Ritual Murder (18 page)

“Wonder they bother locking up at all!” the Superintendent exclaimed. “I can see we'll have to send our Security Officer round for a chat with the Dean.”

Jurnet said, “My understanding is, they put their faith in a higher authority. But what it comes down to, sir, is, that a stranger wouldn't have time to go looking for a hiding place on spec. He'd
have
to know it beforehand.”

“Which narrows the field to how many, would you say?”

Jurnet, absorbed by this thesis, failed to pick up the hint of danger.

“An insider. Someone who knows the cathedral intimately. I won't go further than that.”

“Just as well, Ben.” The Superintendent picked up a paperback he had placed ready on the table. “
Cathedrans and the Cathedral
,” he read out the title printed in Gothic lettering above a representation of the FitzAlain crest. “Author, the Reverend Doctor Oswald Delf-Polesey. Published 1901. Reprinted 1979. The publishers tell me some 7,000 copies of the later edition have been sold. I purchased mine at the cathedral bookstall. Splendid value for 95p.”

Aware that Batterby, who lived for the day when he would be head of the CID, was looking smug, Jurnet kept his voice carefully non-committal.

“What does it say, sir?”

“Merely that all Cathedrans, almost from the time the good Bishop's tomb was erected, know about that removable grille. It seems that in less sceptical times the boys had a charming custom of sticking petitions into the skeleton's eye-sockets, thereby inviting its intervention with the powers above to get them a good mark in their examinations. About 150 years ago, some dear little fellows had an even better idea.” The Superintendent thumbed through the pages, seeking the quotation.

“‘At the beginning of Michaelmas Term, 1823, a boyish prank had unforeseen consequences. A new boy named Andrew Kettleby, a connection by marriage of the Buckworths of Hannerton Hall, was either invited or induced to enter the lower portion of the tomb, being assured that it was the practice of all new boys so to do; one that unfailingly brought them good luck and success in their studies. Once young Kettleby was within, however, his thoughtless schoolfellows replaced the metal grille (which could only be removed from without) and, whether by accident or design, did not return until the following day, by which time the unfortunate boy had lost his reason, and was obliged to spend the rest of his life in an institution for the insane.'”

The Superintendent looked up from his reading as Jack Ellers burst out, with Celtic passion, “Gagged him, they must have, or he'd have yelled the place down! Hope they thrashed the little buggers from here to Christmas.”

“The reverend doctor is silent on the subject. Merely that—” referring anew to the text—“‘As a result of this regrettable incident Lord Buckworth felt compelled to withdraw his annual Good Conduct prize to the School of books to the value of fifteen shillings and sixpence.'”

“So you see, Ben—” the Superintendent leaned forward, friendliness itself once the boot was in—“anybody who spends 95p at the bookstall can learn all about the secret of the Bishop's tomb. What's more, the editor of the 1979 edition—who, by the way, is none other than the present Dean—adds a helpful footnote specifying exactly which grille is the operative one, and letting the reader know that it remains in operation to this day. Of course, anyone who is, or ever was, at the Cathedran School will know without being told.”

Batterby put in demurely, “Claude Brinston's an Excathedran, as a matter of fact.”

“
And
Chesley Hayes,” added Hale.

The Superintendent observed, “I'm sure I don't know what we've done, here in Angleby, to be cursed with, not just one, but two native sons who are professed fascists and the leaders of political parties dedicated to racial and religious intolerance of the crudest and most objectionable kind.”

“Is there any other kind, sir?” Jurnet asked, all innocence.

“Quite right, Ben!” the Superintendent admitted instantly. “The sins one commits in the interests of a well-turned phrase! How about it, Dave? Have you turned up anything to suggest that either the English Men or the League of Patriots might be involved?”

Dave Batterby said, “Nothing you could call solid.” Admitting failure was not something that came easily to him. “Both organizations are getting maximum footage out of Arthur Cossey's death, the way, you might say, the Nazis did over the Reichstag fire. Since the punch-up in the Close the English Men've been acting like wounded heroes. Chaps that weren't within five miles of the place have been going about with their arms in a sling—”

“At least, with luck, we'll get some of them put away for a bit.”

