Body in the Transept (17 page)

She glanced at her watch. “Oh, heavens, I’ve got to fly or Mum’ll be having seven fits. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I can’t wait to see your dress!” I waved, and she was off. I was glad she was feeling better. But for how long?

I wandered unhappily, letting my feet take me where they would while my mind pursued its own paths, and they took me, as usual when given free rein, to the cathedral. I found myself in the nave with no idea how I had gotten there, but willing enough to pass some time in its vast peace and stillness, tangible as water in a pool. Only a handful of people were in sight; I would be in no one’s way if I relaxed for a while.

For a long time I simply sat, bathing in serenity, letting my mind drift. Even on this bright day the nave dozed in the softened light of medieval stained glass. Stirrings of sound somewhere in another part of the cathedral only intensified the fundamental quiet.

How odd, really, if one thought about it, that after all that had happened this place should still be a retreat of tranquility. Or perhaps not so odd. The present crisis must be, to this vast and venerable pile of stone, but a tiny, fleeting stain on the fabric. It had seen far worse down through the centuries. The worst that man could invent could have no lasting impact on the essential character of the cathedral. If we were to burn it down, I thought dreamily, leaving nothing but a lacy Gothic shell, it would remain a refuge and a haven, like Tintern Abbey.

But what of the people? To be selfish, what about me? The cathedral might survive no matter what, but I still didn’t like the stain. I wanted to scrub it out. Until this was settled there was an uneasiness, a disquiet. Until this was settled, I couldn’t settle—into a new community, into a new life.

That, I realized, was at the heart of it. That was why I went on meddling in something distinctly unpleasant that was really none of my business. Because this murder had involved me almost from the beginning, I had to stay involved to the end or lose the sense of belonging that I had just begun to establish. No matter how much of a fool I looked to other people, this
was
my business.

The uneasiness had taken up residence between my shoulder blades; I couldn’t sit still any longer. I set off in search of the dean. The time had come when I had to talk to him about Messrs. Sayers and Wallingford. And come to think of it, what might he know about one Archibald Pettifer?

The play of light in the nave was like music made visible. In bright chords of color it reflected from wall to wall, swirled and eddied in the dust motes like a chant. One could almost hear it.

I
could
hear it; the chant was real, though no singer was visible. Mystified, I followed my ears and saw the dean, fully vested, and—surely that was the bishop with his crozier!—both of them behind an acolyte who was swinging his censer and making his way down the south choir transept. Moving quietly at a discreet distance, I stepped after the little procession.

They stopped at the last side chapel before the cloister door. In my position, sheltered behind a tomb, I couldn’t hear the words of the prayers that the dean and bishop were intoning so softly, but their intent was clear. I didn’t need the clouds of incense that were enveloping altar, clergy, and all to tell me that a cleansing was taking place here. This holy place had been desecrated with the intent of murder, if not the actual act. Evil had been here, and could not be allowed to remain. I stole a little nearer and heard the words of the Litany rise with the incense. “From all evil and mischief; from sin; from the crafts and assaults of the devil; from thy wrath, and from everlasting damnation . . .” With the others, I murmured in response, “Good Lord, deliver us.”

The service was short. As the little procession turned to go, I blinked the incense out of my eyes, and then blinked again. The light in the Norman transept was never good, but surely there was a fourth figure in the procession? Humbly bringing up the rear, a monk walked with lowered head and silent, sandaled feet. I turned my head away, but not this time in fear. It was only right to give him his privacy, poor man. How many hundreds of years had it been since any kind of service had been held at that altar, his own particular place? He was worshiping in his own way, I supposed, and it was right that he should do so. What matter whether he was alive or dead?

When I looked again he was gone. They were all gone. But I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Clouds of incense still hung in the air. I suppressed a cough and moved away quietly, feeling as if I had intruded on something private, a family affair.

I waited about, reading tomb inscriptions, until the dean emerged from the vestry.

“How nice to see you, Mrs. Martin,” he said, smiling. It was nearly his old smile, without the lines of worry that had shadowed it for the past week. Serenity shone once more from his kind face. Perhaps the service had exorcised the demons from the chapel; certainly they were gone from the dean. “I’m glad you were there just now,” he went on. “This has surely been as trying for you as for all of us. Perhaps it will be better now.”

