A Dead Man Out of Mind (7 page)

‘Oh, it does. But a silver-gilt Pugin chalice! Some thief got a bit more than he bargained for, I dare say. I hope that it was insured?'

Again the churchwardens looked at each other. ‘It was insured, of course, but not for very much,' Bairstow confessed. ‘To tell you the truth, I've always thought that this stuff was pretty hideous.'

David shook his head, despairing at the Philistinism which, in his experience, seemed to afflict churchwardens everywhere. ‘Never mind. So what do you want to do, now that you know it might be worth a bob or two?'

‘Sell it, of course,' Bairstow replied promptly, without even a glance at his colleague. ‘How do we go about it?'

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, David considered the options. ‘If you don't need the money immediately, the best thing would be to put it into one of the sale rooms – Christie's or Sotheby's – for auction. That would take a couple of months, to get it into the catalogue. If you're in a great hurry, I could try a few dealers, but you're not likely to get nearly as good a price from them.'

‘Oh, we want as much money as we can get,' Bairstow stated.

‘But as soon as possible,' Topping added.

‘Don't forget, though, that you'll have to get a faculty before you can sell it,' David reminded them. ‘That means that your PCC will have to agree, and then the papers will have to be filed with the Diocesan Advisory Committee, who will have to approve the sale. I don't anticipate any real problems with that, but it will take a month or two, no matter what. You can't rush the diocese.'

Wringing his hands in a thoughtful way, Everitt spoke. ‘That reminds me about that question you were asking me a few days ago, Martin. Did you ring the diocesan solicitor as I suggested?'

Bairstow seemed to want to change the subject. ‘Yes, I did. Now perhaps we should think about—'

‘And was I right?' Everitt droned on, oblivious. ‘Is it right that if a congregation leaves the Church of England, the building and everything in it remains the property of the C of E?'

The churchwarden was saved the necessity of a reply by the arrival of the Vicar. ‘Father Keble Smythe! I'd like you to meet David Middleton-Brown, the solicitor who's going to help us with the sale of the silver, as I mentioned to you. And you won't believe what he's discovered! The old stuff – what we've always thought was copper-gilt – might actually be worth something!'

The Vicar made the appropriate noises, then said, ‘How kind of you to turn out on such an unpleasant evening, Mr Middleton-Brown.'

For the first time, and with great interest, David shook the hand of Father William Keble Smythe. He was younger than David had expected, and very good-looking. How would he describe him to Lucy, later on? Wavy dark hair, contrasting vividly with a pale complexion. Perhaps a bit
too
pale, he decided. In fact, everything about him seemed just a bit over the top: his hair in perfect waves and parted as if with a ruler, his accent perhaps a shade too posh, his cassock immaculate, his shoes polished to a blinding shine.

‘I must begin getting ready for the service now, but I'd like to chat further with all of you after,' the Vicar said, taking in David and the churchwardens with his gesture. ‘How about joining me at the clergy house for a drink after the service?'

‘Sorry, Father,' Martin Bairstow demurred. ‘I have to give several of the old girls a lift home.'

‘And Dolly will have supper ready,' Norman Topping added. ‘She wouldn't appreciate it if I were late.'

The Vicar turned back to David. ‘Mr Middleton-Brown? You
are
staying for the service, I trust? How about a drink afterwards?'

David hesitated; Lucy would be expecting him, but on the other hand he felt that he ought to accept. It would help to learn as much about the set-up at St Margaret's as he could, and talking to the Vicar on his own could be a useful way of doing that. He admitted to himself as well that he was curious about Father Keble Smythe, especially in the light of Robin West's veiled remarks. And a drink with the Vicar would extricate him from the clutches of the repellent sacristan. ‘A quick one, perhaps.'

‘Jolly good. I'll see you after the service, then.'

The service was everything that the sacristan had promised, and more. Multiple clergy went through their paces, the proceedings obscured by copious smoke from the Pugin thurible, ably wielded by Robin West. The 1637 rite was suitably arcane for even the most hardened spiritual thrill-seekers. It was just a shame, thought David, that not more of them were present: as far as he could tell, there weren't more than a few strangers, who, like himself, joined the churchwardens, a sprinkling of devout elderly ladies, and a few others who were clearly regular members of the congregation, for an experience that was well out of the ordinary.

