As they reached the front door, Mrs Maude came pattering after them. She seized James by the arm and said, in the sing-song voice of the deaf, “He’s a wicked man.”
Curiously, James had no doubt who the wicked man was.
“He was here earlier this week. Talking to Mervyn, upsetting him. Making him do things he didn’t want to. He’s a wicked man. Someone must stop him. You understand me, don’t you?” She gave his arm a shake.
“I understand you,” said James, disengaging himself gently. The old woman looked at him doubtfully, then turned around, went in and shut the door.
As James and Peter walked back to the cottage, the first faint dawn of Saturday was coming up into the sky.
Ten
“It’s not just the cathedral people,” said Amanda. “All the nobs from the town turn up as well.”
She had come around after breakfast to thank James for his help the night before and to gossip.
“Which nobs in particular?”
“People like Val Laporte, the Chief Constable. And Grant Adey. He’s chairman of the Council. And a lot of little noblets like Sandeman and Gloag. And of course Arthur Driffield is bound to be there with his notebook, gathering material for another of his slashing editorials.”
“It sounds as though you’re in for a lively time.”
“Friends of the Cathedral,” said Amanda bitterly. “I sometimes think Enemies of the Cathedral would be a better name for them. They turn up in droves, eat us out of house and home, go across to the Cathedral and pledge themselves to peace and amity and other Christian ideals, and follow that up with their annual meeting, which always seems to degenerate into a slanging match.”
“Always?”
“Ever since we’ve been here, anyway. The trouble is they’ve really got more money than the Chapter. I don’t mean they’ve got a bigger income, but they haven’t got any real expenses. They don’t even pay for the meal they have here. They might do that, don’t you think?”
“It would be a gesture.”
“All they do is argue about what money they’re going to give and what it’s to be used for. Sometimes it’s sensible, like when they paid for rebuilding the console of the organ. Sometimes it’s crazy, like filling the precincts with modernistic statues. When they’ve finished arguing about what they’re going to do with their money, they start telling the Chapter what it ought to do with its money.”
“Fletcher’s Piece?”
“Right. They’ll all have read the gospel according to Arthur Driffield and be armed with poison darts to stick into Daddy. Lucky he’s got a tough skin. I’ll have to go now. Those bloody tables take two hours to lay and two hours to clean up.”
“And I’ve got to pack up my stuff. I’m moving in with Aunt Alice.”
Amanda looked blank.
“Alan Furbank is coming back this afternoon. I’ve been offered a bedroom by the Brookeses. Aunt Alice was Henry’s mother’s sister. She died last year.”
“I remember her. She was a complete freak. She wore a grey toupee about a yard high and spent her time smoking cigarettes in a long holder and complaining about her stomach.”
“I expect the two things were not unconnected,” said James.
It turned out to be a pleasant enough room, tucked away on the top story at the back of the Chapter Clerk’s house. It was still faintly redolent of Aunt Alice. James traced this to its source when, in the course of stowing away his own few clothes, he opened a cupboard at the back which was still full of her belongings. Like many old ladies, she seemed, in her last years, to have become a hoarder. He counted thirty-two tablets of soap and sixty rolls of lavatory paper stacked neatly on a shelf with six Bibles, four prayer books and a set of Dr Spurgeon’s Sermons. Two shelves were devoted to hats, bonnets and reticules. On the floor were several pairs of surprisingly small and dainty shoes and a pair of buttoned boots with long wooden boot trees.
James stood for a few moments in front of the cupboard, absorbing the smell of lavender, mixed with others less easily identifiable, and trying to recreate Aunt Alice from the things she had left behind her when she set out on her last journey. He thought that it must have been a happy close to her long life, in this quiet and sunny room. Her ghost would not disturb his sleep.
“Mixed crowd you get at these functions,” said Laporte.
“Very mixed,” agreed Canon Humphrey.
Valentine Laporte, Chief Constable of Melchester, was one of the few remaining holders of that office who had been appointed from the Army and not from the ranks of the police. He was a soldier and he looked like a soldier. His most arresting feature was a bold moustache, under cover of which lived a ready smile.
“I suppose most of them will have read Driffield’s stuff and use it to take pot shots at the Cathedral establishment.”
“I’m afraid they will,” said Canon Humphrey sadly. “Do you think we could rely on you to create a diversion?”
“Flank attack, you mean? Something about the new service book? Or the creeping menace of Roman Catholicism?”
“The new service book, for preference. They’ll all have something to say about that.”
The side curtains of the big marquee had been fully rolled up, but the heat under the sun-baked canvas was considerable. The buffet lunch had been served without too many mishaps. Mrs Henn-Christie had dropped a strawberry ice on Gerald Gloag’s foot, and Lady Fallingford’s Irish setter, who had infiltrated the party, had eaten six liver-sausage sandwiches before he was ejected. He was being sick in the Dean’s herbaceous border.
“Par for the course, really,” said Amanda. “Two years ago they set fire to the marquee. They all seem to be fairly happy, don’t you think?”
