Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (5 page)

No one was lurking outside. We turned into a narrow lane that meandered a bit beside a high hedge and then forked off to the left. To our right, a gap in the hedge led to the massive stone cliff that was the Cathedral, and, sure enough, a door let us into a small corridor and then into the chapter house library.

The librarian was so startled to see us emerge from the stacks that he dropped the pile of books he was carrying.

‘Sorry, Colin,’ said Jane. ‘Came in the back way. Escaping the paparazzi.’

He was still gaping as we made our way into the main body of the Cathedral.

S
omehow we managed to make it back to our respective homes without being waylaid.

‘I expect Peter is guarding the door of the pub, letting them think we’re still there. Poor man – think of the beer he could be selling.’

‘We’ll have to make it up to him one day. We can’t stave them off forever, you know, Dorothy.’

My mobile and the landline rang at the same time. I looked at the displays and turned them off. ‘Not for ever, but for now. Because right now I want to know who the Reverend Mr Smith is, and why Mr Mellinger is so dead set against him.’

‘I’ve only a few moments before Kenneth’s meeting, but the short answer is that he’s the Very Reverend, actually – Dean of Rotherford Cathedral – and I’ve only a faint notion why a man like Mellinger would hate him so. I must go, Dorothy. I’ll have to run the gantlet to get to Kenneth’s office, I’m sure.’

‘Go, and may the Force be with you.’

I turned my phone back on after he’d left. I always have it with me and turned on when he’s away, just because … well, just because. Glancing at the long list of messages, I saw that none of them was from anyone I knew, deleted them all, and prepared to ignore calls from anyone except Alan.

Then I turned to my computer. I’ve come late to the Internet, and I still don’t indulge in the social media, but the Web is the greatest source of information ever devised, and I love it.

I’d never heard of Rotherford Cathedral, though I thought I knew most of the notable cathedrals in England, and when I Googled it I was amazed. How could I have missed hearing about this glorious place? Then I read further and understood.

A few years back, the Church of England upgraded some parish churches to cathedrals. Rotherford was one of those, it turned out. Like my beloved Sherebury, it had been an abbey foundation until the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry the Eighth. It seemed to be remarkably well preserved, unlike some of the old abbey churches, many of which had fallen to ruin.

The website didn’t say a lot about the dean, so I waited impatiently for Alan to come home and tell me more.

The meeting seemed to last a long time. I was thinking about tea when Alan walked into the house. Watson greeted him as rapturously as if he’d been gone several years instead of a few hours. The cats went as far as to open their eyes to slits before settling back to their afternoon naps.

‘Yes, old fellow, yes. You’re a fine chap, aren’t you? Who’s ready for a walk, then?’

Watson trotted off for his leash, and I linked my arm with my husband’s. ‘Woof,’ I said. ‘At least – have the media vampires gone away?’

‘Having extracted as much blood as any of us had to give, they’ve folded their wings and gone back to their belfries to wait for the next sensation.’

‘I don’t think vampires dwell in belfries,’ I said. ‘Coffins? Anyway, we’re free of them.’

‘For the moment.
Yes
, Watson, we’re going, old boy.’

The Close was relatively free of wanderers, so we turned Watson free to race about as he wished, while we kept a more leisurely pace.

‘Tell me about the meeting. It certainly took long enough.’

‘We had a lot to discuss. The first item on the agenda was to find a date for an extraordinary emergency meeting of the full commission. Such a thing has never happened before, so there are no protocols in place. The secretary’s in something of a dither about the whole thing, and if you’d ever met him, you’d understand how remarkable that is. His usual demeanour runs from calm to phlegmatic.’

‘The gamut from A to B, as a reviewer once said of a Katharine Hepburn performance. So the secretaries were at this meeting?’

‘The Archbishops’ secretary was, and he was badly shaken. He simply could not get over the horror of a clergyman being murdered in his own church.’

‘He should read some history. It’s happened before. It happened here. Yes, it’s perfectly awful, but dithering isn’t going to help. Did you fix a date for the emergency meeting?’

‘A range. We’re hoping for next week, but everyone has other commitments; it may be longer. Meanwhile, all of us in the diocesan contingent are to get cracking about visiting the three remaining candidates. The secretary doled out assignments for the first visit, and Kenneth and I drew the Reverend Mr Lovelace, of St Barnabas’, London.’

