The Black Seraphim (27 page)

At last, when the approach of dawn was turning the windows grey, he did drop into a deep sleep, to be awakened by a hand on his shoulder. It was Dora Brookes. She said, “I do apologise for bursting in on you like this, Doctor, but I knocked two or three times and didn’t get as much as a grunt out of you. If you’re planning to catch the nine-o’clock train, you won’t have much time for breakfast.”

“A cup of coffee will be all I’ll want,” said James. He looked blear-eyed at his watch and discovered that it was already five past eight. When he had thrown his clothes on and got down to the dining room, he found that only one place was laid.

Dora said, “Henry’s not himself this morning. I’m giving him his breakfast in bed. He gets these migraines. Some of it’s the weather and some of it’s worry.”

“It’s been a worrying time for everybody,” agreed James. “And as for the weather, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

He had been conscious, as he lay awake, of the relentless drumming of the rain on the roof. It had stopped for the moment, but a solid bank of black clouds, mounting with ominous slowness behind the Cathedral, gave promise of more and worse to co”It’s something to do with the winds,” said Dora. “Tom Lister once tried to explain it to me. There’s one wind brings the rain in from the sea and there’s a different one off the escarpment that prevents it from going away again. The last time it happened, about twenty years ago, it rained for two whole days and nights without stopping and the river flooded and the chairs in the Cathedral went floating down the aisle. He showed me a photograph of it.”

“As long as I can get to the station without being drowned,” said James.

“I’ll lend you one of Henry’s umbrellas. If you get a move on, you ought to be all right.”

James had a call to make on his way to the station. He hoped it would not hold him up too long, and there he was lucky. As he was passing the front of the school, Penny spotted him from the window and waved. He waved back, and for Penny this was a sufficient invitation. She came bouncing down the path, dodging in and out of the puddles.

“And where is the promising young pathologist off to?”

This was a description of James which had appeared in the press when reporting the inquest and had been following James around ever since.

“I’m catching a train,” said James. “And I’m in a hurry, so cut out the crosstalk. There’s something I want to know and you can tell me.”

“Carry on, Sherlock.”

“Exactly how old is your father and when is his birthday?”

Penny started to say, “Why on earth—” but the look in James’ eye stopped her. She said, “He’s coming up to forty-two, and if you want to give him a present, you’re just in time. His birthday’s next Monday.”

“Thank you,” said James.

He looked, thought Penny, as though what she had told him was bad news, but that he had been expecting it. She said, “What’s it all about, James?”

“Can’t stop, or I’ll miss the train.”

He loped off, half running, half walking. Penny watched him go. She wondered whether she ought to say something about it to her mother and decided not to.

James caught his train with two minutes to spare and had time to buy a selection of the morning papers. It was when he reached the centre page of the
Guardian
that the headlines of the second leading article hit him.

Becket at Melchester, it said, with the subheading, Church Against State.

The writer had evidently been at the inquest, had been intrigued by what he had heard, and had snooped around the town a bit.

“The inquiry into the death of Archdeacon Pawle, who died at Melchester three weeks ago last Saturday, has reached a point at which the authorities must be wishing they could call on a quartet of knights and say to them, ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?’ Unfortunately, such rough remedies are no longer available, and it seems that in this Cathedral city, with its ancient buildings and its medieval traditions, the Church is held in greater respect than the State. Dean Matthew Forrest has forbidden the inhabitants of the Close to co-operate with the police. They are to answer no questions and give them no assistance. ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,’ appears to be his attitude, ‘but to God the things that are God’s.’ Inside the Close it is the Dean, as God’s regent, who lays down the guidelines. This has resulted in a deadlock which the police seem powerless to break . . .”

“And that’s not going to please them,” thought James.

Dr Leigh was waiting for him in his office at New Cross. He greeted him warmly and said, “I apologise for dragging you all the way up from Melchester. Actually, I had two reasons. I’ll tell you about the second one later. It was Bill Gadney who suggested to me that we might tackle the very far end of the spectrum. I think he really wanted to see if our gas-chromatograph was all we had cracked it up to be.”

