Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  There was an assortment of volumes crammed on to the shelves that lined the walls, bowed them alarmingly. The residue, designated as ‘bargains’, were piled on a central trestle table, an untidy motley of split bindings and scuffed covers. Beneath these were an array of cardboard boxes, spilling out their contents, thumbed and dog-eared, well-read run-of-the-mill paperbacks; £1 each or four for £3.50. The handwritten card had fallen off and lay on the floor. Possibly the bulk of the stock had been compiled over a period of time from charity shops and car boot sales.

  The newcomer stood just inside the doorway hesitantly, licked his thin lips nervously, ran his fingers through a shock of grey hair. He glanced back at the partly open door, maybe wondering if he could leave before the bookseller appeared and thus save himself from the embarrassment of having to make an excuse. I don’t think I’ve the time to browse now; I’ll come back tomorrow. Or, I’m really looking for something more specialised, antiquarian, you know.

  His figure was stooped, as though he suffered from some spinal disability; the carrier bag in his hand appeared to unbalance him with its empty wine bottle destined for the bottle bank on the nearby car park. In spite of the warmth, an unbelted, unfashionable fawn mackintosh was draped over his tweed sports jacket, complete with its elbow pads. Clean but frugal, his appearance bespoke bachelorhood, lacked the touch of a caring female.

  He had half turned away when a deep, cultured voice stopped him, had his lower lip quivering like a shoplifter caught in the act.

  “Can I help you?”

  He turned back, squinted through the gloom at the figure which was framed in the doorway of the adjoining room. The other was small and lithe, craggy features belied an accurate guess at his age, although he must have been in his early fifties. The eyes were a shade too close together, giving an appearance of shiftiness, and a long ridged tongue traced a path along thin lips. He, it seemed, was also nervous.

  “I … er … you see …” The customer searched in vain for a plausible excuse for not staying, curiosity alone had prompted him to push open the door; books were irresistible to him. He seldom bought any, except in auctions to furnish his small postal trade from home, which provided him with a meagre existence. There would be nothing here for him; he specialised in literary and theological works.

  “Your face is familiar.” The bookseller came down the steps, hunched his shoulders, peered. “Excuse me if I’m mistaken, but I could swear you were once a colleague of mine at the Cathedral School. I was there from ‘68 to ‘74. Drinkwater’s the name. James Drinkwater.”

  “Drinkwater! Of course. Clay’s my name. Cecil Clay.”

  The bottle in the carrier clinked on the floor; Clay’s hand was outstretched. “What an absolutely unbelievable coincidence that we should meet in a bookshop after all these years.”

  In spite of their enthusiasm, the handshake was limp. A moment of embarrassed silence, and then Drinkwater said, “I’ve just put the kettle on upstairs. Come on up for a cup of tea, if you’ve got time.”

  Clay followed the other up a narrow flight of stairs; he half wished that he had refused the invitation. An impetuous decision—he never socialised; ever since his parents had died he had lived alone in the small family home on the outskirts of the city. He had his books and his music, a degree in English Literature at Oxford. He had never asked for anything else from life.

  “My humble abode.” Drinkwater indicated the untidy room, the cluttered desk and the unmade bed, books stacked around the skirting boards. A cordless kettle was steaming on a tin tray. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Whichever you’re making, Drinkwater.” Clay lapsed into the use of the surname; seldom had first names been used at the school in the Close. It had all been part of the rigid discipline.

  “I always drink tea.” Drinkwater reached down two mugs and a packet of teabags. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how his visitor was scrutinising a painting of a girl’s head on a wooden board that hung from an upright beam. “I picked that up in a junk shop in London for a quid. Quite attractive, isn’t she?”

  “Absolutely marvellous.” Long fair hair that had a soft texture even on wood, eyes that saw you, held your gaze, wouldn’t let you go. Seduction in oils, the full red lips mimed words that you found yourself straining to catch, whispers that faded before you heard them. “Extremely erotic, if you don’t mind me saying, Drinkwater.”

