Murder in a Cathedral

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘All that seems fine to me, sir. Just one thing. What will my status be?’

  ‘You’ll be what you are—Detective Sergeant Pooley of the Met lending us a hand. None of the clerics will ask any awkward questions: we’re all plods to them. So you can attend my interviews and give me some tips where you think they will be useful: I’ve got no false pride. Just keep remembering that all I want is as little work and as much credit as possible.’

  ‘But what about DC Boyd, sir?’

  ‘DC Plod himself? Don’t worry about him. He’ll fetch and carry. He can read and write and take notes and run errands, you’ll provide the brains and energy and I’ll go through the motions.’

  ‘Fine by me, sir.’

  ‘Right.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better sit down at the table and look serious. I sent Plod to pick up the dean. They should be along any minute now.’

  ***

  ‘Suicide or murder?’ asked Godson.

  Dean Cooper gazed at him grimly. ‘I can give no opinion on that. Though I had not thought that poor wee wretch so depraved as to destroy himself. For suicide is the great abomination in the eyes of the Lord.’

  ‘Spare us the sermon, sir. How did you find Canon Flubert when you saw him shortly before his death?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Was he in good spirits? Did you have a disagreement?’

  ‘I called him to tell him that there must be changes in the music in this cathedral. He has made it a centre for the elite, for the rich, and often for the decadent and the Romish. It is time we followed the word of Jesus and suffered the poor and the deprived to come to us. It is our duty to save souls and that means we must make this place welcoming. You do not welcome a poor person by playing him music fit only for popinjays. My wife understands all this. She knows how to bring souls to Jesus through uplifting song.’

  The superintendent sighed loudly. ‘I’m not interested in your justifications, sir. I want to know what happened between you and the deceased.’

  ‘I made my position clear to Canon Flubert and he dissented, which is hardly surprising. However, we discussed this as brothers in Christ and agreed there was room for compromise.’

  ‘How much room?’

  ‘That was to be finally determined at the next meeting of the dean and chapter. I hoped that with the help of a friend of mine I could persuade these people to take the righteous path.’

  ‘Was there acrimony?’

  ‘There may have been a slight raising of voices. No more than that.’

  ‘So nothing took place that would incline you to think that in his distress he went straight off and hanged himself?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘And you didn’t take such exception to his defence of his music that you took him into the cathedral and hanged him.’

  Understandably outraged, the dean jumped up and shook a furious finger at Godson. ‘How dare you make such an allegation against a man of God.’

  ‘How do I know what you are capable of? After all, you appear to favour a god of wrath.’ Godson laughed gaily. ‘Who can be sure that you might not have felt morally obliged to rub out Canon Flubert for the sake of the sinners he was keeping out of the cathedral.’

  The dean’s cheeks expanded like those of a toad. ‘As God is my witness—’ he began to shout.

  ‘Cut it out please, sir. I have my job to do; you have your job to do; the unfortunate Canon Flubert had his. We must all do the best we can. That will be all for the moment.’

  As the dean stormed out of the room, Godson turned to DC Boyd. ‘Fetch that young fellow, Robert Amiss. He should be hanging around somewhere nearby.’ He smiled benignly at Pooley. ‘What did you think of that then?’

  ‘You were certainly…um…very direct, sir.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Pooley, being demob-happy is a wonderful state of mind. I don’t have to put up with any shit, because as long as I don’t actually break any of the rules there’s nothing my superiors can do to me. And, indeed, if I get a reputation for being rather difficult they might be inclined to bring my retirement forward, which would suit me very well if the redundancy money was right. Anyway, what did you think?’

  ‘I didn’t really have enough time to form an opinion, sir.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ll have plenty of time to suss him out when I’m not around. Ah, right. This sounds like your friend Amiss now.’

  ***

  ‘Would it have been in character for Flubert to kill himself?’

  Amiss spread his hands wide. ‘I’ve been wondering about that since yesterday morning. Remember I hadn’t know him for long. But my guess is it would be possible if he were in despair about his musical life.’

