XIII
‘He’s been a heavy drinker for years,’ said Eddie, ‘and like many heavy drinkers he’s skilled at covering it up, but every so often he goes over the top. Then we have to protect him — and we’ve all done it, even Tommy.’
‘Over the top? You mean –’
‘Drunk for services. Evensong’s the worst. He probably starts drinking at lunch and then goes on. Whoever’s canon-in-residence keeps an eye on him and if Stephen can’t walk straight the canon volunteers to take the service on his own. As you know, we usually field at least two of the senior clergy at each evensong, one for the readings and one for the prayers and versicles, but it’s a flexible arrangement and sometimes during the week the canon either copes on his own or gets one of the minor canons to assist him. However, if it’s one of the months when the Dean himself is in residence, we three canons make very sure someone’s always there to partner him and if necessary take over.’
‘But surely he must know when he’s drunk! How does he have the nerve to turn up?’
‘Oh, he thinks he can get away with anything! It’s actually very difficult to coax him not to take part in a service; the trick is to tell him he looks exhausted and say one’s only too pleased to do him a favour when he’s obviously been working so hard. You’d think he’d go in for absenteeism in a big way, but no, he’s very conscientious about attendance. I think he believes that so long as he shows up he’s got everything in control. Funnily enough for the past three months or so he really has seemed to have everything in control, although why he should suddenly be drinking less I’ve no idea. He hasn’t been drunk at a service since before Easter. But the real horror story happened last Christmas. He turned up so drunk for the Midnight Eucharist that he passed out in the Dean’s stall.’
I said: ‘I don’t believe it,’ and drained my glass of hock.
‘I told you that you wouldn’t believe half of what I said.’ He gave me a refill. ‘The Bishop, thank God, was preaching. Stephen would never have made it to the pulpit.’
The Bishop!’ I was so appalled that I could barely speak. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Aysgarth passed out at a service where the
Bishop
was present?’
‘Yes, but we canons performed the most fantastic rescue act and I don’t think Charles noticed anything. Before the service he was the last to enter the vestry, and as soon as he came in Paul buttonholed him and steered him away from Stephen while Tommy and I acted as a screen. Luckily there were masses of people milling around, not just the choir and the vergers but the retired clergy who help administer the sacrament at Christmas, so it wasn’t so difficult to keep the Dean and the Bishop separated.’
‘Surely you tried to persuade Aysgarth not to take part!’
‘Of course, but as it was one of the biggest services of the year he absolutely refused to step down. He’s a great one for keeping up appearances – only this time he was so drunk he could barely keep upright. In the end we entered the Cathedral with Tommy on one side of him and me on the other to ensure we’d steady him if he stumbled, although normally he’d have been on his own, walking ahead of the Bishop, while Tommy and I – or Paul – would have been walking together in front of him.’
‘But surely the Bishop must have realised –’
‘I don’t think so. He probably thought our formation was odd but I suspect he’d have been too busy glancing around the congregation and mentally recapping his sermon to pay the oddity much attention.’
‘So Aysgarth made it to the stall –’
‘Yes, and once he was there he was out of sight of almost everyone except the extreme west wing of the choir. The Bishop was the celebrant and Tommy was reading the lessons, so Stephen didn’t actually have to do anything until the administration of the sacrament.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Our worst dreams came true. Remember, this was the Midnight Eucharist, which is always like the feeding of the five thousand: a packed Cathedral, hordes of communicants and so much going on that a dean could go missing for a while without his absence being noticed. We had two tables in operation, one at the head of the nave, where the Bishop and Paul and half the clerical assistants were working, and one at the high altar where Tommy and I were labouring away with the other half of the helpers. Stephen was supposed to be at our table and of course we both noticed he wasn’t. Tommy said: "Let him be – much better that he stays where he is," and I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him, but after a while I said: "It’s odd he hasn’t at least attempted to join us." "Just what I was thinking," said Tommy, and using the excuse that he was going to get some more consecrated wine from the Bishop’s table, he nipped away to investigate. However he never reached the Bishop’s table. He was back in a flash, and the moment I saw his face I knew the worst had happened.
