Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (4 page)

I grinned broadly and said, ‘Amen!’

‘A
ll right, tell me about all the candidates,’ I requested. Kenneth and Margaret had gone home to brave the ladies and gentlemen of the Press, but we still sat in Jane’s comfortable kitchen.

‘I’ll assume you addressed that question to Jane,’ said Alan. ‘I know only the official bits, and we need the gossip, as well.’

Jane snorted. ‘Plenty of that. Starting where?’

‘Let’s begin with the victim,’ I suggested.

‘The Very Reverend Andrew Stephen Owen Brading. Leaves out his middle names most of the time.’

‘It sounds almost royal, doesn’t it?’

‘Dorothy.’ Alan reproved my flippancy.

‘All right, all right. Go on, Jane. Sorry.’

‘Dean, Chelton Cathedral. Been there for three or four years. Calls himself a reformer.’ She snorted again. ‘Arch-conservative is what he is – was. Wanted to reform the church, sweep away all the changes of the past few hundred years.’

‘But, Jane,’ I objected, ‘you’re conservative, too, at least when it comes to the liturgy. So are most of our Cathedral congregation.’

‘Don’t want to go back to the nineteenth century, do I? Women priests, proper vestments, candles, chants – he wanted to do away with them all.’

‘I’ve heard he was something of a protégé of Mrs Thatcher’s,’ said Alan.

‘Mercy! He certainly doesn’t sound as if he would have fit very well into this diocese, as High Church as we are. How on earth did he make the shortlist?’

‘That was exactly my reaction,’ said Alan, ‘but you must understand that Mr Brading didn’t voice all these sentiments. They were apparent from his actions, but he expressed himself much more moderately. I’ve read some of his essays in the
Church Times
. “A real need for concentration on the Word of God” was one of his favourite phrases, along with “the danger of elitism in the Church” and “worship that the average man can understand”. He was very fond of the average man.’

‘There’s no such person,’ I said.

‘No. But he’s a useful political construct. Mr Brading, who was a schoolmaster at one time, loved to use the Old Testament to illustrate his sermons. He believed those stories captured the imagination of people of “limited education”.’

‘All right,’ I said wearily. ‘Did you have a list of virtues to offset all these idiotic qualities?’

‘Well, Chelton is a small city in a small diocese, rather like Sherebury, so he’d have been a good fit in that respect, at least. And certainly the ultra-conservatives in our diocese would have welcomed him.’

‘How did his own flock regard him?’

‘He didn’t have a flock, in that sense. Chelton is one of the cathedrals that doesn’t have its own parish, so the dean’s pastoral cure is somewhat ill-defined. The reports the commission received used cautious language, but the general feel we were able to get was that they respected him for his absolute devotion to his principles, and for his very impressive scholarly background. He was the reigning expert on liturgical history. And he apparently put the cathedral budget in the black for the first time in recent history. So they respected him, but didn’t love him.’

Alan picked up his glass and found it empty. Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, please,’ said Alan.

‘None for me, thanks,’ I said.

Alan nodded his thanks for the refill and then continued. ‘Actually, Brading seems to have been a hard man to love. No one described him as anything resembling warm and fuzzy. But neither did anyone ever call him wishy-washy. He believed what he believed, and no one ever swayed him. He would, I feel certain, have gone to his death before abandoning one iota of his creed.’

‘And apparently he did. Ideal martyr material,’ I commented. ‘But surely a bishop needs to be flexible enough to meet changing situations.’

‘Flexibility was not a word in Mr Brading’s vocabulary. Let’s do the man justice. If his values had accorded more closely with ours, we would have found his unswerving devotion to them wholly admirable.’

‘But they didn’t,’ I pointed out. ‘Which made him a most unlikely person to lead this diocese. So I ask again, why was he under consideration?’

‘You’ve forgotten, Dorothy. Our beloved MP, who sits on the commission, was a close friend of Mr Brading’s.’

‘Oh, yes. I was trying hard to forget. Very well, we’ve profiled the victim. Who’s next?’

‘We could go to the opposite extreme. Jane?’

‘Robinson,’ she said promptly. ‘The Reverend William Robinson, Rector of some church on the fringes of Birmingham.’

‘St Matthias’,’ Alan supplied.

‘Socialist,’ said Jane morosely. ‘Rabble-rouser. Been in gaol more than once.’

