Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (12 page)

‘You,’ I told him, ‘are almost as good a liar as the cats.’

And then I clutched Alan’s arm and turned toward him a delighted face. ‘Bells!’

They were practicing a peal, from the sound of it, and they had a good set of ringers. The bells sounded out clear and true in joyous order. I know almost nothing about change-ringing save what I gleaned from Dorothy L. Sayers’ marvellous novel
The Nine Tailors
, so I had no idea what ‘method’ they were ringing, but it didn’t matter. ‘This is a
proper
cathedral town,’ I said happily.

We stood and listened for a while, but Watson began to get restless, so we strolled back to our B and B to put my new hat safely away, and then left him in the back garden, with the consent of our hostess, and went to seek lunch. Predictably, we ended up at a pub.

‘Just a half for me, and I think a ploughman’s, if they do them here. A salad, if not.’ I was feeling fat. The mirror at the hat shop had revealed puffier cheeks than I liked to think I had.

Alan fetched our beer and ordered our food, and when he had sat down I said, ‘Tell me about the cathedral. I understand it’s one of the new ones?’

‘New as a cathedral, though quite old as a parish church. Fourteenth century, I believe. Decorated.’

The term referred, I realized, to a particular style of English Gothic, not to the work of a painter or interior design artist. ‘And big, I think Christopher said?’

‘Huge, for a parish church. As you can plainly tell, there’s a very nice bell tower with a high steeple. Shall we go take a look after lunch?’

Well, that was one of the less necessary questions. I was dying to see the church, so I polished off most of my ploughman’s lunch in short order, virtuously leaving some of the bread and a minute fragment of cheese, and we headed off in the direction of the bells.

There’s no point in describing Rotherford Cathedral. Any guide to fine English cathedrals will have pictures. I will just say that it is glorious. Not as beautiful as Sherebury, of course, but almost no church can live up to my own beloved Cathedral. Rotherford is smaller, but quite big enough, and, unlike Sherebury, it’s all of a piece. My Cathedral has one transept from a much earlier period than the rest of the structure, but Rotherford never suffered from a devastating fire like that which destroyed most of Sherebury in its early days, requiring rebuilding of all but the one transept. Rotherford, I saw, was also spared the Cromwellian destruction.

‘Look, Alan, the statues all still have their heads. Why is that?’

‘Ah. Therein lies a tale. Come in and sit, and I’ll tell you about it.’

We found chairs near the back that were isolated by some trick of acoustics from the clamour of the bells, and Alan tented his fingers in what I’ve come to think of as his lecturing position.

‘It started with a turn of fate that seemed a disaster at the time. When Henry dissolved the monasteries – this was one, you know.’

I nodded.

‘Well, when that happened, most of the abbeys were either sold to private buyers, or given as gifts to those owed favours by the Crown, or simply destroyed. Some were left to decay, some despoiled by locals looking for building materials. Rotherford, however, didn’t appeal to any buyers or gift recipients because it was prone to flooding. The river was very much higher then, apparently, or else it’s more effectively contained now. At any rate, there was a major flood at just about the time Henry was wanting to get rid of the abbey, and although the buildings weren’t touched, the whole place was isolated by the waters. So the place was simply closed and locked up, and looked like decaying slowly.

‘But then the people living in the surrounding town and countryside stepped in. They had greatly loved their abbey, it seems, and were determined to save it from devastation, until such time as, in their eyes, sanity was restored to the country.’

‘So how did they protect it?’

‘By sheer cunning, aided considerably by good fortune. It was one of the last foundations to be dissolved, and by that time the king’s attentions were engaged elsewhere. This was not one of the wealthy abbeys, so the pickings weren’t as good as elsewhere, and, as I say, nobody really wanted it. Henry more or less forgot about it, in part because the councillor who should have reminded him was from Rotherford, and had a sneaking affection for the place. So, with the tacit cooperation of the councillor, the locals built a high wall around it and then planted the fastest-growing trees and vines they could find up against both sides of the wall. By the time any of the king’s men came looking for spoils, all that could be seen was a dense copse.’

‘Good heavens! Sleeping Beauty’s castle. But surely the tower was visible.’

