On Monday morning, after a makeshift breakfast, James strolled out into the Close and made for the High Street Gate. The sun was shining and he felt at peace with the world.
The area inside the gate had been ruled out into ten parking places. Nine of these were already occupied. Two cars were heading for the remaining vacancy. The first car, coming from the direction of the Deanery, was being driven by the Dean’s daughter, Amanda. The competitor, coming in from the High Street, was a dark blue official-looking saloon driven by a thickset young man with a meaty face.
Amanda won the race and slid neatly into the vacant slot. The young man pulled away and parked alongside the pavement opposite. As he was getting out of his car, Mullins, the Close Constable, came out of his cottage and looked at him with disapproval.
“Can’t park here, son,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said the young man, not looking at all sorry. “But seeing there are no parking spaces vacant, I’ve got to park somewhere else, right?”
“Plenty of parking places in the town.”
“Look, I don’t want any argument. I’m here on official business with Archdeacon Pawle.”
“Suppose you’ve got official business with God Almighty, you can’t leave your car here.”
Splendid, thought James. Church versus State. He wondered who was going to win. Amanda, leaning out of her car window, was listening unashamedly. Possibly it was the presence of an audience which tipped the scale. The young man switched off his engine, applied the parking brake with unnecessary violence, opened his car door and got out.
He said, “You can do what you like about it, Mr Mullins. That car stays right there.”
“Detective Sergeant Telfer, isn’t it?” said Mullins placidly.
“Since you know who I am, you’ve got even less reason for obstructing me in the course of my duty.”
“It’s not me who’s obstructing you,” said Mullins mildly. “It’s you who’s obstructing any of those cars at the end of the line that wants to get out.”
The young man said, “Don’t bother. I won’t be long,” and strode off.
“Long enough, I hope,” said Mullins and re-entered his cottage.
This was evidently not the end of the drama. Amanda spotted James and said, “Don’t go away. This might be fun. Have a seat in the stalls.”
James got into the car and sat down beside her. He said, “What happens next?”
“It all depends whether Sam or young Ernie are handy. Mullins will be telephoning them now.”
Five peaceful minutes ticked past. Then a tractor came rattling across the Cathedral precinct. Mullins was standing ready. The tractor, which was driven by a middle-aged man with a beard (“Sam Courthope,” said Amanda, “a very nice man”), backed up to the car. Two chains were brought out and hooked to the winch on the tractor and the bumper of the car. Mullins leaned into the car to release the handbrake and signalled to Sam, who engaged the winch and lifted the front wheels of the police car clear of the ground.
“Right away,” said Mullins and the tractor departed in the direction of the Cathedral with the car bumping behind it.
“Lovely,” said James. “Where’s he taking it to?”
“He’s got a sort of yard where he and the builders keep their stuff. I expect that’s where he’ll put it.”
“Does much of this sort of thing go on?”
“A certain amount. It’s got much worse since Daddy took over.” As Amanda said this, she showed her teeth in her urchin grin. “One of the things the Corporation doesn’t much like is having the Close gates locked at night. You know they had to leave them open during the war because of bombs and fire engines getting in, and they tried to keep it that way when the war ended. There was a terrific argument, but the Cathedral won.”
“Why would they object to the gates being shut?”
“They said it was medieval.”
“Nothing wrong with being medieval.”
Amanda looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She said, “You really think that? Well, so do I. But a lot of people don’t. There’s a crowd in the town who don’t really approve of the Cathedral at all. They pay lip service to it, but in their heart of hearts they think it’s an old-fashioned nuisance. They’d like to pull it down and put up a nice modern factory making furniture or fridges. I suppose it’s jealousy, really. Town versus Gown. In the old days they used to fight about it. Real fights, with swords and daggers. Now they just sit back and make snide remarks.”
“Hold it,” said James. “Here comes the law.”
The expressions on Detective Sergeant Telfer’s face, when he rounded the corner and saw that his car was gone, changed from blank astonishment through dawning comprehension to fury.
“Just like TV, isn’t it?” said Amanda happily.
It occurred to James that perhaps a generation brought up on television close-ups might be becoming less ashamed to express their emotions visually.
Telfer stepped up to the Close Constable’s cottage, jerked the bell and waited. The tinkling sound died away in the warm air. Nothing else happened. Telfer grabbed the bell pull again and jerked it savagely.
