‘Why does Canon Wheeler hate Ian so much?’ she asked Theodora. Theodora looked even more uncomfortable.
‘Well,’ she said after a moment’s pause, ‘of course they are doing the same job up to a point and that’s never an easy pattern of work. But they are very different in temperament. And Ian’s very much better at it than Charles.’
Julia was surprised.
‘Ian’s very competent as an administrator. He manages the detail which bores Charles. His judgement is more balanced and he’s better educated and better informed. He had three years in the Civil Service after Oriental Languages at Cambridge. I gather great things were expected of him. Then, quite suddenly, he had some sort of illness, resigned from the Service and went to Thailand for twelve months. Where, I gather, Dhani put him in a Buddhist monastery and nursed him back to health – he’d known Dhani at school and Cambridge. When he came back, he tried for the Anglican priesthood and was rejected.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s always rather difficult to know quite what they are looking for at ACCM and there are fashions in what is acceptable and what not. But if he started talking Buddhism at them, they may well have taken fright.’
‘So what then?’
‘His father had been a solicitor in Medewich before he died and he knew the Bishop, so he came here as an administrator. He’s been here ever since. Three years, that is. He came a couple of months before Canon Wheeler. Because he’s so able he wasn’t expected to stay. He’s a bit out of place here. I think the clergy wonder what to do with him at times. In some way they don’t quite articulate, they feel that he’s what they would call unreliable.’
‘Too clever by half,’ interposed Julia.
‘Well, too imaginative and too sensitive certainly. He can’t be guaranteed to take the orthodox Anglican view, is what they mean. They can’t predict his opinions on every topic in the way clergy feel comfortable with.’
‘All that Buddhism.’
‘Precisely. And his Cambridge friends were rather wild. Geoffrey Markham, the youngest Cumbermound boy, was up at the same time and they and the Bishop’s son, Thomas, formed something of a set. I’m not sure whether Ian has kept up with Markham – who had something of a dark reputation at one time.’
Julia was picking up enough about English society to realise that all this made Caretaker of more consequence in Medewich than she had thought. Ruefully, the thought of her own connections crossed her mind.
‘So, why does Ian hate Canon Wheeler?’ she asked experimentally, remembering the occasion on which she had asked Ian that same question.
‘Ian is deeply religious and Charles isn’t. Ian cares passionately about the Church. He has a vision of it as a vehicle which prepares us for the presence of God.’
‘And Canon Wheeler doesn’t share that vision?’
‘I’m afraid Charles Wheeler’s vision of the Church is as a vehicle for his own self–advancement,’ said Theodora with unwonted severity.
There was a pause. Rather more interesting, however, to Julia than either Ian’s or Canon Wheeler’s vision for the Church was the very puzzling question of why, when he invariably summoned his subordinates to come to him by phone, Wheeler had today put himself to the trouble of walking up a back staircase to the servants’ quarters? What, she wondered, could have provoked such uncharacteristic behaviour?
Ian walked quickly across the lawn from the diocesan office towards the Cathedral, weaving in and out the groups of tourists, many of them Dutch, who visited the town in summer. He noticed with irritation the clutter of bicycles and even motorbikes propped near the St Manicus entrance to the Cathedral. The Dean and Chapter had recently forbidden parking there and had won as far as cars were concerned, but the local inhabitants had always parked their bikes there and continued so to do. He skirted the heaps of chippings and barrels of tar left by the workmen repairing the paths.
Considering all the insupportable things which Wheeler had spent twenty minutes saying to him, he felt remarkably calm. If the police made Wheeler feel uncomfortable about who had what keys, Wheeler would simply pass this on with interest to anyone who crossed his path in the near future. When threatened, Wheeler would hit out at anyone in sight. Rosamund Coldharbour had been near tears, he had noticed, as he had gone into Wheeler’s room.
