‘I was not,’ I retorted. ‘I pretended to be, so you wouldn’t fret about my staying up for you. I knew you were upset, so I worried. Margaret understands.’ She nodded and raised her hands in the classic ‘But what can you do?’ gesture.
Alan shook his head and continued. ‘And yesterday I pottered about the house, cleared out the garden shed, worked on my memoirs for a bit – that sort of thing. Dorothy went shopping in the morning and lunched with friends at Alderney’s, so she can’t vouch for my presence here for a good many hours. Not that her testimony would be worth much in any case.’
‘I suppose not.’ The dean looked troubled. ‘A devoted wife would lie for her husband, presumably.’
‘And I,’ said Margaret, ‘am your only alibi. You had no services to take yesterday, and you were looking a bit white about the gills. I made you stay home and rest.’
‘I wonder just when Dean Brading actually died,’ I said into a dismal little silence, and just then the doorbell rang.
Again I did the curtain routine at the window. ‘Gird your loins,’ I said. ‘It’s Derek and a couple of other people who look awfully official.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Alan, and went to the door. The rest of us stayed in the kitchen.
‘Come in, please,’ we heard him say. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘We apologize for disturbing you so early in the day, Chief Constable,’ said a deep voice, ‘but, as you’ll appreciate, sir, we’ve a grave matter to investigate.’
‘I do understand, and there’s no need to use my former title. I’ve been retired for quite some time now. “Nesbitt” will do nicely. And you would be?’
‘Chief Constable Michael Armstrong, Gloucestershire. And you may remember my assistant, Superintendent Frances Davids. I believe you met over a rather nasty case in the Cotswolds a little time back.’
‘Of course I remember you, Superintendent Davids! I didn’t recognize you at first. Something about your hair … well, never mind. Won’t you all sit down? May we offer coffee?’
That was my cue. Alan had, effortlessly, taken control of the situation and indicated that the rest of us were to take part in the interview. I assembled coffee things on a tray, along with a plate of biscuits. ‘You carry the pot, Margaret,’ I said softly. ‘We’re treating this as a pleasant social occasion. Here we go.’ Watson, who had been waiting in the kitchen for something nice to fall on the floor, followed us into the parlour. Both the cats had vanished. They love visitors they know, who can probably be conned into a cat-appreciation session, but they don’t care for strangers.
I greeted Superintendent Davids with an effusiveness that probably surprised her, since we’d met only once or twice over the Cotswold mess. I intended to keep the social atmosphere going as long as possible. I poured coffee for everyone, let Alan make the introductions with Margaret and Kenneth, and then sat back and tried to make myself invisible.
Actually, I felt a little sorry for the Gloucestershire contingent. It was an embarrassing situation for them. Here they were in the middle of a high-profile murder, and two of the possible suspects in the room were a retired chief constable and a senior clergyman! They had to conduct the investigation strictly according to the book, but without stepping on important ecclesiastical and constabulary toes. I sat back to watch the fun.
Alan maintained his firm hold of the initiative. ‘Now then, Chief Constable. I’m sure you’ll want to know, first of all, where I was after the meeting and all day yesterday. You know, of course, that I’d been in London at a meeting of the Appointments Commission. My alibi until the middle of the afternoon is, therefore, impeccable. Two archbishops, among other people, can vouch for me. Unfortunately, my schedule becomes murkier after that. The meeting broke up at a little after three, and as it was not the most comfortable I’ve ever attended, I was not in the best of moods when I left. I’m sorry I can’t give you details, as we’re all sworn to secrecy. I can, later and in private, tell you what I said and did, if you wish, but I can’t speak for anyone else. At any rate, I felt it was unjust to take out my bad temper on my wife, so I walked about for quite a little time before deciding to have dinner in town. After dinner – at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, if you want to check – I retrieved my car and drove home. The traffic was still miserable – there was a smash-up on the M20 – so it was quite late before I finally got home. And I fear I spent all day yesterday at home, without anyone at all to vouch for my whereabouts most of the day, as Dorothy was out.’ He sat back with a bland smile.