Mullins, who must have come out of his garden gate, rounded the corner, padded up behind Telfer as he had his hand once more on the brass bell pull and said, “Easy with the fittings, son. You don’t want it to come away in your hand, do you now? Expensive things to mend.”
“What I want,” said Telfer, “is my car.”
There was more menace in the flat way in which he said it than in any colourful obscenity.
Mullins looked at him thoughtfully. He said, “It isn’t here, is it?”
“What have you done with it?”
“I haven’t actually what you might call done anything with it. Not myself, that is.”
“Where is it?”
“I expect that it has been towed away by the proper authorities in accordance with the instructions of the Dean and Chapter with regard to vehicles illegally parked.”
Telfer, who had been red, was now white with fury. “Do you mean to say,” he said between his teeth, “that you’ve had the fucking nerve to have my car towed away?”
“I guess that’s right.”
“Then I want it back and I want it back now.”
Mullins put one hand into his side pocket and produced a small notebook and into his top pocket for a pair of reading glasses. He did all this with a massive deliberation which served to stoke Sergeant Telfer’s fury to boiling point.
“’Fines for illegal parking,’” he read out. “’First offense, five pounds.’”
The Sergeant took a quick step toward him.
“Go on,” breathed Amanda. “Hit him. Two independent witnesses. Hit him just once and we’ve got you where we want you.”
There was an undertone of savage satisfaction in her voice that startled James. For a moment it was touch and go. Then the Sergeant seemed to visualise the pit ahead of him. He swung around on his heel and marched steadily out of the Close into the High Street without looking back.
James let out the breath which he had been holding and said, “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of coffee.”
“Good idea,” said Amanda. “Let’s go to the Copper Kettle.” She got out of the car. Mullins was still looking at his notebook. He seemed to be abstracted. “Jolly well played, Mullins.”
“I’m afraid we may have a bit of bother about that,” said Mullins, “but I wasn’t going to be trampled on. If he’d been polite, now—”
“Don’t worry,” said Amanda. “You were only doing your duty. The Dean will back you to the hilt.”
Over a cup of coffee in the Copper Kettle, James said to Amanda, “What is the position, really? Does the authority of the police extend to the Close or not?”
Amanda said, “I don’t think anyone knows. For crimes and breaches of the peace and things like that, certainly it does. But some things, like traffic control, are left to us.”
When James got back to the cottage, he found Peter stretched out in a chair with his heels on the table, smoking.
“Picture of an idle schoolmaster,” said James.
“I’m conserving my powers,” said Peter. “Difficult days ahead. Finance Committee meeting tomorrow.”
“Are you involved in that?”
“We’re all involved. Even the Matron has to turn up and account for every cough drop she dishes out.” The prospect didn’t seem to worry him. He said, “You remember Anstruther.”
“Bottle?”
“That’s the boy. Aunt Maude has started writing to him.”
“Poems?”
“Love letters.”
“Good God!” said James.
“It’s no joke, really. Luckily, the boy had the sense to hand it straight over to me. I don’t think anyone else saw it. I gave it to Lawrence. He nearly had a fit. It was full of stuff about eyes like stars and rose-red lips.”
“The man’s senile. What’s Lawrence going to do?”
“I left him worrying about it.”
“If I was him, I’d tell the boy to tear it up.”
“And what happens when Anstruther tells his father about it? He’s a brigadier general and lives in the town.”
“Not easy,” agreed James.
“What I guess he’ll do is pass the buck to the Archdeacon. He’s chairman of the School Governors.”
“What will he do?”
“You shall have the next exciting instalment this evening.”
At three o’clock that afternoon Detective Superintendent Herbert Charles Bracher called, by appointment, on the Dean. He was not the sort of man whom his colleagues, or even his friends, would ever address as Bert or Charlie. He was a tall solemn man with a bush of hair already retreating from his forehead, who stood on his dignity, had an ambitious wife and was said to have money put by. The Dean received him in his study and listened in silence to what he had to say. There was a further silence when the Superintendent had finished.
Finally the Dean spoke. His voice was soft and so deliberate that there seemed to be short intervals between words and longer intervals between sentences.
