Free Murder in a Cathedral by Ruth Dudley Edwards

The bishop has already said any friends of mine would be honoured guests. He’s even claimed Plutarch will be a valued companion.’
    Pooley shuddered. ‘There’s no accounting for tastes.’
     
    The bishop looked on with pleasure as Amiss gingerly patted the stirring marmalade form. ‘How nice to see you, Robert. You must be very pleased to be reunited with Plutarch.’
    ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘Oh, and Jack left you a present.’
    Amiss looked suspiciously at the bishop. ‘I don’t like the sound of that? What kind of present?’
    ‘A portable phone. Wasn’t that kind of her?’
    He handed it to Amiss; attached was a note written in the baroness’s huge and almost unintelligible scrawl, which from long experience Amiss managed to decipher swiftly: ‘Programmed: 1) my direct line; 2) my car phone; 3) St Martha’s switchboard. Keep me posted.’
    Crossly, Amiss jabbed his finger on the first button.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Jack, it’s me, and I have no intention of using this foul device. I hate mobile phones. They’re the mark of complete and utter prats and I have some pride.’
    ‘Calm down, calm down. A portable phone maketh not a prat. You do not need to use it prattishly: it is purely to make it easy for you to keep in touch with HQ.’
    ‘If by HQ you mean yourself…’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘… what you mean is vice versa.’
    ‘That’s as maybe, but in any event I’m sure you’ll find it preferable to having me hound you via David and whatever chums you make in Westonbury. Now stop being such a sourpuss, and remember I want the line kept clear for me.
    ‘See you.’
    As the phone went dead, Amiss swore and then saw the bishop looking at him worriedly. ‘Sorry, David,’ he said, suddenly feeling ashamed, ‘it’s been a long day and I fear I was being irritable.’
    The bishop’s face cleared. ‘I quite understand. Come down to the kitchen and let us prepare something to eat and tell each other about our day. Mine, at least, has not been uneventful.’
     
    The bishop was a man of regular habits, and within only a few days so was Amiss. Never by choice an early riser, he left the bishop to his own devices for his early-morning prayers and the run on which he was frequently accompanied by Plutarch. The growing friendship between bishop and cat had begun unpromisingly, when – on her first morning in residence – she had pursued her host as he began running, had hurled herself between his legs and brought them both sprawling and intertwined to the ground. She had then compounded her offence by clawing at him savagely through his rather thin tracksuit. Their mutual cries of pain brought Amiss – still in his dressing gown – running from the palace just as they succeeded in wriggling out of each other’s embrace. As he shouted ‘Get thee to a cattery,’ after the fleeing Plutarch, Amiss met firm resistance from the bruised and slightly bleeding bishop. ‘Nonsense, my dear fellow. Just an accident. Could happen to anyone. I’m sure tomorrow she’ll have learnt her lesson.’ And indeed, bizarrely, she seemed to have done so, for on succeeding mornings she accompanied the bishop, if not quite like a well-trained dog, at least without evincing any signs of feline blood lust.
    Plutarch was not a slave to routine. If the weather was unpleasant she let the bishop run alone, but wet or fine, she joined them in the kitchen at 8.30 as they made and ate breakfast – muesli and fresh fruit for the bishop, boiled eggs and toast for Amiss and sardines for Plutarch.
    Unfortunately for Amiss, too much exposure to the baroness’s hospitality had given Plutarch a discriminating palate. She had become contemptuous of all brands of tinned cat food and now created merry hell if not supplied with human food – and good human food at that. These days when he shopped for himself and the bishop, he had to bear Plutarch in mind, and it was necessary also to keep an emergency supply of up-market cans of the kind of