Death of a Chancellor (44 page)

‘What do you know about these cavalrymen, Johnny?’ said Powerscourt, panting slightly as the horses moved uphill. ‘Did you borrow the explosives from them?’

‘I got the explosives from the infantry over at Parkfield. I’d met one of the officers before. The cavalry are part of the Compton Horse. The commanding officer is a man called
Wheeler, Colonel Wheeler.’

Two miles further on, Powerscourt signalled Johnny off the road. They moved into a clump of trees by the side. Powerscourt peered back the way they had come. ‘Listen, Johnny,’ he
whispered, ‘can you hear anything? I’ve thought for some time that someone was following us.’ They waited for a full five minutes, straining to catch the sound of another horseman
on the road at this time of night. All they heard was the wind sighing through the trees and various small animals scuttling around in the field behind them.

‘Would you like me to go back, Francis, and see what I can find?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was always eager for action. Powerscourt shook his head. They could have been spotted conversing
with the Chief Constable in Anne Herbert’s house. They could have been followed back to Fairfield Park and then on to the road. For months, for years, this murderer had been plotting and
killing to secure this day when the cathedral would be rededicated to the Catholic faith. If it took a midnight ride and another couple of dead bodies to keep that secure Powerscourt had no doubt
that the murderer would carry on with his deadly campaign. Still they heard nothing.

‘Let’s just give it a couple of minutes more,’ Powerscourt muttered, advancing to the very edge of the trees to stare back at the road. A disturbed owl hooted angrily in
protest. Johnny was looking at his watch, doing mental calculations about how long it would be before they reached Bampton and roused the cavalry. Another owl sounded off in the distance, back the
way they had come. That seemed to make up Powerscourt’s mind. He gestured them back on to the road once more.

Less than a mile from Bampton disaster struck. Johnny Fitzgerald’s horse, which had carried him steadily all through their journey, suddenly stopped. Its legs gave way and it sank slowly
to the ground. Johnny looked at it closely. ‘Damn! I don’t know what’s the matter with the poor animal, Francis,’ he said, ‘I think she’s had it for the time
being. You’d better go on alone. I’ll wait till she’s better. And I was just thinking about a proper breakfast with those cavalrymen. They always like to start the day with a
decent spread.’

Powerscourt too peered closely at the horse. He would have been the first to admit that his knowledge of the workings of horses was limited. ‘You can’t stop here, Johnny. It’s
out of the question. Leave her here and hop up behind me. We’ll ask the cavalry if they can send somebody out to bring her in for repairs.’

Shortly after half-past seven, under a pale blue sky flecked with pink at the eastern corner, a weary Powerscourt and Fitzgerald presented themselves to the sentry on duty at the barracks.

‘Colonel Wheeler is in the officers’ mess, sir,’ he said to Powerscourt, ‘Please come with me.’

Military architecture had never been one of England’s glories, Powerscourt reflected, as they were led across a dreary parade ground. Around it were nondescript military constructions, the
cheapest the War Office could get away with, and handsome stabling for the horses off to one side. It seemed that the horses had better accommodation than the humans.

‘Colonel Powerscourt, Major Fitzgerald to see you, sir!’ The sentry raised his hand in a textbook salute. The Colonel was alone in the officers’ mess, seated at a top table
that would hold about a dozen officers, enjoying a generous breakfast. He looked to be in his late forties with an enormous moustache and greying hair.

‘You look, gentlemen,’ he growled, ‘as if you haven’t been to bed. Better have some breakfast before you tell me your business. Lance Corporal! Bring another two chairs!
And a couple of As at the double!’ Colonel Wheeler showed them into their seats. He scratched his head.

‘Powerscourt, Powerscourt. You the fellow who was in India? And then in South Africa?’

Powerscourt nodded. ‘We both served in those locations, Colonel.’

‘Goddamit, man, you’ve both seen more active service in your lifetimes than this regiment has in a hundred years! See these pictures on the walls?’ He waved a fork carrying
half a mushroom around his officers’ mess. ‘See all these officers commanding the Compton Horse? Look carefully and you’ll find the significant fact.’ The Colonel paused and
gave his full attention to a couple of kidneys. ‘Do you see it? Let me tell you. Look at the bloody uniforms. Those four colonels over there,’ he pointed dramatically at the left-hand
wall, ‘fought with Marlborough. Blenheim, Oudenarde, those sort of places. The other six,’ Colonel Wheeler waved his fork once more, this time bedecked with tomato, at a collection of
veterans on the opposite wall, ‘they all went to Portugal in the Peninsular Wars, lucky devils. Fought their way right across Spain with Wellington into France. Talavera, Badajoz, Salamanca,
Vittoria, Toulouse. Sent home after Toulouse. Too far away to be called back for Waterloo. Too far away to be called up for the damned Russians in the Crimea or the bloody Boer in South Africa.
We’re the forgotten regiment, Powerscourt. Miracle the bloody War Office remembers to pay us.’

