The Black Seraphim (17 page)

“I’m afraid it won’t change the Dean’s opinion of him,” said Brookes sadly.

Lately James had been sleeping well. That night he knew that sleep would not come easily. His mind was far too active. The instinct which guides a doctor, more surely than reason, told him that something was wrong. Certainly there had been fluid in the lungs. Certainly that suggested virus influenza. But there were a lot of things that didn’t fit into that diagnosis. However, was it any concern of his? He was not the doctor in charge of the case. He would not have to sign the death certificate. In fact, he had no official status in the matter at all. He felt an unaccountable desire to talk the whole thing over with Amanda. She had a clear and dispassionate way of looking at things. Even if he didn’t always agree with her conclusions.

The Cathedral clock had struck two by the time he reached this point in his thinking and fell asleep.

Next morning James walked over to the Deanery. He reached it as Penny Consett was coming out.

She said, “If you’re looking for Amanda, you’re out of luck. She’s gone to Winchester.”

“Shopping?”

“I expect she’ll do some shopping, but it’s duty, really. She tries to go over most weeks to visit Nanny Hawkes. Not
her
nanny. Her father’s. She’s nearly a hundred, and as tiresome as they come. I went over with Amanda once and the old witch spent half the time complaining and the other half telling us what a nasty little boy Matthew had been.”

It took a moment for him to realise that she was talking about the Dean. It was difficult to think of him as a nasty little boy called Matthew.

Penny had fixed him with an artless blue eye. She said, “I don’t mind betting that if Amanda had been here, you’d have suggested that you went out and had a cup of coffee. Right? Well, as she isn’t here, suppose you suggest it to me.”

James was on the point of inventing a plausible excuse when it occurred to him that Peter had been wrong. Penny wasn’t a man-snatcher. She was simply young and friendly. He said, “Let’s do that. Where shall we go?”

“One thing Melchester isn’t short of is coffee shops. Let’s try the Busy Bee.”

Since it was eleven o’clock, the Busy Bee was living up to its name, but they managed to find themselves a table. Unlike the Brookeses, Penny expended no finesse in getting to the point. She said, “You did the post-mortem on the Archdeacon, didn’t you? Don’t tell me any of the gruesome details, but did you find out why he died, or is it a state secret?”

“It’s not exactly a state secret, no.”

“But you don’t want to tell me because you think I’d repeat it all round the Close and probably get it wrong.”

“That’s right,” said James.

“Well, I don’t mind, because, whatever the answer is, I’m sure it’s much duller than what I was hearing at breakfast.”

James tried not to look startled. He said, “Hearing from who?”

“The boys, of course.”

“And what is their view of the matter?”

“You sounded a bit stuffy when you said that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“They are quite certain that the Dean and Amanda organised the whole thing between them. The Dean put a drop of something in the Archdeacon’s coffee and Amanda handed it to him.”

“I see. And have they any grounds for this startling idea?”

“Naturally. The Dean has spent half his life in darkest Africa and India. He’d be certain to have come across one of those poisons unknown to science that you read about in books.”

At this point the coffee arrived and the interruption allowed James to get his breath back. He said, “Do they actually believe this story?”

“It’s difficult to say. Quite often, of course, they make up stories which sound exciting, but they don’t really believe them. This time I’m not sure. Mind you, this isn’t an anti-Dean platform. They much preferred him to the Archdeacon.”

“Of course they did. He’s a romantic character. The virtues of the Archdeacon would have been less likely to appeal to them.”

“I suppose he had some virtues, or are you just saying that because he’s dead?”

“Certainly he had virtues. The main one was that he did his job. It’s all very well people telling us what nice men Dean Lupton and Archdeacon Henn-Christie were. If they’d been in charge of things a few years longer, the Cathedral would have been bankrupt.”

“I suppose so,” said Penny doubtfully. “Oh, God! Here she comes.”

James had his back to the room and was wedged so tightly behind the table that it was difficult to turn around. He said, “Who?”

“That nasty little creep Rosa.”

“Rosa Pilcher?”

“That’s right. She’s pure poison. Amanda loathes her. And the Dean hasn’t got much use for her either.”

