The Black Seraphim

by Michael Gilbert

  The cards lay badly and this went two down. While the score was being entered, Sandeman said, “I suppose we shall have to backpedal a bit on Fletcher’s Piece now. A pity when we were almost past the post.”

  “Always be another time,” said Driffield.

  “It all depends,” said Gloag, “on who they get. If the new Canons are business people as well as being clergymen – men like the Archdeacon – they should be able to recognise a bargain when it’s handed to them on a plate.”

  “Not much chance of that,” said Sandeman. “The Dean will make certain he gets the sort of people who’ll see things his way.”

  “Who chooses new Canons?” said Gloag.

  Sandeman stopped shuffling the cards. He said, “I never thought about that. Who does choose them, Arthur? You know about that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know,” said Driffield. “But I can find out. If you shuffle those cards much more, you’ll shuffle the spots right off them.”

  This time Driffield tried four hearts, a gross overbid which he managed to make, partly by luck and partly because Sandeman’s mind seemed to be on other things. This concluded the rubber. While they were settling up, Driffield said to his partner, a tall man with a bushy head of hair who had so far joined very little in the conversation, “You weren’t in Cathedral on Saturday, were you, Bert?”

  Detective Superintendent Herbert Bracher agreed that he hadn’t been in Cathedral. He’d been busy interrogating a suspected shop breaker.

  “You missed something.”

  “You mean the Archdeacon’s death?”

  “I didn’t, actually. I meant the Dean’s sermon. He was firing on all six cylinders.”

  “I thought it was disgraceful,” said Sandeman. “In fact, I wasn’t at all sure that it wasn’t actually libellous.”

  “Slanderous,” said Driffield. “You can only be libellous in writing.”

  “Insulting, anyway. I asked Macindoe if there wasn’t something we could do about it.”

  “Sue the Dean for slander, you mean?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What did Mac say?”

  “He didn’t seem to think much of the idea.”

  Bracher said, “I’m off.”

  “If you see Grant in the bar,” said Gloag, “you might send him along. It’s time I won some money off him for a change.”

  When Bracher had gone, the three men pushed their chairs back and stretched their legs. They seemed rather more at ease in his absence. Driffield said, “By the way, who’s that young doctor who’s hanging round in the Close? I seem to have seen him before.”

  “He’s some relation of Consett’s,” said Sandeman. “He taught at the school for a few terms about six years ago. Why?”

  “One of my people was in old Mrs Piper’s shop and heard them nattering away in the back room. He seemed to be asking her a lot of questions about the time she was turned out of her other shop. I wondered why he’d have been interested in that.”

  “He and Fleming – that other master at the school – are both very thick with Bill Williams,” said Sandeman. “You remember we ran into them in pub that night, Gerry.”

  Gloag grunted. He remembered it with displeasure.

  Sandeman said, “You don’t think the Journal might be planning to reopen the supermarket deal?”

  “There’s nothing to reopen,” said Gloag. “It was a perfectly straightforward property deal. It cost us a little more than we expected and we made a fair profit. Why should we worry if they do reopen it?”

  Sandeman and Driffield agreed that there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

  Another quartet of bridge players was discussing the Archdeacon’s death. It was the afternoon of Wednesday and the passing of four days had allowed the first shock waves to subside a little. Lady Fallingford, Julia Consett and Betty Humphrey had assembled in Mrs Henn-Christie’s drawing room for their regular weekly game; but so far the packs of cards lay unopened on the table.

  Important matters were occupying their attention.

  “Poor Betty,” said Lady Fallingford. “I don’t imagine you see a lot of Francis these days. He must be horribly overworked.”

  “To be fair,” said Mrs Henn-Christie, “I suppose we’re only beginning to realise, now that he’s gone, what a load of work the Archdeacon really did carry on his own shoulders.”

