Murder in a Cathedral Page 8

  ‘Are you sure, Jack? It sounds very hectic.’

  ‘Balls. Don’t be such an amoeba. Seize the moment.’

  Amiss knew when he was beaten. He essayed some damage limitation. ‘The rags should be very glad, Jack. We’ll be in a box, and I should think Canon Fedden-Jones’s friends are likely to be very formally dressed.’

  ‘Excellent. If you want me in fine fig, you will get me in fine fig. Time?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at Myles’s at seven.’

  ‘That’s white of you. Saves me from being groped by the cab driver.’

  ‘More likely to be the other way about,’ he said truculently and put the phone down.

  Fedden-Jones was looking surprised. ‘You seemed a little reluctant.’

  ‘No, no, just a little wary. Lady Troutbeck is a remarkable woman, but I have to warn you that she is socially somewhat unorthodox.’

  ‘That doesn’t worry me, Mr Amiss…May I call you Robert? Why I remember an evening with Lord Emmott when he took such exception to the food that he seized the bread basket, charged into the kitchen and threw all the rolls at the chefs…’ And Fedden-Jones moved smoothly into another tale of privileged people at play.

  ***

  ‘It’s not, you understand,’ confided Amiss to the bishop, ‘that I am ashamed of Jack. I am indeed devoted to her. It’s just she sometimes makes me nervous in strange company.’

  With some difficulty the bishop addressed himself to a nontheological problem. ‘You mean that she can be a little unpredictable and boisterous?’ His attention wandered back to his lectern. ‘I expect,’ he said, as he returned to St Augustine, ‘that it will all be fine.’

  Amiss raised his voice slightly. ‘I’ll have to be off now. I’ve only just got time to get back to my flat and change into a dinner jacket. Will you be all right with Plutarch?’

  The bishop looked up. ‘Of course, of course. We will be company for each other.’

  Plutarch—who was stretched proprietorially along the chaise longue—grunted when he patted her on the head, turned over onto her back and waved her paws in the air in the peremptory manner which indicated she wished to have her stomach rubbed; it was a task which—as ever—Amiss performed with little pleasure.

  Neither bishop nor cat seemed to notice his farewell and departure.

  ***

  In speculating on what Jack Troutbeck might think appropriate for the Royal Opera House, the one thing of which Amiss had been confident was that she would not go in for understatement. He was right. Admittedly her velvet trousers and satin jacket were black and well cut, but the latter was completely covered in sequins, and the baroness’s neck all but hidden by an enormous silver necklace with huge yellow and olive beads and matching dangling earrings.

  Myles Cavendish looked proudly at his beloved. ‘I’m jealous that you’re taking this magnificent creature on your arm tonight in my place. What do you think?’

  ‘She certainly won’t be overlooked.’ Amiss laughed. ‘Sorry, that’s ungracious. Jack, as ever when you go completely over the top sartorially, you seem to get away with it. I haven’t seen you look so splendid since I saw you in your baroness’s robes.’ He waved at the jewellery. ‘Amber, I see. What are the rest?’

  ‘Peridot,’ said Cavendish. ‘It’s a favourite of mine. Can’t afford to deck the old girl out in diamonds of the size she would like, so I stick to the semiprecious and get her plenty.’

  ‘I like plenty.’

  ‘Come on, Jack. The carriage awaits.’

  The baroness gave Cavendish a smacking kiss, flung a feather boa around herself and presented her arm to Amiss.

  ***

  Amiss—who had attended the Royal Opera House only twice and then in humble seats—was looking forward to the evening with mingled pleasure and dread: pleasure at the thought of sampling the high life and dread at what the baroness might do to a gathering of the glitterati.

  ‘You will please behave,’ he entreated her in the taxi.

  She looked at him innocently. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You understand all too fucking well. You’re required this evening to indulge in polite social chitchat, not to offend anyone, and so to endear yourself to our host that my cachet will rise and I’ll be able to worm myself further into his confidence.’

  ‘I’m to suppress my personality, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘No good ever came of that.’ She sounded genial, but his heart sank.

