Murder in a Cathedral

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘No, no. He’s not like that. It’s not what he does that bothers me. It’s what he says. And worse, what he showed me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Amiss screwed up his antimacassar and threw it at her. ‘This is serious. That cathedral is completely over the top.’

  ‘What’s bothering you? Too many candles for your austere tastes? I admit those cartwheel chandeliers are a bit of an eyeful. Marvellous, though.’

  ‘An eyeful? Did you realize they each have a candle for every day of the year?’

  ‘Really? Bit of a maintenance problem, I should think.’

  ‘To Father Davage’s deep distress they’re lit only on great occasions. No, the candles don’t bother me, even though I was taught they had something to do with selling indulgences. Nor was I upset by the highly decorated tabernacles in front of which Father Davage kept prostrating himself. What rocked me was the unProtestant worship of the Virgin Mary.’

  ‘You’ve got this wrong. Even Catholics don’t worship her. She’s prayed to as an intermediary.’

  ‘Tell that to Davage. He gives every impression of treating her as a goddess—or rather, as goddesses.’

  ‘You speak in riddles.’

  ‘He took me to this extraordinary shrine—otherwise known as the lady chapel.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. Lots of cathedrals have lady chapels.’

  ‘I would be surprised if other cathedrals sported a representation of the mother of Jesus which bears a striking resemblance to Bette Davis.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re imagining things.’

  ‘I’ll take you there en route to dinner and you can see for yourself. Besides, Cecil—we’re on first-name terms now—told me all about it.

  ‘Apparently the artist was a protégé of the late dean. I’m told that among the treasures of the deanery—now mostly in Cecil’s possession—were a rather nice Boy David and a rather rough and macho John the Baptist. He is, incidentally, very bitter that the Boy David was left to his colleague, Dominic Fedden-Jones, whom he loves to hate. The implication was that Fedden-Jones was for a time the dean’s catamite, but in later years failed to look after the old man as Davage thought he should.

  ‘Two years ago the dean and chapter commissioned this youth to provide a painting to hang at the back of the altar of the lady chapel. So here, in amid the canopies of blue, white and gold—which are bad enough—we have this extraordinary piece of art which is intended to show Mary the cosmopolitan. As Cecil explained, she appears in various guises to demonstrate how she would be represented in different parts of the world. Thus, though a dark-skinned Jew, here she has traditionally been represented as a blue-eyed blonde. So the artist wanted to show that she was all things to all races.’

  ‘Sounds a bit modern to me, but otherwise inoffensive.’

  ‘In this substantial canvas there are perhaps twenty small alternative faces of Mary, all surrounding the major central representation—a pouting Miss Davis.’

  ‘What do the other Marys look like?’

  ‘I easily identified Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe—and I think the black one was Diana Ross and the Indian, Indira Gandhi.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. What’s the attraction of these for queers?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything about gay icons?’

  ‘Certainly not. Just because I’m catholic in my sexual tastes doesn’t mean I know about homosexual popular culture.’

  ‘The more camp type of homosexuals have a particular passion for legendary female stars, whether waiflike and vulnerable like Garland and Monroe, glamorous like Dietrich, melodramatic like Joan Crawford and Bette Davis or brassy and vulgar like Mae West and Bette Midler. I fancy it is your resemblance to Ethel Merman that explains why little Davage was so keen to meet you.’

  ‘Beats me. Why should you fancy someone you don’t want to fuck?’

  ‘This is a philosophical matter for another day. Let us concentrate for now on the implications of the New Testament according to Hollywood.’

  ‘Didn’t the locals go mad?’

  ‘Davage did mention that there was a bit of screaming—or rather thcreaming—but that it died down after a bit. He expects the same to happen over the controversial memorial to the late dean.’

  A happy anticipatory grin spread over the baroness’s face.

  ‘Whatever that is going to be, I think I’m going to enjoy it. Tell me all.’

  ‘Can’t. He said he couldn’t do justice to it without having the drawings to hand. Apparently they’re with David at present, so we’ll see them tonight.’

