7 - Death of a Dean Read online

  I wondered if Francis was planning to appear in that splendid anachronism, clerical evening dress, but decided that was too much to hope for.

  “Very suitable,” he continued. “I am sure the bishop will be delighted that we have chosen such an appropriate and dignified way of conducting the affair.”

  We’re very lucky that our suffragen bishop isn’t one of those happy-clappy, evangelistic, pop churchmen (Francis certainly wouldn’t have been a suitable dean for one of them), but on the other hand he’s certainly not the snob that Francis’s remark suggested.

  “Oh, I don’t think he minds a bit of informality,” I said, more to annoy Francis than from any particular knowledge of the bishop’s views. “He certainly seemed to be having a really jolly time at the Grand Pig Roast and Disco they had at Holford Treble last year in aid of their organ fund.”

  “A bishop,” Francis said condescendingly, “would naturally feel it incumbent upon himself to appear to be enjoying any function, however bizarre.”

  “You may be right,” I said. “Bizarre certainly describes that particular occasion!”

  Francis then questioned me closely about the more technical aspects of organizing the auction and, apparently satisfied that I was to be trusted with the logistics, he closed the subject and turned his attention to his daughter.

  “And have you finished looking through the muniment room catalog I gave you, Mary?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And do you think you will be capable of continuing it in the same fashion?”

  “I think so, Father.”

  He turned to me.

  “Mary is taking a Library Association course on specialist libraries so that she can take over the running of our muniment room.”

  “How interesting,” I said. “Will you enjoy that?” I asked her. “I thought you liked the public library.”

  Mary looked at me stolidly.

  “It was all right,” she said.

  “It was never really suitable," Francis interjected, “dealing with all sorts and conditions of people.” I raised my eyebrows at this unchurchmanlike remark. “No, Mary will be much better off here in the cathedral.”

  And under her father’s eye was the unspoken comment. He resumed his questioning and seemed dissatisfied with her replies.

  “You really must concentrate more on this course, Mary. You need to spend more time in study and less time gallivanting about the countryside on horses.”

  “Oh, do you ride?” I asked, pleased to have some point of contact with the girl at last. “I keep meaning to have another go—I used to love it. But it’s been several years now and I keep thinking about how stiff I would be if I tried again! Anyway, the stables I used to ride from in Taviscombe have changed hands and I’m not mad about the new people.”

  “If you’d like to ride,” Mary said eagerly, “there are some very good stables at Holcombe, just a few miles away. I know the person who runs them—I could come with you and introduce you.”

  Her face lit up with enthusiasm and she suddenly seemed a different person.

  “Well, yes,” I said, not really wishing to commit myself, but unwilling to quench the enthusiasm I had obviously aroused, “yes, I’d like that. I’ll get in touch with you,” I temporized, “and fix a date.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Francis’s face.

  “Mary has a great deal of work to do at present, Sheila, and has very little time for distractions.”

  Perversely, this decided me to accept Mary’s offer and I said, “I’m sure Mary’s working very hard, so I don’t expect one morning off will make a great deal of difference. Anyway, when Michael was doing his law finals I insisted on his having little breaks to keep him fresh.” This ingenuous remark obviously didn’t cut much ice with Francis, but since he needed my help with the auction there wasn’t much he could say.

  Mary gave me a grateful smile and was just about to expatiate upon the excellence of the Holcombe stables when the door opened and a young man came in.

  I hadn’t seen Adrian for some years but he had hardly changed. From a tall, bespectacled, anxious boy he had grown into a tall, bespectacled, anxious young man. He had his father’s build and coloring, even to some extent his good looks, but he also had his mother’s timidity and her sad brown eyes.

  “Ah, Adrian,” Francis said. “You know Mrs. Malory, of course.”

  “Yes, indeed, how nice to see you again.” His voice was Joan’s voice, subdued and hesitant.

  “It’s nice to see you, Adrian. I was saying to Mary it’s been such a long time ... but you haven’t changed a bit.”

  Mary did not greet her brother in any way, but Joan began to pour a cup of tea when Francis stopped her.