“Then why do they employ her?”

“If they could get anyone else, they wouldn’t. For God’s sake! Look at that get-up! She might be the Archdeacon’s widow.”

Rosa was in elaborate mourning. Her dress was black, her shoes and stockings were black and her hat had a black veil, thrown half back, under which a pair of malevolent eyes peeped out.

It looked as though she was heading for their table, but at the last moment she saw two of her cronies and diverted her course toward them.

“Do you think she saw us?” said James.

“Of course she did. She’s got panoramic vision. Like a horse. She’s not only seen us, she’s already turning the information over in her nasty little mind to see whether she can make something out of it.”

“You mean I’ve compromised you?”

“That’s right,” said Penny.

She didn’t seem to be worried.

“I expect you’re giving Raymond Pawle a splendid obituary in your column,” said Sandeman. He managed to say this in a way which suggested, at the same time, that he didn’t care one way or the other about the Archdeacon now that he had been thoughtless enough to die and could, therefore, be no further use to them; and that he didn’t think much of the
Melset Times
either.

“I’ve already written it,” said Driffield.

“A handsome funeral oration?” suggested Gloag.

“Plus a few facts. Did you know that before he was ordained, he actually qualified as an accountant?”

“All clergymen should be trained as something else first,” said Gloag. “Broaden their minds. One heart.”

Driffield said, “What were
you
trained as, Gerry?”

“I broadened my mind by joining Her Majesty’s Territorial Forces,” said Gloag with dignity. “Are you saying anything?”

“On these cards? Certainly not. No bid.”

“In that case,” said Sandeman, “I shall venture to bid three no trumps.”

The cards lay badly and this went two down. While the score was being entered, Sandeman said, “I suppose we shall have to backpedal a bit on Fletcher’s Piece now. A pity when we were almost past the post.”

“Always be another time,” said Driffield.

“It all depends,” said Gloag, “on who they get. If the new Canons are business people as well as being clergymen – men like the Archdeacon – they should be able to recognise a bargain when it’s handed to them on a plate.”

“Not much chance of that,” said Sandeman. “The Dean will make certain he gets the sort of people who’ll see things
his
way.”

“Who chooses new Canons?” said Gloag.

Sandeman stopped shuffling the cards. He said, “I never thought about that. Who does choose them, Arthur? You know about that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know,” said Driffield. “But I can find out. If you shuffle those cards much more, you’ll shuffle the spots right off them.”

This time Driffield tried four hearts, a gross overbid which he managed to make, partly by luck and partly because Sandeman’s mind seemed to be on other things. This concluded the rubber. While they were settling up, Driffield said to his partner, a tall man with a bushy head of hair who had so far joined very little in the conversation, “You weren’t in Cathedral on Saturday, were you, Bert?”

Detective Superintendent Herbert Bracher agreed that he hadn’t been in Cathedral. He’d been busy interrogating a suspected shop breaker.

“You missed something.”

“You mean the Archdeacon’s death?”

“I didn’t, actually. I meant the Dean’s sermon. He was firing on all six cylinders.”

“I thought it was disgraceful,” said Sandeman. “In fact, I wasn’t at all sure that it wasn’t actually libellous.”

“Slanderous,” said Driffield. “You can only be libellous in writing.”

“Insulting, anyway. I asked Macindoe if there wasn’t something we could do about it.”

“Sue the Dean for slander, you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“What did Mac say?”

“He didn’t seem to think much of the idea.”

Bracher said, “I’m off.”

“If you see Grant in the bar,” said Gloag, “you might send him along. It’s time I won some money off him for a change.”

When Bracher had gone, the three men pushed their chairs back and stretched their legs. They seemed rather more at ease in his absence. Driffield said, “By the way, who’s that young doctor who’s hanging round in the Close? I seem to have seen him before.”

“He’s some relation of Consett’s,” said Sandeman. “He taught at the school for a few terms about six years ago. Why?”

“One of my people was in old Mrs Piper’s shop and heard them nattering away in the back room. He seemed to be asking her a lot of questions about the time she was turned out of her other shop. I wondered why he’d have been interested in that.”