Some time later he found himself at the clergy house, transported there in great comfort in Father Keble Smythe's opulent car. Mrs Goode was waiting for them at the door. ‘There's a nice fire going in your study, Father,' she greeted them. ‘I thought you'd need it on a cold night like this.'

‘Oh, excellent woman!' The Vicar removed his clerical cloak with a flourish. ‘And is that your incomparable fish pie that I smell?'

The housekeeper nodded, gratified. ‘It will be ready soon. Will the other gentleman be staying to supper?'

Father Keble Smythe turned to David. ‘How about it, dear chap? Mrs Goode's fish pie is enough to make anyone look forward to Friday, believe me. I'd be delighted if you'd join me.'

The smell that wafted from the kitchen was enough to tempt David, and it had been a long time since he'd had a good home-made fish pie: since Lucy had become a vegetarian, nearly a year past, he'd been deprived of such fare, and at moments like this he regretted it keenly. But Lucy would be waiting for him, and her soup would be delicious, if meatless. ‘I'm sorry, but I really can't.' He followed the Vicar into the study. ‘I must get home, I'm afraid.'

‘Are you married, Mr Middleton-Brown?'

David was instantly defensive, and not inclined to discuss his domestic arrangements with the Vicar. ‘Not exactly,' he hedged.

Father Keble Smythe chuckled understandingly. ‘I feel that way myself.' He swept the silver-framed photo off his desk and presented it to David. ‘My fiancée, Miss Morag McKenzie,' he explained with a sentimental sigh.

‘Very nice,' said David, feeling inadequate. ‘She looks . . . nice.'

‘A lovely young woman.' The Vicar's eyes were misty. ‘But I honestly don't know when our marriage will be able to take place. Her father isn't very well, you see, and she's absolutely devoted to him. So all of my pleas to her to end my bachelor state are to no avail! I have Mrs Goode to take care of me, she says, and her father has no one else.'

‘Does she live in the parish?'

‘Oh, goodness, no. She lives in Scotland. Her father is a professor of classics at St Andrews University.'

David could empathise with the loneliness of separation. ‘That must be very difficult for you.'

‘It is. It is.' Father Keble Smythe sighed again, with great feeling, and took the photo back. ‘But I've invited you here for a drink, not to talk about my sad situation.' He gestured invitingly at the tray which the housekeeper had prepared. ‘As you see, Mrs Goode looks after me awfully well. What would you like? Sherry? Whisky? Gin?'

‘Whisky, please.' While the Vicar poured the drinks, David took a moment to appraise the room in which he found himself. The study had been furnished with a great deal of taste, he thought, and at no little expense; he wondered if the Vicar had private means, or if he were just successful in loosening the purse strings of his wealthy parishioners.

‘So,' said Father Keble Smythe when they had settled comfortably by the fire with their drinks, ‘you've met with the churchwardens. And you've seen the silver. Pretty good, is it?'

David nodded. ‘Not the bits they wanted to sell, but the old set. I don't know how much you know about Victorian silver, but it's almost certainly designed by Pugin, and that alone makes it well above average in interest and value.'

‘That's splendid. You must get on, then, with applying for a faculty to sell it.'

‘I'm surprised that you can bear to part with it,' David said frankly. ‘It's lovely stuff. If it were
my
church, nothing would induce me to sell it.'

‘My churchwardens seem to think that it's the right thing to do.'

‘The shelter for the homeless is a worthy idea, of course, but . . . ' David tailed off at the unexpectedly ironic laugh which erupted from the Vicar.

‘That's what they told you, then? And you believed it?'

He stared at Father Keble Smythe, baffled. ‘Of course I believed it.'

The genial, affected manner had gone in an instant, to be replaced by an air of knowing cynicism. ‘Then you haven't known as many churchwardens as I have, Mr Middleton-Brown. Believe me, a shelter for the homeless is the
last
thing that money is intended for.'

‘Then what . . . ?'

