Ritual Murder (32 page)

“I honestly did not realize Arthur was getting killed. All I was thinking of was how to stop myself from falling into the hole. When he gave a kind of gurgle and his head fell to one side I was really surprised. He became very heavy and didn't seem able to hold himself up any more, so all that was holding him up was me holding on to his tie.

“I felt frightened then and let the tie go, and Arthur fell back on to the floor of the hole with an awful thump only of course, being dead, it didn't hurt him. That was something at any rate. Fortunately too he had fallen on to the shallow part of the hole. I couldn't pull him quite out of it but I pulled him most of the way.

“At first I was going to run and fetch a verger, only I felt shy about saying what we had come to Little St Ulf's tomb to do. I was afraid people might think it was my idea and not Arthur's, and then where would I be? Once I mentioned the gold and the silver the verger would probably think I was a thief and call the police, even though I was innocent. I knew Mummy would be very upset. I thought at least I had better put Arthur's trousers back on before I told anyone because otherwise, on top of everything else, they would probably think we had been doing things to each other when we hadn't at all. So I went back to the table to fetch them, and that was when I saw the knife.

“All the time inside of me I did not stop praying to Little St Ulf and I really believe it was him put the knife there just when I needed it. Arthur was lying half in, half out of the hole where Little St Ulf's tomb was supposed to be and there suddenly came into my mind, I don't know why, the way Little St Ulf had been found with his diddle cut off and a Jewish star cut into his body. So I thought, if I do that to Arthur people will think it was the Jews, not me, which will serve them right for killing Jesus and all that.

“The knife was nice and sharp and I was very careful not to get any blood on me, and I knew from detective stories about wiping the knife so there weren't any fingerprints.

“At first I was going to leave Arthur's blazer and trousers where they were and take away just the diddle and flush it down the lav or something, but then I thought it would make it more mysterious if I took the clothes and hid them with the diddle in Bishop FitzAlain's tomb. I thought even if somebody finds them there, the more mysterious the better.

“So I took the glass eye out of Arthur's blazer pocket and put it in mine, and then I took off his shoes and socks as well because he looked awfully silly with no trousers and his shoes and socks on. I bundled the clothes up, putting the diddle inside one of the shoes.

“I put the stool back where it came from. There was a broom on the table and before I went I leaned over and swept the bottom of the hole so there would be no footprints and I swept it over the matting and dragged it along behind me so all the footprints there were rubbed out too. I held the broom with one of Arthur's socks because of fingerprints, and I left it just inside the door. I really think I thought of everything.

“Nobody saw me. I went by the triforium mostly, then down by a little stair which comes out almost at the side of the FitzAlain chapel. After I hid the clothes I went back up the stair, only this time by the passage into the north transept, so that when I came down, in case anybody was about, it would look as if I had just that moment come in by the Bishop's Postern.

“The whole thing didn't take long at all and when I got into the cloakroom at the Song School I was still one of the earliest. We have a clothes brush there hanging on a nail and I gave myself a good brushing, I can tell you, because it is very dusty in Little St Ulf's tomb and I hope the people who dig there wear masks because dust like that is very unhealthy and can make you ill.

“Arthur's peg and locker were the ones next along to mine, and when I saw his ruff hanging there all lovely and stiff and white I didn't see why I shouldn't wear it because he wouldn't be needing it any more, ever.

“I am sorry now that I took it because that was what gave me away, wasn't it? Otherwise you might have blamed the Jews like I hoped you would. When Mr Harbridge found the glass eye in my pocket he thought
that
had given me away but he couldn't really have proved, could he, not to a judge I mean, that Arthur hadn't given it to me as a present like I said. If he had tried to prove it, I would have told the judge that Mr Harbridge had it in for me. I do not think he likes children. He made me miss a whole games period not long ago just for colouring a broken-down old tomb nobody ever looks at anyway. I promised to wash it off before school next day but he said, ‘Oh no you don't my lad, you do it this minute,' which I think was very nasty of him, don't you? That was the reason why I didn't just give the Bishop a moustache but wrote ‘Sod God' on the wall as well, the way Arthur did, just to teach him, although I'm sorry to say that not being an artist like Arthur I couldn't print it nicely the way he did.

