Murder in a Cathedral

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘We do, but he will find time to help us.’

  ‘So you are becoming clear about your plans for the cathedral?’

  ‘We prayed to the Holy Spirit to help us make holy decisions about how to bring holy government into this place. And we see the way. Our holy task is to make this a place of transformation for all the people of Westonbury.’

  ‘It won’t be easy, will it? Not with the forces of reaction that exist here.’

  She looked at him suspiciously. ‘A strange remark from someone who works for Bishop Elworthy.’

  ‘I am his humble research assistant, Mrs Cooper. I have nothing to do with his opinions.’ As Amiss was to remark later, amateur sleuthing seemed to require him unpleasantly often like Peter to deny his friends and like Judas to betray them—or at least appear to betray them. Warming to his role, he added, ‘It doesn’t seem to me that the bishop is suited for his job.’

  ‘Suited for his job? It is worse than that.’ She gazed at him soulfully. ‘Do you know the dean said to him, “Do you believe in hell?” and he replied, “In a very real sense, yes; but it is a hell of loss—not a hell of fire.”’

  Her eyes burned. ‘That is heresy.’

  ‘But isn’t the Church of England supposed to be a broad church. Tolerant of differences of opinion and all that.’

  ‘There are some things on which there is only one opinion, as God made clear when he struck York Cathedral with lightning because a bishop denied the truth of the resurrection.’

  Amiss decided to take a risk. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier in another church?’

  She responded angrily. ‘God wants us to bring this church to the path of virtue. We cannot leave it to the infidels, the heretics and the sodomites. He has shown us that by slaying one of those very sodomites.’

  ‘Do I understand you are suggesting that God hanged Jeremy Flubert?’

  ‘He moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, doesn’t he? What happened to that man will be an example to others like him who might wish to stand in the way of the Lord’s work of removing sin from this cathedral and replacing it by grace.’

  ‘Where are you going to start?’

  ‘With God’s help we must persuade the chapter to agree to do what has to be done. Out with the choir—instead we will have relevant services and people singing new, vibrant, happy music.’

  She clapped her hands gaily. ‘And now I must tell you, because you were kind enough when we first met to show an interest in my little creative endeavours, that in America I found new inspiration for my tiny songs. What they understand there is that Jesus is in everything, and that we must not reserve him for the solemn occasions. That truth came to me when I heard a wonderful song called “Drop-kick me, Jesus, through the goal posts of life”!’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It’s about football, you see. “Drop-kick me, Jesus, through the goal posts of life,”’ she sang. ‘Isn’t that wonderful? If you think positively like that, then Jesus is everywhere. So I made up this little song of my own. Hold on, let me get my guitar.’

  This was even worse than Amiss had feared. Dully he awaited his fate, trying hard to look pleasantly anticipatory when she arrived back with an instrument which she commenced strumming vigorously. ‘I think I’m ready.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  And to a hippity-hoppity tune she sang in an irritatingly childish voice:

  ‘It takes just a minute to clean your teeth The mornings and the nights.

  It takes just a minute to pray to Christ And set your soul to rights.

  ‘So clean your teeth for Jesus And wash away the dirt;

  Put the holy brush to work Scrub, scrub until you hurt.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Now for the chorus:

  ‘Scrub, scrub for Jesus,

  Remove that devil’s plaque.

  Scrub till there’s nothing left that’s dark Scrub, Scrub, Scrub.’

  She threw her head back and trilled joyfully, ‘I’ll play the chorus again, and you can sing along.’

  Amiss had reached his limit of tolerance. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t carry a tune,’ he lied. ‘But you sing it again for me.’

  Fearful lest she have another up her sleeve, Amiss stood up as Tilly finished the chorus and reluctantly put down her guitar. ‘I must get back to my duties, I’m afraid. Are you composing anything at present?’

  ‘I’m working on “I’m going to wash that Mr Devil right out of my hair in a lather of Jesus shampoo.”’

