by Guy N Smith
“Genital amputation leading to death by loss of blood. Murder by person or persons unknown.”
The police were following up on a number of leads; they were still looking for the driver of a red Ford Focus seen in the vicinity of the Malvern Hills on the day of Poppleton’s killing.
They wouldn’t find him, Frame was sure of that. The psychopath would strike again. Because he was sick and he didn’t need a reason to kill.
The nape of Rupert Frame’s neck tingled. A nagging sensation, a feeling that he was being watched. That was stupid; there was nobody in the tranquil gloom of the Cathedral on a late summer evening to watch him. The Verger on late duty – it was Needes this week – had locked the door behind him, gone for his evening meal. He was due back at nine; it was only 8.30 and Needes was one of those who would not work ten minutes more than was absolutely necessary.
Frame stood up, stretched his gaunt body, peered over the balcony of the organ loft. Discreet lighting showed him the presbytery, empty choir stalls. He glanced down at the nave, tried to see behind the pillars into the north and south aisles, but it was too dark. Shadows took on shapes, moved and were still again, blended back into the blackness. There was nothing there, nothing untoward. Just tombs of long dead bishops. The sleeping children slept on. Nothing stirred.
Rupert Frame, your nerves are getting the better of you. You are over tired, working too many hours.
Here in the quiet of a deserted cathedral it did not sound convincing. Yet he sat down again. The Festival was only weeks away, there was much to be done. Scheduled services were innumerable; there were organ recitals and concerts, an exhausting workload. Only practice made perfect even when you were at the top of your job. He must give it another half hour, at least until Needes came to lock up.
His thoughts strayed. To his wife, Philippa. She was having a hard time of it, they both were, because of Adrian. Their teenage son was an embarrassment to them, to the Close. Only last week he had been in trouble with the police again, a fight in Breadmarket Street. Adrian had not been drinking, that was one vice he left alone. Twice he had been prosecuted for being in possession of cannabis. A lot of youths today used the drug, but that didn’t excuse him. Adrian had a problem that went deeper than drugs, a psychiatric one, but nobody seemed able or willing to treat him for it. Rupert and Philippa had tried everything they could think of, every source available to them; psychiatrists fobbed them off, doctors were unsympathetic. So was the Dean. Rupert’s job could be on the line.
He tried to play, missed a note, but it did not matter tonight, because there was nobody to listen to him.
Was there?
A cathedral was a good place for a psycho on the run to hide, far safer and much more comfortable than sleeping in subways.
Rupert missed another note.
He didn’t have to stay late, he made his own work schedule, he was answerable only to his conscience. If he was gone when Needes came back, it was no business of the Verger’s.
Go home, whilst you still can.
There was tomorrow night, and the night after. Weeks of nights during which the hidden watcher could observe him. Except that there was nobody there, never had been.
There was.
Something moved down there, a noise like a footstep that echoed in the silence. Just one.
Frame tensed, felt the sweat trickling down his brow. He began to tremble and remembered again what had happened to Poppleton. But that had been a long way from here; there could not possibly be any connection with the Cathedral. The other just happened to have been an organist here once. That was the only link.
A stifled cough, it was magnified in the stillness, eerie like the whispers of tourists when they crept down the aisles whilst a service was in progress.
“Who’s there?” Rupert intended it to sound authoritative, stern and demanding, but the question came out quivering, the high recesses of the building picked it up, repeated it.
Who’s … there … there … there?
Nobody answered. Neither footfall nor cough. The silence surged softly back.
Rupert walked nervously, shakily, along the balcony, began to descend. He would leave. Now. This minute. Walk purposefully looking neither to the right nor the left. Nor behind. The way one walked late at night in an alien city, determined not to hesitate, not to catch the eye of a loiterer and invite trouble.
He would be able to open the north door from the inside; he would leave it for Needes to lock. The Verger surely would not be long now. Maybe he should warn him. No, it was illogical; in all probability the noise had been made by something falling, a prayer book toppling from one of the pews because it has been left precariously balanced.
