Caroline Minuscule

by Andrew Taylor

  There was safety in numbers. The entire congregation strolled in a body through the churchyard, crossed the road and went into the Queen Anne house opposite. Molly Burnham let out her dogs on the way. ‘Would have done it earlier,’ she said, as if in answer to an unspoken reproof, ‘but I was already late for the service. Should have been up the front with Auntie.’

  She talked nonstop to Dougal and Amanda until they reached the dining room, evidently under the impression that ‘you television people – never watch it myself, except the news’ required to be subjected to a constant flow of information. She was unexpectedly efficient about it too, despite the continuous demands made on her by her dogs, her aunt and her numerous acquaintances among the congregation.

  The different coloured gowns denoted school prefects (black) and Queen’s Scholars (purple); the fact that the service was held here rather than at the cathedral was a sop to her wealthy aunt, a granddaughter of the celebrated Victorian headmaster mentioned in the sermon who had in fact inaugurated the tradition of a founder’s day service; the rector, Mr Black, disapproved of the whole business, and she, Molly, wished the living was still in the gift of the Burnham family because the bishop simply couldn’t be trusted these days.

  While this was going on, Dougal and Amanda were surreptitiously looking round to see what Lee was doing. To their despair they saw him deep in conversation with Mr Black. Molly Burnham noticed the general direction of their glance, which prompted her to make a pointed comment that the only local people in his church had been herself and her aunt, and who was that man in the extraordinary raincoat to whom he was talking?

  Dougal said he rather thought the man had been staying at the Crossed Keys with them that weekend; perhaps he was an Old Boy? To which Miss Burnham said, ‘Certainly not,’ in a very firm voice and led them into the house.

  They crossed the hall and entered the dining room. The table in the centre was covered with food; one sideboard was loaded with sherry glasses, while another contained an array of coffee cups. Presiding over this was a plump woman with a lined face wearing a vast apron advertising Heinz Baked Beans. She at once came forward, took Mrs Burnham by the arm and settled her in a wing armchair by the fireplace with a glass of sherry. Mrs Burnham took one birdlike sip of her sherry and appeared to fall asleep at once.

  Miss Burnham left them to fulfill her duties as surrogate hostess. The room filled with people chattering, clinking glasses, cutlery rattling on plates. Lee had now come in; he was telling a joke to a mistress with tightly controlled iron-grey hair. Dougal and Amanda swiftly attached themselves to Mr Black who was meandering around the room carrying a plate of sandwiches with the aimless and irritating vagueness of a lonely bluebottle. He was only too glad to find someone to talk to.

  It was, however, difficult to concentrate on the rector’s monologue. Dougal caught fragments of it and could construct the general drift without effort. Mr Black felt obliged to justify his presence in a place which had, he said, ‘no real meaning at this point in time.’ He pointed out that he had gone to a grammar school and that he wished that circumstances could have permitted him to attend a comprehensive. He blamed the bishop – obviously the scapegoat for all seasons, thought Dougal – for the conservatism of the Diocese of Rosington. ‘The smugness of the place kills honest emotions,’ he said, his Adam’s apple leaping up and down in his emotion above his broad and slightly grubby clerical collar. ‘The only priest here who had some sort of concept of the sociological role of the Church was old Vernon-Jones – and he’s just died, of course.’ Mr Black frowned at the inept timing of the Almighty. ‘You must have read his book – My God Among Tbieves? Bit elitist naturally (his background was against him), but he was basically on the side of the People . . .’ Mr Black offered to give them a tour of the depressed areas in and around Rosington – ‘just the thing for truly meaningful documentary material.’

  Lee was beside the only door from the dining room with a glass of sherry in one hand and a vol-au-vent in the other. If they were to leave, it would have to be with someone else; preferably with a coachload of sixth formers for maximum security. Perhaps they could say that the Mini had an oil leak or something. But there would probably be an officious amateur mechanic on hand, eager to mend it for them. And even if they could cadge a lift, Lee would only have to trail them in the Lancia until they were alone again. Mr Black’s dandruff, Dougal noticed dispassionately while this was going through his mind, had left rich deposits on the black shoulders of his clerical suit.

