7 - Death of a Dean Read online

  “And after that,” I said casually, “no one else went into the dean’s room until we arrived?”

  “That’s right,” she said emphatically, “no one else.”

  “Well,” I said, “it was lucky for the police that you were on duty that day and that you were so observant.”

  “Oh, you have to keep your eyes open when you’re on duty here.” She laughed. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things people do!”

  “I can imagine.” I felt that I had probed enough and leaned forward to admire the small bowl of flowers on the table. “What a lovely arrangement! One of yours, I’m sure.”

  “How kind of you to say so! Yes, it is one of mine. I do rather pride myself—I go to classes, actually, and one of the instructors there did say that my work was really quite up to professional standards.”

  “This is absolutely beautiful, and I know that you do some of the cathedral flowers?”

  A shadow crossed her face. “I am on the rota,” she said, “but they’ve only given me that place by the west door. Mrs. Harrington-Jones—she’s in charge of the rota—never lets me do the screen or either of the transepts and, of course, she and that friend of hers Mrs. Bingham always do the altar flowers. I said to Betty Fisher only the other day that it really wasn’t fair, I’m sure our work is just as good as theirs—better, if you ask me! Betty did a really beautiful arrangement for the Lady Chapel last week—yellow lilies, those Esther Reed daisies and eucalyptus, it was really quite striking! And, do you know, Mrs. Harrington-Jones had the cheek to tell her that it wasn’t ‘important’ enough for that position. Would you believe it!”

  “No! What an extraordinary thing!”

  Monica seemed gratified by my response and went on, “Poor Betty was ever so surprised and very upset—well, you can imagine—and she asked me to go down and have a look myself, since I do have a lot of experience, and I told her it was quite exquisite—very like one of those arrangements in that Constance Spry book. How that Mrs. Harrington-Jones had the nerve! Anyway”—she flashed me a look of triumph—“the dean himself said how nice it was. He was just passing the Lady Chapel on his way up here before you and his brother came ...”

  She broke off in some confusion and we sat looking at each other for a moment in silence as the implication of what she had just said dawned on us both, then I said quickly, “Still, I expect you were only away for a little while?”

  “Oh yes,” she agreed eagerly, “and I’m sure I’d have seen if anyone went up that staircase ...”

  “I’m sure you would,” I said. “So the dean thought the flower arrangement was all right?”

  She returned to the subject of the flowers gratefully.

  “He said he thought they would grace any part of the cathedral. Wasn’t that nice! Oh, he was a lovely man, so distinguished looking, he’ll be greatly missed.”

  “Yes,” I said, “things will be quite different without him.”

  I longed to get away to consider this new turn of events, but felt I must make at least a show of looking for Mary.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d better get on.” I opened my handbag. “Perhaps I’d better have a ticket for the library.”

  “Oh, if you’re just going through to have a word with Mary I don’t think we need make you buy a ticket!” She gave me a conspiratorial smile which I did my best to return.

  “Oh, really? Thanks so much! I’ll just pop through, then.”

  I went through the great oak door and came upon Mary straight away, sitting at a table just inside the library, flicking in a desultory way through a card index.

  “Hello, Mary,” I said, “how splendid to see one of those old-fashioned things! I suppose it won’t be long before all that’s on a computer, even here!”

  “Sheila!” Mary looked up in surprise. “How nice to see you. Yes, I suppose so. Father had a computer in his room up here, of course, but it would look rather out of place in these surroundings!” She gestured to the high stone vaulting of the ceiling and the intricately carved window embrasures, the heavy oak doors and bookcases, and, in pride of place, the great, leather-bound chained Bible on its ornate brass stand.

  Mary got up and pushed forward a chair. “Do sit down. Have you been to see Mother? I’m afraid she’s out today. She’s gone to see Miss Burgess—her brother old Canon Burgess died a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh dear, I am sorry,” I said. “I had no idea—I must have missed the announcement in the Telegraph. He was such a sweet man!”

