Appointed to Die (16 page)

The Subdean's eyes filled with tears; he convulsively gripped his handkerchief but was unable to speak. Rupert Greenwood looked away and Philip Thetford stared down at the table, but John Kingsley met the Dean's eyes. ‘That wasn't really necessary,' he said quietly.

The Dean ignored him; his voice became crisp, businesslike. ‘Shall we move on, then? We have much ground to cover, and I'd like to be finished by lunch time. Item: the cathedral refectory.' The juxtaposition was not deliberate, or meant to be funny. ‘I'm sure you will all agree with me that the quality of the food currently on offer in our refectory is appalling. Clearly not of the sort of standard one expects of a major cathedral these days. Sausage rolls and dried-up sandwiches – it just won't do.' He paused, and consulted his notes. ‘I have had an informal discussion with Mrs Hunt of the Friends about this issue, and she has made a few suggestions for improvement of the service. I'm not yet prepared to discuss these with you in detail, but I want it clearly understood that major changes are going to be made as soon as it is feasible to do so. Mrs Hunt,' he added, looking up, ‘has been most helpful. I look forward to working with her – she is obviously a competent and accomplished woman, and a great asset to this cathedral.'

‘Does this mean . . . will the refectory be moved to another location?' asked Philip Thetford, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice. Canon Brydges-ffrench shot him a quizzical – almost hurt – look, but the Dean remained impassive.

‘That will definitely happen eventually, though I'm not prepared to discuss my plans for new buildings quite yet,' he replied obscurely, then took perverse pleasure in adding, ‘I will tell you, though, that it is my intention that the current refectory will be done up and let as offices when new premises are available.'

‘Offices?' Canon Thetford's invisible eyebrows shot up to meet his ginger hair. ‘I was given to understand . . . that is . . .' he floundered, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

‘The suggestion that I made to you about low-cost housing?' the Dean suggested smoothly, enjoying the Canon's discomfort. ‘I'm afraid that's not financially viable. I've looked into it, and we – the cathedral – would have to bear the cost of the conversion, a cost we simply can't afford at the moment. If it's let for offices, the tenants can be made to pay for the conversion themselves. Altogether a more satisfactory solution, you must admit.' Canon Thetford, speechless with anger and embarrassment, made no reply, so after a moment the Dean went on. ‘Item: the Cathedral Shop. Again, not a situation that can be allowed to continue.'

Arthur Brydges-ffrench opened his mouth, then shut it again; it was left for John Kingsley to ask, ‘What situation is that, Dean?'

‘For one thing, it's all in the most appalling taste. The . . . gentlemen . . .' he raised a sardonic eyebrow, ‘who run it seem to have very little idea about the sort of merchandise that is appropriate for the image this cathedral wishes to project.'

‘But surely . . .' Canon Kingsley began, but the Dean cut across his protest.

‘Furthermore, from the records I've seen, the shop has consistently failed to make any money. On the contrary, it has been a drain on the cathedral's resources for the last several years! It was not my impression that a cathedral shop was a charitable enterprise!' he snapped. ‘I have not yet been able to discover the terms of the lease, but it is my intention to replace the current tenants with someone who will run the shop properly.'

‘But Victor and Bert . . .' began Canon Brydges-ffrench in agitation.

He was ignored. ‘And while we're on the subject of leases,' the Dean continued, ‘I would like a summary of all of the leased properties within the Close, the terms of the leases, and their expiration dates. No more peppercorn rents will be permitted. It's about time that these properties were made to pay for themselves. Will you see to that, Canon Brydges-ffrench?'

The Subdean nodded, reaching again for his handkerchief, as the Dean consulted his notes. ‘Item: the cathedral library.' John Kingsley looked at him enquiringly as he continued. ‘Canon Kingsley, I would like you to prepare for me a list of the most valuable books in the cathedral library. I am particularly interested in any book worth over five thousand pounds.'

‘Might I ask why?'

‘You might.' The Dean smiled humourlessly. ‘There is currently quite a good market for antiquarian books. Many of our books, I'm sure, have no particular significance for this cathedral. They could be sold to provide us with valuable income.'

‘That just won't do!' exploded Arthur Brydges-ffrench. ‘I'm afraid I can't just sit by and let the cathedral library be flogged off!'