“It is better, thank you. I didn’t mean to intrude on the service, though; that’s why I stayed in the background. I might have known you would see me. Did you see . . .?” I bit off the question, but the dean’s smile turned almost to a grin.

“Our friend? Was he there? It wouldn’t surprise me. But I didn’t see him. I never see him, if I can help it.”

I chuckled. “No, it wouldn’t be proper, would it? You know, the odd thing is, I’ve seen him twice before, and he terrified me, both times. This time I just felt rather sorry for him. Perhaps I’m getting used to seeing ghosts.”

His face changed; he looked worried and upset. “You know, Mrs. Martin, there really are no such things as ghosts; I shouldn’t have joked about it. If we think we see odd things now and again in an old place like this, they can be nothing more, really, than shadows of things that were, with no power to harm us. If you were frightened, there must be—something else. I’m sure I don’t know what,” he ended rather helplessly.

“No, it’s all right, I’m just being an idiot, I expect. But I did want to talk to you about—what happened here. If this is a bad time I can come back . . .”

“No, no, of course not. I’m entirely at your disposal until Evensong. Would you like to come across to the deanery, or will the little study do?”

I said the little study would be fine, and the dean led the way, securely in charge again. I felt uneasy. He thought I was troubled by a crisis of conscience or some such spiritual malady; how would he react to my playing detective?

“There now,” he said when we were both settled in the squashy old chairs, “what can I do for you?”

I sat in silence for a long moment, considering how to begin. “I don’t know if this is going to make any sense to you,” I said finally. “I’m not sure it makes sense to me, to tell the truth. But you see, I’ve been—looking into Canon Billings’s murder.”

The dean cocked his head to one side, inquiringly.

“Sort of—talking to people. Trying to find out what happened. Oh, I know what you’re going to say,” I added as he opened his mouth. “And I agree with you. The police are the people to do this, and they’re quite competent, and all that. But somehow I can’t leave it at that. It’s partly that I love this cathedral,” I mumbled, embarrassed at displaying emotion in front of an Englishman, “and partly that I found the body, and partly that I rather fell for Nigel Evans and want to make sure he’s well out of it, and—oh, I don’t know, really. But I’ve been asking a lot of questions, and there are some I’d like to ask you, that’s all.” There, it was out. And it sounded quite as silly as I expected it to.

“I think that’s perfectly natural,” said the dean. “So long as we agree that I may not be able to answer in some cases, ask me what you like.”

I gave him a grateful smile. Someday I may learn not to underestimate people.

“I should have known you’d understand. All right, then, I won’t try to be tactful. First of all, there are lots of rumors circulating that both Mr. Sayers and Mr. Wallingford had good reason to dislike the canon, in fact that they both stood to lose their jobs if he had his way, and Mr. Wallingford might face a term in jail. Can you tell me anything about any of that?”

“I’ve discussed part of this with the police, of course. They don’t seem to have got hold of the rumors about Mr. Sayers yet, and I didn’t think to tell them. . . .”

“I may have to, you know. I promised myself I wouldn’t get cute with anything important. As a matter of fact I doubt I’ll find out anything they don’t already know; it’s just that I might interpret it differently.”

“Yes, of course you’d look at things with a fresh eye, as a newcomer. As to Mr. Sayers, it’s not much more than a rumor, and I’d be glad to lay it to rest, if I can. It’s true that Canon Billings did not approve of some of the choices about the music. He was inclined to be extremely conservative. I have a tin ear, as my dear wife is always telling me, so I did give some consideration to what Canon Billings said. However, enough people had come to me to compliment me on the improvement in the music since we hired Mr. Sayers that I was disposed to be cautious. I discussed the matter, in fact, with members of the music faculty from the university. They universally advised me that Mr. Sayers was the best thing that had happened to cathedral music in years, and that I could count myself extremely lucky to have him. I would not have allowed him to be dismissed under any circumstances.”

That sounded final enough. Except, except . . .

“Did he know that?”

