Appointed to Die by Kate Charles Page A

totally incapable of looking after himself, and that brought out all of Pat Willoughby’s considerable maternal instincts. She had been a close friend of Elizabeth Kingsley before her early death, over twenty years before. At the time of that death Pat had been a tower of strength, looking after the newborn baby who had cost his mother her life, as well as offering immeasurable support to a stunned John and the three older children: Lucy and her two elder brothers, all in their teens. John Kingsley had never forgotten her strength and her kindness at that unbearable time, and he was constantly aware of how much he owed her.
    If the Bishop was popular in the diocese of Malbury, his wife was even more so. To her great sorrow, she had been unable to have children, but rather than becoming bitter, she had rechannelled her nurturing instincts; for years now they had been directed towards the clergy of the diocese and their wives. They repaid her with loyalty and affection, and she had not a few godchildren throughout the diocese who regarded her as something of a surrogate mother. The rest of her abundant energies and her love were lavished upon her garden, her dogs, and of course the Bishop.
    The dogs, on this hot, sunny August afternoon, were reclining in the shade of an ancient tree in the corner of the garden, panting shallowly. There were two of them, both Labradors: the black one was called Cain, and the golden one was of course Abel. As their beloved mistress approached with her guest, they raised their heads and wagged their tails desultorily, their great pink tongues lolling out of their mouths like thick slices of ham. John Kingsley stooped over to scratch their ears; the tail-wagging became more enthusiastic. ‘Good boys,’ he murmured.
    In the shade were four garden chairs with faded floral cushions and a rather dilapidated wooden table. ‘We’ll have our tea here,’ Pat announced; the Bishop obediently went off to fetch it. Pat flopped into one of the chairs and removed her hat, fanning her face with it. ‘Hot work, gardening,’ she remarked. ‘Especially in this weather.’ Her grey hair was bundled into an untidy knot at the back of her neck; escaping wisps fluttered about her face as she fanned it.
    The tea appeared in short order, the tray carried by a beaming Bishop. While it steeped, Pat asked the Canon about his family.
    â€˜Oh, they’re all very well.’
    â€˜Lucy has a new man in her life?’
    â€˜So she tells me, though I haven’t met him yet. A solicitor. She sounds very happy with him. I’m glad,’ the Canon confessed. ‘I do worry about Lucy. She ought to be thinking about settling down.’
    â€˜Will he be coming down with her to the music festival?’ Pat wanted to know.
    â€˜I’m not sure.’
    â€˜Did you have to bring up that blasted music festival?’ interrupted the Bishop with a groan. ‘I’m sick to the teeth of hearing about the music festival.’
    His wife laughed. ‘Sorry, dear.’ Pouring the tea, she turned to John Kingsley and explained. ‘George keeps getting these phone calls. From Arthur, mostly, but also from Rupert Greenwood and Ivor Jones. They keep second guessing each other, and are all looking for his support.’
    â€˜I keep telling them that it has nothing to do with me,’ the Bishop muttered, taking his tea and helping himself to a biscuit.
    â€˜Arthur seems to be . . . coping all right,’ ventured the Canon, hoping to steer the subject away from the contentious music festival. ‘Don’t you think so, George?’
    The Bishop shook his head. ‘About the Deanship, you mean? I’m not sure, John. Arthur is a deep one – it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking.’
    â€˜It will be worse . . . later, I suppose.’
    â€˜When the new man comes? Well, John, time will tell. That’s really what I wanted to see you