  ‘You mean if the dean was going to destroy what he had created?’

  ‘Yes. But I can’t see how he could. He doesn’t have the power to order a change in the musical arrangements without the consent of a majority of the canons, most if not all of whom would, in any case, have backed Jeremy.’

  ‘The dean said there was room for compromise. Do you believe him? You’re the last person known to have talked to Flubert.’

  ‘I couldn’t say. We only had a few words on the phone. But I can’t anyway see him committing suicide without leaving a note. It would be unfair and discourteous and Jeremy was never discourteous. And anyway, why would he change the venue of his meeting with me?’

  ‘Because he was afraid you might come looking for him in the cathedral and find his body?’

  ‘But all he had to do was postpone our meeting until the following day. There was no reason to send me off on a wild-goose chase: again, that would be uncharacteristically discourteous. Suicide seems impossible.’

  Godson shrugged. ‘So murder seems more likely. But it still doesn’t explain why he changed the venue.’

  Pooley leant forward. ‘Perhaps he needed to meet someone in his house before he saw you.’

  ‘Why would it have to be in his house? Why not in theirs? Or in the cathedral? But why would anybody murder him in such a horrible way and how could they do it without his cooperation?’

  ‘That’s straightforward enough,’ said Godson. ‘All the murderer would need would be a gun. March the fellow up to the organ loft, fix up the arrangement on the organ pipe, put the noose around his neck and push him off the edge. Easy peasy.’

  Amiss’s face contorted. ‘But what possible motive would anyone have to do such a thing?’

  The superintendent laughed. ‘Maybe the dean felt very worked up about the music business. Maybe Flubert convinced him that he’d never get the chapter to agree. Maybe he goes in for drastic solutions. Search me, I don’t know.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right. I’ve got to call in at the office. Then it’ll be time for lunch. Boyd, you come with me. Pooley, I’ll see you back here at two-thirty.’

  Boyd leaped up and rushed to the door to hold it open for his superior. As Godson was leaving, he turned around. ‘Oh, and Pooley.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell that little TV fellow—what’s his name?—to report promptly at two-thirty. And if you want to do any sleuthing between now and then, be my guest.’

  Smiling broadly, he vanished from the room.

  Amiss shook his head. ‘What an extraordinary man.’

  ‘He certainly is.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem quite of our world.’

  ‘As far as I can see, in his imagination he’s permanently in his greenhouse crooning at carnations.’

  ‘But his attitude to Flubert’s death seems one of detachment—even indifference.’

  ‘Come on, Robert. You’ve met enough policemen to know that mostly they don’t get involved and can’t afford to. Just be grateful he doesn’t care. It leaves me with a free hand.’

  Amiss stood up. ‘OK, OK. Now do me a favour and come with me to the cathedral. I couldn’t face it alone. It’s bad enough facing the site of Jeremy’s awful death, but if Plutarch has decided to mark the
occasion with an ornithological sacrifice, I might be sick.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘Which do you think, then?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Davage. ‘Mine is an aesthetic, not a conceptual, mind.’

  Godson looked at him irritably. ‘Now look here, Mr—’

  ‘Father, please.’

  ‘Father then. I’m a busy man, and I haven’t got time to mess about. Do you know anything about Canon Flubert’s death?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why it should have been murder?’

  ‘Who’d murder poor old Edna?’

  ‘Who is Edna?’

  ‘Oops! Sorry, Superintendent. Slip of the tongue. It was just an affectionate description of Jeremy.’

  ‘Are you implying Canon Flubert was homosexual?’

  ‘I expect so. But if he was, God knows I don’t think he did anything about it. So if you’re imagining he was done in by a rent boy or some such instrument of fate, I’m sure you’re wrong. Jeremy didn’t do much but get on with his job. My guess is that the poor old thing probably topped himself because he didn’t like the new dean.’

  ‘But the dean couldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to, could he?’

  ‘I suppose he could have made life difficult. Jeremy hated cathedral politics and he might have feared a long-drawn-out war of attrition.’

