The Whispering Gallery (21 page)

“Johnny! What a lovely surprise!” Honoria Stone threw her arms around him. “Victor said you'd declined the invitation. And who do we have here?”

“This is Daniel Callingham. He needs somewhere to spend the night. It isn't safe for him to go home.”

“From what I've been hearing, that makes two of you.”

“Indeed. Daniel's just had some very bad news. A friend of his died today.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Daniel.” It was his turn to be pressed to her breast. However, he put his arms round his hostess and started to cry again. Honoria stroked his curly hair. “We should call his mother.”

“May I speak to her first?”

Honoria nodded her approval. Johnny entered the kiosk under the stairs.

“Mrs Callingham. It's John Steadman. Daniel is safe and well.”

“Thank God.” God had nothing to do with it, thought Johnny. “Can I speak to him?”

“Of course. For both your sakes, I think it wise if you remain ignorant of where we are until tomorrow. Is there someone who can stay with you this evening?”

“There's my sister – if you think it's absolutely necessary.”

“Whoever murdered George is a desperate man. His life depends on Daniel maintaining his silence. He'll do anything to ensure that.”

“So you're sure George was killed? Very well.”

“My guess is that it will all be over tomorrow and we'll know then the exact reason why your husband died.”

“Thank you, Mr Steadman. I underestimated you.”

“Here's Daniel.”

While Daniel tried to reassure his mother, Honoria studied Johnny like a matron assessing whether a boy was fit enough to start a new term at boarding school.

“You've lost weight, Johnny.”

“Loss seems to have become my speciality of late.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. You must tell me all about it after dinner. Let me go and make the necessary arrangements for your stay and we'll talk later.”

“There's no reason for me to stay.”

“Yes there is. The boy needs you. He's in a house full of strangers.” As always, she was right. Her unconditional kindness reminded him of his own mother.

Daniel and Johnny waited in the drawing room. “Everyone's been lying to you,” said Daniel. “It happens all the time,” said Johnny. “What have you been lying about?”

“The key you showed me at my father's funeral. It was how George and I used to meet. There's a tunnel that connects St Paul's and St Vedast's. It's not very long. It runs from crypt to crypt. There's a door behind an arras in St Vedast's.”

“Why would Father Gillespie give it to me?”

“He was trying to cast suspicion on George.”

“Well, he was molesting you.”

“He wasn't! We were making love. I seduced him. Gillespie's the molester.”

“What?”

“He found out about me and George. He said he'd tell the police if George refused to share me with him. He fucked me every Wednesday afternoon in George's room at Wardrobe Place. It drove George mad.”

“I'm not surprised. Did your father know this?”

“He suspected that I was having sex with a man, but I swore it wasn't George. I knew he'd stop me seeing him if I did. He said I was mentally ill. He threatened to send me away to school in France. I said I'd kill myself if he did.”

“Can you imagine how much that must have hurt him?”

“He was hurting me! He couldn't accept that George and I loved each other. He said that boys often developed crushes on other boys at my time of life but they soon grew out of them. He even said he'd fallen for a boy at school but, until that moment, hadn't thought of him for years.”

“Did you know he was going to kill Father Yapp?”

“Of course not. I was shocked when he said he'd followed me to Wardrobe Place. He planned to force him to resign but was stymied when Yapp denied everything. What else could he do? He was innocent. My father didn't believe him, but he was afraid that if he went ahead and exposed him the newspapers would get hold of the story and ruin all our lives. After all, Greek love is against the law. It's ridiculous – you can't legislate for human nature.”

“Why protect Gillespie?”

“I had to protect him to protect George. I didn't want George to lose his job and go to prison. That's why I let Father Gillespie fuck me.”

“That's a great sacrifice for a boy of your age to make. You must have really loved George.”

“I still do.” He started to cry again. “I don't know what I'm going to do without him. I'll never find someone as good as him.”

“Now that George is out of harm's way, we can ensure Gillespie hangs for what he's done. He's a rapist and a murderer.”

“He didn't rape me – I let him do it.”

“It's rape– and sodomy.”

“You still don't understand, do you?” The boy wiped his face. “I liked it.”

Johnny was shocked. Why were public schoolboys so precociously self-assured? He cast his mind back to when he'd been fifteen: there were times when he was so randy he'd have fucked almost anything. However, apart from pleasuring himself, he'd never given in to his rampant libido.

“You were betraying your boyfriend with a man older than your father.”

“I had no choice. By betraying George, I was saving him.”

“Daniel, I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone before . . .” Perhaps his confession would prompt the boy to come clean about how he really felt. “Before I do, you must promise not to repeat it.”

