The Black Seraphim (8 page)

When he had finished, there was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Canon Lister, who said, “I think that’s conclusive, Archdeacon, don’t you?”

“Having asked for the headmaster’s views,” said the Archdeacon, “it would be pointless not to accept them. I will press the scheme no further.” There was neither surprise nor resentment in his voice. “If there is no other business, I will declare the meeting closed.”

As they were leaving, Mr Consett said, “There is one matter I’d like to mention, Archdeacon. Not committee business.”

“Then perhaps we can discuss it in your study.”

When Dora Brookes left the meeting, she walked back to the house next to the Theological College which her husband occupied in his capacity as Chapter Clerk. She found him in the back kitchen, a large, cool, stone-flagged room. Like many of his friends in those days of high prices, he had turned to winemaking; not always with total success.

He said, “You remember that peach wine that didn’t quite come off?”

His wife made a face and said, “I shall never forget it.”

“It wasn’t very nice, was it? What I thought was I might try to turn it into brandy.”

“Then we’ll drink it ourselves,” said his wife firmly. “I’m not going to risk it at a dinner party.”

“How did your meeting go?”

“Very well, until right at the end.” She explained about the opera company. “I was sorry we had to turn it down.”

“How did the Archdeacon take it?”

“He doesn’t like not getting his own way. I thought it was courageous of Consett to oppose him. After all, it’s the Archdeacon who appoints the headmaster.”

“My dear, Lawrence Consett is an excellent headmaster. A first-class scholar and very good with the boys. You don’t, surely, imagine that a rebuff in committee would turn the Archdeacon against him.”

“I don’t know.” Dora Brookes’ placid face was troubled. “He’s an odd man. He doesn’t like opposition. I think he’d have made a good managing director or chief accountant or something like that.”

“The real trouble,” said Brookes, “is that he
isn’t
managing director of Melchester Cathedral. That post happens to be filled by someone else.” He added, “Someone who also likes getting his own way.”

The Archdeacon went directly from the school meeting to the North Canonry and tugged the brass bell pull. The door was opened by Canon Maude’s mother. Mrs Maude was well on into her eighties, a small compact woman, a little deaf, but with all her wits about her. Since Canon Maude was clearly incapable of looking after himself, it was, as everyone observed, providential that his mother was still alive and active.

She said, “I expect it’s Mervyn you want,” and trotted ahead of him down the long hallway at a speed the Archdeacon could hardly match. “He’s in his study. Working on a sermon, he said.”

The study overlooked a stretch of lawn running up to the wall which divided the North Canonry garden from the Cathedral School playground. As the Archdeacon came in, Canon Maude swept a copy of the
Times
under a pile of papers and bobbed up to welcome him.

“My dear Raymond. An unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you? Please sit down. You’re looking very well. Take a chair. No, that one, please. It’s much more comfortable.”

Without speaking, the Archdeacon drew an upright chair to the other side of the table, cleared a space by pushing some of the clutter to one side and laid on it a single sheet of deckle-edged notepaper and an opened envelope.

Canon Maude looked at it. His face, which was normally the pink and white of a healthy baby, was now pink all over. A deeper red flush started on his cheekbones and spread upward toward his forehead. He put one hand out as though to pick up the letter, thought better of it and drew it back.

“What’s all this, Raymond? What is it?”

“It’s a letter.”

“A letter?”

“And that is the envelope it came in. Which is addressed, as you can see, to William Anstruther, who is a boy at the choristers’ school. I understand that it was dropped over the wall of your garden into the playground. Since you wrote the letter yourself, I’m sure you know what’s in it.”

Canon Maude looked up at the ceiling as though seeking inspiration, but found none there.

“Is it your habit to write love letters to boys?”

“Love letters,” said Canon Maude faintly. “Really, Raymond.”

“I should imagine that is how the court would construe a letter which referred to red-rose lips and velvet eyes and—what was that other expression?” The Archdeacon picked up the letter and examined it critically. “Oh, yes. This bit at the end about his sylphlike figure and slim gilt soul.”

“What did you mean?” said Canon Maude tremulously. “When you spoke about the court?”