  “He was my godfather,” Mary said, “and we were all very fond of him. He’d been ill for quite a while—he was in dreadful pain at the end—but Miss Burgess insisted on keeping him at home, because she knew how he hated the idea of going into hospital.”

  “Poor Evelyn!” I said. “It must have been very exhausting for her.”

  “We’ve always thought she was very vague and rather scatty, but she does seem to have managed very well. Mother was over there a lot and did all she could to help and, of course, Father was there at the end. But now, poor soul, she’s feeling very lonely—there were just the two of them, no other relatives—so Mother feels she must spend some time with her. I think it helps her to feel needed. She’ll be sorry to have missed you.”

  “It wasn’t anything special,” I said, “just that I had to come over to Culminster on an errand for Michael so I thought I’d pop in and see how you all were. How is your mother?”

  Mary shrugged. “A bit like Miss Burgess, I suppose, missing Father.”

  “Yes, of course. And in such dreadful circumstances.”

  “The police have been quite good, really. Once they’d taken our statements they left us alone. But it’s early days yet.”

  “You’ve no idea,” I asked tentatively, “if they’ve made any progress?”

  “Well, they haven’t said anything to me. We’ll have to wait for the inquest.” She spoke the word without any emotion. “Perhaps we’ll hear something then.”

  “Yes, perhaps you will.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, Mary fiddling with the card index.

  “How’s Adrian?” I asked.

  “A bit better—that’s why Mother was able to go over and see Miss Burgess. He’s gone back to the office.”

  “It really did seem to hit him very hard.”

  Mary gave a little snort of contempt. “He simply went to pieces, quite useless. I just hope he’ll buck up his ideas soon and get down to sorting out Father’s papers. I shall need to know how things stand financially so I can get on with my partnership in the stables.”

  “You’re definitely leaving here, then?” I asked. “Don’t you enjoy the work at all?”

  “I can’t wait to leave! Oh, it’s not the work—actually I quite like it here, especially now I don’t have Father breathing down my neck! Do you know, that very day, the day he ... he died, he insisted on going over the figures I’d worked out for the restoration work we need on some of the old books here—I mean, I’d got it perfectly well sorted out, but he couldn’t even trust me to do a simple thing like that without checking up on me!”

  “Oh dear! I do see what you mean.”

  “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to work full-time with Fay at the stables. It’s something I’ve longed for!”

  “And something you’ll do very well,” I said, “you’re so good with nervous riders. Look how well you coped with me!”

  “I hope you’ll come again soon,” Mary said.

  “Now I’ve got over the stiffness,” I laughed.

  “Well, if you were to ride regularly you wouldn’t be stiff.”

  “I know. Perhaps when David’s gone back to Stratford. I love having him here and he couldn’t be an easier guest, but even one’s dearest friends do take up time! Still, I suppose the police won’t want him to leave Taviscombe until they’ve got some sort of result.”

  “You mean they suspect Uncle David!” Mary looked at me in astonishment.

  “Of course, it’s rid
iculous, really, to anyone who knows him, but from their point of view he does have the strongest motive—money! And he did have that quarrel with your father that afternoon and he was there when your father ate or drank whatever it was that had the morphine in it.”

  “Ye-es, I can see how it all looks suspicious. But, for instance, where do they think Uncle David got the morphine from?”

  “Goodness alone knows!” I replied. “I suppose they’d just say oh, he’s an actor, isn’t he, and don’t they all take drugs!”

  “I shouldn’t think Inspector Hosegood would be so naive,” Mary said. “He struck me as being very much on the ball.”

  “Yes, I thought so too. Still, with a perfectly good motive like David’s I suppose they don’t feel the need to look elsewhere. I mean, who else would want to kill your father? I don’t suppose there’s a disgruntled verger or a canon with a grievance?”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly arouse friendly feelings in the other clergy,” Mary said, “but then, as far as I know he didn’t excite strong enough passions to justify murder either.”

