Body in the Transept

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Yes, of course you’d look at things with a fresh eye, as a newcomer. As to Mr. Sayers, it’s not much more than a rumor, and I’d be glad to lay it to rest, if I can. It’s true that Canon Billings did not approve of some of the choices about the music. He was inclined to be extremely conservative. I have a tin ear, as my dear wife is always telling me, so I did give some consideration to what Canon Billings said. However, enough people had come to me to compliment me on the improvement in the music since we hired Mr. Sayers that I was disposed to be cautious. I discussed the matter, in fact, with members of the music faculty from the university. They universally advised me that Mr. Sayers was the best thing that had happened to cathedral music in years, and that I could count myself extremely lucky to have him. I would not have allowed him to be dismissed under any circumstances.”

  That sounded final enough. Except, except . . .

  “Did he know that?”

  “I had mentioned to Canon Billings—”

  “No, sorry, but I mean Jeremy Sayers. Did he know his job was safe?”

  “I certainly never gave him any other impression,” said the dean, looking a little startled. “I assumed he knew nothing about the controversy, and needn’t know.”

  “Oh, he knew, all right.” Were even the best clergymen always a little naive? “He was quite certain he was going to be fired any minute.” The dean raised his eyebrows. “He told me so himself.”

  “Oh dear.” Naive, perhaps, but never stupid. He saw the implications clearly enough.

  “Right. I don’t suppose you know where Sayers was between the children’s service and midnight Mass?”

  “It is his habit to rehearse for an hour or two between services, but I can’t say for certain. I went home for a nap; I’m not getting any younger, and the late service is rather strenuous.”

  “I see.” We looked at each other, and I gave up that unproductive topic for another. “And Mr. Wallingford? I know he’s in the clear now, but how much trouble was he really in before?”

  The dean didn’t question how I knew. “A great deal, I’m afraid. Here, again, the matter is virtually public knowledge. There’s really no doubt that he was stealing from the cathedral. The treasurer and I looked into the matter thoroughly when the totals began to come in at about half of what they ought to be, both from the collections and from the restoration fund boxes. It came down to Mr. Wallingford. There was simply no question that the money disappeared whilst under his responsibility, but we couldn’t imagine how he did it, and there was no proof. There is still no proof, and no explanation, but as the money has been approximately made up and it seems certain Mr. Wallingford will be more careful in future, we have decided to pursue the matter no further.”

  “It has been made up, you’re sure? I mean it isn’t just fudged bookkeeping or something?”

  “Oh, no, the money came in yesterday morning, in cash. Mr. Wallingford called attention to it, as a matter of fact, when he brought in the money from Matins. Said something about what a nice Christmas present. We could scarcely believe it, all those lovely new hundred-pound notes.”

  “You’re sure he’s the one who put it there.”

  “As sure as we can reasonably be. It would be most unusual for a real donation of that size to be made anonymously, in cash. Unprecedented, in fact. You do realize we’re talking about several thousand pounds.”

  “Good grief, no, I had no idea it was as much as all that!”

  “It’s been going on for some time,” the dean said dryly. “As you can imagine, we are very glad to have the money back.”

  “I’m sure you are, but it doesn’t alter the fact that Mr. Wallingford had excellent reason to fear Canon Billings.”

  “No.” The dean spread his hands and sighed. “But what can we do? There is no proof of anything.”

  I saw no reason to tell him that Wallingford was lying about his activities on Christmas Eve. The dean had enough to worry him. But he went on.

  “There’s no denying, I’m afraid, that Mr. Wallingford has proved unsatisfactory in many respects. He is sometimes quite rude to visitors, and nothing I say seems to help. He can be maddeningly pompous, and never seems to be where he is supposed to be; I’ve been looking for him all day to arrange some details about tomorrow’s services, and he seems to have vanished. But now that he’s put back what he’s stolen—and I’m quite sure that’s what he’s done—it would be most unfair to sack him. In fact,” he shook his head ruefully, “I fear we’re stuck with the man for life.”

