The Black Seraphim (2 page)

“The white queen is Mrs Henn-Christie,” said Peter Fleming. “Her husband was Archdeacon when you were here before. A little man with a white beard like a goat. He fell off his bicycle and ruptured his spleen. The white king is Canon Maude. He’s the one the choristers call Aunt Maude. The black queen is Lady Fallingford and the black king is Archdeacon Pawle.”

A piece of sailcloth, painted in sixty-four squares of black and white, had been pegged out on the Theological College lawn. There was a contraption at each end like the folding ladder used by a tennis umpire. A middle-aged clergyman was perched on the nearer one and a much older clergyman on the one at the far end. Both were armed with megaphones.

“King’s knight to king four,” boomed the middle-aged clergyman.

A boy stepped two paces forward and one to his right and tapped the occupant of the square on the shoulder. He was grinning as he did so.

“Look at Andrew,” said Peter. “He’s bagged the head.”

The capture of Mr Consett was greeted with heartless laughter from a line of boy pawns who had already been taken and were squatting on a bench alongside the playing area.

“Of course, this is only a rehearsal,” said Peter. “On the day they’ll all be wearing proper costumes. Some of them are magnificent. The two queens particularly. Mrs Henn-Christie has promised to wear the pearl tiara which belonged to her great-grandmother.”

It was the third week in September, but the sun had lost none of his summer strength. Most of the men who were watching were in shirt sleeves. Two girls, seated together on the far side of the square, were in thin summer dresses. One was a well-rounded brunette. The other was fair and slight.

Peter saw James look in that direction and said, “Watch your step.”

“Who are they?”

“The plump one is Penny. She’s the head’s daughter. She’s man-hungry.”

“If she’s Lawrence Consett’s daughter, she’s my first cousin once removed.”

“Consanguinity won’t save you.”

“Why didn’t I meet her when I was here before?”

“She was away in Switzerland, being finished. The first cosy little chat you have together she’ll tell you all about it. It sounded to me like a mixture between a brothel and a school of mountain warfare.”

“Queen to king seven,” said the old clergyman.

Mrs Henn-Christie swept forward and abolished a squeaking pawn.

“Check.”

“King to queen two,” said the middle-aged clergyman hastily.

“Who’s the other girl?”

“That’s Amanda. Dean Forrest’s daughter. The Forrests came here about two years ago. Same time as the new Archdeacon.”

“Is the Dean here?”

“He wouldn’t be likely to attend a function organised by the Archdeacon.”

“Why not?”

“They loathe each other’s guts.”

“Queen’s knight to queen six. Check.”

“The one on the ladder at the far end is old Canon Lister. I recognise him. And this one must be Canon Humphrey. He came just before I left.”

“Francis Humphrey. Canon and Subdean. A very nice man.”

“But not a very good chess player.”

“Not as good as old Tom Lister.”

Canon Humphrey was considering his next move. He did not seem to have much room for manoeuvre. While he was thinking about it, James looked around. Living chess. That was part of the Melchester tradition. He remembered reading that in the last years of Victoria’s reign the great Bishop Townshend had played a game against the Hungarian master Ramek. In that game the kings and queens had been the Marquess and Marchioness of Bridport and Lord and Lady Weldon of Kings Sutton. The meanest pawn had been an esquire of the county.

Characters changed, the scale changed, but, underneath, it was unchanging.

It seemed to be checkmate. Canon Humphrey waved a hand at his opponent and climbed down from his perch. The Archdeacon said, “It’s no good, Francis. We’re charging people a pound to come in. If Tom’s going to beat you in under twenty moves, they won’t feel they’ve had their money’s worth.”

“Then we’ll have to fudge it,” said Canon Humphrey. “Hello. Don’t I recognise you? You used to teach at the school.”

“He’s a rising young doctor now,” said Peter.

“Splendid. They’re giving us tea in the college. Come along.”

Tea had been laid out in the refectory. The pawns were already making inroads into the sandwiches. Canon Maude came bouncing in. He was exactly as James remembered him. Large, moist and pink. As soon as he was sighted, the nearest chorister picked up two plates and offered them to him. Canon Maude patted him on the head and said, “Poor little pawn, so soon captured.”

