by Joyce Cato
The trouble was, Monica now seemed to have so many leads that it was hard to know where to start. She wasn’t about to give up now, though. She needed to succeed, if only to get Jason off their backs. At the thought of the handsome blond Chief Inspector, Monica flushed hotly and stomped into the kitchen to put a load into the washing machine. It was annoying the way that man kept intruding into her thoughts, and at the oddest of moments.
Well, too bad. She had some hard thinking to do, and Jason Dury could just go and jump in the river.
CHAPTER 13
‘ Sir, I think you’d better talk to this witness.’
The young police constable who stuck his head around the door had previously been the one watching the ‘garden party’ outside, and had consequently been in just the right position to overhear a private conversation between two unwary vicars, lurking, as he had been, behind the massive trunk of a cedar tree. He looked both excited and pleased with himself.
Jason regarded the middle-aged cleric who crept in, looking nervous and very much out of his depth, with interested eyes. He stood up and held out his hand, smiling amiably, trying to put the witness at his ease.
‘Chief Inspector Jason Dury. And you are Reverend…?’
‘Smith. Christopher Smith,’ the man said, taking a few quick steps forward to take Jason’s proffered hand and shook it firmly. The vicar looked to be in his early fifties, and had the beginnings of a potbelly. ‘Chief Inspector, my word,’ he murmured. ‘Rather a high rank to be working on the shop floor, so to speak?’
This rather astute statement had Jason rapidly re-assessing the man’s character.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Jason said casually. ‘But we’re very short-staffed, and I know this area.’ Both of which were true, but were not the main reasons that he’d been assigned to this case. As he rather suspected the Reverend Smith already knew. Or had surmised. ‘The constable tells me that you have some information for us,’ Jason prompted.
‘Oh, yes,’ the Reverend Smith said, shooting the constable a rather unhappy look. He’d never have been discussing the matter with old Jenkins if he’d known a policeman was snooping about.
‘It’s about the lady who died,’ he began, tactfully. ‘It concerns Saturday afternoon – when nearly everyone was still in at lunch. I’d finished very early. I’m not allowed to eat sweet stuff anymore,’ he added, looking down at his protruding belly with a look of acute misery. ‘So I left before the puddings, to avoid temptation. And I saw Reverend Gordon bent almost double over that manuscript case and demanding that the chap watching over it should open it up for her.’
‘Oh?’ Jason said blandly.
The cleric flushed and began to look uneasy. ‘The thing is, they seemed to be having a bit of an argument. Reverend Gordon wanted to study the parchment, or the colour of the ink, or something rather technical. She said it was impossible to do so under glass and electric light. But the chap was out and out refusing to remove it. Can’t say I blame him. Even I know you can’t take chances with such delicate and perishable things like that.’
‘And the Reverend Gordon would have known this too, presumably,’ Jason pointed out quietly. ‘I wonder what made her so adamant?’ he mused craftily.
Again the good reverend flushed. ‘Well, she er … well, she seemed to be casting aspersions of some sort on the authenticity of the piece, as far as I could tell.’
‘And did Dr Grade remove the manuscript for her?’ Jason asked, although he already had a good idea of what the answer to that question was going to be.
‘I don’t know,’ Christopher Smith admitted. ‘I didn’t linger,’ he added quickly. ‘I didn’t want to get drawn into it. And, frankly, I found Reverend Gordon rather alarming.’
Jason could quite understand that. ‘Well, thank you, Reverend Smith. You’ve been most helpful.’
The vicar beamed with relief and the constable, with an air of palpable pride, ushered his ‘find’ out of the room. Flora looked at Jason with glinting eyes. ‘Well, you said you wanted something more on Dr Grade, sir,’ she pointed out. ‘By the way, did you note that little titbit of information in the report about Dr Grade’s less-than-impressive “doctorate”?’
Jason nodded. ‘I had, yes. A bit of a pseudo-intellectual, our Dr Grade. But in Celia Gordon he met the real thing.’
Flora nodded. ‘You think she spotted something a bit off?’
