Murder in a Cathedral

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Don’t dwell on it now. Let’s think about something else. Have you heard any news of the dean?’

  ‘Oddly enough, I have. Less than an hour ago, I received a phone call in which he gruffly said that he hoped I was making good progress as was he, and added that he was praying for me.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘I reciprocated, of course. And we rang off blessing each other.’

  ‘Has he mellowed?’

  ‘Perhaps. It may be that what he always needed was a good bash on the back of the head. Silly old Nora.’

  ‘It’s good news, though, isn’t it? Surely there’s now a chance you can work out some kind of compromise together.’

  ‘I dare say we will.’

  Amiss looked him straight in the eyes. ‘I don’t mean a capitulation of the kind you appeared to be mooting on Saturday night. I mean a compromise that will save the important cathedral traditions, and won’t cause Trustrum to hang himself off one of the remaining chandeliers.’

  Davage tittered again. ‘At least he has a sort of precedent. Perhaps he could use red tape rather than rope.’

  ‘Seriously, Cecil.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m not sanguine. If the Rev. Myrtle joins the chapter, we are undone.’

  ‘But you still could block him.’

  ‘Please, Robert. I have reasons I can’t tell you about. Now can we please change the subject. How’s Gladys taking all this?’

  ‘She’s…he’s not been seen since Saturday night. He rang Trustrum, said he’d been held up and left a phone number. I don’t even know if he knows about you two. Listen, Cecil, I won’t be made to change the subject yet. I think I know why you won’t fight the dean. I think Jeremy was being blackmailed by Tilly Cooper. My guess is that she’s been doing the same to you.’

  ‘Guess away. I’m not going to help.’

  ‘You’re not going to deny?’

  ‘I’m not going to help.’

  Amiss reasoned, cajoled and finally gave up and allowed Davage to chatter to him about his plans for the next series of Forgotten Treasures. He had found in one of the most run-down boroughs in London a tiny Victorian graveyard crammed with elaborate crypts and vaults and cherub-laden headstones. Not only was Forgotten Treasures to do a programme on it, but there was an application going to the National Lottery for funds to restore it.

  Davage leaned forward in excitement. ‘And I’m hoping it’ll start a trend, you see. There are all these wonderful places tucked away in the most…Excuse me, I’ll just get the phone…Speaking…Yes…Yes…An unfortunate accident…Certainly not…I see…There’s not much point in denying it, is there?…You feel, do you, that in doing this to me you are providing a public service?…I see…No…I fear I cannot oblige you…No…No comment.’ He put down the phone. ‘Would you be kind enough, Robert, to give me a second glass of champagne?’

  Chapter 20

  ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘It was rather an eventful visit chez Davage.’

  ‘We held dinner for you. Come on downstairs and tell us about it.’

  ‘Where’s Alice?’

  ‘She came in for a drink after the match,’ said the bishop, ‘but then insisted on going home.’

  ‘Who won?’

  He beamed. ‘I did. But she hadn’t played for a long time. I think after a dozen or so matches I might be in trouble.’

  As Pooley ladled out the casserole and the bishop poured out the claret, Amiss said, ‘I’m warming to little Davage. He’s got more guts than I’d thought.’

  Pooley sat down. ‘So tell us all.’

  ‘It’s not easy to put this in order, since he denied everything in the beginning and came up with the goods rather emotionally after a bombshell from outside.’

  He took up a forkful of the casserole and chewed for a moment.

  ‘Do get on,’ urged Pooley.

  ‘In a nutshell, he claims that when the dean outlined his plans for closing the choir school and turning the cathedral into a wholly evangelical centre, he told him to stuff it. He was, he said, prepared to consider reasonable compromises, but not to contemplate any erosion of the strengths of Westonbury. Then Tilly came to see him and explained that if he didn’t play ball, she’d tell the tabloids about his conviction. At a stroke, she explained sweetly, that would finish his broadcasting career and make him an object of ridicule in Westonbury. He succumbed.’

