Murder in Advent

by David Williams

  ‘And £1.1 million has already been offered. By a Californian museum. Offer’s been on the table for six months. It’s being withdrawn at midday tomorrow if it’s not accepted and the Magna Carta lodged with a local bank.’

  Grenwood stiffened. ‘Sounds pretty cavalier.’

  ‘Not really. Buyer’s fed up with vacillation. He’s put half a million on call as immediate part-payment, the remainder of the purchase price in seven days. That’s after formal proving of the document. It’s all a ploy to concentrate our minds, of course. Succeeded, too.’

  ‘Christie’s know all this?’

  ‘No. Not the amount of the offer. That’s confidential to Chapter members.’

  ‘Money’s good, I suppose? American buyer, you say?’ Lord Grenwood had been pursuing his banking apprenticeship in New York at the time of the Wall Street crash. Subsequently he had never quite developed what might be termed an unswerving sense of reliance on American financial institutions. ‘Californian bank?’ he added narrowly. ‘Which one?’

  ‘A good one, Bertie. And the money’s there all right. But is it enough? On balance I think it is.’ Treasure blew a pout. ‘It’s why I’ve come around to selling. And selling tomorrow.’

  ‘Without risking an auction.’ His Lordship’s right hand absently searched the top of his head for strands of hair that hadn’t been there for years. ‘That’s wise if no one else is showing interest.’

  ‘And no one is. Not currently. There was a potential buyer nearly four years ago. Also American, but not the same one. Made an offer of four hundred thousand pounds. The Dean and Chapter turned it down. Unanimously.’

  ‘You weren’t involved?’

  ‘Wasn’t necessary. Except the Chapter Clerk wrote at the time to say what happened. Out of courtesy.’

  ‘So there could be another buyer there?’

  ‘I asked Nutkin. He thinks not. Whoever it was acted through an agent. The agent’s been contacted. Says his client’s dead.’

  Grenwood consulted his gold half-hunter watch. ‘Well, glad to have been of help,’ he pronounced confidently. ‘Now I must go. You motoring to Litchester?’

  ‘No. Train’s quicker. Seven-twelve from Euston. Takes two hours. Has a diner.’

  ‘Very sensible this time of year.’ He stood up. ‘Don’t think I know the Dean of Litchester.’

  ‘Gilbert Hitt? I’ve not met him either. Celebrated chap. Lost his sight as a child, in an accident.’

  ‘And he’s in favour of selling the Magna Carta.’ Grenwood shook his head. ‘I’ve always found old documents nice things to look upon. Except my birth certificate. Case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.’

  ‘Not in the eye of Dean Hitt, of course.’ Treasure also stood up.

  ‘That’s really what I meant.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘You’ll give it more thought, Ewart?’ The Dean had his arm linked with Canon Jones’s.

  ‘You make it hard for me to think of anything else, Gilbert.’ The New Zealand open ‘a’ made the word ‘hard’ seem harder still. The sentence had in any case been delivered with characteristic sharpness and energy.

  The clergymen were leaving the cathedral after evensong by the main north door. This led to a wide, low, fan-vaulted porch open on three sides with another storey above. Mr Duggan, the head verger, watched them go with a bow more obsequious than ceremonious – and also purposeless since the Dean couldn’t see it and the Precentor was preoccupied. The man’s ingratiating smile changed to a worried look as soon as they were past, and as he set off at a brisk pace for the vergers’ robing room murmuring to himself.

  Outside it was dark and dry. A cold wind was sweeping through the cathedral close, scattering brittle leaves from the beech trees and swirling them around the copper-topped, old-fashioned lamp standards.

  Litchester Cathedral stands in the centre of its own rectangular precinct. The area to the south is largely occupied by two adjoining quadrangles: Abbot’s Cloister converted to house clergy and staff, and Bishop’s Cloister which links with the Bishop’s Palace standing below it on the banks of the River Litchin.

  The wide, grassy close, dissected by broad walks, is set around the other three sides of the cathedral. The concrete walk the two were joining runs the length of the building: at its western end it broaches the middle of Bridge Street, while in the east it finishes at the gates into East Street below the Deanery. Another walk runs straight up from the porch to narrow North Street – now only a pedestrian way lined with small shops – and which in turn disgorges on to Market Square.