‘Seems so.’
‘Shall I get Dr Grade back?’
‘Yes. Take a car and fetch him. And I want you to put the wind up him a bit before he gets here,’ Jason ordered pitilessly.
As a strategy, it obviously worked well, for when Flora returned with the good doctor nearly half an hour later, he was looking distinctly queasy.
‘Dr Grade, thank you for coming back,’ Jason said, superbly ignoring the fact that he’d hardly had any other option. ‘I thought I should let you know, as a matter of courtesy, that an expert is going to be sent to your museum tonight to examine the St Bede’s manuscript. I hope you have no objection to that?’
Whilst Flora had been gone, he’d sent out feelers for a local man with the necessary expertise. Being so close to Oxford University, of course, there’d been no trouble finding one both willing and indeed eager to examine the manuscript, and willing to give up a free evening to do it.
But it was absurdly obvious, from the way that Dr Grade swayed and almost fell into the chair facing the policeman, that he had many objections indeed to this state of affairs.
The big, haunted eyes stared at Jason, reminding him of a mouse looking up at a cat.
‘What?’ he finally said faintly. ‘What for?’
‘We have a witness who claims that the Reverend Gordon … well, not to put too fine a point on it, Dr Grade, it appears that she cast some doubt on the authenticity of the manuscript,’ Jason explained blandly.
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Simon said, beginning to rally a little. ‘It was fully authenticated by an eminent man in the field before the bishop purchased it.’
Jason blinked. ‘The bishop?’
‘Dr Carew. Strictly speaking, the St Bede’s manuscript belongs to his diocese.’
Jason couldn’t remember whether he’d been told that before. He took a moment to see if it could possibly make any difference, and didn’t see how it could. ‘I see. Then I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Oh, do you have the keys to the museum on you, Dr Grade?’ he asked, very casually.
Simon mutely shook his head.
Flora coughed. ‘I picked you up at the museum, Dr Grade. Surely you remember locking up behind us?’ He must do, she thought sourly. He’d objected to the necessity for closing the museum at all long and hard enough!
‘Then I’ll take care of them for now,’ Jason said, and held out his hand remorselessly.
With the expression of a man who’s suddenly found himself sinking in quicksand, Dr Grade grudgingly handed them over. ‘But I don’t see why you want them,’ he muttered helplessly.
‘As I’m sure you’ll appreciate,’ Jason responded coolly, ‘we don’t want any … er … accident to happen to the manuscript before the expert has a chance to look it over.’
Simon Grade went white, then red, as the implication washed over him.
‘But, look here, I can’t just have strangers trampling about all over my museum,’ he began to huff and puff, but Jason held up a silencing hand.
‘Dr Sidney Wyatt will have a police constable present throughout his inspection, I assure you. And he’ll oversee the locking up of the museum afterwards and make sure the security system is operating properly before he leaves.’
‘Dr Wyatt?’ Simon Grade mumbled, appalled, having scarcely heard the rest of the policeman’s statement.
Jason smiled beatifically. ‘Yes, you’ve heard of him I expect? A top man in his field, so I understand,’ he finished cheerfully. By now, Dr Grade was looking positively green about the gills. ‘Well that’s all for now,�
� Jason said briskly, standing up, and watching the man as he stumbled to his feet and sleepwalked to the door.
Flora looked at her boss in awe. ‘Crumbs, that was brutal,’ she said admiringly. ‘You’re sure it’s a fake then?’
‘Oh I don’t think there’s much doubt about it,’ Jason said. Not after that performance. ‘All along, that report about the break-in last year at the museum has bugged me.’
‘You think he faked it? The break-in, I mean?’
Jason nodded. ‘I think he faked it, removed a few items to make it look good, and then substituted a counterfeit for the original St Bede’s manuscript, thus covering himself if it ever came to light. He can always claim the “intruders” did it.’
Flora nodded. ‘In reality though, he probably sold it on to an avid collector. Wanted a little nest-egg for his retirement, d’you think?’
