The Black Seraphim Read Free Page A

black eyes.
    “Like currants in a suet pudding,” said Amanda.
    “What are?”
    “His eyes, don’t you think?”
    “My dear!” said Dora Brookes. “You mustn’t take any notice of her, Doctor. She says the most terrible things. The fact is, she doesn’t like the Archdeacon.”
    “Who does?” said Amanda.
    “A lot of people admire him greatly. He’s done wonders for the administration of the Cathedral since he took over from Henn-Christie, who never really thought about money at all. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
    Her husband, who had clearly been thinking about something quite different, said, “What’s that? Yes. Splendid man, very thorough.”
    “He’s not a clergyman,” said Amanda. “He’s an accountant. When he says his prayers at night – if he does say them – I expect he finishes up, ‘And may my profit and loss account come out on the right side and my balance sheet balance.’”
    Henry Brookes laughed. His wife said, “I’m sure he’s a good man at heart.”
    “If there’s any goodness in him,” said Amanda, “it’s buried deeper than the sixpence in the Christmas pudding.”
    “Your mind seems to run on food,” said James.
    “Oh, it does. Sometimes I dream about it. I’m sure that food’s the most important thing in most people’s lives. Women, anyway. Much more important than sex.”
    “Amanda, really,” said Mrs Brookes.
    “You’re a doctor. You understand about these things. I’m right, aren’t I?”
    “I’m a pathologist. If I was a psychiatrist, I might be able to answer your question.”
    Amanda said, “Funk,” and grinned. The grin exposed a row of gappy teeth and turned an ordinary face into an attractive one. Now that he was close to her, James could see that he had been wrong about her hair. It was not blonde. It was long and a very pale auburn.
    “Why is it,” she said, “that doctors never give you a straight answer to a straight question? Like politicians.”
    “The same reason in both cases. They don’t want to frighten you.”
    Amanda said, “Oh?” and thought about it. At that moment there was a diversion. A door at the end of the room swung open and a man came limping through. He was six feet tall and carried himself in a way which gave effect to every one of his seventy-two inches. His hair, which was snowy white, hung down on either side of his deeply seamed face. A beaked nose, a mouth drawn tight, as by a purse string, a chin which continued the straight ascetic line of the nose with none of the flabbiness on either side which is normal in men past middle age. It was a face, thought James, which had experienced suffering, but got the better of it.
    The crowd parted as he came forward, supporting himself on a rubber-tipped stick. He made straight for Amanda, stooped forward and presented her with a ritual kiss. Amanda accepted it with becoming demureness, managing to wink at James as she did so. She said, “This is Dr Scotland, Daddy. He used to teach at the school. He’s come down here to recuperate.”
    “And what better place to do so than in the backwater of a cathedral close? Did the game go well?”
    “The Archdeacon was mated in sixteen moves.”
    “Splendid, splendid.”
    The Dean had made no attempt to lower his voice. If the Archdeacon heard the exchange and the laugh which followed from the little group which had gathered around the Dean, he gave no sign of it. His eyes twinkled as merrily as ever, his bland voice continued its discourse.
    The Dean said, “I shall have to drag you away from this delightful entertainment, my dear. We have letters to write.” He turned to James. “Amanda is my secretary. In the old days the Dean had a staff of seven. A secretary, a butler, a housekeeper, two maids, a gardener and a coachman. Now Amanda is factotum.”
    “Not totum, Daddy. Don’t forget Rosa.”
    “True. We have a half-share of Miss Pilcher. We must count our blessings. A terrible woman, but a worker.”
    He offered his