Free The Black Seraphim by Michael Gilbert Page A

voice sounded more friendly. “You spoke of the Chapter standing by each other. I’m afraid that’s something we’re not very good at, just at this moment. Maybe we can do better in future. Please don’t trouble your mother. I’ll let myself out.”
    As he padded back, past the High Street Gate, toward his own house, head thrust forward, shoulders hunched, looking more bearlike than ever, the Archdeacon’s mind was running down strange channels. “Red-rose lips . . . slim gilt soul . . .” Canon Maude had not made up those expressions. He had read them somewhere. It was quite unimportant, but it annoyed the Archdeacon that he could not place them.
    It was as he turned in at his own gate that he remembered.
    Surely, both expressions came from that unfortunate letter which Oscar Wilde had written to Lord Alfred Douglas and which Carson had read out, with such sinister emphasis, at the Old Bailey. The letter had been one of the last nails in Oscar’s coffin. Such an odd character. So wise in some ways, so stupid in others. The Archdeacon growled gently to himself as he thought about Oscar Wilde.
     
    The editor of the Melset Times, Mr Arthur Balfour Driffield, was a thin dry man in his early forties. He said to the young lady who stood beside his editorial desk, “There’s going to be a meeting of the Cathedral Chapter tomorrow. An informal meeting, called by Archdeacon Pawle, to discuss the question of Fletcher’s Piece.”
    The young lady needed no explanation about this. She and all the staff of the Melset Times knew that the paper was supporting the Archdeacon in his attempts to improve the finances of the Cathedral. Driffield had already penned a number of forceful leaders on the subject under such headlines as “The Widow’s Mite” and “Charity or Commonsense”. The reasons for this policy were clear. Their rival, the Melset Journal, had come out in support of the Dean. When the matter had been discussed in the staff room, the view had been expressed that there was more to it than this. Newspaper rivalry was admitted to spark good copy, but the old man seemed to be taking it all a bit personally, they thought.
    “We want as much background information as we can get. It’s raising a lot of interest and we ought to be able to start people taking sides. Don’t tackle the Archdeacon. He won’t want to be involved publicly. But there’s the lady who does for him.”
    “Rosa Pilcher.”
    “That’s the one. I’m told you can find her any morning in the Copper Kettle or the Busy Bee. You can probably get something there. And another thing: see what you can find out about Fletcher’s Piece. It must have some sort of history. Where did it get its name from? Who was the original Mr Fletcher? That sort of thing.”
    The young lady promised to do her best.

Five
    “I suppose the meeting is at the Deanery,” said Dora Brookes.
    “As usual,” said her husband. He was looking for the minute book, which had disappeared.
    “Will there be a fight?”
    “I imagine so. Where did I—”
    “I don’t like you getting involved.”
    “I won’t be involved. I’m just there to take notes.”
    “If things go wrong, you’re sure to be blamed.”
    “I shan’t be there at all if I can’t find the bloody minute book.”
    “It’s on the hall table.”
    “I don’t know what I should do without you,” said Brookes. It was true. He was becoming increasingly reliant on his wife.
    In Melchester, as in most cathedrals, there were two Chapters. The Greater Chapter consisted of between forty and fifty clergymen with livings in the diocese. They were appointed by the Bishop as a reward for long and meritorious service in their parishes. The office was largely honorary, but included certain dignities, such as the possession of a stall within the Choir and the right to preach once a year in the Cathedral. As an executive body, the Greater Chapter had few functions and met rarely. When it did meet, it was accommodated