Death of a Chancellor lfp-4

by David Dickinson

  Powerscourt turned to the Chief Constable. ‘It is for you to decide, sir. You and Colonel Wheeler would have to make the plan work.’

  ‘Is it dangerous, Powerscourt?’

  ‘Yes, I think it could be. We have to assume that the murderer would want to stop the service. And that he might try to kill those taking part. I have discussed this aspect with Canon Gill. He is willing to proceed.’

  The Chief Constable stared out of the window. A couple of the Compton Horse could be seen marching up and down on sentry duty outside the Dean’s house.

  ‘Dammit, Powerscourt,’ he said at last, ‘let’s try it. These murders have been an intolerable strain on the citizens of Compton and on the morale of my force. What time would you like the curtain to go up?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Powerscourt replied. ‘I feel that the service to rededicate the cathedral should commence at eleven o’clock sharp.’

  Easter Monday dawned bright and sunny in the little city of Compton. The daffodils were waving brightly behind the minster. Some of the trees around the Close were in bloom, blossom of white and pink adorning the green of the grass. At eleven o’clock precisely a small procession of four men in white surplices entered the cathedral by the west door, Canon Gill in the lead with Richard Hooper, a young curate from the neighbouring village of Frensham, at his side. The other two were several paces behind. The air in the building was musty, faint whiffs that might have been incense or perfume still lurking in the atmosphere. The hundreds of candles that had enlightened the proceedings the day before were all burnt out, wax lying about on the bodies of the dead interred beneath the floor. The chairs in the nave had not been put straight, resting in exactly the places the congregation had left them as they departed. There was no choir. Canon Gill led them to a large table, covered with a white cloth and a couple of silver candlesticks, placed across the great transept at the top of the nave. He began by reading the Lord’s Prayer, followed by the Collect for the Day.

  ‘Almighty God, who through thy only begotten son Jesus Christ hast overcome death and opened up unto us the gate of everlasting life…’

  One of the white surplices was behind the table, facing the high altar beyond the empty choir stalls, eyes flickering from side to side. The other was on the opposite side, scouring the space towards the door, scanning the triforium and the clerestory, the upper levels above the nave. Both men kept their hands by their sides.

  Canon Gill had moved on to the Thirty-Nine Articles, the defining statement of Anglican belief. He and Richard Hooper were reading them alternately. By twenty past eleven Hooper had reached the end of Article Number Twenty-One on the Authority of General Councils. Outside all the doors and passages leading into the cathedral were watched or guarded by Chief Inspector Yates’s policemen and Colonel Wheeler’s horse. The Chief Constable had decided that the murderer must be inside by now, if he was going to make his move. Patrick Butler, notebook in hand, was just behind the Chief Constable. Anne Herbert and Lady Lucy were staring at the cathedral from the front garden of the Herbert cottage. Along the roads that lined the Close cavalry in red uniforms were guarding the houses of the converts.

  ‘“Article Number Twenty-Two,”’ said Canon Gill, his soft voice disappearing upwards to fade away in the arches above, ‘“Of Purgatory. The Romish doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping and Adoration, as well of Images as of Relics,”’ the eyes of the white surplice facing the door were locked on a glint that seemed to be moving along the clerestory, ‘“and also invocation of saints, is a fond thing vainly invented -”’

  ‘Down!’ shouted Powerscourt. Johnny Fitzgerald in the other surplice hurled himself to the ground. Canon Gill dropped to the floor a fraction of a second before the shot rang out. The bullet hit one of the candlesticks and ricocheted off into a chantry chapel. Canon Gill’s voice continued from underneath the table, ‘“ . . . vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God.”’

  Johnny Fitzgerald fired back. There was a scream from high above. Powerscourt, tearing off his surplice, sprinted towards the little door that led up to the higher levels. Johnny fired again. The Canon continued reading from the ground the article on Ministering in the Congregation. Now it was Powerscourt’s turn to provide covering fire for Johnny as he too shot across the nave. Powerscourt, panting slightly by the door, was wondering about the last time there had been Murder in the Cathedral. Thomas a Becket? Cromwell’s soldiers on the rampage in the Civil War, despatching their foes who had sought sanctuary at the high altar?

