“Too much,” said Amanda as they walked toward the Deanery. She shivered. James looked at her curiously. His first diagnosis had been right. She was too thin.
“Who are the Friends? They sound like the Mafia.”
“Not quite as bad as that. Though they can be bloody-minded. They’re called the Friends of the Cathedral. Most cathedrals have them. They organise things and make money. Quite a lot of money. This Saturday’s the big day in their year. We give them a buffet lunch in the Deanery garden. Everyone turns up. It’s a terrible scramble. Then there’s a service in the Cathedral and a meeting in the Chapter House afterwards. That’s when the arguments start. How to spend their funds. The last thing they paid for was the new console for the organ.”
“That was a good thing to do.”
“If they always spent their money as sensibly as that, they’d be all right. But they don’t. Two years ago there was a stand-up fight between the ones who wanted to fit out the Chapter House with full stereo equipment and the ones who wanted a piece of sculpture made of iron girders put up in the West Precinct. Luckily, they cancelled each other out and saved their money for the organ.”
“It’s their money, I suppose, so they can do what they like with it.”
“Within reason. It’s got to be for the general good of the Cathedral.”
“Your father, I take it, would like them to hand it over to him. Then he could decide what was for the good of the Cathedral.”
Amanda laughed. She said, “You’ve got him summed up, James. He’s a natural despot. He’s spent most of his life in places where he was the only authority. If there were decisions to be made, he had to make them. Under God’s guidance, of course.”
“I’d like to hear about that properly, please. Do you like walking? I don’t mean a stroll round the town. I mean a proper walk.”
They had reached the Deanery gate. Amanda stopped with her hand on the top bar and looked at him. Then she said, “Not tomorrow. We’ve got committees all day. Thursday, perhaps. There’s a good walk over Helmet Down and back through Washbury and Bramerton. It’s about seven miles.”
“Done,” said James. “Goodnight.”
He watched Amanda as she strode away up the Deanery path. Nice hips. She’d make a good walker.
The moon, nearly full, had risen early that evening and was already going down behind the Cathedral, throwing a black squat shadow onto the precinct lawn. A small wind had got up and was rustling the leaves of the lime trees.
James felt disinclined for bed. He perched on the precinct wall, got out a cigarette and smoked it slowly.
When he looked up again, the shadow had moved. It was creeping toward him. He had an uncomfortable illusion that if he didn’t get away quickly, the Cathedral would fall on top of him.
“Be your age,” he said. “Go to bed.”
Four
“Having examined the figures,” said the Archdeacon, “I have come to the conclusion that it would be cheaper to accept the offer put forward by parents to take the boys to matches in their own cars. We pay for their petrol.”
“Not only cheaper,” said Dora Brookes. “More comfortable for the boys. Last term two of them were always sick in the coach. It didn’t improve their cricket.”
“I imagine not. Then that is the last point on the accounts, Headmaster?”
“Nothing else that I know of,” said Lawrence Consett, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.
The committee was meeting in the school dining room, about which still hovered the faint smell of school breakfast. In addition to the Archdeacon and Dora Brookes, it consisted of Canon Lister, Anthony Openshaw and Dr McHarg, who looked after the health of the school and of many of the inhabitants of the Close as well.
“I am sure,” the Archdeacon continued with a smile which embraced them all, “that you find me tiresomely insistent on these small economies, but I think you’ll agree that in times like the present we have to look carefully at every penny before we spend it. I’d go further. It would be even better if we could not only save money, but actually make a small profit here and there. It’s a matter I have been giving thought to in the last few weeks.”
The headmaster looked at him suspiciously. What now?
“I have had what seemed to me to be an attractive offer. The Western Operatic Group is doing a season next month at Winchester, Salisbury and Bath. All within easy distance of us here at Melchester. As it happens, three of the works which they have in repertory feature boy singers. The Queen of Spades, The Cunning Little Vixen and La Bohème. The producer tells me that he could use up to eight of our boys in these parts. They would be responsible for any theatrical coaching, of course. And they would pay an honorarium of a hundred pounds for each performance.”
There was a moment of silence.
“How many performances?” said Dr McHarg.
“Four in each town. One matinee and three evening performances.”
“What fun it would be for them,” said Mrs Brookes. “I’m sure they’d love it. They do adore dressing up.”
“Twelve hundred pound,” said Dr McHarg. “Aye, that’s a tidy sum. It would almost defray the cost of the bathroom improvements.”
“I was thinking of earmarking it for that purpose. It seemed to me an offer we ought to accept. I agree with Mrs Brookes that the boys should enjoy it. But it was rather in my mind that it would broaden their musical education.” He looked round the committee. “Can I take it, then, that you agree?”
“You’ll have to take a vote on it,” said Canon Lister. “Because I’m against it.”
“Why, Tom?”
“The one thing the boys don’t need broadening or widening or extending in any direction is their musical education. They get plenty of that here. What needs looking after is their general education. They forfeit nearly two hours to music every morning and an hour every evening. As soon as their voices break, they’ll be going on to public schools and their parents will be thinking about scholarships. Some of them are not too well off.”
