Death in Holy Orders (45 page)

She found Raphael standing on the edge of the cliff, about a hundred yards from the college. When she reached him he sat down on the grass and she joined him and put out her hand.

Staring out to sea and without turning to her, he said, “She was the only one here who cared for me.”

Emma cried, “That isn’t true, Raphael, you know it isn’t!”

“I mean cared for
me
. Myself. Raphael. Not as the object of general benevolence. Not as a suitable candidate for the priesthood. Not as the last surviving Arbuthnot—even if I am a bastard. You must have been told. Dumped here as a baby in one of those straw baby-carriers—squashy, with a handle both sides. Leaving me in the rushes by the mere would have been more appropriate, but perhaps my mother thought I wouldn’t be discovered there. At least she cared enough to dump me at the college, where I’d be found. They didn’t have much choice about taking me in. Still, it’s given them twenty-five years of feeling benevolent, exercising the virtue of charity.”

“You know that isn’t how they feel.”

“It’s how I feel. I know I sound egotistical and self-pitying. I
am
egotistical and self-pitying. You don’t have to tell me. I used to think everything would be all right if I could get you to marry me.”

“Raphael, that’s ridiculous. When you’re thinking clearly you know it is. Marriage isn’t therapy.”

“But it would have been something definite. It would have anchored me.”

“Doesn’t the Church anchor you?”

“It will once I’m priested. No going back then.”

Emma thought carefully for a moment, then said, “You don’t have to be ordained. It has to be your decision, no one else’s. If you’re not certain you shouldn’t go ahead.”

“You sound like Gregory. If I mention the word ‘vocation’ he tells me not to talk like a character in a Graham Greene novel. We’d better be going back.” He paused, then laughed. “She was a terrible nuisance in some ways on those trips to London, but I never wished I was with anyone else.”

He got to his feet and began striding towards the college. Emma made no attempt to catch him up. Walking more slowly on the edge of the cliff, she felt a great sadness for Raphael,
for Father John and for all the people she loved at St. Anselm’s.

She had reached the iron gate into the west court when she heard a voice calling and, turning, saw Karen Surtees walking briskly towards her across the scrubland. They had seen each other on previous weekends when both had been in college, but had never spoken except to exchange an occasional good-morning. Despite this, Emma had never felt that there was antagonism between them. She waited with some curiosity to know what would be said now. Karen glanced back towards St. John’s Cottage before speaking.

“Sorry to shout at you like that. I just wanted a word. What’s all this about old Betterton being found dead in the cellar? Father Martin came over to tell us this morning, but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

There seemed no reason to conceal what little she knew. Emma said, “I think she tripped on the top step.”

“Or was she pushed? Anyway, this is one death they can’t try to pin on Eric or me—that is, if she died before midnight. We drove to Ipswich last night to see a film and have dinner. We wanted to get out of the place for an hour or so. I suppose you’ve no idea how the investigation is going? I mean, the Archdeacon’s murder.”

Emma said, “None at all. The police don’t tell us anything.”

“Not even the handsome Commander? No, I suppose he wouldn’t. God, that man’s sinister! I wish to hell he’d get a move on, I want to get back to London. Anyway, I’m staying on here with Eric until the end of the week. There’s just one thing I wanted to ask you. You may not be able to help or you may not want to, but I can’t think of anyone else to ask. Are you a churchgoer? Do you take Communion?”

The question was so unexpected that Emma was for a moment disorientated. Karen said, almost impatiently, “I mean in church, Holy Communion. Do you take it?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“I’m wondering about the wafers they hand out. What happens? I mean, do you open your mouth and they pop them in, or do you hold out your hands?”

The conversation was bizarre, but Emma answered, “Some
people open their mouths, but in Anglican churches it’s more usual to hold up your palms one over the other.”

“And I suppose the priest stands and watches you while you actually eat the wafer?”

“He might if he’s speaking all the words in the Prayer Book service over you, but usually he passes along to the next communicant, and then there could be a short wait while either he or another priest comes with the chalice.” She asked, “Why do you need to know?”