“I had mentioned to Canon Billings—”

“No, sorry, but I mean Jeremy Sayers. Did he know his job was safe?”

“I certainly never gave him any other impression,” said the dean, looking a little startled. “I assumed he knew nothing about the controversy, and needn’t know.”

“Oh, he knew, all right.” Were even the best clergymen always a little naive? “He was quite certain he was going to be fired any minute.” The dean raised his eyebrows. “He told me so himself.”

“Oh dear.” Naive, perhaps, but never stupid. He saw the implications clearly enough.

“Right. I don’t suppose you know where Sayers was between the children’s service and midnight Mass?”

“It is his habit to rehearse for an hour or two between services, but I can’t say for certain. I went home for a nap; I’m not getting any younger, and the late service is rather strenuous.”

“I see.” We looked at each other, and I gave up that unproductive topic for another. “And Mr. Wallingford? I know he’s in the clear now, but how much trouble was he really in before?”

The dean didn’t question how I knew. “A great deal, I’m afraid. Here, again, the matter is virtually public knowledge. There’s really no doubt that he was stealing from the cathedral. The treasurer and I looked into the matter thoroughly when the totals began to come in at about half of what they ought to be, both from the collections and from the restoration fund boxes. It came down to Mr. Wallingford. There was simply no question that the money disappeared whilst under his responsibility, but we couldn’t imagine how he did it, and there was no proof. There is still no proof, and no explanation, but as the money has been approximately made up and it seems certain Mr. Wallingford will be more careful in future, we have decided to pursue the matter no further.”

“It has been made up, you’re sure? I mean it isn’t just fudged bookkeeping or something?”

“Oh, no, the money came in yesterday morning, in cash. Mr. Wallingford called attention to it, as a matter of fact, when he brought in the money from Matins. Said something about what a nice Christmas present. We could scarcely believe it, all those lovely new hundred-pound notes.”

“You’re sure he’s the one who put it there.”

“As sure as we can reasonably be. It would be most unusual for a real donation of that size to be made anonymously, in cash. Unprecedented, in fact. You do realize we’re talking about several thousand pounds.”

“Good grief, no, I had no idea it was as much as all that!”

“It’s been going on for some time,” the dean said dryly. “As you can imagine, we are very glad to have the money back.”

“I’m sure you are, but it doesn’t alter the fact that Mr. Wallingford had excellent reason to fear Canon Billings.”

“No.” The dean spread his hands and sighed. “But what can we do? There is no proof of anything.”

I saw no reason to tell him that Wallingford was lying about his activities on Christmas Eve. The dean had enough to worry him. But he went on.

“There’s no denying, I’m afraid, that Mr. Wallingford has proved unsatisfactory in many respects. He is sometimes quite rude to visitors, and nothing I say seems to help. He can be maddeningly pompous, and never seems to be where he is supposed to be; I’ve been looking for him all day to arrange some details about tomorrow’s services, and he seems to have vanished. But now that he’s put back what he’s stolen—and I’m quite sure that’s what he’s done—it would be most unfair to sack him. In fact,” he shook his head ruefully, “I fear we’re stuck with the man for life.”

“And that’s because Canon Billings died, too,” I said soberly. “There doesn’t seem any end to it. Nigel will get to keep his job—at least I suppose he will?”

The dean nodded.

“. . . and his place at the university. The Endicotts probably get to build on their addition, and Mr. Sayers goes on producing glorious music here. On the other hand, you have to keep putting up with Mr. Wallingford, and that Mr. Pettifer will go about wreaking destruction in Sherebury unopposed.”

“Oh, I do hope you’re wrong about that, Mrs. Martin,” said the dean with a frown. “That is one matter in which I was very much in agreement with Canon Billings.”

“I suppose no one is all black,” I agreed. “If only he’d gone about things differently, maybe people wouldn’t have hated him so much. Maybe he’d still be alive.”

“It was a mistake to bring him here,” said the dean, more to himself than me. “He was no good with people; he put their backs up. I must admit there were times when he might have told me eggs were eggs, and I’d have disagreed on principle. However,” he sighed, “we mustn’t judge him too harshly. He was brought here to do a job, and he did it very well. He was a first-rate scholar, you know.”