The Casebook of Augustus Maltravers

by Robert Richardson

  Her voice suddenly deepened into that of a male adult losing patience with a child. “No, Adam, you can’t call that a hippopotamus, we’ve already got one of those. How about calling it a toad? No? You don’t like that? All right, have it your way, we’ll call it a giraffe. Now what about this spotted thing with the long neck? No, that’s silly, it just doesn’t look like a hedgehog. And you can’t just say that ‘bird’ will do for all that lot with feathers…now come on and concentrate.”

  Diana’s normal voice returned. “Heaven knows how long it took to sort it all out. And then what? Adam has absolutely nothing to do except wander round the Garden of Eden, keeping his sticky little fingers off the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and has dominion over every living thing. And what does God decide? He needs a helpmeet.” She stared in amazement. “What on earth for? Anyway, God decides he’s going to have one and at last we have Woman…the last thing God made.” Diana paused and looked thoughtful as the observation went home. “Of course, after all that practice, He must have been getting quite good at making things,” she added reflectively.

  She stepped off the stool and walked to the edge of the stage to stand directly in front of a row of senior clergy and their families, put her head on one side and stared straight at the Bishop’s wife.

  “But of course,” she added slyly, “Adam hasn’t just got a helpmeet…he’s now got someone to blame.”

  The two women looked at each other for a moment, then the Bishop’s wife gave the slightest smile and nod of agreement. Maltravers, who had been watching her reaction intently, breathed a long and quiet sigh.

  “It’s working,” he muttered.

  “You’re my clever brother,” Melissa whispered back.

  The cross on the circle had been revealed, not as Michael’s image of Calvary on the globe, but the biological symbol for the female and Diana proceeded to take her audience through well-known country, regarded from a significantly different and telling viewpoint. She told the story of Samson and Delilah in the way Delilah saw it (“Long hair never did suit him”), redrew Ruth as a merry widow in the field with Boaz with an eye to the main chance, and produced a whole panoply of Biblical women — Salome, the Queen of Sheba, Lot’s wife, Martha and Mary and the rest — now flippant, now bitter, here cynical, there compassionate. It was a performance balanced on the finest of lines and she played it to perfection.

  The final scene was the most delicate of all. Crumpled and broken with grief, she knelt in the centre of the stage and whispered the last words of Mary Magdalene to the crucified Christ, a long wail of anguish without self-pity which had nothing to do with the salvation of Mankind but everything to do with love and death. As her audience watched in tense silence, they shared with her the helpless bewilderment and agony of the extremities of human sorrow. Maltravers, who had spent weeks wrestling to capture the words she spoke, was as enthralled as anyone. At the end she left the most fleeting of pauses before lifting a face stretched with emotion and wet with tears to cry, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” in a final shout of ultimate misery that filled the entire Chapter House before she sank into helpless sobbing in the silence. As the first handclap cracked out like a pistol shot — Maltravers noticed with pleasure that it was the Bishop who made it — Diana stood, then descended into a deep curtsey as applause rolled about her. She bowed to all sections of her audience before swiftly walking off the way she had entered. The applause intensified and she returned, recovering all the time, to smile and bow again. She pulled a reluctant Maltravers on stage to share her triumph before making a final exit which no demands would reverse. People settled back in their own release from emotion; then began a ragged but orderly exit through to the Refectory for coffee. Melissa turned to her brother.

  “Augustus, that was wonderful,” she said. “You understand women better than any man I know. Even Michael’s going to have to think about that.”

  “Thank you,” he replied as she kissed him. “But it was the word made flesh that really did it. That was the finest performance I’ve ever seen her give.”

  “She’s coming through for coffee, isn’t she?” Melissa asked anxiously. “I must congratulate her.”

  “Of course she is, but you’ll have to give her a few minutes. You go on and Tess and I will go and see how she is.”

  As they walked towards Diana’s room, Tess squeezed Maltravers’ arm but did not speak.

