by Guy N Smith
“May I ask whose, sir?” Drinkwater stood with his hands clasped behind his back, respectful now but not humble. If the other’s words were disconcerting, he showed no signs of guilt nor nervousness.
“You may not, Drinkwater.” Feiffer was uneasy for a moment. His “information” had come from a conversation between Homer and Lumby, one of the new vergers. Homer had spoken in an unusually loud voice, almost as if it was his wish to be overheard, but that was unlikely because he could not possibly have known that Feiffer was browsing in the Cathedral Bookshop at the time, hidden from view by a rack of shelving. And if Homer had been aware of the precentor’s presence nearby, then he most certainly would not have wished his conversation to be eavesdropped on by the precentor. So there had to be some truth in the gossip.
James Drinkwater lifted his head, met the other’s hostile stare. His features were expressionless.
“Well, Drinkwater, do you admit or deny the allegation?”
“If you will excuse me saying so, sir,” the Vicar Choral’s voice was low, there was not a tremor in it, “I don’t think there are grounds either for an admission nor a denial.”
“Do you not?” The florid cheeks were distended, balloons that might burst if they were inflated further. “Well, I do!”
“The boys you mention have visited me.” The “sir” was dropped, but there was no outward sign of guilt or anger. The reply was almost casual.
“Do you realise the implications of such associations, Drinkwater?” The thick neck was thrust forward, a string of lengthening saliva swung from a thick lower lip like a spider descending from its web on a dewy morning.
“No, I do not. The boys you named, and Potter and Laines also, have visited me to talk over festival plans for choral productions. I believe that members of the choir should not be treated merely as voices, as they are by Mr Frame and Mr Corms. I require co-operation, teamwork, if I am to get the best out of the choir. It is imperative to strike up a working relationship in order to achieve this. I think that I have done just that, Precentor.”
“I don’t like it.” Feiffer sprayed spittle, thumped his knee. “And the Dean and Chapter will like it even less if word reaches them, I can assure you of that. Choirboys visiting Vicar Chorals smacks of an unhealthy association. It also fuels rumours that are damaging to the Church.”
“I disagree.”
“Do you?” Feiffer sat upright, his head was thrust forward, a vein throbbed in his forehead. Rarely had he had anybody disagree with him before.
“Herbert Poppleton had members of the choir visit him at his house on a regular basis for years.” Drinkwater spoke evenly; there was no trace of dissent in his tone.
“Oh, did he?” The other was visibly taken aback. “And how do you know that, Drinkwater?”
“Because I was one of his choirboys, sir.”
“I see.” Feiffer closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them again and added belligerently, “But Herbert Poppleton was married, Drinkwater.”
“Does that make a difference, sir?”
“I’m afraid so.” The precentor had averted his eyes; he seemed embarrassed. “God made man and then he made woman so that they might live together and procreate.”
“His wife was never there, sir, when I visited. She left tea and scones on the table. I think she went for a rest upstairs. Whatever the cause, she was never around. You must have known about that, Precentor?”
Feiffer did not reply. His puffed out cheeks drained of their colour, and when finally he spoke his voice was almost a whisper. “Herbert Poppleton was the organist, Drinkwater.”
“Does that place him above suspicion, gossip, and rumours?”
“There were none.”
“None that you heard.”
Canon Feiffer crossed one leg over the other. The fingers, which lowered his glasses back down on to the bridge of his nose, shook a little. “I merely mention it, Drinkwater, in case … in case people should start talking.”
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it. I will bear it in mind.”
“Doubtless you know what happened to poor Herbert Poppleton, a tragedy which has shaken the Close to the core.”
“I hardly think that has any bearing upon the matter which you mentioned, Precentor.”
“No, no, of course not. But, please remember, you are a Vicar Choral, not an organist. Nor assistant organist. Mr Frame, I am sure, does not invite boys round to his home. I would advise you to be more discreet, Drinkwater.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That is all.”
