A Crowded Coffin Page 13

  Sam Hathaway was fidgeting uneasily. For once, as he stood in the longest cathedral nave in Europe, he was unconscious of the soaring beauty of the pillars and arches. Harriet had slept well the previous night, she had assured him when he called her earlier, and said she was planning to return to her cottage the following day.

  That much was a relief, but Sam found himself haunted by the thought of how miraculously she had survived the accident, haunted too by the desolation that her death would have caused him. What the hell was going on in Locksley village? One of the prettiest spots imaginable, painted so often that it was difficult, some days, to get near the church or the village duck pond for easels and hefty great bags of painting gear, while artists sat hunched on little folding stools. An old farmer run down on his own land; a respectable middle-aged woman deliberately driven into a disused quarry and only saved by a clump of trees that clung to a craggy chalk face. These things simply didn’t happen in his and Harriet’s world.

  It was just on eleven and Rory was due to arrive any time now for his guided tour of the cathedral. Sam sighed; no chance to discuss the unlikely crime wave in his new home village, not with the companion he had picked up on his way here.

  A familiar voice had hailed him as he walked down the High Street after a visit to his solicitor, to the bank and to his estate agent, to check on today’s arrangements for the completion on the cottage.

  ‘Sam? Sam Hathaway? My dear fellow, it’s been too long. How are you?’

  An elderly man, rotund in clerical suit and dog collar, was puffing towards him, hands outstretched in greeting.

  ‘Oliver.’ Sam halted in his tracks and shook hands. His friendship with Dr Sutherland dated back years, to the days when Sam, having exchanged electrical engineering for the church, was newly out of theological college and about to take up his first curacy in Oliver’s parish. Dr Sutherland had proved to be a kind and effective mentor and Sam had held him in considerable respect and affection ever since.

  Lately, however, there had been another, sadder link between the two men. Celia Sutherland had died only a week before Sam’s beloved Avril, and the older man had continually sought out his former curate, finding solace in their shared widowed state.

  Only I didn’t find solace in it, Sam growled to himself as they turned their steps towards the cathedral. Mrs Sutherland had been in her seventies, Avril twenty years younger, all those years stolen from them. It wasn’t fair. Sam felt himself tighten with the strain of not yelling the words out loud. Even now, nearly five years after her death, the loss of Avril was unbearable; would never heal. All he could hope for was that the move to the cottage next to Harriet would turn his thoughts in other directions.

  ‘What are you up to these days, Sam?’ For a moment he had forgotten Dr Sutherland but he pulled himself together and gave a brief rundown of his activities, adding, with a glance at his watch, that he must be on his way to meet someone at the cathedral.

  ‘Good idea.’ The old man gave a benign nod. ‘I’ll walk down with you. Just the thing, a wash and brush-up for the soul. Don’t like to go too many days without dropping in, and it must be getting on for a week at least since I was last at a service there.’

  Sam gave in with a good grace and slowed his long-legged stride to suit the old man’s wheezes. As they turned into The Square, Oliver Sutherland paused and looked behind them, then shook his head, tugging at Sam’s sleeve.

  ‘Been hearing about you, Sam,’ he said. ‘Someone said you’ve been poking about in the matter of that missing research chappie. That true?’ He studied Sam’s startled expression and laughed gustily. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ he puffed. ‘Don’t tell me anything, none of my business anyway. Just thought you ought to know your investigations haven’t gone unnoticed.’

  At the West Door, Sam, who was still looking thoughtful, took off his slightly battered but elegant panama hat, shooting a grin at his friend as he did so.

  ‘I see you still insist on wearing that ruddy panama,’ snorted the old man as Sam had known he would. ‘I should think everyone in town knows you by it, damned silly affectation.’

  ‘No such thing,’ Sam countered robustly. Their sparring was long-established and affectionate. ‘You know perfectly well it was a birthday present from Avril. She liked me in it so I’ll damned well wear it whenever I want to.’

  ‘Oh, well, she was a lovely woman, so I suppose you’ll suit yourself.’ The reply was an amiable grunt, then Oliver Sutherland went on, ‘I’ll tell you what, though, you might lend me that poncy silk handkerchief you also insist on festooning yourself with. I’m hot and sticky and my own handkerchief is wringing wet.’

