Come on, thought Theodora.
‘Purity of motive.’
‘Purity of motive, eh?’ said Theodora.
‘Quite so,’ said Mrs Baggley impressively.
‘Charles’s or Gray’s?’
‘Presumably the latter if Charles was talking about them.’
‘Well, he could have been defending his own,’ Theodora said.
‘Mrs Thrigg also said the Bishop was mentioned.’
‘In what context?’
‘Apparently Paul said something about he’d “like the Bishop to know”.’
‘Know what?’
‘Something about his wife.’
Theodora’s mind flashed back to the tall washed-out figure of Mrs Gray and her sudden passionate support of her husband’s good intentions. ‘No one more honourable, no one more truthful than Paul,’ she had said. ‘I don’t care if he has a problem.’ What had Wheeler got on Mrs Gray? Theodora wondered.
‘What time did Paul get to Wheeler’s? Does Mrs Thrigg know?’
‘She arrived about seven thirty and they had had time enough to get to grips with their subject matter already, by all accounts.’
‘What time did Gray leave Canon Wheeler’s house?’ She tried not to sound as though she were interrogating the older woman.
‘That’s all rather unfortunate,’ said Mrs Baggley vexedly. ‘Dick had a meeting with some Church Army people and I had to go and help with the coffee so I missed Paul coming out.’
Theodora sighed. She wondered whether to ask Mrs Baggley if she realised that she might have been the last person to see or hear of Paul Gray alive. Instead she said, ‘I suppose Mrs Thrigg would have known when he left?’
Mrs Baggley snorted, ‘No, she wouldn’t. She came on here to help me with the coffee for the Church Army before Paul left.’
Theodora tried again, ‘I suppose Paul came by car?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ Mrs Baggley said loftily. ‘If he did he’d have had to park at the back of St Manicus house since they’ve banned parking in the precinct now. Though what I did notice was a motor bicycle parked where it shouldn’t have been – outside Wheeler’s. Perhaps he came on that. Though come to think of it that’s really rather unlikely because I’m almost certain I heard it rev up to depart very much later – some time after midnight. I was sorry to miss him though. I might have had a word with him if I’d caught him. These Church Army people do talk so. It was well after nine by the time we got rid of them.’
‘When you saw them off finally, did you notice anything else in the court?’ Theodora had by now abandoned all attempts not to sound like an interrogator.
Mrs Baggley didn’t seem to mind. She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, actually I did see someone rather unexpected. I saw Geoffrey Markham – you know, Cumbermound’s youngest, coming from the direction of the Palace. I haven’t seen him for simply ages, have you?’
‘No,’ said Theodora heavily. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Mrs Baggley with impatience. ‘I’ve known Geoffrey since he was at prep school. Rather a dangerous boy I always thought.’
‘Mrs Baggley,’ Theodora said earnestly, ‘I do think it’s awfully important to let the police have this information. If they’re going to find out Paul Gray’s killer they need to know as much as possible about his movements near to the time of his death.’ She sought to convey the urgency of the situation. Up to now all had been surmise and suspicion. Mrs Baggley’s evidence provided the first unshakeable facts about Paul’s whereabouts after he had left his home on the evening of his murder.
Mrs Baggley looked sulky. ‘I don’t care for the notion that Paul Gray had his head cut off in the Cathedral. The whole idea is most unaesthetic. I’m sure he went away and had it done somewhere else. I think the old lunatic asylum would be a good place for it to have occurred, don’t you?’
This is preposterous, thought Theodora. Murder wasn’t a stage performance by the local thespians. They couldn’t all just reject facts because they offended their sensibilities. She held her tongue however, and tried another tack. ‘Has Canon Wheeler told the police anything about his visits from Paul and his quarrel, would you suppose?’
‘I really wouldn’t know. I would hardly think so, would you? I mean it’s not as though Charles actually cut Paul’s head off. It just so happens that Paul had to make his visit there before going on to be decapitated somewhere else. I do think dirty linen should be kept in the family.’
Theodora felt the rare experience of anger. The clergy were going to make it impossible to find the young priest’s murderer. She tried one last thrust. ‘Wouldn’t Mrs Thrigg have told the police about it?’
