A Drink of Deadly Wine

by Kate Charles

  ‘Call me Venerable, please. Everybody does.’

  ‘Do you mind that?’

  ‘It’s an honourable title,’ the old man chuckled. ‘There are some, our Vicar for one, who would give a great deal to be called Venerable,’ he added slyly.

  Recalled unwillingly to thoughts of Gabriel and his responsibility to him, David decided to make the most of the voluble old man’s presence.

  ‘And do you think that’s likely to happen? That he’ll be named Archdeacon?’

  ‘I don’t know why not. He’s served ten years at St Anne’s – that’s a long time in this diocese. He’s well regarded by the powers-that-be, I think.’

  ‘What sort of reputation does he have?’ David asked curiously. ‘In the diocese, I mean.’

  ‘I know a lot of the bigwigs – I get around, you know,’ explained Venerable with a falsely modest smile. ‘Father Gabriel is considered to be a hard-working priest – a good parish priest – and something of a scholar. He’s written a couple of obscure theological books, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t realise that,’ David replied, surprised. He knew, of course, that Gabriel would excel at anything to which he applied himself, but somehow he’d never imagined him getting involved in the finer points of theology. ‘And what about the congregation? What do they think of him?’

  Venerable was not the least suspicious of this line of questioning; to him this type of clerical gossip was the most natural thing in the world. ‘His sermons are famous – he’s the best preacher I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a few! Personally, he’s very well liked. Loved, I’d say. Especially by the ladies, who can’t resist those blue eyes!’ he added with a chuckle. ‘My wife – God rest her soul – used to say that no man ought to have eyes like that! And more charm than a man ought to have! It’s a lucky thing for him he’s got a wife – and I have to say, he didn’t waste any time finding one after he got here – or he’d have ladies on his doorstep day and night.’

  ‘Then he didn’t have a wife when he got here?’ David asked ingenuously.

  ‘No indeed. One or two people even thought he might be . . . not the marrying sort, if you know what I mean. But he soon proved them wrong. Almost indecent haste, it was. But they make a lovely couple, don’t you think? Or haven’t you met the Vicar’s wife?’

  ‘Yes, I have. I’ve found her very . . . pleasant.’

  ‘Emily’s a good sport. She’s always been nice to the servers – and she and Tony are good friends.’

  ‘Tony seems a very nice chap,’ David remarked.

  ‘Oh, Tony’s the best. He really knows about serving. Of course, I’ve taught him a lot, but he’s got a real gift for it. He keeps the other chaps in line.’

  ‘He’s not married?’ David asked.

  ‘He may as well be: he’s got a boyfriend, if that’s the correct term, that he lives with. Ian – that’s the chap’s name – often joins us down at the pub on a Sunday night, but he didn’t come last night. He’s not a church-goer, so you won’t see him round here.’

  ‘I quite enjoyed myself last night,’ David admitted. ‘I haven’t laughed so much in years.’

  Venerable smiled in a paternal way. ‘Yes, the boys are a lovely bunch. We do have some good times.’ He didn’t seem to find it at all unusual to include himself in their ranks.

  ‘Mavis Conwell warned me about being seen with the servers. I didn’t understand what she meant – they seemed fairly harmless to me.’

  The old man’s eyes snapped. ‘Oh, she thinks just because Tony . . . that we’re all that way! But she’s wrong! Poisonous old . . .’ He pursed his lips virtuously. ‘But I’m a Christian man, and I won’t say what I think of her. Well, I’d better get back upstairs. The church wants tidying up after the weekend. People will come in and disturb things.’

  In the early afternoon, David decided to clear up a few obscure points by paying a visit to the reference collection of the Conservation Department at the Victoria & Albert Museum. He would cut through Kensington Gardens, he decided, skirting the Round Pond and emerging near the Albert Memorial, where he could cross Kensington Road and head down Exhibition Road to the V & A. It was a rather pleasant day, and he found himself walking slowly through the park, reflecting on the state of his inquiries to date.