Canon Feiffer turned back to his desk, left his visitor to depart alone. The precentor experienced a sense of anticlimax. Defeat, almost. The meeting, for once, had not gone according to plan; the admonishment, which he had rehearsed in his mind, had backfired.
His jumbled thoughts switched to Herbert Poppleton, and for once he was uneasy. He had known that choirboys had visited the organist, but that was years ago. And even if Maude had been upstairs, she had been in the house. So that made it all right. Because Herbert was beyond reproach, a legend in his own time. None questioned his actions.
All the same, he had been horribly murdered, mutilated, and his killer was still at large.
5
“Let’s make a cuppa.” Sandra attempted to straighten her dishevelled hair as she dressed.
“If you like.” Gerald Norman still lay on the bed, a sheet draped over his naked body as though he was suddenly inhibited. His eyes watched her closely as if he was afraid that it was all a dream, that she might suddenly disappear and he would awake to reality after a pleasant siesta. He reached out a hand to touch her, just to make sure.
“Oooh!” she giggled. “You made me jump, Gerry.”
“Give us a kiss, then.” He pulled her back so that she lay across him.
Their lips met, their eyes closed.
“Funny thing, I don’t feel guilty anymore.” For once, she was serious.
“You used to feel guilty?”
“Didn’t you?”
“In a way.” He stroked his short clipped dark beard meditatively. “But not like you. You see, it’s different for me—my marriage was on the rocks years ago, we’ve only really held together until the kids were old enough to go their own way. Jane’s been going hers for a long time.”
“Like WI outings?”
“Aren’t you ever serious?” He raised his eyes heavenwards.
“Seldom.”
“That’s what I like about you.” He kissed her again. “Life’s been just too serious, I could grow old young.”
“Like fifty-three.”
“All right, rub it in. You’re twenty-three years younger than me.”
“And nobody would ever guess,” she laughed, afraid that she had offended him. “Gerry, anybody who didn’t know would take you for forty.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” She pulled back the sheet, looked down on him. He had looked after his body, all right, kept himself fit. Maybe his legs were too thin, but what the hell. He wanted to be young, he thought young. So he was young.
“Finished?”
“I’ll go downstairs and put the kettle on. I’ll have to be away by three today.”
“Quarter of an hour earlier than usual? You don’t have to pick the kids up until 3.30 and it’s less than ten minutes’ drive.”
“I … I bumped the car yesterday. Or, rather, somebody else did. So I have to walk down today to collect the kids.”
“Oh Christ!”
“Nothing too bad. That bloody woman Fiona, you know she always reverses down to the bottom of the Close instead of going all the way round like the rest of us do. Well, I was just turning in from going to the chippie, and bang, she’d hit me. I’ll need a new bonnet, wing, headlight and bumper. I got an estimate for it, nearly three grand!”
“Jesus!” Gerry pursed his lips.
“Michael says the insurance will write it off, probably give us two and a half grand. He recko
ns he can buy it back cheap off them, get a good knock-out job done for around a grand.”
“And he’ll pocket the profit for himself!” Gerry’s lips curled with contempt. “Big Ears doesn’t miss a trick! Don’t forget, you put eleven hundred towards the car initially from that policy you had mature. So in effect, Mike’s pocketing your money and giving you a banged out banger to ride round in.”
“He’ll never change.” She stood up, smoothed her hands down her jeans. “I’ll go put that kettle on.”
“Things will change.” He smiled at her. “For the better. I promise you that.”
“I believe you.” She stooped down and their lips brushed again. “I love you, Gerry.”
“And I love you.” He let her go this time, looked around for his scattered clothes. Life was really good right now.
* * *
“I still can’t believe it.” Sandra stared down at her tea. “Two months ago we met for the first time and I almost chickened out of meeting you at the Lion that day.”