“Most of them,” said James. “That tall thin man in the corner doesn’t look very happy, though. He’s spent most of his time glowering at the Archdeacon.”
Amanda said, “He’s a solicitor. I think his name’s Gibbon or Gilborne. He was the man the Archdeacon went for over one of the Cathedral trusts and nearly got him struck off the roll.”
“He looks as if he’d be happy to strike the Archdeacon off. Isn’t it hot in here? What happens next?”
“Coffee and move over to Cathedral. I shan’t be coming to the service. I shall have to help with the washing up.”
“Can I lend a hand?”
“No. You go and pray for peace and quiet. There’s that dog trying to get in again. He must have a one-way stomach. Hoof him out.”
Penny Consett had detached Paul Wren from a country clergyman who wanted to talk to him about organ music and was busy impressing her personality on him.
“I’ve always thought how difficult it must be for you to do everything by yourself,” she said. “I mean, all those stops and gadgets. Wouldn’t it be helpful if you had someone to turn for you?”
“Turn?”
“Turn the pages.”
“You’re thinking of concert pianists. It’s nothing like that. I know most of the music, anyway. And what I don’t know I make up.”
“Wonderful,” said Penny soulfully. “Have another ice.”
Arthur Driffield had succeeded, at long last, in attracting the attention of the Archdeacon, who had been deep in discussion with Openshaw and one of the theological students for most of the lunch. He said, “I hear that Fletcher’s Piece is being handed over to the Greater Chapter for decision.”
The Archdeacon made a half-turn toward him, stared at him for a long moment and said, “Oh?”
Unrebuffed, Driffield said, “Am I right about that?”
“No.”
“Well, I certainly understood that was so.”
“No decision has yet been made.”
“But if you can’t decide the matter between the four of you, surely it’ll have to go to the Greater Chapter.”
The Archdeacon said, “No comment,” turned away again and said to Canon Humphrey, “Reverting to that point about outside courses for students, Francis. I’d agree in princ
iple, but we shall have to watch the cost.”
Driffield looked thoughtfully at the broad clerical back which had been presented to him.
On his way back from evicting Lady Fallingford’s dog, James found her talking to an impressive-looking character with white hair and a slash of black eyebrows.
She said, “Thank you, Doctor. He’s usually very well behaved, but he can’t resist liver. Do you know Mr Adey? We all have to remember to be polite to him. He’s chairman of the Council.”
Grant Adey smiled. Lady Fallingford, immediately forgetting her good intentions, said, “I was just telling him that I thought he had behaved in a very dilatory manner over implementing the provisions of the Wild Life and Countryside Act.”
“Not my pigeon. I delegate all that sort of thing to a rural affairs committee.”
“You can’t get out of something by delegating it.”
“I can,” said Adey. “And if it’s something I know nothing about, I take care not to get put on that committee.”
“As chairman of the Council,” retorted Lady Fallingford, “you are ex-officio chairman of all committees.”
At this point James detected a signal from Amanda and detached himself.
“Coffee coming up,” she said, “and then we can get rid of them.” She moved behind the serving table, where Dora Brookes and Julia Consett were already installed. The coffee appeared from the annex in a huge jug carried by Rosa and was distributed into four smaller jugs, one in front of the servers and a spare one at the end.
“We’ll need some more handers-out,” said Henry Brookes. “Len and I can’t do it all. You can help, Paul.” The organist detached himself gratefully from Penny. “And you two boys. It’s time you earned your keep.”
“Real coffee,” said Amanda. “Not ready-made. A wild extravagance and unappreciated by most of the people here.” She was dispensing the coffee into a neat row of cups in front of her.
“I don’t drink it myself now,” said the Dean to Mrs Henn-Christie. “But to some, I know, coffee is the best part of the meal.”
There was one thing to be said for the Cathedral, thought James. It was cooler than the marquee. He had found himself a seat on the north side of the Choir which gave him a good view of the proceedings.
The Church establishment had turned out in full fig. The Dean and the Canons in copes and bands, the Vicars Choral and the students from the Theological College, the vergers in their vestments, bearing their silver staves of office. His eyes passed upward from them to the choristers, whose heads seemed oddly detached from their bodies by their stiff white ruffs, to the lay clerks behind them, and above them again to a line of diocesan clergy who had come in for the service, robed and stoled, each occupying a canonical stall; and upward again to where, among the fretted beams and the gilt angels, the organist perched in his eyrie.
Paul had played them in with a soft voluntary, an invitation to worship in the minor key. When he glanced at his service sheet, James saw that they were to follow the traditional liturgy. The hymns were old favourites. And surely it had been the Dean who had selected the ninety-first psalm.
Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day;
(There were certainly plenty of arrows flying about, some of them barbed and poisoned.)
For the pestilence that walketh in darkness:
nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday.
A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand: but it shall not come nigh thee.
An old friend of his father, who had survived three years of war in the trenches, had once told him that this verse was a talisman and that he had made a habit of whispering it to himself as he climbed the parapet and advanced into the storm of the German machine guns.