“I meant what I said. Anyone reading this letter would assume that you were trying to seduce the boy. If his father, Brigadier Anstruther, saw it, his first instinct would be to come round here with a horsewhip. On further reflection he would probably decide to hand the letter over to the police.”

Canon Maude was now as white as he had been red before. He said, “But he must never see it, Raymond. Never, never, never.” His voice rose in a squeak. “I should never have written it. It must be destroyed.”

He put a hand out, but the Archdeacon intercepted it, picked up the letter and envelope and restored them to his own pocket.

He said, “Fortunately, the boy had enough sense not to show this to any of his friends. Indeed, I should imagine he was deeply shocked. He took it straight to his form master, Mr Fleming, who handed it to the headmaster. He gave it to me, after the meeting this morning. By doing so, he laid on me the onus of deciding what to do about it.”

Canon Maude said, “Think of the Chapter, Raymond. We must stand by each other.”

“I
am
thinking about the Chapter. But I am also thinking about myself. The boy has promised to keep his mouth shut. But if this did get out – if his father heard about it and discovered that I had decided to hush the matter up – my own position would be far from agreeable. You appreciate that?”

“I do, Raymond. I do. I should be eternally grateful.”

“Very well. I have decided to take no further step in this matter. But on one condition: that you give me your solemn word that you will never do such a stupid thing again.”

“I give you my word, Raymond. I do indeed.”

There was a single tear at the corner of each of his eyes.

The Archdeacon rose to his feet. He stood for a moment staring down at Canon Maude, who seemed incapable of moving. He said, “I took particular note of one comment you made, Mervyn.” His voice sounded more friendly. “You spoke of the Chapter standing by each other. I’m afraid that’s something we’re not very good at, just at this moment. Maybe we can do better in future. Please don’t trouble your mother. I’ll let myself out.”

As he padded back, past the High Street Gate, toward his own house, head thrust forward, shoulders hunched, looking more bearlike than ever, the Archdeacon’s mind was running down strange channels. “Red-rose lips . . . slim gilt soul . . .” Canon Maude had not made up those expressions. He had read them somewhere. It was quite unimportant, but it annoyed the Archdeacon that he could not place them.

It was as he turned in at his own gate that he remembered.

Surely, both expressions came from that unfortunate letter which Oscar Wilde had written to Lord Alfred Douglas and which Carson had read out, with such sinister emphasis, at the Old Bailey. The letter had been one of the last nails in Oscar’s coffin. Such an odd character. So wise in some ways, so stupid in others. The Archdeacon growled gently to himself as he thought about Oscar Wilde.

The editor of the
Melset Times,
Mr Arthur Balfour Driffield, was a thin dry man in his early forties. He said to the young lady who stood beside his editorial desk, “There’s going to be a meeting of the Cathedral Chapter tomorrow. An informal meeting, called by Archdeacon Pawle, to discuss the question of Fletcher’s Piece.”

The young lady needed no explanation about this. She and all the staff of the
Melset Times
knew that the paper was supporting the Archdeacon in his attempts to improve the finances of the Cathedral. Driffield had already penned a number of forceful leaders on the subject under such headlines as “The Widow’s Mite” and “Charity or Commonsense”. The reasons for this policy were clear. Their rival, the
Melset Journal,
had come out in support of the Dean. When the matter had been discussed in the staff room, the view had been expressed that there was more to it than this. Newspaper rivalry was admitted to spark good copy, but the old man seemed to be taking it all a bit personally, they thought.

“We want as much background information as we can get. It’s raising a lot of interest and we ought to be able to start people taking sides. Don’t tackle the Archdeacon. He won’t want to be involved publicly. But there’s the lady who does for him.”

“Rosa Pilcher.”

“That’s the one. I’m told you can find her any morning in the Copper Kettle or the Busy Bee. You can probably get something there. And another thing: see what you can find out about Fletcher’s Piece. It must have some sort of history. Where did it get its name from? Who was the original Mr Fletcher? That sort of thing.”

The young lady promised to do her best.

“I suppose the meeting is at the Deanery,” said Dora Brookes.