  “I know,” he said simply. “Let’s go and bring her down to earth.”

  Diana had opened the curtains and was standing by the window staring at the darkening landscape as they entered. Maltravers crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders. “You do my work more honour than I fear my work can bear,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Miraculous would be nearer.”

  Diana turned and looked at Tess. “What do you think?”

  “That I may as well quit now,” she replied.

  “You’re being ridiculous and you know it.” Diana laughed and held her hands out to both of them. “But I’m so glad it was special and that you two approve.”

  She threw her arms around Maltravers and he felt the tension flow out of her.

  “Come on,” he said. “Your public is waiting in the Refectory and they were a very good audience.”

  “Weren’t they marvellous? You know what the moment was that made it start to work? That bit right at the beginning about Adam having someone to blame. I thought that woman would never react! Who was she?”

  “The Bishop’s wife.”

  Diana pulled an exaggerated face of mock horror. “I was that near to dying on a Saturday night in Vercaster?”

  “I nearly went with you. I knew who she was.”

  The three of them made their way round the Refectory where, to Maltravers’ amusement, Diana gave another finely judged if minor performance of the persona meeting her public. There were repeated congratulations, now effusive, now more tellingly brief, until they reached the group of principal guests where Maltravers introduced her to the Bishop, a small delicate man with light grey hair above a florid and cheerful face.

  “Miss Porter,” he said, giving the nearest gesture possible to a bow without diminishing the dignity of crook and mitre. “I find it difficult to express the pleasure you have given this evening. At my age I do not expect to have to re-examine long-held beliefs but you have given many of us food for thought. Let me introduce you.”

  Maltravers stepped back and collected his coffee while, looking engagingly like a proud father with his glittering daughter, the Bishop ushered her round his attendant group. As he watched, Maltravers felt a touch on his sleeve and turned round to find it was Jackson.

  “Hello,” he said. “On or off duty?”

  “On. I just thought it possible I might spot somebody or something here that might throw light on the theft.”

  “And did you?”

  “No,” Jackson smiled. “But I got to see Miss Porter so it was well worth it.”

  “I take it there have been no developments?”

  Jackson shook his head. “Nothing at all so far, although it’s early days yet. There’s no known pattern it fits into that we can see. I’m just hoping we’ve closed all possible exit routes out of the country.”

  Maltravers’ attention was distracted by the Bishop calling his name and he joined him and Diana. They were standing with the Mayor and Mayoress and assorted clergy.

  “I understand you wrote tonight’s work, Mr Maltravers,” the Bishop said.

  “With a little help from the Bible, Bishop.”

  “Well, we must congratulate you as well. Some very remarkable interpretations. Tell me, have you ever considered entering the church yourself?”

  Maltravers heard Melissa, who was standing nearby, splutter into her coffee.

  “No,” he replied. “I think I would have difficulty with some of the teaching.” To his relief, the Bi
shop did not pursue the point. Even though Maltravers had spent many years deliberately arguing with, trying to undermine and even mocking his brother-in-law’s beliefs, the Bishop was not family. The Dean, who had just joined the group, began congratulating Diana, which gave Maltravers the opportunity to withdraw.

  “Very self-controlled,” Melissa murmured. “The Bishop is much too gentle a Christian for your astringency.”

  “He approved of what I wrote,” said Maltravers.

  “Yes, but you trod very softly for once. Incidentally, don’t look now, but there’s a man just behind you to your right who keeps staring over this way. By the door. I’ve been watching him for several minutes and he can’t seem to keep his eyes off Diana.”

  “Well, she is the star attraction,” said Maltravers. “You know what people are like with the famous. Remember Miss Targett.”

  “Yes, but it’s…I don’t know. I just don’t like the way he keeps looking.”

  “I take it you don’t recognise him.”

  “No. I’m sure he’s nothing to do with the cathedral. I wondered if you might…oh, damn, he’s gone.”

