The heavy sarcasm, though hardly novel, still had power to bruise. Chung, sensitive to drama, stepped in swiftly.
Hasnt he told you that we finalized our timetable at the meeting, Mrs Horncastle? Thats a man for you, thinks were all psychic! Well, were going for the first week in June, which has the feast of Corpus Christi in it, thats the traditional time when these Mysteries were performed, and also this year it happens to be the week of the Spring Bank Holiday which means we can use the holiday Monday for our grand opening procession without getting snarled up with all the usual commercial traffic. So, this way everyones happy, Church, holiday-makers, shop-keepers, historians and traffic cops!
It must be gratifying to make so many people happy, said Dorothy Horncastle, smiling wanly.
Shes really rather pretty, thought Chung. Ten minutes with the Leichner box, an auburn wig to match those eyes, plus a rich red gown with a fret of mourning black lace at the throat, and shed make a perfectly presentable Olivia. Instead, unmade-up, her fine features skeletally honed by the biting wind, her hair invisible under a shapeless wool hat and her body unguessable under a shapeless tweed coat, she looked like a Village Thespians shot at Mother Courage.
They moved on, entering the narrow skein of mediaeval streets which curled around the cathedral. Chung modified her pace so that she came between the Horncastles and modified her tone also, talking earnestly of her desire to recapture those days when the spiritual and temporal were inextricably intertwined and the Church was the one true centre of civic life. At the same time her eyes were taking in every detail of the winding cobbled ways flanked by close-crowded shops and houses whose timbered gables often threatened to meet overhead. And through her minds eye, heavily screened so that not the slightest verbal hint should slip out to give the Canon pause, ran pictures brimming with colour and excitement of the great pageant wagons rumbling over the cobbles, heralded by music and dancers and trailing a long wash of jugglers, tumblers, fire-eaters, fools, flagellants, giants, dwarves, dancing bears, merry monks, cut-price pardoners, knights on horseback, Saracens in chains, nubile Nubians At about this point in his solo session, her university mediaevalist had demurred but she had silenced him with a cry of, Shit, man! This shows for your person-in-the-street. Ask yourself, do they want it authentic, or do they want it fun? And then had won his cooperation by squeezing him well above the knee and laughing, OK. So maybe well hold the Nubians. That make you happy? And, as she squeezed again, he could not but agree that it did.
And now they came into the cathedral close and everything changed. Little of the mediaeval had survived the modernization of the eighteenth century when Wyatt the Destroyers internal restorations had been mirrored and magnified in a ruthless external clean-up of what even antiquarians had had to admit was an ecclesiastical slum. A fourteenth-century deanery had been spared because the eighteenth-century dean had simply refused to move his large family, and a row of Jacobean almshouses had presented a similar logistical problem. Between these and a scattering of other survivals had sprung up new buildings in styles ranging from neo-classic domestic, through romantic picturesque to Victorian Gothic; and by one of those coincidences quite beyond the wit of architects and planners, the result was a delightful and harmonious meld. Nothing was here to provoke a Prince.
The close was entered through a granite gateway in a sandstone wall, and though the old wooden gates had long since vanished, there was still a sense of being admitted, of passing from the hectic and neurotic atmosphere of modern life into a balmier, more restful air.
Chung made a mental note to get the gateway measured. She wanted her procession to be fun, and she didnt want it to end in farce with a pageant firmly wedged between the pillars. She had hold of the Canons arm now to steer him along her reconnoitred route while at the same time permitting him to imagine that it was his expertise which was showing her the best way. This was not easy as the best way could hardly be said to involve the cathedral close at all, since Charter Park, the proposed site for the daily performance of the Mystery Plays, lay as far to the west of the market place as the cathedral lay to the east. Chung had justified her diversion on ecclesiastical grounds. The grand opening procession must be seen to embrace the sacred as well as the profane.
Her real reason, however, was that she had no intention of staging her production in the Park, which was broad and flat and bounded by a main road and a canalized river, providing a choice between a static background of gloomy warehouses or a moving one of double-decker buses.