  A respectful silence greeted this observation. Betty Humphrey said, “Actually, it’s the Dean I’m most sorry for. He has to do three men’s work. Canon Maude, I am told, has retired to bed. His mother says it’s gastric trouble, but I think it’s simple feebleness.”

  “His mother’s a better man than he is,” agreed Lady Fallingford.

  Julia Consett said, “Is it true that the Bishop has been asked to cut short his visit to Australia and fly home?”

  “He ought never to have gone,” said Lady Fallingford.

  This was felt to be harsh.

  “He couldn’t have known that all this was going to happen.”

  “That’s not the point. He’s got enough work to do here without flying about all over the world.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Mrs Henn-Christie, “that the Bishop coming back is necessarily going to make things all that much easier for the Dean. They never really saw eye to eye, you know. In fact, I’m inclined to think that one of the reasons he does make these lengthy foreign excursions is to steer clear of the infighting that went on. You remember the trouble that blew up over the last ordination service.”

  The ladies thought about this. Julia made a half-hearted effort to open the cards, but there was a matter on the agenda more engrossing than the habits of the Bishop. Mrs Henn-Christie opened it by saying, “I understand the cremation service is fixed for next Monday at twelve. I imagine it will be a private affair. Family only.”

  “Who are the family?”

  “There’s a married sister. She’s coming down from Nottingham, with her husband.”

  “It won’t be a very large congregation.”

  “I know someone who’ll be there,” said Mrs Henn-Christie, speaking the thought that was in all their minds.

  “You mean Rosa.”

  “She really is carrying on in the most peculiar way.”

  “That get-up!”

  “Totally unsuitable.”

  “I understand she’s been putting it about, now, that she was a distant relative of the Archdeacon.”

  “And that he’s left her all his money.”

  “I don’t know about the money,” said Mrs Henn-Christie. “People do make very odd wills. You remember Lord Weldon’s grandfather. He left the unentailed parts of his estate to his cook. Fortunately, they decided that he was mad when he did it. But I absolutely refuse to believe that Pilcher woman is any connection of Raymond’s, however many times removed. After all, the Pawles were a perfectly respectable Lincolnshire family.”

  “I seem to remember,” said Lady Fallingford, “that when Rosa first came here – it must have been more than thirty years ago – she was housemaid in the West Canonry. That was in Canon Fox’s time.”

  “I think the money part of it might be true,” said Julia, “because I understand that she’s made an offer for Tony Openshaw’s cottage. If he’s confirmed in office as assistant head of the Theological College, he’ll have accommodation there.”

  The ladies looked at each other.

  “You mean,” said Lady Fallingford, “that she proposes to install herself as a member of the Close community and a lady of leisure?”

  “She’ll have plenty of leisure,” said Julia. “Because she won’t be working at the Deanery any more. There was some trouble about Len Masters, which led to the Dean giving her the rough edge of his tongue. And anyway Amanda told me that she’d rather do everything herself than have that woman in the house a moment longer.”

  “She may buy that cottage,” said Lady Fallingford, “and she may call herself Miss Pilcher, but one thing I promise you: I’m no
t asking her to tea.”

  That evening Peter came around with Alan Furbank and collected James for their evening visit to the Black Lion. Alan hobbled along quite briskly, his left foot encased in a lump of plaster.

  “I didn’t break my ankle,” he said. “It’s the Achilles tendon. I did it a bit of no good trying to turn too quickly on the squash court. Do you play?”

  “I played a bit at the hospital.”

  “You ought to have a game with Amanda. She’s hot stuff. She knocked spots off me.”

  “You wouldn’t need to be good at squash to knock spots off Alan,” said Peter.

  “It’s more than you can do.”

  The three young men were passing the school, wrangling happily, when Peter caught sight of a light in an upstairs room in Canon Maude’s house. This put him in mind of something. He said, “I’d guess that the boys know about that silly letter. Everyone in the top form, at least.”