“He and Fleming – that other master at the school – are both very thick with Bill Williams,” said Sandeman. “You remember we ran into them in pub that night, Gerry.”

Gloag grunted. He remembered it with displeasure.

Sandeman said, “You don’t think the
Journal
might be planning to reopen the supermarket deal?”

“There’s nothing to reopen,” said Gloag. “It was a perfectly straightforward property deal. It cost us a little more than we expected and we made a fair profit. Why should we worry if they do reopen it?”

Sandeman and Driffield agreed that there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Another quartet of bridge players was discussing the Archdeacon’s death. It was the afternoon of Wednesday and the passing of four days had allowed the first shock waves to subside a little. Lady Fallingford, Julia Consett and Betty Humphrey had assembled in Mrs Henn-Christie’s drawing room for their regular weekly game; but so far the packs of cards lay unopened on the table.

Important matters were occupying their attention.

“Poor Betty,” said Lady Fallingford. “I don’t imagine you see a lot of Francis these days. He must be horribly overworked.”

“To be fair,” said Mrs Henn-Christie, “I suppose we’re only beginning to realise, now that he’s gone, what a load of work the Archdeacon really did carry on his own shoulders.”

A respectful silence greeted this observation. Betty Humphrey said, “Actually, it’s the Dean I’m most sorry for. He has to do three men’s work. Canon Maude, I am told, has retired to bed. His mother says it’s gastric trouble, but I think it’s simple feebleness.”

“His mother’s a better man than he is,” agreed Lady Fallingford.

Julia Consett said, “Is it true that the Bishop has been asked to cut short his visit to Australia and fly home?”

“He ought never to have gone,” said Lady Fallingford.

This was felt to be harsh.

“He couldn’t have known that all this was going to happen.”

“That’s not the point. He’s got enough work to do here without flying about all over the world.”

“I’m not sure,” said Mrs Henn-Christie, “that the Bishop coming back is necessarily going to make things all that much easier for the Dean. They never really saw eye to eye, you know. In fact, I’m inclined to think that one of the reasons he does make these lengthy foreign excursions is to steer clear of the infighting that went on. You remember the trouble that blew up over the last ordination service.”

The ladies thought about this. Julia made a half-hearted effort to open the cards, but there was a matter on the agenda more engrossing than the habits of the Bishop. Mrs Henn-Christie opened it by saying, “I understand the cremation service is fixed for next Monday at twelve. I imagine it will be a private affair. Family only.”

“Who
are
the family?”

“There’s a married sister. She’s coming down from Nottingham, with her husband.”

“It won’t be a very large congregation.”

“I know someone who’ll be there,” said Mrs Henn-Christie, speaking the thought that was in all their minds.

“You mean Rosa.”

“She really is carrying on in the
most
peculiar way.”

“That get-up!”

“
Totally
unsuitable.”

“I understand she’s been putting it about, now, that she was a distant relative of the Archdeacon.”

“And that he’s left her all his money.”

“I don’t know about the money,” said Mrs Henn-Christie. “People do make very odd wills. You remember Lord Weldon’s grandfather. He left the unentailed parts of his estate to his cook. Fortunately, they decided that he was mad when he did it. But I absolutely refuse to believe that Pilcher woman is any connection of Raymond’s, however many times removed. After all, the Pawles were a perfectly respectable Lincolnshire family.”

“I seem to remember,” said Lady Fallingford, “that when Rosa first came here – it must have been more than thirty years ago – she was housemaid in the West Canonry. That was in Canon Fox’s time.”

“I think the money part of it might be true,” said Julia, “because I understand that she’s made an offer for Tony Openshaw’s cottage. If he’s confirmed in office as assistant head of the Theological College, he’ll have accommodation there.”

The ladies looked at each other.

“You mean,” said Lady Fallingford, “that she proposes to install herself as a member of the Close community and a lady of leisure?”

“She’ll have plenty of leisure,” said Julia. “Because she won’t be working at the Deanery any more. There was some trouble about Len Masters, which led to the Dean giving her the rough edge of his tongue. And anyway Amanda told me that she’d rather do everything herself than have that woman in the house a moment longer.”