The Black Seraphim
Page 7
All the real power was vested in the Inner Chapter, which consisted of the four Canons Residentiary and was presided over by the Dean. Recently the meetings had been held at the Deanery and it was there that they met that morning, in the beautiful house designed by Christopher Wren, standing at the south-east corner of the Close and overlooking the river.
Men were already busy on the lawn outside, putting up the marquee for the buffet luncheon of the Friends. The sight of it seemed to remind the Archdeacon of something and he made a note on the pad in front of him.
The Dean said, in his most formal voice: “It is at your request that this meeting has been called, Archdeacon. Perhaps you will speak first, then.”
The Archdeacon said, with equal formality: “Thank you, Dean. I will be as brief as I can. Maxwell Gloag and Partners have received an offer to buy the whole of our meadowland on the west bank of the river, known popularly as Fletcher’s Piece. It is roughly fifteen acres and the sum offered is twelve thousand pounds an acre. A total purchase price of about a hundred and eighty thousand pounds.”
Canon Lister said, “At the moment it’s farmland.”
“Correct, Tom. Mr Pellett, who farms it, has also had an offer made to him for the surrender of his lease which he is prepared to accept.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Farmer Pellett. I was thinking of the planning authorities.”
“Have they managed to buy them, too?” said the Dean.
“The deal would be conditional on the purchasers being able to obtain planning permission for general industrial development or, failing that, for residential development. I’m given to understand that soundings have already been taken and that one or other of these applications is likely to be successful.”
“You talk about purchasers,” said the Dean. “Can you be a little more specific? Is the favoured purchaser Wessex Instrumentation?”
“Not directly. Gloag tells me he is acting for a syndicate who are prepared to put up the money. Their plan would be to sell part to the Instrumentation company, who badly need room to expand. The remainder would be sold to developers for a housing estate. That might pay them even more handsomely.”
“So that if we sell,” said Canon Lister, “we have the choice of being overlooked by a factory, or a row of other people’s back gardens, or both. I must confess that I don’t find the prospect attractive.”
The Archdeacon said, “Superficially, Tom, I agree with you. But bear in mind that we have grown used to the almost monastic seclusion of this Close. It is a seclusion which few cathedrals enjoy. St Paul’s stands among office blocks. Winchester has houses and shops all round it. Exeter, Ely and Rochester are planted in the centres of the town and open on all sides to the public. Have we, perhaps, got a little spoiled if we shudder at the thought of a row of new houses on the far side of the river?”
Canon Maude said, “You know, there’s something in that.”
The Dean looked at him speculatively. Before he could say anything, the Archdeacon had continued, speaking in the calm reasonable voice that Canon Humphrey classified as “good committee”. He said, “A hundred and eighty thousand pounds is not, perhaps, an enormous sum of money by modern standards. But consider one point. If one invests money to produce income, one can currently get a return of between twelve and fifteen percent. In our case, as a charity, that is free of tax. If we took the money, I would suggest that we set it aside and allowed it to grow. I have not made an exact computation, but in three years’ time it would have increased by approximately a further eighty thousand pounds. This would give us what we have always needed at Melchester and never had: a proper self-supporting fabric fund.”
The Dean seemed to have been making some calculations. He said, “And have you also worked out exactly what would have been produced by an investment of thirty pieces of silver at the date of our Lord’s death?”
“That’s one below the belt,” thought Canon Humphrey. “If Raymond blows his top, we shall have a merry meeting.”
A flush of angry colour showed for a moment in the Archdeacon’s face, but it was Canon Lister who spoke. He said, “The difficulty about biblical analogies, Dean, is that they are often inconsistent. In a situation like this, the Bible offers us two disparate pieces of advice: ‘Lay not up for yourself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust do corrupt,’ but on the other hand, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ I have often wondered how you are supposed to pay the taxes that Caesar demands if you are forbidden to save any of your money.”
This intervention had had the desired effect. The Archdeacon’s voice and manner were again unruffled.
(“It was a close thing, all the same,” thought Canon Humphrey.)
“I think, Tom,” said the Archdeacon, “that you have, as usual, put your finger on the heart of the problem. Let me remind you that the rent paid by Farmer Pellett is twelve pounds an acre. That adds up to the magnificent sum of a hundred and eighty pounds a year. In fact, it doesn’t always come to that because, as landlords, we have certain obligations in the way of fencing and drainage. If we accept this offer, our income, without any deductions at all, would be around twenty-five thousand pounds a year. We stand in the position of trustees of the Cathedral property. Can we allow all the essential repairs and renovations to go by default, for lack of the wherewithal to pay for them, when the necessary cash is being offered to us?”
There was a short silence, broken only by a mumbling noise from Canon Maude, who seemed to be about to say something, but to think better of it.
Canon Humphrey said, “I’d like to be clear about this planning business. Could the planning authorities take the land from us?”
“Henry can probably answer that,” said the Dean.
Henry Brookes said, “They have powers of compulsory purchase in certain cases, but I’m sure that they wouldn’t, and couldn’t, exercise them to take away land that has belonged to the Church for six centuries. It’s not on the cards at all.”
