‘Well, one reason we’re here is to find out who, if anyone, found him disagreeable enough to kill him. And here, in fact, we are.’
SEVENTEEN
Well, in a manner of speaking. We were in Chelton, but it took a little while to find our B and B. English towns are laid out not on a grid, but with streets that wind and change their names every little whipstitch. Alan can apparently navigate by instinct; he got mildly lost only once.
Our hostelry was a dignified house called Lynncroft (I do love the names the English give their houses) on the edge of town, probably once part of a farm, with green fields stretching off behind it. It was built of the traditional honey-coloured Cotswold stone, set off with touches of a white stone over windows and doorway. It would have looked severe had it not been for the riot of colour in the front garden. Every spring flower imaginable seemed to be trying to outdo the others in luxuriant display. I kept a tight hold on Watson’s leash as we stepped out of the car. I didn’t want to even think about what he could do to those flowers if he decided their bed was a good place to dig.
Our hostess, however, had the situation in hand. ‘You can’t see it very well, but there’s an electric fence around the flower beds, put there long ago to keep our own dogs out. They’re gone now, but we found the fence useful when guests brought their dogs, so we’ve kept it up. And the back garden is walled, so he can run and play as much as he likes there, with no danger from the road. He’s a lovely boy, isn’t he?’
This last was addressed to Watson, who responded with increased tail wagging and excited little yips. He’s been taught not to jump on people, but he still wants to, when he likes someone. He was rewarded with pats and praise, and trotted off happily with me to the broad walled-in expanse of grass behind the house, where I let him off the leash to explore as he wanted.
Alan and I got ourselves situated in our room and then went down to the tea our hostess had prepared for us. It was simple, but the tea was excellent and the scones fresh and as light as feathers.
‘I like to get acquainted with my guests, you see, and tea is a good time to do it. Breakfast is too rushed.’
I nodded. ‘Everything has to be done at once, and nothing will stand sitting for very long. A lukewarm fried egg …’
Mrs Stevens nodded her head in fervent agreement. ‘Fit for nothing but to patch a tyre. And bacon can’t be reheated, and mushrooms get watery. No, breakfast must be served at once. But tea is a leisurely meal, at least when I have only a few guests.’
‘How many can you accommodate?’
‘Twelve at a pinch, but I don’t like to have more than six, especially now that my husband’s gone. He was such a help. I have a cleaner who comes in daily, and a gardener to do the heavy work, but the rest is on my plate. Last week we were full up, so I’m very glad that you’re my only guests at the moment.’
‘Goodness, so am I! You need a rest. I can’t imagine cooking and all the rest of it for twelve people – and strangers at that.’
‘Oh, no one stays a stranger for long! My tongue’s hung in the middle, my husband always said, but I do seem to get on with most of my guests. Is this your first visit to the Cotswolds?’
I gave Alan a quick smile behind Mrs Stevens’ back. It wasn’t going to take her long to find out all there was to know about us. All we wanted to let her know, at any rate.
Alan gave her a truncated biography. No, we’d visited the Cotswolds once before, doing a walking tour. We lived in Sherebury and were both retired. (He carefully didn’t say what he’d done before he left his working days behind.)
‘And you’re American, aren’t you, dear?’
I admitted that I was. ‘I moved to England after my first husband died, and was lucky enough to meet Alan.’ I anticipated her next question. ‘I never had any children, so it took Alan’s daughter to make me a grandmother.’
‘Oh, how lovely for you! Charles and I had four daughters, and there are twelve grandchildren now and three great-grands! Now, you’ll let me make you some more tea – no, no, it’s no trouble at all, the kettle’s hot – and I’ll show you my darlings.’
She carried the teapot to the kitchen, thereby observing the strict rule of ‘take the pot to the kettle, not the kettle to the pot’, and I grinned at Alan. ‘Did you choose her on purpose because she’s a talker, or is this just luck?’
‘Pure luck,’ he said. ‘I chose this place because I thought you’d like the house, and the rates are reasonable. But we have fallen on our feet, haven’t we?’
