Appointed to Die (2 page)

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank everyone at Marylebone House, especially editor Alison Barr, for giving this book a new lease of life. Retrospectively, I offer my deep gratitude to my incomparable editor, the late Sara Ann Freed of Mysterious Press/Warner Books. I would also like to thank MJO; my debt to him is beyond words.

Author's note

The diocese, the city and the cathedral of Malbury are all as imaginary as their various inhabitants and denizens. Any resemblance to real cathedrals, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dramatis personae

PROLOGUE

    
For the foundations will be cast down: and what hath the righteous done?

Psalm 11.3

One night in November
. . .

The piercing klaxon of the sirens shattered the customary nocturnal tranquillity of the Cathedral Close. Canon John Kingsley, who had not been long in bed and had been too troubled to sleep, rose quickly and crossed to the window. The police cars' pulsating blue lights reflected eerily on the grey stone of the cathedral, as unnatural an intrusion into this place as the harsh wailing of the ambulance sirens.

But there was a kind of inevitability about it, thought John Kingsley as the drama unfolded, a few houses away around the bend of the Close. Like the last act of a Shakespearean tragedy – except that it wasn't the last act, but the last act but one: in the real world, if not in Shakespeare, justice must be done, and the guilty brought to judgement.

But who are the guilty? John Kingsley reflected painfully. Surely we must all bear the guilt: we've all thought of ourselves as somehow charmed, here in the Close, as though it were a second Eden, sealed off from the wickedness of the outside world. But we all should have realised that living in the shadow of a holy place is no proof against human evil, against sins of ambition, spiritual pride . . . and even murder.

As the cold blue lights flashed, casting distorted shadows, grotesquely huge, on the east end of the cathedral, it was all too clear what had happened. Two men had been at the Deanery tonight, Canon Kingsley knew – two men who had good reason to hate and fear each other – and now one of them was coming out on a stretcher, ministered to by hovering paramedics, and the other would soon follow, flanked by police.

How had it come to this? How had their little world been brought to destruction? For as the two men, the one living and the one dying, left the Deanery that night, John Kingsley knew beyond any doubt that no matter what followed, their sheltered world would never be the same again.

But let us begin the story a few months earlier, in July
. . .

Act I

CHAPTER 1

    
Thou shalt prepare a table before me against them that trouble me: thou hast anointed my head with oil, and my cup shall be full.

Psalm 23.5

No one at the dinner party mentioned the empty place at table. There was certainly awareness of it; Lucy Kingsley sensed it in the occasional speculative glances cast from around the table in the direction of the empty chair. Their hostess had said merely that Canon Brydges-ffrench was indisposed and would not be joining them that evening as planned.

Lucy was surprised. She'd spent some time that afternoon with Canon Brydges-ffrench and had not noticed any signs of indisposition. But the Canon's absence was for Lucy, as for most of the dinner guests, merely a matter of curiosity, a cause for mild speculation. For the hostess, it was an unmitigated disaster.

Rowena Hunt looked at the empty chair at the head of the table with despair; there was nothing else to do, she reflected bitterly. It wasn't just that Canon Brydges-ffrench was theoretically the honoured guest, as Subdean, and thus senior member of the Chapter, and the probable next Dean of Malbury Cathedral. It wasn't even that her plan for sumptuously entertaining the entire Chapter and thereby subtly convincing them of the excellence of her culinary skills had been marred, that the opening move in her carefully planned campaign was thus a failure in spite of all her preparations. No, she thought: the main difficulty was that the numbers had been upset. They were one man short at table, and that wrecked everything. He hadn't even had the courtesy to ring until just before dinner, leaving Rowena insufficient time to remove the extra place setting and the chair, let alone to find a last-minute substitution.

The real problem, of course, was that Kingsley woman. When Rowena had planned this dinner party, weeks ago, it had looked as though there would be an extra man, and that was, although perhaps not ideal, no bad thing. Then just a few days ago Canon Kingsley had rung her, apologetic, to beg off from the dinner party. He'd just learned, he said, that his daughter Lucy was coming for the weekend. He'd happened to mention to Canon Brydges-ffrench, he'd explained, that his daughter was an artist, and the Subdean had immediately insisted that Canon Kingsley contact her and ask her to come this weekend. Planning for his music festival had fallen perilously behind, and the artistic talents of Lucy Kingsley were exactly what they needed at this point.

Rowena, of course, had insisted that Canon Kingsley must bring his daughter to the dinner party. He had protested that she was a vegetarian, and thus difficult to cater for, but Rowena had explained that she was already committed to providing vegetarian fare for Canon Thetford and his wife – vegetarianism was just one of the many ‘isms' embraced by that couple.

