The organ finished but there was no silence, rather a lingering vibration in the great space, as if the stones were as unwilling as he to let the music stop.
He found himself walking up the great centre nave of the Minster, determined to speak to her, but utterly unable to think what he would say. He saw her turn away towards the East End and saw she was no longer alone. Lord Rothborough, who must have been sitting in the Quire, was coming towards her, clapping his hands together quietly.
“Magnificent, quite magnificent,” Felix heard him say. “What can one say, what can one say?”
He wanted to turn on his heel and run, but it was too late. Lord Rothborough had seen him, and was waving him towards them. He was forced to go and join them.
“I have heard a great many interpretations of that aria in my life, Mrs Morgan,” Rothborough said, “and none to equal that. Felix, you have been fortunate to hear it.”
“Yes, I believe so,” he managed to say, as Mrs Morgan bestowed a smile upon him. The distant south door of the Minster came to his aid, and he looked at it as if it mattered. “It was...”
“I can take little credit for it,” she said. “This is a powerful space. It is made to carry the human voice. A wonderful piece of ingenuity. Our ancestors were clever men.”
“I cannot agree, ma’am,” Rothborough said. “It was the interpretation that was particularly moving.”
“Thank you,” she said, with a slight incline of her head. “But how could I not sing with feeling in such circumstances? Mr Watkins told me about the case just when I arrived here to rehearse. He was so upset – I wonder he managed to play.” She glanced about her. “I should go and speak to him.”
“About Mr Barnes?” said Felix. She nodded.
“What case is this?” asked Rothborough.
“A death,” said Felix. “Rather unusual circumstances. It is under investigation.”
“I suppose that was why you and Major Vernon were called away,” she said.
“Yes, it was.”
“Another murder in Northminster,” said Lord Rothborough. “Good heavens!”
“That has not yet been established,” Felix said quickly.
“You have brought a curse on the place, Felix,” said Rothborough. He turned to Mrs Morgan. “So ma’am, will you sing again? I rather think you should not after such a performance. Allow me to escort you home.”
“That would be a honour, Lord Rothborough,” she said. “But I have more work to do yet, and Mr Watkins will make sure I am taken safely to my door. His mother is a great friend of mine, and I must question him about a dozen trivial things in order to quiet her mind about his life here. Although perhaps I will not tell her of this sad business.”
At that moment, as if on cue, Watkins appeared at the far end of the Quire and came down towards them. He stopped at the sight of the three of them and was about to walk away but Mrs Morgan went straight up to him and put her hands on his shoulders, pressing her forehead to his, whispering something to him. Felix saw him nod and then kiss her on the cheek. She took his arm and they walked away, their heads bent together in confidential conversation.
“She is a most generous creature,” said Lord Rothborough, gazing at her in such a way that Felix wished to step in front of him and block his view. At last, Lord Rothborough turned his insolent eye on Felix. “So,” he said, “What is the occasion?”
“I am going to dinner.”
“Where?”
“At the Deanery.”
“Ha,” said Rothborough. “He is dangling for a mitre, you know. I dare say he would ask me if he could. Perhaps he wants you for one of his girls and thinks it would serve him to have such a connection with me. Take care, Felix.”
“I assure you, sir, I am in no danger there,” said Felix.
“You have been a fool before,” said Rothborough. “A great one.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” said Felix.
“Woman are a great risk,” said Lord Rothborough, unperturbed by Felix’s sarcasm. “A necessity, but a risk never the less. Particularly at your age and in these provincial circles. All these dangerous young ladies with absolutely nothing to recommend them except their manners and their complexions. They are all about love, and that is a luxury none of us can afford.”
“I would have thought you could, my Lord,” said Felix. “Of all people.”
“Do not be vulgar, Felix,” said Rothborough. “You know as well as I do that sentimentality in the matter of marriage is the last thing that people like us can afford. Marriage is too important a business to be clouded by it.”
“People like us?” Felix said, with some incredulity. “My Lord, whatever you may be, you know I never can be!”
“You play the same tune again and again, and you play it badly, sir!” exclaimed Rothborough.
“As do you,” retorted Felix. “Now, I must go or I shall be late. Naturally I do not want the young ladies to think I am anything less than a paragon! A perfect potential husband, in fact.”