‘Well, I palmed off my wafers on the nearest clerical assistant and followed Tommy to the Dean’s stall. Stephen was out, absolutely unconscious, we couldn’t rouse him. Tommy said: "We’ve got to get him away before Charles passes by," but of course that was easier said than done, even though, as you’ll remember, there’s an exit from the choir into the side-aisle by the vestry. So the route was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious was how on earth we were going to get him out. Tommy and I are both around six feet tall and not exactly weaklings, but Stephen’s heavy – or at least he was before he lost weight recently – and we feared he’d be difficult to manoeuvre. In the end Tommy just said: "It’s speed that’s important. We can’t cover up the fact that he’s being whisked out. All we can do is whisk him out in double-quick time." So I took his left side and Tommy took his right and then Tommy said: "All right, Eddie – say your prayers" – and I assure you that didn’t seem in the least blasphemous because we were both sweating blood by that time, I can remember my heart banging away, I don’t think I’ve been so consumed with horror since I was captured in Normandy in ‘forty-four.
‘Well, we did it, we draped his arms around our shoulders and we whipped him out with his feet two inches from the ground, and I don’t think too many people noticed; all the attention was focused on the Bishop at the central table, and no one was anticipating any action in the choir. However Dido and the family saw us, of course; they’d noticed, even if no one else had, that he hadn’t emerged from the stall earlier and they were wondering what was wrong. Dido came straight to the vestry with all four sons of the first marriage, and so fortunately there were plenty of strong helpers to smuggle him home. But none of the boys ever spoke of the incident afterwards, and Dido just treated it as an unfortunate case of food poisoning.’
‘But what on earth did Aysgarth say the next day to you and Fitzgerald?’
‘He claimed he’d had no sleep the night before and that the heavy Christmas Eve dinner had overpowered him.’
‘But surely Fitzgerald made some sort of protest –’
‘Of course – to me. Tommy’s actually a little frightened of Stephen, and so’s Paul. Stephen’s a very strong personality. But both Tommy and Paul said after the catastrophe that I’d have to talk bluntly to Stephen – they knew he’d always listen to me even if he wouldn’t listen to them – but as it turned out, nothing needed to be said. The disaster had given him the most colossal fright. He drank only soda-water after that for three weeks.’
There was a pause. Eddie refilled our glasses again before adding: ‘Fortunately, as I mentioned earlier, he seems to be drinking less at present – in fact he’s in amazingly high spirits, although considering the current batch of Cathedral crises I can’t imagine why he should be so cheerful. He’s almost treating the sculpture fiasco as a joke.’
‘Well, I suppose it does have its funny side –’
‘It doesn’t, you know. There’s nothing funny about increasing the Bishop’s desire to pull out the long knife.’
‘But Eddie –’
‘A scandalous risk that doesn’t come off – that’s all Charles needs now to close in for the kill, and we’re not home and dry on this sculpture yet, not by a long chalk. In fact I’ve even wondered – and now I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel of horror – I’ve even wondered if Stephen’s harmless penchant for young women has swung right out of control and he’s indulging in some sort of crazy flirtation with Harriet March.’
‘Oh, that’s impossible.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. It would explain why he’s in such high spirits, but ... no, he couldn’t, surely, be that much of a fool.’
‘What on earth gave you the idea?’
‘He was rather wild in one of our Chapter meetings not so long ago — I forget the exact context, but he described the Cathedral’s spire as a phallic symbol. Afterwards I heard Tommy say to Paul: "I do hope this sculpture fiasco doesn’t turn out to be a case of
cherchez la femme,"
and as soon as he’d spoken I felt my blood run cold —’
‘I think Fitzgerald’s round the bend. I say, Eddie, while we’re on the subject of sex ... well, there’s something I can’t resist asking just out of sheer vulgar curiosity: what the hell do you think goes on between Aysgarth and Dido?’
‘Anything from nightly copulation to absolutely nothing,’ said Eddie gloomily, polishing off the hock, ‘and with his history of heavy drinking I think the most likely answer is nothing. But who can tell? Only God can possibly know what goes on in that marriage. The whole thing’s a complete mystery.’
But it no longer seemed such a mystery to me. Aysgarth’s drinking could well have had a malign effect on his relationship with Dido, and even now that his alcohol intake had been reduced and his body had unmistakably recovered, he no longer needed to sleep with her because he had me; a psychological block prevented him from fully consummating our affair, but at least I was able to provide him with sexual satisfaction. The mystery had at last been unravelled and now I could relax — except that relaxation had simultaneously become impossible.
