All phone calls ceased, of course, once we were in the train, far under the streets. Our District Line train took us straight to Victoria, where Jonathan bid me a hasty farewell and I headed for old familiar platform eighteen.
‘How’s Sue?’ I asked Jane.
She shrugged. ‘What you’d expect. Trying to be brave.’
My next question was going to be ‘And how are you doing?’, but I left it unsaid. The set of her shoulders told me everything.
We didn’t talk much on the way home. The carriage was crowded and noisy, and what was there to say? I didn’t want to tell her about the missing cleric. Jane was no fool. She would draw the same conclusions we had, and she’d only worry more. Leave well enough alone. I did say, choosing my words in consideration of the people all around us, that Jonathan was following up on the suggestion that Sue had given us. She simply nodded and went on pretending to read the Evening Standard she’d been given at the station.
It was a great relief to get out of that strained atmosphere and into my own home, where the cats each opened one eye, stretched, and went back to sleep again. Margaret must have fed them. Watson wasn’t around, so she was probably taking him for a walk. Dear Margaret!
I was far too tired to do anything much about dinner. Anyway, I didn’t know when Alan would be home. I peered in the fridge. There was that bit of leftover pot roast. It wasn’t enough by itself, but I could make it into a curry or a casserole or something. Meanwhile, it had been a frustrating and exhausting day, and I was more than ready for my belated nap.
I was awakened by a wet kiss. A very wet kiss. I opened my eyes to see a black nose near mine, and a pink tongue ready for another swipe. I sat up. ‘Watson, your teeth need cleaning. Your breath could fell an elephant.’
Alan lifted him off the bed and gave my face a swipe or two with a damp washcloth before offering me a kiss of his own. ‘Any better?’
‘Much better. We’ve got to start feeding that dog some of those biscuits that are supposed to keep his teeth clean. What’s the latest news?’
‘The police are on the lookout for Walter, Jonathan’s headed for Ashhurst, and I’m ready for a bit of relaxation and food. Your bourbon is poured and ready, and dinner is warming in the oven.’
‘Bless you! Take-away?’
He nodded. ‘Lasagne from Azzurro. We’ve wanted to try it, so I hopped out at London Bridge and got some. Some “pane all’ something-or-other”, too, for a starter.’
‘It smells wonderful, and you’re an angel. Oh, my, Alan, life does look brighter when you’re around!’
That earned me a more prolonged kiss, until Watson, jealous, jumped back up on the bed and wriggled between us. ‘All right, all right, dog. Get down. I’ll give you a treat.’
Over a delicious bread-and-cheese concoction and a libation, Alan told me about the rest of his day.
‘They were still meeting, as you will have gathered, and still arguing about whether to postpone further proceedings. When the chairman asked if there was any further discussion, profoundly hoping, I was sure, that there was none, I stood and made myself most unpopular.’
‘And dropped your bomb.’
‘I did. I’m ashamed to say that I rather enjoyed it. The looks on the faces of the Lovelace supporters were priceless! They didn’t believe me at first, of course, but when I cited chapter and verse, and added that the Metropolitan Police were now searching for both Mr Lovelace and Mr Tubbs, they had to believe there was something in it. Of course, it threw the whole selection matter into confusion. The vote came very quickly after that. They decided that we could hardly proceed with only two candidates, and would have to adjourn until a more propitious time.’
‘I suppose that means we’re stuck with Bishop Hardie for the duration.’
‘For a while, at least. The Archbishop will have to make the exception official, but it was obvious that he would do that as soon as possible. He’s also going to notify Hardie of the distressing circumstances.’
‘Poor old man! He was so looking forward to retirement.’
‘Old man indeed! I’ll remind you, woman, that he’s just about our age.’
‘Oh. Well … but he is old!’
Alan roared at that. ‘Some are born old,’ he said, and I instantly followed up with, ‘Some achieve oldness, and some have oldness thrust upon them.’
‘Thank you, Will. More or less.’