“No particular reason. It’s something I’m curious about. I thought I might go to a service and I don’t want to get it wrong and make a fool of myself. But don’t you have to be confirmed? I mean, they’ll probably turn me away.”

Emma said, “I don’t think that would happen. There’ll be a Mass in the oratory tomorrow morning.” She added, not without a tinge of mischief, “You could tell Father Sebastian you’d like to attend. He’ll probably ask you a few questions. He might want you to go to confession first.”

“Confess to Father Sebastian! Are you mad? I think I’ll wait for spiritual regeneration until I get back to London. By the way, how long are you thinking of staying?”

Emma said, “I should go on Thursday but I’m able to take an extra day. I’ll probably be here until the end of the week.”

“Well, good luck, and thanks for the information.”

She turned and with hunched shoulders walked briskly back to St. John’s Cottage.

Watching her go, Emma told herself that it was just as well Karen hadn’t wanted to stay longer. It would have been tempting to have talked over the murder with another woman and one of her own age, tempting but perhaps unwise. Karen might have questioned her about finding the Archdeacon’s body, asked questions which it would have been awkward to parry. Everyone else at St. Anselm’s had been scrupulous in their reticence, but somehow reticence wasn’t a quality she associated with Karen Surtees. She walked on, puzzled. Of all the questions Karen might have wanted to ask, the one she had asked was the last that Emma would have expected.

I
t was one-fifteen and Kate and Robbins had returned. Dalgliesh saw that Kate, reporting precisely on their mission, was trying to keep the note of triumph and excitement out of her voice. She was always at her most detached and professional in moments of high success, but the enthusiasm was evident in her voice and in her eyes, and Dalgliesh welcomed it. Perhaps he was getting back the old Kate, the Kate for whom policing had been more than a job, more than an adequate salary and the prospect of promotion, more than a ladder out of the mire of the deprivation and squalor of her childhood. He had hoped to see that Kate again.

She had telephoned the news of the marriage as soon as she and Robbins had said their thank-yous and goodbyes to Miss Fawcett. Dalgliesh had instructed Kate to get a copy of the marriage certificate and return to St. Anselm’s as soon as possible. A study of the map had shown that Clampstoke-Lacey was only fourteen miles away, and it had seemed reasonable first to try the church.

But they had had no luck. St. Osyth’s was now part of a team ministry and there was at present an interregnum with a new priest temporarily taking the services. He was visiting one of the other churches and his young wife knew nothing of the whereabouts of the parish registers, indeed seemed hardly to know what they were, and could only suggest that they wait for her husband to return. She expected him before supper unless he was invited to have a meal with one of the parishioners. If this happened he would probably telephone, although sometimes he was so preoccupied with parish concerns he forgot. The slight note of peevish resentment that Kate detected in her
voice suggested that this was not an unusual occurrence. The best plan now seemed to be to try the Register Office in Norwich, and here they had more luck. A copy of the marriage certificate had been promptly produced.

In the mean time Dalgliesh had telephoned Paul Perronet in Norwich. There were two important questions to which he needed answers before they interviewed George Gregory. The first was the exact wording of Miss Arbuthnot’s will. The second related to the provisions of an Act of Parliament and the date on which the legislation had come into force.

Kate and Robbins hadn’t waited to get themselves lunch and now fell with eagerness upon the cheese rolls and coffee provided by Mrs. Pilbeam.

Dalgliesh said, “We can guess now how it was that Margaret Munroe recalled the wedding. She had been writing her diary, dwelling on the past, and two images came together: Gregory on the shore taking off his left glove and feeling for Ronald Treeves’s pulse, and the page of bridal pictures in the
Sole Bay Weekly Gazette
. The fusion of death and life. Next day she telephoned Miss Fawcett—not from the cottage, where she might have been disturbed, but from a telephone box in Lowestoft. She was given confirmation of what she must surely have suspected: the name of the bride. It was only then that she spoke to the person most concerned. There were only two people to whom those words could apply, George Gregory and Raphael Arbuthnot. And within hours of speaking and receiving reassurance, Margaret Munroe was dead.”

Refolding the copy of the marriage certificate, he said, “We’ll speak to Gregory in his cottage, not here. I’d like you to come with me, Kate. His car is here, so if he’s out he can’t have gone far.”