“First,” he said, “I’d like to be a little clearer about the facts. I was aware that there had been pilfering, on a small scale, from houses in the Close. In the summer we live with our front doors open. All sorts of people walk past. Saints and sinners.”
The Superintendent said, “Just so, sir.”
“The articles which have been stolen have mostly been silver. Trays, cups, inkstands. Things calculated to catch the magpie eye of a sneak thief.”
“That’s just my point, sir—”
“And now you come and tell me that one of the servants of the Cathedral, the junior verger, Masters, has been seen selling articles of silver to a trader in the market.”
“Not just any trader, sir. A man with a bad reputation. We’ve had our eye on him for some time.”
“I see. Then it was one of your men who observed this transaction?”
“Well, no, not actually, sir. But it was reported to us.”
“By whom?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“We never reveal the sources of our information.”
“But if the matter comes to court, he or she will be called on to give evidence.”
“If it comes to court.”
The Dean considered this in silence for a full minute while the Superintendent fidgeted. He had never felt comfortable with Dean Forrest. His predecessor had been a great deal easier to deal with. A very agreeable old man. Not a gaunt ruffian like the present incumbent.
“And was this the matter that your Sergeant Telfer came here this morning to discuss with the Archdeacon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Why was a matter affecting the discipline of the Close discussed with the Archdeacon and not with myself?”
“Well, sir, I suppose in this case it was because—” He broke off, realising suddenly that he had nearly been trapped into an indiscretion. He changed the end of the sentence smoothly “—because we don’t quite appreciate these fine points. We thought that administrative matters would be the concern of the Archdeacon.”
“That’s a very curious idea, Superintendent. Tell me, if I had information which affected the reputation of your force . . . I say, if – I’m not implying that I have any such information. Would I not then go to the head of your force? To your Chief Constable, Valentine Laporte? I would not discuss it with a sergeant, or even—” the Dean paused delicately “—with a detective superintendent.”
“I suppose not, sir. If this was a mistake, I must take the blame for it.”
“On general grounds? Or was it perhaps you who suggested that Sergeant Telfer should see the Archdeacon?”
The Superintendent felt himself being forced into a corner. Also he was aware that he was losing his temper and that if he lost it he would put himself at a disadvantage. He said, “On both grounds. And now could I revert to the two points I’ve already mentioned.”
“Two points,” said the Dean, placing the tips of his fingers together.
“First, will you ask Masters for an explanation?”
“Certainly not.”
“I’m afraid I must insist, sir. If you won’t question the man, someone else must. An accusation has been made.”
“All that you have told me so far is that an unnamed informant has told you that they saw Masters selling unidentified silver objects in the marketplace. You have no case at all, and unless you can produce some more substantial evidence, I won’t have one of the Cathedral servants bothered with it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t leave it at that, sir.”
“If you should ignore my direct instructions and seek to harass Masters in any way, I will make it my business to see that he is legally protected.”
The Superintendent hesitated. He was aware that he had no more than suspicions. If the stall keeper had been anyone but Alf Carney, he wouldn’t have given the matter a second thought.
While he was hesitating, the Dean said, “You had a second point?”
“Yes, sir. I had. Sergeant Telfer wants his car back.”
“He shall have it. On payment of the stipulated fine. For a first offense, five pounds.”
“Aren’t you being a little unreasonable, sir?”
“Not in the least. When you were calling on me, I notice you parked your car in my drive. Very reasonable. Why should Sergeant Telfer not have parked his car inside the Archdeacon’s gate, instead of leaving it in a position where it blocked three other cars which were legally parked?”
“Being on duty, I expect he thought it would be in orde”If he thought that, I would suggest a medical check.”
“Sir?”
“Because he must be stone deaf. Mullins informs me that he told him not once, but twice that he was breaking Close regulations.”
Bracher got up abruptly, put down a five-pound note on the table and said, “If you’ll kindly tell me where the car is, I’ll have it fetched.”
The Dean also got to his feet. He said, “Mullins will show him where the car is. And might I give you a word of advice. Inside the walls of this Close all routine matters are regulated by the Church through its constituted authority, the Cathedral Chapter. There is no reason for controversy and friction.”
By this time they had reached the front door. The Dean held it open politely. He added, “There are enough troubles in this world, Superintendent, without going out of one’s way to look for more.”
