Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) (11 page)

‘You would certainly be a change from our present bishop,’ I said.

The Rector grinned again. ‘I would at that. I’ve heard a good deal about your bishop. I’m somewhat more …’

‘Active? Dramatic? Involved?’ I supplied.

‘All of those things, perhaps. Of course, I’m much younger, and that makes a difference. But I’ll be truthful with you. Oh, I know you said this is unofficial, but I can tell you my views, can’t I? And the truth is I’m not at all sure I want the job. I agreed, in the beginning, that I’d think about it. And I have thought. And prayed. Oh, I’ve prayed a lot. And I honestly think God wants me to stay here. I love this town and these people.’

‘And we love you.’ Two of the people who had come in with Mr Robinson – a married couple by the look of them – came over to our table. Alan stood again. ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman went on. ‘We didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but we couldn’t help but hear. And we’re all agreed – everyone in the parish, I mean. We don’t want to lose our priest!’

A cry of ‘Hear, hear!’ went around the room, subdued but heartfelt. I looked around at the variety of faces. The shy teen with the bad case of acne. The wrinkled, white-bearded man in his wheelchair. Fair hair, black hair, brown hair, auburn hair, no hair at all. Pale skin, ebony skin, several shades in between. A diverse group, but unanimous in their animated show of love and support.

All except for one man in the corner. I noticed him because he was so quiet. He sat nursing a cup of coffee, his hands wrapped around it as if to warm himself. But the room was warm, almost too warm now that it was crowded.

Mr Robinson noticed the direction of my gaze. ‘Poor chap,’ he said quietly. ‘You mustn’t mind him. He’s had his troubles. I ought not to have urged him to come to coffee with us, but he looked so lonely, I thought it might do him good. Phone me later; I’d like you and Mr Nesbitt to come to supper, if you can. Now if you’ll excuse me …’ And he went to tend his flock.

‘You see what a good priest he is,’ said the woman who had come to our table. ‘Always ready to help someone. My name’s Becca, by the way, Becca Bradley, and this is my husband, Jack.’ Her accent was the most understandable I had heard, except for Mr Robinson’s. Modified for our benefit, perhaps?

‘Do please join us,’ said Alan politely. Or maybe it wasn’t just politeness. He might simply have wanted to sit back down himself, or he might be interested in getting a little more information from this talkative woman.

‘You see that man he’s talking to,’ Becca went on. She was a small woman, with mousy grey-brown hair and the eyes of an avid gossip, the sort that dart around a room and see everything and everyone. ‘I’m surprised he came to church at all. He’s fairly regular on Sundays, but not always even then. It’s his wife, you see.’

‘Becca,’ said her husband with a frown.

‘Oh, I know,’ she said, lowering her voice slightly, ‘but what does it matter? Everyone knows, and these people will never see him again anyway. His wife is … well, in the old days we’d have said she was mad. Nowadays it’s tarted up. Mentally disturbed, emotionally unstable. Pretty words for the same thing: barking.’

‘Really, Becca, that’s not nice. She has reasons for her illness.’

‘I didn’t say she didn’t, did I?’ The voice fell still further. ‘Their son died, when he was just a boy at school. Now, no one could say that wasn’t a dreadful thing, but it was years ago. She should have pulled up her socks and got on with life. Instead, she’s made life miserable for herself and everyone else, ever since. Had to be put in a home, you know. It costs the earth. And how that man puts up with it, I do not know. If you ask me, he’s headed for—’

‘That’s enough, Becca,’ said her husband firmly. ‘Brian Rawles is a good man, doing the best he can in a difficult situation. I’ll not have you saying such things about him.’

‘Oh, well.’ She smiled, and for a moment her eyes lost their restless, searching look. ‘I talk too much, as you’ve always told me, Jack, but I’m too old to change. Anyway, I’m glad you came to visit, but don’t you dare take our rector away!’

‘I
hope you won’t think too badly of Becca Bradley,’ said the rector. We were sitting around his fire with after-dinner drinks. The room was cosy and rather shabby. And our supper had consisted of a good thick soup, to keep out the suddenly chilly spring evening, and homemade bread. I was feeling comfortable and very much at home. ‘Becca’s a gossip, of course,’ he went on, ‘but her heart is in the right place, though you wouldn’t guess it.’