Kate said, “But the marriage doesn’t give Gregory a motive for the Archdeacon’s murder. It should have taken place twenty-five years ago. Raphael Arbuthnot can’t inherit. The will says he has to be legitimate according to English law.”

“But that’s exactly what the marriage makes him, legitimate according to English law.”

Gregory could only just have returned. He opened the door to them wearing a black long-sleeved track suit and with a
towel round his neck. His hair hung damply and the cotton clung to his chest and arms.

Without standing aside to let them in, he said, “I was just about to shower. Is this urgent?”

He was making them as unwelcome as importunate salesmen, and Dalgliesh for the first time saw in his eyes the challenge of an antagonism that he was making no attempt to conceal.

He said, “It is urgent. May we come in?”

Leading them through the study into the rear extension, Gregory said, “You have, Commander, something of the air of a man who feels that he is at last making progress. Some might say, About time. Let us hope it doesn’t all end in the Slough of Despond.”

He motioned them to a sofa and sat himself at his desk, swivelling round the chair and stretching out his legs. He then began vigorously towelling his hair. Across the room Dalgliesh could smell his sweat.

Without taking the marriage certificate from his pocket, he said, “You married Clara Arbuthnot on 27 April 1988 at St. Osyth’s Church, Clampstoke-Lacey, Norfolk. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you really believe that the circumstances of that marriage weren’t relevant to the murder inquiry?”

For a couple of seconds Gregory was still and silent, but when he spoke his voice was calm and unworried. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had days ago braced himself for this encounter.

“I suppose by referring to the circumstances of the marriage you’ve understood the significance of the date. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was any of your business. That’s the first reason. The second is that I promised my wife that the marriage would remain a secret until I had informed our son—and, incidentally, Raphael is my son. The third is that I haven’t yet told him and I judged that the right moment to do so had not yet come. However, it looks as if you’re forcing my hand.”

Kate said, “Does anyone at St. Anselm’s know?”

Gregory looked at her as if aware of her for the first time, and deploring what he saw. “No one. Obviously they will have to know, and equally obviously they will blame me for keeping
Raphael in the dark for so long. And them too, of course. Human nature being what it is, they’ll probably find that more difficult to forgive. I can’t see myself occupying this cottage for much longer. As I only took this job to get to know my son, and as St. Anselm’s is doomed to close, that won’t now matter. But I could wish to conclude this episode in my life more agreeably and in my own time.”

Kate asked, “Why the secrecy? Even the staff at the hospice were kept in the dark. Why bother to marry if no one was ever to be told?”

“I thought I’d explained that. Raphael was to be told, but when I judged the moment to be right. I could hardly envisage being caught up in a murder investigation and having the police ferreting about in my private life. The moment still isn’t right, but I suppose you’ll have the satisfaction of telling him now.”

“No,” said Dalgliesh. “That’s your responsibility, not ours.”

The two men looked at each other, then Gregory said, “I suppose you have some right to an explanation, or as close to one as I can get. You should know better than most men that our motives are rarely as uncomplicated and never as pure as they seem. We met at Oxford when I was her supervisor. She was an astonishingly attractive eighteen-year-old, and when she made it plain that she wanted an affair, I wasn’t the man to resist. It was a humiliating disaster. I hadn’t realized that she was confused about her sexuality and was deliberately using me as an experiment. She was unfortunate in her choice. No doubt I could have been more sensitive and imaginative, but I’ve never seen the sexual act as an exercise in acrobatic ingenuity. I was too young and perhaps too conceited to take sexual failure philosophically, and this was a spectacular failure. One can deal with most things but not with frank disgust. I’m afraid I wasn’t very kind. She didn’t tell me that she was pregnant until it was too late for an abortion. I think she’d tried to persuade herself that none of it was happening. She was not a sensible woman. Raphael inherits his looks but not his intelligence from his mother. There was no question of marriage; the idea of that commitment has horrified me all my life, and she made her hatred of me abundantly plain. She told me nothing about the birth, but did write later to say that a boy had been born and that
she’d left him at St. Anselm’s. After that she went abroad with a woman companion and we never met again.