by P. D. James
Paul Perronet said, “Dissatisfied with the verdict, is he? I should have thought it would have come as something of a relief.”
“He thought the evidence for accidental death was inconclusive.”
“So it may have been, but there was no evidence of anything else. An open verdict might have been more appropriate.”
Dalgliesh said, “Coming at a difficult time for the college, the publicity must have been unwelcome.”
“Just so, but the tragedy was handled with great discretion. Father Sebastian is skilled in these matters. And St. Anselm’s certainly has had worse publicity. There was the homosexual scandal in 1923 when the priest lecturer in church history one Father Cuthbert -fell passionately in love with one of the ordinands and they were discovered by the Warden inflagrante delicto. They cycled off together on Father Cuthbert’s tandem bicycle to Felixstowe docks and freedom, having, I presume, changed from their cassocks into Victorian knickerbockers. An engaging picture, I always think. And then there was a more serious scandal in 1932 when the then Warden converted to Rome and took half the teaching staff and a third of the ordinands with him. That must have sent Agnes Arbuthnot reeling in her grave! But it’s true that this latest publicity comes at an unfortunate time. Just so.”
“Were you at the inquest yourself?”
“Yes I attended, representing the college. This firm has represented St. Anselm’s since its foundation. Miss Arbuthnot indeed the Arbuthnot family generally had a dislike of London, and when her father later moved into Suffolk and built the house in 1842 he asked us to take over his legal affairs. We were out of the county, of course, but I think he wanted an East Anglian firm rather than one necessarily in Suffolk. Miss Arbuthnot carried on the association after her father’s death. One of the senior partners here has always been a trustee of the college. Miss Arbuthnot provided for this in her will and stated that he should be a communicant member of the Church of England. I’m the present trustee. I don’t know what we’ll do in the future if all the partners here are Roman Catholics, Nonconformists or plain unbelievers. I suppose we’ll have to persuade someone to convert. Up to now, though, there has always been a suitably qualified partner.”
Dalgliesh said, “It’s an old firm, isn’t it?”
“Founded in 1792. No Stannards in the firm now. The last one is an academic, one of the new universities, I believe. But we have a young Fox coming on young vixen rather. Priscilla Fox, qualified only last year and very promising. I like to see continuity.”
Dalgliesh said, “I understand from Father Martin that the death of young Treeves may hasten the closure of St. Anselm’s. As a trustee, is that your view?”
I’m afraid so. Hasten, mind you, not cause. The Church, as I expect you know, has a policy of centralizing its theological teaching in fewer centres, but St. Anselm’s has always been something of an anomaly. It may close more quickly now, but closure, alas, is inevitable. Not just a question of church policy and resources. The ethos is out of date. St. Anselm’s has always had its critics “elitist”, “snobbish”, “too isolated”, even “the students too well fed”. The wine is certainly remarkably fine. I take care not to make my quarterly visits in Lent or on a Friday. But most of it is bequeathed. Doesn’t cost the college a penny. Old Canon Cosgrove left them his cellar five years ago. The old man had a fine palate. Should keep them going till they close.”
Dalgliesh said, “And if and when they do, what happens to the buildings, the contents?”
“Didn’t Father Sebastian tell you?”
“He told me that he would be among the beneficiaries, but referred me to you for the details.”
“Just so. Just so.”
Mr. Perronet got up from the desk and opened a cupboard to the left of the fireplace. He brought out with some effort a large box labelled ARBUTHNOT in white paint.
He said, “If you’re interested in the history of the college, and I take it you are, perhaps we should begin at the beginning. It’s all here. Yes indeed, you can read the story of a family in one large black tin box. I’ll begin with Agnes Arbuthnot’s father, Claude Arbuthnot, who died in 1859. He manufactured buttons and buckles buttons for those high boots the ladies used to wear, ceremonial buttons and buckles, that kind of thing at a factory outside Ipswich. Did extremely well and made himself a very rich man. Agnes, born in 1820, was the eldest child. After her was Edwin, born in 1823, and Clara, born two years later. We needn’t trouble ourselves with Clara. Never married and died of TB in 1849 in Italy. Buried in Rome in the Protestant cemetery in very good company, of course. Poor Keats! Well, that’s what they did in those days, travelled to the sun in the hope of a cure. The voyage was enough to kill them. Pity she didn’t go to Torquay and rest up there. Anyway, exit Clara.