  At this point the chaplain approached, moving towards them through the intervening clusters of people with the adroit efficiency of a natural diplomat. He detached Black from Dougal and Amanda (‘Herbert, could you possibly give Molly a hand with the coffee? She’s rushed off her feet over there.’) and smoothly introduced himself as Derek Prenderpath.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing you in church – we get so few strangers at the Commemoration service usually. Of course, it used to be a much grander affair than it is now – between ourselves, the Head only keeps it on for the sake of the Burnhams.’

  Mr Prenderpath had gathered, by the bush telegraph which operated in this small social group whose members knew one another only too well, that Dougal and Amanda were connected in some vague and potentially delightful way with television. The tip of his tongue moistened his finely moulded lips. Dougal was reminded of a well-preserved lizard.

  Prenderpath’s hair had originally been blond, but was now dappled with grey; his movements were faunlike; his teeth flashed frequently with the glaring regularity of a toothpaste advertisement; and his clerical suit was dove grey with a red silk lining.

  He was polite to Amanda, but concentrated his conversational efforts on Dougal. These tended towards two ends: to discover more about the proposed programme on Rosington; and to familiarize them with his opinions of the other people in the room.

  ‘Molly Burnham’s on the Board of Governors now we’ve gone coeducational; I sometimes wonder whether she confuses the school with her dogs and vice versa.’

  Amanda was white-faced by Dougal’s side. They were both smoking now, inhaling their cigarettes with furious concentration, as if tobacco could bring about a miracle. As the chaplain’s waspish voice whined effortlessly on, Dougal began to wonder desperately if they could get out of this by telling the truth – by throwing themselves on the mercy, respectability and common sense which everyone here except Lee presumably possessed. The prospect of such a scene appalled him, which he recognized as mildly ironic. But the main stumbling block was one of belief. They had no proof. Lee need only deny the whole thing. Maybe he should pretend to faint; Miss Burnham would surely let him and Amanda stay for a few hours, by which time . . . but that was no use: Lee would wait.

  Or they could leave like lambs to the slaughter and try to make a deal with Lee – to trade information for immunity. God knew, the diamonds now seemed insignificant enough; they were like something you wanted a long time ago when you were quite a different person, and now you couldn’t even remember why you had wanted it. But would Lee consent to that? After having their room searched, he must already know most of what they knew. But did he know how to use it?

  ‘Pardon me, Padre,’ said a familiar voice behind them.

  Lee had moved into the attack.

  ‘Just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your sermon.’

  Mr Prenderpath stopped in mid-sentence and swung round. ‘People always say that to priests.’ His eyes raked Lee up and down, like a farmer inspecting his neighbour’s bull and finding it wanting. ‘Especially those who don’t usually go to church.’

  The venom, Dougal supposed, was due to the fact that Lee was a stranger who showed no outward signs of being of any use to anyone. But Lee’s blunt, bland face remained unchanged. ‘Och, Padre—’ he was beginning, when an interruption occurred.

  The fox terrier, who had been foraging among the eaters with unlovely persistence, had managed to seize a leg of chicken from M
r Black’s unguarded plate. Judging that the size of the prize warranted a rapid retreat, the dog shot across the room with a fine disregard for intervening human legs, and took refuge under the armchair in which Mrs Burnham slumbered. The chair juddered under the attack. Mrs Burnham jerked awake.

  ‘Oh, Sophie,’ said Molly Burnham from the other side of the room, ‘you shouldn’t.’ She sounded unconvinced.

  ‘Sophie?’ echoed her aunt. ‘Bloody dog. I call her Oaf.’ She peered towards her ankles, between which protruded Sophie’s snout; the chicken leg was now no more than an undigested memory.

  Mrs Burnham snorted and reached for her sherry. Ignoring the people around her, she then picked up her glasses and the Sunday Times. ‘Mr Prenderpath!’ she said to the room at large. ‘Come here.’

  The chaplain shrugged and obeyed. Dougal could hear Mrs Burnham saying, ‘Now, my man, let’s see if you’re as clever as you pretend to be.’ Prenderpath murmured something deferentially. ‘Rubbish!’ the querulous voice continued. ‘It’s the crossword – a prize one. Only six more clues to go, so pull up a chair and start thinking.’

