by Kate Charles
‘I know. I’m not going to ask you to help me, Daphne. I wouldn’t put you in that position. But I need someone I can talk to about it. Two heads, and all that. You know the people, you know the set-up. What do you think? Will you be my sounding-board?’
‘You’re not going to relegate me to that role, now that you’ve brought me this far! We’re in this together now, David.’
‘So you think I’m right?’
‘I think that between us we can come up with an answer that makes more sense than the police’s solution. And then . . . well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ Daphne topped up her glass, then settled back. ‘This is decadent, drinking whisky at four o’clock in the afternoon. Cheers, partner.’ She saluted him.
‘Where do we start?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose we can do much today besides explore some of the possibilities. Let’s try to think who might have something to hide. Something that Mavis might find . . . of interest.’
‘Do you think it has to be a man?’
‘I think it probably is,’ Daphne replied. ‘From a purely practical standpoint, it would take a fair amount of physical strength to . . . well, to hang someone. Lifting the weight, and all that. Mavis wasn’t a particularly big woman, but just the same . . . I don’t think I could have done it, and I don’t know many women who could.’
‘Well, that makes it easier, if we can eliminate all the women.’
‘Mavis would have been much more likely to be interested in the . . . secrets . . . of the men, anyway, I should have thought. Think about her obsession with “manliness”, and lack of it, in the Church.’
‘The servers,’ David said, thinking out loud. ‘She despised them. She seemed to think they were all suspect, because of Tony Kent. Tony. Everyone seems to know he’s gay.’
‘Yes, but that’s the point. Everyone does know it. He’s never made any secret of the fact.’
‘Unlike others we know,’ David said with a wry smile. ‘Maybe it’s the difference between his generation and mine, or perhaps just his upbringing and mine.’
‘Well, it might be worthwhile talking to Tony, anyway. He may well know something that could help us.’
‘I’m having lunch with him tomorrow,’ David remembered suddenly.
‘That could be useful.’
‘Roger Dawson. I can’t imagine him having any guilty secrets. He seems as dull as ditch-water to me.’
‘But you know about still waters running deep,’ Daphne cautioned. ‘Don’t dismiss him on that account.’
‘What does Roger Dawson do?’
‘He’s some sort of a minor civil servant. Works in the local DSS office, I believe.’
‘Hm. Well, I’ll find out probably more than I want to know about Roger Dawson soon, too. I’m going there for dinner on Wednesday,’ he said with a grimace.
‘Now that’s suspicious in itself! I wonder why they’ve asked you? The Dawsons have never been well known for their hospitality!’
‘I’m sure that all will be revealed in due course. But I don’t think we have to worry about the Dawsons.’ David held his glass up to the light and squinted through the amber liquid as he worked through the possibilities in his mind. ‘How about Cyril?’ he asked.
‘I shouldn’t think so. I don’t think he’d be physically strong enough, in the first place. I’d say the same about Venerable Bead. And Cyril’s too . . . candid for me to believe that he has any terrible secrets. I mean, everyone knows how he feels about Emily! And he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed that it should be that way.’
‘Do you know who I’d like it to be?’ David confessed. ‘Miles Taylor. I just don’t care for the bloke. What secrets is he hiding?’
‘Funny you should ask that,’ said Daphne, with a speculative look. ‘As a matter of fact, there is something distinctly suspicious about Miles Taylor.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, you know that he used to be organist at Selby Cathedral.’
‘I had heard,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘Yes, I suppose it would be difficult to be around Miles for five minutes without learning that fact,’ she acknowledged humorously. ‘Anyway, Miles left Selby very suddenly about five years ago, and came here. Now, St Anne’s is a lovely church, and has a lot to offer a musician, but it’s not a cathedral.’
‘No . . .’
‘And there have been a few people who have wondered why a man with Miles’s talent would have left a cathedral to come here. It’s rather a step down in the world for a cathedral organist.’
‘Does anyone know why he left Selby?’
‘He never talks about it. But I think there’s something in it, something he’s hiding.’
