The Black Seraphim

by Michael Gilbert

  “That’s torn it,” said the fair-haired boy.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That was my boss.”

  “Are you working for Gerry Gloag’s outfit?”

  “As of last month. As of next month, probably not.”

  “Nonsense, old boy. He can’t sack you. You didn’t do anything. Cheer up. Now that the riff-raff have gone, suppose we have a drink. Pull us four foaming pints, Charmian.”

  “You are awful, Mr Williams.”

  “I know I am, darling. But it’s much too late to do anything about it.”

  Introductions were effected. James gathered that the redhead was Bill Williams, who worked on the Melset Journal, a rival paper to the Melset Times. “A stuffy collection at the Times,” said Bill. “If you want the real news, come to us.” The fair-haired boy was Philip Rosewarn. They both played rugby football for the Melset Club, Bill at forward, Philip at scrum half. Philip still seemed to be worried.

  “Gloag’s so unpredictable,” he said. “Most of the time he’s the commanding officer being decent to the subalterns, but every now and then he can be an absolute bastard.” He drank up some of his beer and added, “I think he’s in Sandeman’s pocket. They’re very thick.”

  James said, “Who is Sandeman? And when and how did he lose his hat?”

  Bill Williams said, “He’s a councillor. Chairman of the Roads Committee, a trade union organiser and a shit of the first water. I’ll tell you about his hat in a moment. I just want to find out from Philip—” He suddenly sounded both interested and serious. “When you said he was very thick with Gerry Gloag, did you mean anything in particular?”

  “Well, Sandeman seems to be round our place a good deal, in office hours. I wondered what was up.”

  “Perhaps he’s buying a house.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything simple like that. I happened to go in once when they were together. They had a plan open on the table. Part of it was the Close, I could see that. And the land north of it, the other side of the river. They rolled it up pretty smartly when I walked in.”

  Williams said something which sounded like “Fletcher’s Piece”. Then he finished his beer, ordered a final round and regaled them with the story of the Mayor wanting to go to the lavatory in the middle of a mayoral reception.

  In the laughter and talk that followed, the story of Leo Sandeman’s hat got shelved.

  They walked home along the south wall of the Close and through the Bishop’s Gate.

  “Still shuts sharp at eleven,” said Peter. “If you want to get in after that, you have to cross Mullins’ palm with silver.”

  “Or use an alternative entrance.”

  “That’s right. Incidentally, they’ve put a line of barbed wire along the wall by the south gate, but there’s another simple way in along the riverbank. I usually climb straight into the cottage garden.”

  As they turned into the quiet street which led to the Bishop’s Gate, a car slid up behind and a spotlight flicked on. The car slowed and James thought, for a moment, that it was going to stop. Then it accelerated again, passed them and drove off down the street.

  “Did you see that?” said Williams.

  “What was it all about?”

  “That was Detective Sergeant Telfer, a leading light in our local police force. I guess he’d been lurking somewhere near the Lion to see if I’d driven there. Then he’d have stopped me and had me breathalysed.”

  “But why?”

  “He doesn’t like me. The Journal published something rather rude about him. He thought I’d written it. As a matter of fact, he was quite right. I had.”

  Peter said, “The point is, James, that our two local newspapers, the Times and the Journal, are at daggers drawn. If one of them blackguards the police, the other supports them and vice versa.”

  “Civil war,” said Bill. “Not always so civil, though.”

  James said, “War in the Close. War in the town. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve come to the right place for a rest cure.”

  Three

  On Monday morning, after a makeshift breakfast, James strolled out into the Close and made for the High Street Gate. The sun was shining and he felt at peace with the world.

  The area inside the gate had been ruled out into ten parking places. Nine of these were already occupied. Two cars were heading for the remaining vacancy. The first car, coming from the direction of the Deanery, was being driven by the Dean’s daughter, Amanda. The competitor, coming in from the High Street, was a dark blue official-looking saloon driven by a thickset young man with a meaty face.

  Amanda won the race and slid neatly into the vacant slot. The young man pulled away and parked alongside the pavement opposite. As he was getting out of his car, Mullins, the Close Constable, came out of his cottage and looked at him with disapproval.

  “Can’t park here, son,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” said the young man, not looking at all sorry. “But seeing there are no parking spaces vacant, I’ve got to park somewhere else, right?”

  “Plenty of parking places in the town.”

  “Look, I don’t want any argument. I’m here on official business with Archdeacon Pawle.”

  “Suppose you’ve got official business with God Almighty, you can’t leave your car here.”

  Splendid, thought James. Church versus State. He wondered who was going to win. Amanda, leaning out of her car window, was listening unashamedly. Possibly it was the presence of an audience which tipped the scale. The young man switched off his engine, applied the parking brake with unnecessary violence, opened his car door and got out.

  He said, “You can do what you like about it, Mr Mullins. That car stays right there.”

  “Detective Sergeant Telfer, isn’t it?” said Mullins placidly.

  “Since you know who I am, you’ve got even less reason for obstructing me in the course of my duty.”