  On the whole, he decided, while he’d met some interesting people and learned some fascinating things, he had made no progress at all in finding the blackmailer. No one seemed to have any negative feelings about Gabe . . . rather the opposite, in fact, he reflected somewhat sourly. The man was apparently universally loved by his parishioners; no one would say a word against him. Perhaps his best bet would be in following the other line of inquiry: trying to discover who, by some means, had found out about Peter Maitland. It was all very well for Gabe to say that no one could have done; someone clearly had. Probably the boy had talked to somebody, had mentioned Gabe’s name, and somehow it had got to the ears of . . . whom? David wished that he could talk it over with someone; Daphne’s common sense would be a great help in sorting out the options, but, of course, that would be impossible. Gabe would never agree, and he couldn’t really blame him.

  He dashed across Kensington Road, barely escaping death under the wheels of a red double-decker bus coming from the right, and a taxi coming from the left. After catching his breath, he noted a small florist’s shop in a side street. He’d have to remember that on his way back – he must pick up some flowers for Lady Constance. Freesias, it would have to be – carnations just wouldn’t do for someone like Lady Constance. He’d better get some for Daphne, too, while he was at it.

  *

  ‘Tell me a little bit about Lady Constance,’ David requested as they walked the short distance from Daphne’s flat to the exclusive square, surrounded by tall white houses. ‘She’s a widow, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, for many years, apparently. Her husband was a wealthy industrialist – his family made their money from Victorian sweatshops, I would have thought. It was their conscience-money that built St Anne’s.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, it was her husband’s grandfather or great-grandfather who founded and built the church, and obviously he was willing to pay for the very best. Lady Constance has continued to take a close personal interest in St Anne’s – we’ve been very lucky. Whenever we’ve needed money for anything, from new vestments to cleaning the rood screen, she’s been more than generous. And of course most of the silver has been given by the Olivers, through the years.’

  ‘Does she have any money in her own right?’

  Daphne considered. ‘No, I don’t think so. I believe that her father was some impoverished baronet, with hundreds of years of history but no money. But I’m not really sure about that.’

  A maid opened the door as soon as he’d rung the bell, at eight o’clock sharp; they were ushered into the entrance hall of the Georgian house, as gracious on the inside as it was impressive on the outside.

  Lady Constance met them at the door of the drawing room. ‘So nice to see you, Miss Elford, Mr Middleton-Brown. Oh, freesias, how very lovely. My favourite. Thank you so much.’ An old gentleman rose as they entered the room. ‘Mr Middleton-Brown, have you met Wing Commander Fitzjames?’

  ‘Yes, we met briefly on Sunday. How nice to see you, Wing Commander.’

  ‘My pleasure, my boy. Do call me Cyril. Good evening, Daphne. You’re looking charming tonight, if I may say so.’

  Invitations to sup with Lady Constance were not commonplace, and Daphne had made a real effort. Although she’d entertained fleetingly – then rejected – the radical notion of visiting the hairdresser, she had actually set her hair on rollers, and the result was not unbecoming. She had applied a bit of make-up, and was wearing her best dress; the dress had been bought several years ago for a nephew’s wedding, and although its cost had seemed at the time, on her teacher’s salary, somewhat excessive, it had seldom seen the light of day since. She’d felt slightly foolish taking the extra trouble
with her appearance, but now was relieved that she’d done so – at least David wouldn’t be too ashamed of her.

  Lady Constance, of course, was her usual picture of unselfconscious elegance, in a well-cut dark dress and pearls. Sherry was offered and accepted, and there was the inevitable slight hesitation before polite conversation was initiated.

  ‘Have you always lived in London, Lady Constance?’ David inquired.

  ‘My girlhood was spent in the country,’ she replied. ‘But I’ve lived in this house since my marriage, and I’m afraid I’ve become a real Londoner. One does become spoiled by all the amenities – the galleries, the concerts, the ballet, and of course the shops. One misses it all dreadfully, I fear. I’ve only been away from London once for more than a short holiday, when I looked after my brother in his final illness. I tried to get him to come here, where he could be properly seen to, but he just wouldn’t leave his parish, even at the end. Lewes is not a bad place, but it was such a relief to get back.’