At that point two enormous breakfasts were placed in front of Powerscourt and Fitzgerald. Eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, kidneys, mushrooms, fried bread.

‘A is the full experience,’ the Colonel explained happily, ‘B doesn’t have the fried bread, C doesn’t have the kidneys and so on.’

‘So G would just be eggs and bacon on their own,’ said Johnny, tucking into bacon and mushrooms.

‘May I talk as I go, Colonel?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘There is very little time. You will see why as I explain.’ He took Wheeler through the events in Compton, the murders,
the plans to defect to Rome, the bonfire the previous evening, the intention to rededicate the minster to Rome that morning and to celebrate Mass in what had been a Protestant cathedral at
midday.

‘Goddamit, man,’ the Colonel had turned red, ‘this is monstrous! This is a Protestant country! Catholics have their own places for conducting the Mass or whatever they do.
What’s wrong with those, for God’s sake?’

The Colonel found temporary consolation in a combination of egg and tomato. Powerscourt looked quietly at his watch. It was five minutes to eight.

‘The Chief Constable is short of men, Colonel. He sent us here to seek reinforcements.’

The Colonel stared at Powerscourt. He laughed bitterly. ‘Whole century goes by, Powerscourt. Compton Horse rots quietly down here, not invited to any parties at all, no chance to destroy
His Majesty’s enemies. When the call comes we’re to turn into bloody policemen and arrest a couple of canons and a rural dean. Never mind, Powerscourt. This regiment won’t let you
down. How many men d’you need?’

‘Thirty,’ said Powerscourt firmly, ‘forty if you could manage it.’

The Colonel uttered an enormous roar that might have been Lance Corporal. He devoted his full attention to finishing his breakfast. Tomatoes, eggs, sausage, kidneys disappeared at breathtaking
speed. Powerscourt wondered if he would suffer from indigestion on the ride back to Compton.

‘Lance Corporal!’ he bawled as the man appeared in the doorway at the end of the room. ‘Get those bloody officers out of bed and in here at the double! Order the buggers’
breakfast for them! Can’t hang about while they dither about whether to have the kidneys or not. Find the Regimental Sergeant Major! Tell him I want thirty-five men ready to ride out at eight
thirty sharp! Move!’

Compton Cathedral was packed to the rafters. All of those who had come from right across southern England to the bonfire were now filling the pews in the nave, standing in the
two transepts and the ambulatories. The candles that had illuminated the night had been replaced with fresh ones to illuminate the day. The pillars in the nave glowed gold for the consecration of
the cathedral and the ordination of a bishop. One of the men who had come from Rome was presiding over the service, clad in his bishop’s robes, the ring clearly visible on his finger. The
congregation were on their knees.

‘
Sancte Michael, Sancte Gabriel, Sancte Raphael
,’ two cantors sang, working their way down the Litany of the Saints.

‘
Ora pro nobis, Ora pro nobis
, Pray for us,’ the faithful repeated.

Gervase Bentley Moreton, one-time Anglican Bishop of Compton, about to become the Catholic Bishop of Compton, had strips of cloth, anointed with oil, wrapped around his forehead. He was lying
prostrate on the ground while the roll call of saints continued.

‘
Omnes sancti Pontifices et Confessores, Sancte Antoni, Sancte Benedicte, Sancte Dominice, Sancte Francisce,
All you holy bishops and Confessors, Saint Anthony St Benedict, St
Dominic, St Francis’ and the reply rising up from the kneeling multitude, ‘
Ora pro nobis
, Pray for us.’

The Compton Yeomanry had not kept to their timetable. Two of the young officers Colonel Wheeler wanted in the expedition could not be roused from their beds. Only a terrible
dressing-down from the adjutant brought them on to the parade ground, ten minutes late.