‘I wonder.’ David looked very thoughtful.
‘Secrets,’ Daphne mused. ‘Everyone has them, I suppose.’
‘Even you, Daphne?’
She smiled enigmatically. ‘Even me. The things we think other people wouldn’t understand . . . It’s all perception, you know. The faces we show to the world . . .’ Suddenly practical, she sat up. ‘We must make a plan. You will have lunch with Tony tomorrow, and talk with him. See what you can find out.’
‘I’d like to talk to the manly Craig, if I could. I’m not suggesting that he had anything to do with the murder – Mavis would hardly have blackmailed her own son, after all! But I might learn something about Mavis and her preoccupations from him. I don’t know how I’d manage it, though. He’s not exactly the sort one would pay a sympathy call on!’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ll be seeing Craig Conwell tomorrow,’ Daphne revealed with satisfaction. ‘He’s coming in to discuss the arrangements for the funeral with me and with Gabriel.’
‘Excellent. Then I’ll leave him to you – he’s your assignment for the day.’
‘Then what?’
‘I would dearly love to have a word with Miles Taylor. At the moment, my money’s on him.’
‘I doubt that he’d be very forthcoming. You know how he is. Well, you can see him on Wednesday at the recital, anyway.’ Daphne suddenly looked very sheepish, then burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh, David. I’ve just realised something. Miles Taylor is the one person who couldn’t possibly have killed Mavis!’
‘Why not? If this motive turns out to be anything . . .’
‘No, David, you don’t understand! Miles was playing the organ, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ David said slowly. ‘The recital had started when I left Mavis alive in the sacristy . . . ’
‘And he was still playing when Venerable opened the sacristy door an hour later! Whether you like it or not, David, Miles is in the clear!’
‘Damn,’ said David, crestfallen.
CHAPTER 27
Who imagine mischief in their hearts: and stir up strife all day long.
They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent: adders’ poison is under their lips.
Psalm 140.2–3
The workmen were due to begin their repairs in the crypt chapel on Tuesday morning, David remembered. He’d promised Lady Constance that he would oversee their labours. So the morning before his lunch with Tony went by quickly, with scarcely time for thoughts of murder and blackmail. But inevitably before the morning was over, Venerable Bead puffed his way down the stairs to find out what was happening, his little eyes bright with curiosity. ‘Oh, I wondered if the workmen had started,’ he addressed David.
‘Yes, just this morning. It’s going to take some time, I think. The work is very delicate.’
‘Well, when you have to leave London, I’ll be happy to take over and keep an eye on things,’ Venerable said with eagerness. ‘When are you going back home?’
‘I’ve got a month off from work,’ David replied vaguely. ‘So I can stay a bit longer if necessary.’
Venerable stood for a moment observing the workmen. ‘Mind you watch what you’re doing!’ he said sharply to one of them at some imagined
infraction. The man glared.
David stepped in quickly to distract the old man’s critical eye. ‘That must have been quite a shock for you on Saturday, finding the body.’
‘Oh, it gave me quite a turn, I can tell you! Not what I was expecting to see, when I went to get ready for Evensong!’ He was enjoying himself immensely, David could see, and he wordlessly encouraged him to go on. ‘Terrible, the sight was! I’ve never seen anything like it! She was hanging from that long bracket, the one for the statue of Our Lady, and the chair was knocked over on the floor. Her eyes were staring right at me! And she was all limp, and her tongue . . .’ He shuddered deliciously, and demonstrated the expression on the dead woman’s face. Venerable Bead’s fund of stories had been enriched immeasurably – he’d be dining out on this one for the rest of his life, David thought.
When the time came, David was glad of the chance to escape from the church, and from the daunting prospect of the weekly lunches in the church hall.
Tony lived in a flat outside St Anne’s parish in Notting Hill Gate, not far from the Portobello Road. David had known the Portobello Road fairly well in his early days in London with Daphne, but hadn’t been there for years, so he self-consciously consulted his A to Z before setting off. He was glad he’d done so, as Monday’s overcast skies had turned at last to steady rain, and the pavements seethed with umbrellas. A taxi passing too close to the kerb soaked his trouser-legs, and he cursed silently.
