The Whispering Gallery (20 page)

Tuesday, 13th July, 8.40 a.m.

Johnny was ten minutes late for work – the very first time in his career. It had taken him hours to get to sleep and when he did drop off the recurrent nightmare soon returned. This time though the figure at the foot of the bed was Bravard. A large carving knife glinted in the moonlight. “
All changed, changed utterly,
” the maniac whispered. “
A terrible beauty is born.
”

Johnny had woken feeling hungover and unrested. He'd admonished himself for his apocalyptic dread. Yeats was writing about terrorism not torture.

“I thought Bravard had got you,” said PDQ. “Seen what he looks like?” He held out a copy of the
Chronicle
. A handsome army officer – the very image of an English gentleman – stared out of the front page: the caption read THE FACE OF A KILLER. Simkins claimed to have unmasked the sender of the gruesome parcels. His article contained exactly the same information as the one Johnny had written on his return to the office the day before – but that was illustrated with a picture of Helena Nudd. “By the way, Stone wants to see you.”

Johnny's spirits sank – then immediately rose again. If the editor was going to take him off the story it could work in his favour. If Bravard were to see Blenkinsopp's byline instead of his own it would corroborate what he'd told the lunatic yesterday and fill Simkins with false confidence.

The telephone rang. It was Matt. “Get yourself over to St Paul's right away. There's been another jumper. It's George Fewtrell.”

PDQ assured him that he would tell the editor he was chasing a lead and would visit the seventh floor immediately upon his return. Johnny grabbed his jacket and notebook and hurried out into the sun. Why would Fewtrell have jumped?

The cathedral was closed to visitors. A copper stood by one of the side-doors. “It doesn't take long for flies to find a corpse.”

“And it's good to see you again, PC Watkiss.”

“Your boyfriend's inside.”

“I presume you're referring to Sergeant Turner. Does he know that's what you call him?”

“Doubt it – and you won't tell him, if you know what's good for you.”

It was like stepping into another world. The vast stage-set of Portland stone cast a cool, soft light on the cluster of men standing round the curate. There was no doubt that the body had fallen from a great height. Fewtrell had landed on his face – but the back of his head was black with blood.

Father Gillespie was talking to Matt. Johnny waited until they had finished their conversation.

“Don't say it.” Matt, as always, appeared more intimidating in uniform.

“What?”

“Two suicides in ten days. It can't be a coincidence.”

“Of course it isn't. Are you sure he killed himself?”

“Why?”

“Look at the back of his head, for a start. How come it's caved in if he fell on his face?”

“Perhaps someone turned him over.”

Johnny glanced at Gillespie. “He said he didn't touch him,” said Matt. “I bet he didn't tell you that Fewtrell was screwing Callingham's son, Daniel. He was at the funeral. They both sang from the same song sheet – literally. They were in the choir here.”

Matt gave a deep sigh. “Here we go again. Queers are nothing but trouble.”

“You might as well blame the Church. Men in frocks in charge of pretty boys . . .”

“Perhaps Fewtrell killed Callingham because the good doctor found out that he'd been fiddling with his son and was threatening to call the police. Fewtrell would have known this place like the back of his hand.”

“He told me that Daniel seduced him.”

“A likely story. We'll need to talk to the boy as soon as possible.”

“The last I heard, he was off to France.”

“Very convenient.”

“I'll try and speak to his mother today.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Of course. Who found the body?”

“Father Gillespie. That chap over there.”

“Thanks. We've already met. Any news on Bravard?”

“We've traced the removals company that cleared the house in St John's Square. They're under the impression that the owner is moving to Switzerland.”

“Switzerland! How? It's not easy getting citizenship there.”

“Bravard Senior was a banker.”

“Ah, money. The magic key to all doors.”

“More to the point: Switzerland doesn't have an extradition treaty with Great Britain. We won't be able to touch him, if he's already there.”

“I very much doubt he's left without saying a long goodbye to me. He must want to explain himself, to try and justify his murder spree and why I'm to be his final victim.”

“We've alerted the ports and London Airport. Anyone resembling Bravard's photograph will be stopped.”

Fewtrell's body was being loaded on to a stretcher. “Will the investigation into Callingham's death be re-opened now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Matt. “The coroner will only reconsider the open verdict if new evidence turns up.”

