7 - Death of a Dean Read online

  “Ah, good,” Francis said, “Joan has brought our tea over. David and I will have ours here, Sheila,” he explained carefully to me, as if to a not very bright child, “while we have our little chat, and you will go back to the deanery, where Joan awaits you. Now sit down, both of you, while I get out the papers I want Sheila to look at.” He searched in the filing cabinet for a moment and then laid the relevant papers on the desk, pushing to one side a set of important-looking computer printouts.

  “Now then ...”

  One of the two telephones on his desk rang, the sudden, shrilling noise seeming strange and unsuitable, somehow, in such a place.

  “Excuse me.” Francis picked up the instrument. “Yes, yes, I quite understand, Archdeacon. I will see you later .... Yes. Good-bye. I’m sorry.”

  He replaced the receiver and spoke to David. “Cathedral business. I may conceivably have to go down to sort something out with the archdeacon later on, and then, as I told you, I must see the precentor—but I should be able to deal with them both quite quickly. We have plenty of time, since Evensong is, as you are aware, not until five-fifteen. Now then,” he turned to me, “here are the lists I mentioned of gifts promised, valuations where available—perhaps you could fill in the gaps there by consulting suitable authorities...” He broke off again as there was a tap at the door. “Yes, come in! What is it?”

  Monica Woodward put her head around the door and said apologetically, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Dean, but the man from the printer is here about that new brochure—you said you wanted to have a word with him about those mistakes you found.”

  Francis made an exclamation of annoyance. “How tiresome, but, yes, I will see him now—if I don’t I really hate to think what sort of muddle they will make. Excuse me.”

  He bustled out of the room. I made a face at David and said, “Goodness, how pompous! I suppose the world might conceivably stop turning on its axis if he wasn’t in charge ...”

  I got up and went to the desk to look at the papers Francis had got out for me. Some of them were mixed up with the computer printout and I had to sort them out. The roll of computer stuff seemed to be lists of shares, which I took to be part of Francis’s restoration campaign until I saw that one sheet was headed “Francis E. Beaumont: Main Portfolio,” so I supposed these were his own shares. I don’t understand stocks and shares at all—they seem to have very peculiar names, some of them—and I haven’t the faintest idea which are valuable and which are not or why they go up and down and cause such grief and anxiety to people like my friend Rosemary’s husband, Jack. Still, judging from the list, Francis seemed to have a great many of them and it made me really furious to think that he had all these assets and had refused to lend a relatively small amount to his own brother when he knew that it was practically a matter of life and death.

  Francis came back into the room and seemed rather irritated that I had picked up the lists from his desk.

  “I hope you haven’t disarranged any of the papers there,” he said sternly. “I do like to keep absolute order in all things—one thing out of place and the whole system is in jeopardy!”

  I was aware of David stifling a giggle and I quickly apologized.

  We went through the lists and I received my instructions.

  “Yes, that’s fine,” I said, “I’ll see to that tomorrow.”

  “Very well, then, Sheila.” He looked at his watch. “Joan will be waiting for you.”

  Having unmistakably received my dismissal, I gathered up all the papers and put them into a shopping bag I had brought with me. I could see that Francis considered it an unworthy receptacle, but I’m really not the sort of person who feels comfortable carrying a briefcase.

  “Now then,” Francis said, “will you both be staying for Evensong?”

  I looked inquiringly at David, who hesitated for a moment and then said, “Yes, I’d like to, if that’s all right with you, Sheila?”

  “Yes, that’ll be fine. Will you come over to the deanery and collect me about five? Good-bye, Francis. I may see you later, then.”

  “Splendid, splendid,” Francis said. “Now, David, if you would be kind enough to switch on that electric kettle on the desk beside you, we will have our tea.”

  I closed the door carefully behind me, encouraged by the almost benevolent tone in which Francis addressed his brother.

  “Wasn’t that David Beaumont?” Monica Woodward demanded. “The actor who used to be in that thing with the detective, on the television.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “David’s the dean’s brother.”

  “Really! I never knew that! An actor! It seems unsuitable, somehow.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “The church and the stage have much in common, and, after all, the theater had its origins in religious ritual.”

  “Oh, but that was in ancient times—pagan rites and so forth,” she protested.

  “Well, there were the miracle plays in the Middle Ages,” I persisted, more for my own amusement than from any wish to convince her.

  “But they were Roman Catholic,” she countered, “and, anyway, television’s quite different.”

  I laughed. “Well, you may be right.” To change the subject I continued, “What pretty flowers.” I leaned over to smell them. “Who did the arrangement?”

  Monica looked gratified. “I did. I always like to keep fresh flowers up here, though of course I’m also on the rota for the proper flower arrangements in the cathedral itself. It’s something I’ve always rather liked doing, so even when I’m not actually on duty here I try to pop in and see that they’re nice and fresh. I always think there’s nothing quite so depressing as dead flowers.”

  “They’re lovely! Well, I must be getting on. I’m having tea with Mrs. Beaumont and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “Sheila!” A voice behind me made me turn around. It was Mary, who had just come out of the library. “Have you been to see Father?”