‘Shakespeare has a quote for every occasion, doesn’t he? I think you’re right about Hardie, though. He was born old. He belongs back in the last century, or the one before that, when bishops just sat around wearing their mitres and looking pontifical. Nowadays, we need them to be active leaders.’
‘I would remind you, my dear, that most of the English population don’t feel the need for bishops at all, or for the Church, for that matter. Except perhaps for weddings and funerals.’
‘And christenings. Hatched, matched, and dispatched. And a lot of them don’t bother with christenings, get married by a registrar, if at all, and leave this earth with the blessing of a crematory official. Ah, well, we think they’re wrong about that. The Church holds the nation together. Where would we all be without the Abbey for royal occasions like weddings and coronations? Can you imagine Prince Harry and his bride-to-be, whoever she may be, rolling up in their gold coaches to a registry office? Come on, that lasagne’s calling me.’
Later, as we had settled ourselves in bed more or less comfortably around Watson, who insists on taking his half out of the middle, Alan said, ‘You realize we are now free to concentrate on who killed Brading.’
‘And finding Walter,’ I reminded him.
My only answer was a snore, from both of them.
SIXTEEN
I woke early the next morning, not quite sure why I had a sense of contentment. Certainly there were worries enough to weigh on my mind. Then I consciously smelled the coffee and the bacon and understood. My incomparable husband was cooking breakfast, and, for the moment, troubles were in abeyance. Watson bounded into the room, presumably sent to waken me. I put my feet on the floor before he could jump up, ruffled his beautifully feathered ears, and gave him a pat. ‘Tell Papa I’m on my way.’
Not bothering to dress, I went down to the kitchen, where Alan thrust a mug of coffee into my hand and forbore to talk until I’d downed half of it.
‘Oh, my, that’s good,’ I said, when my brain was more or less functioning. ‘And it’s a beautiful day.’
‘It is that. I’ve been making plans.’ He set plates of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table, along with hot buttered toast. I’ve taught him American ways in that respect, at least. Immediately, both cats materialized beside us, lured by that irresistible smell. Watson, of course, had been there all along. There was a certain amount of jostling for position, which I ignored for the time being. ‘What kind of plans?’
‘I thought we ought to visit Chelton for a day or two. I’d like to get to know some of Brading’s parishioners.’
‘I thought you told me that cathedral wasn’t a parish church.’
‘It isn’t, officially, but you know what I mean. The people he serves. Served. And if I can find a pleasant B and B, perhaps we can take along the d-o-g.’
That took Watson’s attention away from the bacon, momentarily. He knows that word, even spelled out. His bright eyes searched both our faces for a clue to what we were saying about him.
‘You are a dreadful nuisance, do you know that?’ I told him severely, handing down a piece of bacon. Alan did the same for the cats, which kept all of them busy for at least ten seconds. ‘Do you think one of his flock did him in, then?’
‘I don’t think anything at the moment, except that we – and I include the official police – have so far come up with absolutely no suspects, except possibly Lovelace, if he wanted the bishopric badly enough to kill for it.’
‘If he did, he’s certainly shot himself in the foot now. He’ll be lucky to find a parish in Puddleby-in-the Marsh.’
‘If he’s found guilty of embezzlement from St Barnabas’, his ministry for some time may well be in one of Her Majesty’s prisons.’
‘They’ll have to find him first.’
‘They will.’
‘And speaking of finding …’
‘Ah, yes. I wanted to wait until you were fully awake. I had a text from Jonathan this morning, just before you woke up. It was brief, as such things always are, and somewhat cryptic, but if I interpreted it correctly, he’s on Walter’s trail and hopes to track him down very soon.’
‘Oh, that is a relief. Almost. Three cautious cheers, then. But don’t let’s tell Jane or Sue until we’re sure.’
Alan smiled. ‘Of course not. More coffee?’
We finished our meal and tidied up the kitchen. ‘We’re going to have to tell Jane something, if we’re leaving again and want her to look after the cats. I swear those animals aren’t going to know us when we finally settle back down at home.’
