Death in Holy Orders (6 page)

Following the meeting, the senior student would be summoned for a private meeting with Father Sebastian. His job was to report any views, complaints or ideas that the small student body wished to communicate, and to receive any instructions and information the teaching staff wished him to pass on to his fellow-ordinands, including details of the services for the following week. This was the extent of student participation. St. Anselm’s still adhered to an old-fashioned interpretation of
in statu pupillari
, and the demarcation between teachers and taught was both understood and observed. Despite this, the regime was surprisingly easygoing, particularly in regard to Saturday leave, provided students didn’t depart until after five o’clock Evensong on Friday and were back in time for the ten o’clock Eucharist on Sunday.

Father Sebastian’s office faced east over the porch and gave an uninterrupted view of the sea between the two Tudor towers. It was over-large for an office but, like Father Martin before him, he had refused to spoil its proportions by any partition.
His part-time secretary, Miss Beatrice Ramsey, occupied the room next door. She worked there Wednesday to Friday only, achieving in those three days as much as most secretaries would achieve in five. She was a middle-aged woman of intimidating rectitude and piety, and Father Martin was always afraid that he might inadvertently let out a fart in her presence. She was totally devoted to Father Sebastian, but without any of the sentiment and embarrassing manifestations that a spinster’s affection for a priest sometimes exhibits. Indeed, it seemed that her respect was for the office, not the man, and that she saw it as part of her duty to keep him up to the mark.

In addition to its size, Father Sebastian’s office contained some of the most valuable objects bequeathed to the college by Miss Arbuthnot. Over the stone fireplace with the carved words which were at the core of St. Anselm’s theology,
credo ut intelligam
, hung a large Burne-Jones painting of crisp-haired young women of improbable beauty disporting themselves in an orchard. Earlier it had hung in the refectory, but Father Sebastian, without explanation, had removed it to his office. Father Martin had tried to repress the suspicion that this had been less a sign of the Warden’s affection for the painting or admiration for the artist than his desire that objects of particular value in the college should as far as possible grace his study and be under his eye.

This Tuesday it was to be a meeting of only three: Father Sebastian, Father Martin and Father Peregrine Glover. Father John Betterton had an urgent dental appointment in Halesworth and had sent his apologies. Father Peregrine, the priest librarian, joined them within minutes. At forty-two he was the youngest of the priests in residence, but to Father Martin he often seemed the eldest. His chubby soft-skinned face was made more owl-like by large round horn-rimmed spectacles, and his thick dark hair was cut in a fringe and only needed a tonsure to complete the resemblance to a medieval friar. This mildness of his face gave a false impression of his physical strength. Father Martin was always surprised when they stripped for swimming to see how firmly muscled was Father Peregrine’s body. He himself swam now only on the hottest days, when he would splash apprehensively in the shallows on
uncertain feet and watch in amazement as Father Peregrine, sleek as a dolphin, hurled his curved body into the surf. At the Tuesday meetings Father Peregrine spoke little, and more usually to impart a fact than to express an opinion, but he was always listened to. Academically he was distinguished, having received a First in natural sciences at Cambridge before a second First in theology and opting for the Anglican priesthood. At St. Anselm’s he taught Church history, sometimes with a disconcerting relevance to the development of scientific thought and discoveries. He valued his privacy and had a small room on the ground floor, at the rear of the building, next to the library, which he resolutely refused to leave, perhaps because this hermetic and Spartan space reminded him of the monk’s cell he secretly yearned to be occupying. It was next to the utility-room and his only concern was about the students’ use of the noisy and somewhat antiquated washing machines after ten o’clock at night.

Father Martin placed three chairs in a partial ring before the window, and they stood, bending their heads for the usual prayer, which Father Sebastian spoke with no concession to the contemporary meaning of the first word.

“Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious favour, and further us with thy continual help; that in all our works, begun, continued, and ended in thee, we may glorify thy holy Name, and finally by thy mercy obtain everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

They composed themselves on the chairs, hands on their knees, and Father Sebastian began.

