Further speculation was interrupted by the actual arrival of Miss Targett, a wispy lady well struck in years, with the manner of one who would quite welcome her maiden sensitivities being offended, as though she would whisper very naughty words with a thrill of excited horror. Melissa brought her into the kitchen, having explained Michael’s absence, and the briefest of introductions was sufficient for her to treat three complete strangers as lifelong intimates.
“Oh, my dears,” she began in excited tones as she sat down and pulled off decorative summer gloves of fine white cotton. “What a business this all is! The Latimer Mercy gone and me being the first to notice it! Well, I don’t know what made me even look, it’s not as though I make a point of these things. After all, I must have passed it hundreds of times without even a glance but, you know, something made me take notice and what do you think? Gone. Vanished. Stolen. Well, I didn’t know what to do. Nobody in sight and at that time of the morning who could I tell? However, I...”
“What time was it?” asked Maltravers, daring the torrent of words.
“Pardon? The time? Oh, it must have been…let me see. I was just a little late setting off because Sebastian that’s my little cat — had gone wandering off and I was looking for him to make sure he was safely locked up. Then on the way I met Miss Templeton — oh, Melissa, my dear, have you heard that her niece has had another little baby? That’s the fourth. Who would have thought it from such a tiny thing? Well, we had quite a chat about all that, then I said I must be getting on and I went straight to the shop — of course I was still there before that wretched Morgan woman — and opened up and checked the till and everything. Then I spoke to one of the vergers… no, I tell a lie, there were two people who came in and bought some cards…then I spoke to the verger. What was it about? Oh, I don’t recall. Then the Morgan woman arrived and, of course, insisted on checking the till again so I watched her do that (then there couldn’t be any arguments) then I went for a quick walk round. I always like it in the cathedral when it’s so quiet and peaceful. Now, let’s see…I went round by the Lady Chapel because the window always looks so gorgeous with the morning sun behind it, then…yes, I must have walked all the way round the building before I reached the display case, so…” Miss Targett smiled brightly at four faces suspended in expressions of polite attention. “…it must have been about half past ten,” she concluded. “Or so.”
“Half past ten,” repeated Maltravers, filled with anticipatory sympathy for the elaborate narratives Jackson would have to endure in pursuit of a statement.
“Well, yes, although now I think about it…” Miss Targett began again.
“No, no, that will be fine,” Maltravers interjected hastily. “A reasonable approximation will suffice. Obviously, there wouldn’t be a great many people around at that time. The cathedral opens at what time?”
“Nine o’clock,” replied Miss Targett with unaccustomed brevity.
“Nine o’clock. Then…no it could obviously have been taken last night and nobody noticed it until you did. Tell me…” Maltravers broke off as Miss Targett became suddenly excited.
“Oh!” she cried. “You’re…you’re…oh, I know you…you’re…” She was staring with wide eyes across the table.
“Diana Porter,” said Diana.
“Of course! Oh my dear, my apologies for not recognising you at once. I saw you on the television. Your readings from Julian of Norwich were so beautiful. You know I keep a copy by my bedside and read them every night, but you put so much meaning into them. I’m so delighted to…” And Miss Targett fluttered her hands eloquently, finding even her own powers of speech inadequate.
“Thank you, Miss Targett,” said Diana. “It’s always a great pleasure to find that one’s work is so appreciated.”
Miss Targett, one of the countless thousands to whom those who appear on television are thought of as some form of rare and elevated beings and whose attention is as overwhelming as that of actual Royalty, brimmed with pleasure.
“Oh, my dear,” was all she could say, but the cadences of the three words and subtle touches of body language acknowledged a deep sense of her unworthiness for such thanks. Maltravers fondly imagined her subsequent retelling of the moment, embroidered with happy, if untrue, embellishments, to the awe and envy of her acquaintances.
“Of course, Miss Davy is also an actress,” he put in.
“Oh, really,” said Miss Targett, reluctantly pulling herself away from the magnetic charm of Diana’s courtesy. “I don’t think I’ve seen…?”
“I do most of my work on stage,” said Tess, rightly calculating that the locations and nature of her work were not within Miss Targett’s sphere of interest.
“Oh, well, never mind, perhaps one day you will…” she responded graciously and Maltravers cut short her progress down a rather dangerous conversational route by deliberately knocking over a carafe of water. The resulting minor chaos saved Miss Targett from receiving the icier edges of Tess’s tongue and covered the sound of Michael closing the front door after the departing Webster.
“What did Matthew want?” asked Melissa as he returned to the kitchen.
“Oh, he’s very concerned about the theft,” he replied. “You know what he’s like.”
Melissa clearly did, but Maltravers grasped the opportunity of inquiring in order to avoid further conversational problems with Miss Targett about total theatrical nonentities who languished in the obscurity of the West End.
“Well, he’s very sincere,” Michael explained. “He’s quite appalled that something like this should happen in the cathedral.”
“But he has no responsibility, has he?”
“None at all. His job is the cathedral music. But he has a very strong sense of the dignity and holiness of the church generally.”
“I would hope his fellow clergymen shared it,” Maltravers observed.