The Superintendent strode down the path, got into his car and drove off without a word.
Lady Fallingford’s cottage was at the far end of a row of cottages along the west wall of the Close. It was rather bigger than the others and had a sizable garden. James found Mrs Henn-Christie there, with Francis and Betty Humphrey. Paul Wren, the organist, arrived soon after he did.
“I thought of having tea in the garden,” said Lady Fallingford, “but the flies are really intolerable.”
“I don’t mind flies,” said Mrs Henn-Christie. “It’s mosquitoes by night and wasps by day. Toby was stung on the nose yesterday and made a terrible fuss about it.”
Toby, James gathered, was a Siamese cat.
Since everybody knew everybody and everybody talked at once, it was not easy for James to ask the question he was dying to ask. A fleeting opportunity occurred when their hostess was distributing second cups of tea. He said, “Can someone please tell me. What exactly did happen to Leo Sandeman’s hat?”
This produced a laugh and everyone tried to answer the question at once. In the end Mrs Henn-Christie had to call the meeting to order. She said, “If you all talk at once, the poor young man won’t hear any of you. It’s your story, Constantia. You tell him.”
“He’s a terrible little man,” said Lady Fallingford. “He does nothing but make trouble for everyone. He’s on the Council, you know. He’s got some special job. I forget what it is.”
“Chairman of the Roads Committee,” said Canon Humphrey.
“Is that right? But what he revels in is his other job. He’s local boss of Newfu. You’ve heard of Newfu?”
“I’m afraid not,” said James. “It sounds like a health food.”
“It’s the National Estate Workers Federated Union. They managed to recruit all the men who work on the big estates, particularly the ones that are open to the public. People like the Weldons of Kings Sutton House and the Bridports at Bayford Castle. Last summer they brought them out on strike. I expect you read about it.”
“I think I did,” said James untruthfully. Among so many strikes this one had hardly caused a ripple.
“The owners had to give in. It was the beginning of their season, and if their workers wouldn’t work and pickets blocked the entrance gates, they weren’t going to get any visitors at all.”
“What was the strike about?”
“What strikes are always about. More money. Lady Weldon said they had to pay so much more that it took away any profit there was. Not that they ever made much. This year they won’t be opening the house at all and most of the staff have lost their jobs. So what good was it supposed to have done?”
“Union organisers never think about that,” said Betty Humphrey. “Mostly they organise strikes to make themselves feel important.”
“Well, anyway,” said Lady Fallingford, “the next thing that happened was they tried to rope in the staff here. Sam and young Ernie and the builders. Sam went to see the Dean. He told Sam they were to have nothing to do with it. So, early this summer Newfu tried to blockade the Close.”
“They did what?”
“It’s quite true. They put pickets with banners on all three gates. Can you imagine it?”
“I can indeed,” said James. “What happened?”
“The Dean was very angry. Particularly as it was the day of the Diocesan Women’s Institute service. They come in, you know, from all over the diocese. Hundreds of them. The Dean took his largest stick and hobbled down to the High Street Gate. People who saw him said he was white with fury. I’m sure he’d have broken a few heads with that stick. Luckily, he didn’t have to use it. Because just as he got there, the head of the Women’s Institute procession reached the gate. They were good solid women with solid sensible shoes. They’d come a long way and they weren’t going to let a miserable little picket stop them. They walked straight over it. Do you know the hymn they sing at their meetings? Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’.”
“’And did those feet in ancient time’,” hummed Paul Wren happily, “’walk upon England’s mountains green?’ They certainly walked upon Newfu. Sandeman’s hat got knocked off and a very large woman trod on it. The press had been expecting trouble and that young man from the Melset Journal was on the spot. The one who plays football.”
“Bill Williams.”
“That’s the man. He got a beautiful photograph of it. It was published in the Journal next day.”
Mrs Henn-Christie said, “I thought it was so funny I cut it out and stuck it up in the kitchen. I have a good laugh every time I look at it.”
“So what happened to the strike?”
“It fizzled out. The Dean announced that preventing people coming to church was sacrilege. And that sacrilege was a felony, and if the police refused to do anything, the Chapter would institute a private prosecution.”
