Amiss burrowed under the bedclothes, to be interrupted half an hour later by Pooley and a cup of tea. Pooley responded to Amiss’s aggrieved account of the instructions from Cambridge with surprising equanimity.
‘She’s right, Robert. This is not an orthodox investigation, so we might as well be unorthodox. Amateur sleuths have to take advantage of the weapons they’ve got. Look upon this as Nero Wolfe getting Archie Goodwin to deliver all the suspects to his study.’
‘I don’t recall Nero Wolfe expecting Archie Goodwin to make them dinner.’
‘Oh, stop crabbing.’ Pooley took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Come now, we’ll decide on the menu and make the list. I need to drop in at the station and spend some time on the telephone, so you can do the shopping. But I’ll be back in plenty of time to help you prepare dinner.’
‘We haven’t any guests yet.’
‘You’re the diplomat. You’ll find a way of getting them here.’
Amiss sat up, laughed and took a sip of tea. ‘What a shame you were born too late to be sent out to run India. Very well, then. Sit down, Sergeant Pooley, and let’s plan the menu.’
As Pooley perched on the end of the bed, the phone rang.
‘Caterers by appointment to the Empress Troutbeck,’ said Amiss.
‘I’ll bring all the booze, the cheese and the caviar.’
‘Caviar?’
‘Someone brought me lots from Iran the other week. We’ll have blinis.’
The phone went dead. Amiss laughed again. ‘I’m mollified. The old bag has an unerring ability to notice when she’s gone too far and you’re really fed up with her, and then to put things right in grand style. OK, let’s get planning.’
Interrupted by just one more instruction—‘Get little Wolpurtstone in to help; she must be at a loose end without her shamans and lezzies’—the menu and shopping list proved surprisingly painless. Amiss looked with deep admiration at the list Pooley handed him, written in handwriting as clear as type and divided into five categories of shopping to ensure maximum efficiency. ‘I don’t know why I’m the personal assistant, Ellis. You’d be any tycoon’s delight.’
‘But I wouldn’t keep him as happy as you would, Robert. You make people feel good, while I struggle not to show my irritation.’
‘You mean I’m more of a creep than you. Pity it isn’t a more marketable commodity.’
‘It would be if you could bring yourself to boast of interpersonal skills. Now stop jabbering. It’s eight-fifteen and you’d better get a move on. You’re the one that has to break this news to the bishop.’
***
‘Of course I wouldn’t dream of going against Jack’s wishes. But why does she want this dinner party?’
‘She feels that the simple act of breaking bread together…I speak figuratively,’ added Amiss, remembering the caviar, ‘might help ease the obstacles to communication.’
‘Of course, of course. I should have thought of this myself. After all none of these people is bad. It is just that the dean is perhaps a little overzealous and the others perhaps rather too set in their ways.’
Amiss smiled at him affectionately. ‘You really are a Christian, aren’t you, David? Jesus couldn’t have put it more charitably.’
The bishop looked worried. ‘No, no. You are too kind. Those that say I am feebly well meaning are probably more accurate.’
‘Either way, you’re happy about the dinner.’
‘Very. And it is most kind of you to offer to organize it. Had there been time I would have brought in caterers, but I will of course pay for everything. Now where is my wallet?’
‘Don’t worry. I promise I’ll bill you afterwards.’
‘I’m so sorry I can’t help. But I’ll be back shortly after six and I would hope to be of some use to you then in some unskilled job—chopping carrots or something.’ And with a sweet smile and a goodbye stroke to Plutarch, the bishop retired from the kitchen to change from tracksuit into canonicals.
***
Amiss tailored the invitations to the recipients. To the dean he explained that the bishop apologized profusely for the short notice, but hoped the Coopers would be kind enough to forgive him and agree to be guests of honour at an informal supper that evening to be attended by the inhabitants of the close: it was, he said, a celebration of neighbourliness. The dean sounded positively touched, and agreed immediately.
