, you have been looking for trouble and hoping to find it.”

“I resent that.”

“You have cast aspersions on a number of people who are no longer here. But we
are
here and are well able to defend ourselves.”

“I was not aware that I was aspersing anyone. I have simply been doing my duty as a man of business.”

“Then let me suggest that you stop thinking of yourself as a businessman and start, for a change, to think of yourself as a priest.”

“The two offices are not incompatible.”

“Christ thought so. He threw the moneylenders out of the Temple.”

Canon Humphrey said, in a voice of obvious distress, “Gentlemen – Matthew, Raymond – I must beg you to stop. This does nothing to assist.”

Brookes, who had been staring in a bemused manner at the minute book, said, “Am I to make a record of this?”

“Certainly not,” said the Archdeacon. “It was an informal discussion. I would like to suggest that we revert to business. I have made a suggestion which I will now put, if I may, as a formal proposal. That we accept, in principle, and subject to discussion of details, the offer put to us in Gerald Gloag’s letter.”

There was a further silence, broken at last by Brookes, who said, with a belated recollection of company procedure: “Are there any amendments to that proposal?”

The Dean said, “Perhaps I might suggest an amendment.”

The pendulum had swung. He seemed suddenly to be in an excellent humour.

“I would suggest that we say to Mr Gloag that if he will tell us the names of the purchasers who are behind him, we
might
consider the matter further. After all, we ought to know who we’re dealing with.”

“Reasonable,” said Canon Humphrey.

“Then can I take a vote on that amendment?” said Brookes. “You, Mr Dean, and Canon Humphrey in favour.”

“If we do answer in those terms,” said the Archdeacon, “the offer will almost certainly be withdrawn. I oppose the amendment.” As he said this, he looked across at Canon Maude, who emerged from the trance that was gripping him and said, “I support the Archdeacon.”

“In that case,” said Brookes, feeling easier now that the proper routine of the meeting had reasserted itself, “the amendment fails and I must now record your votes on the Archdeacon’s original proposal. In favour – you, Mr Archdeacon, and, I take it, Canon Maude.”

Canon Maude nodded.

“Against – you, Mr Dean, and Canon Humphrey. In that case, the votes being equal, the proposal also fails.”

“Splendid,” said the Dean. “An excellent example of democracy in action. And now, if there is no further business—”

The Archdeacon said, “I’m afraid that the matter cannot be disposed of quite so lightly.”

There was a note in his voice which made Canon Humphrey look up. He wondered what the Archdeacon was up to. The Dean seemed unperturbed. He said, “You must follow the rules of procedure, Archdeacon. Since neither my amendment nor your proposal received a majority of votes, both fall to the ground and we are back where we started.”

“Not quite.” The Archdeacon opened the black-covered book which he had placed on the table at the start of the meeting. Brookes had assumed it to be a Bible, but he now saw that it was a copy, which the Archdeacon must have taken from the Chapter House library, of the Canons and Regulations of the Cathedral Establishment.

“This matter is dealt with under the Rules of Protocol and Procedure. Rule Eleven: ‘Where the members of the Inner Chapter are equally divided on a matter of importance and concern to the welfare of the Cathedral body and the matter cannot therefore be decided by them, it shall be referred for decision, with the least possible delay, to a meeting of the Greater Chapter.’”