  “How on earth—”

  “If you mean how did they find out, I don’t know. I imagine Anstruther told someone, who told someone else. But if you mean how do I know, I can tell you that. When Alan was taking the top form in history, he made some joke about Bottle and his admirer. Last term it would have been good for a laugh. This time it fell into a pit of stony silence.”

  “Just as if I’d made a bad joke about the Queen and found out too late that she was in the audience,” said Alan.

  “How very odd,” said James.

  “It’s not odd, really. It’s just that they no longer think it’s funny.”

  “If they all know about it, it’s going to be public knowledge pretty soon.”

  “I’m not sure. If boys decide not to talk about something, the Mafia could take lessons from them.”

  “Even so, it might slip out when they’re at home. Anstruther’s father is a soldier, isn’t he?”

  “He’s GSO at Southern Command. Luckily, he’s by way of being a friend of the Dean’s. If anything did come to his ears, he’d probably consult the Dean first and he might be able to smooth it down.”

  “It was a fairly bold decision of the Archdeacon’s, all the same,” said Alan. “Because if anything did come out, he was the one who was going to be carrying the can.”

  “He wasn’t afraid of responsibility,” said Peter. “In fact, I don’t think there were many things he was afraid of.”

  It occurred to James that the rehabilitation of the Archdeacon was already under way.

  Thirteen

  Next morning James discovered that the Archdeacon’s rehabilitation was not universal. As he was making for the Deanery in search of Amanda, he spotted Paul Wren hurrying across the precinct lawn.

  Paul had a piece of paper in his hand, which he waved when he saw James. James waited for him to come up. The organist was smiling broadly.

  James said, “You look as if you’ve been left a legacy.”

  “Better than that,” said Paul and pushed the paper into his hand. It was the weekly service sheet, which came out each Thursday. James cast an eye down it without, at first, noticing anything unusual. Then he spotted it, at the bottom of the paper. “Canon in Residence: Canon Humphrey. Organist: Paul Wren.”

  “Organist. Does this mean that you’ve got the top job?”

  “Certainly. The Dean confirmed it to me yesterday. He’s told Lovett that the job’s no longer open.”

  “That’s splendid.”

  “It is splendid. The only fly in the ointment is that Archdeacon Raymond Pawle is no longer with us. So I’m denied the pleasure of telling him that his nasty little intrigue has failed.”

  James felt slightly shocked and must have looked it, because Paul said, “I know what you’re thinking, but I refuse to change my opinion about him simply because he’s dead. When he was alive, I said he was a bastard, and I still think he was a bastard. The only difference is that he’s a dead bastard and can’t harm me now.”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” said James. “I didn’t really know the man well enough to form an opinion. Congratulations anyway.”

  The door of the Deanery was opened by the Dean. He was in his shirt sleeves. He said, “As you will see, I am my own butler and footman. Also my own cook and parlour maid.” He sounded unusually cheerful.

  “Then Rosa has finally ditched you?”

  “On the contrary. We ditched her. I told her that there were enough sorrows in life without her adding to them by creeping round the house looking like a black beetle. She took umbrage and departed. Does that strike you as odd? Umbrage, I mean. It appears that you can take it, but not give it. If it’s Amanda you’re looking for, you’ll find her in the herbaceous border.”

  This was literally true. The herbaceous border was a deep one which ran along the western side of the garden, and the only part of Amanda that was visible was the top of her head, a golden chrysanthemum among a wilderness of flowers and shrubs. As she emerged, he saw that she was wearing her normal off-duty uniform of sweatshirt and jeans. The mud patches on them suggested that she had been doing most of her work on her knees.

  “Hello,” she said. “Have you come to help? I can find another fork.”

  “I know nothing about plants. I should dig up all the wrong things.”

  “Excuses, excuses. Have you seen Daddy pretending to be a butler?”

  “He told me that he was cook and parlour maid as well.”