‘They’ll survive,’ said Alan. ‘Cats are good at that. But I wasn’t planning to go right away. I’d rather stay where we can get to London easily, in case something blows up about Lovelace and/or Walter.’
‘That suits me. There’s laundry and housework to be done, and I’m just plain tired of being away so much. The old lady’s getting set in her ways and wants her familiar comforts.’
‘So does her old man. I thought we’d leave on Saturday, perhaps. Then we could take in a Sunday service at Chelton.’
‘Sounds fine.’ I yawned. ‘Along with the housework, I plan to take regular naps.’
So, for a couple of days, we enjoyed a leisurely life, or we would have, if it hadn’t been for concern about Walter. A couple of cryptic messages from Jonathan didn’t do a lot to reassure us, but, with the police on the trail as well, there wasn’t much we could do, except fret. Jane, bless her heart, understood that and kept the traditional stiff upper lip.
One afternoon, when I was just thinking about a nap, and the cats were quite willing to join me, the doorbell rang. The Cathedral organist, Jeremy Sayers, stood there with his partner, Christopher Lewis, who taught at Sherebury University. Jeremy, after happily playing the field for years, had finally settled down with a man whom Alan and I both liked. They had moved into a Georgian house not far from ours and spent all their free time making it into a showplace, where they loved entertaining. They visited often, but there was something about their manner now that told me this was not a social call.
I settled them both in the parlour, called Alan, offered a choice of drinks, poured sherry, and waited to hear what they had to say.
To their credit, they came straight to the point. ‘We’ve known both of you a long time,’ said Jeremy. ‘And we debated a long time before deciding to come to you with this.’
‘We argued,’ said Christopher. ‘Let’s call a spade a bloody shovel. I said we had no right to take advantage of a friendship. Jeremy was determined to come and at least talk to you. So here we are, but I want it on record that I’m here under protest.’
‘This will be about the bishop appointment, I presume,’ said Alan, and he sounded weary.
‘However did you guess?’ said Jeremy, in a rather pathetic attempt at levity. ‘Alan, Dorothy, I actually agree with Chris. I don’t like to use a friendship, and if this weren’t so desperately important, I wouldn’t think of it. But –’ he spread his hands – ‘this may be the only chance we’ll ever have to influence church policy, and we can’t let the opportunity pass.’
He put down his sherry glass and leaned forward. ‘We’ve been C of E all our lives, Chris and I. We love the church, and this Cathedral has always treated us decently. But we have friends – we could tell you stories – well, I will tell you one. No names. A distant friend, another organist, was caught with some gay porn sites on his computer. His personal computer, nothing to do with the church, and nothing to do with children or anything horrid like that. He was harassed, eventually turfed out of his job. He ended up on the streets, got mixed up with a very rough bunch, got AIDS, and died. Hounded to death by bigots.’
I was appalled. ‘Jeremy, that’s a dreadful story! I had no idea such a thing could happen in this day and age. I’m so very, very sorry.’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘I didn’t know the man well. I told the story only to make you understand that the bigotry is still very much alive. And a bishop could do so much to change attitudes. Archbishop Welby has already done a bit, with his appearance of tolerance, though he’s still … well, time will tell how he turns out. But at least he isn’t sweeping the issue under the carpet, and that’s a step. A bishop in this diocese who cared about gays could be so important to us.’
He sat back, blinked away tears, and picked up his glass in an unsteady hand. Chris reached over to take his hand.
Alan had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘I’m glad you came, both of you. You know that the issue is moot for the moment, and, of course, I am only one voice on the commission, so I can promise nothing, even when discussions begin again.’
‘We understand,’ said Christopher, rather grimly. ‘But we can tell you things. I still think coming to you like this is unfair, but you might as well know that most of the gay community hopes Bill Robinson will be appointed.’
I was surprised. ‘We quite liked him when we met him, but I had an idea you both really liked Dean Smith.’