  Powerscourt pointed upwards. Johnny whispered very quietly, ‘Better be careful when we get near the top of the stairs, Francis. The bloody man could pick us both off as our heads come out.’ Powerscourt wondered who they would find on the next level. Was this the end for the Compton Cathedral murderer? And which one of them was it? He still didn’t know. The stairs curved around a central pillar. The stone was very cold to the touch. There was only room for one person at a time. They paused from time to time to listen for sounds of the murderer on the move. Richard Hooper was speaking of the Sacraments. Powerscourt wondered when the clergy would stop.

  They took the stairs at a run. When they reached the floor above, Powerscourt tiptoed up towards the light coming in through the windows. A foot or so from the summit he raised his hand above his head so it was level with the ground. He fired three shots at a different level and in a different direction each time. Another scream rang out. As Powerscourt and Fitzgerald charged into the clerestory they saw a man wrapped in an enormous black cape, leaning through an archway, preparing to fire once more at the Protestant clergy below. He turned when he saw them and limped as fast as he could through the door into the lower tower. He left a trail of small puddles of blood behind him. It was the Dean. They heard his prayers, punctuated with mighty sobs, coming through the door.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou among women, blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.’

  A Protestant response rose out of the nave below from Article Twenty-Eight, Of the Lord’s Supper. ‘“Transubstantiation or the change of the substance of Bread and Wine in the Supper of the Lord, cannot be proved by Holy Writ . . .”’

  ‘Pray for us now . . .’ from the wounded Catholic above.

  ‘“. . . but it is repugnant to the plain words of Scripture, overthroweth the nature of the Sacrament, and hath given rise to many superstitions,”’ from the Protestant below.

  ‘. . . and in the hour of our death, Amen.’

  ‘Dean!’ shouted Powerscourt. ‘Are you badly hurt, man? Give yourself up and the doctors will attend to you!’

  ‘I don’t want to be taken alive!’ The Dean was weeping with the pain as he spoke.

  ‘Are you responsible for these murders?’ Powerscourt spoke again. Johnny Fitzgerald was inching his way towards the door, preparing to rush in.

  ‘I certainly was. They would have spoiled everything, those people. They wouldn’t listen to reason.’

  With that the Dean kicked open the door and fired two shots. One caught Powerscourt between the elbow and the shoulder of the left arm. The other hit Johnny in the leg.

  They heard the sound of feet clattering up another set of stairs. Powerscourt fired defiantly after the retreating figure.

  Johnny looked sadly at his leg. Protestant blood was now flowing freely on the upper levels of Compton Cathedral. ‘Dammit, Francis, one more minute and I could have got the bastard.’ He tore off a section of his surplice and wrapped it round the wound. ‘Are you sure God is on our side, Francis? Is your arm all right?’

  ‘Mine’s only a scratch, Johnny. Not sure about God. Can you wait here for a while?’

  Johnny Fitzgerald winced. ‘Bloody hell, Francis, I’m not going to miss the last minutes of the match. I’ll crawl if I have to.’ With that he inched his way into the lower tower. Powerscourt was peering suspiciously at the stairs.

  ‘That’s the upper tower ab
ove,’ he said. ‘After that it’s the spire.’ The words of the Thirty-Nine Articles were still sounding from the middle of the great transept. Powerscourt thought he heard something about the marriage of bishops, priests and deacons. Surely they must be near the end by now. A gust of fresh air rushed into the lower tower. Powerscourt began to climb the wooden stair. Blood was still flowing from his arm. Very faintly now, they could hear the sobs above them. When Powerscourt charged into the upper tower it was empty. A door was open and the bright blue sky of Compton’s Easter Monday was visible outside. He heard Johnny behind him, coming up the stairs backwards, swearing as he raised himself up step by step.

  ‘Dean!’ Powerscourt shouted into the open air. He wasn’t sure if the man had jumped down or begun to climb the spire on the series of rungs and brackets that marked the way to the top. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Powerscourt poked his head out of the door. He doubted if the Dean would be in a fit state to fire down at him and hold on at the same time.