Her chosen site was much closer at hand. On the far side of the cathedral and belonging to it stretched an expanse of green and pleasant land, dotted with old trees and sinking down in a shallow valley before swelling up once more to a natural vallum where remnants of the citys mediaeval walls could still be seen. More substantial than these stood the ruins of St Begas Abbey from which had come much of the impetus and, after its closure, some of the material to enlarge the small Anglo-Norman cathedral into a huge Gothic edifice which could hold its own against any in the land.
This was the setting Chung lusted after.
They had arrived at the great building itself. She paused and craned her neck to take in the soaring bulk of the lantern tower.
Its incredible, she said. How did they do all this without machines?
They had something better. They had God, said the Canon.
It was a good feed. She looked at him appraisingly and said, And thats all you need? I think Im getting close to finding mine. Canon, would it be possible to climb the tower to get a birds eye view of things?
Horncastle hesitated but his wife inadvertently came to Chungs aid. Pointing across the road to a tall gabled house as narrow and forbidding as the Canon himself, she said, I thought as we were so near home, a cup of coffee perhaps
Dorothy, said the Canon testily, I have pledged myself to advise Miss Chung this morning. In an hours time I have an important luncheon appointment at the Palace. I hardly feel that taking coffee in my own parlour would be a fruitful way of filling the intervening period. If you would follow me, Miss Chung.
He headed into the cathedral. Chung smiled apologetically at his wife and said, Another time, huh? before following.
It was a wearisome climb up a steep, dark, spiral staircase, but worth every ounce of sweat. The city lay stretched beneath them like an illuminated plan, and there was little to interrupt the eyes flight to the distant green and blue horizons. The only contender in terms of height was the narrow tower which had tumesced out of the old redbrick university in the expansive sixties, and though it flashed back the light of the cold wintry sun most defiantly, its glass and concrete hardly gave promise of another six centuries of such defiance.
Chung moved from side to side, removing her snood to let the chill wind unravel her long black hair. The Canon stood and watched her delight with proprietorial pleasure. Dorothy Horncastle emerged a few moments later from the narrow oak door and stood unnoticed.
Chung came to rest by the eastern parapet and looked down towards the dwarfed ruins of the old abbey. Horncastle came and joined her.
Its magnificent, she said sincerely.
Chung came to rest by the eastern parapet and looked down towards the dwarfed ruins of the old abbey. Horncastle came and joined her.
Its magnificent, she said sincerely.
Yes. I pride myself that we have a setting and outlook dramatic enough to stand comparison with any in the country, said the Canon complacently.
A dramatic setting? said Chung, eagle-eyed for an entrée. Yes, I see what you mean. You must be a classicist, Canon. That fold of ground there, the Greeks would have had to turn it into an amphitheatre. And the ruins, what a backcloth! No chance of transferring them to Charter Park for the Mysteries, I suppose?
If it were feasible, you should have them, replied the Canon, quite happy to hypothesize the impossible in return for Chungs smile.
Pity, she sighed. That tatty park could surely do with something to match the material. But youll be doing wonders enough if you can get us permission to route the procession through the close. I gather the Bishop is none too keen.
Indeed? I can assure you that whatever route we decide on today will be the route you take, said Horncastle sharply.
You can? Thats great, exclaimed Chung at full glow. But your other idea, about the ruins, that would take a real miracle, huh?
There it was. A temptation on a tower. If he followed the best precedents, the Canon would scornfully deny ever having had any such idea about the ruins. Or he might compromise, and still take it as a joke about transferring the ruins to Charter Park. Or he might be vain enough to let himself be manipulated into accepting parenthood of a proposal to use St Begas as the main Mysteries site, and with parenthood, responsibility.
Then she looked into his hard unblinking eyes and knew she had made a mistake. He was a bright man within his limits, and she had seen only the limits and forgotten the brightness.
She smiled, acknowledging defeat, and said, But its a great route. Thanks for your help.
And submission proved the key. The Canon said, I think I might rise to the occasional miracle, in a purely dramatic sense, of course.
You mean you think you could really swing it for us to use St Begas?
It would require the approval of the Chapter but that would be something of a formality once the Bishop and I showed the way. Would you like me to attempt the miracle, as you call it?