“No doubt their parents will bear in mind that the Cathedral contributes five hundred pounds a year toward their sons’ education here,” said Dr McHarg. “They might not grudge a small return for that.”
“Well, I’m for it,” said Dora Brookes.
“Anthony?”
“I’m with Canon Lister on this,” said Openshaw. “It’s a matter of trying to cram three half-pints into a pint pot. General education, music, sport. When there aren’t enough hours in the day for everything, something has got to go.”
“I see,” said the Archdeacon smoothly. “That makes us two all. I suppose I should have a casting vote, but I would be unhappy to use it in favour of my own project without rather more support from the committee. I think I shall hand my vote over to the headmaster.”
“Good idea,” said Canon Lister. “He’s the one who has to deal with the parents.”
Mr Consett looked far from happy at the idea of having to give the casting vote. He said, speaking slowly, as though the words were being forced out of him: “Canon Lister mentioned that some of our boys might be sitting scholarships. I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that. To get into any public school a boy has to pass what’s called the Common Entrance exam. It used to be just that. A common qualifying exam. If the boy could pass it, he was eligible. It’s not like that now. With the competition for places at the leading schools, a boy has to pass high up to get in at all. The whole thing’s become competitive.”
When he had finished, there was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Canon Lister, who said, “I think that’s conclusive, Archdeacon, don’t you?”
“Having asked for the headmaster’s views,” said the Archdeacon, “it would be pointless not to accept them. I will press the scheme no further.” There was neither surprise nor resentment in his voice. “If there is no other business, I will declare the meeting closed.”
As they were leaving, Mr Consett said, “There is one matter I’d
like to mention, Archdeacon. Not committee business.”
“Then perhaps we can discuss it in your study.”
When Dora Brookes left the meeting, she walked back to the house next to the Theological College which her husband occupied in his capacity as Chapter Clerk. She found him in the back kitchen, a large, cool, stone-flagged room. Like many of his friends in those days of high prices, he had turned to winemaking; not always with total success.
He said, “You remember that peach wine that didn’t quite come off?”
His wife made a face and said, “I shall never forget it.”
“It wasn’t very nice, was it? What I thought was I might try to turn it into brandy.”
“Then we’ll drink it ourselves,” said his wife firmly. “I’m not going to risk it at a dinner party.”
“How did your meeting go?”
“Very well, until right at the end.” She explained about the opera company. “I was sorry we had to turn it down.”
“How did the Archdeacon take it?”
“He doesn’t like not getting his own way. I thought it was courageous of Consett to oppose him. After all, it’s the Archdeacon who appoints the headmaster.”
“My dear, Lawrence Consett is an excellent headmaster. A first-class scholar and very good with the boys. You don’t, surely, imagine that a rebuff in committee would turn the Archdeacon against him.”
“I don’t know.” Dora Brookes’ placid face was troubled. “He’s an odd man. He doesn’t like opposition. I think he’d have made a good managing director or chief accountant or something like that.”
“The real trouble,” said Brookes, “is that he isn’t managing director of Melchester Cathedral. That post happens to be filled by someone else.” He added, “Someone who also likes getting his own way.”
The Archdeacon went directly from the school meeting to the North Canonry and tugged the brass bell pull. The door was opened by Canon Maude’s mother. Mrs Maude was well on into her eighties, a small compact woman, a little deaf, but with all her wits about her. Since Canon Maude was clearly incapable of looking after himself, it was, as everyone observed, providential that his mother was still alive and active.
She said, “I expect it’s Mervyn you want,” and trotted ahead of him down the long hallway at a speed the Archdeacon could hardly match. “He’s in his study. Working on a sermon, he said.”
The study overlooked a stretch of lawn running up to the wall which divided the North Canonry garden from the Cathedral School playground. As the Archdeacon came in, Canon Maude swept a copy of the Times under a pile of papers and bobbed up to welcome him.
“My dear Raymond. An unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you? Please sit down. You’re looking very well. Take a chair. No, that one, please. It’s much more comfortable.”
Without speaking, the Archdeacon drew an upright chair to the other side of the table, cleared a space by pushing some of the clutter to one side and laid on it a single sheet of deckle-edged notepaper and an opened envelope.
Canon Maude looked at it. His face, which was normally the pink and white of a healthy baby, was now pink all over. A deeper red flush started on his cheekbones and spread upward toward his forehead. He put one hand out as though to pick up the letter, thought better of it and drew it back.
“What’s all this, Raymond? What is it?”
“It’s a letter.”
“A letter?”
“And that is the envelope it came in. Which is addressed, as you can see, to William Anstruther, who is a boy at the choristers’ school. I understand that it was dropped over the wall of your garden into the playground. Since you wrote the letter yourself, I’m sure you know what’s in it.”
Canon Maude looked up at the ceiling as though seeking inspiration, but found none there.
“Is it your habit to write love letters to boys?”
“Love letters,” said Canon Maude faintly. “Really, Raymond.”
“I should imagine that is how the court would construe a letter which referred to red-rose lips and velvet eyes and—what was that other expression?” The Archdeacon picked up the letter and examined it critically. “Oh, yes. This bit at the end about his sylphlike figure and slim gilt soul.”