“Well, of course,” said Michael, who was in no mood to rise to another session of religious baiting from his brother-in-law. “But Matthew can be…” He sought the word.
“Excessive,” said Melissa.
“Yes…zealous…over-dedicated might be better. I’m afraid this business has upset him dreadfully. I’ve spent the last few minutes trying to calm him down and comfort him. He said he was going to the cathedral to pray. He does that a lot.”
“I thought you all did,” said Maltravers mischievously. “It’s part of the Contract of Employment isn’t it?”
“At the moment, Augustus, I have too much on my mind to enter into another futile discussion on matters about which you know little but say a great deal,” said Michael loftily. “Miss Targett, I think we should be on our way.”
Miss Targett’s attention had irresistibly rotated back to Diana, feeding itself with discreet glances. Blatant staring had been exorcised as bad manners in a long-ago childhood. Her disappointment at being summoned from the Presence was instant and obvious, but immediately covered by polite behaviour. She was consoled by an inner hope that further meetings might occur while Diana was in Vercaster. Their departure was briefly delayed by the arrival of a reporter and photographer from the Vercaster Times whose cathedral contacts had tipped them off about the Latimer Mercy theft long before the official police announcement. Michael was clearly annoyed by their inopportune if enterprising appearance and Maltravers diplomatically took over, ushering them both into the study. The reporter was young and enthusiastic, the photographer, many years his senior, resigned to waiting through the entire interview before he could start work.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are,” the young man began with commendable frankness.
“I’m actually Canon Cowan’s brother-in-law, but I know quite a lot about this. My name’s Augustus Maltravers.”
“Oh, the writer,” said the reporter and Maltravers acknowledged his cognizance. “I’m going to write a book one day.”
“Most of your tribe are,” said Maltravers. “Some of my best friends in Fleet Street want to
be writers; in fact most of them have been talking about it for years. Now, what do you want to know?”
The information was gathered in an eccentric mixture of scribbled longhand and shorthand outlines unknown to Pitman, although the questioning was impressively thorough. The photographer, who appeared to have mastered the art of silent, and hopefully profitable, meditation, lumbered to life when the question of a picture was raised and Maltravers despatched them to the cathedral, mendaciously assuring them that the Canon had indicated approval of their activities.
“Oh, and how old are you?” the reporter asked as they were leaving.
“I can’t see that’s of the slightest relevance,” Maltravers told him. “However, Canon Cowan is sixty-eight and carries his years remarkably well. You may quote me on that. Goodbye.”
Grinning ridiculously to himself, Maltravers went to the living-room where Diana and Tess were expressing increasing amazement and dismay at the varying fortunes of their contemporaries.
“You’re joking!” Tess was exclaiming as he entered the room. “He could only have landed a part like that by sleeping with somebody and I don’t dare think who it was.”
“This is no conversation for a cathedral city,” said Maltravers. “You will corrupt the Godly. Anyway, we must go and look at the Chapter House.”
The building was closed to the public for the day while a low circular wooden stage was set in its centre, surrounded by tiered rows of chairs. The work had been finished by the time they arrived and they had the place to themselves. Diana stepped onto the temporary platform and gazed all around her.
“Augustus, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“Well, I tried to describe it, but it’s one of those places you have to see to believe,” he said. “The only thing to exceed it is probably Henry VII’s chapel at Westminster which was built around the same time. More to the point, the acoustics are very good, although they probably didn’t plan that.”
“Can we run through part of it?” Diana asked.
“Yes. I assumed you’d want to. Let’s try the opening and the end. We’ve got plenty of time and nobody is likely to come in because they’ve put signs up.”
Maltravers and Diana had rehearsed the performance previously in London with only Tess for an audience. She and Maltravers sat in silence for half an hour watching the final result.
“What do you think?” asked Diana as she finished.
“What I’ve thought for a long time,” said Tess. “You won’t just do this on one night in Vercaster.” She turned to Maltravers. “Why don’t you write things like this for me?”
“Because, my love, you are not Diana. And you know it. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the geography.”
They left the Chapter House and walked down a short passage to another door which opened onto a covered corridor running at right angles. Facing them was a series of stone arches which looked onto the quadrangle of the cloisters.
“This, you will be fascinated to learn, is the slype,” said Maltravers. “It’s a passage linking the south transept up to the right there with the Chapter House and the cloisters. I would impress you with the derivation of the word, but I don’t know it. Now we go this way.” He turned to the left.
They walked down the slype and went through the left door of two facing them in the end wall. It led into a small, plain, bright room filled with afternoon sun pouring through the window which looked down to the Verta over the slope of the Abbey hill.
“You can, of course, draw the curtains in the evening and, wonder of wonders, behold, modern plumbing,” said Maltravers as he pulled open the door of a built-in cupboard to reveal a washbasin and mirror. “The lighting’s not marvellous, I’m afraid, but excessive making up will not be necessary. Anything else you need?”
Diana smiled and shook her head swiftly. “No, that’s fine.” She fluttered her hands betraying some inner excitement. “That Chapter House is magical, you know the feeling? It’s going to work, Gus.” She suddenly threw her arms around him like a happy child.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the rest of the cathedral while we’re here.”
