The Black Seraphim

by Michael Gilbert

  “And who the hell asked you to forgive him? Did you think you’d got some God-given right to judge people? Forgive? When I hear a meddling little doctor use words like that, it makes me squirm.”

  “Am I to assume from that,” said James stiffly, “that any arrangements we had made are cancelled?”

  “Marry you, you mean? How could I marry you when I couldn’t even trust you?”

  “Very well,” said James, in what he hoped was a dignified voice. “There’s nothing more to be said, is there?” He stalked to the door and out into the hall without looking back.

  The Dean was waiting by the front door and held it open for him. James felt that something must be said, but could find no words. The Dean saved him the trouble. He laid one hand on his arm and said, “When we are young, James, our lives are ahead of us. We have the three great gifts of faith and hope and love. When we grow old, when most of our hopes have proved liars and love is cold, there is still faith. I have found it to be a strong rock. I hope you will, too.”

  James said, “Thank you,” absent-mindedly and walked off down the path to the road. What had not escaped him was that the Dean had, for the first time, addressed him as James. He wondered whether that devious man had meant anything by it. He was more interested in this than in the Dean’s words. He crossed into the precinct.

  After he had spoken to Dora Brookes, he had realised that he could not face her again and had packed his few belongings and left his bag at the school cottage. The next train to London was in two hours’ time.

  The bell for morning service had just stopped. He made his way toward the west door of the Cathedral.

  The Dean watched him go. Then he closed the front door gently and made his way to the dining room.

  He found his daughter in tears.

  The Dean was not a man who was sympathetic to tears, particularly in his own family. He said, in a voice which had the effect of a cold douche, “Crying won’t help. I assume you’ve stamped on the aspirations of that young man, who would, incidentally, have made you an excellent husband.”

  Indignation getting the better of her tears, she said, “How could I marry him? He doesn’t think like a human being.”

  “I’ve heard a number of silly statements in my life, but I’m not sure that doesn’t take first prize. Do you suppose that all human beings think in the same way? He’s a doctor and a scientist, so naturally he thinks like one.”

  Amanda said, “I know, I know. But when you were talking next door, I suddenly realised what it must have been like for Henry, alone in that room. Knowing what a horrible death it was, nerving himself to do it. All right, he was guilty, but was that any reason to drive him into a corner, to condemn him to such a wretched, miserable death? Had anyone the right to do that?”

  The Dean said, “I can assure you that Henry Brookes was neither wretched nor miserable when he took his own life. He was triumphant.”

  His daughter stared at him.

  “If the Superintendent had been less intent on finding out what was in the parts of that letter that I didn’t read to him and had listened more carefully to the parts I did read, he’d have realised that what Brookes said was impossible. Quite impossible. How could anyone, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and moving through a crowd, pour poison into it without being noticed half a dozen times? The idea is ludicrous. The poison was in the cup already. Put there by his wife. She had only to cover it with coffee, hand it to her husband and tell him to take it to the Archdeacon.”

  “You mean she planned the whole thing?”

  “Not the whole thing, no. It was her husband who brewed the poison. But he was a weak man. He’d never have brought himself to use it. When the Archdeacon asked him for his accounts, his nerve gave way altogether. He told his wife everything. About the money and about the poison. But she was the one who decided to use it. She was Lady Macbeth: ‘Give me the daggers.’”

  “And you saw her putting it into the cup?”

  The Dean looked at his daughter curiously. He knew exactly what she meant. He said, “It would have raised a difficult question for me if I had seen her, wouldn’t it? But, as a matter of fact, I saw nothing.”

  “Then how can you possibly know all this?”

  The Dean was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I know because Dora Brookes came round early this morning and confessed to me. She wanted to know what she ought to do. I instructed her that she must say nothing to anyone. If she did say anything, the sacrifice her husband had made for her would be wasted. I realised that it would be difficult for her to keep quiet, perhaps almost intolerably difficult. That was the cross she must bear.”