What interested Ian now, however, was not his relations with his superior but quite another matter. He made his way quickly to the north transept entrance to the Cathedral. Then, turning aside before he reached the porch, he used his own keys to open a small iron–barred gate leading to a narrow passageway. It had all the signs of being the back–stage entrance to the building. There were a couple of old pails and a rotting mophead and a small washing line with dusters drying on it. Ian pressed on down the passage, down two steps, until he came to the small wooden door in the fabric. He thumped his hand on it twice and, receiving no answer, used his keys and entered. The space before him was formed from two segments of the crypt’s arcading – the room had been devised in the nineteenth century for use as an office for the vergers. Two partitions of heavy wooden panelling did not quite reach the arched ceiling and the other two sides of the room were formed by the walls of the crypt itself. There was a sink and a fridge which masqueraded as a safe, on one side of the room and, on the other, presses up to shoulder height. A board for keys hung beside the door, each key labelled with a metal tag. The crypt office was empty. On a large deal table in the middle was a copy of the Sun open at page three. Over the back of the chair next to the table were two pairs of vergers’ white cotton gloves drying.
Ian scrutinised the key board closely but was suddenly startled by the shrill sound of the telephone ringing. He looked round for the instrument and saw it on top of one of the presses. After a moment’s hesitation he picked up the receiver.
‘Vergers’ Office,’ he said. ‘Caretaker speaking.’
There was the usual battery of clicks and coughs which signalled that the internal communications system of the Cathedral was girding its loins for action.
‘Williams, I’d like two this time, after Evensong.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir, Williams is not here at the moment. This is Caretaker speaking, Canon Wheeler’s assistant.’ Long acquaintance with the clergy had convinced him that priests could not tell one layman from the next if they happened to be on their own administrative staff. It was best to identify oneself in relation to one’s clerical superior.
There was silence and then a click and the line went dead. Caretaker put the receiver back and turned to the door. In it stood the small, slight figure of the head verger, his silver hair and babyish complexion at odds with each other, as, indeed, was his black suit of the gentleman’s gentleman variety and his rather springy gymnast’s step. Caretaker looked at him with distaste.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ he said cordially. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’
‘I’ve just been showing the insurance gentleman where the bells are kept, Mr Caretaker. Can I help you at all? Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to get myself one.’
His tone was ingratiating which was another reason, apart from his mannikin looks, for Ian’s disliking him.
‘Love one, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘That’s all right, Mr Caretaker.’ The singsong betrayed the Welsh as did the repetition of Ian’s surname.
The verger did not bother to remove the Sun with its obnoxious picture but, with a smirk, planted the mug of tea on it. Ian found this offensive but, given the amount and type of information which he wanted from the man, he didn’t want to antagonise him.
He smothered his dislike and said in a gossiping tone, ‘Actually, I’m rather in need of a bit of specialist help at the moment.’ Ian looked at the Welshman, hoping the flattery was going to take. Jimmy gave no sign either way. ‘We’ve found ourselves in a spot of bother with the police over at the office. It’s about the number of keys to the Cathedral. I think we’ve probably been a bit lax ab
out checking them out.’
What on earth made him use this appalling Americanism, he wondered. There was no reason for it, except that when he was talking to Jimmy Williams he regularly felt that Jimmy required his interlocutors to act a part. Quite what part was required, he was by no means sure. Still, having slipped into a B–film cop part, he found it difficult to slough off the role. ‘I’d really appreciate your help in locating just who had what keys,’ he heard himself say.
‘Well, as you know, Mr Caretaker, all the Chapter have keys to all the doors except the Bishop’s door.’
‘All the Chapter? That means the Bishop as well, of course.’
‘Of course, Mr Caretaker and of course the Bishop has a key to his own door.’ Williams tittered.
Caretaker couldn’t bring himself to collude with the titter. ‘The Chapter are two light at the moment. Canon Hardnut died at Easter. Who had his keys?’
‘I think they came back here, Mr Caretaker.’ Williams vaguely indicated the board of keys by the door. ‘Or if they’re not there it may be Canon Wheeler has them for safekeeping.’
Ian snapped, ‘The key under the tab marked “Hardnut” on your board there does not resemble that hanging under the tab next to it marked “Sylvester”.’