He announced to Davage the happy news that Lady Troutbeck was coming to stay and His Lordship was throwing a dinner party, which though nominally in honour of the dean, was really for her: the response was ecstatic. Trustrum didn’t like the idea for the predictable reasons—he was already looking forward to his Saturday pork chop—but he grudgingly agreed that in the interests of harmony, he should turn up. Fedden-Jones havered for a moment because of his commitment to a supper party in town, but excited at the thought of seeing the baroness again, concluded that he was sure Moira Gloucestershire would understand and forgive him.
When it came to Alice, Amiss simply rang up and said, ‘Help.’ Her initial eager desire to come to his aid was dampened by the discovery that he wanted assistance in preparing a dinner in honour of the dean which he also expected her to attend. Forgiveness was one thing, she pointed out, but it was a bit early to expect her to forget he had given her a nasty bruise over her right ear and accused her of being a Satanist. However, as Amiss had expected, she was a pushover for an appeal to her better nature. It took him only a few minutes to convince her that the death of Jeremy Flubert required the dean and chapter to sink their differences and work towards the common good: within half an hour he was in her car and bowling along to the supermarket.
Chapter 16
The day turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Homely discussions around the supermarket distracted both Alice and Amiss from their apprehensions about the evening, and when Pooley joined them for lunch he found her laughing and drinking white wine without any evident signs of guilt about self-indulgence.
Having heard from Davage that Fedden-Jones had been babbling about the well-born policeman, Amiss had met the issue head-on. ‘You remember the red-haired sergeant you met yesterday?’
‘Just about. He didn’t say anything except “hello” and “goodbye.”’
‘Well, in his private life he’s my close friend Ellis Pooley, who’s staying with me at the moment, so you’ll meet at lunch time today. You have much in common quite apart from a refusal to use your courtesy titles.’ He went on to dilate on the principle and selflessness that had caused Pooley to extricate himself from a background of privilege, hinted delicately at great domestic resentment at his becoming a policeman and did not pass on the information that the reactionary but generous Lord Pooley had forgiven his son sufficiently to set him up financially for life.
‘You’ve met Canon Wolpurtstone,’ said Amiss as Pooley arrived in the kitchen. ‘Now meet Alice. Alice, meet Ellis. You have in common deep shame about a background for which Dominic Fedden-Jones would have sold his soul.’
They shook hands and smiled at each other rather shyly: Alice actually blushed. But jollied along by Amiss, the two of them relaxed over lunch, gossiped about the ghastliness of county society and then settled down companionably to prepare vegetables.
***
At 6:30 the doorbell rang long, loudly and several times. ‘That’ll be Jack,’ said Amiss. ‘She always rings as if attempting to acquaint the deaf with the news that their house is on fire.’
The bishop put down the cutlery and rushed for the dining-room door. ‘Let me greet her.’ He returned beaming. ‘Doesn’t she look wonderful?’
Amiss gazed at the voluminous kilt, the green velvet jacket, the cascade of white ruffles and the enormous Celtic brooch. ‘What are we celebrating?’
‘Burns Night. Yes, yes, I know it was a few months ago, but I haven’t had time to mark it this year so I thought this as good an opportunity as any.’
‘I thought you were unrelievedly English.’
&
nbsp; ‘Half Campbell on my mother’s side.’
‘Suitably warlike. But excellent taste in formal wear, I grant you.’
‘I think she looks marvellous,’ said the bishop. ‘Now, Robert, will you look after Jack? I must change.’
‘Put on your purple waistcoat, David. We’ll cut a dash together.’
***
Pooley and Alice were doing efficient things in the kitchen with various pots.
‘Smells excellent,’ said the baroness. ‘Good evening, Ellis. Now who is this?’
‘Canon Wolpurtstone.’
‘Alice, please.’
The baroness smiled benignly. ‘And you must call me Jack.’
She took two large jars out of her handbag and handed them to Pooley. ‘Here’s the caviar—which we will refer to as fish roe for fear of shocking the dean. Right, what are we eating?’
‘Blinis and sour cream with the caviar; a vast leg of lamb with baby leeks, mangetouts—’
‘Don’t like them.’