  ‘That sounds most promising. Now I’ll be on my way.’

  She shook her head archly. ‘Not so fast. First we must kneel down together and say a little prayer.’

  ***

  ‘It’s not just that she’s mad,’ said Amiss peevishly to Pooley as they peeled potatoes, ‘it’s that she’s boring. She’s the most boring fucking woman I’ve ever had to spend any time with. Ten minutes in her company and I’d almost settle for her ghastly husband in preference. “Scrub, scrub for Jesus,” indeed. I’m just waiting for her to come up with: “Jesus is my toilet bowl,/He flushes my sins away.”’

  ‘I think it’s been done.’

  Amiss threw another potato into the colander. ‘However, I owe her something. I watched a bit of the happy-clappy tape before you came in and it promises hours of fun. My favourite lines so far are: “Mr Devil, don’t put your tribulations on me: I intend to prosper right in your face”—as, indeed, all these preachers seem to do.’

  The telephone rang. ‘Canon Fedden-Jones for you, Ellis.’

  ***

  ‘Was it you told him about my father?’

  ‘Of course. You need all the friends you can get here.’

  Pooley grimaced. ‘You know how much I hate—’

  ‘Now don’t be silly. I know you don’t want them to know about it in the rozzers’ canteen, but this is different. As Jack rightly says, whatever you’ve got you should flaunt when it suits you.’

  ‘Um.’ Pooley sounded grouchy. ‘Well I admit it worked. He was all over me. In fact he’s insisted we talk over lunch at his house tomorrow. Apparently he knows my brother-in-law and two of my cousins.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, why don’t you ring Davage? I’m sure he’ll be anxious to see you too.’

  Pooley looked at him in deep suspicion. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing really. Just that in secret you’re as camp as a row of pink tents.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘Why aren’t you at lunch with Fedden-Jones?’

  ‘I’m on my way. I just had to call in to see you and get Davage off my chest.’

  ‘H’m! Really? He went that far?’

  Pooley flushed. ‘Have you ever been in his house?’

  ‘Couple of times.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary.’

  ‘I really do not understand, Ellis, how a policeman contrives to live such a sheltered life. What the hell did you expect to see in the house of a camp, high Anglican canon who doubles as an expert on high Victorian art?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t surprised at his drawing room. All those knick-knacks and bits of kitsch. And after the initial shock I didn’t mind the way he dresses. If a man wants to wear a purple velvet kaftan in his own house, one must be broad-minded. It’s his business. But I was horrified by some of the rest of it. What he’s got in his…I don’t know what to call it…study, I suppose…’

  Amiss grinned. ‘Go on, Ellis. Spit it out. I know what it says on the door: “Playroom”!’

  ‘Yes. That was it. I hate to think what he gets up to there. All those divans and cushions…’

  ‘Did you enjoy the wall decorations?’

  ‘How could he? All those…’—his nose wrinkled in distaste—‘hunks—and in the middle of them that huge portrait of the pope. He’s depraved.’

  ‘You sound like Tilly. What upset you so much?’

  ‘It demonstrates an obsessiveness about sexuality which might just be normal in a fiftee
n-year-old girl—though I may say that if she were my daughter, I would be most perturbed if she had such posters. Some of those men were naked.’

  ‘Did you cop an eyeful of the Chippendales calendar?’

  Pooley exhaled sharply. ‘I certainly did…And, of course, that wasn’t all. There were those extraordinary objects he showed me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The cardinal’s hat; the nun’s wimple. I really don’t know what the Church of England is coming to if you get that sort of stuff in a house in a cathedral close.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned his greatest treasures. Didn’t he show you what was in the glass case in the corner?’

  ‘Fortunately, he did not. And I’m probably glad he didn’t.’