“So that the planning point is simply whether or not they will give permission for development? Factories and houses?”
“That’s right.”
“We could apply. And put up houses ourselves.”
“That seems to be quite an idea,” said Canon Maude brightly. “If there’s a profit to be made by putting up houses, why shouldn’t we make it?”
“Because we haven’t got the building finance,” said the Archdeacon.
“Of course, of course. I’d overlooked that.”
The Dean said, “You know this man Gloag, Henry. Wasn’t he the one who bought up your business when you retired?”
“That’s the man.”
“Is he straight?”
Brookes thought about this. Then he said, “Well, he’s a businessman.”
“That’s a Socratic answer, but it doesn’t tell me what I want to know. A hundred and eighty thousand pounds is a lot of money. He wouldn’t be in this by himself. He must have powerful backers. And be anticipating a handsome profit.”
“I expect that’s right.”
“Would they be the same people who made a killing over Mrs Henn-Christie’s land? You were involved in that.”
“I was involved,” said Brookes, looking a little uncomfortable. “But only because Mrs Henn-Christie wouldn’t negotiate directly with Gloag. I’d sold up by then, but her family had dealt with my firm for a long time. So she asked me to act as a go-between. There was nothing more to it than that, I assure you.”
“My dear Henry,” said the Dean, with one of his rare smiles. “No one is suggesting that you were involved financially in that particular deal. But you must have had a good deal to do with Gloag. Perhaps you even know who his backers are?”
“That was something he took great care to keep secret.”
“Curious,” said the Dean. “I wonder why. After all, making money out of old ladies like Claribel Henn-Christie and unworldly clergymen like us may be unethical, but it’s not criminal.”
The Archdeacon rotated his big head until he was looking directly at Brookes. He said, “Arthur Driffield? The editor of the Times?”
“Actually, he’s a bit more than the editor. He owns most of the shares in the company that runs it. His wife has money in it, too.”
The Archdeacon said, “I see,” and swung his gaze back to the block of paper on the table in front of him. There was a single line of writing on it. He rarely made notes. He was the only member of the Chapter who preached without a written text.
“It would seem, then,” said the Dean, “that if we sell our birthright for a mess of pottage, the end result will be to line the pockets of a group of local businessmen. All that we know, or suspect, about them is that they are backed by the Melset Times and may be the people who swindled Mrs Henn-Christie. Is that a fair summing up?”
The Archdeacon said, without troubling to conceal the anger in his voice, “That, Mr Dean, is about as unfair a summing up as could be imagined, but most of what has been said here this morning has been prejudiced or irrelevant. I would like to put the plain proposition before the meeting. Do we accept Mr Gloag’s offer? I am proposer and I vote for it.”
His eyes swung around the table once more, resting on each man in turn.
“I—yes—I think I support the proposition,” said Canon Maude.
“You must make up your mind, Mervyn,” said the Dean gently. “Do you, or don’t you?”
Canon Maude said, “I do support the Archdeacon’s proposal. Yes, I do. I do.”
And looked, thought Canon Humphrey, like a truculent rabbit.
“Those against,” said the Dean. “In addition, that is, to myself.”
“Against,” said Canon Humphrey.
“Against,” said Canon Lister.
“Then it would appear,” said the Dean, “that your proposal, my dear Raymond, is negatived.”
When Brookes got home, his wife said, “You look as if you’ve had a hard morning. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
A cup of coffee was her panacea for most of life’s ills.
When she had gone, Brookes sat for a minute staring down at the blank page of the minute book. Then he took out his pen and wrote, after the date: “Special Meeting of the Chapter. Present: Dean Matthew Forrest; Francis Humphrey, Subdean; Raymond Pawle, Archdeacon; Thomas Parmoor Lister, D.D, Canon; Mervyn Maude, Canon and Precentor. In attendance: Henry Graham Brookes, Clerk to the Chapter.”
During the long pause that followed he could hear his wife bustling about in the kitchen. What could he write next? How could he hope to reduce to official prose the things which had been said, the positions adopted, the battle stations taken up.
Brookes was not the most intelligent of men, but he was no fool. He could see the storm cones which had been hoisted, could hear the breakers ahead, could see them smashing on the rocks in tattered sheets of foam.
When his wife came back, she found him still staring at the blank page. She said, “Was it as bad as you thought it was going to be?”
“Worse,” said Brookes. “Much worse.”
The Melchester Cycling Club was a curious institution. It had been founded toward the end of the previous century, when its members had dressed in natty bicycling outfits and had actually ridden bicycles. It was now an exclusive drinking and gaming club with a self-perpetuating committee. Most of its members owned expensive cars. To be elected to it was a token of your admission into the commercial and professional caucus which dominated the life of the Borough. The keys to entry were success and the money that success brought with it.
In the high-stakes rubber of bridge which had just finished in the small card room, Leo Sandeman was partnering Gerry Gloag against Arthur Driffield of the Melset Times and Grant Adey. Adey was a big man with the loose comfortable frame of someone who had once been an athlete in youth and was still capable of physical effort. The combination of white hair and black eyebrows gave an impression of good-tempered authority to his face. Not a man to cross unnecessarily.