  ‘Oh, poor, poor Cecil. Which of us wouldn’t? What a dreadful woman.’ An awful thought struck the bishop. ‘The dean didn’t know about this, did he?’

  ‘There’s no reason to suppose so.’

  ‘Why didn’t Davage tell the dean that his wife was blackmailing him?’ asked Pooley.

  ‘She said that if he did, the dean would take her word against his, and she would leak the story and have him ruined anyway.’

  ‘Does he think she blackmailed Flubert as well?’

  ‘He knows she did, because Jeremy rang him the evening he died to tell him about a) his conversation with the dean and b) his conversation with Tilly. Apparently she caught him in the front hall of the deanery and told him she would be calling on him in fifteen minutes. Hence the phone call to me, moving me to the Dog and Duck.’

  ‘So it looks as if it definitely was suicide,’ said Pooley.

  Amiss, who was picking at his food, put down his fork.

  ‘Unless he threatened to blow the gaffe on Tilly, which he might have done. He was strong enough to contemplate ruining himself for a principle.’

  ‘You mean she might have hanged him?’

  ‘Possibly, if she had a gun.’

  ‘Or perhaps with the dean’s help,’ said Pooley. ‘He’s besotted enough.’

  ‘It seems rather unlikely that he’d be murdering Jeremy to stop the poor man telling him about his wife.’

  ‘Sorry, Robert. My brains are becoming addled.’

  ‘Yet there’s still the stumbling block of the lack of a suicide note.’

  ‘You’re addled too, Robert. If he left a note, it would have blamed Tilly. She could have made off with it.’

  The bishop had given up eating. He sat with his head in his hands listening miserably. Amiss leaned over and spoke to him gently. ‘David, you’d better brace yourself. You’re really going to hate this.’

  The bishop sat up and looked at him in dread.

  ‘The reason Cecil told me all this is because during my visit there was a phone call from the Daily Filth, asking him to comment on the revelation that he had a conviction for indecent exposure. They’re going to run with it tomorrow. TV'S DIRTY OLD VICAR is apparently the working headline.’

  ‘He’s not a vicar,’ said the bishop feebly.

  ‘The Daily Filth doesn’t worry unduly about nomenclature.’

  The bishop retreated back into his hands.

  ‘How is Davage taking it?’ asked Pooley.

  ‘This is the good news, David. By the time we got to the end of the champagne I’d brought, he said he hadn’t felt so happy for weeks. “It’s true, you know,” he said. “Roosevelt was right: ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’” He’d be free now to join forces with Fedden-Jones and fight, and was confident of getting Alice on board and perhaps finding out what Tilly had on Trustrum and stiffening his resolve. “If my series is cancelled, my series is cancelled,” he said. “But maybe it won’t be. After all, aren’t minor offences supposed to be spent after seven years? Why should the BBC be harsher than the state?”

  ‘Incidentally, Ellis. Why were Jeremy’s and Cecil’s offences still on the record?’

  ‘They just are. They’re spent in the sense that you don’t have to own up to them, and they won’t be taken into account if you’re being sentenced for anything, but we don’t banish them completely from our records.’

  ‘And how did the tabloids get onto it?’

  ‘If I ever find the policeman responsible for that,’ said Pooley. ‘I think I’ll horsewhip him.’

  ‘T
o within an inch of his life on the steps of your club, no doubt?’

  ‘If I get half a chance.’

  ‘To continue. Cecil’s happiness was made complete by your call announcing the recovery of the croziers and the Dumbert Staff from the river. He said he can handle the loss of everything else. Congratulations. How did you manage that?’

  ‘It seemed obvious to me that whether on foot or in a car, the thief would have found great difficulty in inconspicuously removing assorted croziers and a seven-foot-long gold staff from the environs of the cathedral. Even if covered, such long objects on a roof rack or poking through a window or out the back of an estate car would be highly likely to attract unwelcome attention in the early hours of the morning.’

  ‘He might have had a van.’

  ‘He might. But that would have been conspicuous parked near the cathedral at night. As would have been one of the shamans’ trailers.’