“I am also sorry I didn't leave Arthur's glass eye in his blazer pocket after all, because if it is magic it doesn't seem to work for me, perhaps because Arthur's father did not leave it to me in his will, and if Mr Harbridge hadn't found it in my pocket he would not have kidnapped me and made me go up into the spire which was very frightening. Anyway I think now that Little St Ulf is better than a glass eye any day, because more than once I thought Mr Harbridge was going to chuck me over the edge of that platform and in the end he didn't, and I hope Little St Ulf will always protect me as long as I live.

“I am glad that you know everything now, because now you know how hateful Arthur was and how it was all an accident anyway.

“Being dead Arthur couldn't sing the solo part at the morning service and Mr Amos chose me to sing it instead. I want to say that I enjoyed singing it very much and afterwards several people came up and said I sang like an angel, so I am pretty sure that God does not mind about Arthur because otherwise He would have made me sing flat or forget the words or something.

“I think that is all except what I told you about the dog do and Arthur eating it to show what a crush he had on me. I am being honest now about everything and I am sorry to say I told you a fib about that. Actually it wasn't Arthur who ate the dog do. It was me and Arthur made me do it. I didn't want to, I can tell you, which is another example of how horrible he was.”

“I knew all along there was something that didn't fit. I just couldn't put my finger on it.” Affronted by his own stupidity, Jurnet jumped up from his seat and strode heavily about the room. The gilt chair on which he had been sitting—itself a token of his state of mind in that he had been so unthinking as to entrust himself to it in the first place—teetered on its inadequate legs. Taleh, whose nose had been resting on the detective's knees, sat up and watched his coming and going with anxious eyes.

“What gets me is, if only the blasted penny had dropped when it ought to, none of the rest need have happened.”

Rabbi Schnellman joined his hands over his paunch and inquired comfortably, “Since when did the truth ever stop those who live by lies from going on lying? Calm down. It would have happened. It will go on happening.” He spoke without regret or self-pity. “You have nothing to reproach yourself for. You couldn't be expected to think the unthinkable.”

“I could, you know! Ask the Super. He'll tell you it's all part of the job.” Jurnet came to a halt, and stood looking down at the fat man slouched in the absurd chair. “D'you want to know the truth? What really riles me isn't so much that I missed a tiny but vital bit of evidence until it was almost too late. I shouldn't have; but that's water under the bridge. It's
why
I missed it that gets me all churned up inside.”

“You mean, it never occurred to you to suspect a child?”

“Do me a favour, will you! I'm a copper, not trailing-clouds-of-glory Willie Wordsworth. I've known kids the very thought of whom sends cold shivers up my spine. Arthur Cossey was a kid too, wasn't he? That didn't stop me from accepting that he was also a blackmailer and a drug-pusher. But after all my years on the Force, to be so taken in by a mop of curls and a winsome smile—!”

“Oh, I see!” Leo Schnellman exclaimed. “It's not the case we're discussing, then, but your offended vanity?”

For a moment Jurnet stared in anger, then burst out laughing. Taleh, relieved that the problem, whatever it was, had resolved itself, sprang to the detective's side and nuzzled him enthusiastically.

The Rabbi continued, “When all's said and done, was your estimate of this Christopher of yours so far off the mark? Admittedly, there's a certain discomforting adroitness about the measures he chose to cover up his tracks. But self-preservation is a very powerful instinct, and Arthur Cossey's death, after all,
was
accidental.”