  “Not at all, but I find the artwork more interesting. I wonder if she was a model or just a figment of the artist’s imagination. The work has an unsurpassed beauty that comes to life.” He held out a mug of tea. “And what are you doing with yourself these days, Cecil?”

  “Er … very little.” Clay’s hands shook, slopped some of the dark brown fluid. “My father died in ‘90, my mother in ‘93. I’ve kept the house on. I do a little bookselling to pay the bills.”

  “Oh?” Drinkwater’s eyebrows arched. “A fellow tradesman, eh?”

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like that really.” Clay was afraid in case he had trespassed upon the other’s livelihood. “I buy literature and theological books, sell a few by post. That’s all.”

  “I just sell rubbish.” Drinkwater laughed to put the other at ease. “If I pick up a book for fifty pence and get a quid for it, I’m happy. A bit of a sideline to subsidise a Vicar Choral’s meagre allowance. The shop was on a reasonable lease; basically I wanted the living accommodation, such as it is.” The deprecating hand waved again. “It’s adequate. I’m not the marrying type.”

  “Me, neither.” Clay dropped his gaze as if he was embarrassed again, stole another glance at that painting. “I collect pictures, too. That’s as far as I’ve ever got to having a relationship with a member of the opposite sex. Tell me, Drinkwater …”

  “Call me James and I’ll call you Cecil.” The formalities were becoming irritating.

  “Right, Drink … James, I mean. Where did you go after the Cathedral School?”

  “Wrekin. My father died and my mother couldn’t afford to send me to university. I wasn’t clever enough to win a scholarship. I auditioned for Canterbury, didn’t make it. A few jobs kept me going and then, last year, I auditioned for Vicar Choral at the cathedral here and was accepted. It’s hard going, but I’m keeping abreast of it. I must say, though,”– a whimsical smile –“life hasn’t changed much in the Close. It’s a kind of backwater, like a select club. You keep your nose clean and they’ll look after you. They don’t like outsiders; they try to ban visitors’ cars from the Close. There’s a move afoot to bring in wheel clamping! Just imagine, an old boy of the school like ourselves paying a visit to the Cathedral. He leaves a fiver in the offertory box and when he comes out he’s got to pay a hundred quid to get his car unclamped!”

  “Scandalous.” Clay nodded his head, sipped his tea noisily, and was reminded that he had not used a deodorant that morning. Because he had not expected to socialise. Thank goodness bookshops smelled like they always did. “Is Wilson still alive?”

  “The tyrant headmaster.” Drinkwater grimaced. “If he is, then he doesn’t deserve to be. Two of the best for forgetting to put your football boots away after games, four for not paying attention in his Latin class, and six for being late for a cathedral service. His priorities. My ass used to look like a zebra!”

  “Archaic.” Cecil Clay pursed his lips. “I’ve lived in the city all my life, but you don’t hear much of the old Close hierarchy. Except for Poppleton, of course.”

  “Oh yes, I did read about it in the papers a few weeks back. Dreadful business, some nutter topped him.”

  “They …” Clay glanced around as though he feared lest somebody might be listening, his voice dropped to a whisper. “They …” He swallowed, blanched. “They cut off his whatsit, you know!”

  “Oh, dear.” Drinkwater’s fingers trembled on the handle of his mug, “I didn’t know that. How dreadful. I read that his body was discovered in some undergrowth on the Malvern Hills where he had gone to retire. He must’ve been
a good age.”

  “Eighty-five.”

  “Some sicko, doubtless. A motiveless killing for the sake of it. Still, I suppose it’s better than murdering some young girl with her life still in front of her.”

  “But why Herbert Poppleton?”

  “Who knows? He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when this bloke had got his bloodlust up. I haven’t heard that the police have got anybody for it.”

  “They haven’t.” Cecil Clay shook his head slowly, respect for the dead and a criticism of law and order. “It was on Crimewatch UK. They’re looking for a chap between forty and fifty who was seen driving a red Ford Focus. The car was stolen, abandoned in Cornwall. The owner lived in Birmingham. Apart from that, the trail is growing colder by the day. Myself, I doubt they’ll get him. Unless he strikes again.”