“What did you mean?” said Canon Maude tremulously. “When you spoke about the court?”
“I meant what I said. Anyone reading this letter would assume that you were trying to seduce the boy. If his father, Brigadier Anstruther, saw it, his first instinct would be to come round here with a horsewhip. On further reflection he would probably decide to hand the letter over to the police.”
Canon Maude was now as white as he had been red before. He said, “But he must never see it, Raymond. Never, never, never.” His voice rose in a squeak. “I should never have written it. It must be destroyed.”
He put a hand out, but the Archdeacon intercepted it, picked up the letter and envelope and restored them to his own pocket.
He said, “Fortunately, the boy had enough sense not to show this to any of his friends. Indeed, I should imagine he was deeply shocked. He took it straight to his form master, Mr Fleming, who handed it to the headmaster. He gave it to me, after the meeting this morning. By doing so, he laid on me the onus of deciding what to do about it.”
Canon Maude said, “Think of the Chapter, Raymond. We must stand by each other.”
“I am thinking about the Chapter. But I am also thinking about myself. The boy has promised to keep his mouth shut. But if this did get out – if his father heard about it and discovered that I had decided to hush the matter up – my own position would be far from agreeable. You appreciate that?”
“I do, Raymond. I do. I should be eternally grateful.”
“Very well. I have decided to take no further step in this matter. But on one condition: that you give me your solemn word that you will never do such a stupid thing again.”
“I give you my word, Raymond. I do indeed.”
There was a single tear at the corner of each of his eyes.
The Archdeacon rose to his feet. He stood for a moment staring down at Canon Maude, who seemed incapable of moving. He said, “I took particular note of one comment you made, Mervyn.” His voice sounded more friendly. “You spoke of the Chapter standing by each other. I’m afraid that’s something we’re not very good at, just at this moment. Maybe we can do better in future. Please don’t trouble your mother. I’ll let myself out.”
As he padded back, past the High Street Gate, toward his own house, head thrust forward, shoulders hunched, looking more bearlike than ever, the Archdeacon’s mind was running down strange channels. “Red-rose lips . . . slim gilt soul . . .” Canon Maude had not made up those expressions. He had read them somewhere. It was quite unimportant, but it annoyed the Archdeacon that he could not place them.
It was as he turned in at his own gate that he remembered.
Surely, both expressions came from that unfortunate letter which Oscar Wilde had written to Lord Alfred Douglas and which Carson had read out, with such sinister emphasis, at the Old Bailey. The letter had been one of the last nails in Oscar’s coffin. Such an odd character. So wise in some ways, so stupid in others. The Archdeacon growled gently to himself as he thought about Oscar Wilde.
The editor of the Melset Times, Mr Arthur Balfour Driffield, was a thin dry man in his early forties. He said to the young lady who stood beside his editorial desk, “There’s going to be a meeting of the Cathedral Chapter tomorrow. An informal meeting, called by Archdeacon Pawle, to discuss the question of Fletcher’s Piece.”
The young lady needed no explanation about this. She and all the staff of the Melset Times knew that the paper was supporting the Archdeacon in his attempts to improve the finances of the Cathedral. Driffield had already penned a number of forceful leaders on the subject under such headlines as “The Widow’s Mite” and “Charity or Commonsense”. The reasons for this policy were clear. Their rival, the Melset Journal, had come out in support of
the Dean. When the matter had been discussed in the staff room, the view had been expressed that there was more to it than this. Newspaper rivalry was admitted to spark good copy, but the old man seemed to be taking it all a bit personally, they thought.
“We want as much background information as we can get. It’s raising a lot of interest and we ought to be able to start people taking sides. Don’t tackle the Archdeacon. He won’t want to be involved publicly. But there’s the lady who does for him.”
“Rosa Pilcher.”
“That’s the one. I’m told you can find her any morning in the Copper Kettle or the Busy Bee. You can probably get something there. And another thing: see what you can find out about Fletcher’s Piece. It must have some sort of history. Where did it get its name from? Who was the original Mr Fletcher? That sort of thing.”
The young lady promised to do her best.
Five
“I suppose the meeting is at the Deanery,” said Dora Brookes.
“As usual,” said her husband. He was looking for the minute book, which had disappeared.
“Will there be a fight?”
“I imagine so. Where did I—”
“I don’t like you getting involved.”
“I won’t be involved. I’m just there to take notes.”
“If things go wrong, you’re sure to be blamed.”
“I shan’t be there at all if I can’t find the bloody minute book.”
“It’s on the hall table.”
“I don’t know what I should do without you,” said Brookes. It was true. He was becoming increasingly reliant on his wife.
In Melchester, as in most cathedrals, there were two Chapters. The Greater Chapter consisted of between forty and fifty clergymen with livings in the diocese. They were appointed by the Bishop as a reward for long and meritorious service in their parishes. The office was largely honorary, but included certain dignities, such as the possession of a stall within the Choir and the right to preach once a year in the Cathedral. As an executive body, the Greater Chapter had few functions and met rarely. When it did meet, it was accommodated in the spacious Chapter House, an octagonal building which could hold two hundred people easily.
The Black Seraphim Page 6