But prayer books did not cough.
Frame’s footsteps hollowed on the floor, sounded like mocking laughter pursuing him. He fought the urge to run. It was only a matter of yards to the north transept.
His heart was hammering, his temples throbbed. His legs felt as though they would crumple under him at any second, tumble him to the floor. Unable to get up again, lying there in the darkness, waiting for …
“I hope I didn’t startle you, sir.”
Rupert jumped, almost lost his balance as he whirled round; there was a scream loaded into his throat in readiness. His arms went up as if to ward off a sudden blow from a crazed attacker, instinctively protecting his head.
He doesn’t go for the head. Remember what he did to poor old Herbert?
“Who is it?” Another whisper for the echoes, a quiver of fear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, sir.”
A shape that was denser than the surrounding shadows stood up against a stone pillar. A silhouette that was powerfully built, smooth where the head balded. Eyes that seemed to glow malevolently in the darkness.
“Homer!” Frame spat the name out in mingled relief and anger.
“I’m sorry, sir.” A mocking apology. Because I meant to scare the hell out of you.
“It’s all right.” Rupert fought to get himself under control, waited for his nerves to steady so that when he spoke again it would not be another trembling croak.
Damn the fellow, he was always creeping around the place like a ghoul, seemed to glide rather than walk.
Charles Homer was in his late seventies, had started here straight from school, worked his way up to Head Verger by stepping into dead men’s shoes. He had been here in Poppleton’s time. Now why the devil did Herbert have to come into it again?
Homer’s skin had dried and withered over the years, seemed to be stretched over his skull. His dried cracked lips parted occasionally in a mirthless smile.
Eyes that never left you, you had the impression that they never blinked, made you uneasy. Scared you. Like now.
His dark suit and gown rendered him almost invisible against the background shadows, gave an illusion of a bodiless skull floating in the air. Once his body had been powerful; he claimed to hold a black belt. But he was a romanticiser, a bragger, if you lingered long enough to let him talk.
There were rumours, too, about him. Frame had heard them from Canon Feiffer, the Precentor, and you could not always believe what he told you. Feiffer and Homer had a long established feud that went back thirty years, a trivial row that had never been allowed to die. Frame wasn’t interested in petty quarrels; the Close was long overdue a new generation.
“I thought Needes was on late duty, Homer?” A veiled reprimand. What the hell are you doing creeping around in here when you should be off duty?
“He is, sir.” Those fixed eyes never flinched, there was defiance in them. “But I always keep a check on my men.” And on you.
“That’s what I call devotion to duty.” The intended sarcasm didn’t come over; it was an unintended compliment.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m leaving now, Homer.”
“I thought I should check that you are all right, sir, in here on your own at night.” Homer had an obsession with sec
urity and his greatest concern – which he widely publicised – was that the priceless Lichfield Gospels, now permanently on show in the Chapter House, might be either damaged by vandals or stolen.
“And why should I not be all right, Homer?” What a damn fool question to ask; Frame knew what the reply would be.
“Well, you know what happened to Mr Poppleton, sir.” The expression was stoic, not so much as a flinch of those eyes, no hint of mockery. A kind of threat voiced without emotion. “Somebody did a terrible thing to him and they haven’t caught the fellow yet. Who knows, he might be hiding out in here somewhere.”
Rupert Frame hurried from the Cathedral. He was a very frightened man.
4
Canon Feiffer sat typing in the bow window of his red-bricked house, which faced the north side of the Cathedral. He hammered the keys of the pre-1960s Royal machine with two meaty fingers, using such force that both carbon copies showed signs of perforation. He believed in forthrightness, both with the spoken word and the written word, strength of character. No modern typewriter would have withstood decades of such determined physical abuse.
