Holy Disorders

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘And being smacked? Yes. It doesn’t seem to have much to do with anything. I should like to know what the manuscript was. Garbin would know – or Spitshuker. And it’s odd she should have taken that message to the police at the cathedral. Again, it may not mean anything. There are too many peripheral elements in this thing. This centre’s a nice convenient blank; the circumference swarms with cryptic signboards and notices.’

  ‘I think I have an idea.’

  ‘It’s sure to be a wrong one.’ Fen blew powder on to his chin from a surgical-looking rubber bulb such as hairdressers use. He bundled his things indiscriminately into his sponge-bag.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what my idea is?’

  ‘No,’ said Fen in parting, ‘I don’t. And if you stay in that bath much longer you won’t get any breakfast, I can tell you that. There’s an idea for you to be going on with.’ He laughed irritatingly, and went out.

  For Geoffrey, the choosing of a tie had developed into an elaborate ceremonial, involving reference to his suit and shirt, to the weather, and to an imperfect memory of what he had worn during the preceding ten or fourteen days. On this particular morning, having returned with some sense of anticlimax to the tie he had first selected, he gazed for rather longer than usual at his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. The impact of womanhood on one’s life, he reflected, is to make one rather more attentive to one’s imperfections than is normal. None the less, he did look at least ten years younger than his age; the slightly faun-like mischievousness of his face was, he supposed, not unattractive; light-blue eyes and close-cropped brown hair had, without doubt, their charms…From these complacent reflections he was interrupted by a subterranean booming which he supposed must mean breakfast. He bent his attention painfully upon the outside world again, and hurried downstairs.

  Frances, he knew, would not be there; she had returned to spend the night with her mother, leaving a not inadequate old person of simple appearance to hold the fort in the meanwhile. Fen was already in the breakfast-room when Geoffrey arrived, gazing with every appearance of interest at a morning paper. Dutton shortly appeared, arranging freshly-cut flowers in a bowl with a curiously feminine competence and delicacy. They sat down to porridge, Dutton plainly feeling it incumbent on him, as the only resident present, to lead the conversation. After several false starts, he achieved the statement that it was a terrible thing. This, as it happened, was unfortunate, since conventional expressions were seldom a success with Fen. He regarded Dutton with interest.

  ‘Is it? Is it?’ he said, waving his spoon and scattering milk about the table-cloth. ‘I knew very little about Dr Butler. Not a communicative man, I should have said, or one easy to get on with.’

  Dutton looked cautiously at his plate; plainly he was considering the wisdom and propriety of discussing the dead man. ‘Uncommunicative, yes,’ he admitted eventually. ‘And liable for that reason to be – traduced.’ He offered this linguistic triumph with modest pride. Fen’s interest grew. He said:

  ‘He wasn’t popular, then?’

  Dutton scurried to cover his tracks. ‘I should hardly put it as strongly as that. About a man in his position there are always misunderstandings.’ A wave of blushes passed up his face and were engulfed in his ginger hair. It was very awkward. Fen, possessed of little patience at the best of times, abandoned finesse and said:

  ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t hedge. What I want’ – he pointed his spoon at the alarmed sub-organist – ‘is to hear what you know of the relations of all the people round here with the dead man.’ He became acrimonious. ‘You’ll have to tell the police if they ask, so you may as well tell me. Cast off this skin of discretion,’ he added, waxing suddenly eloquent; and then, returning abruptly to a more homely plane: ‘Good heavens, man; don’t you like gossiping about other people’s affairs?’

  It seemed that a powerful conflict was raging within Dutton’s soul, between discretion and shyness on the one hand, and the desire to be friendly, and the centre of importance, on the other. Quite suddenly, the second party won, and he began to talk, with hesitation at first, and then, as he found he was enjoying himself, with some zest and vigour. Fen and Geoffrey had little to do except sit and listen.