‘Oh, I'm sure that you can, and will,' the Dean said, steel in his voice. ‘And that brings me to the next item, Canon Brydges-ffrench. I would like you to prepare a list as well, of the cathedral plate and any items in the treasury. You are the Treasurer, aren't you, Canon? I'm sure that there must be some things that are surplus to our requirements, even though it's perhaps not the best time to be selling ecclesiastical silver.'

Canon Brydges-ffrench stared at him, appalled, his mouth working painfully.

The meeting went on in the same vein. Next on the agenda was the music. ‘Canon Greenwood,' the Dean said, ‘there are several matters regarding the music in the cathedral that I would like to speak to you about in private, at your earliest convenience. Nothing that need concern the rest of the Chapter. Yet.'

‘About the new organ?' Rupert Greenwood asked. ‘I've talked to an organ builder, and have some tentative specifications drawn up.'

‘There will be no new organ.' The Dean's words dropped like lead; the Precentor gaped at him.

‘But you said . . .'

‘There will be no new organ,' repeated the Dean, even more forcefully. ‘Organs don't make money, organs only cost money.'

‘But the organ is nearing the end of its life!' Canon Greenwood argued. ‘Already it's showing quite a few faults, and the organ builder said that repairs will cost a bomb! In the long run, it will be much more economical to have a new one.'

‘There will be no repairs. There is no money to be spent on the organ.'

The Precentor was unable to comprehend what was being said. ‘Then what . . . ?'

‘The organ is good enough as it is for the time being,' stated the Dean. ‘And if it becomes completely unplayable, it will be replaced with an electronic model. Some of them make quite a reasonable noise, I understand. Most people would never be able to tell the difference.'

‘Electronic organ!?' sputtered Rupert Greenwood. ‘Not be able to tell . . . !'

‘And now,' said the Dean, consulting his list, ‘regarding the budget for repairs and renewals. I'm afraid that next year's budgeted sum will be required for redecorating the drawing room of the Deanery. It's in a disgraceful state – I can't imagine how my predecessor could have lived with it! My wife and I will be doing a great deal of entertaining, and it's out of the question to ask my wife to put up with such sub-standard decoration. As it is, she'll have to wait until the following year's budget becomes available to deal with the hall and staircase.'

By now Arthur Brydges-ffrench had recovered sufficiently to say, ‘But the cathedral fabric . . .'

‘There are,' said the Dean, ‘no major repairs needed in the cathedral that I can see.'

Before the meeting broke up, the Dean looked again at his list. ‘One more matter,' he said. ‘Just a small one. Canon Brydges-ffrench, I would like, at your earliest convenience, to see the accounts for the Malbury Music Festival.'

‘The music festival accounts?' the Subdean echoed weakly. His eyes darted to Rupert Greenwood and he moistened his lips with his tongue.

‘Yes. You remember the music festival? Last summer? Surely you can remember back that far.' Stuart Latimer's smile was sarcastic as he rose. ‘And now I must be on my way – my wife will be expecting me for lunch. Thank you for your attention. I look forward to working with you all, for a very long time.'

As he swept from the room, the four canons remained frozen, staring at each other in disbelieving horror.

‘What are we going to do?' whispered Rupert Greenwood at last.

‘There's nothing we
can
do,' countered John Kingsley.

‘It's monstrous!' Philip Thetford said in a slightly louder voice.

But Arthur Brydges-ffrench had the last word. ‘He has betrayed us all,' he stated with forlorn dignity, mopping his domed forehead with a very damp handkerchief. He looked around at the others with sudden calculation. ‘But as long as we all vote together, we've got him outnumbered. We're four against one. Don't forget that!'

‘United we stand,' murmured Rupert Greenwood. ‘Divided . . . doesn't bear thinking about!'

After the meeting, Arthur Brydges-ffrench walked home through the Close, unable to bear the thought of facing any of his colleagues. But there was one person that he knew he must talk to – Jeremy Bartlett – and he decided that the telephone was the best way to do it.

Before he reached his door, though, he spotted Jeremy in the Close, coming from the direction of the Deanery. They met in front of Evelyn Marsden's house, by the gate into her garden. ‘Miss Marsden's flowers are lovely for this time of year, don't you think?' Jeremy remarked in a passing-the-time-of-day voice. ‘I was admiring them earlier. Does she use anything special on them, do you know?'