  ‘My guess was the thief would chuck them somewhere from where they might be recovered at leisure: the river seemed the only likely place. So I went behind Godson’s back and had it dredged, and bingo! we found the staff and croziers. Godson dragged himself away from his garden long enough to congratulate me and tell me we would claim it was our joint idea.’

  ‘So are the shamans still being hotly pursued?’

  ‘Yes, although I’m sure it’s a waste of time.’

  By now the bishop had had enough good news to resume tucking into his casserole. ‘What is to be done about that frightful woman? Who will talk to the dean? Must I?’

  ‘I suppose mercy requires you to wait until he’s better. Why don’t you confer with Cecil tomorrow about when he should be told? The poor bastard will need all his strength when he discovers that he’s married to a whited sepulchre—how does it go, David?’

  ‘“Ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.”’

  ‘Jolly good, the Bible, isn’t it? I couldn’t have described Tilly Cooper more neatly myself. The dean’s going to make a heroic choice between good and evil this time. My guess is that Tilly the Tart is unlikely to come out on top—if you’ll forgive the expression. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and ring Jack.’

  ***

  The bishop shook Amiss awake. ‘I’m sorry to wake you up so early, my dear boy, but I’m very worried. I can’t find Plutarch anywhere.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after six.’

  ‘Hell! So now she’s been gone for about twelve hours. That’s not like her at all.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. She’s never stayed out all night before, has she?’

  Amiss sat up and shook himself fully awake. ‘There was that night she went out after supper and didn’t get back till about two.’

  ‘Yes, but if you remember, she had no difficulty in waking us up to get us to let her in.’

  ‘She certainly didn’t. I was only surprised she didn’t wake up the whole city of Westonbury.’

  ‘This is different. She didn’t even come home to supper. I’ve looked all round the close and I can’t see her anywhere. I’m terrified she’s been run over.’

  Amiss jumped out of bed. ‘I’ll come out with you.’ He pulled on his clothes and they ran downstairs. As they were going out the front door, Amiss stopped. ‘We should have thought of it last night when we were calling her. Maybe she’s locked in the cathedral.’

  ‘But she’s usually left it long before the verger locks up.’

  ‘I’d forgotten. Didn’t Ellis say something about the cathedral being closed after six p.m.? I think they were still fingerprinting in the treasury, so they wanted it securely sealed off while the coppers were off duty.’

  The bishop rushed inside and found his keys. ‘Oh, the poor little thing. Let’s pray that’s the answer. Oh, dear. She’ll be so hungry and thirsty…’

  ‘And cross.’

  As the bishop opened the side door into the west wall, he sniffed. ‘There’s a strange smell in here. It’s acrid.’

  Amiss sniffed. ‘Nasty. Very nasty.’

  ‘It’s like the aftermath of a fire, isn’t it?’

  They looked at each other with dread. Amiss tried to expunge from his mind an image of Plutarch caught in a fire. They walked nervously into the body of the cathedral.

  Amiss pointed to the far western corner. ‘The smell’s coming from that direction.’

  Slowly and tentatively they walked towards the smell, which became stronger and more unpleasant at every step. Amiss put his hand on the bishop’s arm. ‘There’s definitely been a fire, David. And I’ve a horrible feeling that what we’re smelling is, among other things, flesh. It could perhaps have been an accident with a candle or something, and it could be that Plutarch died in the subsequent fire. It’s out now, so it can be safely left. I’m not up to looking and I’m damn sure you’re not. Let’s go and wake Ellis. He’s tougher than us. And he’s seen a lot of nasty sights in his time.’

  ***

  They huddled together like children while Pooley confronted the horror. After a couple of minutes he emerged, bleak of face but even of speech. He leaned against the wall for a moment. ‘The good news is that I’m pretty sure Plutarch has not been a victim of that fire. The bad news is that a human being has.

  ‘I suggest you go back to the house and have some coffee while I call for reinforcements and go on looking for Plutarch in the cathedral. If I don’t find her, you can go on a more extensive hunt afterwards.’