  Maltravers turned instinctively and looked towards the Refectory door which had been left open.

  “What did he look like?” he asked.

  Melissa shrugged. “Oh, quite ordinary. I was probably imagining things. Didn’t like it though. More coffee?”

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when they left the cathedral for the short walk through a velvet summer night back to Punt Yard, where they had a final drink before going to bed.

  “When do you have to leave tomorrow?” Melissa asked Diana.

  “Oh, sometime in the afternoon. What time are the trains? As long as I’m back in town by Monday morning.”

  “Fine. Michael’s taking morning service at St John’s tomorrow, so perhaps you three would like to take Rebecca out while I do lunch. And you are coming to the Dean’s garden party in the afternoon?”

  “Of course,” said Diana. “He was very insistent. It doesn’t matter which train I get back.”

  *

  Maltravers and Tess stayed up after the rest had gone to bed and talked.

  “She crossed a few frontiers tonight,” Tess remarked.

  “She did indeed. And just think what she’s got to do. Desdemona, Juliet, Cleopatra, Ophelia. She’s going to find things in there that even the blessed William didn’t imagine.”

  Tess looked at him as he stared reflectively into the empty fireplace, still attracting the gaze even without winter coals, and knew his mind was full of rich imaginings. For nearly three years she had felt secure with him because she had learned that one part of him would always be under the witchcraft of words, written or spoken, and had recognised she must not invade that private world. And these feelings she could share; she was an actress herself and had seen her art performed at the highest level by a woman who was also her friend. They sat for a while recalling Diana Porter’s greatest performance, then went to bed.

  Chapter Four

  PLUMP AND WELL-FED ducks paddled at the water’s edge as Tess, Diana and Rebecca dropped torn pieces of bread into an ill-mannered splatter of beaks. A quarter of a mile away the cathedral bells rang mathematically, their tones mixing discordantly with the electric chimes of an ice-cream vendor’s van playing a syncopated snatch of Greensleeves as it drew to a halt in the car-park at the edge of the Verta’s water meadows. While Rebecca laughed at the antics of the ducks, a kestrel hovered against crystalline blue, high across the river, while swifts flashed low over the surface of hammered silver water.

  “The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” remarked Maltravers. “I cannot share the unhappy Gerard’s beliefs, but I’m with him there.”

  They had attended morning service in the cathedral among a congregation filled with turning heads, nudges and whispers as they took their places. Michael was still at the distant St John’s and Melissa was producing dishes concomitant with various beds of rice.

  Tess took Maltravers’ arm and a now adoring Rebecca held Diana’s hand as they walked upstream to the remains of a derelict Saxon church, abandoned when the cathedral was built. Misshapen sections of wall still stood, including one entire arch which must have encompassed the door. Once through it, there were enough remains to assess the dimensions and general shape of the original building.

  “It was very tiny,” said Diana.

  “Well, between the Romans departing and Etheldreda coming all over in a religious faint, Vercaster was not exactly a metropolis,” said Maltravers. “You could probably have accommodated about eighty people in here which would have been quite adequate.”

  “Is it still hallowed ground?” Tess asked.

  “It may be. I’m never sure how one dehallows places. Or is it unhallow? It’s certainly still on cathedral land but with great lumps of the Roman wall of the city remaining, it doesn’t even rate as a tourist attraction.”

  They sat on the grass with their backs against the remains of one wall and Diana made a daisy chain for Rebecca, placing the tiny circlet of flowers on her brown shining hair.

  “One for you as well,” Rebecca demanded.

  “All right. Go and find some more daisies.”

  Maltravers watched the attractive proceedings with interest. “This maternal instinct is something new,” he said. “I’ve never known you take any interest in children before.”

  “I’m very fond of them,” Diana replied, carefully poking one daisy through the split stem of another. She turned to Rebecca. “And if I ever have a little girl, I’m going to call her after you. There.” She placed the completed chain of flowers on her hair. “Titania, perhaps?” Distantly they heard the cathedral clock.

