7 - Death of a Dean Read online

  “Eddy? What happened? Where is he?”

  “He was in Paris, singing in a club there, but then he got mixed up with some rather weird people—drugs, I think, though he didn’t actually say ... Anyway, he came back to London.”

  He paused and sat for a moment, apparently looking at a sparrow that was hopping around our feet hoping for crumbs.

  “And he wanted money, of course,” I said.

  “He was pretty scared of these people, whoever they were,” David said, “so what could I do? He is my son—you know you’d have done the same for Michael.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I said slowly, “though, thank heavens, Michael is a model citizen and far more likely to get me out of a scrape than the other way round!”

  David laughed. “You make him sound like the most dreadful prig and really he’s a very amusing young man.”

  “Yes, I know, I’m frightfully lucky—especially since he’s chosen to work in Taviscombe and share a home with his highly demanding mother! But it’s unfair that you should have Eddy’s money problems as well as your own. Nothing from Leo, I suppose?”

  Leo is David’s agent.

  “There was some talk of a couple of days’ filming on location in the Cotswolds, something about a canal barge—it would have been very handy, but it fell through.”

  “Leo made a muddle, I suppose—he really is the end!” I exclaimed. “What else is there?” I thought for a moment. “Could you sell something?” I suggested tentatively.

  David has a fantastic number of books on the theater, covering every inch of wall space in the cottage and piled high in corners. He also has a lot of prints and other theatrical memorabilia. It’s a remarkable collection and people come from all over the country to consult it. It’s always known jokingly as The Bequest, because David says he intends to leave it to some worthy institution.

  “No,” he replied. “Not if you mean The Bequest. You know how I feel about that.”

  “But if it’s a choice between that and losing the cottage...”

  “Yes, well, I know.” He shrugged. “And even if I did, I don’t suppose I’d get all that much for it—you know how it is when you try to sell things.”

  We sat in silence for a while. The beauty of the day and the surroundings seemed suddenly dimmed.

  “I don’t suppose Francis would help?” I asked. “After all, there is the house.”

  The house is the large house in Taviscombe where the Beaumonts used to live. It’s in what’s known as a very favorable position on West Hill, overlooking the sea, and must be worth quite a lot of money. Mrs. Beaumont died relatively young and David’s father was looked after in his declining years by the boys’ old nanny, who was deeply devoted to him. When Mr. Beaumont died and the will was read it was discovered, to everyone’s amazement, that the house was left to her for her lifetime, and only at her death would Francis and David inherit. What money there was was left for the upkeep of the house.

  Francis, who has a very keen financial sense and is one of the trustees, tried very hard to find some way around it. He offered the old woman another house, but she stubbornly refused to move, saying that if Mr. Beaumont had wanted it and had written it down in his will it would be wrong to do anything else.

  David sighed. “Oh, I know,” he said. “It is provoking. Just the other day Francis told me that the trustees had a fantastic offer from someone who wanted to turn it into a nursing home.”

  “Taviscombe can always do with another of those,” I said, “considering the average age of the population! And it really is ridiculous to think of her living all alone in that enormous house. Can nothing be done about it?”

  “ ’Fraid not, you know how it is.”

  “Yes, I suppose if anyone could have broken the trust somehow it would have been Francis! Couldn’t you speak to her, though? You were always her favorite.”

  “I did try,” he said, “but poor old Nana, once she gets something into her head, then that’s that, and she’s utterly convinced that by staying there—and she’s always going on about how inconvenient it is!—she’s doing what my father wanted. Practically Holy Writ!”

  “Well, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted you to lose your home!” I said indignantly. “That’s what you get, having an old nurse called Nana, like the St. Bernard in Peter Pan!”

  “It’s a great pity she isn’t a St. Bernard,” David said morosely, “then we could have her put down.”

  Chapter 2

  David wasn’t an early riser and, to my great surprise, Julian had gone out jogging.

  “Acting’s a very physical thing, you do see, Sheila,” Julian had said earnestly as he edged past me in the little hall on his way to the front door, “so keeping the body really fit is just as important as, say, voice production. Don’t you agree?”

