20
Ever since their engagement in the storm on the summit of Glastonbury Tor Patrick Butler had taken to dropping in on his fiancee at all hours of the day. Their earlier trysts over afternoon tea had been broadened into coffee in the mornings, chocolate in the early evenings and occasional suppers with the boys. But it was a perplexed Patrick Butler who joined his fiancee the morning after Powerscourt’s conversations with Dr Blackstaff.
‘I don’t understand it, Anne,’ he said. ‘Weeks ago the Bishop more or less told me we could get married in the cathedral. I asked him for the date we discussed, a month or so after Easter Monday, as I am sure you remember.’
Anne Herbert nodded.
‘Now he’s saying,’ Patrick Butler went on, ‘that it will be impossible for us to be married that day in the minster.’ Bishop Ruins Wedding, was running through his mind. Happy Couple Distraught. ‘He says we could have the service in St Peter under the Arches instead.’
‘But that’s impossible, absolutely impossible, Patrick,’ said Anne Herbert with unusual vehemence. Her late husband had been rector of St Peter’s. ‘He can’t possibly think I’m going to marry again at the very altar where my dead first husband held his services. It would make a mockery of the service. Just think of what the congregation would say.’
‘Maybe he’s made a mistake,’ said Patrick. ‘But why the cathedral should be out of bounds beats me. All the commemoration services will be over by then.’
‘This should cheer you up, Patrick,’ said Anne. ‘We’ve been asked out to dinner this evening. Lady Powerscourt dropped the invitation in on her way to rehearsals for the Messiah.’
‘Is it going to be a very grand affair, Anne? Do I have to dress up?’ Patrick Butler was the proud owner of two perfectly respectable suits. But they betrayed, here and there, the marks of his profession, ink spilt in unfortunate places, a permanent air of wear and tear. They always looked in need of cleaning. He had promised Anne he would buy a new one after they were married.
‘I think it’s only us and Johnny Fitzgerald,’ said Anne.
‘I say,’ Patrick Butler was back to his normal excitable self, ‘do you think he’s solved the murder? Is he going to tell us who the villain is?’ The headlines raced through his mind once more. Sleuth Solves Mystery Over Salmon Mousse. Compton Killer Unveiled Over Veal Viennoise.
The last course had been cleared away in the dining room at Fairfield Park. Powerscourt had given instructions to Andrew McKenna that they were not to be disturbed. Patrick Butler had chatted happily with Lady Lucy, telling her outrageous stories about the misbehaviour of journalists. Johnny Fitzgerald had discovered a common interest in birds with Anne Herbert and they had ended up discussing the different varieties of binoculars. Powerscourt himself said little during the meal. He had told Lady Lucy the upshot of his conversation with the doctor before she rushed off to choir practice. Lady Lucy had turned white. She was so shocked that she sang the wrong note in three different places during ‘Unto Us a child is Born’ and received a number of stern looks from the choirmaster.
Three different riddles, he said to himself, surveying his guests. One to do with the death of John Eustace. One to do with the cathedral. One to do with the murderer. He thought he could answer the second, but not the third. He looked down his table, Lady Lucy smiling at him from the opposite end. She knew what was coming. He tapped a fork on the side of his glass.
‘Lucy, Anne, if I may be permitted to call you that,’ he smiled broadly at Mrs Herbert, soon to be Mrs Butler, ‘Patrick, Johnny. I would like to tell you what I think has been going on here. And to ask your advice about what we should do next. For the time being, Patrick, this must remain private, however difficult you may find it.’
Patrick Butler bowed his head in acknowledgement. Anne felt rather proud of him.
‘I was called here originally, as you will recall, to investigate the death of John Eustace. I want to leave that to one side for the present. I want to concentrate on one thing only, on what has been and is going on in the cathedral. I’m afraid I should warn you before I start that my conclusions may seem incredible. I found them so myself in the beginning. Let me try to bring the evidence forward in chronological order.’
Patrick Butler had a notebook and pen in his pocket. He found it difficult to resist the temptation to start scribbling straight away. Johnny Fitzgerald was drawing imaginary pictures of birds on the tablecloth.
‘Let us begin with the mystery of the Archdeacon and his visits to celebrate Mass in the private chapel in Melbury Clinton. He is either an Anglican pretending to be a Roman Catholic or a Roman Catholic masquerading as an Anglican. I think the truth lies with the latter proposition, that he is a Catholic pretending to be an Anglican. He is joined by the Canon of the cathedral found by Johnny also celebrating Mass in the outlying village of Ledbury St John. In my opinion, we can be virtually certain that two members of the Chapter are Catholic. There is a third, the young man Augustine Ferrers from Bristol, come to sing in the choir. His parish priest told his mother, even as the reports of the Compton Cathedral murders were filling the newspapers, that he would be perfectly safe coming to Compton if he was a Catholic. The implication of that, of course, was that he might not be so safe if he were a Protestant.’
Powerscourt paused and took a sip of water. Anne Herbert was looking alarmed, Johnny Fitzgerald seemed to be working on the outline of some enormous bird, maybe an eagle. Patrick Butler could not take his eyes off Powerscourt’s face.
‘And then there is the mysterious visitor to the Archdeacon who is a regular guest in the Archdeaconry. I now know that he too is a Catholic priest called Father Dominic Barberi, who often stays with the Jesuits in Farm Street in London. He is also a member of a mysterious and secretive body called Civitas Dei, dedicated to the greater glory and success of the Roman Catholic Church in this world rather than the next. I was told of a rumour that circulated in Rome by our previous Ambassador, Sir Roderick Lewis, a rumour that he discounted but which I suspect might be true.’
‘What was the rumour, Lord Powerscourt?’ Patrick Butler was unable to stop himself asking questions.
‘I’m coming to that, Patrick.’ Powerscourt smiled at the young man. ‘The substance of the rumour was that Civitas Dei were mounting a great operation in England which would cause a sensation when it was revealed. And there’s more to the Compton Catholic connection, as your newspaper might like to headline it, Patrick. There is another piece of evidence, flimsy in itself perhaps, but significant I believe in this context. Twenty years ago John Henry Newman, the most famous defector to Rome of the last century, was invited back to a special dinner or feast in his old Oxford college, Trinity. All those present signed the menu. One of the signatories is now the Dean of this cathedral. The other, who spent a lot of time talking to Newman, is the Bishop.’
Powerscourt took another sip of his water. He was saving his port till the end. Patrick Butler stared at Powerscourt open-mouthed. Anne Herbert had turned pale. Johnny Fitzgerald had suddenly abandoned his imaginary bird drawings on the Fairfield linen. He was working on an enormous crucifix. Lady Lucy kept her eyes fixed on her husband’s face, trying to send whatever encouragement she could from one end of the table to another.
‘So there we have some of the pieces of the puzzle,’ Powerscourt went on. ‘Ever since I have been here I have felt that there is a secret right at the heart of the minster. And the key to it, I would suggest, lies with the celebrations for the thousandth anniversary of the cathedral as a place of Christian worship. All along I have wondered about the secrecy. Why has the Archdeacon gone on his solitary communions to Melbury Clinton? Why does the other man ride out at the crack of dawn to Ledbury St John? Why don’t they just come out in their true colours? I think they are waiting for something. I think they are waiting for the same thing as the members of Civitas Dei in Rome who are looking forward to a sensation that will shock England.’