Death in Holy Orders (44 page)

It spoke to Kate of a self-contained and solitary life. There was one high-backed armchair in front of the fire with an angled lamp on a table to the left, and another table on the right holding a pile of books. A round table in front of the window was set for one person, and the remaining three chairs had been pushed back against the wall. A large ginger cat was curled, plump as a cushion, on a low button-backed chair. At their entry he raised a ferocious head, gazed fixedly at them, then,
affronted, descended from the chair and lumbered out to the pantry. They heard the click of a cat-flap. Kate thought she had never seen an uglier cat.

Miss Fawcett pulled out two straight-backed chairs, then went to a cupboard fitted in the alcove to the left of the fireplace. She said, “I don’t know whether I can help you, but if something important did happen to Margaret Munroe when we were both nursing at the hospice, I probably mentioned it in my diary. My father insisted that we keep diaries as children and the habit has stuck. It’s rather like insisting on prayers before bed: once begun in childhood, there’s an obligation to conscience to keep going, however disagreeable. You said twelve years ago. That would bring us to 1988.”

She settled down in the chair before the fire and picked up what looked like a child’s exercise book.

Kate said, “Do you remember whether you nursed a Miss Clara Arbuthnot when you worked at Ashcombe House?”

If Miss Fawcett thought the sudden mention of Clara Arbuthnot odd she didn’t say so. She said, “I remember Miss Arbuthnot. I was the nurse chiefly responsible for her care from the day of her admission until she died five weeks later.”

She took her spectacle-case from her skirt pocket and turned over the pages of the diary. It took a little time to find the right week; as Kate had feared, Miss Fawcett’s interest was caught by other entries. Kate wondered if she was being deliberately slow. After a minute she sat silently reading, then pressed both hands over the entry. Once again Kate experienced her keen, intelligent gaze.

She said, “There’s a mention here of both Clara Arbuthnot and Margaret Munroe. I find myself in some difficulty. I promised secrecy at the time and I see no reason now to break my word.”

Kate thought before speaking, then she said, “The information you have there may be crucial to us for other reasons than an ordinand’s apparent suicide. It really is important that we know what you have written, and know as soon as possible. Clara Arbuthnot and Margaret Munroe are both dead. Do you think they would wish you to remain silent if it’s a matter of helping justice?”

Miss Fawcett got to her feet. She said, “Will you please take a walk in the garden for a few minutes. I’ll knock on the window when I want you back. I need to think about this on my own.”

They left her still standing. Outside, they walked shoulder to shoulder to the far end of the garden and stayed looking out over the scarred fields. Kate was tormented with impatience. She said, “That diary was only a few feet away. All I needed was a quick glance. And what do we do if she won’t say anything more? OK, there’s always a subpoena if the case goes to court, but how do we know that the diary’s relevant? It’s probably an entry describing how she and Munroe went to Frinton and had sex under the pier.”

Robbins said, “There isn’t a pier at Frinton.”

“And Miss Arbuthnot was dying. Oh well, we’d better stroll back. I don’t want to miss the knock on the window.”

When it came they went back into the sitting-room quietly, anxious not to betray impatience.

Miss Fawcett said, “I have your word that the information you seek is necessary to your present investigation and that, if it proves irrelevant, no note will be taken of what I say.”

Kate said, “We can’t tell, Miss Fawcett, whether it will be relevant or not. If it is, then of course it will have to come out, possibly even in evidence. I can’t give any assurances, I can only ask you to help.”

Miss Fawcett said, “Thank you for your honesty. As it happens, you are fortunate. My grandfather was a chief constable and I am one of that generation—sadly decreasing—who still trust the police. I’m prepared to tell you what I know, and also to hand over the diary, if the information is useful.”

Kate judged that further argument was unnecessary and might be counter-productive. She simply said, “Thank you,” and waited.

Miss Fawcett said, “I’ve been thinking while you were in the garden. You told me that this visit arises from the death of a student at St. Anselm’s College. You also said that there was no suggestion that Margaret Munroe was involved in that death except when she found the body. But there has to be more to it than that, doesn’t there? You wouldn’t be here, a detective inspector
and a sergeant, unless there was suspicion of foul play. This is a murder inquiry, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Kate, “it is. We are part of a team investigating the murder of Archdeacon Crampton at St. Anselm’s College. There may be absolutely no link with Mrs. Munroe’s diary entry, but it’s something we have to check. I expect you know about the Archdeacon’s death.”

