The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) by Harriet Smart

plaster ceiling of shells and scrolls, all touched with gold while the walls were covered in scarlet damask trimmed with gilt fillets. The damask was faded to rose now and the gilt was tarnished, but the impression remained of sumptuous, but discreet grandeur, of easy dignity. In this Giles considered it suited Lambert’s character well.
    “See what you think of this,” said Lambert handing him a glass. “It’s nice little Oloroso. I wouldn’t waste this on my commonplace visitors.” He held his own glass up to the light, examining the colour. “This is only for those who appreciate such things.” He took a sip and relished it, and then as if ashamed of his pleasure, put the glass down on the baize-covered wine table, next to the key to St Anne’s Chapel. “But it’s a terrible business that brings you here, Giles, however glad I am to see you.”
    “So there may be other keys?”
    “I am sure there will be, but where they are and to whom they were issued, is something of a mystery. I have been racking my brains all this afternoon on this, for I knew you would want to ask me about it. Of course, this is an imperfect institution at the best of times, and the keys are always going astray. It is a source of some annoyance, I can tell you.”
    Giles sipped his own wine, which was rich, mellow and warming. Lambert was looking enquiringly at him, waiting for his verdict.
    “Very good indeed,” Giles said, wishing that the business of the keys was as straightforward.
    “Isn’t it?” said Lambert, pleased. “Quite a discovery, if I say so myself. But we shall not tell Sally what it cost me.”
    “No, of course not,” said Giles, smiling. “So, to return to these keys – I think we had better get together every Minster employee and inspect their key sets. From the Dean to the assistant verger – Old Walt? Is that his name?”
    “Old Walt indeed,” said Lambert. “He has a little cubby hole where goodness knows what may be found.”
    “Watkins tells me he was expecting him to come and blow for him this morning. Did you see him about when you came back with Mr Watkins?”
    “No,” said Lambert.
    “And how did Mr Watkins seem when he came and spoke to you?”
    “Agitated – and out of breath. He had run all the way. And he just ran in here, without waiting to be announced. It was a good thing I was alone.”
    “And would you say he looked genuinely shocked?”
    “Yes. Goodness, you don’t think –?”
    “I am just considering every angle. That is all I can do, disagreeable though it may seem.”
    “Not to you, I think, Giles,” said Lambert. “I think you have a decided taste for all this.” Giles shrugged and drank some more sherry. “It is just as well you do and that you have the aptitude for it as well. Given the circumstances – that business with Rhodes, and now this.”
    “Tell me some more about Mr Watkins,” said Giles. “I get the impression he is not fond of the Dean, and that the Dean –”
    “Is not fond of him. It’s all rather unfortunate,” said Lambert. “Especially as I pressed for his appointment. He is an excellent musician and we are lucky to have him, but Dean is perhaps not so interested in music as I am. He doesn’t understand the importance of the post, I think. He thinks we are paying Watkins too much, for a start – and I am sure of course that Watkins does not think we are paying him enough.”
    “Of course,” said Giles, with a smile. “What man ever thinks he is getting paid enough?”
    “I did manage to get him a better house but it was a close run thing. The Dean thought that only a man in orders should have that house. That it was a gentleman’s house, and by implication, Watkins is not a gentleman.”
    “Who are his people?”
    “His father was organist at one of the City churches, and his mother – well, of course, we shall have a great treat when we hear Mrs Morgan, but she will never match Miss Collier, as Mrs Watkins was then. Quite the