  Sam hesitated for a split second then shrugged and handed over the sky-blue silk handkerchief that he wore tucked in his breast pocket. Like the panama it was a relic of one of Avril’s occasional attempts to smarten up her husband. He had resisted her at the time, grumbling loudly, but since her death he had tried to make it up to her by turning out on sunny days in the outfit she had prescribed: cream linen jacket, silk handkerchief and the panama from Gieves & Hawkes in the town.

  He had his fair share of vanity and knew that the outfit suited his tall, lean figure and that the blue of the handkerchief brought out the matching blue of his eyes. Harriet teased him about the hat, accusing him of only wearing it so that he could doff it with a flourish when he encountered any female acquaintances, thus revealing his impressively thick silver hair.

  Sam always countered the slander by pointing out that Harriet was only jealous. Her own mousy hair had turned pepper and salt in her early forties and when it became evident that she hadn’t inherited the same genes as Sam, she had gone a discreet honey-blonde instead.

  Now, inside the cool glory of the cathedral, Sam looked round and caught sight of Edith, scuttling along in the wake of Rory’s long strides.

  ‘You got stuck with her, I see?’ His eyes twinkled as he noted Rory’s glance of dismay when he spotted Dr Sutherland. ‘Me too,’ he nodded, then turned to introduce them all.

  ‘So,’ the old man said, after shaking hands. ‘Are you poking your noses into this business too?’ He wagged a finger at them both. ‘I’ve just warned our friend here that he ought to leave it to the authorities, and – something you ought to know, young Sam,’ he frowned at his friend, ‘I think you’re being followed. I’m sure I spotted someone keeping a close eye on you just now.’

  ‘What?’ Sam smothered his incredulous exclamation. ‘For heaven’s sake, Oliver, you saw no such thing!’ He stared at the other man and shook his head. ‘This isn’t some back alley in gangland, and we’re not playing cops and robbers. Now, we’re going up to look at the cathedral library. What about you?’

  ‘I’ll stay on guard.’ The old man sounded undaunted by Sam’s scolding. ‘Here, by the Wilberforce tomb.’ He waved a fond hand at the exuberant Victorian gothic angels. ‘I’ll hoot like an owl to warn you if I see the same bloke again; tall fellow, dark hair, sunglasses. Noticed him particularly, definitely keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘You silly old fool.’ Sam clapped an affectionate hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘God help anyone who does get into your clutches; you’d talk them to death.’

  Oliver Sutherland grinned cheerfully at Rory and Edith who were watching in amusement. ‘Might pop into the chapel next door for a sit-down in a minute, actually. Check on things through the iron grilles,’ he whispered, his face alight with mischief. ‘Here, Sam, you’d better give me that wretched hat of yours. It’ll only get in the way.’

  Sam, who was attempting to stuff the panama into his jacket pocket, gave in and meekly passed it over to the old man who immediately began to fan himself with it. ‘All right, you old fraud,’ he laughed. ‘You can come out to lunch with us when we’re done here, but only on condition you buy me a drink to compensate for all the aggro you cause me.’

  The Triforium Gallery was crowded but Edith and Rory were happy to squeeze in and look at the various treasures.
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  ‘I haven’t been up here for ages,’ Edith said, pointing out a silhouette of Jane Austen, “done by herself”, according to the inscription on the back. ‘Don’t let me forget to show you her memorial on our way out.’

  Sam looked on benignly as they admired a green bowl made of fluted glass. ‘That’s said to have contained the heart of King Canute,’ he told them. ‘The bowl was found at Shaftesbury, where he died, but he was buried here in Winchester. It’s said to be the only complete piece of Late Saxon glass in England. It’s a crying shame you can’t finance a dig in your Burial Field, you might come up with some treasures of your own. Maybe you’ll get a grant some day. Now come along, time to take a look in the library. You mustn’t miss the Winchester Bible.’