“I died in a good cause,” said the pawn coolly. “Tomato or cucumber?”

“Would you think I was very greedy if I had one of each?”

Another boy offered him a cup of tea. He earned a smile.

“You’re being neglected,” said a girl’s voice behind James. “The boys are such horrid little pigs. They scoff most of the food themselves. Anyone would think we starved them. Andrew, bring those sandwiches here at once.”

One of the black knights rescued a plate from a smaller boy and brought it across. He smiled in a friendly way and said, “I recognise you, sir. We were both new together.”

“And I wouldn’t like to bet on which of us was the more scared,” said James. He thought for a moment. “Then you’re either Andrew Gould or David Lyon.”

“I’m Andrew. This one’s David.” He indicated his fellow knight.

“You both seem to have grown a lot in the last six years.”

“One does,” said Andrew. He sounded like a middle-aged man regretting his lost youth.

“Andrew’s Bishop’s Boy and head of the school now,” said Penny. “What about getting us both a cup of tea?”

“See what I can do.”

Penny focused friendly brown eyes on James. She seemed to approve of what she saw. She said, “When you were here before, I don’t believe we met.”

“I did catch one glimpse of you, I think. You had pigtails.”

“And a red nose and a squeaky voice.”

“I don’t remember the red nose.”

Andrew returned carrying a cup of tea in either hand. He was closely followed by Lady Fallingford, who cut out James from under Penny’s guns with the expertise developed in a hundred social engagements. She said, “Your grandmother Marjorie Lovett was one of my greatest friends. We were at school together, at Oxford. You must come and have tea with me and tell me all about her.”

“I didn’t know her well,” said James. “She died when I was four. I remember her as a little black bundle that jingled when it moved.”

Lady Fallingford gave a cackle of laughter. She said, “Monday, then. At half past four. You know where I live. River Gate Cottages. Just inside the wall. Mine is the one at the far end. You mustn’t be late, because we shall all be going on to a recorder session at the Humphreys’ afterwards. Now, come along and let me introduce you to Claribel Henn-Christie. Her husband was the last Archdeacon. Happy days they were!”

Since their move had brought them to within easy earshot of the present Archdeacon, James felt that this might have been more tactfully expressed. Lady Fallingford swept him past and introduced him to the spindly lady in a violet frock who was still wearing the white queen’s paper crown set at a rakish angle.

“Did you see that?” said Andrew Gould to David Lyon. “Penny thought she’d got her hooks into Dr Scotland and then Lady F. pinched him.”

“Penny’s a cow,” said David. “Let’s go and talk to Masters.”

Len Masters, the junior verger, was behind one of the long tables serving tea. The boys admired him because he opened the batting for the Melset Cricket Club and liked him because he did not report them for minor infractions of discipline.

James could see that Penny was waiting to recapture him as soon as Lady Fallingford let him go. He was dangerously
en prise.
He needed a blocking piece. One of the black bishops was chatting up the Dean’s daughter. James knew his face well, but the name had escaped him. Think. Brookes, of course. Henry Brookes, the Chapter Clerk. The solid woman beside him was his wife, Dora. A woman of many talents. An arranger of flowers and an excellent cook. The plates of cakes on the table were probably her handiwork. He remembered, too, that she had been at some time a nurse. When the matron had succumbed to an epidemic which was decimating the school, Dora Brookes had stepped in and substituted competently for her.

As soon as Lady Fallingford released him, James sidled across and introduced himself.

“Nice to see you back,” said Brookes. “I gather that Lawrence Consett’s giving you a bed for the time being. When he has to throw you out, we’ll be happy to put you up – did he tell you? We’ve a spare room now that Alice is gone.”

“He did tell me and it’s very kind of you.”

“Do you know Amanda? Her father is the Dean. It was old Dean Lupton in your time, of course. He retired two years ago and died very soon after.”

“I can’t think why it was,” said James, “that everyone always referred to him as ‘poor Dean Lupton’. But they always said it as though it was rather a joke.”

“That’s because he spent all his time being sorry for himself,” said Dora Brookes, in the robust tones of someone who classed illness as a sign of weakness.

“He’d no particular reason to be sad,” agreed Brookes. “The Deanery is an excellent house and the stipend is good. Better than Salisbury or Winchester. And he had private means as well.”

