The Black Seraphim

by Michael Gilbert

  “Actually, it was rather important. But I’ll keep my mind on the game now.”

  He did so and finally ran out a close winner. As they were leaving the court, she put one hand on his arm and said, “That was the best game I’ve had for years, James.”

  If two officers in squash kit had not chosen that moment to appear in the gallery, he would have put his free arm around her and told her everything that was in his mind.

  “Afterward, when we’re in the car,” he thought.

  When they got into the car, Amanda said, “Now you can tell me.”

  James took a deep breath and said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you—”

  “About the post-mortem.”

  “Oh, that.”

  The death of the Archdeacon seemed infinitely unimportant.

  “You did find out how he died, didn’t you? Penny says you did, but you’re not supposed to tell anyone until the official report comes out. Is that right?”

  “I suppose it is, more or less.”

  “But you’ll tell me.”

  “I don’t mind telling you as long as you keep it to yourself until the report comes out.”

  As he started to speak, he realised that the casualness of Amanda’s voice and manner was a pose. She was as taut as a fiddle string.

  “Dr Barkworth is going to say that in his opinion, based on his post-mortem findings, the Archdeacon died of virulent influenza, probably caught by contact with sailors in the dock area.”

  He drew the sentence out to its fullest extent to give Amanda time to relax. He heard her breath going out in a long sigh.

  He said, “There was some evidence to support his diagnosis.”

  Tension again.

  “You mean there could be other explanations?”

  “There can always be more than one explanation of even quite straightforward symptoms.”

  “I told you once before not to treat me like an idiot child. Just what was wrong with Dr Barkworth’s diagnosis?”

  “It was pathologically correct, but it didn’t take account of the symptoms.”

  “You mean what happened in the vestry when he was dying.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t very pleasant.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” She started the car and they drove in silence for a few minutes. Then she said, “Did Dr Barkworth ask you about these symptoms?”

  “No. He was quite satisfied with what he found. He didn’t want to go outside his own diagnosis.”

  “Did you tell him you disagreed with him?”

  “No. In fact, he was in such a hurry to get off that, if I hadn’t insisted, I don’t believe he’d have taken any samples, except from the lungs.”

  “I see,” said Amanda thoughtfully. “So what did you do?”

  “I made sections of the heart, the liver and the kidneys. And took some blood samples.”

  “What did you expect to find?”

  “I didn’t expect to find anything. It was the sort of routine step one always does take.”

  “Who examines these – what did you call them? – sections?”

  “They’ll go to the Home Office Central Research Establishment at Aldermaston.”

  “And a lot of nosy little scientists will poke and pry at them and decide that Dr Barkworth was wrong and the Archdeacon died of something quite different.”

  There was so much bitterness in Amanda’s voice that James hesitated. He knew what dangerous ground he was on. To a different sort of girl he might have said, “Oh, I don’t suppose so. It was just a routine precaution,” and changed the subject. It would not serve in this case. She wanted the truth. He said, slowly, “Even if I hadn’t done what I did, I’m pretty certain that someone would have taken those samples sooner or later. The local health authority could have ordered it. Or the coroner.”

  “Coroner?”

  “If there had to be an inquest.”

  “Why should there be an inquest?”

  “Well—”

  “If people believed what Dr Barkworth said, there wouldn’t be an inquest.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” said James unhappily.

  “Oh, why?”

  “Brookes was telling me that it’s the tradition here that Canons are buried in the cloisters. That means the body has to be cremated first.”

  “So?”

  “There are a lot of formalities to be gone through before that can be done. Normally, there has to be a certificate signed by two doctors, though actually we could have got over that if Dr Barkworth had been willing to sign a certificate after he’d done the post-mortem.”

  “Why wasn’t he?”

  “I think he wanted to shift the responsibility onto someone else.”

  “You mean he wasn’t really sure?”

  “It was a plausible diagnosis and he sounded quite confident at the time, but he may have changed his mind when he’d had time to think about it.”

  “Time to think about what the scientists might find in the specimens you’d been conscientious enough to send them.”

  James shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He said, “Something like that. Yes.”

  “I see. So what happens now?”

  “The cremation authorities will need a death certificate. It would have been signed by the Archdeacon’s regular doctor if he’d attended him in his last illness. Otherwise there have to be two doctors.”

  “Then Dr McHarg can do it.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “For goodness sake, why not? He was his regular doctor.”

  “But he didn’t actually attend him in his last illness. Unless he’s prepared to stretch a point and say that he was there when the Archdeacon died.”

  “If he can do it, I’m sure he will. He’s not the sort of man to let a few stupid regulations stand in the way of doing the right thing.”

  “Not a sort of man like me, you mean?”

  “If you want my honest opinion, yes. I think you’re being extraordinarily fussy about something that seems absolutely straightforward. Of course, I’m not an expert.”

  By this time they had reached the twisting road which led into Melchester from the north and Amanda had to concentrate on her driving. He wanted to say something to propitiate the desirable and angry girl beside him, but couldn’t think of any words.