“Surely a dead body counts as evidence?”

“Let's see what the pathologist says. I'll call if there's any news.”

“Thank you. By the way, you might want to ask Watkiss why he refers to me as your boyfriend.”

Matt scowled and stormed off towards the exit. Johnny went over to the deacon. “A true tragedy. He was a fine tenor.”

“Did you know he was Daniel Callingham's lover?”

“Certainly not. What on earth makes you think they were? Fewtrell would have been defrocked. Inappropriate friendships do sometimes crop up, but we endeavour to nip them in the bud. Boys of Daniel's age often go through a period of confusion. Most of them turn out all right.”

“Are you sure you didn't notice anything untoward? You know, secret smiles across the nave. Whispers in dark corners . . .”

“To the pure all things are pure. George was an excellent curate. His faith was very important to him.”

“Fat lot of good it did him. When did you find his body?”

“Just after eight this morning. He was stone cold. He must have jumped last night.”

“How would he have got in here?”

“I don't know. Perhaps he hid somewhere before the sexton locked up. There's no shortage of places. Only half the cathedral is open to the public. It has its own mysteries as well as celebrating the mystery of God.”

“Why d'you think he jumped?”

“I've no idea. Are you quite sure about him and Daniel?”

“Fewtrell told me himself. It will all become clear once I – and the police – have spoken to Daniel.”

“This news fills me with great sadness. I do hope it isn't going to bring St Paul's into disrepute. However, it may explain why George felt it necessary to end his life. If he was molesting Daniel, the thought of prison, of being separated from the boy, may have unhinged him.”

“I can see the headline now,” said Johnny. “THE QUIRE OF QUEERS.”

“The bishop will do his best to minimise the damage.”

“God is truth – but only when it suits you? Would you have gone to the police if Fewtrell had confessed everything? Of course you wouldn't. Mother Church looks after her sons.”

“You're a bitter man,” said Gillespie. The whites of his eyes were actually yellow. “You must be very unhappy.”

“Don't change the subject. I'm interested in the fact that you haven't pointed out the coincidence.”

“What – that both Callingham and George jumped from the Whispering Gallery?”

“No. From the condition of the corpse Fewtrell could just as well have jumped from the Stone or Golden Galleries. It can't be a coincidence that both Daniel's father and lover chose to die in the same way – if they did choose suicide and weren't murdered.”

“The coroner said there was no evidence of foul play in the case of Frederick Callingham.”

“Indeed. It will be interesting to hear what he says about Fewtrell.” Johnny pretended to check something in his notebook. “The coincidence I had in mind is the fact that two out of the four residents of Wardrobe Place are now dead.”

“You have such a suspicious mind. What possible significance could that have?”

“Your training teaches you to think the best of everyone. Mine the worst. Call it the triumph of experience over hope. I think something – something nasty – went on in that house. Perhaps it was where George and Daniel made the beast with two backs. Daniel was a child and he should have been safe there. I must be right – why else would I have been beaten half to death after chasing Fewtrell from the building?”

“I really can't help you there. You should thank the Lord for your survival. If there's anything more I can do, don't hesitate to telephone me. The sooner this ghastly mess is cleared up the better.”

“I still haven't found where the key you gave me fits, but I have a feeling that when I do everything will become clear.”

Gillespie bowed with a smile. “God speed.”

The red light went out and the green one started to glow. Johnny entered the lion's den.

“Steadman. Good to see you. Take a seat.”

Johnny, to his surprise, felt butterflies flutter in his empty stomach. The editor's minions weren't usually in the room long enough to sit down. Stone seemed nervous too. A Pifco fan whirred uselessly on his enormous desk.

“Look here, Steadman. Are you an invert?” Johnny leapt to his feet. “No, I am not!” He wasn't going to discuss his sexual orientation with his boss.

“It's all right. I don't mind if you are. There's plenty of them in the Open-Air Tourist Society.” Stone's fondness for naturist holidays was a standing joke. “I guess they appreciate the scenery. I've never been bothered with such paltry affairs – except, of course, when they concern matters of state. I heard that you touched Dimeo in the showers.”

“I didn't touch him, I punched him! He's been screwing my girlfriend.”

“Oh, glad to hear to it – if you know what I mean. This place is full of Chinese whispers. I hope you knocked him out.”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I did.”