He took Tess’s hand as they returned down the slype towards the south transept, smiling with pleasure at Diana’s joy. As they passed through the cloister arches, a man walking on the opposite side heard their voices and glanced across at them. His eyes caught sight of Diana’s fair hair shining in the sunlight and he stopped and stared fixedly at her until they disappeared from sight.
Chapter Three
THE THREE FACES of the Chapter House to the south and west flamed as the early evening sun pulled down all the colours of the world. The grey armour of St George shone like silver amid a mosaic of ruby, emerald and gold; the shell-pink features of the child-saint Etheldreda glowed about eyes of periwinkle blue; the mazarine robes of the Virgin were shot with light. The colours were held in the windows which, pitted by centuries of weather, no longer permitted them to flood to the inside, which received only a pale, bright lemon haze. Over the hour and a half of Diana’s performance the light would imperceptibly fade, the audience’s eyes adjusting without notice until they were watching the climax in lavender gloom. Maltravers had counted on the additional dramatic effect, with its changing emphasis on glass and stone, which he had first observed some years earlier when he and Melissa had sat in the Chapter House one evening, quietly talking about the death of their father. Melissa had warned him that it depended on the vagaries of the weather but he had remained confident.
“There are no Test matches on the day so rain is highly unlikely,” he had said. “Anyway, I’m sure that you and Michael can put in a word to the Almighty.”
As the audience gathered in the cockpit of chairs, he nudged Melissa’s arm and nodded to the vivid windows.
“Thank you for your prayers,” he whispered.
“Don’t be irreverent. You know how Michael is,” she hissed back.
“I’m just going to check with Diana. Keep my seat.”
He made his way out through the entering people and walked down the slype, safely cut off by ushers. Subconsciously, he trod softly as he approached the door. He opened it to see Diana sitting on a straight wooden chair, very still and with her eyes closed. Shutting the door quietly, he stepped past her to the window and looked through a gap in the curtains across the gravel path and down the Cathedral Field into the golden and powder blue summer evening. After a few moments he heard Diana relax behind him and he turned and smiled at her.
“You know you could play this audience on two cylinders,” he said.
“But I can’t play me on two cylinders,” she replied. “And you can’t do anything less than beautiful in a building like that. What are they like? The audience.”
“Plentiful and anticipatory. And distinguished in Vercaster. Full turn out of clergy, of course, and I just saw the Mayor and his stunningly beautiful wife arrive with… prepare yourself…Lord Verta himself. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’s deaf.”
Maltravers was being deliberately flippant. Diana had a routine of behaviour before any performance which was not superstition and certainly not affectation. Even an audience of the least discerning would receive a little bit of Diana Porter unique to the occasion. The tension needed to prepare for that offering had to be created and controlled by touchstones of established ceremony. And one of them was a few moments’ inconsequential talk just before the start.
“How do you think they’re going to take it?” she asked, checking her appearance finally in the mirror.
“They will certainly not be bored,” he replied. “And don’t worry about the quality out there. Vercaster is a fairly cultivated place within the ambience of London. What peasantry there may be will have been put off by the price of the tickets.”
“Did my fee horrify them?”
“It raised the eyebrows but I soon explained the facts of life to them. Anyway, it’s an absolute sell-out so they’ve covered their costs and made a p
rofit to boot. Right.” He glanced at his watch. “Theatre in the round here you come. Just wait here for a moment.”
Maltravers went and checked with the ushers that the audience was seated then told them to close the Chapter House door. He returned to Diana and together they walked through the slype until they reached the door through which the murmur of polite voices could be heard. He took Diana’s hand and looked inquiringly at her. She nodded briefly, then he opened the door and walked along the aisle left between the seats and stepped on to the stage. The voices were mixed with hesitant applause, which he stilled by beginning to speak.
“My Lord Bishop, Dean, your Worship, Lord Verta, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen,” he said briskly. “It is my great pleasure to present the first event in the reborn Vercaster Festival. Will you please welcome into this beautiful building, in a special one-woman performance…Miss Diana Porter.”
As he finished speaking, his eyes turned back towards the open door through which Diana walked towards him, smiling brilliantly. The applause echoing round the walls, he took her hand as she mounted the dais, then stepped back to resume his seat. Diana, her wheat-coloured hair swirling against her high-necked loose evening dress of black raw silk, with a ruby brooch at her throat, walked in a swift circle round her stage before sitting on a tall stool set in the centre. She clasped her hands in her lap and lowered her head as the applause faded to a silence that centred on her still figure.
“Has it ever occurred to you where Woman came in God’s list of priorities?” she asked in a quiet voice that still carried like a bell to the peak of the ceiling. “First there was Heaven and Earth, then Night and Day, then He divided the waters and made the land and the sea, then grass and herbs and trees yielding fruit.” She ticked the items off on eloquent fingers. “Then the sun, moon and stars, great whales and cattle, then all the creepy crawlies. Then along comes Adam, but of course he’s busy for a while because God wants him to give everything a name.”
The Casebook of Augustus Maltravers Page 3
