The Whispering Gallery (7 page)

Three hours later Johnny returned to Wardrobe Place. A muffled din from the nearby printing works revealed that the early editions of the next day's newspapers had already gone to press.

PDQ had told him to hang fire on the story of the gruesome bouquet. A body of a young female, with or without a missing limb, had still not been reported. Johnny's sole contribution to the evening edition was a paragraph identifying the man who had plunged to his death in St Paul's on Saturday. Simkins, who had written a similar item in the
Chronicle
, would be pleased at his apparent failure to land a scoop.

A thorough search of his desk failed to unearth any more postcards of obscure saints or anything else that might have been sent by the lunatic with beauty on the brain. However, beneath the mess of discarded type-scripts, cuttings and invitations – to press conferences, parties, tree-plantings, unveilings and openings – he did find a sub-layer of paper-clips, treasury tags, rubber bands, pencil-shavings, crumbs and fluff. He had emptied the drawers when he inherited Bill's desk. It was astonishing, and a little disgusting, how much detritus had accumulated in three months. This was not the sort of muck-raking he enjoyed.

The only connection he could see between Frederick Callingham and Graham Yapp was St Paul's – and it was more than tenuous. So far Yapp was defined by his job: he was what he did. Johnny realised the same could be said of him: but there was more to him than crime-reporting, even if it did consume most of his life. As well as being a newspaperman he was an only child, a friend and lover – though he was trying not to think about Stella at the moment. Yapp had to have been more than just a shuffler of sheet music.

Johnny grasped the brass turban and knocked on the door.

The man in the broad-brimmed sunhat and dark glasses picked up a copy of the
News
on the way to the cinema. He never ventured far in daylight. The Globe was only a three-minute walk away from St John's Square on the corner of Skinner Street opposite the public library.

Before he entered the picture house, the man dodged into Northampton Buildings across the road and, sitting at the top of the coal-cellar steps – his back to any unlikely passers-by – hurriedly leafed through the paper. When he did not find what he was looking for he cursed and went through the rag again with more care. No, his gift had been ignored. He flung the newspaper down the steps.

The Globe, formerly the People's Picture Palace, was an archetypal fleapit which actually made him glad its tip-up seats, instead of being upholstered, were made of slatted wood. The barn-like auditorium was similarly devoid of embellishment. A female attendant in a tatty excuse for a uniform walked down the aisle spraying a concoction of water and scent that simply added to the soupy atmosphere.

The manager, in a desperate – or ironic – bid to boost his dwindling box office returns, had selected
Heat Wave
as the main feature. The man had no desire to see Albert Burdon and Anna Lee warble their way through the dismal comedy. It was the audience, a dozen lost souls, that interested him. The flickering light cast the upturned faces in silver. One of them made his heartbeat quicken.

Stella, still lying on her bed, sighed and turned over. She wiped her face with a damp flannel. The flimsy, floral-patterned curtains swayed in a soft breeze that brought with it a faint hint of river-stink. According to her oval Waterbury wristwatch – a present from Johnny – it was already after seven yet hardly any cooler.

The roar of well-oiled conversation two floors below suggested they had a full house tonight. She was much better physically now – the stabbing pain had been replaced by a dull ache – but mentally she felt wretched. She seethed with self-recrimination. Her much-prized independence – not to say her life – had been in jeopardy.

There was a tap on the door. Her mother, not waiting for a reply, came in.

“You've got a visitor.” Stella sat up, swinging her bare legs over the edge of the bed. She was panic-stricken.

“Please tell me it's not Johnny. He's the last person I need to see.”

“He should be the first, though, shouldn't he?” Dolly's anger had given way to bitter disappointment. “You said it was different this time. You said he was Mr Right.”

“Well, I was wrong.” She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. She must look an utter fright. “Who is it?”

“See for yourself. I've shown him into the parlour.” She turned on her heels and clomped wearily back to the bar.

Stella spent ten minutes painting her face – Johnny called it gilding the lily – before putting on a pink-and-white candy-striped dress that showed off her slender figure. The frock belled out as she twirled in front of the mirror. It was all about appearances.

As she glided down the stairs, finally deigning to welcome her gentleman caller, she found herself wishing that everything could be repaired so easily.

