Death in Holy Orders

by P. D. James

  After the fingerprinting, Emma collected some papers she needed from her guest set and was setting off for the library when she heard quick footsteps in the south cloister and Raphael caught up with her.

  He said, “There’s something I want to ask you. Is this a good time?”

  Emma was about to say, “If it isn’t going to take too long’, but after a glance at his face, stopped herself. She didn’t know whether he was seeking comfort but he certainly looked in need of it. She said instead, “It’s a good time. But haven’t you a tutorial with Father Peregrine?”

  “That’s postponed. I’ve been sent for by the police. I’m on my way now to be grilled. That’s why I needed to see you. I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to tell Dalgliesh that we were together last night? After eleven o’clock’s the crucial time. I’ve got an alibi of sorts until then.”

  “Together where?”

  “In your set or mine. I suppose I’m asking if you’d say that we slept together last night.”

  Emma stopped walking and turned to face him. She said, “No I wouldn’t! Raphael, what an extraordinary thing to ask. You’re not usually so crass.”

  “But not an extraordinary thing to do or is it?”

  She began striding quickly ahead but he kept pace with her. She said, “Look, I don’t love you and I’m not in love with you.”

  He broke in, “That’s a nice distinction. But you might just think it possible. The idea might not utterly repel you.”

  Emma turned to face him.

  “Raphael, if I had slept with you last night I wouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. But I didn’t, I wouldn’t and I shan’t lie. Apart from the morality of lying, it would be stupid and dangerous. Do you think it would deceive Adam Dalgliesh for a moment ? Even if I were a good liar and I’m not he’d know. It’s his business to know. D’you want him to think you killed the Archdeacon?”

  “He probably thinks it already. The alibi I’ve got isn’t worth much.

  I went to keep Peter company to help him through the storm, but he was asleep before midnight and I could easily have crept out. I expect that’s what Dalgliesh will believe I did do.”

  Emma said, “Assuming he does suspect you which I doubt he’ll certainly do so more strongly if you start fabricating an alibi. It’s so unlike you, Raphael. It’s stupid, pathetic and insulting to both of us. Why?”

  “Perhaps I wanted to find out what you thought of the idea in principle.”

  She said, “You don’t sleep with a man in principle, you sleep with him in the flesh.”

  “And, of course, Father Sebastian wouldn’t like it.”

  He had spoken with casual irony, but Emma didn’t miss the note of bitterness in his voice.

  She said, “Of course he wouldn’t. You’re one of his ordinands and I’m a guest here. Even if I wanted to sleep with you which I don’t it would be a breach of good manners.”

  That made him laugh, but the sound was harsh. He said, “Good manners! Yes, I suppose that’s a consideration. It’s the first time I’ve been turned down with that excuse. The etiquette of sexual morality. Perhaps we should introduce a seminar into the ethics syllabus.”

  She asked again, “But why, Raphael? You must have known what answer you’d get.”

  “It’s just that I thought that if I could make you like me or perhaps even love me a little I wouldn’t be in such a muddle. Everything would be all right.”

  She said more kindly, “But it wouldn’t. If life is a muddle we can’t look for love to make it all come right.”

  “But people do.”

  They were standing together in silence outside the south door. Emma turned to go in. Suddenly Raphael stopped and took her hand and, bending, kissed her on the cheek. He said, “I’m sorry, Emma. I knew it was no good really. I just had a dream. Please forgive me.”

  He turned, and she watched him striding back through the cloister and waited until he had passed through the iron gate. She let herself into the college, confused and unhappy. Could she have been more sympathetic, more understanding? Did he want to confide and should she have encouraged him? But if things were going wrong for him and she thought they were what use was it looking to someone else to put them right? But in one sense hadn’t she done just that herself with Giles? Tired of the importunities, the demands for love, the jealousies and rivalries, hadn’t she decided that Giles, with his status, his strength, his intelligence, could provide her with at least a semblance of commitment so that she could be left alone to get on with that part of her life which she valued most, her work? She knew now that it had been a mistake. It had been worse than a mistake, it had been wrong. After she returned to Cambridge she would be honest with him. It wasn’t going to be an agreeable parting Giles wasn’t used to rejection but she wouldn’t think further about it now. That future trauma was nothing compared to the tragedy at St. Anselm’s of which inescapably she was a part.

  Just before twelve o’clock Father Sebastian rang Father Martin, who was sitting in the library marking essays, and asked if he might have a word. This was his usual practice, to telephone personally. From the first days of his taking over as Warden he had been careful never to summon his predecessor through an ordinand or a member of staff; the new and very different reign would not be marked by a tactless exercise of authority. For most men the prospect of a previous Warden staying on in residence and in a part-time teaching post would have been to invite disaster. It had always been considered seemly for the outgoing Warden not only to depart in well-organized dignity, but to take himself as far as possible from the college. But the arrangement with Father Martin, originally intended to be temporary to cover the unexpected departure of the lecturer in pastoral theology, had continued by mutual consent to the satisfaction of both parties. Father Sebastian had shown no inhibition or embarrassment in occupying his predecessor’s stall in church, taking over and reorganizing his office and sitting in his place at head of table, nor in introducing the changes he had carefully planned. Father Martin, unresentful and a little amused, perfectly understood. It would never have occurred to Father Sebastian that any predecessor could be a threat either to his authority or to his innovations. He neither confided in Father Martin nor consulted him. If he wanted information about administrative details, he got them from the files or from his secretary. The most confident of men, he could probably have accommodated the Archbishop of Canterbury on his staff in a junior capacity without difficulty.

