A Drink of Deadly Wine

by Kate Charles

  Sounds like a jolly chap, David reflected. He probably would have approved of his church employing a bloke like Miles Taylor.

  When the tour was over, David stayed behind and spoke to the guide. ‘Thank you for a most interesting tour. What a fascinating history this place has!’

  ‘Is this your first visit?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t been here in nearly twenty years. It’s a splendid building.’ The woman smiled and nodded in agreement. On an impulse, David asked her, ‘Do you know a Miss Somers?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Everyone at Selby knows Miss Somers. Why, is she a friend of yours?’

  He thought quickly. ‘No, but someone from my local church knows her – a distant relative by marriage, I believe. They asked me to look her up.’ He smiled ingratiatingly, and, he hoped, convincingly.

  ‘Well, if you want to see Mildred Somers, just come to Evensong this afternoon. She never misses it on a Saturday. If you’ll come up to the chancel with me now, I’ll show you where she always sits.’

  David looked at his watch. Only a few more hours to kill in Selby before Evensong.

  There wasn’t even a market in Selby on a Saturday. Walking aimlessly through the streets of the town, David resorted to people-watching. Everyone he saw seemed to be in pairs: teenaged couples, spotty and unattractive to anyone but each other, smooching unashamedly on the street corners; young married couples, their arms entwined; middle-aged and older husbands and wives, less affectionate but comfortable together as they accomplished their weekend shopping in tandem. Even the swans on the river were in pairs, he noted glumly: swans, he knew, mate for life. For the first time since his mother died, David realised, on an emotional level, how very alone he was.

  He spotted a Teleflora sign in a florist’s window. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he opened the door of the shop and went in; the bell on the door roused the clerk from dreamy contemplation of a potted fern. ‘May I help you, sir?’

  ‘If I were to place an order now, could something be delivered to London this afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. What would you like?’

  ‘Roses. Long-stemmed roses – a dozen. No, make it two dozen.’

  ‘Red roses, sir?’

  ‘No, not red. Not pink. That sort of peachy-gold colour. You know the colour I mean.’ He wrote Lucy’s name and address on the form the clerk handed him.

  ‘And the message on the card, sir?’

  David smiled a bit self-consciously; he was new at this sort of thing, after all. ‘Lucy, will you marry me?’ He added, ‘No signature. I think she’ll know who it’s from.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Whoso hath also a proud look and high stomach: I will not suffer him.

  Psalm 101.7

  David was back with plenty of time to spare before Evensong. He went into the cathedral gift shop and bought a souvenir book with coloured pictures of the cathedral to take back to Daphne. As an afterthought, he selected a couple of picture postcards, one of the west front of the cathedral and one of the high altar, to send to Daphne and Lucy. I’ll be back before they get them, he thought, but at least it’s a gesture. I should have done it yesterday.

  ‘Did you need stamps for those, sir?’ inquired the helpful young woman who took his money.

  ‘Yes, that would be most useful.’ She smiled at him in a very friendly way and he was emboldened to ask her a question. ‘Do you know . . . a Miss Somers?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Everyone does.’

  He hesitated. ‘You must think me frightfully ignorant, then, but who is she? Why does everyone know her?’

  The woman laughed easily. She was younger than Lucy, but there was something about her laugh that made David think of Lucy, and miss her. ‘She was an institution round here for years, that’s all. Miss Somers was the secretary to the Provost for as long as anyone can remember. Everyone knew that she really ran the cathedral – Provosts came and went, but Miss Somers remained.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘She finally retired, a year or so ago. She didn’t want to, I can tell you. But they gave her no choice.’

  A customer behind David made an impatient noise, and he looked around guiltily. The woman laughed again. ‘Here I am, standing here gossiping when there are people to be served. I’ll probably get the sack.’ She didn’t look too bothered at the prospect, so with a quick nod of thanks, David moved away from the till.

  He took a seat in the choir stalls, strategically chosen so that he could observe Miss Somers when she had arrived. He knelt to pray, and when he looked up again, she was there.