‘The tower and the bells were added much later – late seventeenth century, I believe. So, yes, the place looked exactly like something out of Sleeping Beauty. The secret was kept for years, and then decades, and then over a century. Local men and women passed along to future generations the secret of the way through the wall, so repairs could be made, but so devoted were they to their abbey that no one ever told. Cromwell’s men had no idea it was there.’

‘You’re not making this up, are you? It sounds like a fairy tale.’

‘It does, I agree, but no, I’m not making it up. It’s true, one of the famous “hidden” tales of English history.’

‘But it’s so romantic. Why haven’t I ever heard it before?’

‘The people here still aren’t eager for it to get about. You know the English have long memories. I learned about it from a chap I worked with years ago, when he’d had a few over the eight. We’d been talking about secret passages and he said I’d be surprised where one was, right in little Rotherford, where he had lived as a boy. He became dimly aware then that he’d said too much and shut up, but I was intrigued and did a bit of research, and it took some real digging, I can tell you. The outline of the story is mentioned in a local history or two, but with no details, and apparently no one to this day has ever revealed where the entry is – or was. Of course, the wall is long gone, and the concealing vegetation. I don’t know when they decided it was safe to start using the church again, but certainly not until the Protectorate was over and the monarchy restored.’

I sighed with delight. ‘What a wonderful story! And what a wonderful church. Can we see the rest of it?’

A verger appeared then, and asked us if we wanted a tour, but when we said we preferred to wander by ourselves, he was amenable and handed us a brochure with a floor plan and some mention of principal points of interest.

Our first stop was the chapel devoted to private prayer. Nearly every English cathedral has one, a place set aside from traffic areas and noise, where one can be alone with God, whoever one conceives him to be. We knelt for a moment, each with our own thoughts. I was giving thanks for the beauty that surrounded us, and also put up a fervent petition that Sherebury might find the right bishop. I suspect Alan’s prayers had something to do with the search, too.

When we rose, the first thing I wanted to see was the chapter house. Now, not all cathedrals have one of those, only the ones that have been monasteries at some point in their careers. It was the place where the monks gathered once a day to hear a chapter read from the Rule of their order, and to discuss any business matters that might be before the abbey. They vary in style according to the architecture of the building, of course, but the most popular style was circular or octagonal, the roof supported by a single central pillar, with stone benches ranged along the walls. The most famous one of this type is possibly at Wells, where the lovely steps leading to it have been photographed innumerable times. Sherebury’s chapter house is also of this pattern, though the room is now used as the Cathedral library, with rows of bookshelves, which rather spoil the effect.

Perhaps Rotherford hadn’t been a cathedral long enough to acquire much of a library. At any rate, the fine old octagonal room was bare and washed with sunlight from the high windows all around. They were glazed with plain leaded glass, not stained, so the natural light saturated the already golden stone. My breath caught in my throat.

Alan smiled, put his arm around my shoulder, and drew me close.

Sometimes the best communication is wordless.

We wandered, then, without aim or purpose, finding here a charming little chantry, there an amusing tomb inscription, amazing stained glass, exquisite carvings.

There comes a moment, though, when one is saturated with beauty and wonder, and unable to take in any more. When I responded with a nod and a murmur to something Alan pointed out, he said, ‘Tea time, then?’ and we walked out in perfect agreement.

It was a little early for tea, so we inspected the churchyard for a bit. It was neatly mowed, by machine, I realized regretfully. It’s only the country churches that still allow sheep and goats in the churchyard to keep the grass trimmed. They do a much better job than mechanical devices, especially around the headstones, and of course they fertilize the grass as well, but I suppose a cathedral feels that animal droppings are a trifle undignified. I don’t know why. They’re small, and smell no worse to my senses than gasoline fumes.

We picked out a few interesting inscriptions to read to each other, and then decided we were now in need of sustenance, so we found a tea shop, crowded on a Tuesday afternoon, and eventually snagged a seat outside.

Of course, our conversation turned to the search.

‘So far,’ I said, ‘it’s Robinson by a length. By a lap. By a mile. I’m sorry, but I simply cannot like Lovelace. Even if he isn’t an embezzler. I wish we’d hear something from Walter.’