Tony seemed glad to see him. ‘Hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding it, David. You look like you could use a drink. Sherry? Or would you prefer whisky?’
David looked at him gratefully. ‘You read my mind. Whisky, please.’ While Tony fixed the drinks, he observed the flat with interest. It was really only one room, cleverly divided into areas for sitting, cooking and eating, and sleeping. The sleeping part consisted of a loft, reached by a ladder and containing an oversized bed. The walls of the sitting area were lined with bookcases, and the whole of the flat was dominated by a sophisticated stereo system with multiple speakers. It was decorated with innovative but simple good taste. ‘I like your flat,’ he said sincerely, crossing to the purpose-built record shelves for a browse. A little Vivaldi might be just the thing, he thought, but he was disappointed: the record collection seemed to be dominated by rock music by people he’d never heard of.
‘Sorry about that,’ Tony apologised, turning and seeing his furrowed brow. ‘My . . . flatmate . . . has rather esoteric tastes in music, I’m afraid. The sound system is his. I like a bit of jazz, myself – my records are there at the end.’
David thought he might just about be able to endure jazz, if he had to. Tony put on some Dave Brubeck, turned the volume down low, and they sat on the low-slung chairs with their drinks.
‘Your . . . flatmate’s not here?’ David asked conversationally. ‘Ian, I think his name is?’
‘Ah, so someone’s been talking, have they?’ said Tony tensely.
‘Only Venerable Bead,’ David reassured him.
‘That’s all right, then.’ Tony relaxed. ‘No, Ian’s at work.’
‘Oh, isn’t he a teacher, too? I just assumed he was.’
‘No. Ian . . . well, he drives a taxi.’
‘Ah! Maybe he’s the one I have to thank for this, then!’ David surveyed his damp ankles ruefully.
They both laughed, and the potential awkwardness was dispelled.
‘The flat really is lovely,’ David reiterated. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘About six or seven years, I suppose. I’ve gradually fixed it up the way I like it.’
‘You’re not actually in St Anne’s parish here, are you? Did you used to live in the parish?’
‘No, I’m not a native Londoner. I grew up in Croydon – there’s a good High Church tradition there, as you may know, so when I moved to London to teach, I looked around for a church nearby with the proper churchmanship. St Anne’s was just what I was looking for, and they happened to need servers very badly at that time. So I’ve been there ever since. It’s suited me very well, and it’s quite close by.’
‘I would have thought St Anne’s would never suffer from a shortage of servers.’
‘Well, not too long before I came, they’d lost the two oldest Dawson boys, Nick and Ben. They’d gone off to university. Venerable says they were both pretty good servers – very conscientious, anyway.’
‘But Francis?’ David prompted. ‘You said you had a tale to tell about him.’
‘Oh, Francis. You haven’t met him, have you? He’s absolutely gormless. And as a server . . . Well, let’s just say his career was short-lived but memorable.’
‘What on earth did he do?’
‘He very badly wanted to serve. I wasn’t keen on having him – I knew how clumsy he was, but Gabriel insisted that I at least give him a chance.’
‘Fair enough, I suppose.’
‘I gave him plenty of training, and thought he might be able to start as an acolyte. But the very first Sunday, he bent too close to the candle, and set his hair on fire!’
‘That must have been quite a sight!’
‘It was at the high altar, so I don’t think too many people saw it. I’ll never forget it, though! Next I tried him as crucifer – I thought that would be safer. But he led the procession off in the wrong direction. There wasn’t anything that anyone could do but follow him. So much for being crucifer.’
‘You didn’t let him be MC, did you?’
‘Just once. He opened the book at the wrong page, and Gabriel read out the wrong collect. He wasn’t very amused – I think he was beginning to realise he’d been too charitable in his assessment of Francis’s abilities.’
‘So that was the end of his career?’