Mrs Baggley looked almost furtive. ‘Well, of course Charles might not have known that Mrs Thrigg was actually in the house during the quarrel. And Mrs Thrigg does a number of our houses. She’s been with us all for a long time. She and her crony Williams must be our longest serving Cathedral retainers. They make a very valuable team.’ Mrs Baggley’s pastoral tone was full of reproach at Theodora’s lack of finer feeling in this area. ‘We all know her, you see. It’s quite natural she shouldn’t want to tattle to the police, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Theodora in despair. There were no cracks anywhere. Naturally, Mrs Thrigg might not want to lose half a dozen agreeable jobs. And if they all spied on each other all the time the great thing, the only thing, which would, could, make life tolerable was to pretend that they didn’t. It looked as though she’d have to have a word with Mrs Thrigg.
‘That secretary of his,’ said Mrs Baggley with an inconsequence which was only apparent, ‘feeds Charles with far too much tittle-tattle. What’s her name? Coldharbour, yes, Rosamund Coldharbour. She, of course, knew Paul in his first parish at St Simeon’s at Narborough. I think she still lives in the parish and commutes in. She knew a bit too much about Paul’s distressing business with his youth club there.’
Theodora kept her eyes down. It was clear Mrs Baggley was, in her own way, making comments about a possible motive for Gray’s murder. If Mrs Baggley wanted to talk this one out Theodora would listen but she had no intention of inviting anything that might be just gossip. On the other hand, she reflected, it would fit well with all that she knew of Miss Coldharbour’s habits if she had fed Wheeler with information about Gray which he’d used to bully Gray with. She remembered the list of names in Crockford which Julia had come upon.
Once launched, moreover, Mrs Baggley was not going to be denied her hypothesising. ‘You know there was absolutely nothing pinned on Paul at Narborough. My information was that the real cause of the trouble there was a man called Jefferson. Some sort of ex-military man who’d been having some rather rough games with some of the boys. Once Paul realised what was going on he’d put a stop to it. His only stupidity was that he was a bit slow about picking up what was actually happening. But that he did, or wanted to do, anything discreditable is quite untrue. Dick felt quite sure about that.’
‘I know nothing came to court,’ said Theodora. ‘The Bishop and your husband supported Paul.’
‘I should think so indeed,’ said Mrs Baggley. ‘Privilege has its obligations.’
‘His wife,’ Theodora said hesitantly, ‘Mrs Gray, did suggest to me that he had a problem.’
‘If you mean he liked men as well as women, I think that may well have been true,’ said Mrs Baggley robustly. ‘It’s not his sexual propensities that matter. Many men like both sexes. Women too, I expect. It’s what he chooses to do about that liking which matters. Personally, I think that in choosing to wed a nice girl like Eunice Gray and have a son he made a very sensible move. I really can’t believe ill of him. On the two occasions he came here, I thought him a charming youth. Sincere, honest, humorous. I hate to think of him dead and in so horrid a way.’
‘Yes,’ said Theodora and thought of Julia.
* * *
Julia, in the cubby-hole of her office, ticked the last item
on Miss Coldharbour’s list, ‘Agenda for Chapter Meeting’. She drew breath for the first time in three and a quarter hours. Her neck ached with tension. She was about to risk departing for an early lunch, a move which she would not have dared to make if Miss Coldharbour had been in the office, but Julia gathered she was out for the morning and not expected in until two fifteen. Mary, at reception, had given her this useful piece of information after taking Miss Coldharbour’s call.
Julia was all the more dismayed, therefore, as she leant back in her chair, to hear the unmistakable tread of Canon Wheeler coming down the corridor. She was partly at a loss to account for her fear of the man, which was surely irrational. Even granted he had the power to sack her, that would not be the end of the world. Tenuous as her typing talents were, she was certain she could market them elsewhere. Of Canon Wheeler’s moral superiority to herself she was unconvinced. Why, then, did she find herself shaking and hoping that the tread would continue past her door?