  ‘Well there’s certainly enough going on to take David’s mind for a while off grace and sin.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘He’s refighting the battle between Augustine and Pelagius at the moment. I’m sure you’ll remember all about that from your youthful exploration of fifth-century theology.’

  ‘Not my period, old girl.’

  Her attention had wandered. ‘Never mind. You’ll pick up whatever’s necessary about the Early Fathers of the Church during the next few weeks.’

  ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no!’ Amiss followed up this fusillade by consciously setting his face in an expression of inflexible grimness. To his irritation, all his effort appeared to be wasted on the baroness, whose eyes were focused on the middle distance and whose face wore an expression of rapt concentration as she exhaled a mighty mouthful of pipe smoke.

  ‘Did you hear me, Jack?’

  ‘What? No. Thinking.’

  ‘Get it into your fat skull that I am not going to become the bishop’s nursemaid, nor, after tonight, get involved in any way whatsoever in his little problems in Westonbury. I don’t mind lending a sympathetic ear over dinner, but that’s it.’

  ‘Relax, my lad. You really must not allow yourself to become so overwrought.’ She heaved herself off the bed. ‘Now have another drink while I tart myself up. One must always look one’s best for one’s old flames.’

  ‘I thought you were trying to deter him from getting any ideas.’

  ‘Between showing my knickers, smoking a pipe and dropping in the occasional profanity, I’ve successfully disabused him of the notion that I’d make a good wife. However, I’m keeping an open mind about any other job vacancy.’ And winking salaciously, she shot into the bathroom.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Shall we move to my study for coffee? It’s cosier there.’

  The baroness cast an appraising glance around the dining room. ‘Cosy certainly isn’t the word I’d choose for this. Baroque, maybe. Or do I mean rococo?’

  ‘It rather passed me by at lunch time,’ said Amiss, ‘but it certainly comes into its own at night.’

  ‘It’s the lighting,’ said the bishop unhappily. ‘It points up all the gilt on the cornices…’

  ‘Not to speak of those fetching little cherubs peeking out of the corner…’ put in the baroness.

  ‘And that striking frieze of gold tassels,’ added Amiss, gazing in awe at the red velvet curtains.

  ‘Stick in a four-poster bed and it’d pass for an up-market whorehouse,’ pronounced the baroness as she stood up. ‘Not quite your style, David, I’d have thought.’

  ‘I hate it. Mostly I eat in the kitchen.’ He led the way down a long corridor, up a staircase and ushered his guests through a door on the left. ‘This is quite pleasant, don’t you think?’

  ‘By your predecessor’s standards, it’s positively minimalist,’ said the baroness, making a beeline for the chaise longue and draping herself along it.

  ‘Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back with the coffee very soon.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, thank you, Robert. Keep Jack company and pour yourselves some brandy.’

  As Amiss removed the bottle she yowled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t like stingy measures.’

  ‘That wasn’t a stingy…Oh, what’
s the point of arguing?’ He poured her another healthy double, helped himself to a modest portion and wandered around the book-lined room inspecting furniture. ‘Why do you think he’s got a lectern in his study?’

  ‘He works standing up. It’s no wonder he’s so straightbacked.’

  Amiss wandered over to the mantelpiece, picked up a large photograph of a substantial and cheerful woman and showed it to the baroness. ‘Cornelia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘David’s tastes clearly tend towards the Amazonian.’

  ‘But with brains.’

  ‘And bossy to boot.’

  ‘But benignly so.’

  She took a healthy swig and sighed gustily. ‘I feel quite nostalgic for my sporty youth.’

  ‘You are speaking of David?’

  ‘There was more to my youth than sex, I’ll have you know. You didn’t know I was a rowing champion, did you?’

  ‘I certainly did. How could I forget that you were one of the foursome who won the Winifred Wristbardge Ladies Rowing Challenge Cup? I remember poor Dame Maud speaking of it.’