Haggie, the sleeves of his collarless shirt rolled up, nodded towards one of the doors on the left. An aroma of braising steak and boiled cabbage made Johnny's stomach rumble. A bacon sandwich and a slice of cake was not enough for a working man – but it was more than many people had in a day.

“I'll leave the introductions to you,” said the housekeeper. “Don't worry, you're expected. As soon as I've done the dishes, I'm off.” He skedaddled back to the scullery.

Two men, both in clerical garb, were drinking coffee at a circular dining table. They exuded an air of post-prandial satisfaction. It was all right for some. They were housed by the Church of England, fed and watered by the Church of England and even clothed by the Church of England – albeit in frocks. Furthermore, instead of paying for all this they received salaries as well. No wonder the collection plate was always being passed round.

The sinecurists did not get up when he entered.

“Evening, gents. Sorry to disturb you. I'm John Steadman from the
Daily News
.”

The priests – with their identical short back and sides, freshly shaven cheeks and shining eyes – might have been real siblings rather than mere Christian brothers. They were no older than he was, but their smug, half-mocking attitude made them seem prematurely middle-aged. They had got their feet under the table – literally – and had no intention of moving. Johnny felt like punching them. Would they hit back or turn the other cheek?

The one that was smoking put down his coffee cup. “I'm Jabez Corser and this is Adam Wauchope.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his colleague. “No need for titles here. We're not at work now. Do sit down. Would you care for some coffee? I believe there's some left. Haggie can always make a fresh pot.”

“No thanks.” Johnny sat down between the two men. Wauchope, eyes half-closed, had his hands folded over an incipient bay window. If it was an attempt to convey disinterest, it wasn't working. “Where's your house-mate?”

“Fewtrell? He couldn't wait, I'm afraid. Parochial business.” Corser sighed as if to imply the Lord was a harsh taskmaster. “I believe you met him this afternoon.”

“Yes, but he didn't have time for a chat. Apparently.”

“Why are you so interested in Georgie?” Wauchope refilled his own cup. “Aren't we good enough for you?”

Johnny ignored the question. “Does he work at St Paul's?”

“Hardly. That's my privilege. Georgie's attached to St Vedast-alias-Foster.”

“That's in Foster Lane, I presume?”

The church and its Baroque steeple stood in the shadow of the cathedral.

“Spot on. Not just a pretty face, are you?”

“So why d'you think poor old Yapp was murdered?” said Corser. “You wouldn't be here if you thought his death a tragic accident.”

“An act of God,” added Wauchope. “He has such mysterious ways.” The flippant remark betrayed a certain lack of faith. Perhaps he was just trying to rile Johnny.

“Can you think of anyone who might have held a grudge against him?” Johnny took out his notebook.

“Absolutely not. Graham wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a fellow human being,” said Wauchope. “He was meek and mild all the way through – just like a mug of Horlicks.”

Johnny bit his tongue. What did this pair know about “night starvation”? The malted drink was said to stave off the non-existent phenomenon. Then again, they knew all about marketing something that did not exist.

“Was he a popular man?”

“Not exactly popular,” said Corser. “But not unpopular either. He kept himself to himself.”

“His life was like his death,” said Wauchope. “It scarcely left a ripple.”

“Was he close to anyone in particular?”

“You mean a lady friend?” asked Corser. “If you'd met him, you'd know what a ridiculous question that is.”

“Why's it ridiculous?”

“He wasn't exactly a catch,” said Wauchope. “He was interested in spiritual matters, not his personal appearance.”

Johnny recalled the hole in Yapp's shoe. “Only superficial people don't judge by appearances,” said Corser.

“I say, Jabez, that's very good. Too good for you. Who said that?”

“Oscar Wilde,” said Johnny.

“Ten out of ten,” said Corser. He didn't bother to mask his surprise. “Where did you go to school?”

“Nowhere.” Johnny was used to such queries. They were put-downs, attempts to reinforce the pecking order. “Essex Road School for Boys.”

“Ah,” said Wauchope. “I suppose you wouldn't be a journalist if you'd gone to Winchester or Rugby.”

“There are plenty of public school boys in Fleet Street.”

“He's right,” said Corser. “D'you know Henry Simkins?”

“Only too well,” said Johnny. “He was at Westminster College the same time as me. His father's an MP.”

“I know. Any idea who's Yapp's next of kin?”