“
And
he got on with the rest of the Chapter,” said Amanda.

James had been examining her covertly. His first reactions were medical. He thought she could have done with more flesh on her bones.

“I imagine that’s important,” he said.

“Most important.”

“And not difficult with a bit of give and take,” said Brookes.

“That depends on who does the giving and who does the taking. In the old Dean’s day it was a lot easier, I believe.”

“Oh. Why was that?”

Amanda glanced across the room at the little group by the window. It was composed of theological students and its focal point was Archdeacon Pawle. He seemed to be telling a story. As he spoke, the contours of his plump face shifted, hills changing to valleys, valleys to hills. The only fixed points were two shrewd black eyes.

“Like currants in a suet pudding,” said Amanda.

“What are?”

“His eyes, don’t you think?”

“My dear!” said Dora Brookes. “You mustn’t take any notice of her, Doctor. She says the most terrible things. The fact is, she doesn’t like the Archdeacon.”

“Who does?” said Amanda.

“A lot of people admire him greatly. He’s done wonders for the administration of the Cathedral since he took over from Henn-Christie, who never really thought about money at all. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

Her husband, who had clearly been thinking about something quite different, said, “What’s that? Yes. Splendid man, very thorough.”

“He’s not a clergyman,” said Amanda. “He’s an accountant. When he says his prayers at night – if he does say them – I expect he finishes up, ‘And may my profit and loss account come out on the right side and my balance sheet balance.’”

Henry Brookes laughed. His wife said, “I’m sure he’s a good man at heart.”

“If there’s any goodness in him,” said Amanda, “it’s buried deeper than the sixpence in the Christmas pudding.”

“Your mind seems to run on food,” said James.

“Oh, it does. Sometimes I dream about it. I’m sure that food’s the most important thing in most people’s lives. Women, anyway. Much more important than sex.”

“Amanda, really,” said Mrs Brookes.

“You’re a doctor. You understand about these things. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I’m a pathologist. If I was a psychiatrist, I might be able to answer your question.”

Amanda said, “Funk,” and grinned. The grin exposed a row of gappy teeth and turned an ordinary face into an attractive one. Now that he was close to her, James could see that he had been wrong about her hair. It was not blonde. It was long and a very pale auburn.

“Why is it,” she said, “that doctors never give you a straight answer to a straight question? Like politicians.”

“The same reason in both cases. They don’t want to frighten you.”

Amanda said, “Oh?” and thought about it. At that moment there was a diversion. A door at the end of the room swung open and a man came limping through. He was six feet tall and carried himself in a way which gave effect to every one of his seventy-two inches. His hair, which was snowy white, hung down on either side of his deeply seamed face. A beaked nose, a mouth drawn tight, as by a purse string, a chin which continued the straight ascetic line of the nose with none of the flabbiness on either side which is normal in men past middle age. It was a face, thought James, which had experienced suffering, but got the better of it.

The crowd parted as he came forward, supporting himself on a rubber-tipped stick. He made straight for Amanda, stooped forward and presented her with a ritual kiss. Amanda accepted it with becoming demureness, managing to wink at James as she did so. She said, “This is Dr Scotland, Daddy. He used to teach at the school. He’s come down here to recuperate.”

“And what better place to do so than in the backwater of a cathedral close? Did the game go well?”

“The Archdeacon was mated in sixteen moves.”

“Splendid, splendid.”

The Dean had made no attempt to lower his voice. If the Archdeacon heard the exchange and the laugh which followed from the little group which had gathered around the Dean, he gave no sign of it. His eyes twinkled as merrily as ever, his bland voice continued its discourse.

The Dean said, “I shall have to drag you away from this delightful entertainment, my dear. We have letters to write.” He turned to James. “Amanda is my secretary. In the old days the Dean had a staff of seven. A secretary, a butler, a housekeeper, two maids, a gardener and a coachman. Now Amanda is factotum.”

“Not totum, Daddy. Don’t forget Rosa.”

“True. We have a half-share of Miss Pilcher. We must count our blessings. A terrible woman, but a worker.”

He offered his arm to Amanda. The crowd fell back. Two of the choristers competed for the honour of holding the door open. When he had gone, the room seemed half empty.