‘I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you. She’s being stoical about his assault on her, but she is—for her—very angry. She’s decided he’s not a good Christian, which is a frightful thing for Alice to say about anyone.’
‘Oh, good. I can’t see him getting any other support, so I’m not worried. But just in case things get unpleasant it’ll be consoling to have you to talk to about it afterwards.’
‘Ring me when you get back?’
‘Just turn up here. I’ll leave the door open. Help yourself to a drink.’
‘I hope things go well.’
‘Me too, though I fear acrimony when two positions are as irreconcilable as are ours. One of us has to end up very, very dissatisfied.’
***
The phone rang as Amiss was pouring himself a glass of whisky.
‘Hello. Jeremy Flubert’s house.’
‘Robert, it’s Jeremy. If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet you somewhere else.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. But I don’t want to meet you at home. Can we make it a pub. There’s one in Meltonian Street called the Dog and Duck that looks pleasant enough from the outside. I’ll try to be there about ten-thirty, but I might be late.’
Amiss was compliant but baffled, unable to think of any coherent reason why Flubert—who valued privacy above all and who almost never went near pubs—should make such an odd request. Still, he obediently knocked back his drink and set off on the twenty-minute walk across town to the Dog and Duck, which proved to be an unfortunate choice of venue. The clientele was young and noisy, its taste reflected in the metallic music that blared out over the loud speakers.
By 11:00 the thumpity, thumpity, thump had given Amiss a severe headache; he thought of going outside and wandering up and down, but feared that if he did he might miss a message from Flubert, so he sat miserable and fed up until closing time when, sorely perplexed and rather worried, he walked back to the close. Flubert’s door was open, but there was no sign that he had been there. Amiss scribbled a concerned note and went home troubled.
***
‘I’ve got bad news, Robert.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Amiss looked fearfully at the bishop, who stood in front of him quivering.
‘I’m afraid something terrible has happened.’
‘It’s Jeremy, isn’t it?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘How?’
The bishop’s legs appeared to give way. He fell into a kitchen chair. ‘Hanging.’
‘He hanged himself?’
‘I suppose so,’ said the bishop miserably. ‘Although he didn’t leave a note so the police are reserving their opinion.’
‘Where was he found?’
‘Oh, it’s too dreadful, too, too dreadful. He’s in the cathedral.’ The bishop’s face was a mask of pain. ‘It’s a horrifying sight, Robert. I wish they hadn’t taken me to it. I fear I lack the necessary fortitude.’ He buried his face in his hands for a moment. ‘He was hanging off one of the organ pipes. Whatever you do, don’t go and look. I don’t think I’ll ever get that sight out of my mind.’
Amiss put his arm around him. ‘Have you said a prayer for him?’
‘Oh, yes. I said one as I looked up at his poor tortured face. It’s a piece of Tennyson I always loved:
‘Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him,
God accept him, Christ receive him.’
That destroyed Amiss’s unnatural calm, and for a couple of minutes the two men sobbed like children. Amiss was the first to recover, blow his nose and sit up straight.
‘Excuse me for a moment. I must go and ring Jack.’
‘Do you think she might come down to us?’
‘If she can, I’m sure she will.’
***
‘I’m afraid the mistress is at breakfast.’
‘I don’t care, Miss Smart. It’s Robert Amiss here.’ He ground his teeth as she emitted squeaks of delight and welcome, until, able to bear it no longer, he interrupted with, ‘I’m sorry to be abrupt, but it’s an emergency. Can you please fetch her?’
The baroness came on breezily after a couple of minutes. ‘What’s up? I had to break off in mid-harangue.’
‘Jeremy Flubert is dead.’
‘How?’
‘Hanging off an organ pipe.’
‘Apposite, at least. Suicide?’
‘Could be murder. They’ve found no note.’
‘How’s David?’
‘Very cut up. He saw him.’
‘And you?’
‘I’d become very fond of him.’ There was a silence.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Clearly you need reinforcements. I can’t do much for a couple of days. I’ve got to speak early in a Lords debate this afternoon and wind up tomorrow. And besides on Friday…oh, fuck. It’s hopeless.’ There was a brief silence. ‘I was going to say I’d send you Mary Lou, but of course the person you need is Ellis.’
‘It’s not fair to Ellis. He’s been looking forward to his holiday.’
‘Balls. He owes you. Remind him. Get to another phone and start blackmailing him. Now hand me over to David.’
***
‘I’m very sorry, Robert. You must be very upset.’
‘Will you come down for a few days?’
‘Would you mind if I didn’t? I’ve got so much to do here. A van arrived last night from my parents and it’s going to take days to sort everything out.’
‘I don’t care if the fucking ceiling has fallen in.’
‘We can’t all live the way you do, Robert. Look, I’ll come down for twenty-four hours in a few days when I can see daylight.’
‘Ellis, would you be kind enough to cast your mind back—inter alia—to a school in Kensington and a club in St James’s? Let me remind you that you owe me several very serious favours. I’m collecting my debts.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know what train I’m getting.’