‘Now, Bill, you’re too kind about her.’ Mrs Robinson sat on a squashy old sofa with her legs tucked up under her, lithe as a thirty-year-old, a mark she’d passed at least twenty years before. ‘You always want to think the best of everyone, but there’s such a thing as too much Christian charity.’

‘There can never be too much charity, Jenny, love. Only misdirected, sometimes. I admit that Becca can be a sore trial, but look at all she does in the parish. There’s not a supper she’s ever missed, not a volunteer job she hasn’t undertaken. She’s invaluable.’

Mrs Robinson shook her head with a smile. ‘You’re too good to live, darling. She’ll never miss an opportunity to pick up more gossip. That’s why she has her finger in so many pies. Of course, she also worships at your shrine.’

Mr Robinson laughed that one off. ‘It’s one of the hazards of the priesthood, though it’s more often elderly spinsters who fall for their priests, and more often unmarried clergy who are the victims.’

I thought of one of my favourite classic mysteries. ‘Have you ever read
Overture to Death
, by Ngaio Marsh?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Mrs Robinson chuckled. ‘The two church hens vying for the attentions of their supremely good-looking rector. You have that in common, Bill, with – what was his name?’

‘Copeland,’ I said. ‘I re-read the book just the other day. He was a different type, but yes, your husband is certainly right up there in the Mr England lists.’

Mr Robinson rapidly changed the subject. ‘Mr Nesbitt, I know that you’re a retired chief constable, so I assume you still have associates in the police force. Has any progress been made, do you know, towards solving Dean Brading’s murder? That was a dreadful thing – a priest murdered in his own church. At least, I suppose it was murder? I’ve seen very little in the papers or on the telly since it happened.’

‘It’s possible that it was an accident. I know very little, actually, except what everyone knows. He was found with a frightful wound in his head, which was not inconsistent with it having struck a solid object, such as a bit of carving, in the cathedral. He might have slipped and fallen.’

‘But you don’t think he did? All right, I understand you can’t say a great deal. The police came to talk to us about it, to question me about my whereabouts at the relevant time, I imagine. It’s a bit ironic, that. They seem to believe that I’d do murder to get the job, when I don’t particularly want it. At any rate, I have an unimpeachable alibi, as there was a conference of the diocesan clergy that day, all day.’

‘That is fortunate,’ said Alan blandly. But Mr Robinson didn’t miss much.

‘That sounds as though your alibi isn’t quite so good.’

‘Bill!’ said his wife indignantly.

‘It’s all right. Yes, I am also under some suspicion, as is everyone on the commission. This is going to be a difficult case to solve, I’m afraid. But we were talking about your parishioners.’

‘Yes, well, I do boast that I have an extraordinarily devoted, and devout, congregation, and together we have accomplished a great deal in this little corner of England. Poverty is down, employment is up, and not all of it at slave wages, though there’s still much to be done in that area. Best of all, people are helping each other, looking out for one another in a way one usually doesn’t find outside a village, and not even always there, nowadays.
And
they’re learning to put their trust in God, which, after all, is task number one in my job description.’

‘In ours for Sherebury, too,’ said Alan. ‘Are you quite sure you wouldn’t take the job if offered, Mr Robinson?’

‘Please call me Bill. Mr Robinson is my father.’ He fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘No, I’m not sure. I’d rather stay here. Jenny wants to stay here. The kids live nearby, and our first grandchild is due soon. The question is, does God want me to stay here? I’d have a broader scope as bishop, could help set policy, perhaps change some things that badly need changing. But I’d lose the ability for hands-on pastoral care. Oh, I know, I would be pastor to the clergy in the diocese. But it’s not the same.’ He put his glass down and let his hands fall to his lap with a little sigh. ‘You see, I
know
my people. There’s Brian, with all his troubles. There’s young Susan, who keeps on having babies she can’t support. The old man you saw today in the coffee shop, who needs a hip replacement and stubbornly refuses to have the operation. The Chinese couple struggling to make ends meet. The two young Sikh men who face constant persecution from their neighbours who don’t understand they’re not Muslim.’

‘They’re not Christian, either,’ I pointed out.

‘What does that matter? They’re a part of my parish. They need help. If I were a bishop, I might not even know they existed, and if I did, serving them wouldn’t be a part of my job, nor would I have time.’

‘I understand,’ said Alan. ‘But I’m sorry. I may say that when I saw you in church this afternoon I admired you, but I was quite sure you were wrong for Sherebury. I’ve changed my mind. If you change yours, you’ll let us know, won’t you?’