Mrs Stevens came back with the fresh pot of tea and a photo album. When we had duly admired the children, Alan turned the conversation to the late Dean Brading. It didn’t take much. All he had to do was ask about service times in the morning at the cathedral, and she was off.
‘Eight and ten. The Early Service, you know, and then Matins. Would you like an early breakfast?’
‘I thought we might go to the Early Service and then get some coffee and a bun in the town,’ I said apologetically. ‘We wouldn’t want you to go to a lot of trouble to feed us so early.’
‘In any case,’ said Alan in a deliberate fib, ‘we seldom breakfast before church. We’re rather High in our views.’
‘Oh, well then, I don’t know as you’d care for the cathedral. St Dunstan’s might be more to your liking; it’s just a few streets away. The cathedral’s very Low, you see. Although that might change, now that the dean’s dead. You’ll have heard about that, I’m sure. Dean Brading, murdered in his own cathedral.’
I had a feeling I might grow very tired of that phrase. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘How awful. I think I may have read something about it.’
‘All over the telly and the papers for a week,’ she said, giving me a sidelong glance as though to make sure I was really of normal intelligence. ‘It’s died down a bit now, but we here in Chelton haven’t forgotten. They say the police haven’t found out a thing about who might have done it. Mind you, there are some here in town who might be able to tell the police a few things, if they wanted to.’
I tried to look desperately intelligent and questioning.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ asked Mrs Stevens with concern.
So much for my acting ability. ‘I’m fine. Just a momentary twinge of arthritis. But do go on. You think there are things people aren’t telling the police?’
‘Well, I’m not one for gossip.’
In one of her books, Dorothy Sayers commented that people who say this often really believe it of themselves.
‘But it’s a fact,’ Mrs Stevens pursued, ‘that there are plenty of people around here who didn’t like the dean, not one little bit. Not that I’m saying anyone would have struck him down. That’s going a bit far, wouldn’t you agree?’
We nodded solemnly. I was glad I had swallowed my last sip of tea.
‘But what I do say is that not everyone is sad he’s gone, and they’re not going to go out of their way to help the police catch his killer. So, you won’t change your mind and go to St Dunstan’s tomorrow? I’m told they have a very pleasant vicar.’
Alan stood. ‘Oh, I think we’ll try the cathedral, at least for the Early Service. And, as my wife said, please don’t bother about breakfast for us.’
‘Well, if you’re hungry after, you just come and knock on the kitchen door. I’ll be home all morning.’
And she bustled off. Watson, meanwhile, had been standing hopefully at the sitting-room door, which gave on to a terrace. When he caught our eye, he whined softly.
‘Yes. Supper time for all of us. I’ll feed him on the terrace, Alan, if you’ll ask Mrs Stevens about where to eat.’
We took Watson with us when we went to find a meal. He’d been left alone far too much lately, and deserved better. If we couldn’t find a pub that would admit him, he’d wait outside quite happily, especially since his keen sense of smell would tell him that a treat might be forthcoming.
We found our meal, and Watson got his treat, and then we went for a walk
, sightseeing.
There weren’t really a lot of sights to see in Chelton. It was a very pleasant, very typical Cotswold market town, with narrow streets, shops built of golden stone or else half-timbered. A market square was dominated by a small but striking arched market hall. The streets had been busy during the day, but were growing quiet as night drew near. There was no particular tourist attraction beyond that of any pretty little English town. Like Sherebury, it was really too small to be considered a city, and acquired that designation only because of its cathedral. As in Sherebury, too, the cathedral was originally a monastic foundation, which functioned as a parish church after Henry the Eighth closed all the monasteries. Unlike our lovely Cathedral, however, Chelton’s was quite small and had suffered badly in the years before it was elevated to cathedral status. The monastic buildings – the cloister, the refectory, the dortoir – were destroyed completely, and the north transept of the church had burned down at some point and was never replaced.
‘It looks a trifle lopsided,’ I said, when we had wandered through the town to the cathedral gates. ‘Especially with that ugly building right up against the north wall. Nowadays, no one would ever get planning permission for something like that.’ The building in question was of a particularly virulent shade of yellow brick, its ugliness enhanced rather than diminished by lintels decorated with fat, smirking cherub faces.