Lord Rothborough looked for a moment as if he was extremely provoked, but then, with the control that he was famed for in public life, he paused, and said, in a quiet, surprisingly conciliatory voice, “Felix, I know I offend you when I speak like this. I know how it must seem to you. You are young and full of passion. I was like you once, though I dare say you cannot believe it, and I learnt bitter lessons from my mistakes, of which there were many, the good Lord only knows, so many. I only wish to spare you that pain. Love is a game for fools. Do not play it, I beg you.”
“But –”
Lord Rothborough held up his hand to silence him and took a step closer. Speaking in almost a whisper, he said, “Admire women yes, kiss them, take them, get the best of them, but do not give them your heart. You must remain the captain of your own soul, Felix – that is the best advice I can give you. Now go – you certainly must not be late.”
Chapter Eight
“So this is the only key?” Giles said to his brother in-law, holding up the key to St Anne’s Chapel by the scrap of black and white ribbon that Watkins had presumably put on it to identify it. “The one that Watkins used?”
“I very much doubt it,” said Lambert Fforde. “Sherry?”
“Just a small one,” said Giles.
Canon Fforde’s study in the Treasurer’s House was a room of some state. It had been fitted up a century ago in the most fashionable style of its day, with an elaborate plaster ceiling of shells and scrolls, all touched with gold while the walls were covered in scarlet damask trimmed with gilt fillets. The damask was faded to rose now and the gilt was tarnished, but the impression remained of sumptuous, but discreet grandeur, of easy dignity. In this Giles considered it suited Lambert’s character well.
“See what you think of this,” said Lambert handing him a glass. “It’s nice little Oloroso. I wouldn’t waste this on my commonplace visitors.” He held his own glass up to the light, examining the colour. “This is only for those who appreciate such things.” He took a sip and relished it, and then as if ashamed of his pleasure, put the glass down on the baize-covered wine table, next to the key to St Anne’s Chapel. “But it’s a terrible business that brings you here, Giles, however glad I am to see you.”
“So there may be other keys?”
“I am sure there will be, but where they are and to whom they were issued, is something of a mystery. I have been racking my brains all this afternoon on this, for I knew you would want to ask me about it. Of course, this is an imperfect institution at the best of times, and the keys are always going astray. It is a source of some annoyance, I can tell you.”
Giles sipped his own wine, which was rich, mellow and warming. Lambert was looking enquiringly at him, waiting for his verdict.
“Very good indeed,” Giles said, wishing that the business of the keys was as straightforward.
“Isn’t it?” said Lambert, pleased. “Quite a discovery, if I say so myself. But we shall not tell Sally what it cost me.”
“No, of course not,” said Giles, smiling. “So, to return to these keys – I think we had better get together every Minster employee and inspect their key sets. From the Dean to the assistant verger – Old Walt? Is that his name?”
“Old Walt indeed,” said Lambert. “He has a little cubby hole where goodness knows what may be found.”
“Watkins tells me he was expecting him to come and blow for him this morning. Did you see him about when you came back with Mr Watkins?”
“No,” said Lambert.
“And how did Mr Watkins seem when he came and spoke to you?”
“Agitated – and out of breath. He had run all the way. And he just ran in here, without waiting to be announced. It was a good thing I was alone.”
“And would you say he looked genuinely shocked?”
“Yes. Goodness, you don’t think –?”
“I am just considering every angle. That is all I can do, disagreeable though it may seem.”
“Not to you, I think, Giles,” said Lambert. “I think you have a decided taste for all this.” Giles shrugged and drank some more sherry. “It is just as well you do and that you have the aptitude for it as well. Given the circumstances – that business with Rhodes, and now this.”
“Tell me some more about Mr Watkins,” said Giles. “I get the impression he is not fond of the Dean, and that the Dean –”
“Is not fond of him. It’s all rather unfortunate,” said Lambert. “Especially as I pressed for his appointment. He is an excellent musician and we are lucky to have him, but Dean is perhaps not so interested in music as I am. He doesn’t understand the importance of the post, I think. He thinks we are paying Watkins too much, for a start – and I am sure of course that Watkins does not think we are paying him enough.”
