Free Appointed to Die by Kate Charles Page A

he agreed with her that the music which had been chosen for the Malbury Music Festival was frightfully obscure and even somewhat eccentric, he had hoped to be able to attend. They both agreed, as well, that it was past time for him to meet Lucy’s father, thus making even more concrete his role in her life. But David’s imminent move was overshadowing everything else at the moment: his house in Wymondham had been sold, and there was much to do in preparing to leave it. He would be putting all of the furniture into storage until the future became more definite, but the accumulated detritus of three lifetimes – David’s, his mother’s, and his father’s – had to be dealt with somehow; there certainly wouldn’t be room for much more than his clothes in Lucy’s small London house. And in addition to the personal side of the move, he had much to occupy him at work, clearing away paperwork and tidying up loose ends before his final departure in just over a month. So, to the regret of both David and Lucy, she was on her own in Malbury yet again.
    John Kingsley entered the chapel, the silvery green colour of his chasuble emphasising the silver of his hair. As he turned to the tiny congregation, gracefully raising his hands in greeting, he looked more than ever like a medieval saint. ‘The Lord be with you,’ he said, solemnly yet sweetly. The Mass had begun.
    Evelyn Marsden, temporarily displaced from her flower arranging in the chapel, was at the service, along with a few stray tourists. Near Lucy was another woman whose assured manner suggested that she belonged at the cathedral. After the blessing, the dismissal and a moment of private prayer, the woman turned to Lucy. ‘Hello,’ she said, in a clipped, upper-class voice. ‘You must be Canon Kingsley’s daughter.’ Lucy nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I’m Olivia Ashleigh. The Bishop’s secretary,’ she added.
    Lucy tried not to betray her surprise. ‘How nice to meet you, Miss Ashleigh. I’ve heard Bishop George speak of you.’ Indeed she had: the Bishop always talked of his secretary with something approaching awe. Lucy had had a mental picture of her as a formidable old battle-axe, middle-aged or older, with gimlet eyes and grey hair in a bun. But this was a young woman – not even thirty – and an extremely attractive one; she was statuesquely tall and her face had a rare classical beauty, with a profile that looked as though it had been carved from marble. Miss Ashleigh was nonetheless formidable: she exuded an aura of no-nonsense efficiency, and she seemed to have done everything possible to disguise her physical charms, almost as if she were deliberately trying to look unattractive. Her blond hair was cropped quite short, she wore large disfiguring spectacles with heavy dark rims, and her figure-concealing clothing would have better suited a woman twice her age. ‘Are you arranging flowers today?’ Lucy asked.
    Behind her spectacles, Miss Ashleigh’s blue eyes were intelligent. ‘Not a chance,’ she replied with a short laugh. ‘I wish that I could. Or rather, I wish that I had the time.’
    â€˜The music festival’s keeping you busy, then?’
    â€˜Not the music festival.’ She laughed again, but without humour. ‘It’s the new Dean’s installation. At the end of September. The invitations have to go out this week, you see. The whole thing’s a nightmare.’
    â€˜How is that?’
    Miss Ashleigh rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Everyone and his grandfather are being invited. The full works. Lord Lieutenant, High Sheriff, Mayor, all the County. And all the new Dean’s political friends – his father-in-law is an MP, you know. The guest list looks like the membership roster of the Conservative Party. I just don’t know where we’re going to put everyone. This cathedral isn’t that big. And then