  “Adrian hasn’t time for tea. He is here to come with me to see the treasurer before the chapter meeting this evening. You will excuse us, I am sure, Sheila. Cathedral business is always with us. It has been a great pleasure to see you again.”

  He rose and, with Adrian trailing in his wake, took his departure.

  The door closed behind him, leaving an almost palpable feeling of relief and relaxation. Mary got to her feet and passed me a plate. “Do have a piece of Mrs. Fletcher’s walnut cake, it’s very good.”

  “And what about another cup of tea?” Joan said, pouring fresh water into the pot. “It’s still nice and hot.”

  Chapter 4

  I hadn’t heard anything from David for a couple of weeks and I was beginning to get worried.

  “Do you think I ought to phone him?” I asked Michael. “Oh, don’t hassle the poor man,” Michael said. “He’ll phone you if there’s any news.”

  Michael is very fond of David but is of the opinion that I fuss too much about other people’s affairs.

  “I suppose so,” I said doubtfully. “But I can’t help being a little concerned. I mean, I know he had to see the bank round about now ...”

  Michael stooped to unfasten the grass bag from the mower. “All the more reason for not badgering him—if it’s all right he’ll phone you; if it isn’t he’ll want to be left alone to brood a bit. Do you want this lot of clippings on the compost heap or put around the roses for mulch, like last time?”

  “Oh, compost heap, I think. I’m sure putting it round the roses encouraged that wretched mildew. I expect you’re right about David, but it’s very frustrating not knowing what’s going on.”

  “The trouble with you, Ma,” Michael said, “is you’re like the Elephant’s Child, too full of satiable curiosity—and you know what happened to him!”

  That evening I did ring but there was no reply, just the answerphone (“The last economy an actor makes, dear, is his answerphone”) and David’s voice saying: “If you want to leave a message for me or for Julian Yates, please speak after the silly little noise.” But I didn’t leave a message.

  “It’s so desperate for him, poor love,” I said to my friend Rosemary when she came to lunch the next day (well, not proper lunch, just a piece of quiche and a tomato salad). “It’s such a fabulous chance—it would be simply awful if he couldn’t hang on until later this year.”

  Rosemary is fond of David, too, although perhaps less patient with him than I am. She finds it incredible that someone who made so much money in the days of his success should be so hard up now, but then Rosemary is married to a really good accountant.

  “It does seem a bit hard,” she said, “that Francis won’t help. He must be filthy rich, but that’s utterly typical of him. He always was a cold fish. Do you remember when Felicity Bradshaw was absolutely mad about him (and you must admit he was very good looking) and he strung her along because the family was rather grand—though poor as church mice— until Joan came along and her father was a bishop (so useful for him) and her mother had left her all that money, and he dropped Felicity just like that!”

  “Goodness, yes!” I exclaimed. “I’d forgotten. And Felicity was really rather gorgeous, wasn’t she, while Joan—well! Whatever happened to Felici
ty, anyway?”

  “I think she went to Kenya, or was it Nigeria? With some man, an archaeologist or anthropologist—something like that.”

  “How extraordinary. Do have some more salad.”

  “Yes, please. Is this your own basil?”

  “Yes. It’s most peculiar, it’s never germinated properly before, but this year it’s simply taken over the greenhouse. Do remind me to give you a pot before you go.”

  “So how is Joan?” Rosemary asked. “I haven’t seen her since that dismal garden party at the deanery in May, bitterly cold. That poor monseigneur, or whatever he was (I suppose that was Francis trying to be ecumenical, such a lot of nonsense) looked absolutely frozen, though he had lovely long robes on. But Joan looked pretty awful then. She had a terrible cold, I think, and should have been in bed, but I suppose Francis expected her to be there.”

  “What I can’t bear,” I said, “is the way he’s always putting her down in public, treating her as if she was some sort of idiot. I can’t think how she stands it!”

  “Oh, she always was a doormat,” Rosemary said briskly. “Do you remember her father? A dreadful man! He always resented the fact that Joan inherited her mother’s money, of course. Anyway, he used her as a sort of unpaid secretary and slave for years. She always had to be at his beck and call, never went out anywhere. She only met Francis through some sort of church affair, when he was a curate.”