‘We do,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s just that, on this particular issue, Robinson seems to be the best man. True, he’s very Low. You wouldn’t care at all for his churchmanship, and nor do I. But I’d put up with Rite Q or whatever, even in the Cathedral, for the sake of the chance to feel that Christopher and I were truly accepted in the life of the church.’
I sighed. ‘I won’t say I understand, Jeremy, because I can’t put myself in your place. I’ve never been despised just for what I am, so I don’t know bigotry from the inside. But I know you two well enough to sympathize.’
‘I do, as well,’ said Alan. ‘But remember what I said. My influence is very, very limited.’
Both the young men nodded, and we turned with relief to other subjects. But after they left, I spent a good part of the evening trying to imagine how I’d feel if I were hated and reviled for being white, or American, or old, or any of my other attributes that I could do nothing about. It was a sobering idea.
Alan had apparently been thinking about it, too. As we sat at breakfast the next morning, he said, out of the blue, ‘Americans feel a good deal more strongly than the English about homosexuality, don’t they, Dorothy?’
I blinked. ‘I suppose they do. I haven’t lived there for so long, I don’t know what it’s like now. Certainly there was a good deal of ill feeling about gays in Indiana, when I lived there, but I think attitudes are changing.’
‘And what about you? Any opinions on the matter?’
I put down my coffee mug. ‘I don’t know that I have any opinion about gays and lesbians in general. I don’t like treating people as generalities. If you ask me about Jeremy and Christopher, I like them very much and enjoy being with them. And as an American etiquette columnist once wrote, “I don’t need to know what my guests plan to do after they leave the party.” The one thing I’m sure about is that there is only one person whose behaviour I’m entitled to judge.’ I pointed to myself.
By Saturday we were ready to venture forth again, and by mid-morning we were in the car on our way to Chelton. We had somehow missed this pretty little city when we took a walking tour of the Cotswolds a few years ago, so I was glad we were giving ourselves enough time for a little sightseeing. It was a beautiful Saturday, warm and sunny, with spring just beginning to give way to summer. I had never seen the English countryside look lovelier. It’s true, of course, that when the countryside includes hedgerows along the road, one can’t see much of it from a car. But every so often the hedges gave way to dry-stone walls, and then the lovely rolling fields of green wheat and yellow rapeseed, the meadows
alive with sheep and lambs, the tiny groupings of houses, with ancient steeples giving them anchor – these sights so delighted me that I forgot all about Walter and embezzlement and bishops, and just drank in the beauty.
‘England’s green and pleasant land,’ I said, sitting back with a contented sigh.
‘Do you know, Dorothy, one of the things I love most about you is your capacity for enjoyment? You look right now like a child who has just been given a marvellous Christmas present.’
I sighed again and waved my hand in a sweeping gesture. ‘Alan, look at it! What’s not to like?’
Alan chuckled, and we drove on in companionable silence.
We had to stop for lunch, and a couple of times to accommodate Watson, but then we began to look for Chelton. The road sign, when we spotted it, was one of the modern ones, not the old fingers-on-a-stick kind, which were picturesque but almost impossible to read. It read in large clear letters ‘Chelton 2.’
‘I hate to disturb your idyll,’ said Alan, ‘but perhaps we should refresh ourselves a little about Brading before we start talking to people about him.’
‘Ultra-conservative and rigid, right?’
‘Kenneth Allenby summed him up as a man who tried to pretend the Oxford Movement never happened. He was opposed to virtually every innovation in the church for the past hundred years. He detested High Church practices: candles, vestments, incense, the lot. He wanted Matins and Evensong always to be the principal services, with the Eucharist only on especially solemn occasions, and even then with as little ceremonial as possible. Women in the priesthood were, of course, anathema.’
‘And this man was being considered for the See of Sherebury.’ I shook my head. ‘I still can’t believe it, political pull or not. And I admit, with shame, that I’m not as sorry as I should be that he’s dead. He sounds like a thoroughly disagreeable person.’
Day of Vengeance Page 14