  Formidable was the word. The only thing really reminiscent of Lady Constance about her was her erect carriage. She sat ramrod straight, her eyes closed. Her hair, which remained quite dark with just a few streaks of grey, was parted in the centre with military precision, and scraped back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyebrows were pencilled on in thin lines above steel-rimmed spectacles, and her mouth had a no-nonsense set to it, even in repose. She had large ears, made even more prominent by her severe hairstyle, and in their fleshy lobes she wore, incongruously, oversized gypsy-like gold hoops.

  Today’s visiting choir, from a parish in the diocese, had more enthusiasm than skill, and David found himself unable to concentrate on the service. He watched Mildred Somers discreetly, from under half-closed lids, and wondered what she could tell him about Miles Taylor. She didn’t look at all the sort of person to be taken in by Miles, and that would affect the manner in which David approached her.

  In the end he decided on the direct approach. After the service, as she got to her feet with the aid of a stick, David waited to catch her eye. ‘Miss Somers?’ he began tentatively.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So sorry to disturb you. I was told that you were the person to speak to about a former organist here, Miles Taylor.’

  She looked wary. ‘Why? Are you a friend of his?’

  He thought quickly. ‘No, not at all. It’s just that . . . well, a friend of mine is a churchwarden in a parish that’s thinking of employing Mr Taylor, and he asked me if I might make a few discreet inquiries. Nothing official, you understand. I thought you might be the best person to ask, on that sort of basis.’

  She nodded, her earrings bobbing, and sat down again, gesturing for him to sit beside her. ‘Yes, of course, Mr . . .’

  ‘Middleton-Brown.’

  ‘Mr Middleton-Brown. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can, of course. What did you wish to know about Mr Taylor?’ Her voice, when she spoke the name, was decidedly frosty.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Somers, but you don’t sound very enthusiastic about him.’

  She flashed him an acerbic glance. ‘Clever boy. No, I have to tell you that I never got on with Miles Taylor.’

  ‘Could I ask why?’

  ‘Well you might ask. For one thing, the man was far too fond of himself for my taste. If you didn’t know how wonderful he was, he would be happy to tell you, at great length. And I couldn’t abide his arrogance.’

  ‘Did he know his job?’

  ‘His, and everyone else’s too, if he was to be believed. He thought he knew better than anyone how the cathedral ought to be run. As far as the music was concerned, he was in charge, and there was no arguing with that. But worship, and administration – those things were none of his affair, but he couldn’t help interfering, putting his oar in. No, I didn’t get on with Miles Taylor.’

  David could well understand that, if the man had been foolish enough to try to meddle in this woman’s sphere of influence. ‘He was organist here for . . . several years, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, four years.’

  ‘And he left about five years ago?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Might I ask . . .’ he hesitated delicately, ‘about the circumstances of his leaving? Were there any . . . causes?’

  Miss Somers fixed her gaze on the organ console just above them. ‘There were . . . disagreemen
ts about the music. He was very keen on experimenting with new things, and the Chapter felt . . .’

  ‘But that’s not the real reason, is it?’ David asked gently but firmly. ‘You just said that he had final authority as far as music was concerned.’

  She compressed her lips, and regarded him keenly, shrewdly, for just a moment. Making up her mind, she nodded again suddenly. ‘Yes, I think you . . . your friend . . . have a right to know. I don’t know what Mr Taylor has told anyone about why he left here, but it could have a direct bearing on someone’s decision to offer him a post.’ David held his breath and waited, not daring to speak. ‘The truth is that Mr Taylor falsified his credentials when he came here.’ David let his breath out in a long hiss, almost a whistle. Miss Somers raised her eyebrows significantly and went on. ‘We never questioned it initially, of course. You do take a lot on faith in this business, if you’ll forgive the pun. In this particular case, that was a mistake. Miles Taylor lied to the Cathedral Chapter, to the Provost, to me. When it all came out, he tried to deny it – he was very brazen about it. We finally had no choice but to dismiss him, and to warn him that if he tried for another cathedral post, we would have to apprise them of the situation.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘In the end he went to a parish church in London. They never asked for a reference – I suppose they thought they were lucky to be getting someone of his calibre. I don’t know what we would have told them if they had asked. Is he still there, do you know? Somewhere in Kensington, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘And this church that’s considering him . . . ?’