  They were turning into the Close now. As they drew up in front of the Chapter Clerk’s gate, Amanda said, “If Dr McHarg decided that he could sign that certificate, you wouldn’t have any reason for interfering, would you?”

  “I shouldn’t dream of interfering.”

  “I’m glad of that.” There was a moment of silence. “I’m sorry if I sounded a bit rude back there. I didn’t really mean to.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said James. It was a half-hearted declaration of truce. A suspension of actual warfare. But he wanted much more than that. Interfere? Of course he wasn’t going to interfere. Did she imagine that he was going to rush around to Dr McHarg and tell him that he mustn’t sign a death certificate? The idea was nonsensical.

  Any decision he might have made on the matter was pre-empted. Dr McHarg had come to see him.

  He found him sitting in the drawing room talking to Henry Brookes and sampling a glass of his homemade wine. When James appeared, Henry got up and said, “I guess you want to talk. I’ll get on with my brewing.”

  “Make more of this stuff,” said McHarg. “It’s top class.”

  “It’s the only batch that came out well. The last lot developed acidity. I didn’t throw it away. I managed to distil quite a passable cooking brandy out of it.”

  When they were alone, McHarg said, “You can guess why I’m here.”

  “You’ve been asked for a certificate.”

  “Aye. And I think I’ll very likely sign it. But before I do so, I’d like to ask you a few questions. In confidence, you understand. I’m speaking as one doctor to another.”

  James’ heart sank. One doctor to another. In confidence. Th
e shade of Hippocrates was heavy in the room.

  “You were with the Archdeacon, poor man, in his last minutes and I mind your message to me—” McHarg extracted a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket “—was to bring Diazepam and Dibenzyline.”

  James nodded. He knew what was coming.

  “Diazepam being a barbiturate, I surmise that would be to control the convulsions. Were they severe?”

  “Spasmodic to start with. Toward the end, very deep and persistent.”

  Dr McHarg turned the information over in his mind, considering its implications, before he spoke again.

  “The Dibenzyline would be to control the diarrhoea and vomiting.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you obsairve any other symptoms?”

  “There was clearly a great deal of abdominal pain. And the breathing was laboured and difficult, particularly toward the end.”

  “That was to be expected, of course. It would be the effect of saturation in the lung tissues and would be consistent with virus influenza. Nothing else?”

  James hesitated. Hippocrates gave him a nudge.

  “I did notice,” he said slowly, “that the pupils of the eyes were contracted.”

  “Did you now?” said McHarg. “That would be an uncommon result of influenza. Forbye there might be an explanation for it.”

  He lumbered to his feet and said, “I’ll have to think it through. There’s a sairtin amount of hurry. The cremation is fixed for Monday, I understand.”

  From the hall he shouted goodnight to the Chapter Clerk, who appeared a few minutes later with a bottle and two glasses.

  “My last year’s peach wine,” he said. “I think you’ll find it palatable.”

  James sipped it cautiously and found it very good indeed. He had two glasses of it and they finished the bottle at dinner.

  That night he slept well. It might have been the peach wine, or it might have been the thought that it wasn’t he who had to sign the Archdeacon’s death certificate.

  Fourteen

  “It’s that woman again,” said Sergeant Telfer.

  Superintendent Bracher looked up from a batch of dockets he was sorting and said, “Which woman?”

  “The Pilcher woman. You managed to sidestep her last time.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate just now. Couldn’t you head her off?”

  “I think she’d make trouble if we did it again.”

  Bracher knew what trouble meant. It would be a letter to the Chief Constable and interdepartmental minutes and more time wasted. It might be quicker to see her and get it over.

  “Push her in,” he said.

  Five minutes later he wished he had been firmer. The woman seemed to him to be unhinged, rambling along about Chapter meetings. What could she possibly know about Chapter meetings? And what concern was it of the police?

  He said, “I’m afraid, ma’am, that these things are outside my field. If you have some complaint about the way matters are conducted at the Cathedral, you should complain to the Dean. It isn’t really a police matter.”

  “Are you telling me that murder isn’t a police matter?”

  Bracher stared at her. He said, “Who has been murdered?”

  “The Archdeacon.”

  “I understand that he died of influenza.”

  “He did not die of influenza. He was poisoned.”

  “Would you care to tell me who by?”

  “By the Dean, of course.”

  His first diagnosis had been correct. The woman was mad. The next thing was how to get rid of her with as little disturbance as possible. He said, in the tones of one humouring a child, “Come along now, Miss Pilcher, why would he do that?”

  “I thought I’d explained.”

  “Explain it again. But you mustn’t be too long about it, because I have to be in court in five minutes’ time.”

  “It won’t take five minutes to explain, if you’ll listen properly. The Archdeacon wanted to sell the land on the other side of the river. Fletcher’s Piece, it’s called. Canon Maude supported him. The Dean and Canon Humphrey were against him. So there was a deadlock.”

  “A goalless draw,” said Bracher brightly.

  “Because it was a deadlock, they would have had to summon the Greater Chapter, who would have voted with the Archdeacon.”

  “And to prevent that, the Dean killed the Archdeacon.”