  ‘Hah! He obviously spotted your panic. And so, my dear Ellis, you’ve missed a private view of a splendid pair of Queen Victoria’s knickers, for which he recently paid a substantial sum at an auction of royal memorabilia. It ranks as high in his esteem as the skullcap of Pius IX, who is the pope about whom he squeals most enthusiastically because he liked his macho stance on infallibility. I trust he didn’t lay a finger on you.’

  Pooley smiled reluctantly. ‘I have a feeling that I disappointed him rather.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of him?’

  ‘No, not specifically. Not anything more about Flubert’s death anyway. But I’m pretty convinced now that he knows a lot more than he’s telling. It just doesn’t ring true that he’s talking as if he would walk away from this cathedral without a backward look and not fight the good fight. It makes no sense.’

  ‘Well, get Dominic talking about him. They hate each other’s guts. Your difficulty there will be to get him off the Almanach de Gotha and onto matters of more pressing concern.’

  ‘I hate all that stuff.’

  ‘I know you do, Ellis. You’re an upright, honourable soul and it does you credit. But you must approach these people with a bit more of your sense of humour operating. If you ask me, your trouble is that deep down you’re a snob. You’re not easily shocked by anything the criminal classes get up to, but you expect propriety from the middle and upper.’

  ‘You may be right. OK, I’ll go off now to Fedden-Jones and I’ll try very hard to take everything in my stride.’

  ‘One tip.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If he’s wearing his monogrammed slippers, make a point of asking him where he got them. It’ll save him having to find some excuse for imparting the information.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. They were embroidered for him by Princess Diana.’

  ‘Close. Close. At all events, you’ll be relieved to hear, neither popes nor naked men had anything to do with them.’

  ***

  ‘Got to be suicide. No motive for murder.’

  ‘But, sir. Surely—’

  ‘Look here, Pooley. We’ve got nothing from anyone, have we? Trustrum and Wolpurtstone were even less use than the others. There’s no explanation except that Flubert—being a musician and a bit of a recluse—was so highly strung that he became overwrought by his conversation with the dean and decided to make a dramatic gesture.’

  ‘But I’m sure if we push the canons we’ll get some more information. I’ve only had a chance to talk to a couple of them privately, but I feel it in my bones that there’s much more going on than they’ve talked about. We just need time.’

  Godson shrugged. ‘It’s all the same to me. Tell you what, I won’t close the case until Monday. That gives you two days to nose around and see if you find out anything useful.’

  ‘May I have your number in case anything important or urgent develops?’

  ‘My home number? H’m, I suppose so. But I’ve a great deal of work to do this weekend reducing the straggling shoots on the camellias. Be clear that important means important and urgent means urgent.’ He scribbled on the notebook Pooley proffered. ‘Understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Boyd. You can give me a lift home.’ And pausing only to wish Pooley a good weekend, Godson was gone.

  ***

  ‘You look dazed.’

  ‘I’m more angry than dazed,’ said Amiss. ‘I suppose I just can’t believe that any senior policeman would be so irresponsible. How in hell did he get to be a superintendent?’

  ‘Maybe he used to spend on his job the time he now spends on his garden. It’s not really true to describe him as lazy; he’s just opted out at work.’

  ‘He mustn’t be allowed to get away with this. I can’t bear the thought that poor Jeremy committed suicide, but it would be even more unbearable to think that there’s a chance he was murdered horribly and that no one can be bothered finding out who did it.’

  ‘Well at least Godson’s postponed closing the case—though I don’t know how much help that is. After all, the only cloak for my activities is as his unofficial assistant. When he stops, presumably I stop. If they wouldn’t open up to me when I had the cloak of officialdom, why should anyone talk when I revert to being a private citizen?’

  Amiss felt depressed. ‘I don’t know. Let’s go out and get drunk and perhaps some inspiration will descend. David won’t be back until late this evening, so nothing holds me here.’

  Pooley jumped up. ‘Good idea. We could do with a relaxing dinner somewhere. I’ll just go and change.’

  ‘Before you do, let me just try Jack. Now where did I put that bloody—?’