“There isn't one,” said Wauchope. “Father Gillespie told me this afternoon. He was hoping to make the funeral arrangements, but the police are refusing to release the body.”

“So you're not alone in suspecting foul play,” said Corser.

Johnny was pleased: it meant that the cops were still investigating Callingham's demise. His wife would have to wait to place her death notice in
The Times
.

“Does the name Frederick Callingham ring a bell?” The two priests looked at each other.

“No,” said Corser.

“No,” said Wauchope. “Who is he?”

“He was the man who killed Yapp.”

“Ah,” said Wauchope. “Gillespie said it was a suicide.”

“Congregations are falling across the City,” said Corser with a poker-face.

“I would have thought the threat of another world war would be good for the prayer business,” said Johnny.

“You can pray anywhere,” replied Corser. “Where do you work?”

“St Lawrence Jewry in Gresham Street.”

“Do either of you recognise this?” Johnny produced the key.

“No,” said Corser. “No,” said Wauchope. “Where did you find it?”

“I didn't find it,” said Johnny. “It turned up in the collection box at the cathedral on Saturday. Take a closer look.”

“There's no need.” Corser held up a key-ring. “All present and correct.”

“Well, if there's nothing else . . .” said Wauchope. He got to his feet and strolled over to the window.

Corser, while Johnny's attention was diverted, leaned over and grabbed his notebook. Unable to decipher the lines and squiggles, he threw it back across the table.

“That's another reason why shorthand is so useful,” said Johnny.

The basement door closed. Wauchope's back stiffened. Was Haggie on his way home to his wife? No, Johnny could hear him still clattering away downstairs. He rushed to the window.

George Fewtrell was hurrying towards St Andrew's. Johnny grabbed his notebook – “I thought you lot were not supposed to bear false witness” – and dashed down the stairs to the basement. The housekeeper came out of the kitchen.

“You should have told me he was here!” Johnny didn't wait for an answer.

The tablecloths had been taken in but a few items of laundry still hung in the muggy air. Johnny shoved them aside and ran down the passage that led to the church. He tore round the corner of the dog-leg totally unprepared for the waiting fist and the cold brass knuckleduster.

Tuesday, 6th July, 12.05 a.m.

The bells of St Andrew by the Wardrobe brought him round. As they tolled midnight they were joined by the bells of other Wren churches, the doleful carillon growing in number and volume, slowly spreading through the breathless air, heralding another day of stress and heat-stroke, swelling until the bells seemed to be ringing inside his throbbing head. He made no attempt to get up. The clappers fell silent and unconsciousness reclaimed him.

It was only when something started licking his face – a strong tongue rasping his cheeks, hot death-breath filling his nostrils – that Johnny opened his eyes. What he saw was enough to make him sit up and yell – in pain and surprise. His legs kicked out ineffectually as he scrabbled back against the wall. With a backward glance – the bottomless black in the amber eyes betraying no fear – the fox slunk off in search of easier prey.

Someone had given him a right going-over. His head felt as if it had been stamped on. His nose was bleeding – the blood must have been what attracted Reynard – and, judging from his difficulty in breathing, at least a couple of ribs were cracked. His clothes – but not the ground – were damp. Sweat? He sniffed his fingers gingerly. Unfortunately not. The bastard or bastards had pissed on him. Foxes didn't eat asparagus.

Wincing and cursing, he dragged himself upright and leaned against the wall. He swore even more when he realised his wallet and notebook had gone. The key was still in his pocket though. Why hadn't it been taken? Perhaps his assault had nothing to do with the Callingham case or George Fewtrell. The police had said he was a target. Nevertheless, what had he done to deserve this? To urinate on someone was to show them utter contempt. Anger stung him into action. He had to get out of these clothes.

Wardrobe Place was round the corner but he wasn't going to let Corser or Wauchope see him like this. Besides, he wouldn't accept charity from a pair of liars. Actually, when he thought about it, they hadn't lied: they had only misled him. Corser's reply to the question of Fewtrell's whereabouts – “He couldn't wait, I'm afraid” – was worthy of a Jesuit. It wasn't the same as saying: “He's already left.” Similarly, “parochial business” could hide a multitude of sins. He needed to grill the priests again. An unchristian image of St Lawrence on the gridiron came to mind. For now though he would let the sleeping dog-collars lie.