  As Rory followed Sam, Edith leaned over the balcony and gazed down at the pinnacles of the Wilberforce tomb. A large party of tourists was milling around and as she watched, Dr Sutherland glanced up and waved to her, pointing to the Venerable Chapel at the side. She smiled and nodded as he turned to make his way through the throng and into the chapel, then she followed the others down to the library. A last glance downward showed her the old man parked comfortably on a chair, with Sam’s panama on his chest and Sam’s blue silk handkerchief being used as a fan. Edith felt faintly disconcerted, dismissing as ridiculous an indefinable sense of dismay, something out of tune, something she had just seen.

  The library was fascinating and Rory, in particular, spent ages admiring the famous Winchester Bible, the masterpiece commissioned by King Stephen’s brother, the Prince Bishop of Winchester.

  Rory quoted from the leaflet he’d bought: ‘It was written on the finest parchment, each sheet a complete hide, requiring the slaughter in all of some two hundred and fifty calves.’ He looked at the other two, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’ve a good mind to try my hand at some illuminated capitals,’ he said. ‘I had some fun with icons a year or so back, and this wouldn’t be too dissimilar.’

  Sam’s phone beeped and he looked eagerly at the incoming text. ‘Oh great, we’ve completed. The cottage is mine.’ He acknowledged their congratulations then looked at his watch again. ‘Seen enough? Right, let’s go down and winkle old Oliver out of wherever he’s dozing. I promised him lunch and he’ll be ready for it by now. We’ll make it a celebration.’

  There was no sign of the portly clergyman on guard by the tomb so Rory stuck his head into the chapel. He gave a sudden exclamation and withdrew, beckoning Sam with a shocked expression.

  ‘What the …?’ Sam shoved him aside and hurried in, with Edith on his heels. Rory glanced round briefly and followed them.

  Oliver Sutherland was leaning back comfortably in a corner, feet stretched out on a kneeler. His head was tilted against the carved wood of the pew, with Sam’s panama hat slipping down from where it had been precariously balanced over his face, with the brim now resting on his chest. The hand that had been holding Sam’s handkerchief as a fan lay lax at his side, the handkerchief a blue splash of silk on the floor. He looked as though he was taking a peaceful nap as any elderly cleric in his mid-eighties is surely entitled to do. But he appeared to be quite, quite dead.

  chapter nine

  The next half-hour was a nightmare jumble of discreet panic. The last thing anyone wanted was to have a commotion in the cathedral, which was packed with visitors. Disruption, however, turned out to be unavoidable.

  Sam Hathaway took control. Rory had taken up the old man’s wrist and finding no trace of a pulse, looked round for guidance. As Sam, trying to summon up what he knew of resuscitation, took Rory’s place at the old man’s side, the only other occupant of the chapel, a middle-aged woman who had been sitting in quiet meditation in the opposite corner, now rose in concern.

  ‘Is something wrong? Can I help? I used to be a nurse.’ Her accent was Canadian and Rory saw, from her comprehensive glance, that she understood the situation. To Sam’s relief, she took over, directing him to help her lay Oliver Sutherland down and begin CPR, so Sam told Rory to hurry to the booth at the cathedral entrance to alert the authorities and to call for a first-aider.

  ‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ Rory panted, returning within minutes. ‘The first-aider should be—Oh.’ He was interrupted by the woman who had followed him in. She quickly assessed the situation and nodded to Sam to change places with her. He took a pace back, then spotted his panama hat on the tiled floor, partly obscuring the puddle of blue silk, his handkerchief. As he reached to pick them up he glanced at the still, serene old face and bent his head in a moment’s quiet prayer.

  Rory, after one look at Edith’s chalk-white cheeks and dazed expression, pushed her into a pew and looked to Sam for instructions. Grieved, but not shocked, Sam was sure there was nothing to be done for his old friend, though he knew that CPR would continue until the further help arrived.

  ‘You stay here and keep people out,’ he said crisply to Rory. ‘Here, put the rope across and stand guard. I’d better go and report to the powers-that-be what’s happening.’

  Within less time than seemed possible the ambulance crew were on the spot and a defibrillator put into use but Sam wasn’t surprised when they made a quiet decision to stop trying.

  ‘I’ll go with him to the hospital,’ he told the anxious group in the chapel. ‘Rory, can you talk to people here?’ At Rory’s nod, Sam followed the discreet procession to a side door.