  Since the only other suspects were members of Mary’s own family—indeed, Mary herself—I didn’t feel I could continue this particular speculation.

  “Well,” I said, gathering up my handbag and preparing to leave, “tell your mother I’m sorry to have missed her. I suppose sometime you’ll all have to think about moving. If there’s anything I can do to help, with the packing up and so forth, please do say. I know what a tedious business it can be. Are she and Adrian really going to move into that cottage near the stables?”

  “Oh yes,” Mary said, “it’s much the best solution.”

  “You don’t think that Adrian might want to have a place of his own?”

  “You mean now that Father’s dead and can’t make him live at home anymore?”

  “Oh dear, is that how it was?”

  “Very much so. Adrian’s lived in Father’s shadow for so long that I think he’s lost the will to make any sort of life for himself. He’s just a cipher.”

  “Well, you’re not,” I said, “you’ve kept your independent spirit.”

  “I tried to stand up to him. Not often”—Mary gave a short laugh—“and not very successfully, but I suppose I’ve got a bit of Father in me. Adrian takes after Mother.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. You’ll be able to look after them both if they’re near at hand.”

  She laughed again. “Someone will have to.”

  “Well, don’t let your sense of responsibility be a burden—you’ve your own life to lead.”

  “Oh, I’ll lead my own life, don’t you worry! I can’t tell you the sense of freedom, the feeling of exhilaration! I’ve never felt really alive until now!” She looked at me quizzically. “Have I shocked you? Actually saying things like that when my father’s just been killed! But it would be hypocritical to pretend that I’m sad when I’m so very definitely not. You do see that, Sheila, don’t you? You know how he stultified our lives, you know we’re all better off now he’s gone.”

  “Yes,” I said thoughtfully as I moved toward the door. “I can see how you might be.”

  I smiled good-bye to Monica (briskly telling two foreign students that they couldn’t take their backpacks into the library) and made my way carefully down the stone steps. As I passed the Lady Chapel I glanced inside. The arrangement of yellow lilies had gone and instead there was an enormous, florid confection of gladioli, iris and chrysanthemums. Apparently Mrs. Harrington-Jones had triumphed after all.

  Chapter 13

  “So you see,” I concluded triumphantly, “anyone could have gone into Francis’s room and poisoned the medicine!”

  “Well, hardly anyone,” David protested mildly.

  “Well, you know what I mean. It certainly opens the field up quite a bit—it doesn’t have to be you or the rest of the family.”

  “But who, and why?”

  “I don’t know, but there may have been any number of reasons. He may have been having an affair with someone.”

  “Francis! That sanctimonious pillar of the establishment? Murdered by a jealous husband? Never!” David laughed.

  “You don’t know,” I said, “the most unlikely people ...”

  “It’s a lovely thought, dear, and it gives me great pleasure to contemplate, but I fear not.”

  “Well then,” I said, “how about if Francis knew something about someone, something that would ruin their lives, and he was going to speak out about it.”

  “I must admit that’s much more likely,” David replied. “I can just imagine him talking about his duty and the truth needing to be told and guff like that. Very Francis!”

  “There you are, then. I think I’d better try and get the inspector on the phone right away.”

  “The inspector?”

  “Yes, to tell him that Monica wasn’t doing her Cerberus-guarding-the-gates-of-hell act all afternoon as she said.”

  “But ...”

  “I have to, Monica would never tell him herself, she’d be too embarrassed and wouldn’t like to lose face.”

  “I suppose so,” David said reluctantly, “but it seems a bit—well, you know!”

  “A bit like sneaking—what those nice young people in Australian soaps call ‘dobbing in’? I suppose it might, but if, by telling the inspector, I can take his mind off you—and Joan and Mary and Adrian too, don’t forget—then I must certainly do it.”

  “Well, if you put it like that ...”

  I got through to Inspector Hosegood straight away and told him about Monica’s absence.