  “I’m surprised, really, that she was allowed to marry him.”

  “Oh, I think the bishop saw straight away that Francis was going places. He was very much a young man after his own heart—they were both very good with money—and I’m pretty sure he helped Francis up the ladder after he married Joan.”

  “It’s all like something out of Trollope,” I said. “I thought ecclesiastical circles were quite different nowadays.”

  “Well, it was nearly thirty years ago,” Rosemary replied, “though I bet the money bit hasn’t changed—got worse, probably. All this paying to go into cathedrals and gift shops everywhere! Anyway, what about Joan?”

  “The same as ever, even more downtrodden if anything. If only she hadn’t looked so pathetic I’d never have agreed to take on this auction thing.”

  “You really have let yourself in for something!” Rosemary exclaimed.

  “I know,” I said ruefully, “and it’s going to be dire having Francis looking over my shoulder all the time to make sure I’m doing things properly! Still, if I can take the pressure off Joan ... I think she’s having a difficult time with Mary, too, such a sullen girl—when Francis is about, anyway. And Adrian is a poor creature who just trails around after his father.”

  “Oh, I know! Jack has dealings with his firm from time to time and he says the boy really isn’t very bright, dreadfully slow. He thinks that Francis simply wanted a son who was an accountant and poor Adrian had no choice in the matter! I know it took him ages to qualify.”

  “I suppose Francis hoped his children would be all forceful and ambitious, just like him, but they seem to have taken after Joan. Such a disappointment for him.”

  “Just as well, if you ask me,” Rosemary said. “Think of the clashes of will and explosions if they had been!”

  “I think they may just have an explosion with Mary,” I said thoughtfully. “She’s simply seething with resentment about her father—he’s trying to make her work in the cathedral archive, or whatever it is, so she’ll be even more under his thumb. He’s even got her taking some special course and nagging her about it all the time. She really seemed on the edge of something last week.”

  The telephone rang and I got up to answer it.

  “Oh, bother. I wish people wouldn’t ring at lunchtime. Do help yourself to things.”

  It was David.

  “Hallo, darling, sorry to disturb your lunch but I thought I might find you in.”

  “Oh, David, I’m so glad you rang, I was getting a bit worried about you.”

  “I would have phoned before but I’ve been exploring every avenue, as they say.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No, not a thing. So I’ve decided to swallow my pride and ask Lydia.”

  “Oh, David!”

  There was a heavy sigh at the end of the line. “I know, dear, but what else can I do? It’s simply the Last Resort”—he spoke in capitals—“I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Well,” I said, “if she’s any sort of feeling she certainly ought to help. Goodness knows what that flat in Highgate’s worth now! And she’s been in work for years now with that soap thing so she must be reasonably affluent. And you gave all that money to Eddy ...”

  “Yes, well, we’ll see. Lydia’s always been a bit careful with money, but honestly, if she won’t help then that’s that!”

  “Will you write, or what?”

  “I think I’ll go and see her—the personal appeal, you know. I’ll stay with Piers and Keith, they live in Camden Town, quite near, and they’ve got a spare room.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Do let me know what happens. Please.”

  “I will.”

  I told Rosemary what David had said.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “I wouldn’t think he’s got much hope there. I only met Lydia a couple of times, when David brought her down here, but I can’t say I ever took to her. Selfish, I would say, and not a very satisfactory mother—look how badly that boy has turned out.”

  “Eddy? I don’t know that that was entirely Lydia’s fault. I think he got in with a bad set ...”

  “Only because she was too taken up with her own affairs (and I mean that in every sense of the word!) to notice what he was up to.”

  “You may be right,” I replied. “I’ve always thought she was something of a disaster in poor David’s life. Still, if she does turn up trumps now, I’ll willingly eat my words.”

  “Goodness, is that the time? I must dash. Jilly’s taking the baby to the clinic this afternoon and I said I’d look after Delia, so I must pop into that toy shop in the Parade and get one of those bubble-blowing things to keep her amused.”