  ‘Um, not bad, young Robert. Do you know aught else of my exploits?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Clearly I haven’t been bragging enough. That year I also pulled off the Hortense Tottman-Hocker Cup for individual sculling, and took seven wickets in the Oxford-Cambridge ladies’ match.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were a cricketer, but had I known, I’d certainly have guessed you’d be a demon bowler.’

  ‘I was no mean batsman either, I’ll have you know. Five sixes in that match and I’d have been top scorer if I hadn’t absent-mindedly hooked a googly to long leg.’

  ‘You’re so predictable, Jack.’

  ‘I will admit, however, that my achievements were as nothing to David’s: there wasn’t much female competition in cricket, or even in rowing, in which David got his blue. And we weren’t allowed to play rugger, in which he got another.’

  ‘So you shared more interests than nooky.’

  ‘Don’t be coarse. The trouble with you is—’ She broke off as the bishop entered with the coffee.

  ***

  ‘You can’t put it off any longer, David. Tell us all about what’s worrying you.’

  The bishop tugged his hair energetically. ‘Oh, Jack, if only I could. I know hardly anything. I was never very good at reading character or understanding politics. I relied on Cornelia for all that. I’ve only ever really related to people through games or teaching.’

  ‘H’m.’ The baroness sighed. ‘That ruled out a lot of the human race, didn’t it? Especially women.’

  The bishop went pink. ‘I don’t know if you remember, Jack, but we actually met on the river.’

  ‘I remember very well.’

  Amiss broke the silence. ‘Why don’t you start with the bare facts? A who’s who in the cathedral. The dean, for instance?’

  Relieved, the bishop leaped up and took a book from a shelf beside his desk. ‘They’ll all be in Crockford’s. Let’s see. Norman Cooper was born in 1944, educated Queen’s University, Belfast, College of the Resurrection Theological College in Yorkshire, curate in Lancashire and then London, vicar in Grimsby and then for the last four years in Battersea.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like the kind of chap who gets made a dean.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, my dear Ida.’ He caught her eye. ‘Sorry, my dear Jack. But Cornelia had heard that he had tremendous success in both his parishes in increasing attendance and straightening out finances, which, I suppose, helped him to become a member of the General Synod’s Board of Mission and later the Decade of Evangelism Steering Group. I suppose he was thought to be a good administrator and just right to wake Westonbury up a bit.’

  ‘What’s he like to speak to?’

  ‘I haven’t seen enough of him to say. As you saw, he’s rather large and rough looking. A bit like Ian Paisley, in fact.’

  ‘Face like a tombstone, a voice like an angry corncrake with laryngitis and an accent like a hacksaw, you mean.’

  ‘Really, Jack. That’s a little unkind. We must never judge by appearances. I will admit his accent is a little rasping, but he’s been perfectly civil to me so far. But you must understand we’ve only met a couple of times and that on business.’

  ‘What’s the gossip?’

  ‘I don’t hear gossip. I’ve never been a member of the General Synod and I’m just not interested in ecclesiastical politics. Cornelia used to pick up whatever information she needed from wives, but all she mentioned to me was that Cooper was known to be on the evangelical wing and given a bit to demotic preaching. Oh yes, and a bit strait-laced. But there was no suggestion that he was a fanatic.’

  ‘Did she mention his wife?’

  ‘Just that his first wife died some time ago, and he only acquired this whatshername…?’

  ‘Tilly,’ said Amiss.

  ‘…Tilly, a year or two ago.’

  ‘From my lunch-time experience, I have to tell you that she is a lady whose religious fervour would be more suited to the American Bible Belt than an English cathedral town.’

  ‘Wall-to-wall fundamentalist claptrap in other words,’ said the baroness. ‘Robert certainly had an instructive lunch wedged between her and the little Davage woofter. Oh, yes. And we’ve seen the lady chapel.’

  ‘You’re beginning to get some idea of what I’m up against. I can’t bear even to think about that picture. When Cornelia explained the significance of it to me I couldn’t believe it. She said it would be one of our jobs to have it quietly removed.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Davage letting it go quietly,’ proffered Amiss. ‘And since he’s a public figure he’ll be in a good position to kick up a stink.’