  ‘I’ve waited and planned and organized for years for yesterday! Finest day of my life! ‘Powerscourt saw that the weathered grey of the stone was flecked with the Dean’s blood. The Dean was about twenty feet above him, making his way agonizingly slowly upwards.

  Powerscourt saw that blood was flowing fast from a great wound in his side.

  ‘I’ve left you a letter, Powerscourt. I wasn’t sure today was going to go well.’ The Dean began speaking to the spire in front of him, then turned to look down at Powerscourt. Powerscourt saw that the Dean’s face was white, turning grey. Down below a collection of tiny dots in uniform were staring upwards at the Dean’s last moments.

  ‘Come back! For God’s sake, man, come back!’ Powerscourt yelled at him. ‘You can still come down the same way you went up! I could come and get you with a rope, if that would help!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Francis.’ Johnny Fitzgerald had raised himself into a sitting position against the wall. ‘I’ve heard of the Good Samaritan but this is ridiculous. Bloody man must weigh fifteen stone at least. He’d pull you both down to your deaths for sure. Don’t think Lucy and the children would approve.’

  Powerscourt looked at the rope he had found in a corner of the upper tower and put it down again.

  ‘Dean!’ he shouted once more. ‘Turn back, man! For God’s sake, turn back! You’ll get yourself killed!’ He looked up the face of the spire. The Dean was now over halfway to the top, moving ever more slowly. Powerscourt suddenly remembered that there was a statue of the Virgin at the top, next to the risen Christ. Another prayer began.

  ‘Anima Christi, sanctifica me, Soul of Christ be my sanctification.’

  Powerscourt heard the sound of footsteps rushing up the stairway to the clerestory beneath him.

  ‘Body of Christ, be my salvation.’

  Powerscourt leant out of the door as far as he dared and shouted up into the sky, ‘Come back, man! Come back!’

  ‘Blood of Christ, fill all my veins, water from Christ’s side, wash out my stains.’

  In the nave the voices of Canon Gill and Richard Hooper had fallen silent. The words of a Catholic prayer, the Anima Christi, Soul of Christ, punctuated with great groans, filled the air.

  ‘Passion of Christ, my comfort be. O good Jesus listen to me.’

  Powerscourt saw that the man had only another fifteen rungs to go before he reached the top. Somehow, in spite of the terrible deaths, he hoped that the Dean would reach the pinnacle. Then the investigator in him fired one more question up into the morning sky.

  ‘Dean,’ he shouted. ‘Did you act entirely alone?’ It was, he realized, an absurd question to put to somebody two hundred and fifty feet above the ground, blood pouring from his wounds, desperate to reach the statue of the Virgin before he died.

  ‘Yes. Alone.’ The voice was little more than a groan now. The prayer went on.

  ‘In thy wounds I fain would hide. Ne’er to be parted from thy side.’

  Chief Inspector Yates, panting heavily, was inspecting Johnny’s wound. One of the other policemen tried to step out of the window on to the spire. Powerscourt pushed him back.

  ‘Guard me when my life shall fail me. Bid me come to thee above.’

  The Dean was but a few rungs from the top now, way above Powerscourt and the others in the upper tower. Then something seemed to happen to his lower leg. He looked as though he might fall. Just in time he reached aloft and pulled himself up, holding on to the feet of the Virgin. Then his other arm reached her waist.

  ‘With all thy saints to sing thy love. World without end. Amen.’

  It was hard to tell the precise sequence of events at this point. The statue, designed to withstand the storms and gales of centuries, was not designed to take the weight of a fifteen-stone man holding on to it for dear life. Very slowly the Virgin began to lean. Then she leant a little further. Then she fell, breaking into several pieces on the cathedral roof before tumbling to the ground. The Dean seemed to hang suspended at the top of the spire. Then he too fell, a last Hail Mary following his passage back to earth, bouncing off the side of the spire, rolling over the parapet of the upper tower, crashing on to the roof of the east transept, then a final sickening crunch of flesh and bones as he landed on the ground twenty paces from the Chief Constable. Ambrose Cornwallis Talbot, Dean of Compton Cathedral, was dead before he touched the ground. Pray for us now and in the hour of our death, Amen.