“The first thing I have to report today is somewhat disturbing. I have had a telephone call from New Scotland Yard. Apparently Sir Alred Treeves has expressed dissatisfaction with the verdict following the death of Ronald and has asked the Yard to investigate. A Commander Adam Dalgliesh will be arriving after lunch on Friday afternoon. Naturally I have undertaken to give him all the co-operation he requires.”

The news was received in silence. Father Martin felt a cold clutch at his stomach. Then he said, “But the body has been cremated. There was an inquest and a verdict. Even if Sir Alred disagrees with it, I don’t see what the police can discover now.
And why Scotland Yard? Why a Commander? It seems a curious use of manpower.”

Father Sebastian gave his thin-lipped, sardonic smile. “I think we can take it that Sir Alred went to the top. Such men always do. And he would hardly ask the Suffolk Police to reopen the case, since they were the ones who made the preliminary investigation. As for the choice of Commander Dalgliesh, I understand that he was coming into the county anyway on a short holiday and that he knows St. Anselm’s. Scotland Yard is probably attempting to propitiate Sir Alred with the least inconvenience to us or trouble to themselves. The Commander mentioned you, Father Martin.”

Father Martin was torn between an unfocused apprehension and pleasure. He said, “I was on the staff here when he stayed for three years during the summer holidays. His father was a Norfolk rector, I’m afraid I forget which parish. Adam was a delightful boy, intelligent and sensitive, I thought. Of course I don’t know what he’s like now. But I shall be glad to meet him again.”

Father Peregrine said, “Delightful and sensitive boys have a habit of growing into insensitive and far-from-agreeable men. However, since we have no choice over his coming, I’m glad one of us can anticipate pleasure in the visit. I can’t see what Sir Alred hopes to gain by this inquiry. If the Commander does reach the conclusion that there was a possibility of foul play, surely the local force will have to take over. ‘Foul play’ is an odd expression. The word ‘foul’ derives from Old English, but why the sporting metaphor? One would have expected ‘foul act’ or ‘foul deed.’ ”

His fellow priests were too used to Father Peregrine’s obsessive interest in semantics to think the suggestion worthy of comment. It was extraordinary, thought Father Martin, to hear those two words spoken aloud, words which, ever since the tragedy, no one at St. Anselm’s had allowed himself to say. Father Sebastian took them in his stride.

“The suggestion of foul play is, of course, ridiculous. If there had been any suggestion that the death was other than an accident, the evidence would have been brought out at the inquest.”

But there was, of course, a third possibility and it was one
which was in all their minds. The verdict of accidental death had come as a relief to St. Anselm’s. Even so, this death had held the seeds of disaster for the college. It hadn’t been the only death. Perhaps, thought Father Martin, that possible suicide had overshadowed Margaret Munroe’s fatal heart attack. It had not been unexpected; Dr. Metcalf had warned them that she might go at any time. And it had been a merciful death. She had been found by Ruby Pilbeam early the next morning, sitting peacefully in her chair. And now, only five days later, it was as if she had never been part of St. Anselm’s. Her sister, of whose existence they hadn’t known until Father Martin went through Margaret’s papers, had arranged the funeral, had come with a van for her furniture and belongings, and had cut the college out from the obsequies. Only Father Martin had understood how greatly Ronald’s death had affected Margaret. Sometimes he thought that he was her only mourner.

Father Sebastian said, “All the guest sets will be occupied this weekend. Apart from Commander Dalgliesh, Emma Lavenham will be arriving as arranged from Cambridge for her three days of lectures on the metaphysical poets. Then Inspector Roger Yarwood is coming from Lowestoft. He has been suffering from severe stress recently, following the break-up of his marriage. He hopes to stay for a week. He has, of course, had nothing to do with the Ronald Treeves investigation. Clive Stannard is coming again for the weekend to continue his research into the domestic lives of the early Tractarians. As all the guest sets will be in use, he had better go into Peter Buckhurst’s room. Dr. Metcalf wants Peter to remain in the sickroom for the present. He’ll be warm and more comfortable there.”

Father Peregrine said, “I’m sorry that Stannard is returning. I hoped I’d seen the last of him. He’s an ungracious young man and his pretence of research is unconvincing. I sought his views on the effect of the Gorham case in modifying the Tractarian belief of J. B. Mozley and it was apparent he had no idea what I was talking about. I find his presence in the library disruptive—and so, I think, do the ordinands.”

