The Red Room

THE RED ROOM AN ATTICUS PRIEST MYSTERY MARK DAWSON CONTENTS Part I Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Part II Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Part III Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Part IV Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Part V Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Part VI Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Chapter 94 Chapter 95 Chapter 96 Chapter 97 Chapter 98 Chapter 99 Chapter 100 Chapter 101 Part VII Chapter 102 Chapter 103 Chapter 104 Chapter 105 Chapter 106 Chapter 107 Chapter 108 Epilogue Afterword Acknowledgments Want more Mark Dawson? Also By Mark Dawson In the John Milton Series In the Beatrix Rose Series In the Isabella Rose Series About Mark Dawson PART I MONDAY 1 The glass roof of the refectory reverberated with the drumming of the rain as the clouds opened and thunder boomed overhead. Clive Mouton paid for his breakfast and took his tray to the table in the corner he preferred. He removed his green and yellow sash and folded it neatly, leaving it on the seat next to him. He had a bacon bloomer, and the last thing he wanted to do was to spill ketchup onto the sash; also, it marked him out as a guide, and it wasn’t unheard of for visitors to ask him questions while he was eating. He was an enthusiastic member of the volunteer team at the cathedral, but he liked to spend the half hour he took before he started by checking his social media accounts to see the updates from his daughter and grandchildren. He was distracted from his phone today by the storm. A skein of lightning split across the sky, thunder boomed, and the rain kept thudding down, a deluge that raced down the slope of the glass. The gutters had quickly overflowed, and now they spilled the water down the windows in a sudden wash. The southwest of the country had seen an enormous amount of rain since Christmas with the result that several of the five rivers that converged on Salisbury—including the Avon—had burst their banks. The water meadows were full, and some of the lower-lying villages had flooded. The refectory served the cathedral and had been built in the space between the nave and the cloisters, replacing the unsightly 1970s prefabricated buildings that had once stood here. Mouton had been head of history at the nearby Chafyn Grove school and had always had a keen interest in his subject. He had studied the cathedral and taught his students about it; volunteering to show tourists around the building was an obvious way for him to fill the spare hours of his retirement. He always finished his tours by taking his guests to the refectory, explaining how it stood on the site of the old plumbery the cathedral’s masons would once have used to repair the leadwork on the roof. Mouton would show them how the design had incorporated the ancient buttresses of the cloisters, and then he would point up, through the modern glass and steel roof, to the glorious view of the tower and spire. He was one of the handful of guides who was allowed to conduct tours of the tower itself, and showing visitors the spectacle from the ground just after they had descended the three hundred and thirty-two steps from the top was an excellent way to bring the tour to a close. He looked up now and noted how the pale stone contrasted against the dark grey clouds. The forecast had been for more storms today, and it hadn’t been wrong; dawn had broken with the sky an angry purple, and it had quickly grown gloomier and more ominous. The spire stood proud against the fast-moving clouds like the prow of a ship cutting through furious waves. “Morning, Clive.” Mouton looked up and saw that the dean had stopped at his table. “Morning.” “What a start to the day.” “It’s supposed to rain all week,” Mouton said. “I was listening to the radio in the car.” “They’re saying it’s what’s left of Hurricane Louise.” “As if we haven’t had enough. You know the Avon’s burst its banks? Britford’s flooded. I’ve got friends there. The river’s going right through the middle of it.” “Same with the Ebble. Berwick St. John and Bowerchalke look like they might flood. Stoke Farthing, too.” Mouton nodded. The Met Office was saying that a jet stream strengthened by the warm tropical air pushed northwards by Louise would push low pressure across the country, and that it wasn’t likely to move for days. The dean pointed up at the tower. “You know who I feel sorry for? Apart from anyone in those villages? David.” “No. Seriously? He’ll still do it today?” “Just saw him. He’s only got another week to go, and then he’s done. And he’s stubborn as a goat.” Mouton looked up again at the tower. David Campbell—the cathedral’s clerk of works—was a keen amateur photographer and had been undertaking a fundraising project where he took a photograph from the same parapet of the cathedral tower