  “I can tell from the way you say it that you don’t believe it,” said Rosa. “But it’s true, nonetheless.”

  “You must admit it’s a little hard to believe,” said Bracher with a smile. He got to his feet, hoping that Rosa would do the same so that he could manoeuvre her out of the room. She sat tight. Bracher noted the look on her face and sighed.

  She said, “You’d believe it easily enough, Superintendent, if you knew the Dean as well as I do. He’s a devil.”

  Elliot Macindoe, senior partner in the firm of Porter, Pallance and Macindoe, was a very experienced solicitor. One of the conclusions he had reached in a lifetime of practice was that no marriage could endure unless one of the parties was positive and the other negative. If both were positive, the marriage would wear itself out. If both were negative, it would perish of inanition. By this yardstick he found Mr and Mrs Fairbrass a satisfactory couple.

  Mrs Fairbrass, who had been a Miss Pawle, was the late Archdeacon’s sister. She had all of his drive and initiative, backed by a formidable femininity. Mr Fairbrass was a large silent Yorkshireman, the longest of whose utterances so far had been “Aye”.

  “Am I right in assuming,” said Mrs Fairbrass, “that Raymond made me his sole executor or, to be correct, I should say executrix?”

  “Correct,” said Macindoe. “I did at one time suggest a bank executor to help you, but he told me that he had every confidence in your business ability.”

  “And he in yours,” said Mrs Fairbrass graciously.

  “I have had a copy of the will made for you. It is quite short. There are the usual clauses for getting in the assets and paying the debts and the duty. The whole of his estate is then divided into three equal parts. The first part goes to you. He didn’t leave you more because he knew that you were comfortably situated.” As he said this, he looked at Mr Fairbrass, who nodded to indicate that he knew what brass was and had plenty of it.

  “The second part goes to the Clergy Stipend Fund.”

  “He always maintained that parish clergymen were scandalously underpaid. The third share?”

  “He describes this in his will as being designed to help people who had been helpful to him. I shall need your assistance in identifying some of them.”

  Macindoe looked down at the document in front of him.

  “The money was to have been equally divided between six people. Mr and Mrs Edward Webb.”

  “They were a couple who looked after Raymond in his first living at Andover. I heard, incidentally, that they had died in a coach accident when on holiday in Spain.”

  “I’m sorry. The next is Eliza Gibbons.”

  “Ah, yes. She was Raymond’s old nurse. Gathered a year or two ago.”

  “Then we have Thomas Corrie.”

  “Tom Corrie,” said Mrs Fairbrass thoughtfully. “Now, who was Tom Corrie? Of course, yes. He was gardener and handyman when Raymond was at Lincoln. I had a sort of feeling, however—”

  “Dead,” said Mr Fairbrass.

  “Are you sure, dear?”

  “Stroke.”

  “I think you’re right. Who is next?”

  “The next one was to have been the Reverend Desmond Pitt. But in a codicil made a few years later the Reverend Pitt’s name was struck out.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Mrs Fairbrass. “I should have been surprised if it had been left in. He was my brother’s curate when he was at Lincoln. A man of considerable promise. Sadly not fulfilled. His carnal nature got the better of him.”

  “His carnal nature?”

  “Choirboys,” said Mr Fairbrass.


  “Oh, I see. Yes.”

  “You said six, Mr Macindoe.”

  “The sixth beneficiary is certainly alive and with us. She is his housekeeper, a Miss Rosa Pilcher. She was in here yesterday inquiring about the terms of the will. I imagine the Archdeacon had told her she might be a beneficiary.”

  Mrs Fairbrass had been working things out.

  She said, “Are you telling us, Mr Macindoe, that Miss Pilcher – not in fact his housekeeper, but merely a woman who worked part-time in his house – is on equal terms with us?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “How much?” said Mr Fairbrass.

  “I have only been able to make a rough calculation so far. A lot of his money was invested in property, and that is more difficult to value than stocks and shares. But I should have said that after all debts and duties have been paid, it will amount to around a hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

  “So Miss Pilcher will get forty thousand.”

  “Yes. But you have to remember that when he made his will, some seven years ago, his estate was more modest. Property values have risen dramatically lately. At that time he would have been worth between fifty and sixty thousand pounds and he imagined that he was dividing one third of it between six people. That would have amounted to quite a modest legacy of about three thousand pounds each.”

  “No doubt,” said Mrs Fairbrass. “But, whatever his will says, I’m certain he didn’t mean her to have forty thousand.”

  “People often fail to express their true intentions when they make their wills,” said Macindoe sadly.

  “Slush,” said Edwin Fisher.

  “Driffield at his worst,” agreed Bill Williams. They were reading the Archdeacon’s obituary notice in the Melset Times. It was set in a thick black border with the headline in Gothic script. “I didn’t feel strongly about the man either way, but ‘A noble man of God gone to his rest’ seems an exaggerated way of describing a businesslike Archdeacon who died of flu.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Very businesslike, by all accounts.”

  “I meant, is it certain he died of flu?”

  “They wouldn’t be cremating him on Monday unless that had been established.”