  ‘But I’ve been told you are an able politician. Wouldn’t you have protected him?’

  ‘I’d have been on his side, yes. But frankly, I’ve recently been looking round for another job and he knew that. There are other cathedrals, you know, and some of them actually value celebrities.’

  ‘Did you discuss with Canon Flubert your relationship with the new dean?’

  He tittered. ‘No, not really. Jeremy and I didn’t talk much. We weren’t each other’s types. He was awfully serious.’

  ‘So there’s no help you can give us?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘Thank you and goodbye.’ In a tone of heavy sarcasm, Godson added, ‘Father Davage.’ As the door closed, he looked at his watch. ‘Nearly three o’clock. Pooley, let’s take a stroll around the dean’s garden and talk about where we’ve got to. Boyd, write up your notes.’

  Pooley was not averse to a sunlit saunter in pleasant surroundings, but his work ethic interfered with his enjoyment on this occasion. As he observed afterwards to Amiss, he had had clever superiors and stupid superiors, but he’d never had one who thought half-an-hour’s work called for a long break.

  ***

  Godson, of course, had no intention of discussing anything other than the garden. The stroll turned into a veritable horticultural orgy, with Godson obsessively pointing out to Pooley plants of which he had superior equivalents at home.

  ‘See that camellia?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Not a patch on mine. The thing with camellias is you’ve got to mulch them, and when you’ve mulched them you’ve got to mulch them again and again with peat, leaf mould and hop manure: I’m a great believer in varying the diet. You simply can’t overdo the mulching. As I always say to people in the Camellia Society, it’s no good complaining if you don’t put the work in. And that’s what I do rain or shine. It’s a bad day when I can’t put in my four hours in the garden.’

  ‘I thought carnations were your speciality, sir.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But there’s more to life than carnations. You should see my roses, for instance. I’m thinking that this year I might show them too.’

  For almost an hour they strolled in the sun. Interrupted every few moments with horticultural chatter, Pooley was unable to keep even his own mind on the case. He tried to interest Godson in the matter of the Roper memorial, now completed and under a tarpaulin, but he failed. Godson was far too exercised about the manner in which some of the shrubbery had been damaged by the digging of the foundations to pay any attention to the reasons for this tragedy.

  After almost an hour, the garden had been examined thoroughly and Godson suggested a return to the palace. ‘You go and rustle up some tea and get Boyd to track down that double-barrelled-name fella. He was told I’d want him mid-afternoon. We’ll see him at four-fifteen and then we’ll call it a day.’

  ***

  It did not take Godson long to elicit from Fedden-Jones that he knew nothing, that he couldn’t think why anybody would murder Flubert, but that then again he couldn’t imagine why he would commit suicide and that he was vague about the politics since he didn’t worry too much himself about what happened at Westonbury owing to his concerns being primarily cosmopolitan. The superintendent shrugged as he left. ‘Waste of time,’ he announced. ‘Boyd, we’ll look at the final forensic evidence at the station in the morning. Tell that Trustrum fellow to be here at two-thirty and the female canon at three-thirty. With a bit of luck that should wrap it all up. I’m off now. ‘Bye.’

  ***

  ‘This is so frustrating, I could scream. Godson makes no effort to tease anything out of them.’

  ‘Are you going to have a go?’

  ‘Can you put in a good word for me with Fedden-Jones and Davage? I’d like to see both of them before two-thirty tomorrow.’

  ‘Leave them to me.’

  ***

  ‘Dominic? Hello. It’s Robert Amiss.’

  ‘Ah, Robert. Good morning.’

  ‘All this is very disagreeable, isn’t it? I mean quite apart from poor Jeremy.’

  ‘Damned inconvenient, frankly. Do you know that young plod had the nerve to tell me I should postpone my visit to Paris for a few days?’