  ‘How peaceful he looked, the poor old gentleman,’ remarked the Canadian nurse. ‘And what a nice way to go for a minister, right here in the cathedral.’ She patted Edith’s hand. ‘There, dear, don’t take it too hard. Is he your grandfather?’

  ‘No-o,’ Edith roused herself. ‘I don’t really know him at all. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I was so upset.’ She mopped her tears away. ‘I suppose it made me think about my own grandparents. How silly, what an unhelpful thing to do.’

  Rory reappeared, having given all the information he could to the authorities. He glanced anxiously at Edith, but was reassured by the colour returning to her cheeks.

  ‘Poor old chap,’ he commented. ‘I suppose it was a heart attack, it’ll come out at the post mortem, I suppose. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he did have a couple of nasty scratches on his hand and wrist. I wonder what caused that?’

  The Canadian woman shook her head in dismissal. ‘I noticed them too, but it’s nothing to worry about. I’d guess those are cat scratches. Does he have a cat, do you know? Failing that, it could be rose thorns or brambles if he was a gardener. Anything could have caused it; they weren’t freshly done.’

  He hunched his shoulders as he nodded in agreement. ‘You didn’t notice anything odd in here, did you?’ he asked her in a low voice. ‘Nobody talking to him, upsetting him or something like that?’

  ‘He might have been agitated and had a heart attack, you mean?’ She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, I can’t say I noticed. I did see him put his hat over his face, because it reminded me of my father. He always did that if he wanted a quiet snooze.

  ‘A party of tourists looked in at one time, with a guide, but you can’t get many people in here so they mostly didn’t stay. Some of them sat down for a moment and one or two knelt in quiet prayer, I think. I’m sorry, honey,’ she smiled mistily. ‘I wasn’t really noticing much, I was thinking about Angus, my late husband. He would have loved this place so much.’

  She blinked away a tear then, as Sam Hathaway reappeared, she became practical. ‘Now then, if we’re not needed here, why don’t we go get a cup of coffee or something?’ She spoke to Edith, patting her arm as she did so, and Sam nodded.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. You go, Edith. I decided not to go to the hospital in the end. There’s a lot to be sorted out at a time like this, so I’m going round to Oliver’s place to make a start on phone calls and so forth.’

  ‘I’ll stay with Sam and see if he needs a hand,’ Rory announced. ‘Where will you go, Edith? You ought to have something to eat, you’re white as a sheet.’


  She shook her head, nauseated at the thought of food, but the Canadian lady, who introduced herself as Margaret Mackenzie from St John, New Brunswick, interrupted.

  ‘I’m staying at the hotel right by the cathedral. You can’t miss it. We’ll be in the main lounge. You come and find us there – we’ll be fine,’ and she waved the two men on their way.

  ‘I know you don’t feel like eating, but you’ll feel all the better for it,’ she insisted, and beamed approval as Edith absent-mindedly polished off a plate of biscuits. Refilling their cups, she enquired, ‘Why were you so upset, honey? You mentioned your grandparents. Have you recently lost them? That old gentleman must have been well over eighty, and he looked so peaceful. Death is nothing to fear when it comes so gently.’

  ‘It was just silly hysteria and not the slightest bit of help to anyone,’ Edith said apologetically. She explained a little of her situation and found the older woman warmly sympathetic.

  A call came in. Rory. ‘We’ll be a while,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you have lunch with Mrs Mackenzie at her hotel? Sam and I will grab a bite to eat and one of us, probably me, will get back to you as soon as possible.’

  The next couple of hours passed in peaceful conversation about this and that, and Edith was feeling much calmer when Rory appeared at about three o’clock – without Sam and looking slightly amused.

  ‘I dropped Sam off at his flat to pick up the last of his bits and pieces and then he’ll make his way over to Locksley.’ He accepted a cup of coffee and went on, ‘He’s going to camp in his new house for tonight at least, though he’ll probably move in next door to keep an eye on Harriet when she gets home tomorrow.’ He grinned at them. ‘The thing is, I’ve got something of Dr Sutherland’s in the car. We went round to his house first and Sam got in touch with the old boy’s solicitor and his son in Toronto. There wasn’t much else we could do except that when we got there Sam remembered the cat.’