“That wasn’t what stopped them,” said Canon Humphrey. “Your keen trade unionist likes being prosecuted. What Sandeman couldn’t stand was being laughed at.”
“You can’t keep a man like that down,” said Betty Humphrey. “I’ll warrant that he’s the man behind this business about Fletcher’s Piece.”
This produced a brief silence while people thought about Fletcher’s Piece. Canon Humphrey said, “Are you sure about that, my dear?”
“I couldn’t prove it. But he’d give anything to get his own back on the Cathedral, and it’s just the sort of meddling thing he’d be bound to have a finger in. You see if I’m not right.”
“I always suspected he might have been one of the people behind the supermarket scheme, too,” said Mrs Henn-Christie. “I’m sure I was swindled. Not that I could prove that, either.”
“Come now,” said Canon Humphrey. “Just because we don’t like the man, we mustn’t turn him into a universal villain. There’s good in most of us somewhere.”
“You’re too charitable, Francis,” said his wife. She was gathering up her things. “We’ll have to be getting along. We’ve got a lot to do to get things ready for this evening. We’re starting at eight o’clock sharp. We’re expecting about forty people.”
“And you’d better not be late,” said Canon Humphrey. “Because we’ve only got about forty chairs.”
With this advice in mind, James had an early supper in the town and was in the West Canonry garden by a quarter to eight. Four music stands and four spindle-legged chairs had been set out on the lawn, which sloped gently down to the river. In the meadow on the other side, brown-and-white cows were grazing. House martins and swifts were dive-bombing the riverbank for insects. It was one of those long late-summer evenings that seem to go on forever.
James recognised many of the people as they arrived, identifying some who had been players in the chess game. The two vergers, who had been the white knights, came together. The senior verger, Grey, with the deportment of a ducal butler, and the young cricketer, Len Masters. Canon Maude had his mother with him. The Archdeacon rolled in, with a train of theological students. Since he was there, James guessed that the Dean would not turn up, and, sure enough, at the last moment Amanda arrived alone. One of the few empty chairs was beside him and he willed her to come and sit in it. For a moment he thought he had lost her to the Consetts, but she ignored Penny’s wave, hesitated for a moment by Canon Lister, then came over and joined him. She said, “Peter told me you knew about music. So you can explain what’s being played and whether it’s good or not. I’m hopeless at things like that.”
“If you’d come in at the right time, you’d have got a programme.” He gave her his. “It’s a feast of seventeenth-century chamber music. Purcell, Mattheson, Christopher Sympson and William Brade. And ‘Beauty Retire’ by Samuel Pepys.”
“You mean the man who wrote the diary?”
“He did other things, too.”
The players took their seats. Paul Wren had a tuning fork, and the three recorder players each sounded a trial note.
“Like birds starting up the dawn chorus,” said Amanda.
James remembered very little of the performance. It was a ritual which depended for most of its charm on the setting and the sense of history which it imposed. Just so a group of peruked and periwigged clerics and their womenfolk must have sat three centuries ago; some enjoying the music, some pretending to enjoy it, some frankly bored. Henry Brookes was smoking cigarette after cigarette, putting the stub carefully in the lid of his cigarette case. Penny Consett was flirting with Peter. Mrs Henn-Christie was keeping an anxious eye out for mosquitoes. Canon Lister seemed to be asleep. The Archdeacon was motionless, but he was not asleep. His black eyes were open. Penny was right: he really was rather like a bear. Big, deceptively clumsy and slow, but capable of a lightning pounce when the occasion called for it.
The last piece was Purcell’s Golden Sonata. The September dusk had closed in, and the faces of the listeners were indistinguishable, but they were all sitting still now, gripped by the liquid simplicity of the playing. As the last notes of the viol died away into silence, they gave a sort of communal sigh of pleasure before breaking into a round of applause. James drifted out into the Close with Amanda beside him.
As they were passing the school cottage, he saw that there was a light in the sitting room window. He said, “Come into our bachelor retreat and have a cup of coffee.”
Amanda said, “Good idea. I’d love a hot drink. We got colder than we realised, sitting out there. It’s September, not June.”
They found Peter and Bill Williams drinking beer. Both seemed pleased to see Amanda and gave her the only comfortable chair while Peter made coffee for them.
“Instant coffee and powdered milk,” he said. “Not what you’re accustomed to, I expect.”