Jason nodded. ‘Perhaps the collector even supplied him with the fake to take its place. Collectors are amongst the most fanatical human beings to be found on the face of the planet, sergeant, remember that,’ he added grimly.
Flora looked suitably impressed. Jason sighed. ‘We’d better have Dr Carew in and tell him what we suspect.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s not going to be best pleased with us, me-thinks,’ he added drolly.
That lunchtime a large proportion of delegates gathered around the bar for an aperitif.
The Bryces were sitting beside one another on bar stools, sipping Pimms; they smiled an invitation to join them to Archdeacon Pierrepont, when he arrived. The curate from Bangor hovered on the periphery and drew Jessica in, the two of them starting a conversation on a project Jessica was working on, which involved taking mainly unloved, unused churches and using them as social gathering places for all sorts of community activities. Sir Andrew Courtenay, playing host to the gathering throng, joined them and the talk turned to sporting activities. And somehow, from there, ventured onto the new fad for ‘wild’ swimming.
Jessica, who’d never come across it, listened with interest. Apparently, people discontented with the loveless, chemical tyranny of swimming pools, had taken to swimming more naturally, in rivers and lakes. Getting back to nature, and enjoying a less manicured experience.
Sir Andrew, when questioned about possible local sites for this phenomenon, somewhat reluctantly conceded that the river roundabouts was ideal for this, being not too wide and neither too shallow nor too deep. He was quick to point out that neither he nor the conference centre could ensure the health and safety of anyone taking part in such an activity, and that he was sure his insurance didn’t cover such an activity. However, everyone assured him that they understood that they would be undertaking this at their own risk, and would sign a blanket waiver stating so.
Later, when people were asked about it, nobody was quite able to say exactly who it was that had first suggested that anyone interested should gather on the banks of the river not far from the old boathouse, and participate in this new adventure. But it was a popular idea, and since nearly everybody had brought their swim wear, it presented no practical difficulties for anyone. Especially since the overnight rain had turned to bright sparkling sunshine and the weather looked set to remain fair for the rest of the day.
And so it was that, throughout lunch and some of the early afternoon sessions, the idea spread, until nearly a score of people had intimated that they were up for the new experience.
Jessica called Monica and invited her to join them, and Monica accepted at once, asking if Carole Anne wanted to come along, too.
Archdeacon Pierrepont, declaring that he was too old to swim, nevertheless informed Dr Simon Grade of the event, and promptly invited him. He had been amused by the man’s obvious social climbing, and knew his kind well enough to predict that he would be unlikely to want to cause offence by declining. As he’d half-expected, the man clearly wasn’t that keen on the idea – in fact, he sounded downright distracted and not at all his usual affable self – and the archdeacon wasn’t particularly surprised. He didn’t have the look of a natural athlete about him, and was probably scrambling to come up with some imaginary, urgent appointment elsewhere. But he was secretly looking forward to seeing the dapper pseudo-academic cold and shivering and looking like a drowned rat, and made it clear that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The Bryces both agreed to go, since it would have made them look stand-offish if they’d declined, and the bird-watching-enthusiast curate was more than happy to join in, if only in the hope of getting up close and personal with moorhens.
Many of the older delegates, of course, had swum in rivers when they were children, and nostalgia was a strong draw.
And so the afternoon drew on with a great many people happily anticipating a new and refreshing experience.
And the killer looked forward to it most of all.
Dr Carew sensed trouble the moment he walked in. Jason Dury rose from his seat and ushered him to a comfortable armchair.
‘I’m afraid we’ve run into something of a problem,’ Jason began tactfully, ‘that may, or may not, have any bearing on the case.’ And, not wanting to prolong the agony, he gave the stone-faced bishop the facts about the St Bede’s manuscript.
When he was finished, David Carew sighed heavily. ‘But so far, it’s only a suspicion?’ he asked hopefully.
Jason nodded. ‘By tonight we’ll know for sure. Dr Carter said he’d be able to give us a preliminary assessment by ten o’clock. Of course, he said more detailed chemical testing would take time but … Well, the man’s an expert. I think we can safely take his word for it if he says it’s genuine. Or not.’