  “I thought I’d better let you know,” I said, adding mendaciously, “I don’t know if Mrs. Woodward realized how important it was.”

  I sensed Inspector Hosegood’s appreciation of this amendment.

  “Yes, well, thank you, Mrs. Malory. It does put a slightly different complexion on things. Now then, the Lady Chapel, you say? Just a minute, I’ve got a plan of the cathedral here ... Yes, I see. Quite a way from the stairs to the library and the dean’s room.”

  “And if they were looking at the flowers,” I said, “they’d be right inside the chapel and they certainly couldn’t see anyone from there.”

  “Yes, I see. Right, then, Mrs. Malory, thank you for your help.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve any news?” I asked, unwilling to be dismissed quite so quickly.

  “We are following up a few things. Actually, I had been meaning to get in touch—I’d be grateful if Mr. David Beaumont would come along to the station. There are a couple of things that I’d like to go over with him. Do you think he could manage tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I said, rather disconcerted by this further interest in David. “I don’t think he’s doing anything in particular. What time?”

  “Eleven-thirty, if that’s convenient.”

  “Yes, right, I’ll drive him over.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Malory, that would be fine.”

  “It’s a bit much,” I said to David, when I’d passed on the inspector’s message. “I open up a whole new vista of suspects for him and all he can do is ask to see you again!”

  “I wonder what he wants?” David said uneasily. “He went through things pretty thoroughly when he came here and then again when we both went to the police station to sign our statements.”

  “Oh well, you’ll know tomorrow. While you’re with him I’ll go and see Joan and you can come around to the deanery when you’ve finished.”

  “If I’m not languishing in jail by then,” David said gloomily. “I don’t like the sound of this at all.”

  “Oh, it’s probably something perfectly simple, something new he’s discovered, perhaps, that he wants to check against your statement.”

  “Yes,” David replied gloomily, “but what?”

  “Well done, Ma,” Michael said at supper, “that was a neat bit of sleuthing. It opens up all sorts of possibilities. Personally, I’m all for the theory that horrible Francis was having a
torrid affair.”

  “David thinks he was too puritanical.”

  “Oh, they’re often the worst! You should see the evidence we get in some divorce cases! Anyway, it’s fairly classic—look at that chap in Shakespeare.”

  “Which chap?”

  “That one in the play with the girl and her brother—you know.”

  “I think he means Measure for Measure,” David said, making a giant intuitive leap. “Yes, you might cast Francis as Angelo—a marvelous part but hellishly difficult, especially that ending—practically no one’s really got away with it. Perhaps John G.”

  “I still think money, really,” I said. “Francis must have been pretty well off, in spite of all that guff he gave to you, David, about cash flows and so on. I saw a great list of shares and things on the computer printout on his desk. Perhaps he did someone down over a business deal? I mean, everyone said how clever he was with money, and people who are clever with money are often devious—look at all those fraud cases in the City!” I got up and started to clear away the pudding plates. “Shall we have coffee outside? It’s a lovely evening.”

  “Anyway,” I said, when we were sitting on the veranda, “I know Mary desperately wanted money for those stables, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Adrian needed cash as well. I haven’t heard anything about the will. How long will it take to be proved, Michael?”

  “Depends who does it. Actually, a deucedly rum thing happened about Francis’s will.”

  Michael and his fellow assistant solicitor, Philip, have taken to playing at being Dickensian lawyers. This involves the use of archaic language, exaggerated Old World courtesies and the wearing of double-breasted waistcoats—a harmless eccentricity, though one that can become a little tiresome for the innocent bystander.

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Well, Dick Wisbech came over to see us about something today. He’s with Mortimer and Shaw, and I was right, they were Francis’s solicitors. Anyway, Dick and I went to have a pie and a pint at lunchtime and we were chatting and, of course, the murder at the deanery cropped up—as you can imagine, the whole of Culminster’s agog!”