‘No, but that appalling structure went up long before civic planning was instituted. It looks Victorian. They perpetrated all sorts of horrors on churches, inside and out. I should imagine it’s a parish hall, or Sunday school, or something of the sort.’
But when we went around to that side to look, a poster out in front said ‘Chelton Youth Centre’. The poster was enclosed in a large glass-fronted display box. The glass was dirty and badly cracked in one corner, so that rain had got in and warped the poster. The lettering was badly faded.
Alan went up and peered into one of the windows. They, too, were dirty and in poor repair. ‘No furniture inside, as far as I can make out,’ he reported. ‘I would hazard a guess that the youth centre no longer functions, or at least not here. Quite a contrast to Rotherford’s.’
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘So far, I find Chelton Cathedral distinctly less than splendid. And I’m feeling more and more jaundiced about Dean Brading. I’m assuming that brick thing belongs to the cathedral, and the dean shouldn’t have let it get into such shocking condition. What a contrast, too, to the spotless neighbourhood around St Barnabas’.’
‘By the logic of opposites, then, Dean Brading ought to have been the perfect example of all that is pure and holy.’
‘I’m too tired to be logical. It’s been a long day, there’s a good television in our room, and they’re re-running Pride and Prejudice tonight. Shall we?’
EIGHTEEN
Morning seemed to come very early, but Watson needed to go out, and I needed to shower before the Early Service, so I was actually awake and functioning when Alan’s mobile rang. He was in the shower, so I answered it.
‘Dorothy? Jonathan.’
‘Oh, goodness, I’m glad to hear from you. What’s up?’
‘I’ve good news. The best news.’
‘You’ve found Walter!’
Alan walked out of the bathroom just then, towelling his head. He dropped the towel; his head shot up.
‘We have. Unharmed, and with the St Barnabas’ account books safely in his possession. We’ve nailed Lovelace!’
‘Oh, heavens, have you found him, too?’
‘Not yet, but we will. It’s just a matter of time. I meant that we have all the evidence we need to prosecute him. Until we do find him, we’re keeping Walter somewhere safe, just in case, and I’m not telling even you and Alan, much less Jane and Sue, where he is.’
‘They won’t be happy about that, but I see your point. Look, I’d better let you talk to Alan; he’s standing here perishing of curiosity.’ He was also shivering; the room was chilly, and he was dripping wet. I found him another towel and his bathrobe, and started dressing.
‘What did he tell you? Where did he find him? What happened to him?’ I asked, the minute he was off the phone.
‘All he said was that your advice led him to Walter, that he had indeed gone into hiding, and he’d tell us more when Lovelace was found.’
I could hardly wait to get to church, with such cause for rejoicing. Walter was all right! And the nasty Mr Lovelace was going to be caught!
There was little enough other cause for rejoicing. ‘Okay, barely’ was our verdict about the Early Service. It was celebrated with as little ceremonial as is reasonably possible, in a small side-chapel almost stark in its austerity. No candles burned on the altar, no corpus adorned the plain silver cross. The celebrant wore cassock, surplice and stole, with no other vestments. No one assisted him, and indeed assistance was hardly necessary, since the communicants numbered five, counting Alan and me. The low numbers might have been a reaction to the death of the dean, but somehow I doubted it, since the chapel could seat only perhaps a dozen people.
The liturgy was read from the old Book of Common Prayer, which, with its lovely language, made up for some of the other disappointments. But it confused us no end, for bits of the service were in a different order than we were accustomed to, and the prayer book in the pew was in such small print as to be almost unreadable.
We refrained from the small rituals we used at home – the sign of the cross, genuflecting, and so on – since they were plainly not observed here, and left quietly as soon as the service was over. No one had spoken to us, except in liturgical forms, the whole time.
‘Well.’ We left the church and went out into the misty morning. It would clear later, but just now the weather was hardly inspiring. ‘I’m not sure I feel like I’ve been to church.’