He pulled the paper from beneath the roller, spread it out and checked his work, made a minor correction with a fountain pen. His glasses were pushed up on to his wide forehead; his puffed cheeks reflected the anger in his letter. How dare those impudent schoolboys focus a pair of binoculars on his wife’s bedroom window! Doubtless they were hoping to glimpse Mrs Feiffer partly unclothed, lusting after her bared flesh. Well, they would most certainly have been disappointed for the only place where she stripped completely was in the bathroom and that had an opaque glass window. Thank goodness! But that wasn’t the point, most certainly it was not. Their intention had been to look upon an unsuspecting naked lady of irreproachable morals, a God-fearing woman whom no man other than himself had viewed in a state of undress. That was unforgivable in his eyes and in God’s.
He was reminded of poor old Herbert Poppleton’s boast of never having seen Maude naked in fifty years of marriage. All credit to them both for their self-control; it most certainly had not impaired their relationship. Canon Feiffer could not claim such abstention for either himself or his wife, certainly not in their early marital years. May had been a comely girl then; since middle age, she had put on an awful lot of weight. That had not, he told himself repeatedly, anything to do with them sleeping in separate bedrooms; he was an asthmatic, he snored loudly, and a double room would not have been fair to his dear wife.
Those boys must be disciplined. He ran his shaking fingers through his thinning grey hair, they came away slippery with perspiration. Had Wilson still been Headmaster, then the matter would have been settled irrevocably in that fine man’s own inimitable manner. Six of the best for all concerned, their bottoms would have stung for days, and the offending binoculars would have been confiscated and consigned to the dustbin.
Charlesworth, the current headmaster, was not in the same mould; he lacked strength of character. He never used the cane; his excuse was that corporal punishment had been abolished. Poppycock! The Cathedral School was no namby-pamby state institution; it was an establishment that prepared boys, mentally and physically, for a God-fearing role in society. If you transgressed, you were punished harshly—it was the only way.
Wilson would not have pandered to any bureaucratic directive on how erring youth should learn the error of its ways. He would have caned regardless and the Dean and Chapter would have backed him. Some of them, like Feiffer himself, had been in office during Wilson’s headmastership. They must make Charlesworth follow in the footsteps of a great man. Psychological codswallop amounted to nothing less than a let-off, a reprimand that in itself was often not stern enough and was forgotten in a short time. Don’t waste time searching for reasons for misbehaviour—punish it swiftly.
Feiffer had pointed this out to Charlesworth in his letter. The headmaster must call an assembly, demand that the miscreants own up, and then cane them in front of the entire school. A public flogging.
Feiffer separated the copies, addressed two more envelopes. The Bishop and the Dean must be made aware of what had gone on. An accompanying letter urged both of his superiors to demand that the boys concerned were caned.
The precentor’s eyesight had not been good enough to identify the voyeurs. That did not matter, they would doubtless confess. If they remained guiltily silent, then the whole school must be punished, perhaps a forfeiture of leisure time, a weekend long detention. Or a suspension of parental visits.
He wrote to Charlesworth, whereas, years ago, he would have demanded a personal audience with Prebendary Wilson. Because he detested talking to the younger man, listening to nonsensical theories about how modern youth needed to express themselves and the older generation must be tolerant of their misdeeds. There would be some piffling excuse, a lie; there were starlings nesting in the crumbling chimney pot, that was all the boys were looking at, Canon Feiffer had jumped to hasty conclusions, fourteen-year-old pupils were not interested in peeping on a female in her seventy-ninth year.
Well, Charlesworth would have the complaint in writing; the Bishop and the Dean would have copies of the letter. Correspondence was never ignored; it was a strict diocesan rule. The matter would have to be investigated, the truth would come out. It just remained to be seen what action would be taken.
Canon Feiffer licked the adhesive on the envelopes, stuck the flaps down, thumped them with his fist to ensure they did not unfurl. Stationery was no longer of the high quality of the past. He banged on the stamps with his fist as an added precaution.
He stood up, prepared to embark upon one of his many daily shambling walks down to the post box at the bottom of the Close.