  “And that’s because Canon Billings died, too,” I said soberly. “There doesn’t seem any end to it. Nigel will get to keep his job—at least I suppose he will?”

  The dean nodded.

  “. . . and his place at the university. The Endicotts probably get to build on their addition, and Mr. Sayers goes on producing glorious music here. On the other hand, you have to keep putting up with Mr. Wallingford, and that Mr. Pettifer will go about wreaking destruction in Sherebury unopposed.”

  “Oh, I do hope you’re wrong about that, Mrs. Martin,” said the dean with a frown. “That is one matter in which I was very much in agreement with Canon Billings.”

  “I suppose no one is all black,” I agreed. “If only he’d gone about things differently, maybe people wouldn’t have hated him so much. Maybe he’d still be alive.”

  “It was a mistake to bring him here,” said the dean, more to himself than me. “He was no good with people; he put their backs up. I must admit there were times when he might have told me eggs were eggs, and I’d have disagreed on principle. However,” he sighed, “we mustn’t judge him too harshly. He was brought here to do a job, and he did it very well. He was a first-rate scholar, you know.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. Do you know what he was working on when he died? I ran into someone who seemed to think he was being mysterious about it.”

  “He was. I asked, when he came back from Corinth, whether the trip had been productive, and if he’d had any difficulty with the earthquake—they had a mild one when he was there, you know—and he was rather vague. He did say one thing, though, I recall. It was in a Chapter meeting. He quite calmly said that we should have to build an addition to the library, because soon there wouldn’t be enough space for everyone who wanted to work there. Everyone just stared at the man, because if you’ve ever seen two readers in our library at once, it’s more than anyone else has done. And he said he meant, of course, after his book was published, and then dropped the subject. I remember, because it’s the only time I ever heard the poor chap make a joke. He said that St. Paul was going to be so famous at Sherebury that St. Peter would be jealous—referring to the dedication of the cathedral, you see.”

  “Well, it’s not much of a joke, but it’s odd, all the same. It does sound, though, as if the new book was to have something to do with St. Paul. I suppose I’ll have to ask George Chambers. He works in the same general field; the canon might have talked to him about it.”

  High overhead, two of the cathedral’s great bells began to speak. “Heavens,” said the dean, “that’s the Evensong warning. I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin, I fear I’ve been of very little help.”

  “At this stage, I don’t know what will be a help and what won’t, but thank you, Dean. It’s always good to talk to you; I feel better, anyway.”

  The two bells rang me home.

  13

  I KNOCKED ON Jane’s door unheard, opened it, and plunged into a sea of music, color, and laughter.

  Nigel materialized at my side with a steaming mug of mulled wine. “There’s champagne if you’d rather,” he shouted over the party.

  “No, this is lovely, thanks. Cheers!” I raised my cup in salute. “You’re looking splendid this evening, I must say. Where on earth did you get the outfit?”

  He looked down with a kind of mocking pride at his Edwardian dinner clothes, brocade waistcoat, floppy tie, and all. “Oxfam,” he said with a grin, naming the charitable organization that runs second
hand shops all over England. “They do cater to the poor and needy, don’t they? You’re rather grand, yourself.”

  I’d settled for some modest and ancient diamond studs in my ears, but I was reasonably pleased with my appearance, and touched at Nigel’s appreciation. “Thank you, my dear. But I’m dying to see Inga’s new dress. Where is she?”

  He gestured with his head toward the other side of the room.

  I gasped. The “smashing frock” was a little—very little—peach satin number that clung in all the right places and revealed just how marvelous those long, long legs really were. She saw us then, and said something we couldn’t hear.

  “Excuse me.” Nigel was gone, drawn by the magnet.

  I drifted to the buffet table. Jane makes no claim to being a gourmet, but she is an excellent plain cook, and she is generous. Cold meats, cheeses, homemade bread, mince pies—I filled my plate and settled down to some serious eating, partly to offset the effects of the alcohol I intended to consume.