What about The Cock? Smithfield was a lot closer than Islington. He would no doubt be calling on the Bennions later in the day. There was no point in disturbing them now. He could just see Stella's father staring at him in dismay, thinking how could he possibly look after his daughter when he couldn't even look after himself. No, the sensible thing was to go across the road from the pub and use the emergency department at Bart's. The
News
would pay.

He saw stars when he started walking, even though his eyes were on the ground. The dizziness and nausea came in waves. He hugged himself but his ribs stabbed him viciously each time he stumbled. It was impossible to take more than the shallowest of breaths.

St Andrew's Hill seemed far steeper than he remembered. As he crossed Carter Lane and entered Creed Lane, which would take him up to St Paul's, he heard the welcome sound of a cab approaching. Raising his arm caused more pain, but the thought of his wounds being dressed by a sexy, sympathetic nurse gave him strength. The lane was badly lit, and the driver didn't appear to have spotted him, so he stepped off the pavement and, wincing once again, waved at the taxi. The cab was on the point of swerving out of the way when its brakes were slammed on.

“What you playing at? Trying to get yerself killed?” The unshaven cabbie glowered at him. Even in this weather he was wearing a flat cap. “My ticker nearly burst out me chest.”

“I'm already half-dead. I've been attacked.” Johnny breathed in and out rapidly. Surely he wasn't going to faint? “I really need to get to Bart's.”

The driver's eyes narrowed. He sniffed suspiciously then let out the clutch and pulled away, not caring that Johnny was leaning into the open window. “Fucking tramp!”

Johnny, whose nose was now blocked with bloody mucus, had momentarily forgotten how vile he smelt. He trudged on, up Ave Maria Lane, down Warwick Lane – where he was forced to rest on a bench outside Cutlers” Hall, and would have nodded off if it hadn't been for his splitting skull – until, at last, he turned the corner into Giltspur Street.

He rang the bell. Nothing happened. It could have been a matter of life and death. These people were paid to be on call twenty-four hours a day. He rang again. It can't have been much after twelve thirty. The human body didn't clock on and off. He kept his finger on the doorbell until, a whole minute later, a buxom, middle-aged woman in a matron's uniform, a look of thunder on her face, drew back the bolt and, arms folded, looked down her pointed nose at him. Her nostrils flared as the unmistakable tang reached them.

“I'm not a tramp,” said Johnny, aware that if he didn't sit down soon he would fall down. His battered mouth made it difficult to speak clearly. “Someone's assaulted me. I'm a reporter on the
Daily News
.”

“That explains it then.” She made no attempt to help him. “What it doesn't quite explain though is the bad smell . . .”

“My attacker added insult to injury.” What was she waiting for? She must be accustomed to such bodily odours. “Where's the doorman?”

“He's sick.” Before Johnny could make a sarcastic reply, his knees buckled. He was mercifully out cold when he hit the ground.

St John's Square was lit by four flickering gaslights that would soon be replaced by modern ones connected to the mains. The thought did not fill the man wreathed in a silk scarf with pleasure. Old London was being destroyed by the march of progress. Every week its nooks and crannies were flattened by the wrecking ball; rookeries were still being demolished by the meddlesome Peabody Trust. There were times when he liked nothing better than to slum it.

This evening, for example, he had stooped lower than expected. She had turned out to be more than a little rough – and, as the bite marks on his cock would testify, full of fighting spirit – until he had produced the tongue-tearer. When he had finally taken leave of her, a few short minutes ago, she had been only too willing to try and lick the last dew-drop off his tip as it glistened in the candlelight – but, of course, she couldn't. He'd wiped it on her raven locks instead. The thought of her chained up, the bloom on her naked flesh slowly fading, put a spring in his step.

Once more he congratulated his parents on their choice of location. The house was perfectly situated for all his needs. Mount Pleasant, for instance, was just two minutes away. Mount Pleasant. Mons Veneris. Mont Blanc. They were the three points in the triangle that now made up his life.

He was looking forward to a long, luxurious soak, letting the smell of blood and sex leach away. However, before he could relax, he had to do one more thing. Steadman had to be given a gentle reminder.

If the hack was not taking him seriously yet, he soon would be.