“I’m not a coffee snob myself,” said Amanda, “but a lot of people round here are. Last year, after the Friends of the Cathedral lunch, there were so many snide remarks about our coffee that we’ve bought a huge machine and this time we’re going to dish out the real stuff. It’ll cost us the earth.”
She was wearing a pair of jeans faded almost to white and a blue roll-necked sweater and fitted easily into the all-male company. “When we were in Ethiopia, we got our supplies up about once every two months. Daddy used to put all the coffee into one of his socks. When we wanted a drink, we used to boil up a saucepan of milk and dip the sock into it and give it a little squeeze. That way we made it last. I must admit it did taste a bit peculiar toward the end.”
“What sort of sock?” said Bill Williams.
“Actually, it was an old white cricket sock. Why?”
“If it had been a coloured sock, the coffee would have tasted even more peculiar.”
They drank for a few moments in silence. Bill said, “I’m told that Fletcher’s Piece is rearing its ugly head again.”
“Please instruct me,” said James. “Who is Fletcher and what is his Piece?”
Amanda said, “It’s the field on the other side of the river, opposite where we were sitting just now. Inhabited, at this moment, by cows.”
“But if the developers have their wicked way,” said Bill, “the cows will be evicted and it will be covered by an extension eastward of Wessex Instrumentation Limited, which is the building you can just see beyond the far hedge. They’ve been after it for years. It would suit them very well. Access to the road and all the services. Maybe a housing estate as well. The buzz is that the Planning Committee has already informally given them the green light.”
“What’s stopping them?”
“What’s stopping them is that the land belongs to the Cathedral. And they don’t somehow fancy having a factory overlooking the gardens of the Deanery and the West Canonry and the Theological College.”
“One sees their point,” said James. “Who’s behind it?”
“We know who’s in front of it. It’s Gerry Gloag.”
“That pseudo-military character we saw in the pub?”
“Maxwell Gloag and Partners, Surveyors and Estate Agents. The biggest in this city, and there aren’t many bigger in the county. They’ve gobbled up a lot of the smaller firms.”
“Including Henry Brookes,” said Amanda. “They picked him up two years ago. He then retired to what he fondly imagined would be the more peaceful occupation of being Chapter Clerk.”
“Was he an estate agent?” said Peter. “I never knew that.”
“Not a very good one, I should think. Too nice.”
“It’s no business for a gentleman,” agreed Bill. “Gerry Gloag would cut your throat and smile distantly while he was doing it. He was the man who fronted the supermarket deal, too.”
“And swindled Mrs Henn-Christie,” said James.
“So how did you know about that?” said Bill.
“They were talking about it at tea.”
“I suppose you could say they swindled her,” said Amanda. “In the sense that they made more money out of it than she did.”
“It was the south end of Station Road,” said Bill. “It wasn’t much of a site, because that road was the main way out of the town to the west and was normally jam-packed with traffic. There were a few old shops in it.”
“Five tatty little shops,” said Amanda. “With sleeping quarters over them, except no one could sleep in them because of the racket.”
“Four of them were empty. Gloag picked them up for peanuts. The only one they had any trouble with was old Mrs Piper. She and her family had run their little sweet shop for ages. They had to pay quite a bit to get her out, I believe. When they had the lot, Gloag bought the freehold from Mrs Henn-Christie and sold the whole thing to the supermarket chain.”
“So where does the swindle come in?” said James.
“The swindle was that Gloag knew and Mrs Henn-Christie didn’t know that the new bypass had already been approved. It siphoned all the westbound traffic out of Station Road, and that turned it into the best shopping site in town.”
James thought about it. He said, “If Gloag guessed that the bypass was coming, it wasn’t really a swindle. It was smart business. He outguessed the others.”
“He didn’t guess,” said Bill. “He had inside information. His closest friend is Leo Sandeman, and Leo is chairman of the Roads Committee of the Council.”
“That does look a bit dirty. Have you got any proof?”
“No real proof. But I’m certain of one thing: Gloag must have backers. He’d need a fair amount of cash to set up a ramp like that. And he wouldn’t be putting his own money into it. He’s only an agent.”
“And it’s the same crowd who are after Fletcher’s Piece?”
“That’s my guess. They’ll make a packet if they get it.”
