Mortal Spoils

by D M Greenwood

  He was beginning to wish he hadn’t taken the youth on. He didn’t seem to realise how very, very senior he, Canon Clutch, was. In fact he seemed to lack any conception of the fact that the clergy were quite, quite different from laymen, above them in authority, better in quality, superior in status. If that weren’t so, there would be no conceivable reason for becoming one. He tried to remember Logg’s letter of application. Methodist, was he, or Baptist or something that didn’t count? Time, anyway, he put the boy right on one or two important distinctions.

  Tom was not insensitive to nuances of tone, verbal niceties or subtleties of body language – he’d taken a course on the last. But he considered it unprofessional to allow them to dictate his own approach to work. He smiled his reassuring smile and drew out his perfectly typed, laser-printed memorandum in the text of which, Canon Clutch saw with distaste, were a couple of tables – pie charts did they call them?

  ‘Look,’ said Canon Clutch, hastily changing tack before Tom could get under way, ‘I’m really rather pressed at the moment. In fact I’m absolutely up to my eyes. The diary …’ he gestured.

  ‘Just a couple of points,’ Tom said jovially. ‘I thought it might be useful to compare notes on the Azbarnahi operation.’

  ‘What?’ Canon Clutch was genuinely at a loss.

  ‘Monitoring?’ Tom nudged him. ‘Review of past practice with a view to improving future. Yes?’

  It was Canon Clutch’s firm opinion that what was past was, mercifully, past. Learning from experience was not a strategy which claimed his attention. If things went badly, they were best forgotten as soon as maybe. If they’d gone well, and it was Canon Clutch’s opinion that anything he was connected with went well, it would figure in edited, anecdotal form to entertain fellow diners at Brooks in due course. Beyond that there was no need to go.

  ‘I hardly think it’s necessary to pick over the corpses.’ He stopped short, and focused his eyes suspiciously on Tom’s open face. ‘What had you in mind?’

  ‘Review of systems for preparation of briefing papers, logistics of security and the handling of communications, TV in particular,’ said Tom rapidly. ‘The Archbishop could have been better briefed, don’t you think? There are ways of not answering questions which can be very effective but not if you’re looking into the wrong camera or don’t understand the question or use bits of language which most people aren’t going to latch on to. We’ll probably need to think about rehearsal and prompt cards in future. So I thought that was a chance missed. The Archimandrite, on the other hand, didn’t come across as all that user-friendly. Was it his lack of English which gave you a problem?’

  Canon Clutch had had enough. ‘You haven’t understood. I am not prepared to discuss yesterday’s events with my subordinates. These are highly sensitive, highly confidential matters which concern only the most senior clergy here.’

  Tom was unperturbed. His obtuseness would carry him far. ‘Oh, quite. Absolutely. I wouldn’t want to compromise confidentiality. The detailed stuff of the discussion and the small print of the concordat naturally remain entirely in your and the Archbishop’s hands,’ he went on generously. ‘No. It’s the methods and systems that I think need a bit of tweaking. For example, my impression was that the security was a tad on the relaxed side. I had a look at Ashwood’s records and it seemed to me there were more people in the building than actually appeared in his logbook. What do you feel?’ Tom’s tone was that of a professional conversing with a professional equal, genuinely interested in the articulation of alternative views, certain that reason, evidence and truth were the supporting scaffold of the interchange

  Canon Clutch didn’t recognise the tone. He didn’t want conversation with equals in knowledge. His staff were not his equals. They had only one function, to keep his in tray empty and ease his path with a measure of flattery and deference bordering on subservience. He was driven to desperate measures. He allowed his pencil to drop onto the table with a clatter. He leaned forward and brought the palm of his hand down onto the leather desktop. He raised his voice so that it carried to Myfannwy in the outer office. ‘Don’t you understand me? The matter is closed. I am not prepared to discuss it any further.’

