Murder in Advent

by David Williams

  Repentant if sinful clergymen were not entirely outside Pride’s professional experience, though he’d never had to deal with one above the parish level. An unrepentant but confessedly sinful clergyman was quite new to him at any level. He half-closed his eyes, which always helped him clear his thoughts.

  ‘And you’d have got at the Magna Carta by opening the display cabinet with a key, sir?’

  ‘The common spare key. Kept on the locked keyboard in the Chapter House. All the canons have a key to that. I simply . . . borrowed the cabinet key after the Chapter meeting yesterday afternoon. I still have it.’ He searched in his pocket, then produced the object.

  ‘And the key to the old Library, sir?’

  ‘Got that the same way. From the Chapter House keyboard. Fits the west-turret door. I believe you have that one, Mr Pride?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Taken from the lock after the fire.’ The Chief Inspector considered matters for a moment.

  ‘Wouldn’t people have known where the keys had come from? After the . . . purloining?’

  ‘Not at all. The locks might have been picked. Or duplicate keys used. I was aiming to put back the ones I used after dinner last night.’

  ‘You had a key to the Chapter House, sir?’

  ‘Certainly. All Chapter members do.’

  ‘You were overlooking we’d have interviewed everybody with keys or access to them?’

  ‘Probably, Mr Pride.’ This came with an expansive smile. ‘You’re suggesting I hadn’t thought that part through well enough? I’m sure you’re right. I told you it was all done on impulse. In the end people would have known who’d taken the Charter, of course.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Because I’d have told them, naturally. After I’d put it back. That would only have been right and fair, don’t you think? In case others were suspected.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d certainly think that.’ There was more than a hint of indulgence in the tone. He glanced across at the constable, who looked back knowingly for no reason other than he thought it was expected of him. ‘So we’ve established the reason for your visits to the cathedral last evening, sir. And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone else at either time, sir?’

  ‘Quite sure. As I said, I only wish I’d had the sense to go in and see what Pounder was doing.’

  ‘You seem certain he was in the Old Library on your first visit, sir?’

  The Canon looked surprised. ‘Positive, Mr Pride.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Knew his habits. He left the keys in the locks when he arrived. Took them out when he left.’

  ‘Except he normally locked up at six.’

  ‘Which should have made me think he might have been ill.’

  ‘But you didn’t smell fire, sir?’

  ‘Not till the second time. When I was getting the door open.’

  Now he had risen and was pacing in front of the window behind his desk, a few steps in each direction. He had thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. ‘If there’d been burning the first time, you’d think I’d have smelled it?’ He shook his head. ‘The second time, at the start, I kept telling myself Pounder had left. Locked up. Because his key had gone.’

  ‘But you said the door wasn’t locked, sir.’

  Jones stopped pacing. One hand went to his creased forehead. ‘I may have been confused, Mr Pride. Could be I still am. The key was gone certainly. I remember fitting the one I’d brought. I might have turned it in the lock. Could have done. That was before I remembered the wretched door opened outwards. And when I lifted the latch it did. With a vengeance.’

  ‘And you’re positive you didn’t go in the first time, sir?’ Pride asked especially slowly.

  For the first time the little clergyman showed irritation. ‘Of course I’m positive. I’m not senile.’

  Pride got up to leave, nodded to the constable and reached for his cigarettes. ‘You did say you might be confused, sir. Still.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘The New Library’s over there, Mr Treasure, at the end of the cloister. That’s the start of the Bishop’s Palace beyond. And thanks again for the advice. And for promising to protect my dad from the cops.’ Glynis Jones finished with an elfin smile. She drew up the Suzuki on the left in Bridge Street, in front of the cathedral. ‘You don’t think Dad should ask to know who saw him going in the cathedral? The first time?’

  Treasure opened the door to get out – and to leave the front passenger-seat vacant for Jingles. The little terrier was already anticipating this promotion in a frenzy of activity in the back.