‘So don’t eat them,’ said Pooley with a touch of asperity. ‘—asparagus tips, ratatouille, carrots and Lyonnaise potatoes; followed by Elizabeth Moxton’s Posset.’
‘Ooh, yummy. I’m surprised your puritan soul would countenance anything so fattening and self-indulgent, Ellis.’
‘Just following orders. Besides, all this is very modest by comparison with Babette’s feast.’
‘True, but she had more time to prepare.’
Alice came in hesitantly. ‘I’m a little worried, Robert. Aren’t the Coopers teetotal?’
‘Yes,’ said Amiss.
‘But there’s a lot of white wine in the posset and you’ve just poured almost a bottle of red into the roasting pan.’
‘Yes, but they’re not recovering alcoholics or anything like that. It’s not like vegetarians. Teetotallers don’t mind alcohol in food: it’s just that they don’t actually drink. Adding a little wine to cooking is fair enough: it improves the taste and just might cheer them up a little.’
‘Quite.’ The baroness turned to Alice. ‘Stop fretting, my dear. Let us leave the men to get on with the little last-minute feminine touches. Can you help me carry provisions from the car?’
It took two expeditions to retrieve the cheese and the drink. The baroness directed Alice to carry cartons into the dining room and drawing room, while she transported to the kitchen the champagne and white wine, which had been sitting in the boot in a large basin of ice. ‘Do something with ice buckets, somebody,’ she called, as she sped out the back door. ‘I must see to the punch.’
She returned bearing an immense Georgian silver punchbowl, and removed the covering film to reveal within a pile of fruit and fresh mint. ‘Courtesy of Mary Lou, who sends her love to you both. I’ll take this to the drawing room and add the lemonade.’
***
‘How very kind of you to have gone to so much trouble, Jack,’ said the bishop, as the hosts stood in the drawing room awaiting their first guests.
‘I thought it the least I could do for the nondrinkers. Oh and by the way, there isn’t that much of it, so FHB.’
‘FHB?’
‘Family Hold Back. We can make do with champagne.’
‘My goodness, this really is turning into a feast. It reminds me of high table at a rich college. I hope the dean won’t be shocked.’
‘We’ll just keep telling him it’s in his honour. That should draw his sting.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Pooley. ‘From what I’ve seen of him one might as well reason with a hornet. Champagne, anyone?’
***
The Coopers arrived at 7:30 on the dot, he glowering suspiciously, she all smiles and gush. ‘What a charming idea this is, Bishop Dave. Most thoughtful. Most thoughtful. Although of course our little celebration cannot but be marred by our sadness over the wicked act of that unfortunate. May God forgive him.’
As she delivered herself of this spectacular piece of crassness, the bell rang again, allowing Amiss to escape the temptation to strike her. At the front door were the canonical trio, all clad as orthodoxly as the dean and all clearly on their best behaviour. He led them through.
The baroness took command. ‘Hello, hello. Welcome. Delighted to meet you two,’ she said to Davage and Trustrum. She clapped Fedden-Jones on the back. ‘What a jolly night out we had last week.
‘Now, we have a little wine here for the drinkers and a simple fruit concoction of my own for the others.’
She smiled gaily. ‘Hands up the nondrinkers.’
The Coopers obliged. ‘Right. Ellis, sort out the others. Now, Dean and Mrs Dean, come over here and examine my lemonade fruit punch. If you don’t like the look of it, you can have water.’
The dean, who had appeared ill at ease since he first caught sight of Alice, made a big effort. ‘How delicious this looks. My goodness, strawberries. I haven’t had any of those since last year. Yes, please.’
‘That’s both of us, then,’ said Tilly with a bright smile.
The baroness ladled punch into two large tumblers as Amiss and Pooley poured champagne for the others from bottles swathed in white cloths to conceal their identity. Davage, Fedden-Jones and Trustrum, who had been looking depressed, seemed to cheer up when they tasted the contents of their glasses; so indeed did the Coopers.
‘Very delicious, I must say, Lady Troutbeck. Most refreshing.’
‘What is it called?’ asked Tilly. ‘You must tell me how to make it.’