  “Herbert was a nice guy when you got to know him.” Drinkwater carried his empty mug across to the sink. “You remember the Song School days, don’t you, Cecil?”

  “Indeed, I do. Some of the boys made a slide down the sloping drive one snowy day. Herbert travelled the length of it on his backside. We queued to watch through the keyhole.”

  “I must’ve been absent on that occasion, I bet it was a sight.”

  “We paid for it. An extra choir practice and he got us all six of the best from Wilson.”

  “Remember how he used to invite us round to his house for tea and scones individually? A kind of reward, I suppose, for having to stay on at school until after Christmas. His missus was a strange bird, always wore a veil, I never ever saw her face. Apart from sitting in the rear pews for services, she was even more of a recluse than he was. When you went to the house, you never saw her. There was a plate of scones and a pot of tea put in the lounge; you heard her moving around upstairs, then silence. Like she had gone for a lie down.”

  “I only ever went there once.” Cecil blushed; he was trembling slightly. “Who is the organist now? As I said, you don’t get to know much about the cathedral unless you’re a regular in the congregation or part of the Close Clique.”

  “A guy named Frame. Rupert Frame. He’s okay, that’s about all you can say about him. He plays well, does a good job, no fuss. No personality. I guess that’s what they want today, not a living legend that goes on for fifty years. I’ve only ever seen his wife once, she keeps a low profile, doesn’t get involved. I don’t care much for the assistant, though, a jumped-up squirt. Nobody likes him, he knows it all. You know what I mean. There are rumours about his wife, though. She’s supposed to be having an affair with the only non-clergy bloke living in the Close, one of those rented houses they’ve let to help the funds. A mass-market writer, would you believe it? Whispers, gossip, there might not even be any truth in the business but I’ll tell you, if there is, then it’ll liven the place up like it hasn’t been livened up since Cromwell laid siege to it! Only time will tell.”

  Clay was silent; he was staring at that picture again as if those eyes hypnotised him. He was jerked out of his reverie by the clanging of the shop bell downstairs.

  “A customer, a rare breed that I mustn’t risk not even getting a glimpse of!” Drinkwater made for the stairs. “Nice to see you, Cecil. Drop by again sometime. I’m usually in most evenings after seven when choir practice has finished.”

  “I will, most certainly.” Cecil Clay negotiated the steep staircase with care. He cast one last glance behind him; the girl in the picture was following his departure with her eyes, seeming to beg him to return.

  And the thought that stuck in his mind was what somebody had done to Herbert Poppleton. He shuddered uncontrollably.

  He almost lost his balance on the stairs, grabbed the rail with a sweating hand. Those eyes were still watching him, forcing him to meet their gaze. Their expression had changed; an icy trickle ran up his spine.

  It was as if that unknown girl painted on a piece of wood was trying to tell him something.

  Cecil Clay stumbled out into the street, grateful for the warmth of the sunshine and the milling crowd of tourists. Up above him, beyond the Minster Pool with its resident flotilla of quacking mallard, towered the spires of the cathedral.

  Suddenly, for him, they took on a different meaning, no longer were they the bastion of his sheltered upbringing. They were sinister.

  And, for no logical reason, threatening.

  3

  Sandra Corms had been bored and lonely for the last twelve years. Now, these last two months, all that had changed.

  Rarely had she taken such trouble with her make-up, she hadn’t needed to before. Her shoulder length dark hair was flecked with low lights; she smiled at herself in the mirror, stepped back to check her full-length reflection. Her phobia was being overweight; she had not bothered about that either until a few weeks ago. Maybe Weight Watchers had reduced her waistline, at least she was making an effort and she had cut down on chips and chocolate, her two devastating weaknesses. The green blouse and dark blue jeans fit snugly; she wasn’t fat, she was big. And beautiful. That was what Gerald Norman kept telling her and she believed him. At 5ft 8in she had a large build that discreetly hid any surplus flesh.

  Gerald’s compliments nullified her husband’s insults and sarcasm; nobody had ever paid her compliments like Gerald did repeatedly. And she knew he meant every word, even when he told her he was in love with her.