  ‘Not much point really. And I think the policeman’s only doing his job, you know? Of course, your father really needs protecting from himself.’ He paused, pouting. ‘It was the most extraordinary admission to make when he didn’t need to make any.’

  ‘My dad’s a pretty extraordinary man. He’s not unworldly. Just disarmingly honest.’

  Proving, Treasure considered inwardly, that too much virtue can be quite as dangerous as too little in a cynical world. Aloud he said, ‘I’ll do anything I can. But I don’t believe you or your mother should worry unduly.’

  ‘Dad won’t, that’s for sure. So somebody has to. See you for lunch, then. After I’ve paid my farmworkers. Thanks again. You’re a sport.’

  Pulling up the collar of his sheepskin, the banker watched the little vehicle speed off towards the ancient stone bridge. It was nine-thirty and still drizzling.

  Ten minutes earlier the girl had sought him out at the hotel. She had told him about Canon Jones’s interview with the police – which had ended in the cleric being asked somewhat ominously not to leave the town without telling them. She was disturbed that when her father had given his account of what had been said he had been blissfully unconcerned that he might have put himself under suspicion. She had come to Treasure for advice because she and her mother didn’t want to approach anyone else – at least not yet.

  So, as counsellor by default, the banker had tried to steer a middle course. Presumably Canon Jones, who he had yet to meet, was innocent of anything worse than impulsive, daring intentions and equally impulsive and daring admissions. The police would balance both with the fact they were dealing with a clerical luminary unlikely to be indictable on more counts than the ones he had voluntarily introduced.

  Or might such wholesome admissions add up to a disingenuous ploy on the Canon’s part?

  Treasure debated the last proposition while following one of the paths that dissected the wide grassed area separating Bridge Street from the west end of the cathedral and its flanking satellite buildings. These last ran away to the south, the New Library being the furthest of them. It was evidently modern but decently compatible with the twelfth-century cloister to which it was joined.

  Like the Old Library the new one had two storeys, but with an enclosed ground floor. It was an oblong, plain stone building with an Italianate flavour and about half as big again as its recently damaged predecessor. Treasure was encouraged to see the inside lights were on. The main doorway, set back under a round arch, was at the near end of the elevation he was approaching. He had been about to try the door when it opened.

  ‘You’re supposed to ring,’ said the advancing young clergyman, who was zipping up a hooded rain-jacket. But he hesitated before pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘Then, I’ll do just that,’ replied the banker. ‘It’s Minor Canon Twist, isn’t it? My name’s Treasure. We met last night. With Miss Purse. I’m here hoping to see her.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Twist pushed the blond hair off his forehead. ‘Come in, please. Didn’t recognise you. Too much on my mind.’ He stepped back, and Treasure followed him into a glass-walled vestibule.

  ‘Still involved over the fire, I expect,’ said the banker.

  ‘No. Freshly involved over the murder,’ the other replied solemnly. ‘Police have been on to all the cloister residents. Checking on where people were between six-fifteen and a quarter to seven last night. Who they were wi
th. Who they saw.’

  ‘And you were able to account for yourself?’

  ‘He was with me.’ It was Laura Purse who answered. She had appeared from inside the library. ‘Good morning, Mr Treasure. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. So you’re both suitably alibi’d?’ He smiled. ‘But I doubt you’re suspects.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ cut in Twist. ‘Very officious the police are.’ He turned to Laura. ‘And we weren’t together the whole time.’

  ‘Yes, we were. In my flat. For as long as makes no matter. I noticed the time, Gerard. You didn’t. Remember?’ Her tone was more instructive than insistent.

  ‘Except I’ve told the police . . .’

  ‘And we’ve agreed you’re going to untell them. If necessary.’ She moved a hand across her hair, which she wore tight to her head and dramatically swept back in a bun. ‘Don’t you have a class to take?’

  ‘Heavens, yes. I’m late. See you.’ He looked from one to the other, gave a half-hearted grin, then left hurriedly.

  ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Treasure?’ Her words continued measured and unruffled. She motioned him past a staircase and through the unframed glass door into the room lined and sprigged with tall, matching wooden bookcases. This evidently comprised the rest of the ground floor. The librarian’s desk, computer workstation and filing cabinets were arranged near the door and forward of the first set of bookcase sprigs. There was a long double-sided reading desk in the central corridor running the length of the room, but the place had the appearance of being primarily one person’s domain.

  ‘You can spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘Delighted. Do sit down.’ She picked some fluff from the shoulder of the tight-fitting black sweater. ‘Poor Gerard. Such a lamb, but sheltered. Needs protecting by us worldly ones.’

  It seemed this was an occupational requirement amongst the Litchester Cathedral clergy but, Treasure concluded, one with which Gerard Twist, at least, was well provided.

  The banker was not displeased to be rated one of the cavalier kind, and on so short an acquaintance. ‘There’s no reason surely why anyone should think he’s involved in Pounder’s death?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she answered dismissively. ‘I believe the police are trying to link the death with the pending sale of the Magna Carta. Which suggests to them any of the cathedral people might have been mixed up in it. Pretty farfetched, I’d have thought.’

  ‘But you were together over the critical period?’

  ‘Mm. Gerard wasn’t quite sure of times. He never is. We were listening to Bach. How’s that for innocent diversion?’

  ‘Immaculate, I’d think.’ Certainly he rated the almond-eyed Laura Purse as diverting. ‘So, of course, he couldn’t have seen anyone else, either?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she answered shortly in a manner which suggested an end to the subject.

  He looked about him. ‘You’re the sole librarian?’

  ‘Librarian and archivist, yes. With graduate students helping in the long vacation.’

  ‘You get a lot of readers?’

  ‘No, but the quality’s superb.’ She smiled. ‘A lot of dons from overseas universities. Readers’ tickets are issued strictly on recommendation. It’s an expensive collection. So’s the maintenance.’

  ‘Who does the paying? The cathedral?’

  ‘The Dean and Chapter pay for a bit of me. But I come mostly courtesy of a charitable grant.’ She paused, then, in answer to his quizzical look, added, ‘The Cheviot Educational Foundation.’

  ‘Interesting. I don’t know it. American, I suppose?’

  ‘Anglo-American. The readers and the summer students are mostly from the States.’

  ‘And the grant’s renewed annually?’

  ‘Every three years. To provide the unworthy holder with peace of mind.’ She gave a deprecating smile. ‘It also allows for worthwhile application. Primarily on the compiling of complicated indexes. On the location and nature of Christian manuscripts. Especially those housed outside universities.’

  ‘Such as the ones wiped out last night?’

  She shook her head. ‘All seventeenth-century copies. Mostly incomplete, and mostly made from originals we keep here, upstairs. Still, it was a pity to lose them.’

  ‘And they’re lost completely, I gather.’

  ‘Utterly. They let me into the Old Library last night. And again this morning. Under heavy police escort.’ She squeezed her shoulders inwards in a graceful gesture of resignation. ‘The only bits of the chained library left are the chains. The bookcase burnt as thoroughly as the books.’

  ‘Same goes for the Magna Carta and its case.’

  ‘Afraid so. Much more awful, though. The Charter was worth so much.’

  ‘The manuscript books – the copies – they weren’t valuable?’

  ‘Weren’t insured for much. They were there simply to give visitors an impression of a chain library. And how it worked. The bookcase was a good reconstruction.’

  ‘You said the books were seventeenth-century.’

  ‘There was a scriptorium here between 1620 and 1636.’

  ‘A scriptorium being?’

  ‘Sorry, a place where they copy manuscripts.’

  ‘But this was long after the invention of printing.’

  ‘And long before the invention of the typewriter.’

  ‘You mean they were copying letters? That kind of thing?’