“I like secrets. Go on. I won't spill the beans. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I was raped by a policeman in December. It was the most painful experience of my life. It wasn't about sex. It was about domination.” Paul Bern, Jean Harlow's husband, sprang to mind. Being sodomised was far more humiliating than blowing out your brains. “My guess is that Gillespie was acting out of spite. He took pleasure in making George suffer. I think George reached the end of his tether. He realised that your father had killed the wrong man and confronted Gillespie, who had no choice but to silence him.”

“I'm very sorry that you were raped – don't take this the wrong way, but there's plenty of men out there who'd like to do the same to you – but Gillespie didn't hurt me. I wish my father had succeeded in killing him, though. If he'd killed the right man, George and I could have lived happily ever after.”

Johnny doubted that very much: most homosexuals, forced to pretend they were something they were not, lived loveless lives of misery and despair.

“Why d'you think your father chose such a haphazard way of killing Yapp?”

“It worked, didn't it? Where better to do the deed than the scene of the so-called crime? Well, the seduction at least. My father couldn't accept what I am. He said I'd grow out of it. He seemed to shrivel when I laughed in his face. Perhaps he blamed himself. I rather admire him for, as it were, killing two birds with one stone. He punished the man he thought had polluted his son and ended his own life at the same time.”

“Perhaps he was afraid of facing the death penalty.” If you were contemplating murder, thought Johnny, any scruples about committing suicide would pale into insignificance.

“Or he couldn't live with the thought that his son was a shirt-lifter.” Johnny stared at the boy's tear-stained face. There was defiance in his bloodshot eyes. He hoped it was shock that explained his apparent callousness. “At least this way he spared my mother the stigma of suicide. She still thinks it was just a terrible accident.”

“Aren't you going to tell her the truth?”

“Why should I? She won't like it.”

“Would you rather she read about it in the
Daily News
?”

“Can't you expose Gillespie without bringing me or my father into it?”

“I don't know, Daniel. Once Gillespie is arrested, God knows what he'll tell the police or say in court. I'll do my best.”

“I'd be very grateful.” The boy's smile seemed to light up the room. It was like a candle to a moth.

“Why did you come to see me at the
News
this evening?”

“I couldn't think who else to turn to. I knew something must have happened to George. He never let me down. I'll never stop loving him.”

“Of course you won't – but George wouldn't want you to spend your life in mourning. Believe me, you'll meet other people – and fall in love with some of them – but your life will be so much easier if you fall for a woman. Don't you want to have children one day?”

Daniel shook his head. “I don't think so. Men can't have babies, can they? Besides, I'm still a kid, and look at the trouble I've caused. I do know what I am. George showed me how beautiful forbidden love can be. Whatever the bible says, and even though I've lost George, I intend to regain that paradise.”

Wednesday, 14th July, 8.15 a.m.

Johnny studied the cherub behind the crossed swords: the symbol of St Paul. Was the child being protected by the weapons, or a prisoner of them? Frederick Callingham must have been temporarily out of his mind – but then, weren't all suicides? Was their self-destruction an admission of defeat, atoning for a frightful wrong, or the ultimate act of self-possession? Perhaps Callingham believed he was protecting his son whether or not he succeeded in flattening his abuser. Perhaps he was afraid of what he would do if Daniel insisted on sticking to the wayward path he had chosen. Fathers and sons: Johnny always felt at a disadvantage when fatherhood was in the frame.
I'm sorry .
. . Perhaps Callingham had been apologising for being a bad father. It was futile trying to second-guess the dead doctor. However, the misguided man deserved his compassion: a physician unable to heal himself.

The cathedral was gradually coming to life. Its calm interior subtly altered as its staff – who appeared like ants from his viewpoint in the Whispering Gallery – scurried hither and thither. The building was a massive machine – a wishing machine – that required constant maintenance. The fact that something so substantial could be built out of something so flimsy and invisible – faith – was a miracle in itself. Wren, a conjuror in stone, had pulled off a magnificent confidence trick. As his son was supposed to have said:
Si monumentum requiris, circumspice
. If you require a monument, look around. God did not exist, so it was nothing more than an extravagant folly, but even so it was a triumphal tribute to the works of man.

What would he leave behind if Bravard had his way? A journal – juicy enough in parts – and an incomplete novel. Memories that would gradually fade in the minds of Matt and Lizzie. A thousand newspaper cuttings that would eventually yellow and crumble.

“Coo-ee!”

The cry echoed round the dome. Father Gillespie, who had just come into view, froze along with the other do-gooders. He beckoned Johnny to come down. Johnny shook his head. The mountain would have to come to Mohammed. He smiled at the inappropriateness of the phrase.

The deacon was out of breath when he emerged on to the gallery.

