The Whispering Gallery (13 page)

Thursday, 8th July, 7.55 a.m.

There was no one in the library. Its stultifying silence cried out to be broken. Johnny, whistling “I Get a Kick out of You”, went straight to the Religion section and took down the
Catholic Martyrology
. There was nothing like a death threat to give one a zest for life.

He had caught the 6.50 to Cannon Street with Matt. His first night under the same roof as Lizzie had been a strange one. As he lay in the “spare bedroom” – the box room above the front door had already been turned into a nursery – he couldn't help wondering what the murmuring voices through the wall were talking about. Perhaps Matt was telling her about the postcard sent to Commander Inskip, although they rarely discussed Matt's work. Lizzie – for his sake rather than her own – insisted he leave behind the unending catalogue of desperate, depressing acts. She wanted their home to be a refuge, a place – far removed from the smoke and crime of the city – where they could bring up their newborn child in safety.

Ten saints shared the name Rufus. One had died alongside Zosimus, another beside Carpophorus, but only one had received a greeting from St Paul. However, his death was commemorated on 21st November. As soon as he saw the date 1st August he knew he'd found the right saint. This particular Rufus had been executed with several companions in Tomi, a city now in Romania. They had all been publicly vivisected.

For the first time Johnny felt a spasm of real fear. He pulled out a chair, scraping the parquet, and sat down with a grimace. He was not going to be cut open and his organs removed in public. Passers-by would immediately intervene – wouldn't they?

“Quiet please!” The admonition was followed by a giggle. Amy, her round eyes shining with mischief, popped her head into the cubicle. “You're an early bird. Ain't you got a life outside the office?”

“Not really.”

“That explains it. You spend more time in here than anyone else.”

He wasn't surprised – journalists generally assumed they knew more than they actually did.

“What about you? Does someone have your slippers warming by the fire when you get in?”

“Not in this weather. I live with my parents and two sisters – which is why I'm out most nights.”

“I'm sure your dance-card is always full.”

“There's the odd gap.” She touched her upswept hair. It must have taken ages to do.

“Are you flirting with me?” He had a black eye. She must be toying with him.

“D'you want me to be?”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.” She must have been at least ten years younger than him, but the way she parted her red lips and gazed into his eyes was as old as time itself. Blood flowed into his groin.

The frosted-glass doors swung open and Amy turned tail to greet the librarian. Johnny, feeling that he'd had a lucky escape, took the dingy stairs down to the news-room. There was too much to do. He could spend August fooling around with floozies – if he survived.

The red light above the panelled doors went out and the green one lit up. Johnny tapped on the polished oak and entered the inner sanctum of Victor Stone, editor of the
Daily News
. He was on one of his four telephones. Baize blinds shielded him from the blazing sun.

“I don't give two hoots if he is upset. It's our role to upset him. He should know that: it comes with the territory. Yes, yes, of course. It's in the diary: Boodle's, next week.” He slammed down the receiver. “Any idea who gave you that magnificent shiner yet?”

“No, sir.”

“I hear they're now threatening to do much worse.”

“Yes, sir. Herr Patsel's concern is most touching.”

The news editor had insisted on informing his superior of the death threat straightaway.

“Cut it out. He's just doing his job. It's taken a long time to lick you into shape and we don't want to lose you now.”

Stone, a devotee of callisthenics, spent a lot of his time keeping in shape too. One of his favourite sayings was “beauty hurts”.

“I hope you're right.”

“Postcards of saints, women's parts, a falling man – you're a magnet for trouble, Steadman.”

“Useful, sir, isn't it? I intend to clear up the unholy mess as soon as I can.”

“Obviously. Three weeks isn't long. It goes without saying that we'll do everything we can to help. You can always seek sanctuary in Holland Park if you feel your would-be assassin is getting too close. Honoria would be delighted to see you.” His wife had taken a shine to Johnny when he'd stayed at the Stones” in December.

“Thank you, sir. I'll only trouble you if it's absolutely necessary.

“It wouldn't be any trouble – at least, not for me.”

The noise of traffic drifted through the open windows. It was fainter on the seventh floor. Stone studied his protégé: he had followed and – from afar – guided the former office boy and cub up the rungs of the newspaper's ladder. Awkward customers – those who wouldn't take no for an answer – often made the best reporters.

“A barmy butcher, a falling doctor and a flattened priest. Can you handle both stories?”

“You can count on it. My injuries look worse than they are. Cracked ribs are more of an inconvenience than an impediment.”

“Sure you wouldn't like Blenkinsopp to assist you?”

“No thanks. He's busy investigating whether the increasing number of shoplifters really do suffer from kleptomania or are just common thieves. I work better by myself.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind. And don't leave the office without being photographed. Your black eye will add weight to the death threat. Try not to solve the mystery too soon.”

He was only half-joking. The paper's circulation was bound to climb as the day when Johnny's own circulation was in danger of being cut off for good drew ever nearer.

Johnny spent the rest of the morning writing the article which would, he hoped, appear on the front page of the next day's edition. He made much of the fact that the police were keeping him in the dark even though he had not only been attacked but was also being stalked by a potential assassin. Was this because they had no leads on the missing woman (or women), or because he had recently exposed rampant corruption within their ranks?

“Well done,” said PDQ. “This should certainly set the cat among the pigeons.”

“I'll have shot myself in the foot if it makes them take me into protective custody.”

“Fear not – we won't let them. Just don't give them a further excuse. What's your next move?”

“I need to interview George Fewtrell. I was chasing him when I got jumped. He works at St Vedast-alias-Foster.”

“Very well. Call the office every two hours – and don't go anywhere without letting someone know. Have you got a weapon?”

“Only my tongue.”

“You can't talk your way out of every situation. Here.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a leather cosh. Keep this in your pocket.”