  “I shall forgo the obvious quote, but it’s time we were getting back for lunch,” said Maltravers. “Then it’s the Trollopian gathering at the Dean’s.”

  Over lunch he speculated on finding a Slope, Proudie or Septimus Harding at the event.

  “You will behave,” Melissa told him sharply. “You are our guest.”

  “Yes, big sister,” he replied meekly.

  “And I’m not your big sister. I’m five years younger.”

  “Perhaps. But you always seemed like one.”

  The Dean’s house was in Cathedral Close which ran parallel with Punt Yard from opposite the Chapter House. Maltravers waited on the front doorstep for the others before they set off for the short walk and noticed a man on the opposite side of the Yard looking closely at the house. He had thinning, swept back hair and wore an open-necked check shirt. He suddenly realised Maltravers was staring back at him and walked briskly away towards the main road at the opposite end of the Yard from the cathedral.

  “Queer bird. I wonder who he was?” Maltravers said as Tess joined him.

  “Who?”

  “Chap just going round the corner. Another of the Vercaster starers.”

  “He’s just a tourist. The place is full of them. Come on, here are the others.”

  They were greeted by the Dean’s formidable wife, a woman, Maltravers whispered to Tess, of remarkable bosom who shepherded them straight through the house and out of the French windows into the garden, already adorned with sundry clerics either stationary or moving with slow and seemly tread. The garden was enormous — Maltravers learned later that it was nearly three quarters of an acre — with a massive, impeccable lawn between two lines of towering dark rhododendron bushes set behind flower beds. Other smaller bushes and beds dotted the grass which ran down to an assorted collection of mature trees and associated undergrowth that had been left to its natural devices and formed the last third of the garden. The whole effect was of total privacy, the similar adjacent gardens behind the terrace of homes quite invisible. Maltravers pondered its possibilities as a suitable gathering place for Vercaster nudists and amused himself by mentally stripping its present occupants of cassock, purple waistcoat or dignified gaiter but stopped abruptly when his gaze reached the Dean’s wife.
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  As he had anticipated, the occasion was Barchester revisited, the conversations polite and muted, the acknowledgements of clerical seniority subtly observed. He and Tess spent some time talking to a very young curate and his wife who suddenly confessed a nervous craving for a cigarette but feared the wrath of the Dean’s wife at a stub despoiling the pristine perfection of the grass. Maltravers sympathetically suggested a stroll to the sanctuary of the woods at the end of the garden and they made their way through the trees to the boundary fence which looked over some twenty yards of river bank to the Verta. They returned to be separated by the Dean’s wife who clearly held the darkest suspicions about what they had been up to. Tess and Maltravers were firmly escorted to meet the rector of a distant parish who had apparently expressed a desire to talk to them, while the curate’s wife was withered by a look that augured little prospect of her husband’s advancement in the diocese. As they talked, Maltravers saw Diana, escorted by their host, circulating among the guests, each group opening up with released anticipation as she approached. Wherever she went laughter filled that part of the garden.

  “Such a charming young woman,” said a voice at Maltravers’ elbow and he turned to face the horizontal mountains of his hostess. “We are so delighted she could attend. Are you enjoying yourselves?” There was no time to reply; having acknowledged their presence as the unavoidable price to pay for having Diana there, the Dean’s wife moved formidably on.

  Tea was naturally served in fine and thin china, with slender sandwiches with sliced summer fillings carried on matching plates. It was an exquisitely mannered, civilised gathering of clerical gentlefolk which Maltravers, although he might later mock it unmercifully, found thoroughly enjoyable.

  “The only thing that puzzles me is, isn’t this your working day?” he asked a rector who was juggling cup, saucer and plate with some dexterity. “I know the Founder made it a day of rest but don’t you all have to go and preach somewhere or some-thing?”