  I was waiting in the dry cleaners while they searched for Michael’s cricket flannels when a voice behind me said, “Miss Sheila? How are you keeping?”

  Taken aback by this outmoded form of address, I turned and found David and Francis’s old nurse standing behind me. “Why, Nana,” I exclaimed, “how nice to see you!”

  “I thought it was you,” she said with an air of triumph, “you always did have your hair untidy at the back.”

  The man suddenly appeared with the trousers and I paid for them and then waited while the old woman engaged in some complicated transaction about a pair of curtains to be collected for cleaning.

  “Because I can’t bring them in,” she repeated, “they’re from the dining room, heavy brocade. With fringes,” she added, as if this increased their intractability.

  When she turned away from the counter I said, “Do you feel like some tea? Let’s go and have a cup at the Buttery, it’s almost next door.”

  She murmured assent and I settled her at a table in the corner while I went up to the counter to get the tea.

  “I brought us a couple of cream eclairs,” I said, “I hope you like them. Well now, how are you getting on in that great big house all by yourself?”

  She embarked on a catalog of complaints, about the difficulty of “keeping it all nice.”

  “But, Nana,” I said, “you don’t have to stay there, you know. David and Francis would be very happy to find you a nice bungalow or something.”

  The old woman’s face set. “Mr. Beaumont, rest his soul, left that house to me as a sacred trust for as long as I live. It was in his will. His last will and testament,” she added, “and that’s the law.”

  “But he didn’t mean you had to live there,” I persisted, “only that you could if you wanted. So that you’d always have somewhere to live. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go somewhere more convenient—the boys wil
l happily pay the rent for you. I’m sure they’ve told you that.”

  “Master Francis is always on at me.” Her voice rose. “He came again only last week, and brought some man with him—I don’t know who it was—looking round the place, they were. I told Master Francis, his father wouldn’t like him bringing strangers in, traipsing all over the house, up in the attics as well. What were they doing up there, I’d like to know.”

  She cut cautiously into her eclair with a fork. “I’ve told Master Francis, and I’ve told Master David—though he’s a good boy, he was always my favorite, such a sweet nature, just like his dear father ...” Her voice trailed away.

  “Look, Nana,” I spoke urgently, trying to get through to her, “poor David’s in trouble, he needs a lot of money rather quickly and if you’d move somewhere else they could sell the house and he could have his share. Nana, you know how fond you are of David, I’m sure you’d want to help him ...”

  “It wouldn’t be right.” She shook her head obstinately. “Mr. Beaumont wrote it all down in his will. I’m sorry about Master David, but if he’s in trouble he must just make a clean breast of it, go and own up—honesty’s the best policy, that’s what I always told them.”

  “But Nana, it’s not like that ....”

  “And Master Francis”—she wasn’t listening to me—“I keep telling him there’s a lot of things that need doing, the outside paintwork’s a disgrace—that’s the sea air, of course—and the side door doesn’t fasten properly and that man who does the garden hasn’t been for two weeks running now, it’s like a jungle out the back ....”

  I gave up trying to talk to her about David and sat there listening to her rambling on, miserably aware that this old woman held David’s future in her hands and that there was nothing I could do to make her realize how desperate the situation was.

  Chapter 5

  I hate defrosting the freezer. It’s not just the actual defrosting I mind (especially since Rosemary showed me how to melt those awful solid chunks of ice with a hair drier), so much as the shameful reminders of my own inadequacy as a housekeeper. All those anonymous, unlabeled packages, encased in a film of ice, that could be anything. All those undated shepherd’s pies and apple crumbles—“make two and freeze one,” the magazines say and I do, knowing in my heart that they will sit around in the freezer until I throw them out, together with the half used bags of Mixed Oriental Vegetables and the bake-it-yourself garlic bread that now looks like something that has been retrieved from an extra-slow-moving glacier. Why are other people so much more organized? My friend Anthea, for example. I once saw inside her freezer—everything labeled and dated, arranged in order of use—fantastic. Mind you, her children have all left home and she doesn’t have any animals, still ...