Johnny's first thought was that he must be the victim of a practical joke. He was wearing someone's pyjamas – they couldn't be his because he didn't own a single pair; he slept in the nude in summer and wore one of his father's night-shirts in winter – but it wasn't this that made him laugh: it was the turban wrapped round his head. He started to giggle then stopped as his battered ribs reminded him what had happened. He turned his bandaged head on the mound of pillows and realised he couldn't open his left eye. He was in a dimly lit side-ward off the emergency department from which new arrivals requiring further treatment could be transferred to other parts of the hospital when the day shift began. There was only one other patient: a shrunken old lady who was snoring gently.

“They gave you something for the pain,” said the young nurse. She smiled down at him as she checked his pulse. The gap between her two front teeth was charming – it set off the neatness of the others to perfection. Her watch was pinned on to a freshly starched apron that covered an ample bosom. This was more like it. The brownest eyes he had ever seen – the colour of fresh toffee – watched him take in the view. She smiled again.

“There's a sight for sore eyes – sore everything, really.”

“That's what I said when we cleaned you up.” Johnny felt himself blushing. He realised he wasn't wearing any pyjama bottoms. Why? To prevent him making a quick getaway?

“Your face matches your hair, now.” She smoothed down the grey blanket on his bed. “I've never been out with a ginger-nut. I usually prefer the looks of conventional leading men.”

“Stan Laurel, James Cagney and Spencer Tracy have red hair.”

“Not exactly dreamboats, are they? Besides, how d'you know?”

“I know lots of things. I'm a reporter.”

“So matron said. You going to report me?”

“Only if you want me to. You better give me your details.”

“It's strictly against the rules.” She glanced over her shoulder to check the coast was clear. “I'm Millie,” she murmured, her lips tickling his ear. “I'll tell you more when we meet. Perhaps you'll be able to come out to play next week. I'll be on days then. We have a drink in The Cock most evenings.”

Johnny's heart leapt – in guilt and shock. Stella would have scratched his eyes out. He must have brain damage. Millie, oblivious to his pricked conscience, stopped whispering and adopted a more professional pose.

“In the meantime you should rest. You've got three cracked ribs, mild concussion and lots of cuts and bruises. I do hope the boys in blue get the blighters who did this to you. The doctor will probably discharge you in the morning. Rounds start at ten.”

“What time is it now?”

“Ten past four.”

Johnny was surprised. He had been unconscious for hours.

“I've got to get out of here. I need to go home and change. I start work at eight.”

“And how are you going to do that?” She glanced at his legs beneath the blanket.

“You're going to help me, Millie.”

“Am I now? What's it worth?”

“Dinner?” He now had no intention of ever seeing her again – but he'd have suggested a kiss if it did the trick.

“Is everything all right, Nurse Popert?” Neither of them had seen the battle-axe glide up behind them.

“Yes, Sister. Mr Steadman was asking to leave.” Millie widened her big brown eyes to warn him to tread carefully.

“Out of the question. You can't be discharged until a doctor has examined you again, Mr Steadman. You've been subjected to a severe beating. There could be complications. You need to rest.”

“What's to stop me discharging myself?” He threw back the covers, got out of bed and, ignoring the light-headedness, began to unbutton the pyjama top. Millie swallowed a giggle.

“Get back into bed at once, you ridiculous man.” For a moment Johnny thought she was going to smack his bottom. “You're not fit to be out in public – in more ways than one.”

“You can't keep me here against my will. I'm not under arrest.”

“You will be if you attempt to leave the hospital without paying the bill.”

“But my wallet was stolen. You can send the invoice to the
Daily News
.”

“Is there someone who can guarantee such an arrangement at this ungodly hour?”

“No, of course not. It's not as if you don't know where to find me, though.”

“We've only your word that you are who you say you are. And even if we did believe you, and agreed that your employers would pay for your treatment, do you actually propose to leave here stark-naked?”

“I thought you could lend me some clothes.”

“As I've already told you, Mr Steadman, what you need is rest.”

Johnny looked to Millie for support, but she refused to meet his gaze. It was no good: he was trapped.

“Can I at least make a telephone call?”

“To whom?”

“The police.” He had to give the cow credit: nothing fazed her. She simply raised her eyebrows and waited for an explanation. “My best friend's a sergeant at Snow Hill.”