“Excellent. I see, thanks to your sterling efforts, your would-be assassin has been identified. My wife, for some reason, is most concerned about your safety. She has asked me to invite you to stay with us until the man is caught.”

“Thank you, sir. However, I need to be where he can find me if I'm to be the one who collars him.”

“Simkins seems to have got the bit between his teeth.”

“Only because I let him. I'm dangling him as bait.”

“I didn't hear that. Such a gambit would be most immoral.”

“It's just using a prat to catch a mackerel.”

Stone winced. “I must say, I admire your ability to retain your sense of humour in such circumstances – even if it is a poor one. Sure you don't need Blenkinsopp's assistance?”

“I've come this far by myself, sir. I'd like to see it through in the same way.”

“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, all you have to do is say the word. Good luck.”

As it happened, his luck seemed to be running out. He had just sat down at his desk when the telephone rang. It was one of the Hello Girls.

“You weren't answering so I took a message from a Mrs Callingham. She says her son's gone missing.”

The telephone was answered after two rings. He had expected to hear the affected tones of a housemaid but it was Mrs Callingham who simply said: “Hello?”

“It's John Steadman. I'm sorry to have missed you.”

“I've not been straight with you, Mr Steadman, in spite of your kindness, and I now fear I'm paying the consequences.”

“You say Daniel's missing. Whereabouts in France was he?”

“He never went there. He refused to leave me by myself. However, I suspect he didn't wish to be separated from George. He's probably with him now.”

“I'm sorry to say that he's not, Mrs Callingham, and that's a fact.”

“Call me Cynthia. How can you be so certain?” Johnny hesitated. He should be in Barnes so he could see her face, gauge her reaction, ensure she wasn't lying to him – and ensure that she didn't become hysterical. However, it would be cruel to keep her hanging on.

“I'm sorry to say that George Fewtrell was found dead in St Paul's this morning.”

“Did he jump too?” Her voice had hardened. Instead of surrendering to tears she had let iron enter her soul.

“The police think so – but it's too early to tell at this stage. My own opinion, for what it's worth, is that he was murdered.” He took a deep breath. “Did you know that he and Daniel were very close?”

“You mean perverts? Not until yesterday. When I confronted Daniel, he admitted that he loved George and refused to accept that they were doing anything wrong. Of course it's all George's fault. He must have led Daniel astray. The thought of him abusing my son turns my stomach. However, Daniel swore that if I informed the authorities I'd never see him again.”

“Did your husband know about the relationship?”

“I didn't think so – but I'm not so sure now. Frederick was very concerned about Daniel's adulation of the older boy. He couldn't understand what Daniel saw in him.”

“Did he ever talk to George about his friendship with Daniel?”

“Not that I know of.”

“George told me that when he tried to end the affair, Daniel threatened to tell the police about him.”

“I wish he had. So my son's a blackmailer as well as a pervert.”

“He's a mixed-up boy who needs our help. I think someone found out about their friendship, guessed the true nature of it, and turned it against them. I think this person killed Fewtrell and . . .” The doctor's wife gasped.

“Is Daniel also in danger?”

“Quite possibly.”

“I can't lose him as well as Frederick. I can't . . .”

“Let me contact the police this very minute. I have a friend who's a sergeant at Snow Hill. I know he will be very keen to speak to you, so stay where you are. I'll call you straight back. Don't worry, we'll find Daniel soon enough.”

He replaced the receiver. Before he could call Matt, Tanfield placed a yellow piece of paper in front of him. Perhaps luck had not deserted him after all. It only took five words to save the day:

Johnny, breathing a sigh of relief, in too much of a hurry to wait for a lift, hurtled down the stairs to the foyer. There was no sign of the boy.

“Where's the young man who was waiting to see me?”

The doorman shrugged. Johnny ran over to the reception desk. “Well? Where is he? Daniel Callingham. He wanted to see me.”

“I'll thank you to keep your voice down, sir. He left a few moments ago with another gentleman.

“What did he look like?”

“Early twenties, fresh-faced.” The old soldier paused for effect. “There was one more thing: he was wearing a dog-collar.”