  “It’s not me who’s obstructing you,” said Mullins mildly. “It’s you who’s obstructing any of those cars at the end of the line that wants to get out.”

  The young man said, “Don’t bother. I won’t be long,” and strode off.

  “Long enough, I hope,” said Mullins and re-entered his cottage.

  This was evidently not the end of the drama. Amanda spotted James and said, “Don’t go away. This might be fun. Have a seat in the stalls.”

  James got into the car and sat down beside her. He said, “What happens next?”

  “It all depends whether Sam or young Ernie are handy. Mullins will be telephoning them now.”

  Five peaceful minutes ticked past. Then a tractor came rattling across the Cathedral precinct. Mullins was standing ready. The tractor, which was driven by a middle-aged man with a beard (“Sam Courthope,” said Amanda, “a very nice man”), backed up to the car. Two chains were brought out and hooked to the winch on the tractor and the bumper of the car. Mullins leaned into the car to release the handbrake and signalled to Sam, who engaged the winch and lifted the front wheels of the police car clear of the ground.

  “Right away,” said Mullins and the tractor departed in the direction of the Cathedral with the car bumping behind it.

  “Lovely,” said James. “Where’s he taking it to?”

  “He’s got a sort of yard where he and the builders keep their stuff. I expect that’s where he’ll put it.”

  “Does much of this sort of thing go on?”

  “A certain amount. It’s got much worse since Daddy took over.” As Amanda said this, she showed her teeth in her urchin grin. “One of the things the Corporation doesn’t much like is having the Close gates locked at night. You know they had to leave them open during the war because of bombs and fire engines getting in, and they tried to keep it that way when the war ended. There was a terrific argument, but the Cathedral won.”

  “Why would they object to the gates being shut?”

  “They said it was medieval.”

  “Nothing wrong with being me
dieval.”

  Amanda looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She said, “You really think that? Well, so do I. But a lot of people don’t. There’s a crowd in the town who don’t really approve of the Cathedral at all. They pay lip service to it, but in their heart of hearts they think it’s an old-fashioned nuisance. They’d like to pull it down and put up a nice modern factory making furniture or fridges. I suppose it’s jealousy, really. Town versus Gown. In the old days they used to fight about it. Real fights, with swords and daggers. Now they just sit back and make snide remarks.”

  “Hold it,” said James. “Here comes the law.”

  The expressions on Detective Sergeant Telfer’s face, when he rounded the corner and saw that his car was gone, changed from blank astonishment through dawning comprehension to fury.

  “Just like TV, isn’t it?” said Amanda happily.

  It occurred to James that perhaps a generation brought up on television close-ups might be becoming less ashamed to express their emotions visually.

  Telfer stepped up to the Close Constable’s cottage, jerked the bell and waited. The tinkling sound died away in the warm air. Nothing else happened. Telfer grabbed the bell pull again and jerked it savagely.

  Mullins, who must have come out of his garden gate, rounded the corner, padded up behind Telfer as he had his hand once more on the brass bell pull and said, “Easy with the fittings, son. You don’t want it to come away in your hand, do you now? Expensive things to mend.”

  “What I want,” said Telfer, “is my car.”

  There was more menace in the flat way in which he said it than in any colourful obscenity.

  Mullins looked at him thoughtfully. He said, “It isn’t here, is it?”

  “What have you done with it?”

  “I haven’t actually what you might call done anything with it. Not myself, that is.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I expect that it has been towed away by the proper authorities in accordance with the instructions of the Dean and Chapter with regard to vehicles illegally parked.”

  Telfer, who had been red, was now white with fury. “Do you mean to say,” he said between his teeth, “that you’ve had the fucking nerve to have my car towed away?”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “Then I want it back and I want it back now.”

  Mullins put one hand into his side pocket and produced a small notebook and into his top pocket for a pair of reading glasses. He did all this with a massive deliberation which served to stoke Sergeant Telfer’s fury to boiling point.

  “’Fines for illegal parking,’” he read out. “’First offense, five pounds.’”

  The Sergeant took a quick step toward him.

  “Go on,” breathed Amanda. “Hit him. Two independent witnesses. Hit him just once and we’ve got you where we want you.”

  There was an undertone of savage satisfaction in her voice that startled James. For a moment it was touch and go. Then the Sergeant seemed to visualise the pit ahead of him. He swung around on his heel and marched steadily out of the Close into the High Street without looking back.

  James let out the breath which he had been holding and said, “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of coffee.”

  “Good idea,” said Amanda. “Let’s go to the Copper Kettle.” She got out of the car. Mullins was still looking at his notebook. He seemed to be abstracted. “Jolly well played, Mullins.”

  “I’m afraid we may have a bit of bother about that,” said Mullins, “but I wasn’t going to be trampled on. If he’d been polite, now—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Amanda. “You were only doing your duty. The Dean will back you to the hilt.”

  Over a cup of coffee in the Copper Kettle, James said to Amanda, “What is the position, really? Does the authority of the police extend to the Close or not?”