‘These things take time, if one is cautious. And we certainly want him to be cautious.’

‘We do. Alan, that man is dangerous.’

‘He is. He’s political and he’s manipulative, and he’s so damnably persuasive. I truly fear that he may be chosen, and I dread the prospect.’

‘Can’t you stop it? Does the vote have to be unanimous?’

‘No, unfortunately it does not. A simple majority. In less contentious times I understand the candidates were often chosen by acclamation, but it certainly isn’t going to be like that this time.’

‘No. The Church has become so politicized. In a way, I suppose it’s better than indifference, but it doesn’t seem very Christian.’

‘I do seem to recall,’ said Alan drily, ‘that our Lord once said that he had come not to bring peace, but division.’

‘And how right he was.’ I sighed and took another scone.

T
he next morning we were up early. Watson saw to that. It was a beautiful day, there were all sorts of exciting sights and smells outdoors, and he didn’t intend to be shut up in a house any longer. So he made much more of a nuisance of himself than usual, and Alan was up, sketchily dressed, and out taking him for a walk before seven. I snoozed for a little, but it
was
a beautiful day, and the birds in the garden were making such a happy racket I couldn’t really sleep. So I was showered and dressed and ready for breakfast when husband and dog returned, both in great spirits.

‘We walked down to the river. It’s quite nice down there. Masses of water fowl – ducks, coots, swans, all sorts.’

‘I suppose Watson wanted to chase them.’

‘Of course he did, but the cob taught him his manners. A swan can be quite alarming when he wants to be.’

‘They certainly terrify me. I hope he didn’t get too muddy.’

‘A bit, but I cleaned his paws before we came in. He’s quite socially acceptable now. Which is more than you can say for me. If you’ll see to his breakfast, I’ll be with you as soon as I’m fit company.’

We’d brought his food and dishes along with us, so I took him down to the garden where he could eat without worrying too much about mess. He wolfed his food happily and then was reasonably content to stay in the walled garden while his humans had their meal. I promised him a bit of sausage or bacon later. Alan and I have strict rules about feeding him snacks, rules we break every time something especially tempting is on offer.

We felt a bit like sausages ourselves when we’d tucked into the full English breakfast, so we took another stroll around the town, with Watson. The influence of the cathedral was obvious everywhere. The Boys and Girls Club, which was clean, tidy, and plainly in daily use, had a message board outside listing activities for the coming week, many of them involving cathedral personnel. The row of pretty alms-houses was also in good repair, despite its venerable age. ‘Church endowed?’ I wondered aloud, and Alan pointed out the brass plaque on the end house. ‘Est. 1512 by Thos. Swain, Esq. & St Martha’s Abbey. Re-estab. 1715 by St Martha’s Church.’

It was the same everywhere we looked. A school sported a poster advertising end-of-term activities, with the dean visiting. A village hall advertised a concert a week hence featuring the cathedral choir, in aid of Oxfam. A shop listed times when free food would be distributed, with addenda thanking contributors. The cathedral and Dean Smith headed the list.

We had decided to see the dean first in his cathedral – on stage, so to speak – so we spent most of that Wednesday just being tourists, with the now-routine nap in the middle of the afternoon.

The bells woke us. It was time for me to fetch my hat and my good shoes, banish Watson to the garden, and make our way to church.

For weeks now my mind had kept harking back to Trollope’s Barsetshire novels. Alan had compared our present bishop to the henpecked, ineffectual Bishop Proudie in
Barchester Towers
, and I had to admit there was a good deal of truth in that. Now, seated in the cathedral, I saw that the Very Reverend James Smith was, on the other hand, a near-perfect model of Septimus Harding, the sweet, mild-mannered precentor of Trollope’s Barchester Cathedral. Dean Smith was a smallish man with sparse greying hair. His wire-rimmed spectacles gave him an earnest look, as did the wrinkled brow produced, I suspected, by poor eyesight. I recognized the peering expression from my own mirror.

I had expected, from his appearance, that the dean would have a quavery voice, but it was, instead, strong and sweet. The service was spoken, rather than chanted, but the dean did intone a few phrases, not only reverently but in tune.