  Fedden-Jones awaited them in the lobby and swept them up to a corner of the crush bar, where champagne was being distributed. For the first few minutes with Fedden-Jones, his walkee (the Contessa di Milano, who was something big in perfume), Sir Elwyn Wainwood, the banker whose institution was footing the bill, and his wife (whose name Amiss didn’t catch), the baroness hardly opened her mouth. When introduced she bared her teeth insincerely; when spoken to she produced the minimum response. Lady Wainwood’s rhetorical enquiry as to whether she didn’t think the weather cold was met with, ‘No,’ which so disconcerted the woman that she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The Wainwood party—confronted by what they must have concluded was a rude, monosyllabic dullard—made a tacit agreement to ignore her and proceeded without any apology to talk about common acquaintances, the latest crisis afflicting the Opera House, and their plans for visiting Glyndebourne.

  The baroness stood apart, champagne glass in hand and bottom lip pushed out in the manner of a sullen toddler on the edge of a tantrum. Amiss looked at her imploringly. ‘I said behave,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Not clam up.’ There was no response. His nerve broke. ‘Oh, all right. Sod you. Do it your way.’

  The baroness smiled broadly, ceased sipping her champagne in a genteel fashion and took a mighty quaff. She moved closer to her host and bent an ear to the conversation. ‘How are things in the financial markets, Elwyn?’ asked the contessa. Wainwood smiled sleekly. ‘Not bad. Not bad. I think I might go so far as to say that prospects are rosy.’

  ‘I don’t like rosy prospects,’ interrupted the baroness. The group turned and gazed at her. Wainwood struggled to be polite. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I don’t like rosy prospects.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Me—I like rosy present.’ She looked at them solemnly. ‘The trouble with rosy prospects is that she promises a lot and usually lets you down. Bit of a prick teaser, young rosy prospects.’

  As the baroness was complacently to remark later to Amiss, this remark certainly broke the ice. After a momentary stunned silence, Wainwood guffawed and the others followed suit with appreciative titters. ‘A wise word of caution there, Lady Troutbeck. The lady to whom you refer has certainly disappointed many of us in the past.’ He reached for a bottle. ‘Let me give you some more champagne.’

  ‘Are you an opera lover, Lady Troutbeck?’ asked the contessa.

  ‘What I like, I love. Puccini and Verdi. I only like Italian. Apart from Bizet, that is. Can’t stand the Krauts.’

  ‘Not a Wagnerian, then?’

  ‘Boring bastard. A few good tunes, I grant you. But take away the overtures and what have you got. Pure balls.’

  Lady Wainwood looked at her gratefully. ‘My sentiments exactly. The worst evening of my life was at Götterdämmerung.’

  ‘Except for Harrison Birtwistle,’ pointed out her husband. The contessa and Fedden-Jones joined in with a few esoteric candidates and the baroness looked at Amiss and winked. At last at ease, he winked back.

  ‘Hope you’re not disappointed it’s not Pavarotti tonight.’

  ‘Not in the least. Pavarotti hasn’t been the same since he started screwing his secretary.’

  The gathering found this equally arresting. ‘You feel,’ suggested Fedden-Jones, ‘that amorous engagements take a singer’s mind off his arias?’

  The contessa protested. ‘Surely not. After all, Pavarotti has been a byword for liaisons.’

  The baroness shook her head impatientl
y. ‘You’ve missed the point. Of course it’s only right and proper that an opera singer should have frequent affairs. How else can a twenty-stone millionaire manage to keep in touch with the feelings of passion and lust which he is paid large sums of money to express.’ She drained her glass. ‘No, what is alarming is that this time he appears to be trapped in an exclusive relationship. His wife had the sense not to accompany him on his travels and left him free for amorous escapades. This little bint is a clinger. He’ll be singing like a bank manager before we know where we are.’

  Wainwood grinned. ‘That would certainly never do. We’re a boring bunch.’ Completely unabashed, the baroness proceeded to fly in the face of etiquette by grabbing the bottle from the ice bucket, filling her glass and shoving the bottle towards Wainwood, who smiled and attended to his guests. Not bad going, reflected Amiss. After only twenty minutes with total strangers, she had succeeded in dominating the conversation and changing normal social rules to her own satisfaction without incurring any resentment. Indeed the whole group was focused benignly upon her.