“It was the old man Claude, of course, who built the house. He’d made his pile and he wanted something to show for it. Just so. He left the house to Agnes. The money was divided between her and the son, Edwin, and I gather there was some dissension over the bestowal of the property. But Agnes cared for the house and lived in it and Edwin didn’t, so she got it. Of course, if her father, a rigid Protestant, had known what she was going to do with it, things might have been different. Still, you can’t follow your property beyond the grave. He bequeathed it to her and that was that. It was the year after his death that she went to stay with a school friend in Oxford, came under the influence of the Oxford Movement and decided to found St. Anselm’s. The house was there, of course, but she built on the two cloisters, restored and incorporated the church and built the four cottages for staff.”
Dalgliesh said, “What happened to Edwin?”
“He was an explorer. Except for Claude the males in the family seem all to have had an itch for travel. Actually, he was part of some notable digs in the Middle East. He rarely came back to England and died in Cairo in 1890.”
Dalgliesh said, “Was he the one who gave the St. Anselm papyrus to the college?”
And now the eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles grew wary. There was a silence before Perronet spoke.
“So you know about that. Father Sebastian didn’t say.”
“I know very little. My father was in on the secret and, although he was always discreet, I picked up hints when he and I were at St. Anselm’s. A fourteen-year-old boy has sharper ears and a more inquisitive mind than adults sometimes realize. My father told me a little and made me promise to keep it secret. I don’t think I was much interested in doing anything else.”
Perronet said, “Well, Father Sebastian said to answer all your questions but there’s not much I can tell you about the papyrus. You probably know as much as I. It was certainly given to Miss Arbuthnot in 1887 by her brother and he was certainly capable of forging it or having it forged. He was a man fond of practical jokes and this would have appealed to him. He was a fervent atheist. Can an atheist be fervent? Anyway, he was anti-religion.”
“What is the papyrus exactly?”
“It purports to be a communication from Pontius Pilate to an officer of the guard regarding the removal of a certain body. Miss Arbuthnot took the view that it was a forgery and most wardens who have seen the letter since have agreed. I haven’t myself been shown it but my father was and so, I believe, was old Stannard. My father had no doubt that it wasn’t genuine, but he said that, assuming it to have been forged, it had been done with considerable cleverness.”
Dalgliesh said, “It’s strange that Agnes Arbuthnot didn’t have it destroyed.”
“Oh, not strange I think. No, I wouldn’t call it strange. There’s a note about it here among the papers. I’ll just give you the gist if you don’t mind. She took the view that, if it were destroyed, her brother would make the matter public and the fact of its destruction would serve to prove its authenticity. Once destroyed no one could prove that it wasn’t a fake. She left careful instructions that it was to be preserved in the possession of each successive Warden, to be passed over to his successor only at his death.”
“That’s right. Father Martin will have it somewhere in his possession. I doubt if even Father Sebastian knows where. If you require any further information about the letter you should speak to him. I can’t see how it’s relevant to the death of young Treeves.”
Dalgliesh said, “Nor can I at present. What happened to the family after Edwin Arbuthnot’s death?”
“He had a son, Hugh, born in 1880, killed in action on the Somme in 1916. My grandfather died in that action. The dead of that war still march through all our dreams don’t they? He left two sons, the elder Edwin, born in 1903, never married, and died in Alexandria in 1979. Then there was Claude, born in 1905. He was the grandfather of Raphael Arbuthnot who is a student at the college at the present. But that, of course, you know. Raphael Arbuthnot is the last of the family.”