  “Yes, I’ve just left him with your Uncle David and I’m on my way to have tea with your mother. Are you coming?”

  “No, I’m working here now and I’m rather busy at the moment. When are you coming riding again?”

  “Oh, very soon,” I said evasively. “Next week, perhaps. I’ll let you know.”

  “You did like the stables, didn’t you?” she asked anxiously. “I thought Prudence suited you very well, but we could easily find you another horse if you’d rather.”

  “No, I was very happy with Prudence—most ladylike—and I thought the stables were splendid.”

  “And Fay? She’s terrific, isn’t she?”

  “Terrific. I liked her very much. Look, I really did enjoy myself, although I was dreadfully stiff afterward, though I expect that will get better. So I will give you a ring next week to fix up another ride. Now I must go or I’ll be late.”

  I could see Monica Woodward was drinking in all the details of my acquaintance with the various members of the Beaumont family. She would doubtless be passing them on to the other Friends, especially those who resented my involvement with the auction, with suitably pointed comments.

  “Good-bye, Monica,” I said with my brightest smile, “keep up the good work!”

  I made my way carefully down the worn treads of the stone stairs, clutching the heavy rope attached to the wall that served as a handrail, and walked slowly down the left-hand side of the nave so I would pass my favorite tomb. There are two effigies. One is of a knight, Richard of Molland, a Crusader with his legs crossed, but his little dog, instead of lying quietly and traditionally under his feet, is tucked comfortably under his knees. His wife, Elizabeth, robed and wimpled, lies beside him. I always wonder if she cared for animals too. I think not, since her expression—even though time has blunted her features—is not amiable.

  The cathedral was emptier now, most of the visitors having made their way to the tearoom (“cream tea £2.50”), and the choir was rehearsing a setting of the Magnificat, their splendid voices soari
ng up until they seemed to be absorbed into the glorious stone arches and the vaulted roof.

  He hath put down the mighty from their seat: and hath exalted the humble and meek.

  He hath filled the hungry with good things: and the rich he hath sent empty away.

  I wondered if Francis ever actually listened to the words of the service.

  Chapter 8

  I looked up at the drawing-room window of the deanery as I crossed the close and, sure enough, there was Joan’s worried face peering down. I waved and she quickly withdrew, presumably hurrying downstairs to open the door, which stood open for me when I mounted the steps. Joan was hovering anxiously in the hall.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied in some surprise, “is there any reason why it shouldn’t be?”

  “No, of course not—well—it’s just that Francis wasn’t very pleased about David coming over, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, he didn’t say anything in so many words,” Joan said, “but I could tell—he spoke very disparagingly about him and he’s been dreadfully irritable all day ...”

  “Well, he was perfectly civil to David—quite amiable, in fact, considering that they’ve never got on.”

  “No,” Joan sighed, “such a pity! We hardly ever see him now, but in the old days I always found David so agreeable, such good company.”

  “Yes, bless him, he’s very sweet—a thoroughly nice person.”

  The words “unlike his brother” hung in the air between us.

  “Well, anyway,” I went on, “at this moment, they’re having tea together in a perfectly civilized fashion.”

  “Oh, tea!” Joan exclaimed, “do come up—it’s all ready.”

  Tea was laid out as before in the drawing room, but without Francis’s restrictive presence it was a much cozier meal and Joan became positively animated. In fact she chatted away almost nonstop, as if all the casual conversation, the ordinary interchange of everyday life, had been denied to her for so long that she had to come out with it all at once. With me (and with David) she felt relaxed and safe and I caught a glimpse of the person she might have been if it hadn’t been for her formidable father and authoritarian husband. Very sad.

  “I did enjoy my ride with Mary,” I said.

  “Oh, she loves being at the stables,” Joan sighed. “If only... her friend Fay offered her a partnership, you know. I still have a little money of my own—a trust of some kind—and I’d have been very happy to lend her what she needed, but Francis ...”

  “Oh well, I expect she manages to fit in a few rides at weekends and so forth.” I tried to turn the conversation to more cheerful topics. “How’s Adrian? I believe he’s doing very well.”

  This mention of her son, however, was not a success. Joan’s face clouded.

  “I’m really very worried about him. He’s never been very strong, a really nervy boy, if you know what I mean.”

  Not surprising with Francis’s critical eye on him all the time.

  “He’s so unhappy! He never wanted to be an accountant,”

  Joan burst out. “He wanted to be a vet—he’s marvelous with animals—but Francis had made up his mind. It was such a difficult time—all those exams and Francis was so angry when Adrian didn’t pass, which made it worse, of course.”

  Poor Adrian, no wonder he looked like a shadow.

  “I’ve often wondered,” I said, “why Francis didn’t become an accountant himself—he has such a flair for figures—or some sort of businessman. Why the church? Not that he hasn’t done marvelously well, being a dean and everything, and great scope for his organizational abilities, but still ...”

