Appointed to Die (6 page)

‘I'm sure I don't know what you mean,' she replied in a chilly voice.

‘I'm sure you do. That dinner party tonight – it wasn't just a friendly social occasion, was it? I'm not that naïve. No, Rowena – you want something, and you want the Chapter on your side. Why don't you tell me what it is, and perhaps I might help you? After all, it might be to our mutual benefit to work together. Since we both have the best interests of the cathedral as our top priority . . .'

‘I can guess what you want,' Rowena interrupted him.

‘And what might that be?'

‘What every architect wants. Immortality. Although how you intend to achieve it . . .'

Jeremy laughed. ‘Clever girl, Rowena. Keep guessing.'

‘And if you're so clever, you should know that I'll get what I want in the end, no matter who becomes Dean of Malbury.' She put the phone down and said aloud, almost purring with satisfaction, ‘And that includes
you
, Jeremy Bartlett. I'll get you yet.'

CHAPTER 4

    
Whoso leadeth a godly life: he shall be my servant.

Psalm 101.9

Several weeks later, John Kingsley was at work in the cathedral library when he received a message from the Bishop's secretary that Bishop Willoughby would like him to call at his convenience. One of Canon Kingsley's responsibilities as Residentiary Canon at Malbury Cathedral was the care and supervision of the library, which was housed in a long, narrow chamber over the surviving east range of the cloister. Although the library was not large, it possessed a few rare and valuable volumes and a number of other books of some historic interest, and the Canon quite enjoyed the time he spent there.

Bishop George Willoughby and John Kingsley had been close friends since their days together at theological college. It had taken a number of years for the Bishop to convince his friend to accept a canonry at the cathedral; he'd always been content in his rural parish, with no ambition for higher office, but as he neared retirement age the Bishop had prevailed upon him to finish his career at Malbury. In the end he'd even had to use subterfuge: he'd had to make out that John Kingsley would be doing him a favour by sorting out the library. The Bishop knew Canon Kingsley as a modest man, spiritual and unworldly, and felt that he would be a great asset to the ego-ridden Cathedral Chapter. It was his modesty, lack of presumption and his discretion that had prompted the Bishop to send for him on this occasion.

Bishop Willoughby opened his front door himself with a grin of delight. ‘John! How splendid to see you! Do come in!'

‘It's not an inconvenient time, is it, George?'

‘No, of course not.' He laughed heartily. ‘I sent for you, didn't I? I'm glad of the interruption, in fact. I've been working all day on my book, and to tell you the truth, I'm getting a bit fed up with the Albigensian Heresy. But don't quote me on that!' He laughed again, a deep belly laugh. Dr George Willoughby, short and rotund, and with a full white beard and twinkling blue eyes, looked like a cross between Father Christmas and a rather jolly Old Testament Jehovah. He was, in spite of his appearance, a scholar of some note, and an acknowledged expert on the heresies of the Early Church. In addition, his pastoral skills were considerable, and his tenure in the see of Malbury had been a long and popular one. He led his friend through the house, explaining over his shoulder, ‘Pat is in the garden. Why don't we join her out there? I'll put the kettle on – I imagine we could all use a cup of tea.'

The Honourable Mrs Patricia Willoughby, better known throughout the diocese as Pat, had her back to the two men as they came out into the garden. She was expertly and ruthlessly wielding a rather wicked pair of secateurs, divesting one of her prize rose bushes of its dead blooms.

‘Pat!' announced the Bishop in his rich, booming voice. ‘John has come for tea! I've put the kettle on.'

Pat Willoughby turned with a smile. ‘John! It's been ages since you've been to see us! I think we saw more of you before you moved to Malbury, you naughty man.' A tall, big-boned woman, she was wearing a large-brimmed straw hat to shade her fair skin from the sun, but her arms were bare and freckled.

‘I'm sorry,' Canon Kingsley apologised. ‘But I know how busy you are. I don't like to bother you.'