‘He’s one I know nothing about, though I think I’ve seen his name in the news now and then.’

‘Undoubtedly. You should hear Jane on the subject.’

‘On what subject?’

I hadn’t heard Jane approaching across the grass, which softened her solid tread.

‘Hear me on what subject?’ she repeated.

‘The Reverend Mr Lovelace,’ said Alan, trying not to grin. ‘I was telling Dorothy he’s often in the news.’

‘Pah!’ (Jane’s the only person I’ve ever heard actually say ‘pah’.) ‘“Often in the news” indeed! Photo ops, smiling at some urchin. Child wouldn’t know him from Adam. Assistants do all the work. Volunteers, most of them. He poses for pictures, makes speeches. Thinks he’ll be at Canterbury one day.’

Watson had lolloped over to greet Jane, one of his favourite people, and now whined at the tone of her voice. Alan soothed him.

‘You know someone in his congregation,’ I said. It was not a question.

‘Walter.’ Walter is Jane’s grandson. ‘Not at that church anymore. Couldn’t bear the man. Doesn’t like hypocrites.’

‘And what does he think about the whole contentious matter of our bishop search?’ asked Alan. ‘Does he have a point of view?’

Jane grinned. ‘Thinking of getting married, isn’t he? Worrying more about getting a better job than mouldy old church fights. What about yours?’

Our only grandchildren are, in fact, Alan’s, since my first husband and I never had children. ‘Hmm,’ replied Alan. ‘It never occurred to me to ask them. They probably haven’t much interest in church politics, either. Football’s more their speed.’

‘Yes. Old ones and young don’t care. In-betweens are the ones that’ll cause trouble. And the vested interests.’

I raised my hands to the sky. ‘It’s all wrong! This should be about choosing the best man for the job, not pushing agendas! Where’s any hint of the Gospel in all this, where’s even a whiff of Christianity?’ This time Watson’s concern was for me. He came and sat on my feet.

Jane jerked her head at Alan. ‘Where Alan comes in. Deals in principles, not schemes. Sound man.’

Alan shuffled his feet and looked away, embarrassed. I winked at Jane and changed the subject. ‘You say that grandson of yours is getting married? When did this happen? Last I heard, he was still playing the field.’

Like me, Jane came into her grandmotherhood late in life. She had borne a son to a soldier who went off to war and was reported missing in action before he even knew about the baby. They had planned to marry. Jane was a teacher, and an illegitimate child would have ended her career and left her penniless. So the boy was adopted, and Jane lost touch with him, discovering only much later and by accident that she had a grandson. They took to each other from the first, and when Jane finally worked up her courage and told him about the relationship, it only strengthened his love. He was a bright and energetic young man of whom Jane was extremely, and rightly, proud.

‘Met her at university, and then did an internship with her. British Museum.’

‘So they have lots of interests in common. That’s important.’

‘Just waiting for steady jobs before they marry. Sensible.’

I wondered if, meanwhile, they were living together, but I didn’t ask. It was none of my business, and attitudes had changed so much since Jane and I were young that it scarcely mattered anyway. How differently things might have turned out if unwed pregnancy had not been such a social disaster back then. Jane might have been able to keep her baby, marry the father when he did after all come home, know her grandson from the first … but then she might not have taught all her life, and hundreds of young lives would have been the poorer for not having known her wise influence.

Jane turned toward the church. ‘Got to see Margaret about the flower rota. One of the volunteers muddled it, as usual.’ She stumped off.

‘It would appear that Jane is not a fan of Mr Lovelace. I’d like to see for myself. Do you suppose the dean would mind if I tag along?’

‘He suggested it, in fact. He and I are not going together. He thinks we can form better judgements independently. So he and Margaret are visiting the day after tomorrow—’

‘On a Saturday? Why not wait until Sunday?’

‘At a time like this, he feels he should be here at his own altar on a Sunday. St Barnabas’ has a Saturday evening Eucharist. We – you and I – are to go to the Tuesday Evensong. The Archbishops’ secretary has made sure that Lovelace will be taking both services.’

‘Well, then, I’d better call Lynn and find out if she and Tom can put us up. Unless you’re on an expense account and want to go to a hotel?’