Canon Brydges-ffrench held on to the gate for support, nervously playing with the latch. ‘I don't know.'

Jeremy studied the late roses with every evidence of interest. ‘I must ask her.'

‘Never mind that.' The Canon's voice came out in a sort of squeak, not unlike that of the latch; Jeremy looked at him in some surprise.

‘Is something the matter?'

The Canon gulped. ‘Yes, something jolly well is the matter.' He leaned over from his considerable height and said softly, ‘We've just had a Chapter meeting. It was . . . hell. That's the only way I can describe it.'

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. ‘That bad?'

‘The Dean. He's mad!' It was delivered in a melodramatic hiss; Jeremy drew back from the spray of spittle.

‘Well, I'm sure we'll all survive.'

If this reassurance was meant to offer comfort, it fell far short of its intention. ‘No! You don't understand!' moaned the Subdean, reaching into his sleeve for his handkerchief. ‘He's asked for the music festival accounts!'

‘Ah.' Suddenly Jeremy looked interested. ‘And what did you tell him?'

‘I didn't tell him anything. He didn't give me a chance! He just said that he wanted them!' Arthur Brydges-ffrench wiped his shining brow. ‘What am I going to tell him? What should I do? If he finds out . . .'

‘If he finds out, we're in a great deal of trouble,' said Jeremy quietly, thinking aloud. ‘He mustn't find out.'

‘Then what can I do?'

Jeremy studied the roses for a moment. ‘You must stall him. Tell him that the accounts haven't been prepared yet. Maybe he'll forget about it, if we're lucky. If not . . . well, we'll think of something. But he mustn't look at those books. Not if we want to stay at Malbury Cathedral!'

CHAPTER 14

    
Deliver me not over into the will of mine adversaries: for there are false witnesses risen up against me, and such as speak wrong.

Psalm 27.14

Looking back on them later, the next few days had something of the quality of a nightmare about them. At the time, though, at least on the surface, life in the Cathedral Close seemed to go on much as usual. Dorothy Unworth continued to create and dispense sausage rolls and Bakewell tarts, Victor and Bert to sell postcards and tea towels. Pat Willoughby still tended her autumnal garden and walked her dogs; her husband the Bishop wrote a few more pages of his treatise on the Albigensian Heresy. Each day Claire Fairbrother went off to her work at the Malbury Family Planning Clinic, walking past the house where Judith Greenwood brooded over her barrenness, and each night Jeremy Bartlett sat alone in his great hulk of a house, nursing a drink and dreaming of immortality. With the end of the long vac at hand, Kirsty Hunt packed her things and looked forward to returning to Cambridge, while her mother continued to scheme and plan, sharing her thoughts with no one. The giant pantechnicons from London had been and gone at the Deanery, and no requests for neighbourly help in settling in had been forthcoming; it was as if the Latimers had always been there. And, sitting at her first floor window above the Close, Evelyn Marsden continued to watch it all, avidly interested yet somehow detached.

In the cathedral itself, even more than in the Close, the rhythm of life, the daily pattern of Morning Prayer, Communion services and Evensong went on unchanged. At noon each day Philip Thetford boomed forth from the pulpit, asking for prayers for those less fortunate throughout the world. Periodically the bell-ringers made their intrepid way up the spiral staircase and across the south transept to the tower to ring for services or for their own pleasure. Daily the choir gathered for rehearsal, for Evensong, enduring or ignoring Ivor Jones's groans and grimaces. Stuart Latimer was little seen: he was too busy pursuing his own affairs to spend his time in the cathedral. Seen or unseen, though, it is safe to say that he was never very far from anyone's mind during those few days.

But on Thursday afternoon the Dean appeared in the cathedral, suddenly and unexpectedly, taking his stall for Evensong. He spoke to none of his colleagues, though all were present: Rupert Greenwood was of course singing the office, Arthur Brydges-ffrench was reading the first lesson and John Kingsley the second, and Philip Thetford was leading the intercessions. It was not necessary for them all to be at Evensong, but unconsciously they seemed to be seeking out each other's company more than usual, for solidarity, for some sort of comfort, or even for mutual protection.