I started to torment myself with images of the Bishop, itching to pull out the long knife and close in for the kill.
XIV
‘My darling,’ wrote Aysgarth, ‘I’m scribbling this in the weekly I staff meeting which we always hold at eleven o’clock every Monday — the senior members of staff sit around a table in the sacristy (that’s the large room where the ceremonial robes are kept). I’m at the top and my minions sit in no particular order on either side. Today I’ve got the Clerk of the Works on my left and the senior Verger on my right. The three residentiary Canons are here, of course (or, to give them their proper titles as canons of a cathedral of the Old Foundation: the Precentor, the Chancellor — to be distinguished from the Chancellor of the diocese who grants faculties — and the Treasurer). Then we have the Choirmaster, the Organist, the Master-Mason, the senior Cathedral Guide, the Manager of the Cathedral shop, the Architect, the Librarian and the Vicar of the Close (who does the day-to-day pastoral work for me among the people who live within the precincts). Neither the Accountant nor the Estate Agent nor the Investment Manager’s present today because the agenda doesn’t require their special skills. This is just going to be a cosy little chat, very Barchester, about various domestic matters such as how we pamper the tourists. (This is known as the Great Cafeteria Question.) However at the moment the senior Verger and the Organist are waffling about
The Archers.
I’ll have to rein them in.
‘(LATER) We embarked on our discussion of the proposed cafeteria, but we’ve somehow got back to
The Archers
and Gilbert the Librarian is saying it’s not as good as
Mrs Dale
’
s Diary.
Why we’re so fixated on wireless serials this morning I can’t imagine. I’ll have to rein them in again.
‘(LATER) HORRORS! The Vicar of the Close, who’s finally been allowed to get a word in, has suggested that before we spend money building a cafeteria we’d better start glueing together the west front — apparently he was on the sward yesterday when an American tourist was grazed by a piece of falling masonry the size of a brick which dropped off one of the statues high up on the west wall. Runcival the Master-Mason says that’s nothing new, the west front’s been on the verge of disintegration for years, and didn’t he say only six months ago ... etc., etc. The Clerk of the Works says we’d better shove up some scaffolding before an entire statue falls out of a niche with lethal results. That’s all I need, of course: a dead tourist adorning the west front steps. Fitzgerald says to Runcival: "How much money are we talking about here?" and Runcival answers in his most sepulchral voice: "A thousand for a temporary safety measure and thousands for the full repairs." That means an appeal, which is always hell. The last one indirectly finished off Dean Carter. But before we can even launch an appeal I’ve got to raise a quick thousand to ensure a temporary safety. This is somewhat tricky because -
‘( LATE R) Had to stop because everyone was having hysterics at the thought of an appeal. However the Architect is now burbling on about quarrying the right kind of stone for the repairs. As I was saying, raising a quick thousand is going to be slightly tricky. The Cathedral finances are handled primarily by the Accountant and me. (Forget Eddie’s formal title of Treasurer — he does liaise with the Accountant, but the title’s a ..hang-over from the old days and means he has to keep an eye on the Cathedral treasures.) The Accountant deals with most of the money, but I have a private account, which I call the Dean’s Fund, at the Cathedral’s bank. I use it for what I call "glorifying the Cathedral" — buying miscellaneous articles of great artistic merit. Harriet’s sculpture falls into this category, of course, but so also do small items such as the magnificent pair of cut-glass vases which we use for flowers.
‘The money’s raised mainly by staging concerts in the nave, but I made a packet when I got the Starbridge Playhouse to put on
Murder in the Cathedral
here a couple of years ago and I have various other fund-raising tricks up my sleeve. But these take time to pull off and time is just what I don’t have at the moment as the thousand for the west front needs to be raised at once. It shouldn’t actually come from the Dean’s Fund at all, but the official funds are in low water at the moment, in fact they’re in the red, and to tell the truth the Dean’s Fund owes the main Cathedral account money which I’ve got to repay before the auditors move in for their next session. So what do I do? Heaven only knows, but the temptation to follow in Carter’s footsteps and sell off burial plots in the cloisters is fast becoming irresistible!
‘Must close, Fitzgerald’s obviously wondering what I’m scribbling, desperate love, N.’