  The Dean paused again. Then he said, “I have broken the seal of the confessional by telling you that much. You will, of course, say nothing to anyone. But I considered that you ought to know, so that you would not blame Dr Scotland for what happened. Brookes realised that as soon as suspicion swung toward him, it must involve his wife. In fact, as soon as people started thinking clearly about it, they must have realised that it was her hand that put the poison in the cup. That was what he was determined to prevent. That was why he killed himself.”

  James had very little recollection of the service. It was taken by one of the diocesan clergy. As he was leaving, Masters shook him by the hand and said goodbye as though he was certain he would never see him again.

  When he went to collect his bag, the cottage was empty. He walked past the school cottage, past Canon Maude’s house, across the corner of the school playing field toward the High Street Gate.

  On the heels of the rainstorm, autumn had come with a single stride. Summer had been wiped out with one ruthless stroke of the scene painter’s brush. The white vapour which the storm had left behind hung so close above the sodden earth that the roof of the Cathedral was shrouded and the top of the spire was invisible. As James paused for a moment to look back, he saw the file of black-cloaked choristers emerge from the north porch, march across the precinct lawn and whisk into the school. The door banged shut behind them.

  The curtain was down. The play was ended.

  He turned away to walk to the station through streets that seemed unnaturally empty. Had any of the people he passed been curious enough to look closely, they would have seen a twenty-four-year-old doctor with tears in his eyes.

  Epilogue

  The Dean took a chair from the summerhouse and, carrying it in one hand and his stick in the other, hobbled down the garden path toward the river. The sun was shining, but October was over and a week of November had gone. He thought that there would not be many more days that year for sitting out.

  As the grass was still soft, he placed the chair carefully on the flagstones at the very edge of the river. The water had sunk back into its bed and was clear again, a little below its winter level and running sweetly; as sweetly as were the Dean’s thoughts.

  He was tolerably certain that all was now well again between his daughter and Dr Scotland. Penny Consett had acted as a go-between, flitting like an industrious bee between the parties. He knew that long conversations had taken place on the school telephone. Lawrence Consett was going to get a shock when his next telephone bill came in.

  He did not think that James had suffered any serious injury. A rebuff to his feelings, a touch of not altogether disagreeable sadness. It was what the French poet Alfred de Musset had called a blessed wound, “une sainte blessure; que les noirs séraphins t’ont faite au fond du coeur,” adding, with French cynicism, that nothing made a man feel so big as a sustaining diet of sorrow. The black seraphim had given James no mortal wound.

  The Dean smiled gently at the thought. It would suit him very well to have his daughter off his hands. He was already in touch with the secretary of the Church of England Missionary Organisation. Now that Amanda was of marriageable age, it would hardly be suitable for her to accompany him on the assignment he had in mind.

  After the death of Chairman Mao, the Chinese Republic had become more
willing to accept European missionaries. People had suggested that this was because, if anything went wrong, it would provide them with a useful supply of hostages. The Dean did not disbelieve this, but was prepared to risk it. He was anxious to study the Chinese mind, which had, he thought, many affinities with his own.

  For it was time to quit Melchester. He had never intended to stay long and he could now go with the comfortable conviction that he was leaving solid benefits behind him. His two candidates for the vacant canonries seemed certain to be appointed. Solid men both, they would fight to the last ditch against swindlers like Sandeman and his crowd. In any event, that particular gang had gone to earth and were unlikely to show their faces for some time. After the Dean had, with considerable relish, read out the passage in Brookes’ letter which named them, Grant Adey and Sandeman had both been forced to resign from the Council. Driffield’s punishment had been more subtle. Two letters from Elliot Macindoe calling his attention to certain unfortunate expressions in his article on the inquest had been sufficient to extract from him a handsome sum of money in lieu of damages. This was being spent on a set of new copes. They would be ready in time for the great Christian festival of Easter. It would be an appropriate moment for the Dean to announce his resignation.