Chapter 13
Within a few hours, Flubert’s body had been removed from the cathedral, it had been established that the cord that had hanged him came from a dressing gown kept in the organ loft for especially cold weather, the search for a suicide note had been called off and the superintendent assigned to the case had interviewed the bishop so perfunctorily as to give the impression that he was barely interested. Amiss—restless and unhappy and unable to concentrate on anything—had the brainwave of calling on Alice Wolpurtstone and asking her to look after the bishop and leave him free to meet Pooley’s train.
They managed a rough embrace without embarrassing Pooley too much. ‘I’m sorry, Robert. It was pusillanimous and mean spirited of me to hesitate about coming. I know he had become a friend. You must be feeling like hell.’
Amiss grinned sourly. ‘I should be used to it by now, shouldn’t I?’
‘One never gets used to it. Not as long as one stays human.’ Pooley smiled. ‘And you’re certainly that, aren’t you? Are you ready for a late lunch?’
‘Am I just!’
***
‘Jack Troutbeck. Thought I’d better bring you up to date on your chap. He’s in a bit of a state and will need comforting.’
‘Is he ill?’
‘No, he’ll be fine when he sobers up. Latest intelligence is that he has just been assisted to bed by Ellis Pooley.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘A friend of his just snuffed it.’
‘Who?’
‘Jeremy Flubert, the Westonbury organist.’
Rachel banged the telephone in frustration. ‘Oh shit, no. He’s the one he had grown fond of.’
The baroness sighed gustily. ‘So it appears. We hadn’t realized how close they’d become. What’s more he’s managing to blame himself in some obscure way for not ha
ving been around to save him.’
‘From what?’
‘Killing himself or being killed.’
‘Oh my God, you mean you’ve let him in for another round of blood and guts.’
‘He’s a grown-up.’
‘But an unusually malleable grown-up.’
‘You’re just complaining because he’s doing what I tell him rather than what you tell him.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Maybe, although actually, as he has started to admit, the truth is he does it because he wants to. Unfortunately, he doesn’t always enjoy it.’
‘Like life.’
‘Quite. But in his case, with more horrors than most people will ever experience.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s in good hands. I’ve press-ganged Ellis into promising to stay until he has to go back to work at the end of next week. Indeed I’m about to instruct him to get himself attached to the local police force, since the word is the rozzer in charge is a lemon.’
‘Do you push everyone around?’
‘I try.’
‘We must meet sometime.’
The baroness snorted in agreement. ‘“But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth/When two strong men”—or to be strictly accurate, two strong women—“stand face to face, though they come from the ends of earth!” Yes, we must. We might get on.’
***
‘Yes, Jack, he’s sleeping peacefully.’
‘Good. I’ve been thinking.’
‘Mmm?’ Pooley sounded cautious.
‘There’s no point in you hanging about in Westonbury being a nanny. It’s time you and Robert got going on the case. From what David said the superintendent seems to be a waste of space. You’d better get yourself formally assigned to his staff.’
‘Don’t be daft. That’s not the way the system works.’
‘Why not? Wouldn’t they like an extra hand?’
Politeness began to give way to exasperation. ‘Surely you understand about turf wars? They’re one of the nightmares of being a policeman. Regional forces are all jealous of each other and everyone hates the Met. We’re supposed to be arrogant, patronizing know-alls.’
‘Don’t be defeatist.’
‘Jack, I can absolutely assure you there is no chance whatsoever that on hearing that a police sergeant from the Met—steeped in murders though I may be—is around here on holiday, the local superintendent in charge of the case will tug his forelock and beg me to help. You might as well expect the US Senate to ask you to become a temporary legislator when you next descend on Washington.’
‘That’s a fatuous comparison. I’m not suggesting you offer yourself to the FBI. Come on, lad, think flexibly. You’ve got to network. One of your Met pals must know this guy or one of his bosses. Look how Jim Milton got you assigned to the St Martha’s little local difficulty.’
‘I suppose if Jim were here he might be able to sort out something.’
‘Well, he isn’t. So you’d better pick up your flat feet and run with the ball.’
‘If you insist.’ The evident irritation in Pooley’s voice was completely lost on the baroness, who had already rung off.
***
Pooley woke Amiss with a cup of tea. ‘How are you feeling?’
Amiss sat up and shook his head vigorously. ‘Fine. Slept like the dead.’ He winced. ‘Oh, God, I’d forgotten.’
‘Try this. It’ll wake you up. You should get up for a few hours or you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Almost eight. We’re having dinner in half an hour. I know the bishop would be glad if you could join us.’
Amiss took a cautious sip of tea. ‘I’d be delighted. Oddly enough, I don’t feel hung over. Maybe I’m still drunk.’
‘That’s the most likely explanation. Now, I’ve got some good news. I’ve got myself drafted in to help the local police investigate Flubert’s death.’
‘Wonderful, Ellis. I was in despair at the indifference of Superintendent Godson. How did you pull it off?’
‘Under extreme pressure from Jack I rang around my most friendly colleagues; it turned out that Sammy Pike worked with Godson years ago and they’ve stayed pals. He just rang him up and fixed up for me to help him. Can you believe it?’
‘So what’s the deal?’
