Death of a Chancellor

by David Dickinson

  There was still some time before the service was due to start. One row behind him on the other side of the nave Anne Herbert, dressed in sober black, was sitting next to Patrick Butler whose tie was not sitting properly on his collar. Patrick was thinking about the special edition of his paper to commemorate Victoria’s death several weeks before. It was going to include tributes from all the major towns in the county. He had prevailed on the cathedral archivist to write an article on the changes to the minster during Victoria’s reign. The headmaster of the main secondary school, a noted if slightly erratic local historian, had agreed to contribute a similar piece on the changes in the city. The Lord Lieutenant, who had served briefly at court some thirty years before, was going to write his personal reminiscences of his sovereign. Patrick Butler was pleased that his material had all arrived on time, the headmaster and the archivist both having let him down on previous occasions at the turn of the century. He had launched an appeal to the major advertisers in his journal to take out larger than usual notices in his pages. ‘Most newspapers,’ he had told the proprietor of the main hotel with disarming honesty only that morning, ‘are thrown away after a while. But this special edition of the Grafton Mercury, each page specially edged in black, will be a permanent memorial to Victoria’s death. People will keep it safe. It will pass down the generations. Surely you would want a proper memorial to your business in such a paper?’

  Still the bells rang out on this wet and windy afternoon. High up on the roof the crows, regular attendees, if not actually confirmed members of the Church of England, added their raucous tribute to the dead. Powerscourt was looking at the military colours of the local regiment that hung in the north transept and thinking about the dead Queen, in whose armies he had served, and in whose service he had seen too many lay down their lives. He looked around the congregation, late arrivals filling up the last few pews right at the back of the cathedral. How many, he wondered, in this great throng, come to pay their last respects to a different person, how many could remember a monarch other than Victoria? He certainly couldn’t. As he looked across the tightly packed pews on the other side of nave, he thought six or seven persons might remember the reign of William the Fourth. Victoria had seen her island kingdom rise from being an important power to the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Powerscourt had not been the only person in Europe and North America to wonder if the Boer War in South Africa might seem in future years to have marked the slow beginning of that empire’s end. And now there was a new King, Edward the Seventh. Powerscourt tried desperately to recall who Edward the Sixth had been. Was he warrior or wastrel, playboy or saint? Dimly he remembered that Edward the Sixth had been an ardent Church reformer, sandwiched between Henry the Eighth and Bloody Mary, eager to force the Protestant religion on a reluctant people. Maybe Compton Minster had its own martyrs to the zealotry of the Reformation. He struggled further back to earlier Edwards, Confessor and Hammer of the Scots.

  The bells stopped. The entire congregation turned to look as the body of the former Chancellor, John Eustace, was carried into the cathedral. Six pallbearers, three staff from Fairfield Park led by Andrew McKenna, and three vergers from the cathedral, all clad in black, bore the coffin in a slow procession behind the choir and three members of the Chapter. A junior vicar carried a large silver cross in front of the Dean and the Bishop.

  Powerscourt suddenly remembered walking round one of England’s finest cathedrals with his father years before on one of their rare trips from Ireland to England, Wells had it been, or Gloucester, and his father explaining to him the different roles of the various dignitaries. The Bishop in spiritual authority over every priest and every parish in his diocese. The Dean responsible for the administration and running of the cathedral. The Chancellor, secretary to the Chapter and responsible for the archives and the famous cathedral library. The Precentor in charge of the music and the organist and the choirmaster, the two posts often held by one man. The Archdeacon the link between the cathedral and the work of the Bishop in the diocese. Powerscourt remembered his father taking particular pleasure as they watched a vicious game of croquet in the gardens of the Bishop’s Palace where all the players were in dog collars. ‘The Church Militant rather than the Church Spiritual,’ his father had said as a red ball disappeared off the lawn into the Bishop’s rose-beds.

  The little procession was passing Powerscourt now, the pallbearers straining to keep in step, always fearful that one of them might slip and drop the dead man to the ground. The coffin was laid on a table in the centre of the choir. If he strained his neck right out to one side, Powerscourt could just see the side of it through the screen. ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth,’ the Dean had a strong tenor voice, well able to fill the great spaces around him, ‘and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.’

  The choir began to sing the 60th Psalm, ‘Lord thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another.’ Powerscourt looked around again at the mourners. They were not, on the whole, the rich of Grafton though there were many who had turned out in fashionable clothes. These, he thought, must be the respectable middle classes of Compton, shopkeepers, teachers, lawyers with whom John Eustace had come in contact. Patrick Butler was eyeing the congregation too, wondering if there were any more advertisers he could lure into taking space in his memorial issue to Queen Victoria. Anne Herbert was sitting beside him, fretting about his restless staring up and down the nave.

  The congregation sang ‘Abide with Me’ and ‘Lead Kindly Light’ by John Henry Newman. The Bishop read one lesson, the Archdeacon of Compton the other. Then the acolyte with the silver cross preceded the Dean to the pulpit. The congregation settled themselves noisily in their hard pews to hear him.