  There had been lesser ripples. Mrs Henn-Christie was contemplating legal proceedings against Gloag to make him repay his ill-gotten gains, but the Dean did not think that she would get very far. Grey, unnerved by the excitements, had decided to retire. This had a happy side to it, since Masters, who was altogether a better man, had withdrawn his resignation and taken the senior post.

  Rosa had called on Lady Fallingford and had been rebuffed.

  The Dean’s eyes were half closed against the sparkle of the sun off the water. Now he opened them again. Surely there had been a movement in the clump of weeds under the opposite bank?

  A long pointed nose emerged from the green fronds. It was his old friend, the cannibal trout. It slid off down stream. The Dean watched it with affection.

  Michael Gilbert Titles in order of first publication

  All Series titles can be read in order, or randomly as standalone novels

  Inspector Hazlerigg

  1. Close Quarters 1947

  2. They Never Looked Inside alt: He Didn’t Mind Danger 1948

  3. The Doors Open 1949

  4. Smallbone Deceased 1950

  5. Death has Deep Roots 1951

  6. Fear To Tread (in part) 1953

  7. The Young Petrella (included) (short stories) 1988

  8. The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries (included) (short stories) 1997

  Patrick Petrella

  1. Blood and Judgement 1959

  2. Amateur in Violence (included) (short stories) 1973

  3. Petrella at Q (short stories) 1977

  4. The Young Petrella (short stories) 1988

  5. Roller Coaster 1993

  6. The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries (included) (short stories) 1997

  Luke Pagan

  1. Ring of Terror 1995

  2. Into Battle 1997

  3. Over and Out 1998

  Calder & Behrens

  1. Game Without Rules (short stories) 1967

  2. Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens (short stories) 1982

  Non-Series

  1. Death in Captivity alt: The Danger Within 1952

  2. Sky High alt: The Country House Burglar 1955

  3. Be Shot for Sixpence 1956

  4. After the Fine Weather 1963

  5. The Crack in the Teacup 1966

  6. The Dust and the Heat alt: Overdrive 1967

  7. The Etruscan Net alt: The Family Tomb 1969

  8. Stay of Execution and Other Stories (short stories) 1971

  9. The Body of a Girl 1972

  10. The Ninety-Second Tiger 1973

  11. Flash Point 1974

  12. The Night of the Twelfth 1976

  13. The Empty House 1979

  14. The Killing of Katie Steelstock alt: Death of a Favourite Girl 1980

  15. The Final Throw alt: End Game 1982

  16. The Black Seraphim 1984

  17. The Long Journey Home 1985

  18. Trouble 1987

  19. Paint, Gold, and Blood 1989

  20. Anything for a Quiet Life (short stories) 1990

  21. The Queen against Karl Mullen 1992

  Synopses (Both Series & ‘Stand-alone’ Titles)

  Published by House of Stratus

  After The Fine Weather

  When Laura Hart travels to Austria to visit her brother, vice-consul of Lienz in the Tyrol, she briefly meets an American who warns her of the mounting political tension. Neo-Nazis are stirring trouble in the province, and xenophobia is rife between the Austrians who control the area and the Italian locals. Then Laura experiences the troubles first-hand, a shocking incident that suggests Hofrat Humbold, leader of the Lienz government is using some heavy-handed tactics. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he is unwilling to let one little English girl destroy his plans for the largest Nazi move since the war, and Laura makes a dangerous enemy.

  Anything For A Quiet Life

  Jonas Pickett, lawyer and commissioner of oaths is nearing retirement, but still has lots of energy. However, he leaves the pressure of a London practice behind to set up a new modest office in a quiet seaside resort. He soon finds that he is overwhelmed with clients and some of them involve him in very odd and sometimes dangerous cases. This collection of inter-linked stories tells how these are brought to a conclusion; ranging from an incredible courtroom drama involving a gipsy queen to terrorist thugs who make their demands at gunpoint.