The Close was crowded with tourists; they had probably come by coach, he noted some American accents. He scowled in their direction, cleared his throat loudly, disapprovingly. Some cars were parked by the shop and cafe; he hoped that their owners were residents. The sooner wheel-clamping was introduced, the better. Visitors came to gawp at the architecture; they had no thought of its spiritual meaning. They were just sightseers; they had no right to be in this backwater of holy worship.
On the return trip he remembered that he needed to write to the Vicar Choral, this business with the voyeuristic boys had taken it right out of his mind. There was some urgency if a scandalous rumour was to be averted. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but somebody had mentioned to Feiffer that Drinkwater was having young visitors to his home in the evenings, voiced their disapproval. If you were a member of the Close, however slight your connection with the Cathedral, then you had to keep your nose clean; the vaguest suspicion about anything untoward was magnified out of all proportion.
Drinkwater was untidy—even wearing a suit he was scruffy, it just seemed to hang limply on his gaunt frame. Most likely the fellow did not even posses a trouser press. Suede shoes were not fitting to Choral duties, either; footwear should be black and highly polished—lace-ups, not slip-ons. And however he brushed his hair, if he brushed it, there were always unsightly tufts sticking up.
But that was not the nature of the canon’s complaint. Yet. It was merely an addendum. The main reason for writing to the Vicar Choral was the rumours and there was no smoke without fire. Even if it was all perfectly innocent, it still looked bad. It had to stop.
Feiffer came to a decision as he re-entered his study. Perhaps it was the heat of the day, which dissuaded him from embarking upon another lengthy letter hammered out on that ancient keyboard. At eighty-two, correspondence was an irksome task; Bishop Franklyn employed a secretary to write his letters.
On this occasion, the precentor decided, he would speak to Drinkwater personally. It was a delicate matter, and was perhaps, on reflection, better not committed to paper. The written word was dangerous in this age of libel suits.
* * *
Feiffer awaited his opportunity. He spent a lot of time observing the various movements in the Close from his window and he had forme
d an accurate mental timetable of choral routines. Evensong finished promptly at 5.15. Rupert Frame then took a break before returning at seven to rehearse for the festival programme. James Drinkwater slouched away to his garret over his bookshop in Dam Street. What on earth had the planning department been thinking of in allowing him to set up as a purveyor of lurid, immoral cheap fiction in such close proximity to the Cathedral? He probably had pornographic material hidden away in there too—he was the type. Shifty. Which added up to those rumours having a foundation for truth …
At 5.10 Feiffer stood in his porch, squinted in the direction of the west doors. His sight was not good enough to discern facial details but there was no mistaking the Vicar Choral’s slovenly gait, the way he dragged his feet, had his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
The precentor lumbered forward, blew out his reddening cheeks, pursed his lips. He was very angry.
“Drinkwater!”
The other slowed, turned back almost arrogantly. There was no trace of respect in his expression as his gaze fell upon Canon Feiffer, just curiosity. Years ago, younger Chorals blanched when their names were called out.
“Yes, Precentor?”
“I’d like a word with you, Drinkwater. I think my study would be more appropriate than out here, don’t you?” Feiffer had a slight impediment of speech, which resulted in a spray of spittle and a dribble of saliva when he was angry.
“As you wish.” James Drinkwater shrugged, turned to follow the other. His hands remained in his pockets. He hoped that whatever the precentor wanted, it would not take too long. Cecil Clay was due to call round at six; they were eating out tonight. At McDonald’s.
Feiffer seated himself in his leather armchair, deliberately did not offer his visitor a seat; that would have undermined his authority, reduced their meeting to a relaxed atmosphere. This way he held an advantage over the other.
“It has come to my ears,” the precentor spoke slowly, giving the impression that he was either chewing on something or else enduring the discomfort of mouth ulcers, “that choirboys have been visiting you at your … er … accommodation. Names have even been mentioned … Sutcliffe, Colley, Pritchard-Williams. I have this information on reliable authority, Drinkwater.”