  The relationship between him and Father Martin was one of trust and respect and, on Father Martin’s part, of affection. As he had always found difficulty during his own stewardship in believing that he was in fact Warden, he accepted his successor with goodwill and some relief. And if he sometimes hankered a little wistfully for a warmer relationship, it was not one he could envisage. But now, seated by invitation in his customary chair by the fireplace and watching Father Sebastian’s unusual restlessness, he was uneasily aware that something was needed from him reassurance, advice or just the mutual sympathy of shared anxiety. He sat very still and, closing his eyes, murmured a brief prayer.

  Father Sebastian stopped his pacing and said, “Mrs. Crampton left ten minutes ago. It was a painful interview.” He added, “Painful for both of us.”

  Father Martin said, “It could not have been otherwise.”

  He thought he detected in the Warden’s voice a small peevish note of resentment that the Archdeacon had compounded his previous delinquencies by so inconsiderately getting himself murdered under their roof. The thought sparked off another even more disgracefully irreverent thought. What would Lady Macbeth have said to Duncan’s widow had that lady come to Inverness Castle to view the body?

  “A deplorable affair, madam, which my husband and I deeply regret. It was a most successful visit until then. We did all we could to make His Majesty comfortable.” Father Martin was amazed and shaken that an idea so perversely inappropriate could have come into his mind. He must, he thought, be getting light-heade
d.

  Father Sebastian said, “She insisted on being taken to the church to see where her husband died. Unwise, I thought, but Commander Dalgliesh gave in. She was adamant that she wanted him, not me, to accompany her. It was inappropriate but I thought it expedient not to protest. Of course it must mean that she saw the Doom. If Dalgliesh can trust her to keep quiet about the vandalism, why not trust my staff?”

  Father Martin didn’t like to say that Mrs. Crampton wasn’t a suspect and they were.

  Father Sebastian, as if suddenly aware of his restlessness, came and sat opposite his colleague.

  “I was unhappy about her driving home alone and suggested that Stephen Morby might accompany her. Of course it would have been inconvenient. He would have had to take the train back and then a taxi from Lowestoft. However, she preferred to be alone. I did ask if she would like to stay to lunch. She could have had it served quietly here or in my flat. The dining-room would hardly have been suitable.”

  Father Martin silently agreed. It would have been an uncomfortable meal, with Mrs. Crampton sitting among the suspects and being politely passed the potatoes, perhaps by her husband’s murderer.

  The Warden said, “I’m afraid I failed her. One uses well-worn phrases on these occasions but they cease to make any sense, just a mutter of commonplace sounds with no reference to faith or meaning.”

  Father Martin said, “Whatever you said, Father, no one could have done it better. There are occasions that go beyond words.”

  Mrs. Crampton, he thought, would hardly have welcomed, or indeed needed, Father Sebastian’s encouragement to Christian fortitude or his reminder of Christian hope.

  Father Sebastian shifted uneasily in his chair then willed himself into stillness.

  “I said nothing to Mrs. Crampton about my altercation with her husband in the church yesterday afternoon. It would have caused her additional distress and could have done no possible good. I regret it deeply. It is distressing to know that the Archdeacon died with such anger in his heart. It was hardly a state of grace for either of us.”

  Father Martin said gently, “We cannot know, Father, what spiritual state the Archdeacon was in when he died.”

  His companion went on, “I thought it a little insensitive of Dalgliesh to send his juniors to interview the priests. It would have been more appropriate had he spoken to us all himself. Naturally I co-operated, as I am sure did everyone else. I could wish that the police seemed more open to the possibility that someone outside the college is responsible, although I’m reluctant to believe that Inspector Yarwood had anything to do with it. Still, the sooner he is able to speak the better. And I’m naturally very anxious that the church should be reopened. The heart of the college hardly beats without it.”

  Father Martin said, “I don’t suppose we shall be let back until the Doom has been cleaned, and perhaps that won’t be possible. I mean, it may be needed in its present state as evidence.”

  “That, of course, is ridiculous. Photographs have no doubt been taken and they should be sufficient. The cleaning does, however, present a difficulty. It will be a job for experts. The Doom is a national treasure. We could hardly let Pilbeam loose on it with a can of turpentine. And then there must be a service of re hallowing before the church can be used. I’ve been to the library to look at the canons, but they offer remarkably little guidance. Canon deals with the profaning of churches but gives no direction for re sanctification

  There’s the Roman rite, of course, and we could perhaps adapt that, but it is more complicated than seems appropriate. They envisage a procession led by a cross-bearer followed by the Bishop with mitre and pastoral staff, con celebrants deacons and other ministers in proper liturgical vestitures processing before the people into the church.”