  Be Shot For Sixpence

  A gripping spy thriller with a deserved reputation. Philip sees an announcement in The Times from an old school friend who has instructed the newspaper to publish only if they don’t hear from him. This sets a trail running through Europe, with much of the action taking place on the Austro-Hungarian border. The Kremlin, defectors, agitators and the People’s Court set the background to a very realistic story that could well have happened …

  The Black Seraphim

  James Scotland, a young pathologist, decides on a quiet holiday in Melchester, but amid the cathedral town’s quiet medieval atmosphere, he finds a hornet’s nest of church politics, town and country rivalries, and murder. He is called upon to investigate and finds that some very curious alliances between the church, state and business exist. With modern forensic pathology he unravels the unvarnished truth about Melchester, but not before a spot of unexpected romance intervenes.

  Blood & Judgement

  When the wife of a recently escaped prisoner is found murdered and partially buried near a reservoir, Patrick Petrella, a Metropolitan Police Inspector, is called in. Suspicion falls on the escaped convict, but what could have been his motive? Petrella meets resistance from top detectives at the Yard who would prefer to keep the inspector out of the limelight, but he is determined to solve the mystery with or without their approval.

  The Body Of A Girl

  Detective Chief Inspector Mercer is called to the scene when a skeleton of a girl is found on Westlaugh Island in the upper reaches of the River Thames. What appears to be a straightforward and routine investigation, however, leads to unexpected events and a string of unlikely characters, including a lawyer and a one armed garage proprietor. Nothing seems to fit together and it seems the sleepy town holds many secrets. The finale involves two nights of dramatic violence and it isn’t until this stage is reached that the twisted truth finally emerges.

  Close Quarters

  It has been more than a year since Cannon Whyte fell 103 feet from the cathedral gallery, yet unease still casts a shadow over the peaceful lives of the Close’s inhabitants. In an apparently separate incident, head verger Appledown is being persecuted: a spate of anonymous letters and random acts of vandalism imply that he is inefficient and immoral. But then the notes turn threatening, and when Appledown is found dead, Inspector Hazleri
gg is called in. Investigations suggest that someone directly connected to the cathedral is responsible, and it is up to Hazlerigg to get to the heart of the corruption.

  The Crack In The Teacup

  Barhaven is on the south coast within commuting distance from London. It is, however, a fairly sleepy place and it seems incredulous that it could be the kind of town where the local councillors could manage to line their own pockets. However, there is something odd about the borough engineers behaviour, and it seems strange that the owner of the local amusement park is unknown, and the Town Clerk himself is acting peculiarly. Enter a young lawyer, who finds himself at the centre of a major campaign against racketeering. The public and the press become involved and it ends with a twist that is totally unexpected.

  Death Has Deep Roots

  This is a detective and trial story with a complicated plot that will grip the reader. Victoria Lamartine is on trial for the murder of her supposed lover, whom she is accused of having stabbed. There are only five suspects including Lamartine. But evidence that doesn’t fit the police theory of the crime has been ignored, whilst all of the damming evidence is presented in isolation. Intriguingly, whilst the murder was committed in England, all of the suspects somehow have a past connection with France and its wartime underground. However, there now appears to be links to gold smuggling and it is not immediately clear how all of the different pieces of evidence fit together. As always, Gilbert neatly takes the reader to a satisfying final twist and conclusion.

  Death In Captivity

  A suspected informer is found dead in a collapsed section of an escape tunnel being dug in a prisoner-of-war camp in Italy. So as to protect the tunnel the prisoners decide to move the body to another that has already been abandoned. But then the fascist captors declare the death to be murder and determine to investigate and execute the officer they suspect was responsible. It therefore becomes a race against time to find the true culprit and Captain Henry "Cuckoo" Goyles, a former headmaster, master tunneller and sometime amateur detective takes on the case.