  ‘Dr Butler,’ Dutton said, ‘made himself out to be, first and foremost, a scholar. As to what he was studying, I’m a bit vague, but I think it was something to do with theology. Garbin’s a strong man in that line, too – I believe his book on the Albigensian heresy is the work on the subject – and he always maintained that the Precentor’s scholarship was half bogus. They had quarrels – one in particular over some important incunabulum which Garbin was editing for the Press and which the Precentor cribbed from for an article in a learned magazine: I think Garbin nearly gave up his prebend because of that. When Dr Butler died they were both working on a book on the same subject, more or less, and the rivalry was terrific.’ Dutton considered. ‘I don’t know that that would be a motive for murder, though, particularly if Garbin’s scholarship was as much superior as he pretended it was.’

  ‘We think we know the motive,’ said Fen, ‘but I want to get a general picture of all these people. Go on.’

  ‘The Precentor quarrelled with poor Brooks over the music, but, then, precentors and organists are always at loggerheads. I must say, though, that Dr Butler was quite exceptionally high-handed about the music. But Brooks was a bit of a tactician, and he generally got his own way in the end. Spitshuker and Butler got on well enough on the whole, though Spitshuker’s practically an Anglo-Catholic, and Butler was always complaining to the Dean and the Bishop about it, but it never had any effect. He bossed the minor canons about a bit, too. I don’t know that there’s much else. He seemed to get on all right with his wife and family’ – Dutton paused – ‘at any rate until that Josephine business yesterday. She burned his manuscript, you know – the younger daughter, that is – then ran away round here, and he followed her and gave her the hiding of her life. I must say I think she deserved it.’

  ‘How long had he been here?’ asked Fen.

  ‘About seven years, I think. He may have had a living before that – I don’t know. Anyway, he had pots of money of his own – or, rather, I think it came from his wife. He used to potter about the Continent from library to library – the whole family were in Germany for two years some time in the thirties. He was quite poor before he married – scholarship boy, son of a cobbler, or something like that – and I think the money rather went to his head.’

  An elephant-bell like an inverted sea-anemone, of Birmingham manufacture, summoned in the bacon and eggs; a malodorous alchemistic contrivance for the brewing of coffee was set in reluctant motion. These disturbances over, Dutton returned to his tale.

  ‘Mrs Butler one can’t say much about: she’s a little, unobtrusive woman without much character of her own. I think he used to bully her rather. Josephine’s always been a wild, headstrong girl; she’s likely to grow into the sort of woman who’ll do anything for a thrill. She used to get some of the poorer kids in the neighbourhood together into gangs and fight round the neighbourhood – sometimes fight nastily and dangerously. But when it came to doling out responsibility she was always the picture of innocence, and her father, who doted on her, would never do anything about it.

  ‘Frances –’ The young man paused and blushed faintly. ‘I don’t know that I can say anything about her. She – she’s a dear.’ Here, Geoffrey thought, is unassuming adoration; he was unsurprised, but obscurely the fact troubled him.

  ‘Savernake?’ asked Fen, piloting the conversation with laborious care over these quicksands. ‘What about him?’

  ‘July’s a pleasant chap – a bit stupid sometimes, that’s all. He’s – was – by way of being a protégé of Dr Butler’s. He’s got the living at Maverley, a few miles out from here. Doesn’t seem to spend much time there, though.’ There was a shade of disapproval in Dutton’s voice; evidently he thought severely of such negligence.

  ‘Leave
s his sheep encumbered in the mire,’ put in Fen by way of apposition; then, seeing that the allusion wasn’t recognized, became gloomy.

  ‘I’ve an idea that relations between July and the Precentor were getting strained,’ Dutton went on. ‘July wasn’t all that Dr Butler expected him to be. Also’ – he hesitated – ‘July’s in love with Frances, and wanted to marry her. For some reason, Dr Butler wouldn’t hear of it – probably suspected he was after the money, or something.’ A thought struck him. ‘I suppose they’ll be able to get married after all.’