  When the last crumb was gone I made my way through the crowd to the piano, where Jeremy Sayers sat playing popular music as brilliantly as he played organ classics at the cathedral. He was tolerating the crowd of distinctly amateur singers-along with remarkable charity, for him, relieving his feelings by spinning now and then into a cadenza or two, a key change, or a tricky improvisation that no one even tried to follow.

  He looked up at me and segued into a chorus of “Poor Jud is Dead,” from Oklahoma!, with malicious emphasis. I may have been the only one, in that English crowd, who recognized the song and remembered its words celebrating the advantages of being dead. When he was sure I’d gotten the point, he switched to “Who’s Sorry Now?”

  I choked on the remains of my wine. Really, the man was wicked! He winked at me; a series of cascading arpeggios led to a decorous version of “Greensleeves.” The ragged chorus of singers began again.

  I saw Jane, finally. She was off in the corner with the two bigwigs of the evening, the vice chancellor of the university and Dean Allenby. She waved, but there was no way she could get through the crowd to say hello. I scanned the room for a place to sit.

  Really, everyone in town was there! Well, nearly everyone. I was pleased not to see Mr. Wallingford, and surprised that George and Alice Chambers didn’t seem to be here. But Archibald Pettifer (what was he doing here, I wondered) was making his usual speech, holding forth next to the buffet table. The fussy verger didn’t appear to be listening; neither did Mrs. Alderney from the tea shop. Dr. Temple was, though; he was storing up more gossip.

  And who was that, just coming in the door, his head easily visible over the rest? He came straight across the room to me.

  “Dorothy, will you let me tell you how stunning you look, or aren’t you speaking to me?”

  I think I blushed. “I am sorry, Alan. I was being very stupid yesterday. You were right and I . . .”

  “No, it was my fault. I was irritated and frustrated myself, and I took it out on you. In short, I behaved like an ass, and I apologize.”

  “You did not. You were perfectly civilized. I was the one who lost my temper . . .”

  I broke off once more; Alan’s hand was going to his face in an effort to hide a smile.

  “All right, all right!” I grinned and held out my hand. “You were a pompous prig, and I acted like a two-year-old. Truce?”

  He took my hand and shook it ceremoniously. “Shall we try to find a place to sit down?” he suggested.

  “You can see over the crowd—you lead the way.”

  Jane’s house, like most on the street, spreads up rather than out, something like a New York brownstone. The party occupied most of the first two floors, but we found a tiny, forgotten-looking room off one landing with a couple of shabby armchairs, fortunately empty. We sank into them.

  “Alan, you look tired.” He sat with long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms limp at his sides. His usually ruddy face looked washed out, and the laugh lines around his eyes seemed to droop.

  “It’s been rather a frustrating day. My life consists so largely of meetings, which I detest. Four today, not one of which accomplished anything. Sheer waste of time. I didn’t get back to my office until after six, and then I had to tick off one of my chief inspectors; the chap’s made a complete botch of investigating a drug case out in Dilham, and we shall have to start over from the beginning. I do hate meddling with what the men are doing, but in this case I had no choice. Ah, for the days when I was really a policeman, not an administrator.” He stretched and yawned massively. “Sorry.”

  “What you need is a drink. Let me get you one; what would you like?”

  “Can’t. I let my driver off this evening, so I’m driving myself.”

  “Can’t you have just one? Surely that wouldn’t affect a man your size.”

  “No, but I can’t afford the risk. Suppose I were involved in an accident? Even if it were someone else’s fault, the slightest hint that I’d been drinking—” He shook his head at the idea. “No, but I could use something to eat, now that you mention it.” He started to struggle out of the deep chair, but I motioned him back.

  “Nonsense. I napped early this evening while you were struggling with subordinates. I’ll be back; save my place.”

  When I returned with a loaded plate, a fork, a napkin, and two cups of coffee, all piled insecurely on a small tray, Alan’s eyes were shut and his head was nestled into the wing of his chair. I stood, irresolute, but a burst of laughter from a group of Jane’s kids in the next room woke him.