‘Nonsense!' was her robust reply. She, like her husband, was extremely fond of John Kingsley. Although he was about the same age as the Bishop, the man gave the impression of being totally incapable of looking after himself, and that brought out all of Pat Willoughby's considerable maternal instincts. She had been a close friend of Elizabeth Kingsley before her early death, over twenty years before. At the time of that death Pat had been a tower of strength, looking after the newborn baby who had cost his mother her life, as well as offering immeasurable support to a stunned John and the three older children: Lucy and her two elder brothers, all in their teens. John Kingsley had never forgotten her strength and her kindness at that unbearable time, and he was constantly aware of how much he owed her.

If the Bishop was popular in the diocese of Malbury, his wife was even more so. To her great sorrow, she had been unable to have children, but rather than becoming bitter, she had rechannelled her nurturing instincts; for years now they had been directed towards the clergy of the diocese and their wives. They repaid her with loyalty and affection, and she had not a few godchildren throughout the diocese who regarded her as something of a surrogate mother. The rest of her abundant energies and her love were lavished upon her garden, her dogs, and of course the Bishop.

The dogs, on this hot, sunny August afternoon, were reclining in the shade of an ancient tree in the corner of the garden, panting shallowly. There were two of them, both Labradors: the black one was called Cain, and the golden one was of course Abel. As their beloved mistress approached with her guest, they raised their heads and wagged their tails desultorily, their great pink tongues lolling out of their mouths like thick slices of ham. John Kingsley stooped over to scratch their ears; the tail-wagging became more enthusiastic. ‘Good boys,' he murmured.

In the shade were four garden chairs with faded floral cushions and a rather dilapidated wooden table. ‘We'll have our tea here,' Pat announced; the Bishop obediently went off to fetch it. Pat flopped into one of the chairs and removed her hat, fanning her face with it. ‘Hot work, gardening,' she remarked. ‘Especially in this weather.' Her grey hair was bundled into an untidy knot at the back of her neck; escaping wisps fluttered about her face as she fanned it.

The tea appeared in short order, the tray carried by a beaming Bishop. While it steeped, Pat asked the Canon about his family.

‘Oh, they're all very well.'

‘Lucy has a new man in her life?'

‘So she tells me, though I haven't met him yet. A solicitor. She sounds very happy with him. I'm glad,' the Canon confessed. ‘I do worry about Lucy. She ought to be thinking about settling down.'

‘Will he be coming down with her to the music festival?' Pat wanted to know.

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Did you have to bring up that blasted music festival?' interrupted the Bishop with a groan. ‘I'm sick to the teeth of hearing about the music festival.'

His wife laughed. ‘Sorry, dear.' Pouring the tea, she turned to John Kingsley and explained. ‘George keeps getting these phone calls. From Arthur, mostly, but also from Rupert Greenwood and Ivor Jones. They keep second guessing each other, and are all looking for his support.'

‘I keep telling them that it has nothing to do with me,' the Bishop muttered, taking his tea and helping himself to a biscuit.

‘Arthur seems to be . . . coping all right,' ventured the Canon, hoping to steer the subject away from the contentious music festival. ‘Don't you think so, George?'

The Bishop shook his head. ‘About the Deanship, you mean? I'm not sure, John. Arthur is a deep one – it's hard to tell what he's thinking.'

‘It will be worse . . . later, I suppose.'

‘When the new man comes? Well, John, time will tell. That's really what I wanted to see you about.'

‘About Stuart Latimer? But I've only met him once.'

‘Not about him, exactly,' the Bishop replied. ‘About the Chapter, really. I'm rather worried about what will happen to the Chapter when there's a new Dean in place.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, it's a bit delicate, John.' Dr Willoughby drummed on the arms of his chair with his fingers. ‘It's none of my affair, really, as you know. After all, I have to knock on the door to be admitted to my own cathedral! My business is running the diocese, not the cathedral, and I've always stayed out of Chapter affairs as a matter of policy. But I anticipate that there may be some major problems.'

‘George is afraid that the balance of power will change, that the new Dean may be out of step with Malbury, with the rest of the Chapter,' Pat amplified bluntly; she had always been considered an equal partner in her husband's ministry and didn't hesitate to speak her mind. ‘Arthur has had a free hand for so many years now.'