  Connoisseurs of the sermons of the dignitaries of Compton Minster had long ago noted that the Bishop, although a considerable scholar in the Gospels of the New Testament, always preached from texts in the Old Testament. He would tell the stories of the ordeals of the Children of Israel against Philistines and Gideonites, Danites and Ammonites, Benjamites and Schechemites, and Keilites and Amalekites. There were often some bloodthirsty battles. There was, usually, triumph and victory for the Israelites, after many hardships along the way. Thus, the Bishop would always conclude, does the Lord of Hosts finally triumph over the enemies of his chosen people. The Dean, the connoisseurs noted rather sourly, always tried to bring in some references to the latest theological thinking when he preached. Neither the connoisseurs nor the congregation cared for the latest theological thinking. They preferred the older theological thinking, many feeling that the world would be a better place if everybody still believed every word of the creation story in the Book of Genesis. The Chancellor seldom preached, but his sermons were always mercifully short. He would speak of the transcendent importance and power of God’s love, a love handed down to his servants in so many forms, love of parents to children, love of children to parents, love of husband to wife, wife to husband, love of the natural world created for God’s glory.

  ‘My text for today,’ the Dean began, peering out at his congregation over the tops of his glasses, ‘comes from the fifth verse of the fifth chapter of the Gospel According to St Matthew. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.’ The connoisseurs had not heard this sermon before. It must be a new one, specially composed for the occasion, rather than an old one revamped. Powerscourt looked closely at the Dean, a tall strong figure of a man, with powerful hands which turned the pages of his sermon.

  ‘It is now twelve years since John Eustace came to this cathedral as Chancellor,’ the Dean went on, ‘and I can still remember his first meeting with the full Chapter of this cathedral as if it were yesterday. He was slightly shy. He was invariably courteous. He did not push himself forward. That meekness, which shall inherit the earth, was a constant in his behaviour with his colleagues in all the years he graced the minster with his presence.’

  Patrick Butler was wondering if he should reprint the Dean�
�s sermon in his next issue. Depends on how long it is, he said to himself. Patrick didn’t think the Dean would approve if his words were cut. Powerscourt was remembering the words of the Latin tag. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. Speak only good about the dead. And then he remembered the impious adaptation given by his Cambridge tutor after attending the funeral service for a famously unpopular professor, De mortuis nil nisi bunkum. People only speak rubbish about the dead.

  ‘One of the definitions of the word meek in the Oxford Dictionary,’ the Dean went on, ‘is kind. To be meek is to be kind. Meek is merciful. To be meek is to be merciful. John Eustace was famous throughout our little city for his generosity. He was a man blessed with great wealth. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Chancellor Eustace had already inherited a large portion of the wealth of this world. Such people do not always take the time or the trouble to seek out the hungry and the afflicted, the poor and the bereaved. John Eustace did. Our late Chancellor was one of the greatest benefactors the poor of Compton have ever known. The houses he had built for the poor and the destitute of this city will be a permanent memorial to his life and his generosity.’

  Some of the congregation’s heads were beginning to slip as the sermon went on. Behind the coffin the six pallbearers waited to resume their duties. The acolyte with the cross waited patiently at the bottom of the pulpit steps.

  ‘Today is a time of great sadness,’ said the Dean, laying aside his spectacles and looking around at his listeners, ‘for one of our number has been taken from us before his time. He would have had many years of service to give to this cathedral and to this city. But is also a time for rejoicing.’ The Dean’s delivery lost a fraction of its former conviction at this point. The most acute of the sermon connoisseurs, the second tenor in the body of the vicars choral, who had attended theological college before losing his faith, later attributed the change to the Dean’s suspicion that his listeners no longer believed in heaven or hell. Assuming they ever had. The Dean ploughed on.

  ‘For if ever a man was going to take his place in the kingdom of heaven, that man was John Eustace. We rejoice today that he has gone to be with his Father in heaven. Though worms destroy my body, as the prophet Job tells us, yet in my flesh shall I see God whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another. John Eustace, a good man, a meek man. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the meek for they shall also inherit the kingdom of heaven.’

  The Dean collected his papers. The acolyte escorted him back to his position. As the choir began an anthem by Purcell, the six pallbearers brought the coffin back down the nave of Compton Minster. A fleet of carriages waited to take it and the mourners to the little cemetery behind Fairfield Park. The funeral of John Eustace was over. In forty-eight hours’ time, in the offices of Drake and Co., solicitors of Compton, his last will and testament was to be read to his survivors.

  4

  Lord Francis Powerscourt decided to walk the five miles from Hawke’s Broughton into Compton the following morning. He was exceedingly angry. He took no notice of the fine scenery he was passing through, the February sun casting its pale light across the hills and the valleys. The incident that caused his wrath had occurred just after breakfast. Mrs Augusta Cockburn was decidedly tetchy this morning, he had noticed. The nose seemed to have become more pronounced, the cheeks more hollow. She snapped at the servants even more than usual. But nothing could have prepared him for the onslaught.

  ‘And when do you intend to start work, Lord Powerscourt?’ had been the opening salvo.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Powerscourt, half immersed in the Grafton Mercury.