‘Oh, no. He went out with a mighty bang. Literally. His ultimate ambition was to be thurifer, so I thought I’d give him a go at it on a weekday, at a Saint’s Day service. I figured he couldn’t do much harm there, but I was wrong. He was swinging the thurible, and got up such a good head of steam that he let it go. It went flying, with incense and charcoal landing all over the sanctuary carpet in flames. Gabriel didn’t miss a beat. He stomped it all out while he intoned the Gospel. But that was well and truly the end of Francis’s serving career. Gabriel put his foot down, so to speak.’ Tony shook his head. ‘You’ve got to laugh.’
‘Are those the only boys in the family?’
‘Yes. Then there are the three girls. Bridget, Clare and Teresa. Thank God no one has ever seriously suggested allowing girls to serve at St Anne’s, or Teresa would be the first to sign up! That girl is completely clueless.’
‘Well, I shall certainly look forward to my dinner with the Dawsons – it should be worth a great deal in entertainment value. I’m even promised a chance to meet the famous Francis!’
‘You’re going to dinner at the Dawsons’?’
‘Yes, tomorrow. Didn’t I tell you?’
Tony looked amazed. ‘Well, I never. I can’t imagine what that will be like. The Dawsons never have people over for a meal.’
‘Really?’
‘No. Their meanness is legendary when it comes to hospitality, or lack thereof. You know, whenever I’ve been at their house for a meeting – servers, or whatever, the big event is the unveiling of the sacred Postman Pat biscuit tin. I think it must be a family heirloom. It’s brought out with all due ceremony, and everyone present is invited to help themselves to one biscuit, and one biscuit only.’
‘Maybe I’d better eat before I go.’
‘That wouldn’t be a bad idea, probably! Speaking of food, though, are you ready for some lunch?’
‘Any time.’
‘It isn’t anything fancy,’ Tony warned. ‘Just plain food – not the airy-fairy sort of thing you’d get from Lucy Kingsley,’ he added, tongue-in-cheek, and watching surreptitiously to see his reaction.
David refused to be drawn. ‘I imagine you’re a very good cook,’ he said blandly.
That proved to be tr
ue, and the tales of the Dawsons resumed over an excellent steak and kidney pie.
‘Have you noticed Roger Dawson’s liturgical ties?’ Tony asked. ‘Probably not. It’s a lot more noticeable when you get the whole family there, wearing their ties in seasonal colours.’
‘Do you mean to tell me the Dawsons wear neckties in liturgical colours? Every day?’ David inquired, bemused.
Tony laughed. ‘Not every day, no. Just on Sundays and Feast Days. We’ve had a pretty long spell of green ties now, except for gold on the Patronal Festival. But if you’re still here next week for the Feast of the Assumption, you’ll get to see the rare blue tie, in honour of Our Lady.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Oh, it’s true all right.’
‘But what about the women?’
‘The girls generally wear hair-bows, and Julia wears a silk scarf. There’s no one more properly Catholic than the Devout Dawsons.’
After lunch they relaxed over coffee. David had tried very hard to think of a way to introduce the subject of the blackmail letters in a natural way, but finally he gave up and plunged in. ‘Tony, you may think this is a strange question. It is a strange question, but I have reasons for asking it.’
‘Go ahead,’ Tony said, somewhat apprehensively.
‘It’s just . . . well, I wondered if you had any knowledge about . . . that is, do you know anyone who has received any . . . threatening letters? Letters that might have been written by Mavis Conwell?’
Tony stared at him in amazement. ‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘About the letter?’
‘You’ve had a letter?’
‘Yes, of course. How did you find out?’
David took a deep breath, stunned. ‘Tell me about it, please.’
‘It came – oh, a fortnight or so ago. Maybe longer.’
‘Have you kept it?’
‘No. It was – horrible. I tore it up and threw it on the fire.’
‘Did you know it was from Mavis?’
‘I assumed it was. I threw it away, and tried to forget about it.’
‘But what . . . can you tell me what it said?’ Tony looked stricken. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ David added gently.