  Amanda said, “I don’t think anyone knows. For crimes and breaches of the peace and things like that, certainly it does. But some things, like traffic control, are left to us.”

  When James got back to the cottage, he found Peter stretched out in a chair with his heels on the table, smoking.

  “Picture of an idle schoolmaster,” said James.

  “I’m conserving my powers,” said Peter. “Difficult days ahead. Finance Committee meeting tomorrow.”

  “Are you involved in that?”

  “We’re all involved. Even the Matron has to turn up and account for every cough drop she dishes out.” The prospect didn’t seem to worry him. He said, “You remember Anstruther.”

  “Bottle?”

  “That’s the boy. Aunt Maude has started writing to him.”

  “Poems?”

  “Love letters.”

  “Good God!” said James.

  “It’s no joke, really. Luckily, the boy had the sense to hand it straight over to me. I don’t think anyone else saw it. I gave it to Lawrence. He nearly had a fit. It was full of stuff about eyes like stars and rose-red lips.”

  “The man’s senile. What’s Lawrence going to do?”

  “I left him worrying about it.”

  “If I was him, I’d tell the boy to tear it up.”

  “And what happens when Anstruther tells his father about it? He’s a brigadier general and lives in the town.”

  “Not easy,” agreed James.

  “What I guess he’ll do is pass the buck to the Archdeacon. He’s chairman of the School Governors.”

  “What will he do?”

  “You shall have the next exciting instalment this evening.”

  At three o’clock that afternoon Detective Superintendent Herbert Charles Bracher called, by appointment, on the Dean. He was not the sort of man whom his colleagues, or even his friends, would ever address as Bert or Charlie. He was a tall solemn man with a bush of hair already retreating from his forehead, who stood on his dignity, had an ambitious wife and was said to have money put by. The Dean received him in his study and listened in silence to what he had to say. There was a further silence when the Superintendent had finished.

  Finally the Dean spoke. His voice was soft and so deliberate that there seemed to be short intervals between words and longer intervals between sentences.

  “First,” he said, “I’d like to be a little clearer about the facts. I was aware that there had been pilfering, on a small scale, from houses in the Close. In the summer we live with our front doors open. All sorts of people walk past. Saints and sinners.”

  The Superintendent said, “Just so, sir.”

  “The articles which have been stolen have mostly been silver. Trays, cups, inkstands. Things calculated to catch the magpie eye of a sneak thief.”

  “That’s just my point, sir—”

  “And now you come and tell me that one of the servants of the Cathedral, the junior verger, Masters, has been seen selling articles of silver to a trader in the market.”

  “Not just any trader, sir. A man with a bad reputation. We’ve had our eye on him for some time.”

  “I see. Then it was one of your men who observed this transaction?”

  “Well, no, not actually, sir. But it was reported to us.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “We never reveal the sources of our information.”

  “But if the matter comes to court, he or she will be called on to give evidence.”

  “If it comes to court.”

  The Dean considered this in silence for a full minute while the Superintendent fidgeted. He had never felt comfortable with Dean Forrest. His predecessor had been a great deal easier to deal with. A very agreeable old man. Not a gaunt ruffian like the present incumbent.

  “And was this the matter that your Sergeant Telfer came here this morning to discuss with the Archdeacon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Why was
a matter affecting the discipline of the Close discussed with the Archdeacon and not with myself?”

  “Well, sir, I suppose in this case it was because—” He broke off, realising suddenly that he had nearly been trapped into an indiscretion. He changed the end of the sentence smoothly “—because we don’t quite appreciate these fine points. We thought that administrative matters would be the concern of the Archdeacon.”

  “That’s a very curious idea, Superintendent. Tell me, if I had information which affected the reputation of your force . . . I say, if – I’m not implying that I have any such information. Would I not then go to the head of your force? To your Chief Constable, Valentine Laporte? I would not discuss it with a sergeant, or even—” the Dean paused delicately “—with a detective superintendent.”

  “I suppose not, sir. If this was a mistake, I must take the blame for it.”

  “On general grounds? Or was it perhaps you who suggested that Sergeant Telfer should see the Archdeacon?”

  The Superintendent felt himself being forced into a corner. Also he was aware that he was losing his temper and that if he lost it he would put himself at a disadvantage. He said, “On both grounds. And now could I revert to the two points I’ve already mentioned.”

  “Two points,” said the Dean, placing the tips of his fingers together.

  “First, will you ask Masters for an explanation?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist, sir. If you won’t question the man, someone else must. An accusation has been made.”

  “All that you have told me so far is that an unnamed informant has told you that they saw Masters selling unidentified silver objects in the marketplace. You have no case at all, and unless you can produce some more substantial evidence, I won’t have one of the Cathedral servants bothered with it.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t leave it at that, sir.”

  “If you should ignore my direct instructions and seek to harass Masters in any way, I will make it my business to see that he is legally protected.”

  The Superintendent hesitated. He was aware that he had no more than suspicions. If the stall keeper had been anyone but Alf Carney, he wouldn’t have given the matter a second thought.