David Dickinson - Death of a Chancellor

‘My dear, I think the position is quite clear,’ said Hilda Davies, drawing the meeting to a close. ‘You should break things off with this young man. He sounds most unsuitable. You must wait for a better offer to come along. I’m sure there must be a regular supply of unmarried clergy passing through the cathedral. One of them will turn up.’

‘Wait? Wait?’ said Anne Herbert angrily. ‘I am now twenty-eight years old. I have two small children. As for waiting, you couldn’t wait at all. You threw yourself at the first rich man who came into view. I don’t think you’re in any position to talk to me about waiting.’

‘I certainly am in a position to talk to you about unsuitable young men. And this Patrick or whatever he’s called seems to me to be most unsuitable. Now I must go. I have an appointment to keep. When you have had a chance to reflect in peace I am sure you will see that I am right.’

Mrs Hilda Davies departed into the morning air of Compton. Anne closed the door firmly behind her. Well, she said to herself, I may not have been altogether sure of my feelings towards Patrick before this morning but I am much more certain now. She wondered wistfully if he would come round for tea that afternoon.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was smiling to himself as the Fairfield coachman drove him into Compton early in the morning three days after his encounter with the sermons. He had a recent letter from Lady Lucy in his hand. The first page expressed the hope that his mission was going well and that the case wasn’t going to prove very difficult. There was news of her vast tribe of relations, two of whom, elderly aunts in their late eighties, Powerscourt learned, had recently passed away. He had once worked out that with the sheer numbers of Lucy’s extended family, at least six should perish every year according to the law of averages. Replacements were arriving even faster to fill up the numbers at the other end of the age scale.

But it was the second page that lifted his spirits. ‘There has been a most moving meeting in the drawing room this afternoon,’ Lucy had written. ‘The two children had asked specially to see me. They came in hand in hand, Thomas looking very solemn, Olivia looking as though she had been crying. I asked them what the matter was. “It’s Papa, Mama,” said Thomas. “Yes, it’s Papa,” said Olivia in a doleful voice. “What about Papa?” I said. “We don’t think he’s coming back soon like you said. We think he’s gone back to the war.” “We think,” Olivia went on, sounding as if the two of them were a Cabinet committee just emerged from a special private session, “we think he’s gone back to South America. Where he was before.” “South Africa, Olivia,” Thomas corrected her, “it’s South Africa we think he’s gone back to. And we think he’ll be gone for another year like he was last time.” “A year or more,” said Olivia who had no idea how long a week is, let alone a year. I showed them your letters, Francis. I promised them you were in England. I got out the map to show them where Compton is and how there was a symbol on there for the cathedral. Part of me wanted to laugh, they were so serious about it all. So you see, when you do come back, and I pray God it is very soon, you’ll have to tell them you haven’t come back from the wars, only from the west of England.’

Powerscourt had now arrived at the offices of Drake and Co., solicitors, with their fine views over the Cathedral Close.

‘Wills?’ said Oliver Drake, shaking his visitor warmly by the hand. ‘You said you wanted to look at those. Do you mind doing it in my office? With all due respect I don’t think I should let you take them away.’

‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt as he drew out the pages of his three sermons, Lazarus, the tongues of men and of angels, and the parable of the fig tree. Drake took out the three wills and handed them over to Powerscourt. The easiest one to forge, Powerscourt felt sure, would be the one that came from the firm of London solicitors, Matlock Robinson in Chancery Lane. With the text typewritten there were only three signatures to add. He peered closely at John Eustace’s signature. The hand looked almost identical to the text of the tongues of men and angels. He could see no difference either in the Eustace signature on the other two wills and the sermons he had brought with him. He knew that there were people, particularly on the Continent, who claimed that they could analyse personality from handwriting and definitively state whether or not a signature was genuine. But he knew too that no English court would accept such evidence. He was not likely, he decided, to make any progress here.

‘Mr Drake?’ Powerscourt handed back the three wills. ‘Thank you so much. I have to confess I am none the wiser after comparing these various bits of handwriting. Now I must make for the station.’

Powerscourt was settling himself into a first class compartment on the London train when a familiar figure, clad in clerical black, swept past. The Dean was carrying a large and impressive-looking briefcase. He looked, as usual, as though he felt the world would not function properly, might indeed fall off its axis, if he was not managing as many of its affairs as possible.

‘Powerscourt, good morning to you. Can’t stop, I fear. I have a compartment reserved up ahead. There is much to do.’

‘Good morning to you, Dean. Are you going to London on the Bishop’s business?’

The Dean snorted. ‘The words business and our Bishop do not sit together well, Powerscourt. Do you know the story? It is old now, but everybody in Compton knows it.’ The Dean paused and looked at his watch. ‘I have just time to tell it you. We do not leave for a couple of minutes.’

The Dean abandoned his position by the door of the compartment and sat down opposite Powerscourt.

‘Nine or ten years ago it must have been now, the previous Bishop died. Salisbury was Prime Minister, normally very good at ecclesiastical appointments. Not like that old rogue Palmerston who couldn’t tell a crucifix from a chasuble. No idea at all. Salisbury takes his time. Eventually he slips the name past the Queen. Moreton’s the man for Compton. Moreton. Salisbury tells the happy news to his Private Secretary, leaves him to get on with it. Only one problem, Powerscourt, there are two Moretons at large in the upper reaches of the Church of England. There’s Professor Gervase Bentley Moreton of Oriel College Oxford, expert on the textual differences in the early versions of the Four Gospels and precious little else. And there’s William Entwistle Moreton, then headmaster of one of our great public schools, Marlborough or Rugby, can’t remember which. Private Secretary Schomberg McDonnell looks up Moreton in his church directories. Finds the Oriel Moreton. Writes to him with news of his appointment that very day. Always admirably brisk in the way of executing business, that McDonnell. I sometimes think he’d have made an excellent dean. Oriel Moreton replies by return of post, accepting the position. Tells his college. Tells his friends. Tells The Times. Only thing was, McDonnell had got the wrong Moreton. It was Headmaster Moreton who was meant to be Bishop of Compton. But by then it was all too late.’

The Dean, after this splendid example of brotherly love and Christian charity, looked at his watch again. The train was beginning to move.

‘Must go now, Powerscourt. I have much business to attend to.’ He glanced at his briefcase as if he could see the papers inside through the dark blue cover. ‘I should be through with all this by Reading. Probably just on the far side of Reading to be on the safe side. Do come and see me then.’

‘And who do you think I am?’ Lord Francis Powerscourt was crouching down in his own drawing room in Markham Square later that evening.