  Tom felt he wouldn’t this time point out that it wasn’t a matter of discussing further, they hadn’t begun to discuss the main issues at all. However, he could make allowances with the best negotiators. ‘Righty ho,’ he said equably. ‘I can meet you on that one. I expect you’re right to allow a bit of time to let our ideas jell. We mustn’t leave it too long, though, must we? Or we’ll miss out on the detail. How about making a date for a meeting when you’re not so rushed? Have you got a diary? Oh, and by the way, I wondered if you happened to know who sells good quality boots and shoes around here. I gather you’re a bit of an expert.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Fatted Calf

  The Fatted Calf at noon was almost empty. Bright fake brass and deep-pile patterned carpets were waiting to reassure the influx of clerks and insurance men in another half hour. Inside the door on to Victoria Street the captain of the darts team, the Pharisees, drawn from the legal profession, was putting in a bit of practice before the rush. The Calf’s main attraction was its forecourt which abutted Ecclesia Place’s and ran down to the river.

  Theodora judged it warm enough, this mild October day, to sit outside at the end of the court nearest the river. The urge to mark a patch, to set up a terminus, had been met by waist-high barrels of geraniums and busy lizzies posted at three-foot intervals. Beyond this, however, there was no attempt to keep people at bay. Tourists, pigeons and the odd dog wandered into the forecourt at will. Visitors were sucked in by the sight of others eating and drinking to pretend that it was still summer and set their drinks at the tiny uneven tables. The English were thawed, Theodora thought, by unexpected sunlight so that they melted and relaxed as though in the first stages of drink. Gestures were more expansive, voices slightly louder than they might have been from the scattering of patrons in the courtyard. No evil could be at hand in this grace note season.

  Tom’s arrival coincided with the first stroke of Big Ben. He had that look of ravenousness barely restrained by politeness which Theodora had seen on schoolboys still growing. He gave scholarly attention to the menu. Theodora drank pale sherry.

  ‘So what have you learned?’

  ‘The steak and kidney’s quite good here or …’

  She let him choose and order lunch before trying again.

  ‘Learned? Yes, well. I’ve had quite a good morning in one way.’ Tom carved his pie and amalgamated it with mashed potato and swede. ‘Canon Clutch’s not too hot on interpersonal skills, would you say?’

  Theodora had seen Canon Clutch only once in Cambridge at a smart conference on ‘The Church in the World: A Challenging Interface’. He’d chatted to a bunch of curates and then, when the bishops arrived, made it rather too obvious that he had better fish to fry.

  ‘Difficult to work for?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Work’s not really his thing.’ Tom was judicious. ‘He’s a bit out of date too. Decision-making’s very complex nowadays. You can’t just go it alone issuing orders. You need to listen, consult and negotiate. Have good systems. Get the best advice.’ Tom was well away. Theodora let her attention drift. It really was no good railing at people of the kind she suspected Canon Clutch to be. She had seen enough senior clergy of the Church of England to know that they were men whose talents entitled them to be humble. Hence they were drawn towards the political scene like puppies to the food dish, tails wagging, eyes glazed as they leaped ‘to give a lead’ or ‘speak for the Church’ on topics on which they had no mandate and about which they knew no more than the average layman. They mistook opportunity for authority. They were useless; they had soaked up the Church’s resources and made it look silly in the eyes of the world but they weren’t going to change now. In the end they weren’t what Christianity was about. Best left, in her opinion. She tuned
in to Tom’s final utterance. ‘Not too professional.’ It was his ultimate censure.

  ‘What about your corpse, your dead bishop or priest?’

  ‘No one’s reported anyone missing from last night’s do as far as I’ve heard. No hue and cry.’ Tom relished the words. ‘But I had a look at Ashwood’s record.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Lots and lots of clergy. Three with funny names from the Azbarnahi end. Basilion, Polyeveski and Slynasiev. Nice curly foreign copperplate in Ashwood’s book.’

  ‘And what time did the Azbarnahi lot come?’

  ‘Four-thirty, which is about right for when they got to the conference room. Ashwood showed them up.’

  ‘What about our side?’

  ‘Papworth had his chaplain, as I said. His name turned out to be Clutterford. And then the home team of Clutch, Teape and Truegrave. Only Truegrave didn’t stay the course. He wasn’t about after the thing was signed. Clutch stuck like a leech to Papworth and Teape trailed along behind, with the foreigners in tow.’