‘The secretary offered. I said we had friends in London and could save the Church a little money. And after listening to Jane, I had another idea.’

‘Walter!’ I said. ‘Of course. We can give the kids a meal and listen to his take on Lovelace. All right, dog, I want my tea, too.’

We got Walter’s address and phone number from Jane, and Tuesday morning saw us in the train headed for my city of dreams. I’m a country person, really, but London is in a class by itself. Our good friends Tom and Lynn Anderson had professed themselves delighted to put us up for a couple of nights, and we were genuinely delighted to be seeing them again. Tom and Lynn, American expats like me, have a lot of money and a beautiful Georgian house in Belgravia, “Upstairs, Downstairs” territory. They’re also great hosts, so the visit promised to be enjoyable.

We had taken the train because driving in London is nightmarish, also expensive, given the Congestion Charge meant to discourage driving in the metropolis. It was a good thing we started early, because there were infuriating delays on the journey. Many of England’s railway lines are quite old and in need of repair, and the rail company that serves Sherebury had decided to tear up several miles of track before the highest of high tourist season arrived. So we were shunted aside several times, sat on a siding for a time, and arrived a full hour later than we had planned. Alan was not pleased.

‘If they had only notified us ahead of time, the car would have been much quicker,’ he grumbled. ‘The level of public service in this country—’

‘Is not what it was in my day,’ I finished for him. I tucked my arm through his as we made our way through the rushing throngs in Victoria Station. ‘Careful, dear, or you’ll begin to qualify as an old fogey. And what does it matter? We told Lynn we’d call when we got to London, so she isn’t expecting us at any particular moment. But let’s get out of the station first. You can’t hear yourself think in here.’

The big railway stations in London were built in Victoria’s day, when rail travel was in its heyday and the termini were temples to the train, designed to impress. Many of them have huge vaulted roofs that echo and re-echo the clamour below, making it nearly impossible to hear, among other things, the vital announcements of which train is at which platform. Out on the street, with all the cars and taxis and buses whizzing past, and the tourists wheeling huge suitcases and trying in several languages to figure out where they’re going, it’s neither convenient nor very safe to stop and use a mobile. So Alan and I ducked into the Grosvenor Hotel, which has an entrance directly from the station and is, by comparison, an oasis of peace and quiet.

After he made the call, we walked out into a gorgeous spring morning. April weather in England can be even more erratic than in the American Midwest, but today it was perfect: crisp, with a light breeze and a brilliantly blue sky – London at its happiest.

‘It’s crowded,’ I said with deep content. ‘It’s noisy. It reeks of diesel fumes and frying food and beer. It’s wonderful!’

Alan chuckled and took my arm to cross the dangerously busy Buckingham Palace Road.

T
here are lots of little private parks here and there in Belgravia. The one across from the Andersons’ house was alive with daffodils, and I breathed a deep sigh of contentment. We rang the bell, and heard Lynn rushing down the stairs to greet us. ‘Where’s Watson?’ were her first loving words.

‘Oh, I see. You love us only for our dog. Boo-hoo.’

‘You brought him the last time you came to stay with us.’ Her tone was still accusatory as she led us up the stairs to the sitting room.

‘Yes, but this time we had to leave him and the cats in Jane’s care. We’ve come on a mission, and we could hardly take a dog to church with us.’

‘Church? You haven’t abandoned the Cathedral, have you? Tell all.’

I hadn’t taken the time on the phone to explain our errand, so Alan and I talked while Lynn fetched us some of her superb coffee and lovely homemade pastries.

‘But, Alan,’ she exclaimed when our tale was finished, ‘you never
told
me you were picking out the new bishop! I heard about the murder, of course, but I didn’t know
you
had anything to do with it!’

‘Well, not with the murder, in fact,’ Alan began, a twinkle in his eye.

‘Who did it – one of the other hopefuls?’

‘We trust not,’ said Alan, ‘but as far as I know the police haven’t got very far with their inquiries.’

‘What do you mean, as far as you know? Aren’t you in on it?’

‘Lynn Anderson, you can be the most exasperating person!’ I put down my coffee cup. ‘You know perfectly well Alan’s retired, and furthermore he’s almost a suspect in this case.’