  ‘It’s all too much for me,’ said the bishop. ‘Much too much for me.’

  The baroness waved her empty glass. ‘More brandy, Robert. Now, David, stop whinging, pull yourself together and tell us about the rest of the gang.’

  The bishop sat up obediently. ‘Obviously the key people are the members of the chapter.’

  ‘You’ll have to spell all this out to Robert. He’s next thing to a pagan.’

  ‘I do apologize. How parochial I am! The cathedral is run by the dean and the chapter, which in Westonbury consists of five residentiary canons. You don’t want to be bothered with the twenty-four honorary canons, who don’t really count and most of whom I don’t know from Adam.’

  He consulted his book. ‘Cecil Davage is sixty-two, educated at Cambridge, Chichester Theological College, then back to Cambridge as a college chaplain, fellow and lecturer in fine art. Arrived here ten years ago as treasurer.’

  Amiss was puzzled. ‘Isn’t that more an accountant’s job?’

  ‘No, no. In fact in most cathedrals it involves few duties, but here, where we are very traditional, he’s in charge of looking after all the cathedral’s valuables.’

  ‘He showed me what’s on display. Absolutely marvellous—particularly, of course, that magnificent diamond-studded gold crozier.’

  The bishop sighed. ‘Ah, yes. St Dumbert’s Staff. I worry about it, you know. These days it’s asking for trouble to have such a valuable object in a public building. Not to speak of everything else—all those exquisite rings and reliquaries, for instance. But it would be wrong to put such things in a bank vault: they belong to the people. Remember Auden’s lines?

  ‘Cathedrals, Luxury liners laden with souls.’

  ‘The cases seemed pretty impregnable,’ said Amiss soothingly. ‘And Davage seemed very happy with the alarm system.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ The bishop looked back at his book. ‘Then there’s the precentor, Jeremy Flubert, who is in charge of the music.’ He consulted his book. ‘He’s forty-seven, went to King’s, Cambridge, then the Royal College of Music in London; his theological college was Wescott House, Cambridge, and from there he came straight here as organist and Hubert’s domestic chaplain until fifteen years ago, when he became precent
or. As you’ll have heard today, Westonbury’s music is sublime, and it’s said to be mainly his doing. He’s a great organist and a marvellous inspiration to the boys.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘What’s he like?’ The bishop threw his hands wide. ‘I don’t know. He seems perfectly nice.’

  ‘Woofter?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. He’s not married. But then none of them is.

  ‘Then there’s the chancellor, Sebastian Trustrum. He’s the chap in charge of the services, Robert. A rather acerbic little man. I suggested a small liturgical change in the service for my consecration, and he was very short with me. Very short indeed. Of course, he’s getting on a bit.’ He fumbled through the pages. ‘Sixty-six, according to this.’

  ‘That’s young.’

  The bishop smiled. ‘Not everyone bears his years as easily as you, Jack. Anyway Trustrum has had a more conventional career: university and theological college in London, a couple of country curacies, then became a vicar in this diocese, an honorary canon and twenty years ago, chancellor.’ He riffled through the pages. ‘Ah, here’s Dominic Fedden-Jones. Forty-two, Exeter University, Cranmer Hall, Durham, curacies in Guildford and Gloucester, then oddly came straight in here as a canon residentiary. I can’t think of anything to tell you about him. Spends quite a lot of time away, from what I can gather.’

  He lapsed into silence.

  ‘That’s four,’ said the baroness in a surprisingly patient tone. ‘Who’s the fifth?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. How could I forget? Alice Wolpurtstone.’

  ‘Alice Wolpurtstone!’ exclaimed both his listeners.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, didn’t you know? First female canon in the country, in fact.’

  The baroness sat bolt upright and slammed her glass heavily down on the table. ‘In this haunt of misogynistic woofters you have a female canon? I thought they were violently opposed to even the ordination of women.’

  ‘I do realize it’s a little surprising. In fact when Cornelia first heard about Canon Wolpurtstone, she said, “Mark my words. Some deal has been done here.” But that was just when she became ill and I haven’t given it any further thought.’