Father Sebastian said, “His grandfather was St. Anselm’s’ lawyer and a benefactor of the college. I don’t like to think that
any member of the family is unwelcome. Still, that hardly entitles him to a free weekend whenever he fancies it. The work of the college must take precedence. If he applies again the matter will be tactfully dealt with.”

Father Martin said, “And the fifth visitor?”

Father Sebastian’s attempt to control his voice was not altogether successful. “Archdeacon Crampton has telephoned to say that he will be arriving on Saturday and will stay until Sunday after breakfast.”

Father Martin cried, “But he was here two weeks ago! Surely he’s not proposing to become a regular visitor?”

“I fear he may. Ronald Treeves’s death has reopened the whole question of the future of St. Anselm’s. As you know, my policy has been to avoid controversy, to continue our work quietly and to use what influence I have in Church circles to prevent closure.”

Father Martin said, “There’s no evidence to support closure except the policy of the Church to centralize all theological training in three centres. If this decision is rigidly enforced, then St. Anselm’s will close, but not because of the quality of our training or of the ordinands we produce.”

Father Sebastian ignored this restatement of the obvious. He said, “There is, of course, another problem in regard to his visit. The last time the Archdeacon arrived, Father John took a short holiday. I don’t think he can do that again. But the presence of the Archdeacon is bound to be painful to him and, indeed, embarrassing for the rest of us if Father John is here.”

It would indeed, thought Father Martin. Father John Betterton had come to St. Anselm’s after some years in prison. He had been convicted of sexual offences against two boy servers in the church of which he was priest. To these charges he had pleaded guilty, but the offences had been more a question of inappropriate fondling and caresses than of serious sexual abuse, and a custodial sentence would have been highly unlikely had not Archdeacon Crampton busied himself in finding additional evidence. Previous choirboys, now young men, had been interviewed, additional evidence had been obtained and the police alerted. The whole incident had caused resentment and much unhappiness, and the prospect of having the Archdeacon and
Father John under the same roof filled Father Martin with horror. He was torn with pity every time he saw Father John almost creeping about his duties, taking Communion but never celebrating, finding in St. Anselm’s a refuge rather than a job. The Archdeacon had obviously been doing what he saw as his duty, and perhaps it was unfair to assume that duty had not, in this case, been uncongenial. And yet to pursue a fellow-priest so remorselessly—and one for whom he held no personal antagonism, indeed had hardly ever met—seemed inexplicable.

Father Martin said, “I wonder if Crampton was altogether—well—himself when he pursued Father John. There was something irrational about the whole business.”

Father Sebastian said sharply, “In what way not altogether himself? He wasn’t mentally ill, there’s never been any suggestion surely …?”

Father Martin said, “It was shortly after his wife’s suicide, a difficult time for him.”

“Bereavement is always a difficult time. I can’t see how personal tragedy could have affected his judgement where the business of Father John was concerned. It was a difficult time for me after Veronica was killed.”

Father Martin had difficulty in repressing a slight smile. Lady Veronica Morell had been killed in a hunting fall on one of her regular returns to the family house she had never really left, and the sport that she had never been able, nor indeed intended, to give up. Father Martin suspected that, if Father Sebastian had to lose his wife, this was the way he would have preferred. “My wife broke her neck out hunting” has a certain cachet lacking from “My wife died of pneumonia.” Father Sebastian had shown no disposition to remarry. Perhaps being husband to the daughter of an earl, even one five years older than him and with more than a passing resemblance to the animals she adored, had rendered unattractive, even slightly demeaning, the prospect of allying himself to any less elevated woman. Father Martin, recognizing that his thoughts were ignoble, made a quick mental act of contrition.

But he had liked Lady Veronica. He recalled her rangy figure striding along the cloisters after the last service she had attended and braying to her husband, “Your sermon was too long,
Seb. Couldn’t understand half of it and I’m sure the lads didn’t.” Lady Veronica always referred to the students as lads. Father Martin sometimes imagined that she thought her husband was running a set of racing stables.