‘Let’s go and get some breakfast.’
We hadn’t even taken time to make coffee before leaving our room, so we were more than ready for breakfast. There wasn’t time to go back to the B and B, though, before Matins, so we found a small tea shop that served tea and doughnuts, and that had to suffice.
The congregation for Matins promised to be larger than for the Early Service, judging by the number of cars parked as we approached the cathedral and the number of people walking in that direction. However – ‘Alan! No bells!’
‘Popish,’ he said with a wry grin.
‘Nonsense! There’ve been church bells in England for centuries!’
‘But Cromwell hated them, you know. Here we are. No time now for a canned history of the Church of England.’
The cathedral interior, lit by large and rather ugly chandeliers, was no more impressive than the outside. Nothing can totally destroy the soaring impact of Gothic architecture, but those who’d had charge of Chelton Cathedral over the centuries had done their best. Much of the medieval glass had been replaced by crude Victorian panels or plain leaded glass. The pillars of the nave had been girded by iron bands, presumably to lend some strength, but the effect was to spoil the proportions and stop the upward movement of the eye. The pews were modern and hideously out of place.
It was plain that the dean, lover of the austere, had followed his own strictures. His cathedral was as unadorned as it could well be. All of the statues low enough to be reached had been deprived of their heads, almost certainly by Oliver Cromwell’s men during the Civil Wars, a fate Rotherford Cathedral had been spared. The altar did bear two simple vases of daffodils, but none of the elaborate creations that always graced Sherebury Cathedral. Plain, stark, unembellished – those were the watchwords.
‘Do they not have much money?’ I whispered to Alan. He shrugged and spread his hands in an I-don’t-know gesture. We found seats quite near the front, for although we were almost late, most of the worshippers seemed to prefer the middle of the nave. There weren’t, after all, that many of them. I looked around discreetly, then nudged Alan again. ‘No parish altar.’ Evidently, the Eucharist, on the rare occasions when
it was celebrated in the main body of the church, was conducted at the far east altar, quite a long way away from most of the congregation. At least there was no rood screen to cut off everyone’s view of the proceedings. However, it scarcely mattered for Matins, a service that doesn’t use the altar at all.
The organ – I was relieved to hear there was an organ – sounded the first few bars of a hymn, we opened our books to the page indicated on the hymn board, and the service began.
It was again read according to the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. The choir wasn’t wonderful. Not bad, not good. They got through the many psalms and canticles, versicles and responses that are required by the service. First, though, we all knelt and confessed our sins, and were absolved by a small, balding man in wire-rimmed glasses who looked as though he followed the same liturgical practices as the late dean. His surplice was unadorned and somewhat shabby, though it was quite clean. His stole was the simplest possible, with crosses the only decoration, and even these weren’t embroidered, but plain white appliqué. His receding hair was neatly trimmed, but with no attempt at styling. His voice was thin and whiny. Not a comfortable sort of voice, even pronouncing the absolution.
The sermon came near the very end of the service. We had prayed for peace and for grace, for the Queen and her family, and for the Church. Then we all sat, and the presider climbed the many stairs up into the pulpit, which had a traditional sounding board looming above it.
‘Who is he?’ I whispered to Alan. ‘One of the canons?’
‘Probably. Shh.’
His text was from the Old Testament lesson for the day – ‘Of course,’ I whispered to Alan – the story about the golden calf. He read it with great solemnity: ‘Thy people, which thou broughtest out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves: They have turned aside quickly out of the way which I commanded them.’ He set the bible aside and grasped the sides of the pulpit with both hands.
‘As I look around this cathedral, I see no golden calves. Graven images there are in plenty, perhaps too many, but we do not, I hope and trust, fall down and worship them. Ah, but what happens when we leave this holy place and step into the world of the streets outside? What idols do we worship there? Is it the idol of pleasure, to be found in public houses? The idol of treasures, to be found in shops that sell goods of which we have no need? The idol of vainglory, to be found in the establishments that purport to render us beautiful?
Day of Vengeance Page 15