“And then you proceeded to tell me that it was better to stop it all before it started. So you went on holiday feeling miserable and I moped here at home, struggled to work. Then you phoned me and it was all on again. Crazy!”
“Something you said.” Her hand found his. “You said, ‘Fate decreed that we met, we can’t throw it all away.’ After you’d gone, I realised that you were right, and I almost burst into tears.”
“Well, we got together and that’s all that matters.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll phone you tonight.”
“No, I’ll phone you first, just to be on the safe side. You can always count on Michael being out of the house by 10.15, but it’d be awkward if he answered the phone. I’ll phone you, then you can ring me back. I don’t want his phone bill clocking up, he might start asking for an itemised statement and then the shit would hit the fan.”
“Would you worry if it did?”
“Not really, but I’d rather it didn’t just yet.”
“How long have I got to wait?”
“Four years.”
“You keep saying that, I was hoping we could make it sooner.”
“Maybe.” She seemed uncertain of herself, her eyes misted. “I’d like to go now, but I’d like to see little Michael at big school first. It’s him I’m worried about most. One shouldn’t have favourites, but …”
“I know.” He nodded. “But maybe we can work something out.”
“Maybe,” she said unconvincingly.
“We will. Somehow.”
“It’s all so unbelievable.” She pulled him close to her. “I can’t get used to the idea of being with a writer.”
“You’ve been married to an organist for twelve years. One makes music, the other makes words.”
“Assistant organist,” she corrected him, laughed.
“You have to be a special breed to live with a writer; they have one of the highest marriage casualty rates. Money isn’t regular; sometimes it doesn’t come at all. Trying to sell a book can be heart breaking.”
“You haven’t done so badly yourself, Gerry.”
“No-oo.” He pulled a pipe from his pocket, flicked his lighter, and enveloped them both in a cloud of aromatic smoke. “But times aren’t good. And I’m a hack.”
“What’s that?”
“I write anything I can for money. I’ve got a good track record, and that’s why nobody will take me seriously. I want to write the Big One, but convincing publishers that it’s anything different from what has gone before is almost impossible. I won’t rest until I’ve done it, though. Jane never had faith in me in that respect; she didn’t want me to speculate on a lot of work that might all come to nothing.”
“I’m with you all the way.”
“Thank you.” His voice was suddenly husky. “I’d like to make a start sooner than four years hence, though.”
“I’d like that, too, Gerry.”
“Ring me tonight.” He held her hand all the way to the door.
“Michael’s edgy,” she said suddenly.
“You think he’s suspicious?”
“Not Michael, it’ll be the biggest shock of his life when it all comes out. No, I’m sure he doesn’t suspect anything. He doesn’t say a lot, but I think Frame, the organist, is getting him down. The guy’s a neurotic lately, according to Michael. Nervy, jumpy, snaps at you over the slightest thing. I guess he’s uptight over the Festival; they’ve got organ recitals and extra services. Frame goes back to the Cathedral on his own rehearsing most nights. He’s tried to persuade Michael to go with him but you know Michael, he won’t miss a night at the pub. It’s all got very boring over the last twelve years.”
“The winds of change are beginning to blow.” Gerry kissed her before she stepped outside. “I get the feeling that an awful lot is going to happen, maybe sooner than we think.”
As she turned away, Sandra’s flesh goose pimpled. It was as though an icy hand was stroking her spine right the way up to her neck. Suddenly, she was very frightened and she did not know why. Not because of herself and Gerry; it was like a premonition that she did not understand.
6
“If you don’t start relaxing, you’ll go and have a heart attack before Festival week even starts!”
Philippa Frame played nervously with her fingers, stared at them as if they were the most important thing in the world to her right now.
“I’m all right, I tell you.” Rupert Frame’s tone was irritable, and he spread his Telegraph, held it up so that it hid his expression, but there was no disguising the fact his hands shook.
“You don’t need to rehearse every night, surely?”
“Every musician needs to practise daily!” he snapped irritably, rustled his newspaper. “You should know that by now.”