  ‘Do you mean the redhead? Detective Sergeant Pooley?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Actually, Dominic, there’s more to him than you might think. He’s a friend of mine. Staying at the palace at present and just giving the local coppers a hand. And a very unusual background for the police. Doesn’t want it known, but his father’s an earl.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Is he…?’ Fedden-Jones sounded quite faint. ‘Is he the heir?’

  ‘No, just the younger son. But remember not to tell anyone. Even the superintendent doesn’t know. He wants to avoid jealousy. He’s told me that if his colleagues knew he was an old Etonian, let alone an honourable, his life would be impossible.’

  ‘Well, well, well. Thank you, Robert. It helps to know one can expect some decent standards of behaviour.’ Fedden-Jones put down the phone and rushed away to consult Debrett.

  ***

  ‘Cecil? It’s Robert Amiss. Please be nice to that young policeman. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Do you mean the pretty one with the red-gold hair?’

  ‘Sergeant Ellis Pooley, that’s the one.’

  ‘Ooh, it’d be no trouble being nice to her. Do you think she’d like it as much as I would?’

  ‘Ellis is very reticent. I don’t know his proclivities. But watch out, Cecil. It doesn’t do to proposition the police.’

  ‘I can see you’ve led a sheltered life if you think one shouldn’t proposition the boys in blue. But I can fantasize, can’t I? Now let me see. Ellis of the red-gold hair and eyes of blue. Of course, Elinor Glyn.’ He giggled. ‘Tell Sergeant Elinor she can come up and see me any time.’

  ***

  As Amiss put the phone down, his mobile rang.

  ‘Find out what Tilly the Terrible thinks is going on.’

  ‘How the hell do I do that?’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know. Flutter your eyelashes, wiggle your bum, do whatever’s necessary.’ The phone went dead.

  ***

  Amiss decided on a frontal assault. He rang Tilly, requested advice on a personal matter and was granted an audience over a morning orange juice.

  ‘Since I came here,’ he began, ‘I’ve been thinking about the service at St John the Evangelist’s.’

  She looked excited. ‘I hadn’t realized you went to that. Were you save
d?’

  ‘I can’t say I was. It was all so new to me, you know. But I was moved. Very moved. Yet with me these things take time. I have been reading the Bible and trying to see the light, but it’s a difficult path.

  ‘But now with this terrible, terrible event it makes one think even more. How could someone who has dedicated his life to Jesus as had Canon Flubert possibly do such a terrible thing? If he could do it, does it not make you question the whole basis of your faith?’

  ‘Certainly not. Nothing could make me do that. In any case, Canon Flubert was not saved. He was not there for Jesus. Canon Flubert was there for decadence and self-indulgence and the sin of sodomy.’

  There were limits to Amiss’s tolerance for his own hypocrisy. ‘I don’t think he was. I found him to be a good man who loved music.’

  She looked at him darkly. ‘You don’t understand the forces of Satan. It is Jesus we are supposed to love. Not anything earthly.’

  ‘But surely to love religious music is to love God?’

  ‘Music is a means, not an end as it was for that man. You must try to avoid associating with people like that. Only through the born-again can you find the path to Jesus.’

  She leaped up and strode over to a pile of tapes on a shelf beside the television set. Having sorted through the lot and dithered over a couple, she selected one and took it to Amiss.

  ‘You must watch this. It is a compilation of some of the greatest preachers now alive, including the Reverend Oral Roberts, whom Norm and I had the privilege of hearing in his very own church last month. He was awesome. Awesome. Play this tape again and again and he will help connect you to the Internet of God.’

  Amiss thanked her, asked some polite questions about their American experiences and then asked artlessly, ‘So now that you’ve had time to reflect, what are you and the dean hoping to do here? Having seen and been impressed—I may say awe-struck—by the vibrancy of your old church, I assume you intend great things.’

  ‘Indeed we do, but don’t forget that in Battersea Norm could make his decisions unhampered and we had as well the inspiration of Bev, a man touched by God—yeah, a God-given inspiration. We are all poor vessels, but Bev is stronger than most of us. Jesus speaks through him.’