The Welshman grasped this point rather too fast. ‘I think you’ll find, Mr Caretaker, that the key under Canon Hardnut’s label is the key to his house, not his cathedral key. We kept it here for Mrs Thrigg’s convenience. She continues to do for the late Canon in a manner of speaking.’
‘So where’s his Cathedral key?’
‘As I say, it went to Canon Wheeler or perhaps it’s in his house, amongst his effects.’
‘And Canon Sylvester has his sabbatical in Rome at the moment. Are his keys with him or did he hand them in before he went?’
‘His cathedral keys are the ones on the board.’
‘What about his house keys?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Caretaker, about Canon Sylvester’s house keys, as if his going to Rome makes a difference.’
Caretaker wondered if there was something in the syntax of the Welsh language which made this sort of construction more acceptable in Welsh than it was in English.
‘But he left you his Cathedral key?’
‘Yes. As you see, Mr Caretaker.’
‘And the Bishop’s door, do you have a key to that?’
‘Oh no, Mr Caretaker. Only the Bishop has a key to his own door.’
‘What happens when you lock up? I mean, say the Bishop’s door was unlocked when you lock up?’
‘As you know, Mr Caretaker, we lock up at seven thirty in summer and,’ said Williams insultingly, ‘at five thirty in winter. Unless of course there is some evening event. Twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday, there is a celebration of Compline in the choir at eight in the evening. His lordship is very assiduous in attending at that service.’ He pronounced ‘assiduous’ like a Welshman. Ian gritted his bigoted teeth.
‘So what if the Bishop’s door is open,’ he persisted, ‘after locking up time? I mean, don’t you have any key to repair the Bishop’s omission if he should forget to lock his own door?’
The Welshman smiled his forgiving smile. ‘His lordship never forgets,’ he asserted.
Ian found Williams’s assertion hard to believe but he pushed his chair back, conceding defeat. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said as he turned toward the door. ‘Those altar candles we pay so much for, we seem to be getting through them at a fair old rate. How often do we reorder, do you know?’
‘Funny you should mention that, Mr Caretaker. Canon Wheeler was inquiring about them only the other week. Naturally he was very happy when I was able to tell him that I recently came across a couple of cases of them we didn’t know we had. Old stock, like, you see. So we don’t need to worry yet awhile.’
You horrible little Welshman, Ian thought. And in a vain attempt to make Williams jump he said, ‘I rather think we may have to tighten up on one or two things round here.’
‘I’m sure the Bishop and Canon Wheeler will be able to satisfy the police,’ said Williams suavely.
As he turned down the passageway Ian wondered just how true that would turn out to be. The Cathedral could be got into at any time by the Bishop’s door, given how unlikely it was that the Bishop in his currently abstracted state should remember to lock it every time he used it. In addition, there was the set of Hardnut’s Cathedral keys which might or might not be with Wheeler. No wonder the police had given Wheeler a roasting about security; it was amazing they had a piece of altar silver to bless themselves with. Then, too, there was the matter of the candles. Without scrutinising the accounts and checking them against stock, Ian could think of no way of discovering whether Williams was telling the truth about the number of candles held by the Cathedral. Somehow he couldn’t quite see himself doing this. And if there was a leak of candles, where were they going and for what purpose? The one he and Julia had found at the asylum didn’t seem to have too much connection with the one Theodora had mentioned she had come across at St Saviour’s.
And finally, thought Ian as he walked up through the Cathedral stairs from the crypt office, what does the Bishop want two of after Evensong and why did he put the phone down on me when he failed to get the odious Williams?
CHAPTER FIVE
Clerical High Life
The Dean put down the watering can regretfully. He checked the humidifier and took his mittens off before locking the greenhouse door. It was Friday evening and the Cathedral clock had just struck six. As he walked up to the house his black bitch, Polly, joined him from behind the compost heap in which she had been happily rootling the past halfhour. She appeared to have been eating.
‘You’ll blow up one of these days, you greedy old bitch,’ said the Dean affectionately. Polly grinned back confidently at him and thumped her tail.