“I think you’re becoming obsessive.” Philippa began clearing the table. “That’s what worries me most.”
“Rubbish.”
“Michael Corms doesn’t go back to the Cathedral in the evenings unless there’s a special reason for doing so.”
“Corms will never make anything of himself. He’s got the talent, but he won’t use it any more than he has to. He’s lazy and has a drink problem. Everybody knows that he’s in the pub seven nights a week, but nobody will speak to him about it. Canon Feiffer’s been having a mental about the boys from the school focusing binoculars on his wife’s bedroom window, but he hasn’t said a word about Michael’s boozing. He always gets his priorities wrong. I guarantee that if Poppleton had still been organist, Michael Corms would either have gone teetotal or else been kicked out of the job. Like you say, dear, everybody is aware that Corms is drinking himself to death, but nobody has the guts to tell him.”
“Why don’t you tell him, then, Rupert?”
Frame lowered his paper and Philippa saw how drawn his gaunt features were, pouches beneath his eyes; he looked mentally and physically drained. “I intend to.” He spoke softly, almost regretfully. “After the Festival. I can’t risk him walking out before, there would be no time to appoint another assistant, let alone expect him to learn all the pieces in time. So I have to pander to Corms, it goes against the grain.”
“I’ve heard something else.” Philippa whispered, as if she feared there might be an eavesdropper, or possibly because she felt guilty about repeating gossip she had heard in the coffee shop.
“About Corms? That he’s got a fancy woman? That wouldn’t surprise me, Pip.”
“No, not about him, about his wife. She’s having it off with Norman. You know, the so-called writer.” A hint of contempt for one who made his living out of lurid fiction whilst Rupert struggled to provide for his family on classical music. Everybody, it seemed, had got their priorities wrong, there was no justice either in the Close or in the world at large.
“Oh, I see.” Disappointment because it wasn’t Michael Corms. “I hardly know the woman; she never comes to the Cathedral.”
“She’s got to be a slut.” Philippa crumpled the d
ishcloth up into a ball. “Mind you, Norman shouldn’t be living in the Close, he’s nothing to do with the Cathedral.”
“I guess the Dean and Chapter are only too pleased to let any empty property to anybody these days,” Frame leaned back in his chair, let his eyelids droop. “They must’ve vetted him but obviously not deeply enough. When they knew he was a writer, that was fine. Who more fitting than a literary gentleman in a city with a history of great writers and which now holds its own literary prize competition? They just omitted to find out what he wrote. What you say doesn’t surprise me, Pip. All hell will be let loose when the news gets out, if it hasn’t already done so. I’ve little sympathy for Michael; he probably drove her to another man by stopping out at the pub half the night, every night. But he’ll lose his job, you mark my words. The Church won’t stand for scandal.”
“Mind you, I’m not saying it’s true,” she spoke quickly, regretting perhaps that she had told her husband. “Mrs Craig had heard it in the Arts Centre cafe—it was she who told me. It could be guesswork, somebody putting two and two together and making five. I don’t want you to repeat it. You won’t, will you, Rupert?”
“Of course not.” He smiled reassuringly. “There’s a lot of unfounded gossip going around at the moment. I hear that Feiffer has carpeted Drinkwater for inviting choirboys round to his place. Again, there’s probably nothing in it, but highlighting it sows the seeds of suspicion.”
“Drinkwater’s not married.” Philippa turned back from the draining board. “And he’s pally with that Clay chap, and he’s as queer as a nine-bob note.”
“You don’t even know that, Pip.” Her husband wagged a finger. “You women get together and presume too much. Some men are loners without being gay. Introverts, recluses who have relied upon their parents throughout life, and when the parents die they just go into a cocoon.”
“Well, Clay bought a nude picture from the exhibition in the Arts Centre.” Philippa was defensive, annoyed that her husband did not agree with her. “Under very suspicious circumstances.”