‘I shouldn’t worry too much about the delay.’ Powerscourt said diplomatically to their commanding officer as they finally rode out, the troopers side by side along the road.
‘Mass is at twelve. It shouldn’t be over till one at the earliest. We’ve got plenty of time.’

The Colonel snorted. ‘Disgraceful behaviour, disgraceful. Damned good mind to confine them to quarters for a month. No more balls and parties then, what?’

Johnny Fitzgerald was riding right behind the Colonel on a borrowed horse. He remembered the time, early on in their career, when he and Powerscourt had nearly missed a parade altogether owing
to overstaying their welcome at the Viceregal Ball in Simla.

‘Tell you what, Powerscourt,’ said the Colonel, the ride restoring his spirits, ‘do I get to bag the Bishop? That would be the nearest thing in this campaign to capturing the
enemy colours, I should think. What chance of that?’

‘Nothing is impossible,’ said Powerscourt, wondering what exactly was going on in the cathedral at this moment. He had no idea what form the consecration of a cathedral would
take.

Patrick Butler was watching the spectacle, mesmerized. He was writing almost continually in the small notebook hidden inside his missal. Anne Herbert beside him was thinking that her first
husband would be turning in his grave. Hands were now being laid on Moreton’s head by the Bishop sent from Rome. There was a prayer of consecration. Then the congregation stared at Moreton as
he kissed a copy of the Gospels and fresh clothes were brought for him.

‘What’s going on now?’ Patrick whispered to his next-door neighbour, a white-haired old lady from Southampton.

‘He’s only wearing an alb and stole at present,’ she muttered, pleased to be able to explain the intricacies of the service to an unbeliever. ‘They’re going to
clothe him in dalmatics that a deacon wears and a chasuble, a priest’s vestment over the top of that.’

Patrick Butler wondered if dalmatics came from Dalmatia, wherever that was, but felt it better not to ask. The choir were singing an anthem now, the long litany of the saints sent back to their
eternal rest. A pectoral cross was now hung round Moreton’s neck, white gloves were put on his hands and the Bishop’s ring was placed on the index finger of his right hand. The crozier
or Bishop’s staff was handed over. It was a few minutes after eleven o’clock.

The Colonel’s cavalcade was now about eight miles from Compton. One or two villagers had come out of their houses to stare as they passed, the red uniforms and the
gleaming horses a spectacular sight on Easter Sunday morning.

‘Powerscourt,’ said the Colonel, ‘please forgive me. Never at my brightest first thing in the morning. Attention has to be devoted to breakfast. Did you say that all these
bloody parsons had defected to Rome? Every last deacon and prebendary?’

‘I’m afraid so, Colonel,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘Even the cathedral cat can now recite the Mass in Latin.’

‘God bless my soul.’ The Colonel was shaking his head as he trotted along the country lanes. ‘One of them going mad I could understand. Two at a pinch. But all of them!’
The Colonel stopped suddenly and looked back at his little column. ‘It’s as if,’ he said, slapping his horse firmly on the thigh, ‘all of my officers’ mess were to
defect and join up with the wretched infantry, the damned foot sloggers! It’s not just treachery, it’s damned bad form!’ And with that he rode on to arrest the renegades.

Patrick Butler felt they must be nearing the end. The Bishop was seated now and the zuccheta or purple skull cap was placed on his head, followed by the mitre. Lady Lucy,
sitting on the other side of Anne Herbert, felt the whole thing was a bit like a coronation though she doubted if Britain’s new sovereign would be crowned with quite so much incense. And
though the cathedral was packed with the faithful she doubted if the streets of Compton would be filled with loyal subjects of the new administration in the cathedral. Almost all these people at
the service were visitors. The citizens of Compton had stayed at home again, waiting for time and officialdom to give them back their cathedral. Now Bishop Moreton had made the sign of peace to his
fellow Bishop and the attendant clergy and was moving down the main aisle, blessing the congregation as though he were the Pope himself. When he had been led back to the sanctuary by the Bishop
from Rome he was formally seated on his cathedra. Gervase Bentley Moreton, until twenty hours before the Protestant Bishop of Compton, was now the Roman Catholic Bishop of Compton. As the choir
began to sing Mozart’s Coronation Mass the Chief Constable slipped quietly out of the west door. He paced up and down the paths that criss-crossed the Cathedral Green staring at the roads
that might bring reinforcements. Was Powerscourt coming? Had the cavalry refused the mission? Without them the Chief Constable simply did not know what he was going to do.