  ‘Is Ashwood’s record accurate?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t think so for a minute. At least, his might be, but the lad was on for some of the time. What’s his name? Teece? Trace? Kevin Trace. He’s new and not at all clued up.’

  ‘When was he on?’

  ‘He took second lunch because we overlapped in the refectory round about two-thirty. So he must have been on duty between one and two.’

  ‘Have you asked him?’

  ‘Yes. “Did you see a bearded bishop about five foot seven in a bulletproof double-breasted clerical black suit with brown boots, Kevin, coming in round about two-thirty to three o’clock.” “Who? Nah, don’t think so.”’ Tom was quite a good mimic.

  ‘So your man could have come in on the tide?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Where was the tide going to at that time, two-thirty to three? It would have been a bit early for the meeting of the Arches.’

  ‘No. It was the first wave of the TV people.’

  ‘Can’t, what’s his name, Trace, tell TV people from clergy?’

  ‘I don’t think he can tell one person over twenty from another.’

  ‘So we’re no wiser where or when your body came from.’

  ‘There’s just one odd thing. I thought I’d find out when the Azbarnahi party left, so I rang Brown’s. The chap on the desk says that three returned at about eight o’clock in the evening and checked out immediately. They were accompanied by an Englishman who paid their bill.’

  ‘Three? But I thought you said there were three supporters. What about the Archimandrite?’

  ‘We don’t know, or rather the hotel didn’t know, which three it was. Maybe the Archimandrite was one of the three. But they took all the luggage from the four rooms.’

  ‘Ought the hotel to have let them do that?’

  ‘I got the impression they were glad to see them go.’

  ‘What about the Englishman?’

  ‘Truegrave, without a doubt, though not in uniform. He’s quite unmistakable. Do you know him?’

  Theodora shook her head. ‘Never clapped eyes on him. So where does that leave us?’

  ‘It leaves us with one of the Azbarnahi delegation adrift.’

  ‘You think one of the supporters of the Archimandrite was your body?’

  ‘Well, one little Azbarnahi didn’t return home. And the body on the chair might well have been foreign.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have noticed? Set up a hue and cry? Made inquiries if one of their number was lost?’

  ‘Say they didn’t know. Or say that Truegrave,’ Tom deliberated, ‘either knew where the lost one was, i.e. knew he was safe elsewhere, or knew he was dead.’

  ‘You’re saying that Truegrave may have been the one who moved your body? But why should he do that? Why, if he found him, not report him?’

  Tom reached for the menu. ‘I had a reason for not reporting the body. Maybe Truegrave had one as well.’

  ‘What sort of reason?’

  ‘Well …’ Tom grinned. ‘The treacle sponge is very good here.’

  ‘I’ll watch you.’

  Theodora waited while Tom went for his treacle sponge. The pub was filling. A burst of Scottish-sounding male bonhomie, as impenetrable as Serbo-Croat, came from just outside the pub’s door on to the terrace. She spotted a vaguely familiar figure distinguished by its short stature. It was Archie Douglas dressed as though about to depart on safari, in bleached linen and substantial boots. Left his pith helmet on the mock Victorian coat stand, doubtless, Theodora thought as she watched him exercise his professional talents. He swept the terrace with a glance to see if there was anyone present important enough to need his attention while at the same time carrying on the backslapping exchange with his two companions. For a fraction of a second he caught her eye and she read him like a computer screen. Could he place her? Then, was she worth the trouble of being resurrected? His question seemed to be answered by Tom’s return. Archie swung his attention back to his immediate company. Tom looked very much the sort of youth who would have nothing for Archie.

  ‘Look,’ Theodora said, suddenly desolated by the ways of the world, ‘dead priests aren’t our worry. If we can get enough evidence together to show there really was someone in that chair, in the rug, and that someone, as well as you, removed him, then we could turn the whole thing over to the police and let them cope.’ The dead bishop was fading from her like the Cheshire cat. He could be remembered, glimpsed, inferred only from his pectoral cross. As his reality diminished, she was left only with a wish on this pleasant day to be freed from the need to pursue him.