‘I will. And I might. God moves in mysterious ways.’

‘A praise band,’ I murmured, just before I turned over and went to sleep. ‘Never thought I’d live to say I liked a praise band.’

This time we had a few days before our next call to duty. When we were having our coffee and buns after church on Sunday, the dean came up to us. ‘I would have phoned you yesterday, except that I didn’t get home until quite late, and I do hate to disturb you on a Sunday, but as you’re here …’ He paused, and Alan gestured for him to sit down and continue. ‘I won’t stay, but I needed to tell you that I got a letter yesterday from the Secretary.’ The capital S was apparent in his speech. ‘The extraordinary meeting of the commission is scheduled for Monday week. Did you receive the letter?’

‘Not yet. Our postman is new and sometimes makes mistakes.’

‘I’ll make a copy of mine, in case your postman never gets it straight. You can be there?’

‘Certainly.’

‘I have one more assignment for you before then. You and I have both visited two of the candidates, and we’ve discussed them. Now I’d like you to visit the third, as soon as possible. I wish you could be there on a Sunday, as they have a very fine choir, but that’s cutting it rather fine, what with the meeting on Monday.’

‘Perhaps we can get to a Choral Evensong. We’ll manage, Kenneth. Don’t worry.’

So we phoned Rotherford Cathedral to check the service schedule and make an appointment with the dean, booked a B and B, and, on Tuesday morning, drove to Sherebury station to catch the first of two trains to take us to Rotherford, not too far from Oxford. I was looking forward to this one. I had looked it up on the internet while searching for B and Bs and found it delightful, its charm reflecting its history and landscape. It seemed to be a real place, not a pseudo-Disneyland of a town.

This time we were taking Watson with us. He was getting very tired of being left out of things, even though Jane took excellent care of him. The cats, of course, scarcely noticed when we were gone, though they scolded us roundly when we returned. The purpose of humans is to serve cats, and we were falling down on the job, they informed us. Watson simply missed us.

‘He won’t be any trouble,’ Alan had said persuasively. ‘Our B and B allows well-behaved visiting dogs, and our little chap behaves himself. Don’t you, mutt?’

It’s amazing how much my large, solid husband can sound like a doting mother.

We had chosen to travel by rail, since both the cathedral and our B and B were in the centre of town, and since most of our way by car would have lain on the motorways, which I detest. Our journey did involve changing trains, and that in London is never fun, especially with luggage and a dog. But we got from Victoria to Paddington without great delay, and from there it was a quick run to Rotherford.

From the first, the town took my breath away. We were near enough to the Cotswolds that much of the building stone was of that lovely honey colour that makes Cotswold villages so warm and inviting. The building style was much the same, too, or so at least it appeared to my untutored eye. Shops and houses were small and unpretentious, but with fine proportions. Flowers were everywhere – not the lush draperies of wisteria and climbing roses that would appear in summer over walls and porches, but bright swathes of daffodils in the sun and carpets of bluebells wherever there was a wood.

‘It’s almost blinding,’ I said in awe. ‘I don’t quite believe they’re real. Nothing could be so perfect.’

We found our room for the night, left our luggage, and took Watson for a long leisurely walk down the High Street, which meandered, following the River Roth that gave the town its name. There were ducks. Watson was disappointed that he was not allowed to chase them. There were cats sunning themselves on doorsteps and walls. Watson stayed a discreet distance away from them, having had an unfortunate experience with an extremely intimidating cat a few months before. There were children who wanted to pet him, which he enjoyed thoroughly.

As for us, we simply looked and listened. The shops were interesting, particularly since they weren’t aimed obviously at the tourist trade. I was, as usual, stopped by a display of hats in a window. ‘I don’t have one that colour,’ I said innocently, pointing to a bright chartreuse creation.

‘And a jolly good thing, too,’ said Alan. ‘That is
not
your colour, my dear.’

‘Nor anyone else’s, I wouldn’t think. That navy straw, on the other hand …’

We went in the store, of course, though we had to leave Watson outside. The navy straw turned out to be a peculiar shape, not at all flattering, but a peach-coloured one was obviously designed with me in mind. Alan is not a man easily intimidated by a milliner, and he actually rather enjoys shopping with me, at least for a while. He agreed that the hat had my name on it, so we walked out with it to greet a bereft dog, abandoned by his people and plainly unloved.