  Having four children had not helped her figure. Julie was just twelve and was due to start ‘big’ school in the autumn. Sandra had become pregnant with Julie out of wedlock, otherwise she would not have married Michael; they were only dating casually at the time. Cathy was ten and Elaine was eight. One shouldn’t have favourites amongst one’s children, she told herself guiltily, but it was little Michael she felt for most. A break-up in her marriage would affect her seven-year-old son the most; he was her biggest tie to her dead marriage, the reason she wasn’t ready to leave yet.

  The children were all at school; she was going to have problems when the summer holidays arrived. Michael’s parents always looked after them one day a week in the holidays to give her a break. Another pang of guilt; she would be exploiting her in-laws and that would be thrown in her face when everything came out. But her philosophy was to live for the day, and today she would do just that.

  Michael asked for everything he got, her sister Louise had told her that. What other woman would stand for a weekly £80 housekeeping plus family allowance and her husband never gave her all of it together. Maybe £40 on a Monday, and then he would borrow fifteen back off her to go to the pub on Tuesday night. A tenner on Thursday and she might well still be owed the remaining £45 at the beginning of the next week. At least he paid for the dog food—that was one small consolation.

  Michael went to the pub seven nights a week. He always had done so, right from the start of their hasty marriage. He had been assistant organist at the Cathedral for the last ten years, and it was his drinking which would deprive him of promotion. Not that alcohol ever affected his playing, he never drank in the daytime, but it was well known in the Close that the Shoulder of Mutton was his second home. Usually he stopped on in the Cathedral until 7.30 every evening, returned home for his meal and a change into casuals, and he was always out of the house by nine. He rarely came home before 11.30. He was never actually drunk, just nasty. Sandra usually feigned sleep; it was a more convincing excuse than the conventional headache one. Since Gerald, she hated Michael touching her.

  Gerald was everything that Michael was not. He was kind and loving; his only regret was that he was unable to spend more time with her. Their illicit meetings revolved around Michael’s absence, either at the pub or in the Cathedral, the children’s schooling or out-of-school activities, and both had to coincide with Gerald’s wife’s absence from home. At times it was difficult synchronising all three. But they managed at least once a week.

  There was a certain mystique about having an affair with a writer, Sandra thought. It wasn’t like having a clerk or a shop assis
tant for a lover. Gerald was quite well known, both locally and nationally. His prolific output, over fifty novels published, some under pseudonyms, had earned him an enviable reputation in mass-market fiction. Mostly, he wrote thrillers. He was already working on the idea of giving her a secretarial job, a kind of PA. That way their meetings would become legitimate; it would overcome a lot of problems.

  Sandra kept asking herself ‘Why me?’ Gerald had already told her why; his reasons were so flattering that she hardly believed them. All right, she was big and beautiful; he had just about convinced her of that. Kind and considerate; she had not thought of herself that way. Loving; she was in love with him all right. It had taken her weeks to tell him, she had only told Michael that once in twelve years of marriage and then she had lied.

  Gerald’s wife was a hard one; she had virtually driven her husband into Sandra’s arms. Greedy, unfeeling, spent a lot of time out on her own social activities. She was almost the female equivalent of Michael; Sandra laughed aloud at the thought.

  She checked her watch. It was 10.30 on a bright summer’s morning. Michael had accompanied Frame, the organist, to a seminar in Birmingham. Jane Norman had gone on a Women’s Institute coach trip to Bath. The children were at school. Sandra didn’t have to pick them up until three thirty. Which reminded her, there was a slow puncture in one of the tyres on the VW estate; Michael had procrastinated about taking it to the garage to get it fixed. In case it needed a new tyre.

  She let herself out of the house. It was going to be a lovely day, the loveliest day of her life.

  * * *

  Rupert Frame was uneasy. He had not used to feel nervous about staying on late in the Cathedral, long after the doors were closed to the public. But he was tonight and he knew why. He had read the report of the inquest into Herbert Poppleton’s death. There had been a lengthy piece in The Telegraph that morning. It made for grisly reading.