  ‘I said, Lord Powerscourt, when do you propose to start work? You have been accommodated here at my wish and at my expense to investigate the circumstances of my brother’s death.’ She lowered her voice slightly and peered crossly at the door in case any of the servants were listening. ‘So far as I can see you have done absolutely nothing except potter around this house and take advantage of your privileged position to attend various functions like my brother’s funeral and the small reception we gave here after the burial ceremony. If I did not know of your reputation, Lord Powerscourt, I should say you were a shirker and a scrounger. We have not discussed money but I am most reluctant to pay you a penny for anything you have done so far.’

  Powerscourt had not been told off like this since he was about twelve years old. Then his reaction had been to hide in the top of the stables for as long as he could. This morning, he felt that charm would be the most potent form of defence.

  ‘My dear Mrs Cockburn,’ he began, ‘please forgive me if I appear to be moving slowly. As I explained to you the other day I felt it was important to win the trust of the servants here before questioning them closely. If I appear as an unknown person from an unknown world I shall automatically seem hostile to them. Very soon, I know, I shall have to come out in my true colours. But not yet. Not until I judge the time is ripe. On that, I fear, you just have to trust me. In all my previous cases the people who asked me to look into murder or blackmail or whatever it was have always left me to my own devices. I would be more than happy to provide you with some references if you wish. I could start with the Prime Minister.’

  Mrs Cockburn snorted slightly. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ she said, ‘but I shall be watching, Lord Powerscourt. I shall be waiting for results.’ And with that she had marched out of the room.

  Bloody woman, Powerscourt said to himself on his walk, bloody woman. He could see the minster spire now, rising out of the valley like a beacon. As he entered the streets of the little city he saw that flags were still flying at half mast from the Bishop’s Palace and County Hall in memory of the late Queen and Empress.

  He was, he decided, looking forward to this meeting in the solicitor’s office. He suspected that there would be trouble with the will. He suspected there might be more than one.

  Oliver Drake’s offices were right on the edge of the Cathedral Green, in a handsome eighteenth-century building with great windows looking out towards the west front of the minster. Powerscourt was shown into what must have been the drawing room on the first floor. Paintings of the cathedral adorned the walls. There was a long table in the centre, able to seat at least twelve. A fire was burning in the grate.

  Oliver Drake himself was very tall, with a slight stoop. He was also painfully thin. His children sometimes said that he looked more like a pencil than a person. But he was the principal lawyer in Compton, with the complex and complicated business of the cathedral and its multiplicity of ancient statutes at the heart of his practice. To his right, appropriately enough, sat the Dean, dressed today in a suit of sober black with a small crucifix round his neck. The Dean already had a notebook and a couple of pens at the ready. Perhaps the man of God is better equipped for the tasks of this world, Powerscourt thought, than the laity he served. On the other side of Oliver Drake sat James Eustace, twin brother of the deceased. Powerscourt hadn’t been able to glean very much information about him from Augusta Cockburn. She seemed to think it inappropriate for strangers to know the extent to which some of her family had fallen. Gone to America, lost most of his money, drinking himself to death were the salient facts lodged in Powerscourt’s mind. Beside James Eustace sat Mrs Augusta Cockburn herself, looking, Powerscourt felt, like a very hungry hen. He himself was on the far side of Mrs Cockburn, furthest away from the seat of custom.

  ‘Let me say first of all,’ Oliver Drake had a surprisingly deep voice for one so skeletally thin, ‘how sorry we all at Drake’s were to hear of the death of John Eustace. The firm offers our condolences to his family and,’ he nodded gravely to the Dean, ‘to the cathedral. John Eustace had been a client of mine for a number of years, as are so many of his colleagues.’ A thin smile to the Dean this time.

  ‘I regret, however, to inform you this afternoon that there are complications, great complications in the testamentary dispositions of the
late Mr Eustace. It is unlikely that there can be any satisfactory resolution to the problems today. I may have to take further advice. I may have to go to London.’

  Powerscourt thought he made London sound like Samarkand or Timbuktu. But Augusta Cockburn was out of her stall faster than a Derby winner.

  ‘Complications?’ she snapped. ‘What complications?’

  Oliver Drake did not look like a man who was used to interruptions on such occasions. Powerscourt wondered how he would manage if Augusta Cockburn gave him the full treatment, rudeness, insolence and insults all combined.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Cockburn,’ he said icily, ‘if you will permit me to continue my explanation without interruption, the position will become clear.’

  Powerscourt felt it would take more than that to silence Mrs Cockburn. He was right.

  ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to inform us of the nature of these complications.’

  Oliver Drake sighed. Outside the morning sun had been replaced by heavy rain, now beating furiously against the Georgian windows.

  ‘To put it very simply, ladies and gentlemen, there is more than one will.’ There were gasps of astonishment from around the table. The Dean stared open-mouthed at Drake. Augusta Cockburn muttered, ‘Impossible!’ to herself several times. The twin brother, his face heavily blotched from regular consumption of American whiskey, looked as though he needed a drink. Now. Powerscourt was fascinated.