  “I think he always saw himself as a bishop,” Joan said, “right from the beginning, even when he was a curate—I know my father thought so, too.”

  “You mean, he liked to think of himself as a prince of the church. What a pity,” I said frivolously, “he isn’t an RC, then he could have become a cardinal. Scarlet would have become him!”

  “But if he’d been a Roman Catholic priest, he couldn’t have married,” Joan said and I realized I had gone too far in my flight of fancy for her to follow.

  “I was only joking,” I said and she laughed dutifully.

  I changed the conversation to more mundane matters—the recipe for Mrs. Fletcher’s chocolate cake, the proposed visit of the bishop to Bulgaria, the difficulty of finding elastic in any of the local shops—and soon we were quite cozy again.

  At about a quarter to five I was just glancing at my watch and wondering about Evensong when the doorbell rang. Joan went down to answer it and came back with David.

  “Oh good,” I said. “I was just wondering when we ought to go along ...”

  “If you don’t mind, Sheila, I’d rather not go to Evensong.” David’s voice was strained and his face was stony.

  “David! For heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” I got up and went toward him. “What’s happened?”

  “After the totally unchristian way my loathsome brother behaved this afternoon,” David said furiously, “it would be the worst kind of mockery to listen to him taking any sort of church service.”

  Joan, in the doorway, gave a little moan and he turned toward her and said, “I’m sorry, Joan, I don’t want to upset you, but I have to say that I don’t think I can ever bear to see Francis again.”

  I’ve never seen him so angry.

  “But David,” I repeated, “what’s happened?”

  “I asked him once more—no, I begged him—to reconsider selling the house. I told him how my entire life would be in ruins if we didn’t. He absolutely refused to consider it.”

  “Oh, David!”

  “Furthermore,” he continued with considerable bitterness, “he then had the incredible cheek to lecture me about my choice of profession, my lifestyle, and what he chose to call my lack of thrift and failure to make provision for my old age!”

  “Oh, David, I am sorry!” I said. “How despicable! I’m sorry, Joan, but I’m sure you know just how much all this means to David. His whole future depends on it.”

  “No,” she faltered, “Francis never said ... he never discusses anything to do with money with me ... I’m so sorry, David.”

  “Well, I finally lost my temper,” David said, “and told him all the things I’ve wanted to tell him all these years, got it all off my chest!”

  “Goodness,” I said, “how did he take that?”

  “Oh, he stayed on his high horse, went on pontificating, the way he always has. You can never really get through to him, he simply can’t believe he’s in the wrong. In the end I was actually shouting at him!”

  “Good heavens!” David’s splendidly pitched actor’s voice is always totally audible even when he is speaking quietly; shouting, he must have been audible all over the cathedral. “I bet Monica Woodward was drinking it all in!”

  “Monica ... ?”

  “The woman at the table, selling the tickets just outside the door.”

  “Oh dear,” Joan said, looking stricken, “and she’s the most terrible gossip—it’ll be all over the place tomorrow!”

  “Well,” I said firmly, “Francis has only himself to blame. You must admit he’s behaved abominably. Come along, David, we’d better go. I presume Francis won’t be back here before the service, but even so, I for one would prefer not to run into him.”

  “No,” Joan replied, “he said something about seeing the precentor so he won’t be coming back until after Evensong.”

  “Good,” I said. “And you’d better tell him from me that he’ll have to find someone else to arrange the auction for him because there’s no way I’d have anything to do with it now!”

  She protested, but only halfheartedly, and I felt rather mean leaving her to cope with things on her own, especially as Francis would be livid and take his ill temper out on her. But, as I said to David when we were driving back to Taviscombe, she was probably used to that by now.
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  David had recovered his usual equanimity by the time we got home, but he was very depressed.

  “I simply can’t think of any other way to raise the money,” he said, “unless I go to the loan sharks.”

  “No way,” I said. “We must just keep on thinking. There must be something. Anyway, try and put it out of your mind for one evening. Look, Michael will be back soon, let’s all go out to dinner—there’s a new place out at Toland, an old water mill or something, they say the food’s very good. I’ll try and book a table now.”

  It wasn’t a very festive evening, although the food was very good and the atmosphere was agreeable, and we all tried very hard, but there were silences that had to be broken with determinedly cheerful remarks and even a really splendid white burgundy didn’t promote the feeling of relaxed well-being that I had hoped for. It wasn’t surprising, I suppose. Poor David really had come to the end of his tether; there seemed nothing else he could try.

  I was up about six-thirty the next morning. Both the dogs are getting old now and I like to let them out into the garden as early as possible. I stood in the kitchen waiting, in my usual early-morning stupor, for the coffee to drip through the filter and idly watching Foss carefully inspecting every plant and shrub for traces of his old enemy, a black and white farm cat who pays us nightly visits. I was shaken out of my reverie by the telephone, ringing, it seemed, with particular insistency. It was Joan.

  “Sheila? Is David there?”

  “He’s still in bed,” I replied, bewildered by the unexpectedness of the call. “Do you want me to fetch him? What’s the matter, what’s happened?”