“Of course,” said Giles, with a smile. “What man ever thinks he is getting paid enough?”
“I did manage to get him a better house but it was a close run thing. The Dean thought that only a man in orders should have that house. That it was a gentleman’s house, and by implication, Watkins is not a gentleman.”
“Who are his people?”
“His father was organist at one of the City churches, and his mother – well, of course, we shall have a great treat when we hear Mrs Morgan, but she will never match Miss Collier, as Mrs Watkins was then. Quite the most exquisite voice I have ever heard. Not showy – but with such feeling and truth to it. And wonderful diction. I am rather hoping she will come and visit her son, so I might have the pleasure of hearing her again. She might be persuaded to sing in private.”
“And there is nothing about Watkins that you have found fault with?”
“No, not really. Well, he was a trifle high-handed at first – in the matter of turning off some of the dead wood in the choir, for example. There was a fellow called Fildkye, well, there’s no doubt he did that badly. And Dean Pritchard was not pleased with him. Neither was I, for that matter, but for different reasons. There was no doubt it had to be done, but there are ways of doing these things that cause less pain. And he did cause pain, there is no doubt of it. But he is a young man and inexperienced, and who of us have not made such mistakes in our careers? When I told him he had done it badly he admitted as much to me. He was suitably penitent and I do not think he will do such a thing again.”
“But he is still at loggerheads with the Dean.”
“Yes,” said Lambert, examining the colour of his wine again, “but to be frank, I think we are all at loggerheads with the Dean to some extent. One can only hope he gets his mitre before too long and we will be rid of him.”
Giles could not conceal his surprise. He was aware that Lambert found the Dean irksome at times, but had not understood the extent of his irritation.
“Strong words, for you,” he said.
“I know,” said Lambert. “I ought to endeavour to be more patient, but these last few months I have found it increasingly difficult to bear all his little peccadilloes. I would say he is like some old woman in his fussiness, but that would insult the old women I know, who are far more sensible and forgiving than he is. You know he will not come to dinner with us because Mrs Morgan is coming! Can you imagine it? It is one thing to refuse to receive a person but to turn up his nose at another man’s hospitality and take issue with his choice of guests!” Lambert broke off. “I am as bad as Mr Watkins. But I am sore on this one, I can’t deny it. I feel the insult. God knows, how foolish of me that is. For we shall have a much more amusing evening if they are not there but it is a pity for Miss Kate that she will not get the chance to meet Mrs Morgan. She is such a sensitive musician and it would be of great interest to her, I am sure.”
“And is Mr Watkins coming?”
“Yes, of course. He is the whole reason she is here. She is one of his mother’s pupils. And,” he added, rather sheepishly, “we will need a competent pianist, if Mrs Morgan decides to favour us with a song after dinner. Not of course that I expect it, but –”
“No, of course not,” said Giles smiling.
“And you will join us, I hope?” said Lambert. “And Mr Carswell?”
“Of course – if it does not go to his head to be asked out to dine twice in one week. He is bound for the Deanery tonight.”
“Poor fellow.”
At this moment, Giles’ sister Sally came in. “Who is a poor fellow?” she said.
“Mr Carswell, for being asked to the Deanery for dinner. I don’t think he is sensible of the honour of it,” said Giles.
“If honour equates with three hours of bad food and worse conversation,” Lambert said, “and liquid that cannot be described as wine except by the loosest definition.”
“Lambert,” said Sally with a frown. “Must you be so sardonic?”
“I am amongst friends,” he said waving his glass. “Will you have a glass, Sal? We will drink to poor Charlie Barnes.”
“It is so sad,” said Sally with a sigh.“Poor man.”
“I cannot imagine he will be anywhere but heaven,” Lambert said, handing her a glass. “But that anyone would anyone want to murder a sweet soul like that!”
“You are sure it is murder?” said Sally.
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Giles, sinking back in his chair. “I shall be kept busy by it.”
“Then perhaps this is not the right time to have taken that house for Laura,” said Sally. “To bring her to Northminster, now, with all this...”
“No, Sal, you shall not make me reconsider that. My mind is made up,” Giles said.