  Wainwood replaced the empty bottle in the ice bucket. The baroness jerked her head towards Amiss. ‘Get us more champagne, Robert.’

  Wainwood shook his head. ‘No, no, I insist,’ and he scurried away towards the bar.

  The baroness nodded approvingly. ‘Good. Got to be well tanked up to appreciate opera.’ She turned to the contessa. ‘At least we English do. You lot are all right. Wops don’t have our regrettable inhibitions.’

  ‘I had not thought that you…’ The contessa stopped. ‘Please, what is your Christian name? I am Gloria.’

  ‘Jack.’

  The contessa’s eyebrow rose only slightly. ‘I have not thought you inhibited, Jack.’

  The baroness clapped her on the back. ‘Everything’s relative, Gloria, old girl.’ Although this was fortunately one of the baroness’s more restrained expressions of good fellowship, the contessa’s shoulders were bare and it caused her to jump. However, by now the baroness’s stock was so high, thought Amiss sourly, that she could get away with putting lighted matches between their toes.

  English inhibitions were certainly in retreat. As Wainwood returned with another bottle, apologizing with, ‘Sorry, I found it hard to push my way in,’ the baroness’s genial, ‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ caused the whole gathering to collapse in giggles.

  ‘I do like your baroness,’ whispered Fedden-Jones to Amiss. ‘What a’—he searched for the mot juste—‘jolly lady.’

  Once Amiss had fully relaxed, like everyone else in the group he played the evening by the baroness’s rules and enjoyed himself enormously. Her exuberant delight in the occasion communicated itself generally. Although it turned out she had seen La Bohème more than half a dozen times, she hung over the side of the box gazing raptly at the stage in the manner of an awe-struck neophyte. It was clearly only massive willpower that prevented her from singing along with the best-known arias.

  The interval consisted of smoked-salmon sandwiches, more champagne and scandal and a return to the box in even higher good humour. There was an abrupt change of mood during the lingering death scene, for the baroness became immersed in the unfolding tragedy and sobbed piteously. As the curtain went down, she blew her nose loudly, leapt to her feet applauding vigorously and shouted, ‘Bravo, bravo!’ Flinging what remained of their inhibitions to the wind, her companions followed suit.

  As they left the box, Wainwood extended his arm skittishly. ‘May I?’ and escorted the baroness merrily down the staircase. Amiss and Lady Wainwood brought up the rear.

  ‘Interesting woman. I didn’t quite gather what she does?’

  ‘Ex-civil servant. Now mistress of a Cambridge college.’

  ‘Good heavens. You surprise me.’

  ‘What would you have guessed?’

  ‘Difficult. Lion tamer perhaps. Or impresario.’

  ‘I see her rather as an international smuggler.’

  ‘Actually she looks rather like an old-fashioned character actress. Margaret Rutherford or someone. But a sexy version, of course.’

  ‘Sexy? You think she’s sexy?’

  ‘You’re too young, I expect. But I saw the way Elwyn was looking at her. There’s no accounting for these things. I think it’s got something to do with pheromones. Anyway, I bet she’s quite active in that department.’

  ‘I’m not taking the bet,’ said Amiss. A vision of the beautiful, black, silky body of Mary Lou Denslow swam past his eyes and filled him with suppressed desire and resentment. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  Chapter 9

  Amiss was roused by the telephone.

  ‘Enjoyed that, didn’t you? Bloody good supper, too.’ The baroness smacked her lips. ‘I like lobster.’

  ‘Wha…what…what time is it?’

  ‘Late. It’s very late. Six-fifteen and I’ve only just begun the drive to Cambridge.’

  ‘Jack!’ Amiss’s wail was heartfelt. ‘I didn’t get to bed till after two. And then Rachel rang and we talked for half an hour.’

  ‘Lazy lie-abed. Get up and get going to Westonbury. And don’t forget. Cherchez la femme.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The bird. Whatshername. Alice Thingummy. You’ve got to charm her.’