Johnny dashed out into Fleet Street. The rush hour was in full flow. All he could see was a mass of milling backs. What should he do? Call the cops now then follow his instinct, or race to Wardrobe Place straightaway? He felt sure that was where Daniel would be taken. The boy's life was at stake. He ran to the telephone exchange at the back of the building. Ignoring the protests of Doreen Roos, he demanded to be put through to Snow Hill. Matt had just gone off duty. He didn't trust anyone else at the station. His wish to see it through by himself had been granted.

The plain bogeys had a different canteen to the officers. It was somewhere they could take the weight off their feet and get any grievances off their chest without the risk of being overheard by their superiors. Only a couple of tables were occupied, but even so the hum of conversation died down when Matt marched straight into it. Herbert Watkiss, a cigarette dangling from his lip, was sitting alone. Matt was amused to see that he was flicking through the
Daily News
, but didn't show it.

“Have you got anything to say to me?”

“Nothing in particular.”

Matt bristled. “That's nothing in particular,
sarge
. Why are you giving Steadman such a hard time? He's done you no harm.”

“Never said he had. Needs you to stick up for him yet again, does he? Did he come crying to you? Matty, darling, that horrible Herbie's been calling me names.”

Matt grabbed his former friend round the throat – alliances forged during training rarely survived when only one party was promoted – and, using just one hand, dragged him to his feet.

“Keep your voice down,” growled Matt. He turned to the other table, which had fallen silent. “You lot – clear out.”

He waited for the men, muttering in disappointment, to disappear through the doors. The sharp-nosed woman behind the counter didn't need telling to make herself scarce. She and her tea-towel vanished into the kitchen.

“I'm more concerned about what you've been calling me,” said Matt. “Why would you think I'm his boyfriend?”

He loosened his grip slightly so that the gasping Watkiss could speak.

“I read his journal when you sent me round to get his clothes.” He lowered his eyes in shame at the confession. “Steadman thinks you're beautiful. I assumed he'd told you.”

“He hasn't – and he's not queer.”

“Well, what is he then? Only women are beautiful.”

“Who else have you told?”

“No one. I swear.”

“Keep it that way. Johnny's going through a bad time. The girl he wanted to marry has given him the elbow . . .” Watkiss thought better of making a wisecrack. “And this Bravard or whoever he is seems intent on killing him. Cut him some slack. You know what writers are like. I'll deal with it in my own way. And keep your opinions to yourself. They shouldn't interfere with police business.” He shook his head in disgust. “Reading other people's diaries? That's low, Herbie. I thought you were better than that.”

Two more constables, at the end of their shift, came into the mess. Matt let go of the coughing Watkiss and walked out.

“What?” said Watkiss to the pair of spectators. He wiped his eyes. His throat was on fire. “Never seen a lovers” tiff before?”

Johnny knew it would be quicker to go on foot rather than taking a taxi. In spite of the sultry heat he ran all the way, dodging dawdling pedestrians, and – ignoring horns, hooters and bicycle bells – switching to the gutter when the pavements were blocked. The drains smelled worse than ever. He cut across Ludgate Circus into Pilgrim Street and only slowed down when he reached Carter Lane. His overworked lungs felt as though they were banging against his healing ribs.

He thumped on the door of Number Five. When it opened, he pushed past Haggie and, wiping his face with a handkerchief, stopped by the picture of the Garden of Gethsemane – another scene of betrayal.

“Who d'you think you are, bursting in like this?” The dogsbody was indignant. “And stop dripping sweat on the floor. I polished it today.”

“Shut up, if you want to keep your job,” panted Johnny. “The police are on their way. One word from me and you'll also be charged with child abduction. Where is he?” The doorman hesitated. “Where is he?”

His shouting brought Adam Wauchope out of the dining room.

“Mr Steadman! What an unexpected pleasure. We're in here. Haggie, be a good chap and fetch another cup.”

Johnny followed the cleric into the dining room. Daniel was sitting at the table, looking scared.

“What's the matter?”

“Why didn't you wait for me?”

“I was worried about George. Adam told me that he was here, so there was no longer any need to bother you. I was going to leave another message, but Adam said there wasn't time.”

“I bet he did. I'm sorry, Daniel, I really am, but George is dead.”

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The colour drained from his face.

“He's lying, Daniel.” Wauchope moved towards Johnny. “How dare you come in here spreading such evil lies.”