“Over Father’s dead body they’ll get it,” said Amanda.
“Your dad enjoys a fight,” agreed Bill.
“I’m afraid he overdoes it sometimes. He had a punch-up with Superintendent Bracher this afternoon. I was eavesdropping from the dining room. Very wrong of me, I suppose.”
Everyone agreed that it was very wrong of her and urged her to tell them all about it. When she had done so, Peter said, “If Len Masters is a sneak thief, I’m a rotten judge of character.”
“Of course he isn’t,” said Bill.
“The choristers approve of him,” agreed Amanda, “and they’re good judges of character. They’d be very upset if they heard about it.”
“You’re behind the times,” said Peter. “They’ve not only heard about it. They know who the informer was.”
“How could they?”
“One of the maids was in the marketplace and saw the whole thing. She told the cook. The cook told the gardener’s boy, Charlie, and Charlie told Andrew Gould.”
“Beats the African tom-tom, doesn’t it?” said Bill. “Who was the sneak?”
“Rosa Pilcher. Who else?”
“Rosa,” explained Amanda for James’ benefit, “is a natural disaster. And, like a natural disaster, she can’t be avoided. She does for the Archdeacon and for us and has her finger in half a dozen other pies as well. We only put up with her because we can’t get anyone else.” She added, with satisfaction, “When I tell Daddy who it was started this Masters business, he’ll tear a strip off her.”
“If he’s too rough, she won’t help with the Friends’ lunch on Saturday.”
“I don’t care,” said Amanda. “It’s time someone told that nasty little toad where she gets off. Time I was going, too. Thanks for the coffee.”
“I’ll come with you,” said James. “I’ve got a lot more questions to ask. I realise now that when I was here before, I never really got outside the school. I’d no idea that so much was going on all round me.”
“Too much,” said Amanda as they walked toward the Deanery. She shivered. James looked at her curiously. His first diagnosis had been right. She was too thin.
“Who are the Friends? They sound like the Mafia.”
“Not quite as bad as that. Though they can be bloody-minded. They’re called the Friends of the Cathedral. Most cathedrals have them. They organise things and make money. Quite a lot of money. This Saturday’s the big day in their year. We give them a buffet lunch in the Deanery garden. Everyone turns up. It’s a terrible scramble. Then there’s a service in the Cathedral and a meeting in the Chapter House afterwards. That’s when the arguments start. How to spend their funds. The last thing they paid for was the new console for the organ.”
“That was a good thing to do.”
“If they always spent their money as sensibly as that, they’d be all right. But they don’t. Two years ago there was a stand-up fight between the ones who wanted to fit out the Chapter House with full stereo equipment and the ones who wanted a piece of sculpture made of iron girders put up in the West Precinct. Luckily, they cancelled each other out and saved their money for the organ.”
“It’s their money, I suppose, so they can do what they like with it.”
“Within reason. It’s got to be for the general good of the Cathedral.”
“Your father, I take it, would like them to hand it over to him. Then he could decide what was for the good of the Cathedral.”
Amanda laughed. She said, “You’ve got him summed up, James. He’s a natural despot. He’s spent most of his life in places where he was the only authority. If there were decisions to be made, he had to make them. Under God’s guidance, of course.”
“I’d like to hear about that properly, please. Do you like walking? I don’t mean a stroll round the town. I mean a proper walk.”
They had reached the Deanery gate. Amanda stopped with her hand on the top bar and looked at him. Then she said, “Not tomorrow. We’ve got committees all day. Thursday, perhaps. There’s a good walk over Helmet Down and back through Washbury and Bramerton. It’s about seven miles.”
“Done,” said James. “Goodnight.”
He watched Amanda as she strode away up the Deanery path. Nice hips. She’d make a good walker.
The moon, nearly full, had risen early that evening and was already going down behind the Cathedral, throwing a black squat shadow onto the precinct lawn. A small wind had got up and was rustling the leaves of the lime trees.
James felt disinclined for bed. He perched on the precinct wall, got out a cigarette and smoked it slowly.
When he looked up again, the shadow had moved. It was creeping toward him. He had an uncomfortable illusion that if he didn’t get away quickly, the Cathedral would fall on top of him.
“Be your age,” he said. “Go to bed.”