  ‘Oh, I remember!’ Daphne exclaimed. ‘That must have been my first summer here, two years ago. There was all that problem with the fête because you weren’t here to open it!’

  Cyril gave a loud, throaty chuckle. ‘That fête! What a disaster! At the PCC meeting, when we realised that we had no one to open the fête, everyone had their little idea about who should be asked. The argument went on for hours, as I remember it, and afterwards everyone thought that someone else was taking care of it, but in the end no one did, so no one showed up on the day to do the honours!’

  ‘And it rained,’ Daphne added.

  ‘Didn’t it just!’ Cyril chortled. ‘Absolutely teemed, all day. Had to have it in the church hall, and of course no one came that didn’t have to.’

  ‘The “fête worse than death”, Father Neville still calls it,’ Lady Constance said with a wry smile. ‘I’m sure he still holds me personally responsible.’

  ‘You will be doing the honours this Saturday, I assume?’ Cyril laughed.

  ‘Oh, certainly. I wouldn’t miss it. I do hope we have good weather this year. It’s so much nicer when the teas can be held in the vicarage garden.’

  In due time they moved into the dining room. ‘Just a simple cold supper,’ Lady Constance apologised. ‘I do hope you don’t mind.’ The ‘simple cold supper’ included asparagus vinaigrette and smoked salmon, as well as a bottle of a fine vintage wine, and finished with an exquisite home-made sorbet, so David minded not at all.

  ‘I’m curious,’ Cyril said, as they neared the end of the meal. ‘How did you and Daphne get to know each other?’

  ‘Oh, we go back a long way, don’t we, Daphne?’

  ‘Over twenty years,’ she confirmed.

  Lady Constance looked interested, though her good breeding prevented her from asking any probing questions. Cyril, though, had no such inhibitions. ‘Where did you meet?’

  They looked at each other and laughed. ‘In a church, of course!’ Daphne replied. ‘Here in London.’

  ‘I was at university, and Daphne was teaching. We found that we had a mutual interest in churches – architecture, furnishings, the lot – and we became great chums. I was a young ignoramus – I loved it all, but I didn’t know much about it – and Daphne knew so much. She took me under her wing. We did quite a bit of travelling, exploring . . .’

  ‘And before I knew it, he had passed me by!’ Daphne added ruefully.

  ‘Which brings us to the crypt chapel,’ Lady Constance interposed. ‘What do you have to tell me about that, young man?’

  David pulled some papers out of his breast pocket. ‘I must warn you that I’m not a professional,’ he said with a self-deprecating smile. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before. But I’m tremendously excited by it.’ He indicated the papers. ‘I’ve brought a few notes to show you. I must tell you I’m very impressed by the chapel. It was done fairly early in Comper’s career, before he reached his mature genius, but it shows all the marks of his style, in the very best sense of that term. His characteristic use of blue and gold, the lavish, not to say reckless, application of gold leaf, the wonderful angels . . .’ Soon he was involved in technical detail about paint and gilding, fabrics and embroidery.

  Lady Constance asked intelligent questions but mostly listened, impressed by his expertise. At last she said, ‘You clearly know what you’re about. Go ahead and engage whatever craftsmen you need to do the work, and I will happily pay the bills. All I ask is that you supervise the work to make sure it’s done properly.’

  David nodded, satisfied.

  ‘And now, Miss Elford, don’t you think we ought to leave the gentlemen to their port for a while?’

  After the ladies had gone, David said conversationally, ‘I understand that you’ve been churchwarden at St Anne’s for a long time.’

  ‘Donkey’s years, my boy. I’ve seen Vicars come, and Vicars go.’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that Father Neville might not be around much longer.’

  Cyril sighed lugubriously, and shook his head. ‘I dread the thought. Don’t get me wrong, my boy. He’s a jolly good priest, and I like him very much. But I just can’t imagine life around here without . . . Mrs Neville. Emily.’

  ‘You’ve known her a long time?’