There was the scent of a bargain here which made Chung momentarily uneasy. But clerics should know better than to do deals with pagans.
She said, It would be truly marvellous.
In that case I shall speak to his lordship at luncheon today. Now let us descend. Permit me to lead the way. The stairs are steep and there is danger here for the unvigilant.
Oh, youre so right, baby, thought Chung as he stepped through the doorway with exaggerated care. She looked round in search of Mrs Horncastle. She was standing in the furthermost corner of the tower leaning out over the parapet. Like Chung, she had removed her headgear, revealing a tumult of chestnut hair which seemed to dance exuberantly at its release from the confines of the woollen hat. There was even some colour in the hollow cheeks now, and a brightness in the eyes as they stared into the space which divided her from the crawling dots below.
Mrs Horncastle, were going now. Are you all right? Mrs Horncastle!
What? Oh yes. Yes, of course. So sorry.
She was like a woman waking from a dream. She looked at the hat in her hand as if uncertain how it got there. Then she pulled it down over her rebellious hair and hurried across the roof and through the staircase door.
The darkness swallowed her.
For a moment Chung paused as if reluctant to leave this pale winter sunlight. Then, with a sigh which had nothing theatrical about it, she followed the Horncastles into the gloom.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr Swain, Id like to take you over your statement again, said Dalziel with the effulgent smile of a man who wants to sell a used Lada.
Swain glanced at his watch with the air of a man who has two minutes to spare and has started counting. Sharp-featured, deep-eyed and black-haired, he was quite striking in a Mephistophelean kind of way. And his rather supercilious appearance was matched by the voice which said, I thought Id already been as clear as I could without supplying a video, Superintendent.
Dalziel smiled wolfishly. Pascoe guessed he was thinking: Oh, but you did, my lad! But this was no time to be seeing Swain through Dalziels indisputably prejudiced eyes. Pascoe was more interested to find the oddities he had detected when reading the statement confirmed by his first meeting with the man. Stereotyping was of course a fascist device for perpetuating class divisions but Pascoe found himself unable to avoid a prejudice which provided your paradigmatic jobbing builder with Stringers cloth cap, baggy trousers and vernacular speech forms, rather than Swains Daks blazer, Cartier watch, and upper-class phonemes.
Dalziel said, Last night when you wrote your statement, you were naturally upset. Who wouldnt be? Man kills his wife, hes got a right to be upset. Id just like to be sure you got things down like you really wanted. Here, take a look, tell me if theres owt you want to change.
He pushed a photocopy of Swains statement across the table. Swain said softly, A man who kills his wife? I think either I must have misheard or you must have misread, Superintendent.
Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue, said Dalziel unconvincingly. Though you do say as it was mebbe your efforts to get the gun off her that anyroad, you just read through what you wrote and let me know if its right.
Swain ran his eyes down the sheets. When he finished he sighed and said, Its like a nightmare, all confused. Im amazed I could have written this so clearly, but, yes, its the most sense I can make out of the fragments. Would you like me to sign it again?
No need, said the fat man. Signing a cheque twice wont stop it bouncing. If its going to bounce, I mean. Anyroad, theres notes been taken, so all this is on the record.
Wield was taking the notes. Pascoe had been invited along to observe. What the tactics were likely to be he could only guess. Dalziels response to the news of Watersons statement and subsequent disappearance had been stoic to the point of catalepsy, encouraging his colleagues to move in his vicinity like off-piste skiers. But his abandonment of the idea of leaving Swain to sweat till after lunch showed how seriously he was taking things.
This wife of yours, did she make a habit of carrying guns around with her, Mr Swain? inquired Dalziel.
Of course not. At least, not to my knowledge.
Not to your knowledge, eh? And I dare say you wouldve noticed if shed started slipping three pounds of Colt Python down her cleavage, wouldnt you?
Of what?
Colt Python, weighs forty-four ounces unloaded, overall length eleven and a quarter inches, fires the .357 Magnum cartridge, said Dalziel quoting the labs preliminary weapon report.
Was that what it was? said Swain. Ive no interest in guns.
So youd never seen this one before?
Never.
Is that so? You did know she was a member of a gun club, didnt you? said Dalziel.