“Fines and bound over, I'll take a bet!” Batterby's face mirrored his disgust. “Everyone saw on telly how that young American fellow started it.”

Jurnet, who had driven out to the hospital earlier that morning to find the pale, golden girl sitting by her unconscious husband's bedside, reading aloud to him the news of the day, said nothing; not even when Batterby, unable to purge his voice entirely of hope, added, “If he kicks the bucket, of course, that's a different ball game.” Demonstrating what a good fellow he was basically, Batterby went on, “It was Ben put us on to Joe Fisher. Not that he wasn't an old acquaintance, only politics was a new line, so far as we were concerned. Once Joe found out it wasn't a load of scrap I wanted to see him about, there was no stopping him. Seemed to think membership of the English Men gave him the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval as a pure-blooded Englishman, none of your foreign wogs with pig's piss in their veins—I'm quoting Joe's own words, sir.” The Superintendent bowed his head in acknowledgment. “But as to an actual link with the boy—” Batterby smiled at Jurnet across the table as he dumped the problem back in his colleague's lap—“once I found out Joe was lodging at Mrs Cossey's, I reckoned Ben would know what to do about him without any help from me.”

The Superintendent looked pleased.

“That's what I call a team! Everyone doing what he does best, and no treading on each other's toes! Only thing—” the tone hardened, the words took on an incisiveness that made his subordinates sit up straighter in their seats—“we've got to get a move on—you all know that, don't you? Not just because a child is dead, and we don't want any more dead like him. Not just because we've got reporters buzzing round the door like bluebottles on a bit of cat's-meat; but because, while we're hanging about, taking our time, the whole city's going bad on us, as if the last eight and a half centuries had never happened. As if the question is:
is
Angleby, or is it not, a civilized place for civilized people to live in?”

As always, when the fair name of his native city was called into question, Ben Jurnet was moved to protest.

“Sir, if the whole shoot of'em, English Men and League of Patriots together, comes to more than five or six hundred all told, I'll be surprised.”

“Six hundred rotten apples are more than enough to turn the other 120,000 rotten, given them the chance. I tell you, there's an atmosphere. Don't tell me you haven't noticed.”

Sid Hale took out a sheet of paper.

“I've noticed,” he said. His face was that of a man saddened by the world's ways, but never surprised by them.

The sheet of paper was a poster, jag-edged from having been ripped from its moorings.

ENGLAND FOR THE ENGLISH!

Hale said, “There were twenty-seven of 'em stuck round the Market this morning.”

The Superintendent instructed him, “Tell the others about Mr Cecil Baumann.”

Jurnet looked up sharply. Mr Baumann was the chairman of the honorary officers of the synagogue, a twinkling little man with a store of Jewish stories which Jurnet, as a candidate for conversion, could not but feel were some kind of test. The detective always laughed, whether he saw the joke or not, lest Mr Baumann raise the imsuperable objection: how can we let anyone become a Jew who doesn't understand Jewish humour?

Sid Hale turned over the pages of his note book.

“He owns a dress shop in Bullen Street. This morning, while his wife was out buying stock and his assistant had gone across the street to get some coffee and sandwiches, two girls accompanied by a youth entered the shop. As Mr Baumann caters exclusively for outsizes he immediately told the girls there was nothing there to interest them. Their answer was to start pulling clothes off the hangers and throwing them on the floor. When Mr Baumann remonstrated, the youth gave him a black eye, and then took out a flick knife with which he threatened to slit his throat if he called for help. At that point, the sales assistant, returning with the coffee and sandwiches, found a second youth outside the shop engaged in spraying the word YID on the shop window. Taking in the situation she prised off the top of one of the coffee cartons and flung the contents over the youth's head. His screams brought the other three running out on to the pavement, where PC Bly, who had also heard the noise, was able to apprehend the scalded youth and one of the girls. At the station, the two refused to give their names, merely stating that they were members of the League of Patriots making a gesture.”

Dave Batterby commented, without noticeable regret, “Chesley'll cry. Chesley always cries when something goes wrong.”