  Lee smiled at Dougal and Amanda, reminding Dougal of a lupine grandmother fortuitously left alone with two Little Red Riding Hoods. ‘It was a grand sound, wasn’t it,’ he said, ‘all those voices raised in the praise of God. Now, Mr and Mrs . . . Massey, we need to have a chat.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’ began Dougal.

  ‘Yes you do. I thought I’d eliminated the competition. Then I began to wonder when I found you with the Munns woman. And last night I knew for sure. So I’ll need a lot of answers, okay?’ The smile broadened. ‘You know what happens to people who don’t give me answers. Remember Jimmy Hanbury?’ The memory seemed to give Lee pleasure.

  ‘How did you know we were here?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘Slipped that flat-faced waitress a tenner when we got to the hotel. She heard you mention Charleston Parva this morning . . . Christ, you kids are careless.’

  ‘The professional’s opinion of amateurs?’ Dougal knew it was a silly thing to say, but he had to speak, to prove he still could. It was a token gesture towards the skimpy remnants of his self-respect.

  Lee gave no sign of having heard him. ‘We’ll leave together. We can talk in my car.’

  ‘What if we don’t?’ Amanda stared at him, her chin rising.

  ‘You won’t get far in that clapped-out car of yours, even if you reach it. These people won’t want to know you if you try and disturb their little party with a cock and bull story you can’t prove. Face facts, can’t you? We’re going to do business sooner or later. The sooner it is, the less you’re likely to get hurt. You’re playing with the big boys now.’

  And then what? Dougal wondered. You throw away the peel when you’ve got the juice from an orange. Especially if you don’t like leaving litter around.

  ‘Molly!’ Mrs Burnham hailed her niece like a taxi. ‘Dear Italian has broken nails in U.S.A.’

  This gnomic observation cut through the conversations in the room and quelled them all. ‘Blank – A – blank – O,’ she continued, with the air of one making a necessary but unwelcome concession to the stupidity of her listeners, ‘three blanks – A – blank. Well?’

  ‘Carolinas,’ said Dougal automatically. He had often noticed that, when his mind was crumbling before a crisis, it compensated by working rapidly and well in other directions.

  Molly Burnham, homing towards her aunt with an anxious expression on her face, smiled warmly at him. ‘Carolinas,’ she echoed, bending towards Mrs Burnham, enunciating each syllable with care. ‘Isn’t Mr Massey clever?’

  ‘Humph! Don’t make faces at me, gel. I can hear perfectly well.’ She settled her glasses more firmly on her nose and beckoned Mr Prenderpath.

  Molly Burnham drew Dougal aside. ‘Thank you so much. She gets so fractious after going to church. Her only real interest in life now is finishing that damn crossword. Last few clues are always sheer hell for everyone else around.’

  Dougal stared at her, hearing the words with only half his mind. An idea had just come to him, a theory of such simplicity that it must be right. It increased their desperate need to get away from Lee. A wild notion of how this might be accomplished, based on the sticker on the Morris Traveller’s window, occurred to him, but it was so far-fetched that he discarded it. An instant later, he realized he’d have to try it; there was no alternative. He glanced over his shoulder: Amanda and Lee were apparently deep in conversation.

  ‘Miss Burnham,’ he hissed. ‘There’s something I must tell you. You remember you were asking about that man with Amanda? His name’s Lee. He was telling us what he does for a living.’

  The gratitude on Molly Burnham’s face had given way to surprise, which was itself followed by a look which seemed to suggest that she feared Dougal was on the fringe of some unforgivable faux pas. Sophie, as if sensing her mistress’s distress, heaved herself up and waddled over.

  ‘He works at a lab near Cambridge. Privately funded experimental biology. He enjoys his work. He cuts up animals.’

  In the long pause, Dougal tried to calculate the odds against Miss Burnham being so fanatical an antivivisectionist that she would set at nought the laws of hospitality. Even if she threw Lee out, he thought gloomily, it would only delay their confrontation.

  ‘Mr Lee,’ she said at last. Lee looked up and smiled encouragingly at them. Dougal swore to himself. Molly looked upset, but not angry enough to cause a scene.