“But was it? That's the whole point.” No laughter now. “Christopher writes us out a confession which we swallow whole, partly because we're beguiled by the sheer charm of it, partly because, when you come down to it, we've no other choice. It accounts for Arthur Cossey's death satisfactorily, so fine! Close the file and go on to the next thing. But how can we be sure we haven't all been led by the nose? Can we really be certain, as Christopher repeatedly assures us, that there was no explicit sexual element in the two boys' relationship?
Was
Arthur the evil little manipulator Christopher makes him out to be, or was it in fact Christopher who made the running? In Arthur's drawer we found a drawing of Little St Ulf with the title crossed out and ‘Little St Arthur' substituted for it. We now know that the writing is Christopher Drue's. So is it possible that he had it all planned long before it happened, and was only waiting for his opportunity? When that kid comes to court, you'll see, he'll dazzle everyone in sight, just like he's done the Angleby CID. They'll dish out some token punishment that won't mean a bloody thing—and who's to say we won't have loosed on the world some heartless little monster who hugs to himself the knowledge that if you're as clever and fascinating as he is you can get away with anything, even murder.”

“Mm.” The Rabbi pondered. “You'll have to keep a continuing eye on that young man.”

“And how are we to do that?”

“Have you spoken with his mother? Has she glimpsed the possibilities?”

Into Jurnet's mind came an image of Mrs Drue's face as he had last seen it, hag-ridden by fears she would never be able to put into words.

“Oh, I'm pretty sure she's glimpsed them all right, but I certainly haven't discussed them with her. One can hardly, without a tittle of proof, go to a mum and say you think her kid may be a cold-blooded assassin.”

“
May be
. That's the crux. And maybe not. Personally, I'm still inclined to think you should have a chat with Mrs Drue. She might find it an inestimable relief to discover she doesn't have to bear alone the guilt of suspecting her own child of an abominable crime.”

Jurnet shook his head decisively.

“Not on. After a bit, when all this has died down, she'll think she was imagining things. After all, she loves the boy.”

“Ah!” said the Rabbi. “Love!”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“What indeed?” echoed the Rabbi, settling his
yarmulke
more firmly on his head. “Incidentally, I have some good news for you. I was at the hospital this morning. They're flying Mort home today.”

Filled with a great thankfulness, Jurnet did not feel called upon to explain that, in the interests of self-preservation, he had stopped inquiring after the young American. “Is he OK, then?”

“Far from it. But there's hope. He opens his eyes and he recognizes his wife.”

The golden princess in the English mackintosh. There is hope, thought Jurnet.

“That's not all.” The Rabbi went on, as if what he had to say further was of some slight interest. “Miriam's back. She says, don't phone her, she'll be in touch. As a matter of fact, she's been back in Angleby a couple of days.”

“Miriam!” cried Jurnet. “Why didn't you tell me? Why the hell didn't
she
tell me?”

“Ah, love!” said the Rabbi, for the second time.

From the synagogue, Jurnet had told the Rabbi, his next stop was the Close: a valedictory visit, though this he did not say. It sounded foolish, since Angleby was his home and he had no plans to leave. Instead, once in the car, he drove yet further into the suburbs, to the shabby Victorian house embedded in laurels which was Willie Fisher's new address. On the way he passed without stopping at the psychiatric unit where Millie Fisher cultivated oblivion. One could not visit all one's family graves at one go.

Mrs Longley, the house mother, greeted Jurnet with that special brand of institutional cheerfulness which he always found utterly dismaying. Still, inside, the house was better than one could have guessed from without: sparkling with colour, warm and homelike.

Except to Willie Fisher, to whom home was a scrapyard, and a trailer coated with grease.

Beginning to wish he had not come, the detective followed Mrs Longley into a room where several children were busy spreading finger-paints on paper and themselves. The conversation was loud and animated.

Jurnet's heart sank when he saw Willie, apart, a small lonely figure burrowed deep into an armchair as into a makeshift womb. The detective approached and stood quietly, waiting. The child had a book in his hands, and presently Jurnet moved, so that his shadow fell across the open page.

At that Willie Fisher looked up, and immediately down again.

“Jim and Jane are in the field,”
he read aloud, in a voice that trembled with pride immeasurable.
“There is grass in the field. There is a cow in the field. The cow eats the grass. ‘Look!' says Jane, ‘The cow is eating the grass.'”
Willie looked up again, and his peaked little face blossomed like the rose. “Mr Ben! I can read! I can read!”