Appointed to Die (4 page)

Jeremy pointed to an old stone barn, set back a small distance from the Close and largely concealed by the town houses. ‘That's the cathedral refectory,' he explained. ‘A converted barn. They serve meals there during the day. It's a bit out of the mainstream, but it serves the purpose.' They strolled along slowly. ‘And the next buildings here are shops. They were built as almshouses in the seventeenth century, and converted not too long ago.' Six tall chimneys towered above the single-storey building, which now sported display windows and three smart doors. ‘One is a book shop – quite a good one, actually – and one is a dress shop, as you can see. The one in the centre is the Cathedral Gift Shop.' They paused for a moment and peered in the window at the array of Malbury Cathedral mugs, tea towels, and postcards.

The next building was of an entirely different sort: an eighteenth-century Gothick folly of pink stucco, massive and double-fronted. ‘This was the old Deanery,' said the architect. ‘It now houses the diocesan offices – the diocesan solicitor, the registrar, and so on.'

An equally large building, constructed of stone in the seventeenth century, stood to its left at the end of the Close. ‘This used to be a school,' explained Jeremy. ‘It's now been converted into offices, which the cathedral leases out. It all helps to pay the bills,' he added.

The Close ended at that point, opposite the west front of the cathedral. They began to cross the wide green space in front of the cathedral, an empty space that had once held the original extended west end of Malbury Abbey.

‘The Bishop's House is on the other side,' said Jeremy, ‘next to my house. Would you like to come round that way, and perhaps come in for a nightcap?'

Lucy nodded her assent. ‘But I mustn't be too long. My father will be waiting up for me – I don't have a key.'

‘The west front is pretty undistinguished,' Jeremy said dismissively as they passed in front of it. ‘Victorian. They added on those side porches, to give it the extra width, so in fact the west front looks deceptively wide.' The Bishop's house, in front of them, was fairly impressive, a large neo-classical structure of grey stucco graced with huge Ionic columns. ‘It was built for a rich banker in the nineteenth century. Conveniently close to the cathedral for the Bishop. He's actually got his own entrance, through the east range of the cloister. All that's left of the monastic cloister, but it's fairly intact.'

‘I've been to the Bishop's house before,' remarked Lucy. ‘He and my father are old friends.'

Jeremy led Lucy around the side of the Bishop's house, towards the corner where it met the cloister. ‘I've actually got a little idea about the cloister,' he confided. ‘I think that it would make a marvellous tearoom if it were glassed in and tarted up a bit. Much more accessible than the refectory, and it would be quite a nice project for me. Keep me out of mischief, you know.' He raised his eyebrows at her.

‘That sounds like a good idea,' she responded ambiguously. ‘But what do other people say? Wouldn't they think it was spoiling the cathedral?'

‘Oh, I haven't mentioned it to anyone yet,' Jeremy grinned. ‘Just to you. But you're right – they won't like it. Change is not very high on the agenda at Malbury. I'll have to take my time and approach it in the right way.' He paused at the mouth of the cloister. ‘You can only get to my house through this cloister entrance.' By now night had fallen in earnest and it was truly dark; they paused at the sight of the medieval cloister, arched and vaulted, shimmering greyly in the moonlight. ‘Actually, they say that the cloister is haunted. I've never seen him myself, but I've talked to people who swear they've seen Brother Thomas, gliding along with his head in his hands. Literally, I mean. Looking for St Malo's head.'

Lucy shivered. ‘I can just about believe it, seeing it like this. The poor man – what a waste.'

Taking her arm, Jeremy guided her out of the cloister and around to his door. ‘Come on in. I think we could do with a brandy.'

* * *

The sitting room was well furnished and cosy, Lucy noted approvingly. There were books everywhere, and a great number of records as well, ranged on shelves along two walls. Through a half-open set of double doors Lucy could see another room, dominated by a grand piano. ‘Do you play, then?' she asked as he fetched the glasses and decanter.

‘Actually, I play the cello.'

‘Shades of Barchester,' she smiled. ‘Mr Harding and his cello. How lovely.'

‘Do you play the piano?' He handed her a brandy snifter, returning her smile.

‘I used to. I haven't played for years – my house in London is too small for a piano.'