“At the
very
far end? Wouldn’t there be a good deal of distortion?”

“That’s what Bill thought, I don’t doubt. And it wasn’t an easy operation. We had to make dozens of micro-readings and compare the results.”

“Average them?”

“You could call it that, I suppose. It really meant rejecting the freaks and concentrating on anything that looked at all consistent. My principal assistant – do you remember Ron Highway?”

James laughed, for the first time on that dismal day. “Certainly I remember Ron. We used to call him the Armadillo. An armour-plated exterior and a long inquiring nose.”

Dr Leigh laughed too. He said, “Well, he got so keen on the job that I couldn’t drag him away from it. I should think he spent more than thirty working hours glued to that machine. And he did get some very interesting results.” Dr Leigh looked serious again. “Our results will have to go to the police, of course. I telephoned Bill last night and he suggested that I ought to have a word with you first. He’d have come down here himself, only he’s got involved with that mass food poisoning scare at Leamington. Here’s a summary of our findings. Acetone, butyl alcohol, iso-propyl alcohol and butyric acid. I needn’t tell you what that means.”

As James moved around to look at the paper on the desk, he became aware of two things. The first was that his legs felt curiously weak. The second was that he might be going to pass out.

Dr Leigh must have observed something, because he said, “What’s up, James? Are you feeling rotten? Sit down and take it easy.”

“Stupid of me,” said James. “I’ll be all right in a moment. The fact is, I had rather a bad night and I skipped breakfast.”

Dr Leigh opened a cupboard, extracted a squat unlabelled bottle, poured a generous quantity from it into a glass and said, “Put that down. It’ll warm your stomach and clear your head. No heel taps. There now. Is that better?”

“Much better,” said James, when he had got his breath back. “What is it?”

“Secret recipe of the Poisons Unit. We call it the corpse galvaniser. Before we do any more talking, we must get some food into you. I’ve booked a table for three at a little place round the corner. Bunny’s joining us there. It’s not far, but I think we’ll take my car. It looks as if we’re going to get a spot of rain before long.”

“You’ll be lucky if it’s only a spot,” said James. He explained that a sort of stationary cloudburst seemed to have settled over Melchester. “I think perhaps that was one of the things that upset me.”

The little place around the corner turned out to be a wine lodge, with a back room which had half a dozen tables in it. The Medical Registrar was already in possession of one of them.

“I told you there were two reasons for dragging you up to town,” said Dr Leigh. “Bunny’s the second one. He’s got some news for you.”

“I hope you’ll think it good news,” said the Registrar. “I certainly do. You probably know that I’ve been badgering the Governors for some time to let me have a proper Number Two. I’ve always wanted you for the job. Originally they jibbed at the idea of appointing a pathologist. I told them being a pathologist didn’t mean that you couldn’t do an administrative job as well. Anyway, I convinced them. It’ll mean more money, of course, quite a lot more. And there’s a flat goes with the job. I hope you’ll say yes.”

“I won’t only say yes,” said James breathlessly, “I’ll say thank you very much. It’s terrific news.” He thought for a moment. “When you said a flat – would it be big enough for two?”

Both men looked at him. Then Dr Leigh waved an imperious hand and said to the waiter, who came scurrying up, “I see we’re going to need a bottle of champagne. Don’t bother about putting it on ice. Just bring it along with three glasses. Who is she?”

“As a matter of fact, it’s Amanda Forrest.”

“The Dean’s daughter? The one they were making a dead set against at that inquest?”

“Until you and Bill Gadney came and stood them all on their heads.”

“You ought to have been there, Bunny,” said Dr Leigh. “By God, there’s not been anything like it since St George killed the dragon and rescued the beautiful damsel.”

“Was the Coroner being difficult?”

“No. Let’s be fair. He was all right. But it was a hanging jury if ever I saw one.”

The champagne arrived and Amanda’s health was drunk.

“I only wish Bill could have been here,” said Dr Leigh. “That would have made it perfect.”