‘We called it Granny’s Punch in my family, and I’m afraid I’m honour bound to keep the recipe secret.’ The baroness reached for their glasses. ‘Have some more, Dean. And Mrs Dean, of course.’
By the time they sat down to dinner the mood was perceptibly lighter. Invited to say grace, the dean restricted himself to: ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’ Offered a switch to water, he and Tilly opted to finish up the punch on the grounds that it would be a shame to waste it. Conversation had begun rather stilted and artificial, as might be expected of people required to be civil in almost impossible circumstances, but the dean’s evident good humour caused his colleagues to relax. The blinis were delicious and allowed several minutes of appreciative oohing and aahing and reminiscences from Fedden-Jones of eating the dish in St Petersburg.
‘You carve, David,’ commanded the baroness, when Pooley came in bearing the splendid leg of lamb.
‘Oh, dear. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to do it.’
‘Nonsense. The host must carve. It’s tradition.’
Obediently, the bishop applied the knife uncertainly to the joint and began to cut slightly jagged slices, as Pooley and Amiss fussed around with plates and vegetable dishes. Suddenly there was a squeal, and the bishop stuck his finger in his mouth like a child.
‘You’ve cut yourself,’ said Alice, rushing to his side with her handkerchief.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ offered the baroness cheerily. ‘It’ll mingle with the blood of the lamb.’
It was a tribute to the dean’s equable mood that he chose to ignore this blasphemy. The baroness directed Pooley to take over carving, which he did with extreme competence.
Over the main course, Amiss, Davage and Fedden-Jones—the most practised social animals among the gathering—kept the focus on the Coopers, enquiring about their recent travels, their impressions of America and their assessment of the political scene there. There was a momentary upheaval when the dean began to denounce the Democrats as abortionists, but an astute question about the blurring of party boundaries got him back on benign track.
The dean, Amiss realized, was not at all stupid or ill-informed. Indeed there were moments when it was clear that had he not succumbed to the virus of fundamentalism, he might have been good company. Unfortunately—as became clear later on in the drawing room—the virulence of that virus was only temporarily in remission.
***
After dinner, it was the baroness who started the trouble. ‘How much you must
miss Canon Flubert. It will be difficult to find anyone to replace him, won’t it?’
‘I see no practical difficulty,’ responded the dean. ‘We need less and less of that kind of music and there are always freelance organists available.’
‘You mean you’re not proposing to replace him with a musician?’
Tilly snorted. ‘Certainly not. Norm’s mission is to make the church relevant to the world of today and bring souls to God.’ She smiled patronizingly at her expectant audience. ‘So that is why our dear Battersea colleague, the Reverend Bev Johns, a great fisher of souls, will be the new canon.’
Fedden-Jones’s normal cautious mask slipped. He blurted out incautiously, ‘You’re joking, of course. Make that awful vulgar creature with the ponytail a canon? Why he actually told me at the bishop’s consecration that he likes to be known as the Rev. Bev.’
‘I have the utmost faith in the Reverend Mr Johns.’ The dean spoke stiffly, although his consonants were slightly slurred. ‘He will give our proceedings an energy which they lack.’
‘Over my dead body,’ said Fedden-Jones. ‘We’re not having him, are we, colleagues?’
Davage and Trustrum failed to meet his eye. ‘Cecil! Sebastian!’
Trustrum continued to look at the floor, but Davage came in bravely. ‘I’m sorry, Dominic, but we mustn’t rule anyone out. Sometimes one has to compromise.’
There was a long and uneasy silence, broken by Tilly, who moved further up the sofa until her body was touching Ellis Pooley’s, giggled flirtatiously, put her hand on his thigh, gazed at him coquettishly and asked, ‘And why is a nice boy like you not married?’
Pink with embarrassment, Pooley muttered something feeble about never having met the right woman, eliciting a skittish rejoinder about how different things would have been had Tilly been free, which caused the dean to look thunderously in her direction.
‘We are a little gathering of confirmed bachelors and spinsters, aren’t we?’ tittered Davage, ill-advisedly holding out his glass to Amiss for a refill of port. ‘What is it about the air of Westonbury, I wonder?’
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