  ‘Is that what you woke me up to tell me? Have you forgotten that you told me that last night at some length.’

  ‘You might have forgotten. You had a lot to drink.’

  ‘I had a lot to drink! That’s rich coming from you.’

  He had lost her. ‘I’m off. It’s time I gave Mary Lou her alarm call.’ Her voice rose several decibels. ‘Halfwit!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Can’t talk. Got to teach him a lesson.’ The phone went dead.

  Amiss groaned, rolled over and tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep.

  ***

  ‘It’s very nice to have you back, my dear Robert. Plutarch and I missed you. But I’m pleased you had a pleasant time. Did Jack behave?’

  ‘In her own fashion, brilliantly. Fedden-Jones is mad about her and I’m shining in her reflected glory. It’s saved me a great deal of time trying to win his confidence by sucking up to him.’

  The bishop beamed. ‘There you are. She can be very good when she wants to be.’

  ‘Which is insufficiently often.’

  The telephone rang. ‘Dr Elworthy’s residence,’ said Amiss.

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jack…’ Amiss saw the bishop’s worried face. ‘I mean, for goodness sake, Jack, I’ve only been back five minutes.’

  ‘Get on with it. Stop lounging about.’

  ‘Car phones should never have been invented,’ remarked Amiss as he put the receiver down. ‘Or at the very least they should never have been made available to Jack. She seems to be unable to drive anywhere these days without bombarding half the world with instructions.’

  The bishop smiled gently. ‘I expect the novelty will wear off. What is she so anxious about?’

  ‘Wants me to get to know Alice Wolpurtstone. Seems to think she might be a key player in the chapter. Being new and all that. They could do with a conciliator.’

  ‘She might well be that. She seems a pleasant girl, from the little I’ve seen of her.’

  ‘Cecil introduced us in the close last week. She looked a bit like a startled faun.’

  The bishop’s eyes had strayed back to his book. Amiss left him to it and went off to extract information about Alice Wolpurtstone from his new ally.

  ***

  ‘What I can’t understand, Dominic, is how you came to elect a female canon. I’d have thought the late dean and the rest of you would have died resisting the monstrous regiment.’

  Fedden-Jones looked a little embarrassed. ‘I was myself not in favour of female ordination, I have to admit. But it wasn’t a huge matter of principle with me. In fact…oh, I suppose I might as well tell you the story. Now that we’re friends.’r />
  Amiss smiled encouragingly. ‘Good. I’d rather get the story from you than from Cecil.’

  Fedden-Jones wrinkled his nose with distaste. ‘The only thing Cecil is a good source for is Cecil. Oh, and Victorian bric-a-brac, of course.’ He poured them both a second cup of tea. ‘Two reasons. I wanted to rub Paul Newman’s nose in it…’

  ‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

  ‘Paul Newman. The canon who decamped to Rome over female ordination. Miserable little wretch. It really upset dear old Reggie. And then we needed a dramatic gesture. You see there was a lot of rumbling in ecclesiastical circles about the gay image of Westonbury.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Yes. Exacerbated by that ridiculous lady chapel. That wouldn’t have got through if I hadn’t been away and poor Reggie hadn’t been getting a bit gaga.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get the picture moved to somewhere more private? And that daft canopy?’

  ‘Oh, because I was more concerned to get Alice elected to the vacant job and I did a deal—the lady chapel would stay as it was in exchange for Cecil’s vote for Alice.’

  ‘And why did you want Alice?’

  ‘I thought it would be good for our image—muddy the waters a bit.’

  ‘I suppose that’s logical. So what were Alice’s credentials for the job?’

  Fedden-Jones fidgeted. ‘She’s the daughter of a friend. Actually she’s Lady Alice Wolpurtstone, though she doesn’t use the title.’

  Amiss had some difficulty in suppressing his grin. ‘So you knew her well?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I knew her parents well. And I thought, well, with such good breeding, you can’t go wrong.’

  As some recent tabloid headlines about heirs to great titles floated through Amiss’s mind, he suppressed yet another grin.