“I was wondering when you'd turn up.”

“Why haven't you run away?”

“Where to?”

“Your sort always have somewhere to hole up.”

“My sort?”

“Child abusers. Paedophiles.”

“I didn't do anything to Daniel that Fewtrell hadn't already done.”

“That's no excuse. The boys loved each other.”

“So they said. In my experience, at that age there's very little difference between love and lust.”

“How many others have there been?”

“I've lost count.”

Johnny felt physically sick. “Did Yapp know what was going on?”

“He didn't have a clue. Haggie is a whiz at dealing with dirty laundry. When Callingham turned up on the doorstep, Graham denied everything – which just made him seem more guilty.”

“Why Daniel?”

“His feelings for George made him more – now what's the word . . .? – compliant.”

“He's only fifteen!”

“That's old enough to bleed.”

Anger surged through Johnny's veins. “How can you say such a thing? You're a man of God.”

“Lucifer was the most beautiful of the angels.”

“Remember that when you're getting the shit kicked out of you in Pentonville.”

“What makes you think I'm going to prison? You've only got the word of a deranged boy who has lost both his father and friend.”

“And the testimonies of Wauchope, Corser and Haggie.” He was sure they would all sing like canaries to save their own necks. “And the blood on the steps of the crypt in St Vedast and in the tunnel leading from it.”

That morning Johnny had entered the cathedral via the tunnel to ensure that Daniel was telling the truth. It was an unpleasant place for trysts – dark, damp and festooned with cobwebs. Perhaps the besotted boys, as if to prove that love is blind, hadn't noticed.

“You made, shall we say, a clerical error in not cleaning it up. Were you too proud? You know what comes after pride.”

The priest said nothing – a silent acknowledgment of his mistake.

“I told you once I knew where the key fitted I'd have the whole story. Why did you give it to me?”

“To throw you off the scent. I thought it would lead you to Fewtrell.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“He attacked me. It was self-defence. I may be old, but I didn't just murmur a few words over mass graves in the war. I fought hand to hand with the Bosch.” He smiled at a sudden memory. “Some of them were so young – and beautiful. It's not happenstance that angels have blond hair and blue eyes.”

Johnny thought of Matt lying on the pillow beside him. He was no angel.

“How did you know Daniel would be at the offices of the
News
yesterday?”

“I didn't. I sent Wauchope to fetch you. It seems that someone else is out to kill you so I thought I'd do us both a favour.”

A terrifying thought struck Johnny. Were two people really after him? There was no such thing as a coincidence. Could it be Gillespie who had sent him the parcels? Had he set up Bravard as a scapegoat, a fall guy? Could the two men have met during the war? Did Gillespie know that Bravard would soon be safe and sound in Switzerland? The voice he heard on the telephone in St John's Square could have been Gillespie's. The first parcel had arrived two days after Callingham fell from the gallery – but the first postcard had already been sent by then. Although he wasn't a left-footer the priest would know all about Catholic saints – but Gillespie wasn't interested in women. Then again, chopping them up was hardly a sign of affection.

“Did you attack me last Tuesday?” He stepped away from Gillespie and grabbed the railings.

“Alas, that was nothing to do with me. I can't imagine there's a shortage of people who'd like to knock your block off.” He took a step towards him. “Why are you trembling, Steadman? Death is nothing to be afraid of. As it says over the entrance here:
Resurgam
– I will rise again.”

“Thank you, but I've no intention of falling. You should be thinking of your own skin. If there's a hell, you'll be there in seconds.” Johnny nodded at the two policemen who had started walking in opposite directions round the gallery.

“Ah. I see you brought the cavalry. Pity: all I did was protect myself from a child molester.”

“It takes one to know one. You stood by and watched while Yapp died for your sins.”

“I thought you were a non-believer.” He took another step forward. Johnny stood his ground. If it came to it, he would shove the devil over the banister. “What's to stop me taking you with me?” Gillespie's eyes burned with fury, not fear.

“This,” said Johnny, producing the cosh. He slapped the life-preserver in the palm of his hand. It made a reassuring sound. He was itching to use it. “Do you know what fishermen call the club they use to kill fish? A priest.” He raised his arm. “This is for Daniel and George.”

Gillespie, however, refused to give him the satisfaction. He glanced at the two policemen, glared at Johnny and snarled, “Fuck you” then climbed over the railings.

“Wait!” said Johnny. “Did you kill the missing women? Do you know a Joshua Bravard?”

Gillespie whispered something. Johnny, eager to hear, was about to step forward but, before he could do so, found himself held back by Matt's strong arms. Before he too could be grabbed, Gillespie let go of the railings and took the plunge.