  Geoffrey contemplated this prospect without pleasure. The possibility of serious rivalry had not hitherto occurred to him. Decidedly, it was disturbing. Dutton was saying:

  ‘Peace I don’t know anything about; it seems he’s a successful psycho-analyst.’ He pronounced the word cautiously, as though fearing it might be too much for his auditors. ‘Spitshuker and Garbin…they’re always arguing, but actually they get on very well together. Spitshuker’s family’s always been rich, and always connected with the Church; he’s had an easy, placid life – never got married, he says because of his convictions, but actually I expect it’s because no one would have him.’ He flushed with pleasure at this ingenuous exhibition of worldly wisdom. ‘Garbin’s rather the opposite – a scholarship boy from a poor family with a personal and not a traditional inclination towards the Church. I’ve told you what he thought about the Precentor. Mrs Garbin’s a shrew – tries to run everything and everybody, including her husband. Curiously enough she hardly succeeds at all: interfering but ineffectual. He’s always put up a solid show of passive resistance, and she’s come to leave him more or less alone nowadays. She didn’t like Dr Butler, but then’ – Dutton frowned in perplexity – ‘it’s difficult to see that she likes anyone very much.’

  ‘Soured by a childless marriage?’ said Fen.

  ‘Oh, no: there are three children, two boys and a girl. Garbin wanted the boys to go into the Church, but they wouldn’t. You know how it is.’ Dutton waxed philosophic. ‘Isn’t it Anatole France who says that the opinions sons get from their fathers are identically opposite, like the cup moulded by the artist on his mistress’ breast?’ Suddenly confronted with the enormity of what he had said, Dutton blushed again, and shamefastly restored this treasure of analogy to the private quarters of his mind. ‘Anyway, the sons are in the Forces – I don’t know about the daughter; I’ve never seen any of them.’ He hesitated. ‘Is there anyone else?’

  ‘Sir John Dallow,’ Geoffrey put in.

  ‘The Chancellor – oh, yes. He’s rich, too, but as mean as Shylock.’ Dutton’s discursion was beginning to be enlivened by literary allusions. ‘He hasn’t an awful lot to do, nowadays, of course, though when there was a choir-school he was in charge of that. He’s ordained, but he’s never “in residence” nowadays. He’s been gradually unfrocking himself, as it were, over a period of years.’ Dutton waved his hands, to indicate a process of unobtrusive divestiture. ‘He’s an expert on witchcraft, demonolatry – all that stuff. Another of these bachelors, too.’ From his tone it was evident that he regarded bachelorhood as ipso facto an evil condition. It occurred to Geoffrey that a flame of pure connubial idealism burned probably in the young man’s breast.

  Fen nodded sagely over his toast and marmalade. ‘That’s the lot, I think, since the Bishop and Dean are away. And now one or two points about yesterday, if you don’t mind. Brooks was killed at about six. Where were you then?’

  ‘Out – walking.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Dutton nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I find it difficult to know what to do with myself now that music’s forbidden me. I was on the cliffs – towards Tolnmouth.’

  ‘And last night – shortly after ten?’

  ‘In my room, reading.’

  ‘Did you have the window open?’

  Dutton looked perplexed. ‘Yes. It was a hot evening.’

  ‘And did you hear the crash when the slab of that tomb fell?’

  ‘No. Not a sound.’

  Fen finished his coffee and got up. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘And now, alas! to work – dishonest, assuming work.’ Geoffrey and Dutton also rose. Shyness was again engulfing Dutton like a mantle. He hovered about, finally thrusting forward desperately a chromium cigarette-case. They lit their cigarettes. A silence fell.

  ‘Well, I…’ said Dutton. He shifted his feet. ‘I think I have some things to do in my room.’

  This palpable falsehood was received in stony silence. Dutton became frantic, in a subdued manner. He tottered towards the door, paused, and turned uncertainly; and, finally, saying ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ in a low tone, made a dash for it and got out. They sighed with relief. ‘How infectious embarrassment is,’ said Fen. And Geoffrey:

  ‘He really is rather weird. But the life of a sub-organist is not a happy one. They never have the last word about anything, so they never get any confidence in themselves. Probably next to no money, either – poor as the proverbial church mouse. In fact,’ said Geoffrey reflectively, ‘now I come to think of it, Dutton is the proverbial church mouse.’