“It's bloody heavy.”

“That's the point. It's filled with lead.”

“Where d'you get it from?”

“My father was a military policeman. Now you know why they call them coshers.”

It was too hot to hurry. Johnny, jacket over his shoulder, strolled up Ludgate Hill. Ahead loomed St Paul's, its black dome thrown into stark relief against the picture-book sky. Three domes created the illusion of a single structure. Could the three stories he was working on – Callingham's death, the postcards and his unprovoked attack – possibly be all part of the same story? The only concrete link between them was himself. It was enough to make anyone paranoid.

Deep in thought, he failed to see Fewtrell coming down the steps of the church, but the curate saw Johnny and fled into the urinal across the road. It was unoccupied. He watched Steadman enter St Vedast then scurried out, crossing the junction of Cheapside and Newgate Street, and disappeared into St Paul's Churchyard.

The church was empty. The three stained-glass windows behind the altar glowed red and green in the sunlight. Wren had certainly been a genius at creating an atmosphere. Whereas the monumental vastness of St Paul's provoked awe – even in a faithless soul like Johnny – a solemn sermon in stones – the intimate and ornate surroundings of St Vedast filled him with a mixture of mystery and tranquillity. He sat down for a minute, appreciating the shadowy coolness. It would be understandable for a man in his position to pray for deliverance, but he was not a hypocrite. He hadn't prayed seriously since his mother's agonising death and he was not going to start again now.

There was a collection box by the entrance. Johnny took out the key given to him by Father Gillespie and tried it in the lock.

“May I help you?”

Johnny swung round guiltily. The key wouldn't turn. “I was hoping to speak to George Fewtrell.”

“I hardly think he'd fit in there.” The scrawny old priest had the eyes of a Galapagos tortoise.

“So where is he?”

“May I ask what business you have with my curate?”

“I'm John Steadman from the
Daily News
. I believe he may have some information relating to the death of Graham Yapp.”

“Do you indeed? I consider that to be most unlikely.”

“They lived together.”

“I'm aware of that.” The hollow-cheeked man, hands clasped in front of him, stared at Johnny with undisguised animosity.

“So where is he?”

“He's about to go on retreat. Won't be back for a week.”

“Where?”

“I don't have to tell you that.”

“No, you don't.” Johnny, nettled, held up the key. “Father Gillespie gave me this. When we next meet – which will probably be in about ten minutes – I'll be sure to tell him how helpful you haven't been. God bless.”

He stormed out of the church, irritated that he was being given the run-around. Why were churchmen so reluctant to give a straight answer? They were no better than snake-oil salesmen, shameless pedlars of useless cures.

Johnny fared no better at St Paul's: Father Gillespie was unavailable. Furious at being thwarted once more, he cut through Dean's Court, passed the Controller's Office of the London Telephone Service, and turned left into Wardrobe Place.

“Blimey! What happened to you?” Haggie stood back to let him in.

“You lied to me.” He was in no mood for small talk. “Why didn't you tell me Fewtrell was here when I came back on Tuesday?”

“He asked me not to. What could I do? I'd be in Carey Street if I lost this job.” The housekeeper was embarrassed. “Come down to the kitchen. I've a cake in the oven.”

“Let me see their rooms first.”

“Mr Yapp's has been cleared out. Someone else is moving in next week.”

“And Fewtrell's? I presume he hasn't moved out?”

“No – although he is going away tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Search me.”

“So where is he now?”

“At work, as far as I know.”

“I've just come from St Vedast's. He wasn't there.”

“Doesn't mean he's not working: visiting the sick, feeding the poor, attending a meeting. This lot love their meetings.”

Hot air was the Church's stock-in-trade, thought Johnny. But he didn't say it.

“I'm not happy about this,” said Haggie, opening the door of the third-floor room. “How would you like it if someone invaded your privacy?”

“It happened only yesterday,” said Johnny. “Oh. Having an eventful week, aren't you?”

“You don't know the half of it.”

It was stifling in the small room under the eaves. The distempered walls were bare, apart from a crucifix hanging over the head of the single bed. The wardrobe contained clerical vestments and a cheap suit that looked as if it had been bought from a pay-as-you-wear shop. The chest of drawers appeared far more promising, but he had just opened the top drawer, which proved to be full of letters, when Haggie, suffering a sudden qualm of conscience, bundled him out of the room.

“I couldn't look George in the eye ever again if I let you rummage through his things.”

“And you don't?”

“Not ever. And I'll thank you not to question my honesty.” Huffing with indignation, the old man pushed him towards the stairs.

“I was beaten up and left for dead within seconds of leaving here on Tuesday evening,” said Johnny, wiping crumbs of walnut cake from round his mouth. “I was, as you know, chasing Fewtrell. Why is he so anxious to avoid me?”

“Only he can tell you that.”

“Has he had any visitors recently?”

“None that I know of – but don't forget, I go home at seven. Anything could happen after that.”

“Has he been behaving oddly?”

“No more than usual.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“He's not like the others. Can't put me finger on it. He's always been a bit cagey. Seeing you, though, certainly put the wind up him.”

“Glad to hear it. What about Corser and Wauchope?” They sounded like a pair of low comedians. “They been their usual obnoxious selves?”

“They're all right when you get to know them.”

“I've no intention of doing that. I got the impression they didn't much care for Fewtrell.”

“It's the same old story: they come from a good background. George is a kid from the back streets.”

“You mean their families have money.” It irritated Johnny how wealth and virtue were deemed by many to be inseparable. In his experience, they were mutually exclusive. “Why enter the Church if they don't need to work for a living?”

“Ain't you never heard of having a vocation?”

“Don't you mean vacation? It's not as if they ever have to break sweat.”