  Two burly policemen were carrying Johnny Fitzgerald down to earth. Powerscourt sprinted along the clerestory and down the stairs. The cathedral dedicated to the Virgin was empty. Canon Gill and Richard Hooper had departed. A dark blue police cloak had been placed over the body of the Dean where he had fallen. Dr Williams, summoned to attend the morning’s events by the Chief Constable, had made a cursory inspection.

  ‘He’s dead, of course,’ he said to Powerscourt and the Chief Constable. ‘Let’s pray that he’s the last.’

  ‘He is,’ said Powerscourt quietly, staring sadly at the dark blue cape that covered the battered body of the Dean. ‘It’s all over now.’

  The Dean’s letter was three pages long. Powerscourt found it on the study desk in the Deanery, addressed to himself, written in a flowing copperplate. Ambrose Cornwallis Talbot spoke of his growing disillusion with the Anglican Church, a disillusion that gradually turned into hatred. He said it was a Church that had turned its back on belief in favour of comfort, that had sacrificed the difficult truths of the Christian faith in favour of a quiet life in the countryside and the pomp and privilege of its bishops in the worldly surroundings of the House of Lords. Its buildings were in the wrong place, in the countryside rather than in the cities, where a national Church should be based with the vast numbers of the urban poor rather than in the upholstered comfort of parsonage and rectory. Soon, the Dean continued, the Anglican Church would be completely filled with the wrong sort of worshippers, devotees of the numinous cadences of Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer and the soaring beauty of the anthems of Purcell and Byrd. But a Church was not meant to be a place of pilgrimage for lovers of the English language or the anthems of centuries past. It should be rooted in the present, daily confronting the problems of God’s people, preaching Christ’s Gospel where it was most needed. It was in his own former parish in the slums of London’s docks that his Anglican faith had finally ebbed away with the tides. So great was the personal crisis that his doctors ordered him to take a quieter position in Compton. Nine years ago the Dean had joined the Bishop in the Catholic faith. The Bishop, with a more acute sense of history than his, had first suggested the reconsecration of the minster to the true faith on the Easter Sunday of its thousandth anniversary. The Dean had organized it, the slow process of secret recruitment, the appointment of the Archdeacon to carry out the negotiations with Rome. Reluctantly they had sanctioned his mission to Melbury Clinton, realizing that it was a terrible risk, but believing him when he said he could not carry on out without the consolation of regular celebratio
n of the Mass. All three had been members of Civitas Dei for the past seven years. The two missing vicars choral had found out about the Archdeacon at Melbury Clinton. The Dean had packed them off to a new life in Canada with six months’ wages in their pockets.

  Powerscourt had hoped for more information about Civitas Dei, but suspected that Talbot was being faithful to its principles of secrecy to the last.

  Single human lives, the Dean went on, had little meaning to him in comparison with the glory of the enterprise and the reclamation for the Catholic Church of a cathedral that had been stolen from it at the Reformation. He had, throughout, acted entirely alone. He hoped and prayed that the events of Saturday and Sunday would mark the sounding of the tocsin, a trumpet call that would signal the beginnings of the return of the people of England to the Holy and Apostolic Church, that the lives of the isles would once more be carried out to the slow rhythm of the Church’s calendar and the central mystery of the Mass.

  John Eustace had changed his mind about making the journey to Rome. So had Arthur Rudd, who had referred extensively to his doubts in the diaries he had kept which had perished with him in the flames. Edward Gillespie had been overheard telling a colleague that he proposed to tell Powerscourt in person all about the conspiracy. He had, the Dean went on, deliberately echoed the deaths in Compton at the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries as a tribute, a memorial to those faithful Catholics who had given their lives for the true religion in 1539 and 1540. He reminded Powerscourt that as a gesture to a more squeamish age he had killed all his victims before the burning and the disembowelment. He had no regrets, for he was the servant of a higher Truth, the pupil of a greater authority, the handmaiden of the only true faith.