  The Deanery occupies most of the upper east side of the close. The Precentor’s house, where Canon Jones lives, is next door. Both buildings are Jacobean. In contrast, the Chancellor’s and the Treasurer’s houses are early Georgian. They were built as a pair in 1716 by a pupil of Wren’s and stand to left and right of the opening to North Street. The New Chapter House dates from slightly later, and is in the north-west corner of the close, back to back with the modern post office in Bridge Street.

  The two men turned east into the wind. They made an odd couple: the Dean a big, impressive figure in cloak over cassock, proceeded with dignity. Canon Jones, terrier-like, seemed more to be making a series of close-encounter lunges at his superior than to be acting as his guide. Only the fact of the linked arms prevented the small wiry Precentor from making wider sallies and generally more extravagant attempts at physical punctuation – demonstrations largely lost as emphatic ploys on a blind companion. Even so, his friend’s erratic behaviour was the source of mild irritation to the other – and not for the first time.

  ‘You’re doing exercises round me again, Ewart.’ The Dean interrupted something Canon Jones had been saying.

  ‘Sorry.’ The Precentor attempted to fall in with the other’s stolid stride before continuing. ‘What I’ve tried to explain is I couldn’t square my conscience with posterity. Not over the sale. We’re only tenants of this great property.’ He waved his free arm in the direction of the cathedral. ‘Courtesy of our predecessors. We owe it to them–’

  ‘To see the place doesn’t fall down.’

  ‘To find new money to keep it all intact.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘They found money. Every century produced its own extra richness, Gilbert. They didn’t sell the cathedral plate. They acquired it. Passed it on to us.’

  ‘We’re not selling the cathedral plate, either. Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Principle’s the same.’

  ‘Not at all. Magna Carta was a confidence trick.’

  ‘To which we owe habeas corpus, not to mention trial by jury . . .’

  ‘Only a colonial would believe that.’

  ‘Franklin Roosevelt used to quote from Magna Carta.’

  ‘Makes my point.’

  ‘What point?’

  ‘You’re exercising again. I can make better progress on my own.’ Which was true. In the cathedral and its precinct the Dean, aided by his folding white stick, was quite as good at directions as a sighted person. He made to drop the other’s arm.

  ‘Hang on, Gilbert.’ The Precentor halted, which meant they both had to. ‘I simply can’t accept that the good people of this diocese won’t find the money for the organ . . .’

  ‘And the roof repairs, and the choir-school endowment, and an urgent increase in general income.’

  ‘If £1.1 million will cover it . . .’

  ‘It won’t. But it’ll be a start. Ask the Treasurer. And if you were Treasurer you wouldn’t be so sanguine.’

  It was the Precentor’s traditional task to arrange the services, approve the music and generally to supervise worship. It was true that, unlike Canon Brastow, he wasn’t responsible for the protection of cathedral property, nor, in a general way, for the balancing of its books. On the face of it, he was more involved in spending the cathedral’s income than in raising it.

  ‘I want the organ repaired more than Clive Brastow does.’
Ewart Jones tapped the Dean lightly on the chest with an extended forefinger to help make his point. ‘He’s only in favour of selling the exemplification so the money can go to . . . to colonials,’ he ended triumphantly, jabbing again, only harder. ‘That’s his condition.’

  ‘He’ll change it.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘That’s honest anyway. Gilbert, if we charged a pound admission to rubber-neckers it’d bring in an extra quarter million a year for starters.’

  ‘Controversial.’

  ‘They make an entrance charge at Salisbury Cathedral.’

  ‘It’s voluntary.’

  ‘But you’ve got to be smart to get in without paying it. All right, so what about a straightforward cathedral appeal?’

  ‘So what about selling the wretched Magna Carta?’

  ‘Because it’s too easy. Because it’s selling out a trust. Because it’d be the opposite of the benefactor’s intention.’

  ‘Nonsense. He was simply opposed to Rome. We’re not anti-Rome.’

  ‘You think he’d have been in favour of Californian museums?’