“No,” said Miss Fawcett, “I don’t know. I very seldom buy a daily newspaper and I’ve no television. Murder makes a difference. There’s an entry in my diary for 27 April 1988 and it does concern Mrs. Munroe. My problem is that at the time we both promised secrecy.”

Kate said, “Miss Fawcett, could I please see the entry?”

“I don’t think it would be very illuminating if you did. I wrote down few of the details. But I remember more than I’ve recorded here. I think I have a duty to tell you, although I doubt whether it has anything to do with your inquiry, and I have your assurance that, if it isn’t, the matter will be taken no further.”

Kate said, “We can promise you that.”

Miss Fawcett sat stiffly upright, her palms pressed against the open pages of the diary as if to shield them from prying eyes. She said, “In April 1988 I was nursing terminally ill patients at Ashcombe House. This, of course, you already know. One of my patients told me that she wished to marry before she died, but that her intention and the ceremony were to be kept secret. She asked me to be a witness. I agreed. It wasn’t my place to ask questions and I asked none. This was a wish expressed by a patient of whom I had become fond, and who I knew had little time left to live. The surprise was that she had the strength for the ceremony. It was arranged by archbishop’s licence and took place at midday on the 27th at the small church St. Osyth’s at Clampstoke-Lacey, outside Norwich. The priest was the Reverend Hubert Johnson, whom my patient had met at the hospice. I didn’t see the bridegroom until he arrived by car to collect the patient and myself, ostensibly for a country drive. Father Hubert was to find a second witness but failed to do so. I can’t now remember what went wrong. As we were leaving the hospice I saw Margaret Munroe. She was just leaving after her interview with the Matron
for a nursing post. It was, in fact, at my suggestion that she had applied. I knew that I could rely on her absolute discretion. We trained together at the old Westminster Hospital in London, although she was, of course, considerably younger than myself. I was a late entry to nursing after a brief academic career. My father was strongly opposed to my choice of profession and I had to wait until he died before I could apply for training. The wedding ceremony took place, and the patient and I returned to the hospice. She seemed much happier and more at peace in those last days, but neither she nor I spoke again of the marriage. So much happened during my years at the hospice that I doubt whether I would have recalled it without this entry if I hadn’t had an earlier inquiry. Seeing the written words, even without a name, brought it back with astonishing clarity. It was a beautiful day; I remember the graveyard at St. Osyth’s was yellow with daffodils and we came out of the porch into sunshine.”

Kate said, “Was the patient Clara Arbuthnot?”

Miss Fawcett looked at her. “Yes, it was.”

“And the bridegroom?”

“I’ve no idea. I can’t recall his face or his name, and I doubt whether Margaret would’ve been able to help if she’d been alive.”

Kate said, “But she would have signed the marriage certificate as a witness, and surely names would have been mentioned.”

“I imagine they would. But there was no particular reason why she should remember. After all, at a church wedding only Christian names are used during the service.” She paused and then said, “I have to confess that I haven’t been entirely open with you. I wanted time to think, to consider how much, if anything, I should reveal. I had no need to consult the diary before answering your question. I had looked up that date before. On Thursday, 12 October, Margaret Munroe telephoned me from a callbox in Lowestoft. She asked me the name of the bride and I told her. I couldn’t give her the name of the groom. It isn’t recorded in my diary and, if I ever knew it, it’s long since forgotten.”

Kate said, “Is there anything at all you remember about the
bridegroom? His age, what he looked like, how he spoke? Did he ever come again to the hospice?”

“No, not even when Clara was dying, and as far as I know he had no part in the cremation service. That was arranged by a firm of solicitors in Norwich. I never saw or heard from him again. There was one thing though. I noticed it when we stood before the altar and he was putting the ring on Clara’s finger. The top part of the ring finger on his left hand was missing.”