Dalgliesh said, “But he doesn’t inherit?”
“No. Unfortunately he’s not legitimate. Miss Arbuthnot’s will was detailed and specific. I don’t think the dear lady ever really envisaged that the college would be closed, but my predecessor here who was dealing with the family’s affairs at the time pointed out that this eventuality should be provided for. Just so. The will states that the property and all objects in the college and the church that were the gift of Miss Arbuthnot and are present at the time of closure should be divided in equal shares between any direct descendants of her father, provided such descendants were legitimate in English law and communicant members of the Church of England.”
Dalgliesh said, “An unusual wording, surely, “legitimate in English law”.”
“Not really. Miss Arbuthnot was typical of her class and age. Where property was concerned the Victorians were always alive to the possibility of a foreign claimant of doubtful legitimacy born of an irregularly contracted foreign marriage. There are some notorious cases. Failing a legitimate heir, the property and the contents are to be divided, again in equal shares, between the priests resident in the college at the time of its closure.”
Dalgliesh said, “Which means that the beneficiaries are Father Sebastian Morell, Father Martin Petrie, Father Peregrine Glover and Father John Betterton. That’s a little hard on Raphael, isn’t it? I suppose there’s no doubt about the legitimacy?”
“On the first point I would have to agree. The unfairness has not, of course, escaped Father Sebastian. The question of closing the college first arose seriously two years ago and he spoke to me then. He somewhat naturally is unhappy about the terms of the will and suggested that, in the event of closure, some arrangement should be arrived at between the beneficiaries to ensure that Raphael benefits. Normally, of course, bequests can be varied by agreement of the beneficiaries, but the matter here is complicated. I told him that I couldn’t give quick or easy answers to any questions relating to the disposal of the property. There is, for example, the extremely valuable painting in the church. Miss Arbuthnot gave it to the church particularly to be used above the altar. If the church is to remain consecrated, should it be moved or should some arrangement be made whereby whoever is responsible for the church can acquire it? The recently appointed trustee, Archdeacon Crampton, has been agitating to have it removed now, either to a place of greater safety or to be sold for the benefit of the diocese generally. He would like to have all the valuable items removed. I have told him that I would regret any such premature action, but he may well get his way. He has considerable influence, and such action would, of course, ensure that the Church rather than individuals will benefit when the college closes.
“Then there is the problem of the buildings. I confess I can’t see an obvious use for them and they may well not be standing in twenty years’ time. The sea is advancing rapidly along that coast. The erosion, of course, considerably affects their value. The contents, even without the picture, are likely to be more valuable, the silver, the books and the furnishings particularly so.”
Dalgliesh said, “And then there’s the St. Anselm papyrus.”
Again he thought the reference was unwelcome.
Perronet said, “Presumably that too will pass to the beneficiaries. That could create a particular difficulty. But if the college closes and there is subsequently no Warden, then the papyrus will form part of the estate.”
“But it is, presumably, a valuable object, authentic or otherwise.”
Paul Perronet said, “It would have considerable value to anyone interested either in money or in power.”
Like Sir Aired Treeves, thought Dalgliesh. But it was difficult to imagine Sir Aired deliberately introducing his adopted son into the college with the purpose of getting hold of the St. Anselm papyrus, even if he had evidence of its existence.
He said, “There’s no doubt, I suppose, of Raphael’s illegitimacy?”
“Oh indeed no, Commander, indeed no. His mother when pregnant made no secret of the fact that she was neither married nor had any wish to be. She never revealed the name of the father, although she did express her contempt and hatred for him. After the child was born she literally dumped him at the college in a basket with a note which said, “You are supposed to go in for Christian charity so practise it on this bastard. If you want money, ask my father”. The note is here among the Arbuthnot papers. It was an extraordinary thing for a mother to do.”
It was indeed, thought Dalgliesh. Women did abandon their children, sometimes they even murdered them. But there had been a calculated brutality about this rejection and by a woman surely not without money and friends.