James was feeling extraordinarily warm and happy. Part of it, no doubt, was reaction from the gloom of the morning, but there was more to it than that. These were not only friends, they were colleagues. They were the sort of people he liked dealing with. Adult people who thought professionally and didn’t allow sentiment to cloud their judgment. This was his real life. The other life, the life he had become involved in when he had stepped into Melchester Close a month ago, was a fantasy. A world peopled by men and women motivated by childish animosities and raw emotions. The whole thing could easily have been a dream. The only real character in it was Amanda, and he proposed to extract her from it as soon as he possibly could.

“You’ve said nothing for three minutes,” said the Registrar. “I hope your thoughts were happy ones.”

“Most of them,” said James apologetically. “There’s one piece of business I’ve got to clear up. It’s not going to be agreeable, but it’s got to be done. I’m afraid you must have thought I was a bit stupid when you were talking about Ron Highway’s work, but I did understand what it meant.”

“It’s answered your immediate problem, has it?”

“Yes,” said James sadly. “I’m afraid it has.”

At three o’clock that afternoon Valentine Laporte summoned a council of war.

Present were Chief Superintendent Terry, head of the uniformed branch; his deputy, Superintendent March; Bracher, representing the CID; and Grant Adey in his capacity as chairman of the Watch Committee of the Borough.

They had all read the article in the
Guardian
and they were all angry.

“Any help you want from the Council,” said Adey, “I’ll guarantee you get it. The man’s making a laughing stock of all of us. It’s got to stop.”

There was a rumble of assent.

Laporte said, “I’ve taken advice from our legal people. They say the position’s clear enough. Anyone can refuse to answer questions. We know that. But if you can prove that someone is trying to prevent other people from answering questions, that’s obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. He can be taken in and charged. And what’s more, he can be refused bail.”

“Kept inside, you mean,” said Adey.

“Until he gives suitable undertakings. Yes.”

“But you’ve got to be able to prove obstruction.”

“Do we need any more proof than that?” He pointed to a piece of paper on the table. “Everyone in the Close got one of those last night.”

The document, which had apparently been typed and then photocopied, said:

As you will know, one of the possible reasons which was put forward to account for the sudden death of Archdeacon Pawle was that he had contracted virus pneumonia. This is a very dangerous and highly contagious disease. Since there is a possibility that this infection may have been passed on to other members of our Close community, I have decided, in the general interest, to declare the Close an area of possible contagion. Until further notice, no members of the public will be admitted on any pretext whatsoever. You will, no doubt, have to go out, but you are advised to keep your contacts with the town to a minimum.

Signed: Matthew Forrest. Dean.

“Is he enforcing this?” said Adey.

“He certainly is,” said Bracher. “All gates except the High Street Gate have been locked, and Mullins or one of his assistants is on duty the whole time.”

“I suppose it’s medical nonsense,” said Terry.

“Complete nonsense,” said Laporte. “I’ve spoken to Dr McHarg. The Archdeacon had been down in the docks area three or four days before he died. That’s what gave some colour to the original theory that he might have caught the disease. The maximum reinfection period is six days. The Archdeacon died – for God’s sake – more than three
weeks
ago. Twenty-four days, to be precise. Of course it’s nonsense.”

“That’s clear enough, then,” said Terry. “Pull him in.”

There was a moment of silence. Everyone was thinking of Dean Forrest locked up in a cell below the police station. The idea thus suddenly presented was so inappropriate as to be almost outrageous.

Adey said, “Might it just be worth making one last effort to induce him to see sense? If he knew what was going to happen if he refused—”

“How are we going to talk to him when he won’t come out and won’t let us in? He’s not even on the telephone.”

“I was thinking about that. One man he might listen to is his own Chapter Clerk. Henry Brookes is quite a sensible bloke. I had a lot of dealings with him when he was an estate agent in the town. And he hasn’t been in that Close long enough to get infected with the ecclesiastical bug.”

“How do we get hold of him?”

“Telephone him. Say that I suggested it. I think he’ll come.”