‘Oh, I'm not sure about that, though I have a fairly good idea what they've got in mind.' The Vicar's chuckle was mirthless as he held his glass up and squinted through the amber liquid, and he spoke more to himself than to David. ‘But I'm a step ahead of them. I shall let them hatch their little schemes, thinking all the while that they're putting one over on me. And then . . . well, my friend, I shall give them just enough rope to hang themselves!'

CHAPTER 5

    
They are inclosed in their own fat: and their mouth speaketh proud things.

Psalm 17.10

‘You must admit, it was rather a coincidence.' It was Wednesday morning and Lucy was still in bed, sipping the cup of tea that David had brought her, while he got dressed. ‘Vanessa Bairstow ringing me, the same day that Martin Bairstow rang
you
.'

‘I suppose it was, in a way.' He frowned at himself in the mirror, which was at an awkward height for him to see his tie properly, and straightened the knot. ‘But you've got to remember, love, that the Church of England is a small world. Mrs Bairstow rang you because of Emily, who happens to be the Archdeacon's wife in addition to being your friend, and her husband rang me because of what I'd done for St John's last year. Not really that amazing, when you think about it. Just one of life's funny little coincidences – the sort of thing that happens every day.'

‘I think it was very clever of you to identify the silver as being by Pugin.'

David ran a comb through his hair – brown in colour, with just enough silver at the temples to give him an air of distinction. ‘Not really – his stuff is quite distinctive,' he demurred modestly. ‘I've got a book on Pugin somewhere, in one of the boxes in the loft – I'll try to find it this evening, if you like, and show you.' He turned to face her. ‘What time are you going to the Bairstows'?'

‘The meeting starts at half-past two. I'll go a few minutes before that, I suppose.'

Abstractedly, he shrugged his suit jacket on, then took a final glance at himself in the mirror. ‘You're not going to mention me to her – to Mrs Bairstow, are you? About the coincidence?'

Lucy gave him an amused look. ‘Good heavens, no. I don't imagine it will come up, quite frankly. And you know that I don't go about advertising our relationship. But why do you ask?'

‘I wouldn't want her husband to think that I'd been talking about the case to other people. He might think it was unprofessional.'

‘Don't worry, David darling,' she laughed. ‘My lips are sealed.'

He moved close to the bed. ‘That's not all they are,' he murmured, bending to kiss her goodbye.

Laden down with paintings, Lucy took a taxi to Vanessa Bairstow's house. It was in the exclusive heart of Pimlico, facing a black-railed, tree-shaded square. Now, at the beginning of February, the square was less than inviting, its trees bare under a grey sky, but already there were signs of life in the buds that swelled on them, and Lucy could imagine how pleasant it would be in the summer. The house was imposingly tall, pristinely white, with a shiny brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion's head.

Lucy wrestled the paintings out of the taxi and up the steps to the front door. She rang the bell and waited a moment, expecting Vanessa Bairstow to answer, or possibly a servant.

The woman who opened the door was most definitely not Vanessa, but she was clearly not a servant either. To call her large would be understating the case: her massive bosom jutted out like the figurehead of a ship, and her width seemed crammed into the doorway. Her face, under a rather fussy arrangement of permed grey curls, was strong-featured and bespectacled, and seemed unnervingly familiar to Lucy, who was nevertheless unable to think where she might have encountered her in the past. ‘Oh, hello,' she said uncertainly. ‘I'm Lucy Kingsley.'

‘Yes, of course you are.'

This reply, and the tone in which it was spoken, reinforced the impression that she should know the other woman; as she struggled into the house with her paintings, she ventured, ‘Have we met?'

‘No.' The woman laughed. ‘You've probably seen me on television. I'm Dolly Topping, from Ladies Opposed to Women Priests.'

Lucy remembered: Mrs Topping had indeed been an ubiquitous presence on television during the General Synod debate on the ordination of women, the person who could always be counted upon to put the ‘anti' point of view with force and conviction. ‘A woman's place is at the kitchen table,' she had been fond of saying, ‘not at the Sacred Table.' It was a good line, and it had been widely quoted at the time. ‘Yes, of course,' Lucy acknowledged. ‘It's nice to meet you, Mrs Topping.'