“She went abroad immediately and I believe travelled extensively in the Far East and India for the next ten years or so. I believe that for most of the time she was in the company of a friend, a woman doctor, who committed suicide just before Clara Arbuthnot returned to England. Clara died of cancer in Ashcombe House, a hospice outside Norwich, on 30 April 1988.”
“Without ever seeing the child ?”
“She neither saw nor took any interest in him. Of course, she died tragically young. Things might have changed. Her father, who was over fifty when he married, was an old man by the time his grandson was born, couldn’t have coped and didn’t want to. But he did set up a small trust fund. The Warden here at the time was made legal guardian after the grandfather’s death. Effectively the college has been Raphael’s home. The fathers have, on the whole, done extremely well by the boy. They thought it right he should go away to prep school and have the company of other boys and I think this was wise. Then, of course, there was public school. The trust fund just ran to the fees. But he’s been at the college for most of the holidays.”
The telephone on the desk rang. Paul Perronet said, “Sally tells me my next caller has arrived. Is there anything else you need to know, Commander?”
“Nothing, thank you. I’m not sure how relevant any of this will prove, but I’m glad to be put in the picture. Thank you for taking so much time over the matter.”
Perronet said, “We seem to have travelled very far from that poor boy’s death. You will, of course, let me know the result of your enquiries. As a trustee I have an interest. Just so.”
Dalgliesh promised that he would. He made his way up the sunlit street towards the soaring splendour of St. Mary Mancroft. This, after all, was supposed to be a holiday. He was entitled to spend at least an hour on his own pleasures.
He pondered what he had learned. It was an odd coincidence that Clara Arbuthnot had died in the same hospice where Margaret Munroe had been a nurse. But perhaps not so very odd. Miss Arbuthnot might well have wanted to die in the county of her birth, the job at St. Anselm’s would have been advertised locally and Mrs. Munroe had been looking for a post. But the two women could not have met. He would have to check the dates, but it was clear in his own mind. Miss Arbuthnot had died a month before Margaret Munroe had taken up her post at the hospice.
But the other fact he had learned was an uncomfortable complication. Whatever the truth about Ronald Treeves’s d
eath, it had brought nearer the closure of St. Anselm’s College. And when that closure took place, four members of the staff would become very rich men.
He had decided that St. Anselm’s would welcome his absence for most of the day, but had told Father Martin that he would be in for dinner. After two hours’ satisfying exploration of the city, he found a restaurant where neither food nor decor were pretentious and ate a simple lunch. There was something else he needed to do before returning to the college. Consulting the telephone directory at the restaurant, he discovered the address of the publishers of the Sole Bay Weekly Gazette. Their office, from which they published a number of local papers and magazines, was a low brick building rather like a garage close to one of the road junctions outside the city. There was no problem in obtaining back copies of the paper. Karen Surtees’s memory had not been at fault, the issue for the week before Mrs. Munroe’s death did indeed carry a picture of the ribbon-bedecked heifer at her owner’s graveside.
Dalgliesh had parked in the forecourt in front of the building and now returned to the car and studied the newspaper. It was a typical provincial weekly, its preoccupation with local life and rural and small-town interests a refreshing relief from the predictable concerns of the national broad sheets Here were reports from the villages of whist drives, sales of work, darts competitions, funerals and meetings of local groups and associations. There was a page of photographs of brides and grooms, heads together, smiling into the camera, and several pages of advertisements for houses, cottages and bungalows with pictures of the properties. Four pages were devoted to personal notices and other advertisements. Only two items hinted at the less innocent concerns of the wider world. Seven illegal immigrants had been discovered in a barn and it was suspected that they had been brought in on a local boat. The police had made two arrests in connection with the finding of cocaine, raising suspicion that there could be a local dealer.
Folding the paper, Dalgliesh reflected that his hunch had come to nothing. If anything in the Gazette had sparked off Margaret Munroe’s memory, the secret had died with her.