church without the altar-piece. It was given by Miss Arbuthnot to be placed above the altar in this church, and I think we should strongly resist any suggestion that it should be moved. I could willingly part with the
Doom
, but not with this.”
But as they turned away, Dalgliesh’s mind was busy with more secular considerations. It hadn’t taken Sir Alred’s words about the vulnerability of the college to remind him how uncertain its future must be. What long-term future was there for the college, its ethos out of sympathy with the prevailing views of the Church, educating only twenty students, occupying this remote and inaccessible site? If its future was now in balance, the mysterious death of Ronald Treeves might be the one factor that tipped the scales. And if the college closed, what happened to the van der Weyden, to the other expensive objects bequeathed to it by Miss Arbuthnot, to the building itself? Remembering that photograph, it was difficult to believe that she hadn’t, however reluctantly, envisaged this possibility and made provision for it. One returned, as always, to the central question: who benefits? He would like to have asked Father Martin, but decided it would be both tactless and, in this place, inappropriate. But the question would have to be asked.
10
T he four sets of accommodation for guests had been named by Miss Arbuthnot after the four doctors of the Western Church: Gregory, Augustine, Jerome and Ambrose. After this theological conceit, and the decision that the four cottages for staff should be called Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, inspiration had apparently faltered, and the sets for the students were less imaginatively but more conveniently identified by numbers in the north and south cloisters.
Father Martin said, “You used to be in Jerome when you were here as a boy. Perhaps you remember. It’s our one double now, so the bed should be comfortable. It’s the second along from the church. I’ve no key for you, I’m afraid. We never have had keys to the guest-rooms. Everything is safe here. If you do have any papers you feel should be locked away, Miss Ramsey will look after them. She will be here at nine o’clock on Monday. I hope you’ll be comfortable, Adam. As you see, the sets have been refurbished since your last visit.”
They had indeed. Where before the sitting-room had been a cosy, over-crowded repository for odd items of furniture which looked as if they were the rejects of the parish jumble sale, it was now as starkly functional as a student’s study. Nothing here was superfluous; unfussy and conventional modernity had replaced individuality. There was a table with drawers, which could also serve as a desk, set before the window, which gave a view westward over the scrubland; two easy chairs, one on each side of the gas fire; a low table and a bookcase. To the right of the fireplace was a cupboard with a Formica top holding a tray with an electric kettle, a teapot and two cups and saucers.
Father Martin said, “There’s a small refrigerator in that cupboard and Mrs. Pilbeam will put in a pint of milk each day. As you will see when you go upstairs, we’ve installed a shower in what was part of the bedroom. You’ll remember that when you were here last you had to walk along the cloisters and use one of the bathrooms in the main house.”
Dalgliesh did remember. It had been one of the pleasures of his stay to walk out in his dressing-gown into the morning air, a towel round his shoulders, either to the bathroom or to walk the half-mile to the bathing hut for a pre-breakfast swim. The small modern shower was a poor substitute.
Father Martin said, “I’ll wait for you here while you unpack if I may. There are two things I want to show you.”
The bedroom was as simply furnished as the room beneath. There was a double wooden bed with a bedside table and reading lamp, a fitted cupboard, another bookcase and an easy chair. Dalgliesh unzipped his travelling bag
Doom
, but not with this.”
But as they turned away, Dalgliesh’s mind was busy with more secular considerations. It hadn’t taken Sir Alred’s words about the vulnerability of the college to remind him how uncertain its future must be. What long-term future was there for the college, its ethos out of sympathy with the prevailing views of the Church, educating only twenty students, occupying this remote and inaccessible site? If its future was now in balance, the mysterious death of Ronald Treeves might be the one factor that tipped the scales. And if the college closed, what happened to the van der Weyden, to the other expensive objects bequeathed to it by Miss Arbuthnot, to the building itself? Remembering that photograph, it was difficult to believe that she hadn’t, however reluctantly, envisaged this possibility and made provision for it. One returned, as always, to the central question: who benefits? He would like to have asked Father Martin, but decided it would be both tactless and, in this place, inappropriate. But the question would have to be asked.
10
T he four sets of accommodation for guests had been named by Miss Arbuthnot after the four doctors of the Western Church: Gregory, Augustine, Jerome and Ambrose. After this theological conceit, and the decision that the four cottages for staff should be called Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, inspiration had apparently faltered, and the sets for the students were less imaginatively but more conveniently identified by numbers in the north and south cloisters.
Father Martin said, “You used to be in Jerome when you were here as a boy. Perhaps you remember. It’s our one double now, so the bed should be comfortable. It’s the second along from the church. I’ve no key for you, I’m afraid. We never have had keys to the guest-rooms. Everything is safe here. If you do have any papers you feel should be locked away, Miss Ramsey will look after them. She will be here at nine o’clock on Monday. I hope you’ll be comfortable, Adam. As you see, the sets have been refurbished since your last visit.”
They had indeed. Where before the sitting-room had been a cosy, over-crowded repository for odd items of furniture which looked as if they were the rejects of the parish jumble sale, it was now as starkly functional as a student’s study. Nothing here was superfluous; unfussy and conventional modernity had replaced individuality. There was a table with drawers, which could also serve as a desk, set before the window, which gave a view westward over the scrubland; two easy chairs, one on each side of the gas fire; a low table and a bookcase. To the right of the fireplace was a cupboard with a Formica top holding a tray with an electric kettle, a teapot and two cups and saucers.
Father Martin said, “There’s a small refrigerator in that cupboard and Mrs. Pilbeam will put in a pint of milk each day. As you will see when you go upstairs, we’ve installed a shower in what was part of the bedroom. You’ll remember that when you were here last you had to walk along the cloisters and use one of the bathrooms in the main house.”
Dalgliesh did remember. It had been one of the pleasures of his stay to walk out in his dressing-gown into the morning air, a towel round his shoulders, either to the bathroom or to walk the half-mile to the bathing hut for a pre-breakfast swim. The small modern shower was a poor substitute.
Father Martin said, “I’ll wait for you here while you unpack if I may. There are two things I want to show you.”
The bedroom was as simply furnished as the room beneath. There was a double wooden bed with a bedside table and reading lamp, a fitted cupboard, another bookcase and an easy chair. Dalgliesh unzipped his travelling bag
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