Kate’s surge of triumph and excitement was so exhilarating that she feared that it must show on her face. She didn’t glance at Robbins. Keeping her voice steady, she asked: “Did Miss Arbuthnot ever confide in you about the reason for the marriage? Is it possible, for example, that there was a child involved?”

“A child? She never spoke of having a child and as far as I recall there was no mention of a pregnancy on her medical records. No child ever visited her; but then, neither did the man she married.”

“So she told you nothing?”

“Only that she planned to marry, that the marriage must be kept absolutely secret, and that she needed my help. I gave it.”

“Is there anyone she might have confided in?”

“The priest who married her, Father Hubert Johnson, spent a great deal of time with her before she died. I remember that he gave her Holy Communion and heard her confession. I had to ensure that they weren’t disturbed when he was with my patient. She must have told him everything, either as a friend or as a priest. But he was seriously ill himself at the time and died two years later.”

There was nothing more to be learned, and after thanking Miss Fawcett for her help, Kate and Robbins returned to the car. Miss Fawcett was watching them from the door of the cottage, and Kate drove out of sight before finding a suitable place on the grass verge to bring the Jaguar to a stop. She took up the telephone and said with satisfaction, “Something positive to report. We’re getting somewhere at last.”

A
fter lunch, as Father John did not appear, Emma went up and knocked at the door of his private apartment. She dreaded seeing him, but when he opened the door he looked very much as he always did. His face brightened and he welcomed her in.

She said, “Father, I’m so sorry, so dreadfully sorry,” and held back her tears. She told herself she had come to speak words of comfort, not to add to his distress. But it was like comforting a child. She wanted to take him in her arms. He led her to the chair before the fire, the chair which she guessed was his sister’s, and sat opposite her.

He said, “I wonder if you would do something for me, Emma.”

“Of course. Anything, Father.”

“It’s her clothes. I know they’ll have to be sorted and given away. It seems very early to be thinking of that now, but I expect you’ll be leaving us by the end of the week and I wondered whether you would do it. Mrs. Pilbeam would help, I know. She’s very kind, but I’d rather it were you. Perhaps tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”

“Of course I will, Father. I’ll do it after my afternoon seminar.”

He said, “Everything she owned is in her bedroom. There should be some jewellery. If there is, will you take it and sell it for me? I’d like the money to go to some charity concerned with helping prisoners. I think there must be one.”

Emma said, “I’m sure there is, Father. I’ll find out for you. But wouldn’t you like to look at the jewellery first and decide if there’s anything you’d like to keep?”

“No thank you, Emma. That’s thoughtful, but I’d rather it all went.”

There was a silence, then he said, “The police were here this morning, examining the flat and her room. Inspector Tarrant came with one of those search officers in white coats. He introduced him as Mr. Clark.”

Emma’s voice was sharp. “Searched the flat for what?”

“They didn’t say. They weren’t here for long and they left everything very tidy. You wouldn’t have known that they’d been here.” There was another pause, then he said, “Inspector Tarrant asked me where I’d been and what I did last night between Compline and six o’clock.”

Emma cried, “But that’s intolerable!”

He smiled sadly. “No, not really. They have to ask these questions. Inspector Tarrant was very tactful. He was only doing his duty.”

Emma reflected angrily that much of the world’s grief was caused by people who claimed that they were only doing their duty.

Father John’s quiet voice broke in. “The pathologist was here, but I expect you heard him arrive.”

“The whole community must have heard him. It wasn’t a discreet arrival.”

Father John smiled. “No it wasn’t, was it? He didn’t stay long either. Commander Dalgliesh asked me if I wanted to be there when they took the body away, but I said I’d rather stay here quietly by myself. After all, it wasn’t Agatha they were taking away. She’d gone long ago.”

Gone long ago. What exactly, Emma wondered, did he mean? The three words clanged in her mind as sonorous as a funeral bell.

Getting up to go, she took his hand again and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Father, when I come to parcel up the clothes. Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do?”

He thanked her, then said, “There is just one other thing. I hope I’m not imposing on your goodness, but will you please find Raphael. I haven’t seen him since it happened, but I’m afraid this will distress him greatly. He was always kind to her, and I know that she loved him.”