  ‘I doubt very much if they’ll be interested, when they’ve heard this,’ he said hastily.

  Miss Somers nodded again, satisfied.

  So old Miles had lied about his credentials. Gabriel might be very interested to hear that, and so might the police.

  He sat in a little café drinking a cup of tea. It was quite stewed, and obviously made with cheap tea-bags, but at least they’d used fresh milk, and it had to be an improvement over what he could have made himself in his hotel room. He’d return to London first thing in the morning. He was half tempted to go back tonight, but he’d already had the young man at the hotel reception book him a table for dinner at a restaurant in York, a restaurant that had been quite favourably reviewed in the Good Food Guide. He’d have a good meal tonight, and first thing tomorrow he’d go back.

  Gabriel tossed sleeplessly in the comfortable bed. Never in his life had he had problems sleeping, until this week. His head hurt. He got up and took some paracetamol tablets; if he’d had sleeping pills, he would have taken them. At the first morning light, he rose and went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea.

  There was a white envelope on the carpet, just inside the door. As he picked it up, his heart lurched apprehensively. The envelope had a familiar look. He went into his study for his letter-knife and slit it open with mounting dread.

  The letter was on the same paper as before, neatly typed.

  This is to remind you. You have until the end of the day on Wednesday, 15 August, the Feast of the Assumption, to resign. It would be very foolish of you to ignore this warning.

  Part 3

  CHAPTER 36

  When thou with rebukes dost chasten man for sin, thou makest his beauty to consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment: every man therefore is but vanity.

  Hear my prayer, O Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling: hold not thy peace at my tears.

  Psalm 39.12–13

  David probably would have sworn that he hadn’t slept a wink all night, between the water-pipes and the cathedral bells, but the jangle of the telephone jolted him awake. Damn, he thought. Time to get up already. Without his alarm clock, he’d asked the hotel reception desk for a wake-up call, so that he would be sure of making early Mass at the cathedral and thus could get an early start back to London. He hadn’t actually believed that they’d carry out his request, so his second thought was mild surprise at their efficiency. He reached for the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he growled.

  The voice on the other end was tentative. ‘David?’ He didn’t recognise it, but it clearly was not his wake-up call.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘David, this is Gabriel.’

  Suddenly he was wide awake. Gabriel’s voice sounded strained – not like him at all. David replied cautiously; the last words they’d exchanged had hardly been cordial. ‘Yes, Gabriel?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. I rang Daphne, and she gave me this number where you could be reached. I wouldn’t bother you like this, but . . . it’s rather important.’

  It must be, for Gabriel to be ringing him in Selby at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. ‘What is it?’

  ‘David . . . there’s been another letter. This morning.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Another blackmail letter. Like the first one.’

  David struggled to comprehend Gabriel’s words. ‘But that’s impossible. Mavis is dead.’

  ‘You were wrong. Mavis couldn’t have written the letters. I tell you, I’ve had another one.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ David repeated stupidly.

  ‘David, please come back.’ Gabriel paused awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry about . . . the way we parted last week. About the things we said in anger. I need your help now, more than ever. Please come back.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a few hours.’ David hung up, then stared at the telephone for a moment. Gabe needed him. Again.

  Gabriel must have been watching for him from the study; he opened the door before David could ring the bell. ‘Come in, David. Let’s go into the study.’

  Once they were out of the dim light of the entrance hall, Gabriel turned to face him. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he said simply. David caught his breath at the change in Gabriel’s appearance. It had been less than a week since he’d seen him, in this room, but Gabriel had altered subtly yet noticeably in that week. He was immaculately groomed and attired as always, but he looked tired and – yes, older. There were tiny lines around his eyes where none had been before, and a pinched look around his mouth. This business has really hit him hard, David concluded, with a stirring of compassion.