“As usual,” said her husband. He was looking for the minute book, which had disappeared.

“Will there be a fight?”

“I imagine so. Where did I—”

“I don’t like you getting involved.”

“I won’t be involved. I’m just there to take notes.”

“If things go wrong, you’re sure to be blamed.”

“I shan’t be there at all if I can’t find the bloody minute book.”

“It’s on the hall table.”

“I don’t know what I should do without you,” said Brookes. It was true. He was becoming increasingly reliant on his wife.

In Melchester, as in most cathedrals, there were two Chapters. The Greater Chapter consisted of between forty and fifty clergymen with livings in the diocese. They were appointed by the Bishop as a reward for long and meritorious service in their parishes. The office was largely honorary, but included certain dignities, such as the possession of a stall within the Choir and the right to preach once a year in the Cathedral. As an executive body, the Greater Chapter had few functions and met rarely. When it did meet, it was accommodated in the spacious Chapter House, an octagonal building which could hold two hundred people easily.

All the real power was vested in the Inner Chapter, which consisted of the four Canons Residentiary and was presided over by the Dean. Recently the meetings had been held at the Deanery and it was there that they met that morning, in the beautiful house designed by Christopher Wren, standing at the south-east corner of the Close and overlooking the river.

Men were already busy on the lawn outside, putting up the marquee for the buffet luncheon of the Friends. The sight of it seemed to remind the Archdeacon of something and he made a note on the pad in front of him.

The Dean said, in his most formal voice: “It is at your request that this meeting has been called, Archdeacon. Perhaps you will speak first, then.”

The Archdeacon said, with equal formality: “Thank you, Dean. I will be as brief as I can. Maxwell Gloag and Partners have received an offer to buy the whole of our meadowland on the west bank of the river, known popularly as Fletcher’s Piece. It is roughly fifteen acres and the sum offered is twelve thousand pounds an acre. A total purchase price of about a hundred and eighty thousand pounds.”

Canon Lister said, “At the moment it’s farmland.”

“Correct, Tom. Mr Pellett, who farms it, has also had an offer made to him for the surrender of his lease which he is prepared to accept.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Farmer Pellett. I was thinking of the planning authorities.”

“Have they managed to buy them, too?” said the Dean.

“The deal would be conditional on the purchasers being able to obtain planning permission for general industrial development or, failing that, for residential development. I’m given to understand that soundings have already been taken and that one or other of these applications is likely to be successful.”

“You talk about purchasers,” said the Dean. “Can you be a little more specific? Is the favoured purchaser Wessex Instrumentation?”

“Not directly. Gloag tells me he is acting for a syndicate who are prepared to put up the money. Their plan would be to sell part to the Instrumentation company, who badly need room to expand. The remainder would be sold to developers for a housing estate. That might pay them even more handsomely.”

“So that if we sell,” said Canon Lister, “we have the choice of being overlooked by a factory, or a row of other people’s back gardens, or both. I must confess that I don’t find the prospect attractive.”

The Archdeacon said, “Superficially, Tom, I agree with you. But bear in mind that we have grown used to the almost monastic seclusion of this Close. It is a seclusion which few cathedrals enjoy. St Paul’s stands among office blocks. Winchester has houses and shops all round it. Exeter, Ely and Rochester are planted in the centres of the town and open on all sides to the public. Have we, perhaps, got a little spoiled if we shudder at the thought of a row of new houses on the far side of the river?”

Canon Maude said, “You know, there’s something in that.”

The Dean looked at him speculatively. Before he could say anything, the Archdeacon had continued, speaking in the calm reasonable voice that Canon Humphrey classified as “good committee”. He said, “A hundred and eighty thousand pounds is not, perhaps, an enormous sum of money by modern standards. But consider one point. If one invests money to produce income, one can currently get a return of between twelve and fifteen percent. In our case, as a charity, that is free of tax. If we took the money, I would suggest that we set it aside and allowed it to grow. I have not made an exact computation, but in three years’ time it would have increased by approximately a further eighty thousand pounds. This would give us what we have always needed at Melchester and never had: a proper self-supporting fabric fund.”