  As he spoke, the wall telephone rang. Amiss picked it up. ‘Bishop Elworthy’s residence.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What do you mean, “Well?” About what specifically are you welling?’

  ‘Has Ellis found whodunit? And incidentally, why didn’t you answer your mobile? I’ve rung you several times.’

  ‘Temporarily mislaid. I’ll pass you over to him.’

  Pooley gave a fluent, comprehensive but economical account of the superintendent’s investigations, which came to an abrupt end as he reported that the case would be closed on Monday unless he found some new evidence. There was a pause. ‘No. We’re going out shortly.’

  A moment later he put the phone down.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s starting a meeting in a few minutes and wanted to ring back in an hour, but when I said we were going out she said, “I’ll ring tomorrow,” and hung up. Does she ever say things ordinary people say? “Hello” or “goodbye,” for instance?’

  ‘No. Jack regards such social niceties as a waste of her valuable time. What did she want to ring back about?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘I expect she’s thinking. She was listening to you, wasn’t she?’

  ‘There was no reaction, except a grunt towards the end.’

  ‘It has to be said in her favour,’ said Amiss grudgingly, ‘that when she listens, she listens and when she thinks, she thinks.’

  ***

  ‘Not making much progress, are you?’

  ‘If there’s one thing I hate more than somebody who rings me an hour before I normally wake, it’s one who does so in order unreasonably to chide me. Considering the constraints under which Ellis and I are operating, I think we’ve done as well as we possibly could.’

  ‘Skip the self-congratulation. You have to do better. Got to speed things up. Ellis has less than a week’s leave to go, and if we’re not careful, it’ll end up with the case formally closed, you two having come up with no alternatives and Ellis leaving just at a time when further bloodshed is likely.’

  ‘So you think Jeremy was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think his violent death is more than likely to be followed by another. Everyone—or nearly everyone—is lying. When the truth comes out it will not be pretty, but we’d better find it sooner rather than later.’

  ‘What do you mean, “we”?’

  ‘I mean, “we.” I’m about to take a hand. Catalyst.’

  ‘Who? Which?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘True. You are f
requently a catalyst. Indeed I might go as far as to say far too frequently. Could you be more precise?’

  ‘Got to shake things up. Clearly you two can’t sort it out without help. Is David in tonight?’

  ‘Um…yes…I think so. What day is today?’

  ‘Saturday, you dimwit.’

  ‘He’ll be here. The reception for the fund raisers was cancelled as a mark of respect to Jeremy.’

  ‘Good. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m listening,’ said Amiss testily. He turned over and moved the telephone to his other ear.

  ‘Right. Here are your instructions. “Action this day,” as Churchill used to write on memoranda. Tell David he’s giving a dinner party this evening in honour of the dean, Tilly the Tosspot and the chapter—oh, and me.’

  ‘Are Ellis and I invited to this?’ asked Amiss coldly.

  ‘Yes, of course. After all, you’ll be preparing it.’

  ‘What is its purpose?’

  ‘Stirring things up. Put all these people in a pressure cooker, stick the lid on tight and see what happens.’

  ‘An explosion, probably.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And do you expect me tamely to agree to this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve done many things for you which I had reservations about, but even you have not until now had the gall to demand that I prepare dinner for ten to satisfy a whim.’

  ‘What do you mean “whim”? This is a strategic decision. Besides, you’ve got Ellis to help.’

  ‘On what scale would you like this entertainment?’

  ‘Did you ever see a film called Babette’s Feast?’

  ‘I did indeed. To the best of my recollection, it involved someone spending a substantial legacy and months of organization and preparation on a dinner party for depressed Scandinavians.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to cut the corners a bit, but think in those terms. Push the boat out. We want to seduce them into indiscretion. Got the idea?’

  ‘I haven’t woken up sufficiently to know whether I have or not. All I know is that I am lying here feeling cross but resigned.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you at seven. Summon them for seven-thirty.’