  Gabriel gestured him to a chair, and sat himself as usual at his desk. He seemed at a loss for words.

  ‘Show me the letter,’ David said, without preliminaries. This time there was no need for concealment; there was no one else in the house. The letter lay folded on the desk, and Gabriel handed it to him silently.

  David studied it for a moment. ‘It does seem to be from the same person,’ he admitted at last. That destroyed his pet theory, formulated on the drive from Selby, that there were two blackmailers. ‘So it wasn’t Mavis. I was wrong. I’m not much of a detective, am I?’

  ‘We were both wrong,’ Gabriel said with a bitter smile.

  ‘Then who?’

  Gabriel shook his head hopelessly. ‘I wish I knew. I’ve been over and over it in my mind, and I just don’t know. And time is running out.’

  ‘Three days, give or take. What are you going to do?’

  Gabriel looked at him pleadingly. ‘Won’t you help?’

  ‘All right, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Thank you, David.’ His smile, though strained, was genuinely grateful. ‘Isn’t there any way you can find out? You’ve been to Brighton – was there anything . . . ?’

  David covered his face with his hands and thought hard. It was difficult changing gears like this, back to Peter Maitland and Brighton. ‘You’ll have to help me, Gabriel. You’ll have to think about this. Before, you didn’t tell me anything about his background, his friends. I know nothing about him that would lead me to someone who knew him, someone to whom he might have mentioned your name. Did you ever meet any of his friends?’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t have been a good idea.’ Gabriel looked away. ‘And it wasn’t that kind of relationship.’<
br />
  David suppressed a pang. ‘Try to think. Did he ever mention any friends – anyone he knew – by name?’

  Gabriel furrowed his brow in concentration. ‘It’s been so long ago. I can’t remember. He had a sister somewhere, but I don’t know her name. Maybe it was Kathy, Karen, something like that. His room-mate’s name was Dominic, I think. And I think he talked about someone named Anthony. Is it really that important?’

  ‘I have nothing else to go on. And time, as you said, is running out.’

  They talked around in circles for a long while. Gabriel was too upset and bewildered to be of any real use; finally David said, ‘I will do my very best. But it’s so difficult on my own – I really haven’t been a very clever detective so far. May I ask for Daphne’s help?’

  Gabriel was horrified. ‘Tell Daphne? What would she say? What would she think of me?’

  David hesitated. ‘She already knows about . . . us. I didn’t tell her – she guessed. And I don’t believe she thinks the worse of either of us because of it. Daphne is discreet, you know that. And she never judges. It would be a great help to me to be able to talk it over with her: Daphne’s very shrewd about people. I won’t tell her all the details, just the bare facts.’

  ‘If you think it’s best, then,’ Gabriel nodded listlessly, playing with the paperweight. ‘I don’t care how you do it, but just find out by Wednesday.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ David repeated gravely and, he hoped, reassuringly.

  Gabriel roused himself. ‘Would you like a sherry? Or maybe a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d love a sherry. I didn’t stop to eat.’

  ‘Then you must be hungry. I haven’t eaten, either. Maybe I can find us some food – you stay here.’

  David was happy to remain, and occupied himself looking around the study. It was a lovely room, with the Queen Anne desk and the Persian carpet. He glanced at the photo of Emily and the children. Dear Emily – he wondered how she was. He must go to see her and find out. He browsed for a few minutes among Gabriel’s books. Some of them he remembered, but many he did not. Gabriel’s reading habits had always been catholic, with a small ‘c’, so among the books on theology and exegesis were a sprinkling of the classics, and a few modern novels. And there, under ‘N’, were Gabriel’s own books; David took them down and looked at them with interest. Transubstantiation: An Anglican Perspective, followed by Sacramental Confession: A Spiritual Imperative, by Fr Gabriel Neville, MA Oxon. He was surprised that he hadn’t seen them reviewed in the Church Times. They looked suitably learned, but written with a certain popular appeal for a particular brand of churchmanship. He returned them to the shelf almost guiltily as Gabriel, bearing a tray, pushed the door open.