David Carew sighed. ‘I have to tell you, Chief Inspector, that there was a lot of opposition to our diocese acquiring the manuscript. If it turns out to be a fake …’ he shook his head and sighed. ‘But that’s my problem,’ he said stoically. ‘You, of course, have problems of your own. Oh, and speaking of those,’ he pushed the thought of his own woes firmly aside for the moment, ‘I’ve thought of something that I didn’t mention before. I can’t see how it could possibly have any bearing on the … er… death of Reverend Gordon, but you did say you were interested in anything at all to do with her?’
Jason nodded, noting yet another cleric who had trouble saying the word ‘murder’.
‘Well, she and Bishop Bryce were both candidates for the chair of a large and important conference scheduled for next year in London. A very important conference,’ he added, lest it hadn’t been quite clear.
‘I see,’ Jason said thoughtfully. His first instinct was to give a silent cheer that the handsome and annoying Bishop from Yorkshire had been brought back into the picture, but his second and more cautious instinct warned him not to jump to conclusions.
‘Whoever was elected to chair the conference could almost certainly be guaranteed … well, if not an outright promotion, than at least to have a great big tick marked up against their name,’ Dr Carew carried on carefully. ‘In Arthur’s case, it would almost certainly put him in the running to become Archbishop of … well, a very impressive Minster, shall we say, when the present incumbent retires. And in Celia’s case … well, I think it was common knowledge that she had not given up her hopes of a bishopric at some point in the future.’
Jason began to look much more interested. Now these were what he called big stakes! At last, something worth killing over? ‘I see,’ he said again.
‘And Arthur Bryce has, unofficially, been chosen to chair the conference,’ David Carew finished quietly. ‘But as I understand it, neither of them knew this. In fact, I’m breaking a confidence in telling you. The announcement isn’t officially due to be published until next month.’
‘I’ll be discreet,’ Jason promised. ‘But it’s obviously already known, amongst a certain number of you anyway, who had won the chairmanship, I mean? Is it possible that the Reverend Gordon or Bishop Bryce might also have heard about it? If only as nothing more than a rumour?’
David Carew gave it some serious t
hought. Eventually he sighed and shook his head. ‘I’d like to think not. We tend to keep things like this very much under our hats. I only know because I was on the selection committee.’
‘Did you vote for Bishop Bryce?’ Jason asked curiously.
Dr Carew smiled. ‘No.’
‘For Celia Gordon then?’ Jason asked, raising his voice an octave in surprise.
Again, the bishop smiled. ‘Not her either. There were two other nominees.’
‘I see,’ Jason said, and wondered. With the advent of the possibly fake manuscript, and now this committee thing, he seemed to be drowning in motives all of a sudden. It had the unfortunate effect of making him feel distrustful of both, when, in point of fact, either motive might hold good. ‘Tell me a little more about how Bishop Bryce came to be chosen,’ he said cautiously. ‘I understand that Celia Gordon wasn’t very popular …’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Dr Carew put in quickly. ‘She had a lot of big guns behind her. A woman chairperson would have been a first. And there are always those who like to see history being made. And there was no doubt that she was a very competent administrator. Sound. An academic, as you probably know. And there are a lot of advocates for women clergy, more than you might think.’
‘But not enough to secure her the seat?’
‘Not in this case, no. Even with the rumours …’ Dr Carew snapped his mouth shut comically, then, realizing it was too late, smiled ruefully. ‘Even with the rumours about Arthur Bryce going around, many thought he was a better choice. Well, perhaps a safer choice is the word to use. I suspect a lot of manoeuvring had been going on behind the scenes.’
Jason didn’t doubt it. It was his experience that wherever power – of whatever kind – was being brokered, there were always dirty dealings of some kind lurking about in the background.
That wasn’t what interested him.
‘What rumours, Dr Carew?’ Jason asked bluntly, making no apology for getting right to the heart of the matter.