Armstrong, who seemed to be nobody’s fool, smiled back. ‘Indeed, sir. We appreciate your candour, though at this stage there is no question of suspicion resting on anyone. It is possible I may need to speak with you later – privately, as you suggest – about the commission meeting. For now, may I ask why you did not take the train to London and back?’
‘The service has been abysmal of late. You know, of course, that there are works on the line at several points along the way. I don’t enjoy driving in London, but I anticipated a difficult meeting and did not want to arrive already annoyed by transport delays.’
‘Quite understandable, sir. And just to clear the decks, so to speak, you, Mr Dean, were …?’
‘I took the train to London and did in fact encounter delays. I was very nearly late to the commission meeting in consequence, but fortunately not quite. As you know, the meeting took up all of one day and part of the next. I spent the intervening night at a small hotel in Vincent Square. On the Tuesday, I left immediately upon adjournment, but missed the next train home by a minute or two. At that time of day they run every thirty minutes, but there were, again, delays, so it was nearly eight when I arrived at Sherebury station. My wife met me in the car, and we had intended to eat dinner with our daughter and her family, but I was so tired we simply went home instead. My wife felt I needed some rest, and kept me under her wing all day yesterday.’
‘And when did you hear about the death of Dean Brading?’
‘This morning over breakfast, when my wife turned on the television. I was horrified, of course, and began at once making phone calls to attempt damage control.’
Oh, Kenneth! I didn’t say it aloud, but I rolled my eyes and looked at Alan. He looked grim.
‘Damage control, sir?’ There was nothing but bland courtesy in Armstrong’s voice, but his eyes had taken on a steely look. Watson, sitting between Alan and me, stirred uneasily.
‘I am the dean of a cathedral, Chief Constable. The well-being of its clergy and people are my responsibility. Since the man who died was one of our candidates for the episcopacy of this diocese, his murder may cause untold harm, not only to this diocese but to the Church as a whole. My staff and I are trying to limit the adverse publicity, though I fear it is a vain effort.’
Worse and worse. Alan and I know Kenneth Allenby well, and know he has a hard time killing so much as a spider. He grieves over every death in the parish, and indeed in England. But to Chief Constable Armstrong, who didn’t know him from Adam, he sounded callous, as if his only concern was the fall-out from this man’s death and how it might affect Sherebury Cathedral.
Kenneth really should stop talking until Cathedral counsel was around to advise him.
I opened my mouth to say something bright and breezy, change the tone of the conversation, but Armstrong forestalled me.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Dean, Mr Nesbitt. I think those are all the questions I have for now. I appreciate your cooperation. And may I offer my condolences on your loss.’
I didn’t miss his quick glance at all of us after that barbed remark.
TWO
After they had left, we were silent, contemplating what came next. Alan was thoroughly accustomed to murder, of course, after his long career with the police. I had poked my nose into enough mysterious deaths that I, too, had acquired a certain patina of acceptance. But this one came too close to home. I doubt that Alan had ever before been asked to ‘assist the police in their enquir
ies’.
And as for the dean, I wondered if he was completely out of his depth. With spiritual malaise he was totally familiar, and he knew how to deal with it, kindly, competently, compassionately. He was a good administrator for the Cathedral, whose business affairs were, as far as I knew, in excellent condition. But murder?
I thought back to the first murder case I’d ever been involved with, when I first moved to Sherebury from my life-long home in Indiana. That, too, had involved the Cathedral – the murder of one of the canons. Alan had still been chief constable then, and a friend of the dean’s, and had investigated discreetly but thoroughly. The dean had handled the situation with dignity and quiet faith.
Perhaps I was underestimating him.
He was the first to speak. ‘Alan, I did not kill Andrew Brading. Nor did you. But you and I may well know the person who did. Given our knowledge of the tensions within the commission, we may be in a better position than most to have insights that the police will not. I think it is our duty to put all our energies into helping the police discover the murderer.’
