David Dickinson - Death of a Chancellor

‘Army regiments can be a bit like that,’ said Powerscourt, ‘they can seem closed off to outsiders. But then they’re more concerned with killing people on this earth than saving their souls for the next one. Tell me,’ he went on, ‘leaving aside the possible position of the Archdeacon on Thursdays, are there any emotional entanglements in the Close that might lead to murder? I thought when I heard of the death of Arthur Rudd that jealousy might have been the motive.’

‘Do you know the full story of his death, Lord Powerscourt? Do you know all the details?’ The young man placed a heavy emphasis on the word all. Powerscourt knew full well that Patrick Butler had been taken by the doctor to view the corpse in person. He had, after all, suggested it himself.

‘I do, I’m afraid,’ Powerscourt said. ‘and I’d be curious to know why you didn’t print it in your newspaper.’

‘I wanted to, I wanted to print it very much,’ said Patrick Butler sadly, ‘but then I thought it would upset a lot of people, especially the women. I’m sure at least as many women as men read the Grafton Mercury. If we really turned their stomachs then they might stop buying the paper. It was pure self-interest in the end, however much I regretted it.’

The main course had been cleared away. An enormous trolley appeared, filled with equally enormous puddings. There were apple pies fit for a giant, monstrous edifices of fruit and custard and cream disguised as strawberry trifles, lemon meringue tarts. Patrick Butler opted for Goliath’s apple pie, Powerscourt asked for a small, David-sized helping of the lemon meringue.

‘To get back to any emotional entanglements on the Close, Mr Butler, if I may. Deans and archdeacons, forgive me for saying so, can be as liable to the attractions of other people’s wives as everybody else.’

Patrick Butler was looking thoughtful. ‘I don’t think there are,’ he said, ‘and I’ve just realized something I hadn’t noticed before. I checked out Arthur Rudd, by the way. None of his colleagues knew of any emotional involvements anywhere at all, or if they did, they weren’t telling me. But it’s quite odd, Lord Powerscourt. The main reason I don’t think affairs of the heart can have anything to do with it is that there are hardly any women up there. The Bishop isn’t married. The Dean isn’t married. The Precentor isn’t married. Chancellor Eustace wasn’t married. I don’t think any of the vicars choral are married, not that you could afford to have a wife and family on their wages. Oh, there are housekeepers and so on but hardly any wives.’

‘I believe that some of the High Anglicans don’t think it right to marry,’ said Powerscourt.

‘High, low, wide, narrow, shallow, deep, I don’t think anybody would notice here in Compton,’ said Patrick Butler cheerfully. ‘If you said High Anglican to any of the citizens here, they’d think you were referring to the elevation of the cathedral spire. Mind you, Lord Powerscourt,’ Patrick Butler went on, the wine making him talkative, ‘there is a very good story about affairs of the heart in the cathedral but it’s about three hundred years old.’

‘Are you sure,’ said Powerscourt in a mock serious tone, ‘that it is a story you would be happy to print in the pages of the Grafton Mercury ?’

‘When I judge the time is right,’ replied Patrick Butler, ‘it will receive appropriate coverage on the front page of the journal. There was an organist and choirmaster, Lord Powerscourt, in the year 1592 who had fallen in love with the wife of the Dean. One day he appeared in the cathedral at Evensong and began conducting his charges in the usual way. After a few minutes he left the cathedral by the west door and made his way over to the Deanery. There he produced a knife and tried to murder the Dean. But the Dean was an enterprising fellow and managed to escape to a bedroom where he proceeded to lock himself in. Unconcerned by the failure of his murderous mission, the choirmaster returned to the cathedral where he conducted his choir until the close of Evensong. Then he vanished, only to surface at Worcester some weeks later where he applied for the post of choirmaster there.’

‘History does not relate, I presume, whether these events took place on a Thursday? The Archdeacon’s special day?’

Patrick Butler shook his head. There were only two other clients left now in the dining room of the Queen’s Head. Outside the light was beginning to fail.

‘Could I ask you one more favour, Mr Butler?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Of course,’ the young man replied, ‘and please call me Patrick. Everybody else does.’

‘Thank you,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I wonder if I could read the back copies of your paper for about the last year or so? It helps me absorb the local colour.’

‘Of course,’ said Butler. Then a terrible thought struck him. He remembered the chaos, the detritus strewn all over the floor, the cramped conditions, the desks virtually invisible with the material piled all over them.

He looked embarrassed. ‘It’s just, Lord Powerscourt, it’s just . . .’

Powerscourt wondered if some of the back copies were missing. Then he remembered a visit earlier in his career to the offices of one of the London evening papers. The chaos had been indescribable.

‘If I am to understand by your hesitation that the offices of the Grafton Mercury are not perhaps as tidy as they might be, Patrick, do not worry. I have just spent six months in South Africa with a perfectly charming, extremely intelligent subaltern who had a genius for mess. He could not walk into a room without managing to leaves bits of his uniform or anything else all over the floor. His colleagues referred to his quarters as the Temple of Chaos.’

Patrick Butler smiled. ‘As long as you don’t mind, Lord Powerscourt. Could I ask you a question?’

‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt, suddenly on his guard.

‘I know you’re here to investigate the death of the vicar choral. But didn’t I see you here before, at the funeral of Chancellor Eustace?’

Careful, careful, Powerscourt said to himself. Under no circumstances did he wish Patrick Butler to know that there were grave suspicions surrounding the death of John Eustace.

‘I was here then,’ he said with a smile, ‘but that’s because Mrs Cockburn, the dead man’s sister, had asked me to give her some advice about the will. Very complicated things, wills.’

‘So there’s nothing suspicious about that death?’

‘Good heavens, no,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘Now then, when can I come and look at your back copies?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon would be fine, Lord Powerscourt. And can I mention in the paper that you are here investigating the death of Arthur Rudd?’

‘You may indeed,’ said Powerscourt as he settled the bill, ‘but I don’t think I wish at this stage to be connected in any way with the Archdeacon’s Thursdays. That’s a much more serious matter.’

Patrick Butler was elated as he left the hotel. One of Britain’s foremost investigators come to Compton. What a good story! Mayfair Sleuth on Trail of Compton Murderer. He felt it might atone for his earlier withholding of the truth about the end of Arthur Rudd. He checked his watch. It was almost four o’clock. If he walked slowly, almost an impossibility for Patrick Butler, he could be round for tea with Anne Herbert just as the cathedral clock struck the hour.

Lord Francis Powerscourt had enjoyed his lunch. He had only one object in view. He wanted the fact that he was investigating the death of Arthur Rudd splashed across the pages of the Grafton Mercury. He hoped the murderer would read it. He was, what did they call them, the toreador or the picador whose job it was to goad the bull into action in the bullfights of Spain. He could see himself now, riding a beautifully turned-out horse, a red cape thrown over his shoulders, not on the edge of the Cathedral Green in Compton, but in some hot and dusty bull ring in Barcelona or Madrid. Beneath his feet lies the finely raked sand that will be stained later in the day by the blood of matador or bull. All around the huge crowds are shouting themselves hoarse. Picador Powerscourt taunts the great bull, its horns raking the sultry air. The bull charges. The matador takes over. Except, as Powerscourt knew, he was not really the picador. He was certainly inviting the bull or the murderer to charge. But he, Powerscourt, was the target. He wanted the Compton murderer to be roused to action. Then, perhaps, he would make a mistake.