  I stood in the tiny kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and admiring a fine greenfinch that was jockeying for position with the blue tits on the bird feeder outside the window. I craned forward for a better look and saw a little siskin hopping about underneath the feeder waiting for crumbs of peanut to fall onto the path beneath. The analogy with Life was unpleasantly strong so I turned away and busied myself with slices of bread and the toaster.

  When I’d finished my toast, I perched on a kitchen stool drinking my coffee and leafing through one of the copies of Play Pictorial (1932 Gielgud in Musical Chairs), which, instead of china, filled the shelves of the oak dresser. Although the really valuable items of David’s collection (a pair of Irving’s pince-nez, a golden chain Forbes Robertson had worn as Hamlet, a ribbon knot that was part of Ellen Terry’s costume as Beatrice, the silver casket from Beerbohm Tree’s Merchant of Venice, a carte de visite of Modjeska and other treasures) were in the sitting room, many other items of theatrical interest gave the kitchen an unexpected look. As well as playbills and prints of obscure and long-dead actors, there was, on the walls, a pictorial record of David’s career, framed programs, caricatures, stills from films and television plays, and, inevitably, a picture of David as Inspector Ivor, leaning on the bonnet of the splendid old racing green Bentley that became almost as famous as he did.

  I got up from the stool and went over to look at it. Though not, as they say, conventionally handsome, he has a good actor’s face—a high forehead, a strong chin and a rather splendidly aquiline nose. In the picture his hair was thicker and his figure slighter, but he’s still in pretty good shape. After Lydia left him we all thought he’d marry again, but although, in that first year, he had several relationships of a temporary nature, he then seemed to retreat into himself emotionally. He and Lydia had originally come together when she appeared in one of the episodes of Ivor Investigates. She’d already made something of a name for herself on television, playing sensitive young girls. She had, then, a heart-shaped face with great gray eyes, and a fall of long, blond hair that gave her the look of a vulnerable child. Which she certainly wasn’t.

  I never cared for Lydia—“a calculating little piece,” Peter, my husband, called her—but she was always perfectly civil to me and, while his marriage lasted, I didn’t see all that much of David anyway. I don’t really know what went wrong.

  “Well, you see, dear,” David said by way of explanation, “we were both so busy that we didn’t have time to notice that we weren’t happy, and when we did it was too late.”

  As David’s career declined so hers took off. She had several successes with the National—a lovely Perdita and an interesting Ophelia—but, as the years went by, suitable parts were harder to find. By a great piece of good fortune she was offered a part in a popular soap opera and very sensibly took it and has remained with it ever since, and now it is she who is something of a national institution.

  She married again—twice—and Eddy (always a difficult child) had a pretty unsettled upbringing. David, I know, felt rather guilty about this, though, as I pointed out, Lydia was a perfectly kind if erratic mother, and he certainly wouldn’t have found it easy to bring
up a demanding small boy on his own. But I suppose this feeling of guilt made him particularly vulnerable to Eddy’s financial demands, which came fairly frequently over the years. A charming young man when he wanted to be, but thoroughly selfish and, I always felt, totally devoid of feeling for either of his parents. I hoped in a way that, having got what he could out of David for the moment, he would drop out of his life again.

  “A most extraordinary thing, darling!” David’s voice behind me made me jump. He came into the kitchen waving a letter. “I’ve just heard from Martin.”

  Martin Ross was one of David’s oldest friends. They had been at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art together and both their careers had taken off at about the same time—as David became a television personality, so Martin had made his name as a director, first at Stratford, then in the commercial theater. Some years ago he’d gone to Australia, where he combined stage work with lecturing on drama at Brisbane University.

  “How nice,” I said. “Is he coming over on a visit?”

  “No, no,” David said, “well, not immediately. But, the most marvelous thing! He’s been asked to help set up a Shakespeare Center here in Stratford and there’s just a possibility there might be a job in it for me! Isn’t it fantastic!”