  Then Sophie began to growl.

  The fox terrier must have been alerted by some nuance in her mistress’s voice. The growl became a snarl as the dog started to advance.

  Lee turned pale. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He backed away.

  ‘Sophie!’ cried Molly Burnham and grabbed the dog’s collar, which had little noticeable effect on her implacable progress towards Lee.

  It was easy for Dougal and Amanda to slip away in the confusion. As they reached the hall, Mrs Burnham’s senile treble could be heard above the hubbub: ‘Go on, Oaf, sick ’im, you stupid dog.’

  They ran across to the Mini. While Amanda started the engine, Dougal pulled out his penknife and began to savage the valves on the tires of the Lancia. When air was escaping from two of them, he climbed into the Mini’s passenger seat.

  ‘Back to Rosington. Quick.’

  Amanda, to his surprise, obeyed. After a few miles, she broke the silence between them. ‘You fool,’ she said, ‘talk about taking risks. What would’ve happened if it hadn’t worked?’

  ‘Something nasty. But it did work. What we couldn’t have even hoped for was that Lee would be afraid of dogs.’

  ‘And why Rosington? Though I suppose it’s the last place Lee would expect us to go to.’

  ‘Because it’s where the diamonds are. I’m sure of it. Look, Hanbury’s clue was a photo of a manuscript written in Caroline Minuscule and connected with Rosington. Especially with the cathedral. We chased over here because Charleston Parva translates Caroline Minuscule.’ Twenty years of academic conditioning made him add, ‘Well, more or less. But suppose the name of the village was a deliberate blind. Suppose Vernon-Jones meant the connection to be made, to confuse Lee and/or Hanbury, so they would end up thinking the name of the script was an irrelevancy.’

  ‘All right, I suppose.’ Something in Amanda’s voice made Dougal look at her, made him realize they were both exhausted.

  Enthusiasm returned. ‘I think Vernon-Jones counted on all his silly clues, and his reputation for deviousness, to cloud the obvious. And the answer is obvious. It’s right in front of us, like the Purloined Letter. Seek and ye shall find. Who are the people he was closest to in Rosington? Connected with the cathedral? Who has got a model of the cathedral? And whoever heard of someone christened Lina?’

  14

  ‘It sounds awful,’ said Mrs Munns, who was wearing pink dungarees and lying on the hearthrug beneath Lina, ‘but George, my husband, actually preferred sma
ll congregations when he was Precentor here. He used to say that a crowd ruined the acoustics in the choir. Not that there are many – that place is like a vaulted bathroom – the sound keeps bouncing back.’

  Dougal stretched out his legs and settled himself deeper into the sofa. He was at last warming up. They had spent nearly two hours in the Mini, most of the time parked in a side road on the outskirts of Rosington, waiting for half-past four and congratulating themselves on having failed to cancel the arrangement to have tea with Mrs Munns.

  Really, he thought lazily, no one would think she was the relict of a clergyman, with all the phrase implied. He must try not to look at her. She looked about seventeen in this light. Amanda had an almost infallible instinct for detecting when he found someone else attractive and tended to object. Which was silly, of course, because the attraction was either a purely aesthetic response or a sort of public hangover, and in neither case was it accompanied by the desire to do anything about it.

  They had arrived at her house punctually, pinched with cold and the fear that Lee or Tanner might have seen them as they trekked across the town. (Taking the Mini to the door would have been much too risky.) She had told them to call her Katie because being called Mrs Munns made her feel like somebody else. She had quickly produced tea, biscuits and fruit cake in the sitting room (‘We skip the bread and butter stage on Sundays because of having to go to church’).

  The way in which Katie Munns both expected and welcomed them came as a shock. It was as if Bleeders Hall last night and Charleston Parva today had never existed in the real world, the world of drawn curtains, a glowing coal fire and a pot of tea which might reasonably be expected to stretch to three or even four cups all round. No, Cedric and Lee belonged in limbo, unlike the second piece of fruit cake which he was lovingly consuming.

  Amanda asked Katie about the recipe. ‘It’s the sherry that does it. And the brandy. But you can’t be mean about quantities . . .’