The door swung open and Canon Wheeler’s tall and immaculately tailored presence filled the space. She rose unconfidently to her feet. He surveyed her for a moment and then switched on, as though it had been a light, the very considerable charm of his smile.
‘Do you think you could possibly look in on me in about fifteen minutes? I’ve got a couple of letters I’d like to get off before lunch.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Julia, resisting his charm with all her suspicious heart.
She found herself running a comb through her hair, taking a shorthand pad and three pencils instead of the two which should surely have been enough, running a handkerchief over her dusty sandals and easing her left-hand stocking round her ankle a bit to keep the ladder out of sight. This was ludicrous. She found her hands were sweating. Fifteen minutes. That gave her time to go for a quick wash. She shot out of the office and down the stairs. Damnation, Miss Coldharbour was coming up. They met half-way. She murmured a ‘good morning’ and did not ask her what the hell she was doing there so unexpectedly.
‘Were you going out?’ inquired Miss Coldharbour with her customary detachment, as though it were in Julia’s power to determine her hours of work.
‘Canon Wheeler wants some dictation. I was just going for a wash,’ said Julia who was well aware that Miss Coldharbour would make the connection between those two statements.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Miss Coldharbour lightly. Her handsome features betrayed no emotion as Julia stood aside to give her passage.
A sudden curiosity swept over Julia, coupled with a wish to disturb that perfect demeanour. ‘Is Canon Wheeler married?’ she asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Miss Coldharbour stopped in her tracks one step above Julia. She did not turn round to utter her question.
‘I wondered if Canon Wheeler had a wife?’ repeated Julia.
‘No.’ Miss Coldharbour’s monosyllable perfectly conveyed that Julia’s question was impertinent.
Just as well, thought Julia as she continued downstairs, poor hypothetical woman.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Julia tapped once on the panelled door of the double cube, paused, turned the handle and entered. The form of Canon Wheeler could be seen in his chair below the Masaccio copy. Julia, who when nervous found it difficult to see things clearly, started the long haul down the lilac carpet. She took her stand in front of the desk. Wheeler did not move. Steadying her breathing, Julia focused on his powerful figure. His head, she realised was at an odd angle. His slightly protuberant eyes, she saw, were not moving. After a moment or two she reached for the telephone and contacted the police.
Then she rang Theodora, who rang Ian.
CHAPTER NINE
Earth Has Got on Earth a Dignity of Naught
The Cathedral clock rang out the three-quarter: fifteen minutes before midnight. Caretaker yawned. He longed to smoke but dared not. If nothing happened by two o’clock he’d abandon his vigil and let the police know about the car number plate and, of course, the candles. He shifted in his chair and looked out of the window. There was a full moon over the Cathedral. Canon Hardnut’s first-floor front drawing-room, next door to Canon Wheeler’s on one side and Canon Sylvester’s on the other, gave an excellent view of the south door and the St Manicus chapel. It was not, however, with this that Ian’s interest lay.
He went again over the row he’d had that morning with Wheeler. He flushed with anger at the things Wheeler had said to him, even though he knew they weren’t true. Wheeler had faced it out, just as he had feared he might, denied everything, appeared not to understand the evidence and ended the interview by thumping the table and telling him he could expect his dismissal in writing before the end of the month. Ian, fortified to some degree by his small new knowledge and large new guesses about Wheeler’s conduct, had found himself sufficiently detached to watch the canon’s physiological symptoms of anger, wondering why he had never attended to them before. Wheeler’s fair complexion had flushed, the pale-grey eyes bulged, his breathing rate went up and a line of spittle had formed on his lower lip. How much did Wheeler believe himself, act himself into believing himself? How much, Ian had wondered, was he self-deceiving and how much just a normal frightened liar? There was a side to the clerical role which demanded powers of acting: perhaps Wheeler could no longer draw the line.
Once freed from his presence, however, the psychology of Wheeler had ceased to detain Ian. He had formed his resolution and clattered down the front staircase to the office of the absent diocesan secretary, intent on following the one lead which, if it held, would undoubtedly shop Wheeler.