  Tom poured cream over his pudding. ‘I had a break,’ he said casually, ‘in the matter of boots. The CSD is frightfully knowledgeable sartorially. Tailors, shirt-makers, suits, that sort of thing.’

  Theodora wondered if Tom supposed she needed to be told what ‘sartorially’ meant. Really the lad was obtuse. ‘And boots and shoes too, presumably.’

  ‘Right. Shotter and Cobb in Victoria Street. “Famous since seventeen ninety-three.” Deeply rooted in our culture.’ He paused. ‘I took our one along.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, it was all rather odd.’ Tom plunged his long wrists into his briefcase and extracted the boot. ‘Notice anything?’

  Theodora gazed at the beautiful tanned surface. Good for riding, she thought. Make a nice jodhpur boot. She shook her head. ‘Not my area.’

  Tom licked his spoon clean of treacle and tapped the handle against the heel. ‘Listen.’

  She saw what he meant. ‘What would a priest, what would anyone want with boots with hollow heels?’

  ‘Just what I asked the chap in the shop. Not so uncommon apparently. Travellers in foreign parts, thievish and uncivil countries, do sometimes put valuables, reserves of cash etc. in their heels. Gives a new meaning to well-heeled, yes?’

  ‘Was this one of Shotter and Cobb’s?’

  ‘Oh yes. They aren’t so vulgar as to put their name in them but there’s no doubt they made it. He recognised it at once and it has a number on the inside of the instep.’

  ‘And he knew whose it was?’ Theodora waited.

  ‘Made last month for Canon Teape.’

  ‘The archivist?’

  ‘The very same. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Black, no sugar.’

  While she waited, Theodora turned the boot over in her hands. The heel was of leather, hardly worn, fixed with five studs. She fished in her bag and brought out her Swiss knife. Carefully she turned the studs clockwise.

  Tom lowered the tray onto the table. ‘Clever of you to spot it. Clockwise. I’d not have thought of that until the chap showed me.’

  Theodora allowed the layer of leather to pivot on the single stud. The cavity was revealed. ‘There’s nothing in it.’ She ran her finger round the edge of the empty space. A trace of white clung to her index finger. She smelt it, then cauti
ously licked it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘At a guess, I’d say chalk.’

  ‘It’s a lot of trouble to go to to carry chalk about.’

  ‘Chalk would be quite a good medium for carrying something else about.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Perhaps. Though you’d need a chemist to do the separating afterwards. Also it’s a very small space. You wouldn’t make a lot out of drug-running on this scale. And it would be an easy scent for dogs to pick up, I’d have thought.’

  ‘What then?’

  Theodora thought of the Byzantine pectoral and the belzique stone. ‘How about stones of some kind?’

  ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘We really do need to know more about the owner. Have you had a word with Teape? If this corpse was wearing a set of boots made for Teape, the canon ought to know something about him.’

  ‘He wasn’t in this morning,’ Tom admitted. ‘Also I’m not sure what I’d ask him. “Have you lost a pair of boots recently?” Seems a little gauche.’

  ‘Do you know if he normally wears boots?’

  Yesterday he was wearing an unexceptional pair of black shoes. I was walking behind him as we came down the stairs for the Church Times photocall.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a Church Times photocall.’

  ‘Neither did we. They don’t count in Canon Clutch’s book so we hadn’t bothered to inform them. They’d learned through the national dailies that the Archimandrite was due and sent along a chap with a box Brownie. He lined them up in the entrance hall just before the TV people got to work. A marked contrast in equipment.’

  Theodora thought of all the parts of the puzzle she couldn’t see her way through. ‘You don’t think we could just go to the police with the boot and cross, explain about the body and let them take over?’

  ‘No. Look, really. I’m sorry. I’ve simply got to keep my first job.’ Tom was desperate. ‘My career structure. I need two and a half years in this post. I simply can’t … Also,’ he admitted, ‘my mother does rather depend …’