‘No, it would not be supper time yet,’ said the Dean firmly. ‘Another couple of hours, at least, and it wouldn’t do you any harm to wait a bit.’
The back door of the Deanery lay open to the evening sun. ‘Georgina,’ the Dean shouted as he passed through the hall. ‘Any messages?’
It was the perpetual clergy inquiry.
‘On the pad,’ called a muffled voice from upstairs. ‘If you want your dress shirt for this evening, it’s in your chest of drawers. If you’re not dressing, there’s a clean one in the airing cupboard.’
The Dean mounted towards the voice. ‘I expect Charles will want us all dressed. He’s a dressy fellow himself. He’d feel anything less than full fig would be an insult to the Old Man.’
‘Are you going to be all blokes together?’ said his wife, emerging on to the landing folding a pair of jodhpurs. The Dean gazed affectionately at her: a tall, handsome woman whose company he’d enjoyed immensely for thirty–five years.
‘Charles hasn’t published a guest list but since he didn’t invite you, I rather think we shall be.’
‘Evil gossip and improper reminiscence, doubtless,’ said Georgina. She was slightly miffed at not being invited. She liked a party and enjoyed the company of Lord Cumbermound, her cousin by marriage.
‘I suppose the whole thing was done in a bit of a hurry. Charles only had the idea on Wednesday. To ask wives as well at such short notice might not have been on. We’re supposed to be boosting the Old Man’s morale. As you say, all chaps together.’
‘Well, give my love to cousin George and say we’ll expect to see him at Cumbermound for the show on Sunday. Alison’s got a nice fifteen three bay, very smart. She’d like to sell him for Dotty. He’d be well up to her weight.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said the Dean from the bathroom above the sound of bathwater falling from a great height into the ample Edwardian bathtub.
‘And regards or respects or whatever is proper to Bishop Thomas, God bless him, poor fellow,’ she added, and meant it.
‘I’ll tell him,’ said the Dean.
* * *
Next door, t
he Archdeacon’s shower was not quite hot enough, but he made the best of it. The day had been warm, and since it wasn’t, he decided, an occasion for dressing, he settled for a light linen suit which he’d worn rather a lot ten years ago in New Zealand. It made him look a little as though he were on safari. Before he left he slipped in to see his wife. She was propped up on the sofa near her open window which commanded an excellent view of the whole of Canons’ Court. The late evening sun slanted in from the west. The Archdeacon came and sat down beside her and took her hand.
‘All right, ducks?’
She smiled at him, reassuring him. ‘Right as rain, Dick love.’
‘Taken your medders?’
‘Taken my medders.’
‘Don’t mind me going?’
‘You go off and swap your gossip,’ she said warmly. ‘Give my love to Bishop Thomas. And notice what you eat. Charles’s cooking is always Cordon Bleu. And take a coat,’ she called after him, ‘there’s going to be rain later.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye.’
Next door, in the mirror of the basement cloakroom of Canon Wheeler’s house, Julia made the final adjustments to a maid’s uniform. She wasn’t sure whether she was looking forward to the evening or not. Miss Coldharbour had recruited her at the last moment to help serve supper for Canon Wheeler’s guests who included the Bishop and the Earl of Medewich and Markham. Somebody had gone sick. Miss Coldharbour had understood Miss Smith had adequate relevant experience in that area. Julia was amazed at what Miss Coldharbour knew about her. She had, in fact, done a lot of waiting at table, including high table, at Cambridge in her eighteen months there with Michael.
It was one way of getting money. Once she’d got known for being presentable, turning up sober and on time, not leaving early with the spoons and able to tell left hand from right, word got round and she’d been passed from college to college by grateful manciples. She did not dislike the work and some of the conversation had been interesting. She’d particularly enjoyed a bout between Iris Murdoch and Professor Anscombe, she recalled, on the relation of philosophy to religion. One of the few occasions, it appeared, when Dame Iris had met her match.
Clerical Errors Page 7