The first lesson was read, competently, by Grant Adey. The second, rather badly, by Canon Maude. What could have driven him to try to end his own life? Why had he said he would be better dead? And what had the Archdeacon got to do with it?
The hymn before the sermon was the Old Hundredth:
All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice.
The packed congregation was obeying this injunction with enthusiasm. As the last verse began, the senior verger approached the Dean, who was on his knees. He rose slowly and hobbled after Mr Grey to the pulpit. When he turned to mount the steps, James caught a glimpse of his face. He looked tired, the result no doubt of loss of sleep the night before, but there was a glint in his eyes and a fighting cock to his head. Like an old warhorse, he had scented the battle from afar. The congregation may have suspected something, for when he began to speak, the silence was absolute.
He said: “I take my text from the hymn you have just been singing. It’s a fine hymn and I’m sure you enjoyed it. But did you think about the words as well as the tune? ‘His truth at all times firmly stood.’ Truth. It’s not such a popular word today. People think more of tolerance, accommodation and compromise. But truth was the light by which our forefathers steered. It was their belief that if you did something crooked, something untrue, to gain an advantage—” a tiny pause in which he seemed to be searching the congregation for a particular face “—then that prize was not worth having. The falsity of the means had destroyed the end.” He paused again. “When we assemble here for our annual civic service, we say, ‘Give grace to those who occupy positions of authority, that they may fulfil their responsibilities with wisdom and equity and in the fear of God. Grant that true faith and honest dealing may be the standard of our common life.’”
“Well, that was straight from the shoulder,” thought James. He missed the next few sentences, having become aware of a disturbance in the seats inside the Choir screen. The next moment, Grey was touching him on the arm. He said, “Could you come, Doctor, please? It’s the Archdeacon. They’re taking him to the vestry.”
James saw that the head verger was seriously troubled. As they took the short cut through the choir robing room, he said, “What is it, Grey? Has the Archdeacon fainted?”
“It seems to be something worse than that. Through here, sir.”
As soon as he got into the vestry, James saw that the Archdeacon was very ill indeed. He had been placed in a chair and Masters was standing beside him. He had got hold of a glass of water, but seemed uncertain what to do with it. The Archdeacon put up a hand, took the glass from him, swallowing some of the water and spilling the rest. Then he keeled over and was sick. As he righted himself, James could see that he was in pain. His breathing was deep and rapid and the pupils of his eyes were contracted.
“Can’t we do something for him?” said Grey in tones of distress.
“Yes,” said James. “We can.” He was trying to remember the lessons which had been drummed into him at medical school. Don’t panic. Take time to note the symptoms. The right remedy given after thought is better than the wrong remedy given in haste.
The two things which had to be controlled were the convulsions which had now started, alternate contraction and relaxation, deep and frightening, and the abdominal pain. He took an old service sheet off the table and scribbled on it two words: “Diazepam” and “Dibenzyline”. He said to Masters, “There’s a telephone in the Cathedral office. Get hold of Dr McHarg and ask him to bring the things I’ve written down there, or something similar. You won’t have to spell it out. He’ll know what’s wanted. Hurry.” Masters sped off.
After that there was nothing to do but wait. The tremors had now become persistent, and when he got a hand to the Archdeacon’s wrist, he could feel that the pulse was rapid and irregular, like an engine which had lost its governing mechanism and was racing and faulting at the same time.
Outside, the service was proceeding on its appointed way. Once Grey, who was holding on to himself with an effort, said, “Shouldn’t I clear some of this up? It’s not pleasant.”
James said, “No. Leave it.”
“They’ll
be coming in here after the service.”
“No one must come in here. They’ll have to use the robing room. Is there a key to this door?”
“I could get one.”
“Then get it now. I think that’s the last hymn starting.”
Grey seemed glad to escape. He arrived back at the same time as Dr McHarg, who came in carrying a small bag. He said, “I got your message. No Dibenzyline, but I’ve got some Diparcol which might help.”
Then he looked at the Archdeacon, who was slumped forward in his chair, put a finger under his jawbone and said, “Too late, I’m afraid.”
James said, “I think the service is ending. Could you and Grey explain to them what has happened? I’ll stay here. You’d better lock the door behind you.”
He sounded so flat and tired that McHarg looked at him curiously. He said, “Not your fault, my boy. You did what you could. We’d better get on with it.”
When they had gone, James moved a chair across to the window, opened it wide and sat staring at the grass in the centre of the cloisters, drawing in gulps of air and feeling his own heart steady down.
He thought, “If I was a proper doctor and not just a sucking pathologist, I wouldn’t let a thing like that worry me.”
Through the open window he could hear the organ voluntary which closed the service. This was no soft invitation to prayer. This was a pagan chant, a chant of triumph. Bass-bourdon and diapason were rioting together. The tuba and the trompette militaire were an army on the march, a triumphant army returning home bearing its spoils with it; while high over all, the flutes and the horns skittered and squealed in infernal glee.
“’For the pestilence that walketh in darkness,’” said James to himself. “’For the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday.’”
The Black Seraphim Page 12