  “Here’s some sustenance, but you ought to be home in bed, you know.” I set the tray down on the table between us. “Why on earth did you come to this party anyway?”

  “For a sensitive and discerning woman,” Alan said, forking some roast beef between two slices of crusty bread, “you can be remarkably obtuse.” He added mustard and horseradish and took a large bite. “Ahh! That’s the first food I’ve had since breakfast.”

  “What do you mean, obtuse? I am not!”

  “I came to the party”—he popped a pickled onion into his mouth—“to see you.”

  “Alan, you don’t mean you have to question me again,” I wailed. “Not at a party!”

  He put his fork on his plate, and his plate on the tray, with deliberation, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Then he turned in his chair to look straight at me, tenting his fingers in his favorite gesture. “I—came—to—see—you,” he said, one word at a time, and turned to pick up his sandwich.

  “Oh. Oh!” I had no response. My brain had turned to lemon Jell-O.

  “Dorothy.” His tone was softer. “It has been a very long time since I’ve met a woman with wit, intelligence, charm, and enough cheek to snap at me. You’re stimulating to talk to, pleasant to look at, and I enjoy your company. Since Helen died I’ve lived for my work, but that isn’t good for me or the job, and I’m close to retirement in any case. I’ve suddenly realized I’m becoming a bore and, as you said, a prig, and I need to—‘lighten up,’ I believe the American expression is. So I decided to come to Jane’s party to spend some time with you. And I end by making a speech.”

  He picked up his sandwich.

  “Well,” I said, and cleared my throat, “as conversation, it beats the rain in Spain. But I do think perhaps you’ve addressed too many committees today; the content is quite pleasant, but the style is a trifle dry. I for one need a glass of champagne; are you sure you won’t? Don’t forget the boring prig lurking in the background.”

  “Ouch!” Having finished everything else, he ate a mince pie with great satisfaction, drank some coffee, and heaved himself out of the chair. “Quite right. I’ll find someone to take me home. Lead me to the dissipation.”

  We had some champagne that tasted so good we had some more, and then we went over to join the group at the piano. Alan turned out to have a pleasing baritone and a good memory for the oldies. Many were British and unfamiliar to me, but I added my tentative soprano to the ones
I knew. When Nigel decided to join us, his magnificent tenor so outshone the rest of us that we dropped out, one by one, and turned him and Jeremy Sayers loose to do their professional best.

  Which was very good indeed. The room quieted to listen, a remarkable compliment considering that most of us had by then achieved that condition the English used to call “nicely, thank you.”

  “It will be a great pity,” I murmured to Alan when they had finished to loud applause, “if that boy doesn’t go on to be a singer.” I watched him grinning and bowing, looking happier than I had ever seen him.

  “There are more secure careers,” said Alan as we found a couple of chairs near the fire, “but he has the talent, no doubt about it. Perhaps now that the late unlamented is out of the picture he’ll be able to go ahead at university and work at music as well, two strings to his bow.”

  I turned to him eagerly. “Then you don’t really suspect him anymore?”

  “I didn’t realize you cared quite so much, Dorothy,” Alan replied in a very gentle voice. He glanced around, but no one was near enough to hear us above the noise. “Please remember I’m not in charge of the case, but you must realize no one can be left out of consideration yet. Their own admissions put both Nigel and Inga in very compromising positions at the relevant time. Of course, if they’re both telling the truth, they’re both out of it, especially if each genuinely suspected the other. Inga says she was never actually in the canon’s house, that she opened the outer door to knock on the inner one, but no one answered. When Nigel saw her she was just letting the outer door close behind her. Their stories are being checked very carefully.” He looked tired again. “We’ll not leap to any conclusions, you know.”

  I felt old. “I do know, Alan, but I’m worried, all the same. Even if you give them a clean bill of health, and I’m sure you will, in the end, Nigel’s still not out of the soup, really. George Chambers doesn’t like him any more than the canon did, and I think he’ll just be waiting for Nigel to get himself into trouble.”