  ‘Yes. And illuminated scrolls. And some books. The Litchester scriptorium was special. Bigger than you’d expect because they taught as well as practised manuscript illumination and decoration. The bishop at the time objected to the way printing had debased calligraphy.’

  ‘Wasn’t he fighting a losing battle?’

  ‘In a way. You could say he was an early conservationist. He got support from a few county bigwigs. But the scriptorium didn’t pay. Plenty of pupils. Not enough work. To keep the students occupied they set them to copying the big manuscript works in the library. Like the Gospels.’

  ‘Which must have taken years to do.’

  ‘Not with teams of apprentices involved. But it’s why the results were patchy in quality, and sometimes incomplete. Like the copies we lost last night.’

  ‘Pity that Magna Carta wasn’t a copy,’ Treasure grunted.

  ‘It wasn’t, I’m afraid. It was last authenticated by experts, let’s see . . .’ She reached for a file, flipped over some pages, and traced down another with a slim, well-manicured hand. ‘Yes, just over four years ago. No copy, and I wouldn’t know where to look for one. We don’t have one here.’ The last comment was especially assertive.

  ‘Mr Pounder seems to have thought there were some.’

  ‘Really? That’s news to me. Pounder was a romantic.’ She grinned. ‘And, to prove it, he was an indefatigable bottom-pincher. To the very last.’

  ‘You don’t say? Tarnishes the stainless reputation.’

  ‘He was harmless. Probably got the idea of Magna Carta copies from the scriptorium collection here. A load of loyal addresses to the King and others from nobles and bishops and lord mayors. Some of those were duplicated. But they all date from the time of James I and Charles I.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Like to see? Upstairs.’

  It was partly what he’d come for – that and the information she had given him already. The following half-hour he found wholly absorbing.

  The upper floor housed a half-partitioned binding room and, in the bigger area, bookcases for venerable large volumes, and chests of slim metal display-drawers – the permanent repositories for the collection of parchment scrolls. After showing Treasure how to use the index and the drawers, which were hinged and removable, Miss Purse had returned to her own work, leaving him to make his own selections.

  ‘The County Sheriff in 1632 was a Colonel Michael d’Aras,’ he remarked later downstairs, as he was taking his leave. ‘Name mean anything?’

  ‘Yes,’ Laura answered smi
ling. ‘He pops up in a lot of the scrolls. Not surprising in view of his office. If you were petitioning the King, or even the Bishop, for a favour of some kind . . .’

  ‘It made sense to have the County Sheriff’s name on your formal plea. I see. He’d be one of the county bigwigs you mentioned?’

  ‘Who supported the scriptorium? I expect so. Why the interest?’

  ‘The coincidence of the name with something else. D’you suppose there’s still a d’Aras family living locally? The name could have been anglicised, of course. But there’s no d’Aras or Daras in there. I’ve looked.’ He nodded at the telephone directory which she had pulled out and had already started to leaf through.

  She closed the directory. ‘Then, I suppose that’s the answer to your question. I’ve never heard of a contemporary d’Aras.’

  ‘No matter. I must go. Thanks again.’

  He left the library and headed for the Chapter House still debating an inconsistency. Surely the apprentices at the under-used scriptorium must have been put to copying the Litchester Magna Carta? And, if that were so, why had no copies survived? The library was over-endowed with originals and replicas of many documents that could only have been of passing interest at any time; yet the Great Charter must have had a huge attraction for every generation.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ The small, stoutish man raised his bowler hat. ‘Did I see you leaving the cathedral library?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m a visitor, you understand?’ He fingered the top button of the worn, russet-coloured Raglan-style topcoat.

  ‘So am I. We arrived on the same train last night. And I believe we both breakfasted at the Red Dragon this morning.’ The banker smiled affably.

  ‘You’re very observant, sir. Very.’ The obsequious approach entirely matched the character. ‘Imagine you noticing me?’ The man winked his left eye – twice. ‘I was wondering. Could you tell me? How do you get permission to use the library?’ He winked again: the action seemed to be involuntary.