‘Godson says he’s short-handed and glad to have me. He thought it might be useful that I’m staying in the close and will have some inside knowledge. It’s an informal arrangement. From the point of view of the Met this won’t be a secondment: I’ll just be having a busman’s holiday.’
‘No doubt Jack’s taking the credit?’
‘Need you ask? Mind you, she probably deserves it. I’d never have thought it possible to fix up something like this. Godson must be an unusual copper.’
‘And to think he seemed to David and me to be a bit of a jerk. Well, well—a further useful lesson in not jumping to conclusions.’
***
‘Are you all right now, or is there anything else you need me to do?’
‘Thank you, Jack. No. You seem to have pushed people around most constructively. Rachel’s been sympathetic, Ellis is girding on his metaphorical helmet—’
‘You don’t gird on a helmet: you don it.’
‘—and David has stopped wailing and is doggedly getting on with his duties.’
‘Like you, I trust. What news have you for me?’
‘Nothing except that I had a most cheering conversation this morning with Alice Wolpurtstone. Between them, the lesbian witches, the shamans, the dean and now poor Jeremy have transformed her from crying hand-wringer to purposeful toughie. She confided that loneliness and the absence of challenge in Westonbury had unmanned her for a time. “I’ve got my sense of perspective back,” she explained cheerfully, sounding like a veritable memsahib. “They can do their worst.”’
‘Who?’
‘The dean, obviously. Though she’s got over being mad with him. Says she should forgive him what he did to her because of what he did to Tengri, which apparently she equates with Jesus throwing the money changers out of the temple. We hadn’t realized how much she was suffering at Tengri’s hands: he used to shout obscenities through her letter box.’
‘Whose side will she be on in the chapter, though?’
‘Says she’s keeping an open mind on the issues.’
‘Don’t like the sound of that.’
‘You wouldn’t. Anyway, she’s demonstrated her mettle in dealing with the witches. Apparently they arrived at her house in force last night to demand she join them in suing the dean for assault, hurt feelings and the rest of it. When she refused, they accused her of colluding with homophobics. When she explained she believed in turning the other cheek they became vituperative. She was accused among other things of being crone-unfriendly and a sadofeminist.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a feminist who follows a patriarchal agenda.’
‘Well at least they’ve an original line in insults. So what did she do?’
‘Told them to get out and not darken her door again.’
‘And did they?’
‘Indeed they did. And haven’t been seen since. Presumably they’re delivering themselves of angry incantations and sticking pins in wax images of her, but if so they’re having no effect. She’s concluded it’s time she went back to looking after people who deserve to be looked after and has put charlatans behind her.’
‘Very good. Very, very good. That girl has more spirit than I’d have thought. We’ll make a man of her yet. I’ll be in touch.’
The phone went dead.
***
‘To be perfectly honest…’
Pooley adopted the interested expression that was the appropriate response to a phrase normally followed by statements like ‘I prefer good weather to bad’ or ‘I’d rather I hadn’t broken my leg in fifteen pieces.’
‘I’m lazy.’
Pooley looked at Superintendent Godson with new res
pect.
‘In fact I’m very lazy. Very, very lazy. At least as far as work is concerned.’ He grinned. ‘I’m telling you this, a) because Sammy Pike says you’re OK and b) because I don’t give a bugger. The only thing I give a bugger about is my garden—more particularly my carnations, which won second prize at the Westonbury Flower Show last year and which I hope this year will scoop first. If they don’t, I can tell you it will not be for the want of trying on my part.’
He sank further back into his armchair and took another sip of the coffee with which Pooley had provided him. ‘I’ll be retiring in eighteen months, so there’s now no chance of promotion. And I’m sick and tired of police work and spending my life fighting criminals and bureaucracy.
‘Quite simply, my main objective during what remains of my professional life is to get other people to do the work. Of course I take some of the credit, but I give others plenty if it’s deserved. Especially if they help me to get home in good time to tend my flowers.’ He paused expectantly.
Pooley nodded gravely. ‘I understand, sir. I hope I can be of assistance.’
‘As far as I’m concerned you’re heaven-sent. I’ve got a thick DC assigned to me on this case who doesn’t know if it’s breakfast or Tuesday. Several corpses short of a morgue, you might say.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Can’t think how people like that get into the police force.’
He took another sip and smiled genially. ‘And now you arrive from nowhere, bright as a button and keen as a whippet, according to Sammy Pike, and anxious to sort out what happened to that canon just for the hell of it. And if this is your idea of holiday, more fool you and lucky old me.
‘However we have to observe the proprieties. I don’t want to overstep the mark and be drummed out of the force before I’ve earned my full pension. I’ll have to be seen undertaking the basic enquiries, you understand, but you can investigate away like a good ’un with my blessing. Find me proof of suicide and I’ll be delighted. And if it turns out to be murder, I’d like the murderer delivered to me, please, in a nice package with a pink ribbon and a bow, preferably with all the paperwork stapled to it.
‘Oh, yes. As far as possible, I like my hours to be a maximum of nine to five: if I stay till six I probably won’t start until ten next day. You, of course, can ferret away all night for all I care. Just do it discreetly.’
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