  ‘Natural shyness,’ said Fen, ‘is a superb disguise. And shy people have a penchant towards cunning. They must, somehow, act, and since they daren’t act in ways that people can see – in the open, as it were…What a lot of hooey I’m talking,’ he added moodily. ‘Sounds like the sort of stuff Peace turns out. Come on, we must go.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The Inspector ought to be here by now. Thanks to Dutton, we know something about the people we’re going to see. Did you notice rather an interesting thing in that account?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘About his not hearing the crash.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain it is.’

  8

  Two Canons

  ITHA. LOOK, LOOK, MASTER; HERE COMES TWO RELIGIOUS CATERPILLARS.

  BARA. I SMELT ’EM ERE THEY CAME.

  MARLOWE

  ‘A pleasant morning.’

  The Inspector’s voice thus greeted them as they passed up the clergy-house drive towards the road. It held a hint of complacency, as if the pleasantness of the morning were somehow of his own contriving. And certainly it was another glorious day, promising much heat and discomfort later on, but for the present as perfect as any man could desire. Tolnbridge sunned itself, opulently and lazily. Its colours took on a new freshness. The estuary glittered – silver tinsel on a vivid blue – and the explosions of the engines of the outgoing fishing-boats proceeded peaceably from it. Beyond them, a minute grey warship lay at anchor. The cathedral itself achieved in the sunlight such grace and lightness that it seemed likely at any moment to be transmuted into a fairy palace and float gently away into some Arcady, some genial Poictesme. Decidedly, a pleasant morning.

  It soon appeared, however, that the Inspector’s comment was less self-congratulatory than a propitiating gambit in a difficult game. He had rung up the Yard, he said, joining to this statement a good deal of devious rambling fantasy; they were sending a man down today; and – here the Inspector’s unease became acute – they considered that unauthorized persons should be absolutely excluded from any subsequent investigations which might be made.

  ‘The boot,’ said Fen. ‘Anathema sumus.’

  ‘You see my position, sir,’ said the Inspector. Plainly he regretted the outcome as much for himself as for Fen. ‘As it is, they’re not at all pleased that you know as much as you do. I suppose’ – he stared at Fen unhappily – ‘I shouldn’t have let either of you in on that radio business.’ He stared still harder, becoming acutely unhappy.

  Fen’s spirits, however, were normally raised rather than lowered by adverse circumstances. ‘Inspector,’ he said with evil glee, ‘I’ll beat you to it. Bet you I get the murderer before you do.’

  The Inspector nodded pathetic assent. ‘Very probably, sir. You can’t be much farther off from it than I am at the moment. And, of course’ – his eyes twinkled momentaril
y – ‘I can’t stop you going round asking people questions if they’re prepared to answer them.’

  ‘Have you,’ said Fen, ‘got any new information you can give us before the interdict comes into force? Or is it in force already?’

  The Inspector peered anxiously about him; he appeared to be seeking for evidences of an ambush. Then, spectacularly lowering his voice, he said:

  ‘I’ve had a go at that kid Josephine this morning. Would you believe it, the little devil still insists that message was given her by a policeman.’

  ‘Perhaps it was.’

  ‘No: she’s obviously lying. But I’m darned if I know how to get the truth out of her. As far as I can see, if she chooses to stick to that story, there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘It’s odd,’ said Fen. ‘I wonder why –?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing. The post mortem’s this morning at eleven, and there’ll certainly have to be an inquest. God knows what verdict they’ll bring in – we can’t help them. Is there any other way of violent death except murder, accident, and suicide? They all look equally impossible.’

  ‘It was murder all right,’ said Fen with an exuberance unjustified by the nature of the statement. ‘Oh, by the way, you didn’t, I suppose, trace that radio in any way? There must have been a car to take it away. It occurs to me, too, that they must have been a fair time about it. All this whipping transmitting sets in and out of cathedrals must be quite a business. Surely there’d be aerials, or something?’

  ‘Anyway, we didn’t trace it,’ said the Inspector. It was evident that he was sinking to hitherto unplumbed depths of pessimism. ‘Nor was there anyone in the cathedral when we searched again this morning.’ He steeled himself reluctantly to action. ‘I must be off.’