‘You do realize that we are both bound to be under suspicion.’
‘Of course. But as we are innocent, we need have no fear.’
Alan looked – as I felt – just a trifle exasperated. ‘I’m afraid, Kenneth, that your little speech about damage control didn’t do you any good. If you’ll accept my advice, you’ll have one of the Cathedral counsel with you the next time you speak with the police.’
‘My dear Alan.’ The dean smiled. ‘You think I’m too open, too forthcoming? But again I say, the innocent need fear nothing.’
‘Not from the final judgement, no. I accept that. But there are a good many steps before we get to that judgement seat, and some of them are in charge of fallible humans.’
‘I never,’ said the dean with the hint of a twinkle, ‘thought the day would come that I would hear you describe the police as fallible.’
‘Oh, I can attest to the fact that they are,’ I said, ‘and really, Kenneth, you need to listen to Alan. If they start suspecting you – well, once the police get an idea in their heads, it can be awfully hard to dislodge. But you’re quite right, of course. We’re going to have to do all we can to figure out who killed this man. For a start, who hated him enough to do this terrible thing?’
Alan looked at the dean. The dean looked at Alan. Both sighed. Watson was once again disturbed. He whined softly, and Alan reached down to pat him on the head. ‘Don’t worry, mutt. Everything’s all right with your world. The trouble with your question, my dear, is that so many people disliked the man.’
‘Dislike and hatred are two different things.’
‘Of course they are. And the one isn’t simply an intensification of the other. It takes, typically, either a series of increasing grievances boiling up or a single action intolerable to the – the disliker, if I may coin a word – for dislike to develop into hatred. Kenneth, how did you read the commission meeting? Among those opposing Brading, did you sense anyone harbouring real hatred?’
The dean shook his head slowly. ‘I wish I had a definitive answer. There was so much ill feeling in the room, so many opposing views about all the candidates, that I couldn’t sort out who was feeling what.’
‘And you’re good at discerning emotions,’ I said thoughtfully.
‘Well, when one has been a priest for over forty years, one does learn a little about human nature.’ The dean spread his hands self-deprecatingly.
‘A policeman learns to sort out emotions, too.’ I turned to Alan. ‘What did you sense?’
‘You know I can’t go into specifics, even to you. Political interests were overt, of course,’ he said. ‘Church politics, I mean. Jostling for position. Then there was a good deal of self-interest – less obvious, but certainly present. Several of the members thought they stood to lose something if one or another candidate became bishop.’
‘It wasn’t all personal, though,’ said Kenneth. ‘Some of the clergy, especially, were agonizing over the impact on the Church as a whole, or on the diocese in particular.’
‘That sort of thing can get awfully heated,’ I pointed out. ‘Look at the wars that have been fought over religion. All religions.’
‘Yes …’ said Alan thoughtfully. ‘But that kind of feeling isn’t usually directed against one individual, but against a group. You get terrorist activity, you get massacres like the World Trade Center and, most horrendous of all, the Holocaust. Killing one cleric doesn’t seem to fit the pattern.’
I nodded. ‘I agree. So, what other kinds of nastiness surfaced at your meeting yesterday? Anything specific about this particular man?’
Neither man replied for a moment, then Alan said slowly, ‘I had a sense, which may have been completely mistaken, of a suppressed fury directed against Brading. Or it may have been aimed at Brading’s supporters, who were, as you might guess, the ultra-conservatives in the group. It wasn’t so much anything that was said as something that was left unsaid but was quivering in the air. I’m sorry. I know that’s not much help.’
‘I felt something of the same,’ said the dean, ‘but I have no idea who was projecting such distress. Of course, I’m not a trained observer.’
Alan groaned. ‘And I am. I know, I know. If I had been paying attention to body language, I might have seen a clenched fist, rapid breathing, pinched lips – but I wasn’t and I didn’t. I was too busy trying to keep my own reactions within the bounds of civilized behaviour.’