‘The balance of power in a cathedral Chapter is always a delicate thing,' the Bishop added. ‘Things haven't really changed for quite a few years. As Pat says, Arthur has had a free hand – the old Dean was quite useless, and did whatever Arthur told him to do, so his death didn't make any practical difference. And you fit in quite well, so your coming didn't rock the boat. But a new man, presumably with modern ideas – well, I just don't know what might happen. Perhaps I'm over-reacting, but . . .'

Pat interrupted forcefully. ‘You're not overreacting, George. I'm convinced that there
will
be conflict. But you can't allow yourself to be drawn into it! You have no authority, and no power, and if you try to get involved it will be an absolute recipe for disaster!'

‘That's why I've asked John to come here,' the Bishop reminded her.

Canon Kingsley looked from the Bishop to his wife, puzzled. ‘But what can
I
do? You know that I'm always willing to do anything I can for you, George, but as you say, I'm the newest member of the Chapter. No one pays much attention to me, and as far as I'm concerned that's fine. I don't aspire to any power within the Chapter.'

Dr Willoughby laughed. ‘Modest as ever, John. I'm not asking you to stage a palace coup. All I ask is that you keep an eye on the situation for me, and let me know if you see any trouble coming. I'd feel a lot easier about things if I knew that I had a reliable set of eyes and ears in the Chapter.'

‘Yes, of course, if that's what you want,' John Kingsley assented. ‘Though I don't know how much help I'll be.'

Pat lifted the lid of the teapot and inspected its by now depleted contents. ‘It looks like this might just stretch to one more cup. How about it, John?'

CHAPTER 5

    
I will pay my vows now in the presence of all his people: right dear in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.

Psalm 116.13

The first event of the Malbury Music Festival, on a Friday evening near the end of August, was a performance of T. S. Eliot's
Murder in the Cathedral
, put on by the Malbury Amateur Dramatics Society. Appropriately, it was staged in the south transept of the cathedral, beneath the Becket window.

The attendance was disappointing; the hoped-for last-minute rush of ticket buyers on the door had not materialised to augment the poor advance ticket sales, and the crowd in the south transept that evening was sparse.

‘It's a bit embarrassing, actually,' Jeremy Bartlett said to Lucy and her father during the interval. A large striped marquee had been erected on the grass to the north of the cathedral, but inside there was no long queue for drinks; a handful of people circulated in a somewhat dispirited manner, sipping cheap white wine or watered-down Pimms'.

‘Let's go outside with our drinks,' Lucy suggested. ‘It's such a lovely evening – too nice to stay inside this stuffy tent.'

A few other people had the same idea, and half a dozen tables had been set up outside. Jeremy led them to an empty one; he didn't want to share Lucy with anyone tonight, though he was willing if necessary to put up with her father. ‘Cheers,' he said, raising his glass.

Lucy smiled at him. ‘Cheers, Jeremy. Thanks for the drink.'

‘Yes, thank you very much indeed,' Canon Kingsley echoed. ‘Very kind.'

Jeremy asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. ‘So, he didn't come with you this weekend? Your boyfriend?'

‘David? No, he didn't,' she replied shortly. He looked at her inquiringly, hoping for further information, but she disappointed him.

Canon Kingsley sensed the awkwardness of the pause and volunteered, ‘Lucy says that he's moving house soon, and couldn't get away.'

‘What a pity,' Jeremy said with exaggerated regret, quirking one eyebrow ironically. Lucy shot him an unreadable look.

‘Oh, there's Arthur Brydges-ffrench,' said John Kingsley. ‘I do hope he's not terribly upset by the poor turnout tonight.'

‘Perhaps you should go and have a word with him,' Jeremy suggested.

‘Yes, I shall do that, if you don't mind.'

‘Not at all, Canon.'

Lucy watched her father moving towards the tall Subdean. ‘What did you do that for?'

‘So I could have a few minutes alone with you. I wanted to ask you something.'

She was wary as she turned to him. ‘What's that?'

‘Who is he, this David? This chap who has a prior claim on you?'

Lucy frowned in irritation at the invasion of her privacy, twisting a curl around her finger, and took her time in answering. ‘His name is David Middleton-Brown. He's a solicitor. He and I . . .' She hesitated. ‘Well, that's all I'm prepared to say about him. It's really . . .'