‘Ah, well. We must try some duets some time.'

‘I'm sure I wouldn't be good enough.'

‘I'll be the judge of that.' Jeremy's smile faded suddenly, replaced by a thoughtful look, not without pain. ‘My wife and I . . . we used to play together often. That's one thing I really miss.'

‘How . . . how long has it been?' Lucy wasn't sure whether it was something Jeremy would want to talk about, but he was the one who had brought it up.

‘Over a year now.' Looking down into his brandy, Jeremy went on after a moment. ‘Cancer, it was. Rather protracted, and very painful. After she died, I . . . well, I didn't want to live in London any longer. There just didn't seem to be any point in all the rat race. So I sold up and came here. It was a good move. I like it here. The cathedral fascinates me – all that history. It's a bit of a dog's breakfast, architecturally, I know, but I love the building anyway. And by and large, I like the people.' With an effort, he shook himself out of his reflective mood and turned to her with a smile. ‘Speaking of the people, what do you think of us all? After the dinner party?'

Lucy laughed. ‘Well, that's certainly putting me on the spot!' She took a sip of her brandy. ‘Collectively or individually?'

‘Either. Both.'

He waited, so she tried to formulate her thoughts. ‘It's an amazingly insular community, isn't it? Sheltered, almost self-contained.'

‘Very. You might even say incestuous.'

‘It was odd about Canon Brydges-ffrench. He seemed very well this afternoon.'

‘Canon Brydges-ffrench
is
a bit odd,' Jeremy grinned. ‘He has an utterly perverse antiquarian mind. You know the sort I mean – adores crossword puzzles and obscure theological riddles. He was a chorister here himself, back in the thirties. And if he had his way, we'd all do things exactly the way they were done then.'

‘Sounds a bit regressive. This music festival . . .'

‘All his idea, of course. He's never been able to stand being excluded from the Three Choirs Festival.'

‘Really?'

Jeremy quirked his eyebrows. ‘Hereford, Worcester, and Gloucester – why not Malbury as well? Why not the Four Choirs Festival? He's been going on about it for years, but no one's paid a blind bit of notice. So he's decided to show them all – he'll put on his own festival that will be better than the Three Choirs. And of course,' he added, ‘it will look good on his c.v. when they get round to choosing the next Dean. Shows a bit of initiative, puts Malbury on the map. That sort of thing.'

Lucy looked dubious. ‘But will it? After the meeting today, I'm not sure . . .'

‘No, of course it won't. One of the difficulties, of course, is that none of them has a very realistic grasp of the finances of the whole thing. It's all being done very extravagantly, and I can't imagine that it will make any money. But the main problem is . . .' Jeremy paused and regarded her over the rim of his glass. ‘The problem is that they're not good enough. Not only are they disorganised and shambolic in planning this thing, the musicians just aren't up to it. You met Ivor Jones, the organist?'

‘He was at the meeting,' she nodded.

‘Well, he's mediocre at the best. As an organist and as a choir trainer. And of course the choir isn't professional, in the sense that most cathedral choirs are. They closed the choir school years ago, so the boys are drawn from the local grammar school. No girls, at least – Canon Brydges-ffrench would never permit that. And the men in the choir – the lay vicars – aren't even paid. They're just a few blokes who like singing enough to give up their time to do it. Some of them are pretty dire, but we've got to take what we can get.'

‘It sounds like they've chosen some fairly ambitious music for the festival,' she commented.

‘That's part of the problem. It's difficult stuff, and it's so specialised in its appeal. If they could do it well, it would be one thing.' Jeremy shrugged. ‘But Rupert Greenwood is so blinkered. You can't tell him a thing.'

‘What about Canon Greenwood? Is he any good as a musician?'

‘Oh, he's a real pro. Lives and breathes music. But he's very narrowly focused. He's chosen all the music, and it's all pretty esoteric.'

Lucy thought back to the meeting: to the impact of Rupert Greenwood's boyish good looks, and her subsequent surprise on meeting his plain, shy wife. The conversation took a diversion. ‘Rupert Greenwood's wife . . . wasn't quite what I expected.'

Jeremy laughed. ‘Rupert's definitely the peacock of the family. But our Judith . . . well, don't underestimate her, Lucy. I wouldn't be surprised if our Judith had hidden depths.'