‘Or, to put it in more diplomatic terms, prominent social activist. He’s a member of Eco-watch, Save the Hedges, and a great many more social causes I can’t at this moment recall.’

I raised my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Okay, I guess I just can’t fathom the minds of the commission. Excuse me, Alan, but this guy doesn’t sound any better than Brading, at least not for Sherebury.’

‘His congregation loves him, though. The parish has been growing by leaps and bounds, and so have their coffers, even though many of the parishioners are young and relatively poor. I think many of the commission members felt he would represent a breath of fresh air, a rejuvenating influence.’

‘Which is needed,’ said Jane. ‘Bishop Hardie’s been coasting the past decade or two.’

‘Our dear bishop,’ said Alan, ‘is as useless as Bishop Proudie, without a Mrs Proudie in the background to ginger him up.’

‘Well, we can at least be thankful for that small mercy,’ I said. I love Anthony Trollope’s Barchester novels, and the television series based on them. ‘Though, as I recall, Mrs Proudie was usually in the foreground. Unfortunately. Now, look, people. It’s nearly lunchtime. I vote we adjourn, cease our catalogue of bishops for the time being, and have some lunch. Do you think we could make it to the Rose and Crown without getting mobbed by the media?’

‘Worth a try,’ said Jane, pushing back from the table. ‘Move, dogs. Mummy’ll bring back treats.’

‘Don’t forget I must go to the dean’s meeting at two,’ said Alan.

I had, in fact, forgotten all about it. ‘What do you suppose he wants of you all?’

‘Draft a plan of action to present to the full commission in an emergency meeting, I imagine. If we want lunch, we’d best go now, while most of the media attention is centred on Dean Allenby. Put on a hat, love, and let’s go.’

The Rose and Crown, our favourite pub, is also an inn, its earliest parts dating back to about the time the Cathedral was being rebuilt in the fifteenth century, and it’s actually in the Cathedral Close. From our house, the shortest way is through the Cathedral, since walking around that huge Gothic pile takes a while. This time it was also the most prudent route. ‘Even if a reporter latches on to us, they surely won’t dare follow us into church,’ I said, thinking aloud.

But it wasn’t a reporter who caught us. We had made it into the dim, cool haven of what I consider to be the most beautiful Cathedral in the world and were crossing the nave, lulled by the music the organist was practicing, when the peace was disturbed by angry voices.

‘I’ll see him, or know the reason why!’ The accent was posh. One felt the speaker was in the habit of getting his way.

‘Sir, I’ve told you the dean is not available just now. If you will leave your name—’ That was one of the vergers, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the other’s roars.

‘I will not damn well leave my name! If he’s not here, I’ll wait until he is.’

The music swelled to a crescendo, and the angry man’s voice rose with it. ‘Can’t anyone do anything about that damned row?’

‘I’ll ask you to moderate your language, sir. You are in a place of worship.’

‘I’m in a bloody great museum, is where I am, and I have no intention of leaving it until I see the dean. Take your hands off me!’

That was when Alan walked over to the combatants. The verger was trying to escort the other man out of the building, and I began to fear that actual blows might follow.

But Alan worked his magic. I don’t know exactly how he does it. He’s a big man, tall and solidly built, but it isn’t just his bulk. Somehow he can stand there and look like a policeman, authority oozing from his very pores, and calm a situation without saying a word.

The voices silenced. The verger removed his hand from the other man’s arm. The angry man settled his impeccably tailored jacket with an irritated shrug.

‘Shall we continue this discussion outside, gentlemen?’ said Alan firmly. ‘I fear the music makes it a bit difficult to converse here.’

Remarkably, they went. Of course, Jane and I followed, at a discreet distance.

The Cathedral Close is dotted with benches here and there, placed where people can sit and look at a particularly striking bit of the building. I found Alan and the other two seated on one of them. They were not looking at the Cathedral.

‘… to introduce myself. My name is Alan Nesbitt, and this is Mr Mackey, one of our vergers.’ He held out his hand and the angry man, after a noticeable hesitation, took it.

‘Mellinger,’ he said shortly.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Alan. ‘You’d be one of the banking Mellingers, then.’

The man looked at him sharply. ‘I am. And precisely who are you?’

Oh, my. Standing just inside the south porch, I caught my breath in a little gasp. The English can be beautifully courteous. They can also be intolerably rude when they want to be.

Alan smiled gently. ‘Simply a long-time communicant at this church. Also a retired policeman. Now, what can Mr Mackey and I do for you?’