  ‘Difficult to tell. And we shan’t find out standing here in the freezing cold while you pummel me in the solar plexus.’ The Dean marched on independently at a brisk pace, opening his stick as he went. ‘No doubt the vicar’s warden of Great St Agnes will provide the resolution,’ he concluded without enthusiasm.

  ‘Ha! No doubt at all, according to Miles Nutkin.’ Canon Jones, taken unawares, had to hurry to catch up. ‘And full marks to a banker who isn’t on the side of the asset-strippers.’

  Except Canon Jones had not been brought up to date on Treasure’s current attitude.

  Canon Merit filled two glasses with a very dry sherry, and replaced the cut-glass decanter on the silver tray which stood on the side-table in his panelled study. He handed one of the glasses to the Chapter Clerk, then moved with the other to the small rack of reference books he kept on his desk.

  ‘So Mr Treasure has changed his mind?’ he said.

  ‘Quite certainly, I’m afraid, Chancellor.’ Miles Nutkin looked worried. As always on formal occasions, he was careful to use the proper titles in addressing members of the cathedral’s upper hierarchy. True, this was only a semi-formal occasion: Merit had pressed him to drop in for a brief discussion after the service. Even so, Nutkin knew one could never overdo the niceties with the Chancellor.

  Algy Merit was broadly responsible for cathedral legal and educational matters. He was given to stressing that the Chancellorship was not simply an important dignity – though it was certainly that, too. He considered his exemplary performance in the office tokened his suitability to be made Dean when Gilbert Hitt retired – or else that it pointed him towards a more important elevation in the wider sphere: everyone knew this. At fifty-two promotion of some kind was beginning to look urgent for the Chancellor: everyone knew this, too.

  ‘It could suggest Mr Treasure may change his mind yet again, of course,’ Merit observed almost absently – though not convincingly so. He was turning the pages of Who’s Who, a volume his detractors insisted he referred to more often than he did the Bible.

  ‘Difficult to say. When I spoke to him on the telephone three weeks ago he was as anxious as . . . as we are not to sell.’ Nutkin sucked in air through his nearly closed lips while watching for the expression of approval to mark his confirming their common cause: he got it in the quick lift of the eyebrows. Although the Chapter Clerk had no vote in the making of Chapter decisions, he behaved as though he had. ‘When I rang him just before evensong, he was taking a quite different stance. Very disquieting.’ He paused. ‘If I’d seen this coming, I frankly wouldn’t have pressed him so hard – to attend the meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘This doesn’t tell us much. Quite a short entry.’ Since people listed in Who’s Who are required to write their own entries Algy Merit was invariably surprised to come upon a brief one: his own was substantial. ‘Aged forty-four. Married. Educated Jesus College, Oxford. Banker all his life. Ah, Chairman of the Anglican Cathedrals’ Protection Trust. Protection ought to equate with maintaining the status quo. Doesn’t always, of course.’

  Canon Merit closed and replaced the book, then joined his visitor before the log fire. He adjusted the purple-edged shoulder-cape he was wearing over his cassock. There was nothing to say he was entitled to purple edging: equally, there was nothing to say he wasn’t – or so he had been advised by a fashionable ecclesiastical outfitter. He also had purple-covered buttons on his best cassock – the silk one. He took a large draught of the sherry, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing it. ‘And he arrives tonight, you say?’

  ‘Treasure? Yes. Staying at the Red Dragon.’

  ‘We might have put him up here. Could have seemed – like an attempt at influence, I suppose. People are sometimes given to assume motives on the flimsiest of grounds.’ They both knew he meant Canon Brastow. ‘You’ll agree, Miles, I’ve made it quite plain where my objections lie?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I am not averse to selling the exemplification – at the right price. I simply can’t sanction its being sold to go abroad.’

  ‘No likelihood of a British buyer at that price, of course. The Treasurer . . .’

  ‘Clive Brastow’s plan solves no problem – only invents others.’

  ‘Selling and giving the money to the World Council of Churches . . .’

  ‘Is mad. In the circumstances quite mad. In any case, I consider that particular organisation as politically . . . curious.’