Jeremy escorted Lucy back to her father's door some time later. ‘It's been a lovely evening, Jeremy. I really enjoyed the tour of the Close and the potted history of the cathedral,' she said with sincerity. ‘I'll look forward to seeing you again when I come back next month for the music festival.'

He hesitated for a moment. ‘I'd like to see you before that, Lucy.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's not impossible for me to get to London,' he grinned. ‘The trains run quite regularly, you know. If I were to come up to London one day, could I take you out for a meal?'

Her reply was a long time coming. ‘No,' she said at last. ‘No, I don't think that would be a good idea.'

Jeremy frowned. ‘You're not married.' It was a statement rather than a question.

‘No, I'm not married.' She paused. ‘But I'm . . . attached.'

‘Engaged?'

‘No . . .'

‘Good.' He nodded, reassured. ‘Then I'm not taking “no” as a final answer. And if you think I'm giving up without a fight, Lucy Kingsley, then you've got a lot to learn about me.'

CHAPTER 3

    
Thou art about my path, and about my bed: and spiest out all my ways.

Psalm 139.2

Canon Kingsley had left the door unlatched for his daughter; he was on the phone in his study as she came into the house. Lucy looked at her watch: nearly midnight. It was a bit late for phone calls, she thought. And her father was not known for retiring late. Choosing a comfortable chair in the sitting room, she settled down to wait for him.

In a few minutes he emerged, a worried frown creasing his normally placid brow. ‘Oh, hello, my dear. You're back.'

‘Yes, I haven't been back long. Is something wrong?'

He nodded his head abstractedly. ‘I'm afraid so. A cathedral matter. Would you like some hot chocolate?'

‘Yes please, Daddy. I can make it,' she offered.

‘That's very kind, my dear.'

Lucy busied herself in the unfamiliar kitchen, searching for the tin of drinking chocolate while the milk warmed on the hob. Knowing her absent-minded father, she realised that it could be anywhere; eventually it turned up, improbably, under the sink. When she carried the tray into the sitting room, her father was in his favourite armchair, staring off into space with the same worried look. But he smiled at Lucy as he took the beaker. ‘Thank you, my love.'

She sat down across from him. ‘What's the matter, Daddy? Anything you can tell me about?'

Smoothing his silver hair with his hand, he considered for a moment. ‘I suppose so. As long as you don't tell anyone . . .'

‘Of course I won't.' Lucy blew on her chocolate to cool it, then took a sip.

‘Arthur Brydges-ffrench . . .' he began, then stopped and began again. ‘George rang me tonight, after I got home. He was worried about Arthur.' Dr George Willoughby, the Bishop of Malbury, was perhaps John Kingsley's closest friend.

‘Why? What's the matter with Canon Brydges-ffrench? He seemed fine this afternoon.'

‘That's just it. He
was
fine this afternoon, until George talked to him, just before the dinner party.' Lucy looked puzzled and her father went on. ‘George wanted to tell him the bad news himself. Before he heard it through other channels, that is. They've chosen a new Dean. And it's not Arthur.'

‘Oh, dear. I understood that he was really counting on the appointment.'

John Kingsley shook his head sadly. ‘Indeed he was, my dear. It was to be the culmination of his career at Malbury. An affirmation of everything he'd stood for, everything he'd tried to do here. He's devoted his life to this cathedral, and he was sure that he would get his reward. And he
should
have had the appointment,' the Canon added with some spirit. ‘He earned it. Over the last ten years, he's been the acting Dean in all but name. It was before my time, of course, but George tells me that the last Dean was hopeless. Really past it. Left everything to Arthur to do. It was only right that Arthur should have it now, for at least a few years before he retires.'

‘So whom did they choose?' asked Lucy.

‘Oh, a man from London. His name is Stuart Latimer. He's currently the incumbent at a posh London church – Fulham, I think George said.'

‘You don't know him?'

‘I met him recently, when he visited the cathedral. The Chapter doesn't have any real say in the appointment, of course, nor does the Bishop – it's all up to the Prime Minister. But he made a point of coming round and meeting everyone. A nice enough chap, I thought. Young and dynamic. But we all thought that Arthur would get the nod, after all that he's done.'