  “How wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Here, sit down. I’ll pour you some coffee and you can tell me all about it, slowly. You’re practically incoherent.”

  “Well”—David sat down at the table and began spooning sugar into the coffee I put before him—“there’s this splendid Australian female, called Beth Cameron, who’s absolutely potty about Shakespeare. She’s also incredibly rich and has no family, so she’s going to use some of her millions to found this center in Stratford—she adores Stratford—for the study of Shakespeare’s plays in performance. It would combine acting and academic studies, so she wants an actor to run it.” He took a great gulp of his coffee and continued. “She’s taken a terrific shine to Martin and is asking his advice about everything and he, bless him, told her about me. Fortunately she saw my Claudius, you know, when I did that Australian tour with Alec, and she remembered me. So Martin told her that I had administrative experience—when I ran those seasons at Kidderminster Rep—and, of course, about The Bequest and living here in Stratford, and she sounded very impressed!”

  “Oh David! How perfect!”

  “Isn’t it, though!” he said excitedly. “It would be the most wonderful job, something I’d love doing.”

  “And you’re so good with the young,” I said. “And there’s all your experience and enthusiasm—there’s so much you could teach them!”

  “It’s the most marvelous opportunity!” David’s eyes were shining and he looked at least ten years younger. “A sort of once-in-a-lifetime thing!”

  “Isn’t it!” I agreed. “And it’s simply made for you.”

  We sat and smiled at each other and I poured us each another cup of coffee.

  “So when will she decide—this Cameron woman?” I asked.

  “She’s coming over with Martin later this year,” David replied, “and she’ll obviously be interviewing a lot of people.”

  “Oh, but when she sees you and this cottage and The Bequest and everything—well, she’ll absolutely have to give the job to you. I mean, what more could she want!”

  “Bless you, dear! But Martin really does seem to think that my being here in Stratford and everything will be the real clincher. God! I do hope so. It would be the solution to my financial problems as well as being the most heavenly job. I mean, the salary won’t be enormous but it’ll be regular and quite enough to let me pay off the overdraft and ...” He broke off. “Oh God, the overdraft!”

  “What about it?” I asked. “You’ll be able to pay it off, like you said.”

  “No, but don’t you see!” he groaned. “The bank’s pressing me for that money now. By the time Beth Cameron’s over here I’ll have had to get out. I won’t have the cottage, I might even have to leave Stratford altogether. Certainly my name in the town, financially speaking, will be mud. That’s not going to impress her!”

  “But won’t the bank give you more time?” I asked. “I mean, if you explain to them about this fabulous job?”

  “Yes, dear, but I haven’t actually got it, have I? I don’t see them giving me unlimited credit on the strength of something that might come off, do you?”

  “Oh, no! How cruel! There must be some way. Can’t you borrow from someone else?”

  “A loan shark, do you mean?” David looked at me quizzically. “I don’t think I want to go down that particular primrose path to the everlasting bonfire, thank you, dear!”

  “No, silly,” I replied, “but what about Francis? He must be absolutely rolling and he can have your share of the house as security—he is a trustee or something, isn’t he?”

  David grimaced. “I don’t really like the thought of asking Francis for anything. You know how scornful he’s always been about the theater. It was bad enough when I was successful ... Anyway, I haven’t let him know how things are nowadays. I mean, he’s not exactly au fait with the theatrical scene. As far as he knows I’m still the most tremendously sought-after character actor in the business. I’d hate to have to admit that things are—well, you know!”

  “I do know, David dear, but you really mustn’t let your pride stand in the way of this fantastic chance. I do so agree that being patronized by Francis would be horrid, but if that’s the only way ...”

  “I suppose you’re right,” David sighed, “there is no other way. But it’s not going to be easy.”

  That afternoon when I got back from shopping David greeted me gloomily.

  “I wrote the letter,” he said. “It’s so sycophantic I feel really sick.”

  “Never mind,” I said cheerfully, “let’s hope it does the trick. Look, I got smoked salmon and a rather nice Chardonnay to celebrate the job.”