An hour later Theodora had telephoned him to announce Wheeler’s death. They had met, the three of them – Julia, Theodora and Ian – in the latters’ attic office. There they had pooled their information. Ian had told Theodora about finding Paul’s number plates at Cumbermound and had gone on to tell them both something of what he had learned from Miss Coldharbour later that same evening after the Medewich show. Theodora had repeated what Mrs Baggley had told her about Paul’s visit to Wheeler and the conversation Mrs Thrigg had overheard. The decisive point in crystallizing Ian’s thinking had been Mrs Baggley’s remark about her having seen Markham in Canons’ Court on Thursday evening. The connections which had been shaping themselves in Ian’s head had suddenly seemed to make sense.
The rest had been pure agony for someone of Ian’s impatient temperament. First Julia had been called for questioning, then he himself had had to go in. It was not until after lunch when, evading the kind invitation of the two women to join them for food, he’d mumbled something about testing theories and made his way back to the wherry. There was no point in alarming them and anyway he might be wrong. He’d shot out of the office, stopping only to pick up the St Saviour’s candle from Theodora’s desk. Once back at the wherry he’d taken the asylum candle from its resting place in the press beneath his bunk and, knowing now what to look for, had no difficulty in spotting the dark circle in its base which formed a plug to a cavity large enough to conceal a small packet. Holding his breath he had gently eased a knife round the mark. The amazing thing was that it was full. He repeated the experiment with the St Saviour’s candle but this one, though it had the same cavity, was empty. He was finally convinced there could be no doubt about what was happening.
The next step had been more difficult. There was really only the presence of Markham in the court that Thursday evening to go on. But having discovered the contents of the candles, Ian was sure that his earlier theory that money was the link between Gray and Markham was correct. And he was sure now that Gray had met his end somewhere in the court. The only question was where? There were two houses empty, the deceased Hardnut’s and that of Sylvester, who was on sabbatical. It would be only sensible to suppose that anyone looking for a repository for the candles would use the house of the deceased rather than the merely absent canon. And if the street value of the stuff in the candles was anything to go by they’d be back to claim it. What had happened, he wondered, to let two such
valuable vessels loose in such diverse contexts? Some breakdown in the ordinance. Anyway it provided a motive for murder. If Gray had been part of that sort of game, or if he’d stumbled on it and threatened to reveal all, Markham would have had quite strong reasons for killing him. And if Wheeler had observed some of Markham’s comings and goings from his cottage on the Cumbermound estate, or indeed in the court itself, that might be a reason for Markham’s appearing on his hit list.
So, weighing the possibilities, Caretaker had come to Canon Hardnut’s as soon as he could be sure that the police had finished with him. It had been about seven in the evening. He’d not been eager for anyone to see him enter, so he’d come in through the back, alert to every trace on the way, sure now of what he was looking for. He’d had the spare keys, of course, to Canon Hardnut’s. They’d been lying there on Williams’s keyboard just as he’d seen them when he’d spoken to Williams. Once inside the house he’d inspected every inch of the ground. There was not too much to see. The police, if they had searched the house (and Ian could imagine the Dean, with his strong sense of decorum, might not have been eager to give approval for too much disturbance of the relicts of the deceased Canon) might be forgiven for not finding anything especially if, unlike Ian, they had not been specifically directed there. He had found a smudge of fresh tar on the door mat and a single small dark blot at the foot of the staircase.
In an effort to turn his thoughts away from the horror, Ian put his hand in his pocket and fingered the stump of candle with the St Manicus arms on it, wondering what to do with such an incriminating object. After some deliberation he’d kept the asylum one on his own person and sent the one Theodora had given him to Julia at her lodgings by special messenger, with instructions attached. Then, when he’d entered Canon Hardnut’s study he’d searched high and low for others. He’d found one very well concealed in the elephant-foot umbrella stand, a piece of stage scenery which accurately represented the style of Canon Hardnut’s life. The only question was, was this all there were or were there more? And, having thought about it, he’d based his long vigil on the idea that one was enough but there might be others. And, with this latest death, whoever had secreted the candles would know another search could be imminent, and so they’d be likely to return to make sure it wasn’t fruitful. Ian would soon know if he was right.
Clerical Errors Page 14