  ‘I think your stance is very proper, Chancellor. Let me ask you.’ Nutkin hesitated long enough to impress import. ‘What kind of sum would you entertain from a British buyer?’

  ‘Half a million. With proper safeguards. So he couldn’t sell to America next day. Or ever.’

  Nutkin frowned. The answer had been prompt and evidently well considered: the amount he thought too low – and too obtainable. Before he could comment Olive Merit entered the room.

  The Chancellor’s spinster sister was twelve years his junior. She kept house for him, and taught part-time at one of the town schools. She was a plain, athletic, lively woman of medium height and – in contrast to her brother – thin, sharp-featured, and little concerned about her personal appearance. Her hair was cut short like a man’s. She was wearing a wool dress in what could best be described as serviceable grey.

  ‘Evening, Miles. Thought I heard your dulcet tones,’ she opened heartily. ‘You going to want supper?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I must go quite soon. Diana’s expecting me home shortly.’

  ‘That’s good. About supper, I mean. Don’t have much in the house. Never do Thursdays. You’d have been welcome, of course. More sherry?’

  ‘You’re a little early this evening, Olive.’ This was Merit. ‘We were discussing Chapter business,’ he added pointedly.

  ‘Well, don’t mind me. Any news?’ She picked up the evening newspaper and glanced down the front page, then looked up sharply. ‘Oh, would you rather I left you to it?’

  The Chancellor gave Nutkin a half-smile. ‘I think we’ve covered the point.’ His sister could be very obtuse at times. Later he would remind himself she was also an excellent cook, better than most professionals, and a great deal cheaper. ‘You’ll do what you can tomorrow, Miles? With the visitor? Before the meeting?’

  ‘To try to bring him back to our way of thinking? Certainly.’

  ‘Had you thought of calling on him first thing?’

  ‘I hadn’t. D’you want me to, Chancellor?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Merit came back quickly, adding, ‘Whatever you think appropriate . . . Mr Chapter Clerk.’

  ‘You two are very formal this evening. I suppose the Dean didn’t win anyone round – at the meeting?’ Olive Merit, sitting on the side of the desk, lifted her head from the paper and looked from one to the other. Neither man responded. ‘Thought not. So it all hangs on Mark Tr
easure? Knew that name was familiar. Realised why today. I was at school with his wife. We were great chums. Is she coming, too?’

  ‘I think not,’ answered Nutkin.

  ‘Well, if you were talking about him, Algy, perhaps you’d better send me to have breakfast with him, not Miles. He likes attractive birds.’ She made a kind of snoring noise – the usual notice that a laugh was emerging.

  Nutkin looked uncomfortable, sucked in air, and prepared to leave. The Chancellor looked thoughtful.

  It was fifteen minutes later, at a quarter to seven, when Laura Purse admitted the well-built Minor Canon Twist into her flat and her welcoming arms. Although a cathedral official, she didn’t qualify for a privileged apartment in Abbot’s Cloister: Gerard Twist did – but he dined out as often as invited.

  The flat was a conversion above the bookshop in North Street – one large living room, bedroom, small kitchen and even smaller bathroom. It was warm, well decorated and cosily furnished – even expensively so, taking the tenant’s salary into account.

  Laura was twenty-seven, a graduate and a qualified librarian-archivist. She was blonde, tallish, and strikingly attractive with more than a hint of Scandinavian lineage. She was even more intelligent than people guessed – and quite determined to marry Gerard Twist in his own best interests.

  He kissed her affectionately – on the cheek: Gerard never risked throat infections, and in any case he was shy with women. He enjoyed the way Laura responded. She never made him feel uncomfortable. He wanted their relationship to go on deepening and was happy to have her make the pace.

  Early on she had made it very plain she didn’t hold with sex outside marriage, not in any circumstances. This had pleased Gerard: Laura had thought it would.

  ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said as she took his coat at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You only just got back?’

  ‘No. Been here ages. I’m cleaning potatoes. Hope you’re hungry. Is there any more news?’

  ‘Same as I told you. Decision at the meeting in the morning. I don’t believe they’ll sell. Not unless this banker changes his mind.’