“Six no trumps and lucky to make it,” he said. “Both finesses right.”
Sandeman had taken out his wallet and was laying a number of notes on the table. They settled up after each rubber. He said, “Cut for partners, or revenge?”
“Neither,” said Driffield. “I’ve got work to do. Not like you lazy layabouts. My Friday editorial. One of my people has got hold of some useful background stuff about Fletcher’s Piece. Who do you think Fletcher was?”
“A nineteenth-century industrialist,” said Sandeman.
“A thirteenth-century pig farmer,” said Adey.
“Both wrong. There never was such a person. It was called Fletcher’s Piece because it was the site of an arrow-making establishment and arrow makers, as you all no doubt know, were called fletchers.”
“Interesting,” said Gloag. “But how are you going to use it?”
“But obviously. If it was once a centre of industry, why not again? Reviving an old tradition. Cathedral folk are nuts on tradition.”
“I suppose making transistors could be said to be the modern equivalent of making arrows.”
“Arthur can prove anything if he gives his mind to it,” said Adey. “Do you remember his editorial on why Welshmen don’t wear kilts?”
“I’ve got a bit of news for you,” said Sandeman. “Straight from the front line. I don’t see how you can use it, though. They had a Chapter meeting today and the Archdeacon swung one of the votes his way. The voting went two-three. One more convert and we’re home and dry.”
The other three considered this in silence while Adey collected and shuffled the cards they had been playing with. Then he said, “That’s right. You can’t use it. But it’s bloody interesting.”
Six
A little earlier on that same Wednesday evening, Peter said to James, “If you’re at a loose end, would you like to come slumming with Roger and me?”
“OK. Why slumming?”
“Theological College students aren’t supposed to spend their evenings boozing. Saturday night after rugger is winked at. Other nights are discouraged. So we don’t go to the Lion or the Swan, where the upper crust do their drinking. We cross the tracks. There are a lot of nice little pubs up that end of the town.”
“Do I have to sew up my pockets and leave my gold watch at home?”
“They’re perfectly respectable. Just not so upmarket.”
In the area of small streets behind the railway station they found the Wheatsheaf, the Three Tons and the Market Tavern. The only difference between these and the Black Lion was that the beer was cheaper and the company was, on the whole, better behaved. The older men sat at corner tables and played dominoes. The young ones played shove ha’penny. Roger talked to anyone who would talk to him and managed to do so without undue familiarity, but without appearing to be stuffy. James thought that he would make a good parish priest. Maybe a compulsory round of pub-crawling ought to be included in the curriculum of all theological colleges.
The Market Tavern, which they came to last, was the largest of the three and was the only one with room in it for a dart board. The licensee, Mr Samuel Garnett, obligingly made a fourth at doubles, but he was so evidently better than the three of them that they abandoned the game and went back to the bar to talk.
Mr Garnett said, “Having a bit of an argument about Fletcher’s Piece, I hear.”
“We certainly are,” said Peter, “but I didn’t know it was public property.”
“Been a lot about it in the papers. Speaking for myself, I’d say leave it alone. Don’t want change for the sake of change.”
A man with a white beard said, “It’s not change for the sake of change, Sam. It’s change for the sake of progress.”
“Progress never did us much good, not that I can see.”
&nb
sp; “This is different. Sell that field to the Wessex, they double their factory, right? Double their factory, they take on twice the people, right?”
A small man with a bent nose said, “That’s all very well, Mr Pierce, but suppose they don’t sell it to the factory. Suppose they put up houses. What happens then? People who’ve got houses buy the new ones and other people buy their houses. That doesn’t solve the unemployment problem. It just moves people around.”
“And puts money into the hands of the house agents.”
“And the lawyers,” said a bitter-looking woman in black. A tall man who seemed to be her husband observed that anything anyone did put money into lawyers’ hands sooner or later. Take divorce.
But Mr Pierce was not prepared to take divorce. His beard gave him authority and he reclaimed the floor. “Whatever gets put up,” he said, “factory or houses or any other sort of building, what I say is that it’s a valuable piece of land and the Church hasn’t got no right to hold on to it and keep cows on it when they might sell it and raise a tidy sum of money. If they don’t want money, why do they pass the plate round at services?”
“Everyone wants money,” said the small man with the bent nose.
At this point the argument became general. The progressives, led by Mr Pierce, slightly outnumbering the traditionalist party supported by the landlord. James had wandered away toward the window. On a shelf above the empty fireplace were two cups which looked as though they might be real silver. He thought that Mr Garnett must have an unusually trustworthy clientele.
Outside it was already dark and that corner of the bar was lit by electric lanterns fixed to the wall on either side of the fireplace. The light gleamed from the polished surface of the cups. Not only polished, thought James, scoured. It looked as though someone had been scraping them with a very rough burnisher.
He put a hand up and shifted one of the cups slightly. Then the true explanation struck him. Originally the cups had carried an inscription, but it had not been cut too deeply and it had been smoothed off with abrasive; but not entirely obliterated. The small movement of the cup and the angle at which the light fell on it enabled James to read it without difficulty, and when he had done so, he stood quite still for a moment wondering what to do next.