  Father Martin said, “I can’t envisage the Bishop wishing to take part. You have, of course, been in touch with him, Father?”

  “Naturally. He is coming over on Wednesday evening. He very considerately suggested that any time earlier might be inconvenient both for us and for the police. He has, of course, spoken to the trustees and I have little doubt what he will tell me formally when he arrives. St. Anselm’s will close at the end of this term. He is hoping that arrangements can be made to accommodate the ordinands in other theological colleges. It is expected that Cuddesdon and St. Stephen’s House will be able to help although not, of course, without difficulty. I have already spoken to the principals.”

  Father Martin, outraged, cried out in protest but his old voice could produce only a humiliating quaver.

  “But that’s appalling. It gives us less than two months. What about the Pilbeams, Surtees, our part-time staff? Are people going to be thrown out of their cottages?”

  “Of course not, Father.” There was a trace of impatience in Father Sebastian’s voice.

  “St. Anselm’s will close as a theological college at the end of this term but the resident staff will be kept on until the future of the buildings has been settled. That will apply also to the part-time staff. Paul Perronet has been on the telephone to me and will come over with the other trustees on Thursday. He’s adamant that nothing of value should be removed at present either from the college or the church. Miss Arbuthnot’s will was very clear as far as her intentions are concerned but undoubtedly the legal position will be complicated.”

  Father Martin had been told the provisions of the will when he became Warden. He thought, but didn’t say, we four priests will become rich men. How rich? he wondered. The thought horrified him. He found that his hands were shaking. Looking down at the veins like purple cords and the brown splotches which seemed more like the marks of a disease than the signs of old age, he felt his meagre store of strength ebbing away.

  Looking at Father Sebastian he saw, with a sudden illuminating insight, a face pale and stoical but a mind already assessing its future, wonderfully impervious to the worst ravages of grief and anxiety. This time there could be no reprieve. Everything Father Sebastian had worked and planned for was going down in horror and scandal. He would survive but now, perhaps for the first time, he would have welcomed an assurance of it.

  They sat opposite each other in silence. Father Martin longed to find the appropriate words but they wouldn’t come. For fifteen years he hadn’t once been asked for his advice, his reassurance, his sympathy or his help. Now, when they were needed, he found himself powerless. His failure went deeper than this moment. It seemed to encompass his whole priesthood. What had he given to his parishioners, to the ordinands or St. Anselm’s? There had been kindness, affection, tolerance and understanding, but those were the common currency of all the well-intentioned. Had he, during the course of his ministry, changed a single life? He recalled the words of a woman overheard when he was leaving his last parish.

  “Father Martin is a priest of whom no one ever speaks ill.” It seemed to him now the most damning of indictments.

  After a moment he got up and Father Sebastian followed. He said, “Would you like me, Father, to take a look at the Roman rite to see if it can be adapted for our use ?”

  Father Sebastian said, “Thank you, Father, that would be helpful’, and moved back to his chair behind the desk as Father Martin left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

  The first of the ordinands to be formally interviewed was Raphael Arbuthnot. Dalgliesh decided to see him with Kate. Arbuthnot took some time responding to the summons and it was ten minutes before he was shown into the interview room by Robbins.

  Dalgliesh saw, with some surprise, that Raphael hadn’t recovered himself; he looked as shocked and distressed as he had during the meeting in the library. Perhaps even this short lapse of time had brought home to him more forcibly the peril in which he stood. He moved as stiffly as an old man and refused Dalgliesh’s invitation to sit. Instead he stood behind the chair, grasping the top with both hands, his knuckles as white as his face. Kate had the ridiculous notion that if she put out her hand to touch Raphael’s skin or the curls of his
hair, she would experience only unyielding stone. The contrast between the blond Hellenic head and the stark black of the clerical cassock looked both hierarchic and theatrically contrived.

  Dalgliesh said, “No one could have sat at dinner last night, as I did, without realizing that you disliked the Archdeacon. Why?”

  It wasn’t the opening that Arbuthnot had expected. Perhaps, thought Kate, he had mentally prepared himself for a more familiar academic gambit, innocuous preliminary questions about a candidate’s personal history leading on to the more challenging inquisition. He stared fixedly at Dalgliesh and was silent.

  It seemed impossible that any reply could come from those rigid lips, but when he spoke his voice was under control.

  “I’d rather not say. Isn’t it enough that I disliked him?” He paused, then said, “It was stronger than that. I hated him. Hating him had become an obsession. I realize that now. Perhaps I was deflecting onto him the hatred I couldn’t admit to feeling for someone or something else, a person, a place, an institution.”

  He managed a rueful smile and said, “If Father Sebastian were here he’d say I’m indulging my deplorable obsession with amateur psychology.”

  Kate said, her voice surprisingly gentle, “We do know about Father John’s conviction.”