  “He was showing off. You must have noticed that he likes to dramatise everything. Actually, all he does is answer the door and make his own bed. Mind you, he can cook. Once in India, when I had malaria and there was no one else around, he cooked for both of us for a fortnight. Quite ambitious things like pilaus and fritters, all done on an old oil stove. When I eat fritters nowadays, I always imagine they’re going to taste slightly of paraffin. But we can’t stand here talking all day. If you won’t dig, you can mow the lawn.”

  “Couldn’t we just talk?”

  “After you’ve mowed the lawn.”

  By the time he had finished mowing the lawn, Amanda had developed another project. She said, “I really have got to get on with things in the house now, but I should be through by lunchtime. Would you like that game of squash?”

  “If I can borrow the kit.”

  “Peter and Alan will lend you what you want. If you come round at about half past two, I’ll drive us out. Brigadier Anstruther lets me use one of the Army courts in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there,” said James.

  As he made his way to the Deanery after lunch, carrying a rugger shirt and shorts of Peter’s and gym shoes and a squash racquet belonging to Alan Furbank, he was wondering whether Amanda was really any good at the game. When he had said that he “played a bit,” that was the sort of statement one made in conversation. In fact, squash was the only game he had ever played with real enthusiasm. As a chronic overworker, he had found it convenient. He could compress a day’s exercise into thirty minutes on the court and get back to his books, without any of the rigmarole and waste of time which seemed to attend other sporting activities. Possessed of long arms, strong wrists and a good eye, he had quickly become proficient and had often been brought in as fourth or fifth string for Guy’s in their Cumberland Cup matches. He remembered George Towcester, who played first string, grumbling at him: “Do you realise, James, that if you gave half the time and attention to squash that you give to your rotten pathology, you could be a county player?”

  Good old George. Now a GP in deepest Devonshire.

  “Excellent,” said Amanda. “You’ve got the stuff. Climb in.”

  Southern Command District Headquarters was a solid establishment which had been put up before the war. There were two squash courts, both of them good ones. As James stepped onto the springy wooden floor, he experienced the tingling and exhilaration with which he always started a game. He felt certain that it was going to be a memorable one.

  Amanda was already on the court. He remembered one of the students at
Guy’s saying about the object of his current interest: “She’s the sort of girl who looks best in least.” Amanda in a sleeveless aertex vest and a short white skirt looked better than he had ever seen her before. She was certainly not fat, but equally she was not thin. There must be an appropriate adjective to describe a proper proportion of flesh to bone.

  “Come in, shut the door and stop analysing me,” said Amanda.

  “I was admiring your legs. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen them out of these hideous jeans girls seem to affect these days.”

  “We didn’t come here to admire each other’s legs,” said Amanda coldly. She was holding the ball in one hand. Now she gave her racquet a sharp flick and dispatched the ball down the right-hand wall. James picked it neatly off the wall and returned it.

  They knocked up for a few minutes, assessing each other’s game. James thought that Amanda would prove a worthy opponent. He remembered what she had said about her father, that his specialty had been fencing. He guessed that she would play squash as though it were a fencing match – fast thrust and sudden riposte, supple wrists and quick reactions, but perhaps without the patience or the tactical skill for a long rally.

  To start with, either politeness or overconfidence made him stand too far back and this gave Amanda the freedom of the front court. She won the first game fairly easily, and the second with more difficulty when James abandoned courtesy and started to crowd her, after which he took the next two games.

  It was like a dance, he thought. Not the modern style, which was a parody of the real thing, but an old-fashioned dance, with mutual give and take, the accommodation of body to body and step to step. Halfway through the fifth game, in the middle of a rally, he realised how deeply he was in love with Amanda. At the first opportunity, he was going to ask her to marry him.

  This shook him so much that he hit what should have been a winning shot tamely onto the tin.

  Amanda said, “You’re not going to ease up and let me win, I hope.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. It was just that I suddenly thought of something.”

  “You shouldn’t think of less important things when you’re playing squash.”