  I returned home to Taviscombe before David had a reply from Francis and it was, in fact, a full week before I heard from him. I was just glumly surveying a pile of newly washed clothes (one stuffs them into the washing machine, recklessly disregarding the fact that they’ll all have to be ironed eventually) when the telephone rang. It was David. As soon as I heard his voice I knew that his appeal to Francis hadn’t been successful.

  “Cash flow, darling, liquidity, all the old financial clichés! Something about not wishing to sell shares with the market in its present state. And quite insufferable, as always. Just listen to this! ‘I was, you may remember, deeply unhappy about your choice of career, from the very beginning. Indeed, I expressed my views quite emphatically to Father at the time. Alas.’ Only Francis could use ‘alas’ in a letter! Where was I? Oh yes. ‘Alas, he chose not to exercise his parental authority and forbid you to embark on a path that was all too likely to lead to debt and disaster. Indeed, I believe he positively encouraged you. I have to say, I am glad he did not live to see that his trust in your ability to make a career for yourself in such a risky profession (if so it can be called) was sadly misplaced.’ Pompous fool! I won’t go on. There’s a lot more like that—sanctimonious rubbish. And he signs himself ‘Your affectionate brother,’ if you please.”

  “Oh, David!” I cried, “I’m so sorry. What an absolute bastard Francis is. Talk about unchristian! He must have some money not tied up in shares, and Joan has money of her own. I’m sure he could help if he wanted to. It’s not as if you’re asking him to give it to you, he knows you’ll pay him back.”

  David sighed. “Oh well, I suppose it was worth a try, but I must confess I always feel about five inches tall when I get one of Francis’s sardonic little homilies. He’s always treated me like that, ever since we were children. ‘I don’t think you ought to do that, David, you know how upset Mother would be if she knew’—and you knew just how she’d find out. Or, ‘I’m only telling you for your own good, you’ll thank me one day.’ Yuk!”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “and doesn’t he love to put one down!
I remember, when I was about fifteen, I persuaded Mother to buy me this wildly unsuitable dress—bright red and definitely slinky—to wear at the Chapmans’ Christmas party (you remember they were rather grand affairs) and Francis was there. He gave me the most icy stare and said that he was astonished that my mother had allowed me to make such a vulgar exhibition of myself. You know how fragile one’s self-confidence is at that age—I spent the rest of the evening hiding my shame in the conservatory!”

  “I’ve never understood how he’s got on so amazingly in the church,” David said sourly. “He certainly doesn’t embody many of the Christian virtues.”

  “Oh, but he’s such a wizard with money,” I replied. “Look how he’s improved the financial situation of every parish he’s ever been connected with and now, as dean, he’s tremendously involved in fund-raising for the cathedral—the roof’s quietly disintegrating, of course, as well as the usual running expenses. I know the bishop’s deeply impressed with what he’s done already. That’s what’s so sickening. I’m sure he could have found a way out for you if he’d really put his mind to it. But he’s so smug and self-satisfied ....”

  “He’s never really liked me, of course,” David said meditatively, “because I was always our parents’ favorite.”

  “Well, you were a lovable little boy—he was always a calculating little monster.”

  “Still, his parishioners seemed quite devoted.”

  “They’re mostly female,” I explained, “and middle-aged, and he is what is known as a fine figure of a man, tall and rather distinguished with all that gray hair and those very blue eyes.”

  “I suppose,” David said doubtfully.

  “And he can turn on a sort of aloof charm when he wants to. I suppose that’s what attracted Joan.”

  Joan is Francis’s wife. She is a shy, retiring woman, rather dim, really, in appearance and personality. It is generally accepted that Francis married her because her father was a bishop and she had inherited a considerable amount of money from her mother. They have two children, very much under their father’s thumb. Adrian, the eldest, is an accountant and Mary is a librarian, both nervous, uncertain creatures, whom I’ve never heard express any positive opinion of their own—certainly not when their father’s present.