“Wrong?” echoed the Superintendent. “I should have thought, that, from Hayes's point of view, it's gone completely right. Acres of publicity, hundred of pounds worth of damage, a Jew terrorized— No, I shouldn't have said that—” He broke off with a chuckle. “Do you know what Mr Baumann did when I arrived at his shop, and saw the mess, and was properly horrified? One eye was out like a balloon, a couple of his front teeth were missing, and he slapped me on the back and said, ‘The grass is still green, the sun still shines. Don't
worry!
'”

Sid Hale persisted, “Chesley will, though. Worry. It doesn't take much to make Chesley take on. Like that brick through the Weisingers' window. From what I hear, that was League of Patriots too.”

The Superintendent said, “Hearing's not enough, Sid.”

“Don't I know it, sir! What I meant was, they were all set to go public. Phone the papers, claim responsibility. Seems Chesley nearly bust a gut when he saw Brinston and the English Men making the big time on TV and felt he had to dream up something pronto to put the L of P on the map. Trouble was, he chose the wrong target. Apparently it dawned on him too late that the Weisingers are so well-thought of locally that claiming the credit for wrecking their place would only do him and his outfit more harm than good.”

“Speaking for myself and off the record,” said the Superintendent, “as one who believes the Weisingers' petits-fours to be a foretaste of heaven, I'd give a lot to get the mindless lout who threw that particular brick.”

“Not mindless enough, sir, that's the trouble.” That from Batterby. “There's at least two shopkeepers live over their premises in Shire Street who heard the breaking glass, looked out of the window and saw who it was running away. Two men, they say—and that's all they say, because they know the louts aren't so mindless that, if they say any more, they won't get a brick through their own windows, if not worse.”

“That's why we've got to get our hands on whoever killed Arthur Cossey. To put a stop to all this once and for all.” The Superintendent looked round at his helpers. “Or even if it doesn't.”

The Market Place, as ever, was full of life and colour. Stalls with striped awnings; fruit and vegetables in mouth-watering heaps; pots and pans and plastic tat; T-shirts swinging in the breeze. Wah-wah of pop music; twitter of budgerigars; patter of the travelling men who sold crockery and yard goods as if they were rehearsing for the halls: Norfolk voices curving up and over towards the end of every sentence like combers homing to the beach. Vinegar-spiced cockle stalls; chips frying; flower fragrance; rotting cabbage leaves.

Glad that he had left his car in the station car-park, Jurnet drew a deep breath.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

He felt a great need for Miriam, for love and reassurance, and settled for what was available.

“Fancy a bag of chips?”

“Rosie'd kill me,” Sergeant Ellers replied. “The way she goes on about calories, you'd think they were catching. I could screw every WPC on the Force and there'd be less of a carry-on.”

“Please yourself.” Jurnet stopped at the chip stall, made his purchase, added salt and vinegar, and took his first bite. Hot and tasty, if it wasn't as comforting as love, it was a good deal less demanding. He finished the chip and took a second.

Jack Ellers mewed plaintively, “I thought you were going to cajole me!”

“In full daylight! I don't see why I should get into Rosie's bad books on your account. If you want to sell your soul for a mess of chippage, let it be on your own conscience.”

“On my conscience,” returned Ellers, “I wouldn't worry. As my old granny used to say, we are all sinners, the Lord be praised. It's on my bloody waistline! Ah well—” the little Welshman reached for a chip, ate it, and helped himself to another—“we can't all be tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Oh ah,” said Jurnet.

The detective felt considerably cheered. Wonderful what a few slivers of spud dunked in hot grease could do for your
weltanschauung
, if that was what it was, or even if it wasn't. Who the hell did the Super think he was, to label the lovely city, as it might be an old map, “Here be Corruption”?

The euphoria lasted until the chips were gone, and for some distance thereafter. It was only when following round the walls of the Close, all the buildings turned inward, their backs to the city like an architectural insult, that the uncertainty and the unhappiness flooded back in full spate. Bits of cathedral roof, turrets and pinnacles, filled in the random spaces; while, above, the pigeons still circled the steeple, all going clockwise, like time itself.