She'd had no way of knowing that in addition to being a talented artist, Lucy Kingsley was also an undeniably attractive – some would even say beautiful – woman, with a graceful presence and a stunning nimbus of shoulder-length red-gold curls. The colour and the curl even looked natural, thought Rowena sourly, her hand going to her own glossy black hair, its stylish waves as well as its rich colour pur-chased and maintained at great expense. And the Kingsley woman couldn't be a day under thirty-five – it just wasn't fair that she should have hair like that.

Seated at Rowena's right, Jeremy Bartlett couldn't keep his eyes off Lucy Kingsley. It had been a mistake, Rowena now saw belatedly, to seat Lucy on Jeremy's other side. She had of course expected that Lucy, as a stranger in their little community, would talk to her father. But Canon Kingsley was deep in conversation with Evelyn Marsden, who had been left stranded by Arthur Brydges-ffrench's defection. Hemmed between John Kingsley and the empty chair, it was only natural that Miss Marsden should address herself to the former, and that he should see it as his duty to attend to the lone woman, leaving his daughter to fend for herself.

She was fending very well, ruminated Rowena with a savage poke at her tarragon chicken. With Jeremy's back firmly turned towards her, she had little better to do than to observe her dinner guests and attempt to eavesdrop on their conversations. It was true that Canon Greenwood, seated on her left, was carrying on a monologue which was vaguely addressed to her, but as she had no interest in what he was saying, an occasional nod was all that was required of her.

Rowena derived some perverse satisfaction from the fact that Evelyn Marsden must be nearly as discomfited over Canon Brydges-ffrench's non-appearance as she was herself. It had been especially galling to her, Rowena had observed, that she'd had no hint of his ‘indisposition' until it had been publicly announced. Miss Marsden, proprietary as she was about the Subdean, would have expected him to have phoned her first, and to have given her all the details of whatever had befallen him, so that she could subsequently divulge the facts, or not, as she felt necessary. But she was clearly as much in the dark as everyone else about what was keeping Arthur Brydges-ffrench from this evening's festivities, and her displeasure was evident.

If she hadn't been so upset herself, Rowena could almost have felt sorry for Evelyn Marsden. It must be terrible to be so old, so poor, and so unattractive, she thought – dependent upon the virtual charity of the Dean and Chapter for the roof over your head, and with no prospects of a man ever wanting you. It was no secret in the Close that Miss Marsden would like to become Mrs Brydges-ffrench; the possibility of this actually happening seemed highly unlikely to Rowena. It was true that Arthur Brydges-ffrench was not exactly a prize catch, but at least he had a good position – especially if he became Dean – and Evelyn could certainly never hope to do better. Retired now, and in her early sixties, Miss Marsden looked exactly what she was, or at least had been: the headmistress of the local infants' school. She always dressed smartly, if dowdily, and wore her auburn-tinted hair in an old-fashioned French roll. The dress that she was wearing tonight almost concealed the unfortunate tendency towards plumpness that she'd fought unsuccessfully all her life, and as she inclined her head to Canon Kingsley, Rowena observed her slightly stilted manner of speech, caused by the self-conscious way that she pulled her upper lip down in an effort to conceal her slightly protruding front teeth. She was definitely someone to be pitied, as was the poor Canon who so unexpectedly had to share her company this evening.

Canon Kingsley, though, betrayed no discomfort. He showed every evidence of interest in her conversation, nodding away as he tucked into his meal. He was definitely enjoying his food, Rowena noted, and that endeared him to her – she hoped he'd remember, when the time came, what a good cook she was. As the most recent addition to the Cathedral Chapter, who had in fact been in his position of Residentiary Canon only a few months, John Kingsley was not well known to her. But from what she'd seen of him thus far, there was nothing to dislike – apart from his daughter, of course. His manner was always gentlemanly, in a somewhat abstracted way, and there was something serenely spiritual about his long, pale face, topped as it was with a soft sheaf of silvery hair. Tallish and willowy, he was as ethereal as an attenuated saint in an El Greco painting.

His daughter took after him in build, observed Rowena, as well as in her pale complexion, and she'd made the most of it by dressing in a pastel Laura Ashley print dress. Rowena could see her animated face clearly as she turned towards Jeremy Bartlett, the blue-green eyes fixed on him and a smile curving her mouth. A shameless flirt, Rowena told herself acidly. Jeremy should see through her in a minute.

