The Black Seraphim by Michael Gilbert Page A

was anything wrong. If I had, I might have persuaded him to come indoors.”
    “Do you suppose he’d have been any happier dying in his bed?”
    “No,” said James. “I don’t.” He was thinking of the smell of the flowers and the sound of the running water.
    “You’d better have a word with Dr McHarg.”
    James was passing the college as the doctor came out. They sat together on one of the benches opposite the west front of the Cathedral, under the gaze of the twelve stone apostles, while James recounted what had happened on the previous evening.
    Dr McHarg was not a great talker. He listened in silence, only interjecting an occasional grunt which seemed equally to express surprise or sympathy. At the end he said, “The exact time of death is of no great signeeficance in this case, but I should surmise that he died at about the turn of the night. Say, one o’clock in the morning.”
    “Of heart failure?”
    “Cardiac arrest will no doubt be what is stated on his death certificate. If I was to be pairfectly honest, I should put ‘of old age’. Old men are like cars. When they have run their appointed mileage, they stop.”
    “Did he have any idea that this might be going to happen?”
    “It could be. He called me in a few days ago. I knew there was nothing I could do, and he knew it too. We talked about roses.” The doctor added, “It was fortunate he did call me in, though. It means I can sign his certificate without any nonsensical autopsy.”
    “Do I gather that you don’t approve of pathologists?”
    Dr McHarg regarded him with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. He said, “You mustn’t derive general propositions from parteecular instances. I happen to think nothing of the pathologist from South Wessex who would have made the examination if one had to be made. Dr Brian Barkworth—” McHarg leaned heavily on the double letter B “—was a student at Guy’s with me. He had very little knowledge at the time he qualified, and such knowledge as he did have has been dimeenishing steadily over the past forty years. Speaking for myself, I wouldna trust him to do an autopsy on a dead field mouse.”
    “Guy’s has produced one good pathologist.”
    “You’ll be meaning Dr Summerson. I’d agree with that. I haird him lecture recently on odontological identification. A lucid mind. I must be off. One of the boys is reported to have a stomachache. When I was a boy, stomachaches were treated with gregory powder. I mind the filthy taste yet. Maybe that was why we didna complain about stomachaches. That’s a guid example of preventative medicine for you.”
    Dr McHarg stumped off.
    When James got back to the school cottage, he found Bill Williams waiting for him. His face was red and it was clear that he was upset. He said, “Look here, I want you to help me.”
    “Do what I can,” said James cautiously. “What’s up?”
    “That shit Gloag has given Phil Rosewarn his tickets.”
    James had to think for a moment. Then he remembered the scene in the bar of the Black Lion. He said, “Why on earth? Philip wasn’t involved in that.”
    “He wasn’t involved, but he heard what happened. And he’s a friend of mine. That was enough to damn him.”
    “Surely he can’t just turn him out. He’d have to give some reason.”
    “He doesn’t have to give reasons. Phil was taken on for a trial period. All Gloag’s got to say is that he isn’t up to the work. Which is bloody nonsense. I happen to know that he’s done some damn good work.”
    “So what do you propose to do about it?”
    Bill had calmed down a little by now. He sat on the edge of the table, swinging his legs. He said, “We can’t make Gloag take Phil back. That’s for sure. But we can make him wish he’d never sacked him. I had a word with our editor, Edwin Fisher. The Times, as you may have noticed, is running the Fletcher’s Piece business and supporting the Archdeacon. I understand they’ve got a thundering editorial coming out on