  The bishop straightened his shoulders. ‘I’ll go home soon, but first I must say a prayer over the remains of whoever has died. I am, after all, supposed to be a minister.’

  The three of them went back into the cathedral, the bishop walking firmly ahead with Pooley. When they reached St Dumbert’s Chapel, he gazed inside and made the sign of the cross. After a moment he said without a quaver in his voice: ‘“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.”’

  He made another sign of the cross. ‘Requiescat in pace. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Amiss and Pooley.

  The bishop turned around, Amiss took his arm and together they walked out of the cathedral. As they reached the open air, all colour left the bishop’s face and he broke out in a sweat. Amiss propped him against the wall and held him up, for his knees were giving way. He found a handkerchief in the bishop’s pocket and mopped his brow with it. ‘Come on,’ he said, as he saw the colour come back into Elworthy’s cheeks. ‘I’ll take you back to the house. You’ve been very brave. I’m damn sure I couldn’t have done what you just did.’

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t, Robert. I’m horrified by what I saw there. I wasn’t brave to look. You didn’t have to. I did.’

  By the time Pooley arrived back at the palace, Amiss and the bishop had showered, dressed and were sitting at the kitchen table trying to talk of inconsequentialities. Pooley came and sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘It’s grim news, I’m afraid. Only one tiny bit of silver lining.’

  The bishop looked at him dolefully. ‘Do you think we could have that first?’

  ‘Plutarch has a chance, just a small chance. She was strangled, but she’s not dead.’

  To his mingled incredulity and dismay, Amiss found himself possessed by emotions of rage, desolation and hope. The bishop was looking completely stricken. ‘Where is she? Can we go to her?’

  ‘She’s unconscious, David. As soon as I found her—just inside the door of the north tower—I put out a call for a vet. He’s with her now and he’s taking her back to his surgery.’ Amiss and the bishop began to speak at once. ‘Yes, yes. I told him to spare no expense and gave him the number of Robert’s mobile to report progress.’

  Amiss leaned over and patted the bishop’s hand. ‘If it’s any consolation, she survived being strangled once before. She’s the toughest cat in the west
.’

  ‘There’s no silver lining to the next piece of bad news. I’m sorry to have to tell you that it is almost beyond question that the body is that of Cecil Davage. He is not at home, his bed hasn’t been slept in and a signet ring with the initials C.J.D. that looks like the one he was wearing yesterday is among the embers.

  ‘It looks as if he committed suicide.’

  Amiss’s voice shook. ‘He can’t have committed suicide. How can he? He was fine last night when I left him. Even happy. I told you.’

  ‘Maybe in the darkest hour of night he felt less happy. Look, I can’t stay. Godson’s arriving any moment.’

  As Pooley left, the bishop leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘David, you’ve got to cancel your engagements today. You’re in bits.’

  ‘I can’t, I can’t. Don’t you remember? I’m visiting three schools and having lunch with the mayor. You can’t cancel engagements like that—they’ll have been making plans for weeks and it would be months before I could ever give them another date. Oh, how I hate this treadmill.’ He sat up. ‘Sorry, Robert. I’m being weak. I’ll be fine once I’m at work. What will you do with yourself? Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘Thanks, but no. I’ll hang about, throw myself on Alice’s mercy, talk to Jack, try to talk to Rachel and wait for crumbs of news.’

  ‘Will you let me know about…?’

  ‘I promise you that wherever you are today I will get to you news of Plutarch. Tell me, do bishops say prayers for cats?’

  The bishop gave a watery smile. ‘This one does.’

  ***

  ‘When I find out who did this to Plutarch I will personally tear him limb from limb.’

  ‘Maybe it was Davage.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robert. Davage couldn’t strangle a mouse. Anyway he had a broken arm. Whoever did this must be built on the lines of a prize fighter and must also, I might add, be covered with scratches. He should be easy to find.’

  ‘We can hardly expect Ellis to set the police force scouring the countryside for a large, strong, scratched person alleged to have tried to murder a cat.’