Jeremy showed no signs, though, of tiring of Lucy Kingsley's company; his back remained turned relentlessly to Rowena. She felt like crying: for weeks she'd worked planning this evening, not only to impress the members of the Chapter with her culinary skills, but also to let Jeremy know, in a subtle way, what a good wife she would make for him. She would grace his home and his table with her elegance and her good taste. She would entertain for him, help him to make a real name for himself in the cathedral world. He was a relative newcomer to the Cathedral Close, having sold up his London architectural practice and moved to Malbury as Cathedral Architect less than a year before. In that time Rowena had made little headway with him – hardly surprising, really, as he was such a recent widower, and presumably still in mourning – but she entertained great hopes of a breakthrough soon. Recently there had been tantalising hints, in his manner towards her, that he was not unaware of her charms, and until this evening that had been almost enough. He was such a fascinating man, with so many interests, and she thought that underneath his restrained and urbane exterior she could sense a passionate nature that matched her own. He was certainly attractive, as well, for a man who must be nearly fifty, with his ashy blond hair shading naturally into silver and his neatly trimmed beard covering a well-shaped jaw. Straining her ears, she caught snatches of their conversation. They were talking about music. Stifling a sigh, Rowena turned towards Canon Greenwood: she may as well be listening to him.

If Jeremy Bartlett, the only non-cleric, was the most interesting man present, Rupert Greenwood was undeniably the most decorative, and Rowena felt herself distracted for just a moment, appreciating his beauty. Although he was over thirty, he had the sort of boyish good looks that are usually thought of as being typically English: a long-jawed, even-featured face with guileless blue eyes and fine hair like spun gold. Unhappily, though, the Precentor of Malbury Cathedral had but one interest in life: music. He could talk about it for hours, completely unaware that he was boring his listeners nearly to tears. Now he was telling her, with enthusiasm, about the various pieces he had selected for Malbury's new music festival – things that had never before been heard in England.

Probably for good reason, thought Rowena, who was not in the least musical. Fixing a smile on her face, once again she stopped listening, and directed her attention farther down the table, to the three-sided conversation that seemed to be taking place beyond Canon Greenwood.

Perhaps conversation was not really the proper word, she discovered after eavesdropping for a moment. Canon Thetford was lecturing, with appropriate and timely interjections from his wife. The subject seemed to be the problem of overpopulation in the Third World, and what the Church's response should be.

Everyone agreed, thought Rowena, that Philip Thetford was a tiresome man – as tiresome in his own way as the one-dimensional Rupert Greenwood. It was a great shame that he was not even now where he longed to be: somewhere in Africa, ministering to the needs of the unfortunate natives. But a bad chest had kept him from the mission field, and everyone who knew him was well aware that as far as he was concerned, his position as Canon Missioner at Malbury Cathedral was at best a poor second and a waste of his talents. Physically he was unprepossessing in the extreme, with thin gingery hair – his hairline in retreat as aggressively as his chin – and pale eyes; his nearly invisible eyebrows and lashes gave him an expression of perpetual surprise, and while he was not actually a small man, he somehow gave the impression of weediness. His voice, which had a sonorous carrying quality, nevertheless had an underlying whineyness that Rowena found most unpleasant.

On Canon Thetford's left was his wife, Claire Fairbrother, nodding vehemently and occasionally adding commentary to his arguments. Feminism was, needless to say, among the ‘isms' espoused by Ms Fairbrother, who had not taken her husband's name at the time of their marriage. Although she lived in the Close with her husband, and participated in the life of that insular community, she had never been a typical clergy wife; her own career as head of the Malbury family planning clinic was more important to her than cathedral politics, and she was far too uncompromising by nature to play power games. At forty, a few years younger than her husband, she was a handsome woman, tall and well built. She had a round, somewhat flat face with high cheekbones and widely-spaced tawny-coloured eyes, the kind of ageless face that looks much the same at fifty as at twenty, even without the make-up that she eschewed for political reasons. Her light brown hair was cut short, but its natural wave made it curve attractively around her head, just as she wore her Oxfam-bought clothes with a natural elegance. Tonight, Rowena noted, her dress was a dark Indian cotton, spangled all over with tiny mirrors, and even her bare unshaven legs and sandalled feet could not counteract the impression of elegance.

The same could not be said of poor Judith Greenwood, who was even now picking at her food, her eyes on her plate, as she endured Canon Thetford's lecture on overpopulation. Describing Rupert Greenwood's wife as a frump would be unkind, thought Rowena, but it would not be far off the mark. She was certainly insipid, with her lank mouse-coloured hair and her shapeless home-made frock. The sad thing was that she'd evidently made an effort this evening; usually she wore no make-up – not from conviction but because she couldn't be bothered – but tonight her cheeks were unnaturally pink and her eyelids unnaturally blue. The colours, perceived Rowena, were completely outdated: it was probably the same make-up she'd experimented with as a schoolgirl, then put in the back of a drawer unused until tonight. What had the beautiful Rupert ever seen in this drab woman, Rowena wondered, not for the first time – apart from the fact that she so obviously adored him? That was a powerful aphrodisiac for many men, as she well knew.

Philip Thetford's voice penetrated her consciousness. ‘And it's not just in the Third World that overpopulation is a problem,' he insisted. ‘Right here in Malbury . . . well, Claire could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end. Girls who are no more than children themselves. By the time she sees them it's too late, of course.'