“Shut the fuck up. Are you in on it too? Is there anyone in this house who doesn't like boys” bottoms?”

“Ironically enough, Yapp didn't.”

“Is that why he was killed?”

“The opposite, I'm afraid. Dr Callingham, having followed Yapp here, made the wrong diagnosis.”

“He thought Yapp was abusing Daniel?”

“Indeed. Father Gillespie will explain everything. He'll be here shortly.”

“I do need to speak to him, but I'll do it at my convenience, not his.”

“I'm awfully sorry, but I must insist that you wait.” As the pot-bellied priest moved towards him, Johnny put his hand in his pocket. The moment Wauchope laid a hand on him the cosh cracked his skull. The pompous priest crumpled to the floor.

“Come on, Daniel. We've got to get out of here.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You're not safe here. Why d'you think everyone's so keen for you not to talk to me? Why come to me at the
News
if you don't think I'm on the level?”

The boy got up from the table. Haggie came into the dining room carrying a cup and saucer. Seeing the unconscious man he knelt down beside him.

“What you gone and done that for? You could have killed him.”

“He's still breathing, more's the pity. Besides, he had it coming.”

Someone put a key into the lock of the front door. “Is the basement door open?”

The caretaker, glancing at Daniel, nodded. “Thank you. I'll make sure you're not implicated.” Johnny grabbed Daniel's arm and pulled him towards the kitchen stairs. “Don't make a sound.” Footsteps, followed by raised voices, could be heard as they sneaked out and ran towards the passage that would take them to St Andrew by the Wardrobe and, for the time being at least, a place of safety.

* * *

Joshua Bravard – he had never liked his first Christian name – refilled his glass with champagne. He was dressed in a silk bathrobe of a geometric pattern. The doors to the terrace, which had a splendid view of the Thames, were open. The curtains swayed in the welcome breeze. He picked up the telephone.

“Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Henry Simkins?”

“Yes, you do. Make it snappy. I'm off to the theatre.”

“Joshua Bravard here. Did you call me this afternoon?”

“No, I didn't.”

For once he was so surprised he was momentarily lost for words. “Thought not. Naughty Johnny. Trying to pull a fast one yet again. Would you like to teach him a lesson?”

“There's a lot of things I'd like to do to him.”

“It sounds as though you're a man after my own heart. I'm sure we'll get on swimmingly.”

“I assume you're not ready to give yourself up?”

“Never. And you'll never get to meet me if you don't understand that. As you know, I kill people who don't do exactly what I want.”

“So you're still planning to kill Steadman?”

“Of course. Would you like to watch?”

Simkins had many faults, but sadism wasn't one of them. The thought sickened him. Besides, he couldn't help liking Johnny. Surely the two of them together could defeat this maniac?

“I'd be delighted. Would I be able to write about it?”

“Of course. I'm relying on your powers of lurid description to make me infamous.”

“Where are you?”

“Before I tell you, I want your word that you'll come alone and not alert the police. We will meet in a public place so you have no need to be alarmed.”

“Very well. However, I shall leave an envelope with the address on my desk and give instructions that it be opened if I haven't telephoned by eleven this evening.”

“A wise move, if I may say so. I'm at the Savoy. I'll be in the American Bar. I'll no doubt recognise you from your byline photograph. A handsome fellow like you must be accustomed to fighting off the ladies.”

“Very kind of you to say so. What time?”

“Should we say seven thirty? We can have dinner in the Grill Room, if you wish.” An image of St Lawrence sprang into his mind. However, Simkins was not going to share his gruesome fate. He had something else in mind for him.

They caught a taxi in Queen Victoria Street. It was only when they were heading West, along the embankment, that Daniel spoke.

“Is it true?” His eyes begged Johnny to deny it. “I'm sorry, Daniel. He died last night.”

“I knew there was a good reason why he didn't turn up this morning.” Tears began to run down his face. He made no attempt to wipe them away. “I loved him so much.”

“Everything all right, Guvnor?” The cabbie met Johnny's eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“What's it look like? Just drive.”

The only safe place he could think of was Stone's mansion in Holland Park. He could hardly take Daniel home with him when Bravard was no doubt sharpening his knives at this very minute.

A maid opened the door. Daniel, overawed by the palatial surroundings, momentarily stopped sobbing. The chequered marble floor reminded him of St Paul's.