I sighed. ‘So I suppose it’s going to come down to a background check of Brading, interviews with anyone who knew him well, his cathedral staff, and so on. All the routine stuff, which obviously the police can do much better than we can.’
‘Routine background checks have already been done on anyone who might be nominated for the position,’ said Alan. ‘That’s an obvious necessity these days. No one with a criminal background, no one with a suggestion of sexually predatory tendencies, no one with any scandal of any kind in his past could be considered. The checks, however, weren’t anything like as complete and rigorous as the ones that will need to be done now. I didn’t always, as a policeman, agree with a great deal in your beloved detective stories, Dorothy. But, in one thing, Hercule Poirot was absolutely right: The key to solving a murder is often a thorough knowledge of the victim.’
‘And,’ I went on, ‘of his potential murderers. Now, in trying to limit that roster, it would certainly be useful to know when the man died. I know when he was found, but when did he actually die?’
‘I’m not sure the police know that yet, and the Gloucestershire people may not tell me when they do. Derek probably will. But you know as well as I do, Dorothy, the medical examiners can often only determine a range, sometimes rather a wide range, especially when the body is found some little time after death, as would appear to be the case here. So the time of death may not be particularly helpful.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Well, then, I think we need to work out where we can be most useful. There’s no point in trying to duplicate the efforts of the police. The things they do – the routine procedures – they can do far more efficiently than any amateur. Saving your presence, Alan.’
‘I’m an amateur now, love. I don’t have the might of the force behind me, though I can still call in a few favours now and again. But, essentially, I’m part of your posse. What did you have in mind?’
‘Nothing yet. We don’t know enough. We need to create an approach to the problem. What we need is to know everything we can about Dean Brading, and who might have hated him enough to prevent his ever coming to Sherebury. And since we have to start somewhere, I suggest we start with the members of the commission. What’s the most likely source of information about them?’
The four of us said, together, ‘Jane!’
Jane Langland, my next-door neighbour and oldest friend in Sherebury, was a mine of information about people. She wasn’t a gossip, but she was active in almost every women’s activity
in Sherebury. She had been a teacher for many, many years, and scores of her former pupils visited her often. She looked a great deal like the bulldogs she loved, and behind a gruff manner she hid a heart of custard. We gathered in her kitchen and sat around the table, surrounded by the bulldogs. We weren’t eating anything, but they lived in hope. Jane had made a pitcher of lemonade, apparently anticipating our visit. She knew we’d come seeking information sooner or later.
‘Can eliminate the archbishops, for a start,’ said Jane. ‘They’ve better ways of dealing with an undesirable dean.’
‘Yes, we’ll give you the archbishops,’ said the dean, smiling. ‘And I think we can eliminate the two secretaries. They’re on the commission as functionaries, and took no part in the discussions. That leaves ten people, besides Alan and me.’
‘Nine,’ I interjected. ‘We know our MP, Newsome, was a friend of Brading’s’
‘Friends have been known to fall out, but you may be right,’ the dean went on. ‘We can leave him till last, at any rate. Now, I know the other four from our diocese reasonably well, but you, Jane, probably know more about them than I.’
Jane shrugged. ‘Bits here and there. Nothing startling, nothing much you don’t know, Kenneth. Some sorrows here and there. Vicar of Ledingham lost her baby years ago, born dead. Couldn’t have another.’
The dean nodded sadly. ‘She is an amazingly strong woman. I admire her greatly, and was very glad when she was elected to the committee, but I think we can wash her out as a suspect. The strength I refer to is moral, not physical. She’s quite small and delicate.’
Alan nodded in agreement.
‘And, of course, poor Tompkins’ mind is as strong as ever, but I doubt he could harm a flea, considering the palsy.’ The dean turned to Dorothy. ‘Ben Tompkins is the other diocesan cleric on the committee, vicar of Padston.’
Day of Vengeance Page 2