‘You can find the dean! I came here to talk to him.’

‘What a pity you didn’t phone ahead. The dean is in a meeting and I’m afraid he really can’t be disturbed. I hope you haven’t come a long way.’

‘I couldn’t phone ahead. I was in New York until last night. I landed at Heathrow two hours ago, and read in
The Times
about the bishop situation. It is imperative that I discuss it with the dean.’ His voice was rising again.

The verger, feeling that the crisis was past, murmured something and went back inside. I don’t think Alan and Mellinger even noticed.

‘I am conversant with the appointment process. Perhaps I can help you.’

‘What do you have to do with it?’

‘I sit on the Crown Appointments Commission.’

That did it. Mellinger’s complexion turned a bright shade of purple and he sprang to his feet. ‘Then I say to you, and you can tell the dean for me, that you’re both blithering asses if you let Smith get to be bishop of this diocese! Of all the namby-pamby, milk-and-water priests that ever walked his earth, he’s the worst! He’d sell off this Cathedral stone by stone to feed the layabouts he loves so much. And I’ll not stand for it! You tell him that for me, the moment you see him. And you tell him I’ll be keeping an eye on this!’

He stalked off, and I let out a long, low whistle. ‘Good grief, Alan,’ I said as he rejoined us, ‘is that what it’s been like for you, all these weeks?’

He shrugged. ‘That was a rather mild example, but yes. Feelings run high. Shall we go and find that lunch?’

Well, okay … but I’d try to tackle him later. I wanted to know more about what he’d been having to put up with. I lost my first husband to a sudden heart attack. I couldn’t stand by and watch Alan be subjected to stress, and not do anything about it.

We had a pleasant meal at the Rose and Crown, steadfastly refusing to utter the word ‘bishop’. Peter and Greta Endicott, the proprietors of the old inn, have been friends ever since I visited Sherebury with my first husband, years ago. Greta, who is an ageless beauty, oversees the hotel part, while Peter is the perfect ‘mine host’ in the pub. He could have done a good business that day serving the media types, but he has an immense loyalty to his friends, and a subtle way of discouraging unwelcome clientele. Like Alan, he seldom has to resort to any physical demonstration. He just puts on a certain look, and they decide they’d be happier elsewhere.

When we had enjoyed our lunch, and our respite from the cares of the day, Peter glanced outside and then came to speak to us. ‘They’re out there waiting for you.’

‘How did they know we were here?’ I asked in exasperation. ‘I’ll swear no one saw us come in.’

‘They have a sixth sense about these things,’ said Alan wearily. ‘I imagine Peter’s manner in fending them off told them there might be someone of interest inside.’

‘It was that – let them suspect something – or let them come in and find out for certain,’ said Peter apologetically. ‘But if you want, you can get out through the cellar and the back door, where the brewers deliver the beer. The door’s not very obvious; it opens on the lane that winds round to the High Street. But you can cut straight across at one point to the chapter house door, and then you’re nearly home free.’

I was thrilled. I adore the ancient passageways that still exist in modern England. They’re useful, so they’re still used. No one would think of destroying them just because they’re a few hundred years old. In America, they wouldn’t last ten minutes.

‘It’s not so very clean,’ said Peter, leading the way. ‘But the beer stays in the cellar. Nothing actually comes upstairs that way, so it’s not a health hazard or anything like that.’

That, I thought, was for my benefit – the hygienic American. I didn’t care, actually, as long as there weren’t spider webs. Truth to tell, I felt a little like Catherine Morland in
Northanger Abbey
, delightedly expecting ‘something horrid’ to pop out as Peter opened the trapdoor behind the bar and showed us down the narrow ladder. ‘Mind your head, all, and Dorothy, don’t let your hat touch the wall on the way down.

In fact, there was nothing romantic about the cellar at all. It was a trifle dusty, but it was well lit and entirely spider-free, as far as I could see. Bright, shiny beer barrels filled most of the available space; the ones in use had complicated hoses leading up to the pumps in the bar. A door off to one side was closed.

‘The wine cellar,’ Peter said, gesturing. ‘Needs a different temperature to the beer. Here’s your exit, ladies and gent.’ A gentle ramp led up to a door in the outside wall. ‘They roll the kegs down, you see. Had to be really careful when they were made of wood, but that was before my time. All steel or aluminium now. Watch your step.’