  ‘Practically all her life, I suppose. I remember her as a girl – a tiny little thing she was. Her father and I were great friends. He lives in St Albans now – I don’t see him very often. But in those days . . . well. As I say, she was a lovely little thing. Enchanting girl, Emily Bates. And then, after my wife died it was, she came back from university, and I was just bowled over! She was still tiny and delicate, but she’d grown into the most exquisite young woman.’ He looked at David over his wine glass; his rheumy old eyes were filled with misty tears. ‘I had a bit more to offer in those days. And I thought . . . well, I don’t mind telling you, my boy. I had my hopes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He shook his head again, more slowly. ‘He came. Gabriel Neville came. No other man stood a chance against him. I don’t blame her, mind. But . . . well, I had my hopes,’ he repeated forlornly.

  David topped up the port glasses and made meaningless comforting noises. He realised with a start that this old man was the first person he’d found who actually had a reason to hate Gabriel. The oldest motive in the book . . . But what could he possibly hope to gain by driving Gabriel (and Emily) away from St Anne’s? And how could he know about Peter Maitland?

  CHAPTER 13

  Let his children be vagabonds, and beg their bread: let them seek it also out of desolate places.

  Let the extortioner consume all that he hath: and let the stranger spoil his labour.

  Psalm 109.9–10

  ‘Isn’t it dreadful,’ David commented, buttering a morsel of toast and heaping it with marmalade. ‘I haven’t been able to get myself up for early Mass yet this week.’

  ‘I shouldn’t feel too guilty about it,’ Daphne replied as she poured him another cup of tea. ‘After all, it is your holiday.’

  ‘You should know by now that “guilt” is my middle name,’ he said lightly. ‘I can feel guilty about anything. Sins of omission, sins of commission – they’re all grist for my mill.’

  ‘So what are you going to do today?’

  ‘Get to work making arrangements about the chapel, I should think. I say, Daphne, I couldn’t talk you into making some phone calls for me, could I?’ He looked slightly sheepish; she couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘I’ll be glad to do what I can, but don’t you think it would save a lot of time and effort for you to talk to these people yourself?’ she said sensibly.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Maybe I could nip round and see some of them in person.’

  She shook her head in affectionate amusement. ‘Suit yourself. But don’t forget that Tuesday is the day that they serve lunches in the church hall. You might enjoy coming – if you think you can stand another session with the inmates of St
Anne’s.’

  ‘Perhaps I will put in an appearance,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t suppose I can expect gourmet fare.’

  ‘Quiche and salad, most likely. But it’s usually very good. It’s all home-made, and the sweets are generally excellent.’

  ‘You’ve convinced me. I’ll catch up with you at lunch-time, then.’

  David entered the church hall, balancing a plate of quiche in one hand and an incredibly rich and delicious-looking sweet in the other. He was relieved to see a number of familiar faces in the crowded room, though, naturally enough on a weekday, there was a dearth of men. They mainly seemed to be concentrated at one table, and he started towards them. Venerable Bead was conversing earnestly with Tony Kent – David remembered that Tony was a teacher, and would be on his summer holidays – and Cyril Fitzjames sat with them, not joining in and evidently not even listening. David instinctively followed Cyril’s gaze to another table. Yes, there was Emily, and with her Gabriel, and Daphne, trying to catch his eye and gesturing towards an empty seat. He sighed and made his way over to join them.

  ‘David, sit down quickly!’ Daphne greeted him. ‘I’ve had to fend off all sorts of people from your seat. I’ve just been telling Emily about our evening with Lady Constance.’

  ‘Hello, David,’ Emily put in. ‘She’s got me drooling over the smoked salmon.’

  Gabriel acknowledged him with a nod. ‘Daphne tells me you’ve been hard at work over the chapel.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a slow time of year for the workmen, and I think they’ll actually be able to begin work by next week sometime.’

  ‘That’s splendid news,’ Gabriel said heartily. ‘And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I want to get home and start on my sermon for Sunday. I can’t afford to leave it to much later in the week, with the fête coming up. See you later, darling,’ he added to his wife; they all watched his tall cassocked figure leave the room before resuming their conversation.

  ‘Oh, the fête,’ Emily grimaced.