by Guy N Smith
“Stop it!” the Precentor screamed. It echoed up to the roof, hung there. He thought he heard Homer laugh. Feiffer turned, he had to force every muscle in his body to function. It was as though leaden balls were chained to his ankles. His breath came in stentorian gasps. He could barely see now, his vision was streaked with scarlet.
Don’t follow me, Homer!
Homer was following him, slow footsteps that kept pace with his own staggerings, but he dared not glance back. Only an instinctive sense of direction kept him on course—he had trodden these flagstones for forty years. He turned left at the end of the nave, headed into the north transept.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a quick look in the organ loft, Precentor?”
Feiffer fought against the pain, blind fear kept him going. He wanted to yell back, ‘It's you, isn’t it, Homer? You killed him, you killed them both. Didn’t you?’ But he had no breath for verbal accusations.
Somehow he made it to the door, fell against it as he pushed it open. Outside, the illuminations dazzled him. He wondered if he had the strength to mount the steps.
The youths who had been over by the well had moved and now stood in a group by the old deanery entrance. One said, “Hey, look, there’s an old guy just come out of the cathedral. Looks like ‘e’s been drinking.”
Raucous laughter.
Canon Feiffer stumbled and fell. He banged his head on one of the steps, grunted and tasted blood. It smelled just like Homer had said.
“There ’e goes, down for the count.”
More raucous laughter.
“We can’t leave ‘im there,” somebody protested. “Pick ‘im up and sit ‘im up agin the wall over there.”
They walked down the steps to where the sprawled form lay, hands reached out for the limp arms and legs.
“Christ, ‘e’s a bloody weight!”
“Lift ‘im up, then.”
Somehow they struggled back up the steps, panted and grunted their way over to the brick deanery wall. It was only when they attempted to sit the unconscious man up against the brickwork and his head slumped forward that realization slowly dawned upon them.
One of them said, “Jesus, e’s bloody dead!”
11
“If it’s any consolation to you,” Ford said, “Feiffer died from natural causes. A heart attack. He’d had heart trouble for some years, apparently.”
“It is.” There was no mistaking the fleeting expression of relief on Michael Corms’s face.
Ford refrained from adding that the precentor’s dead features had been frozen in an expression of sheer terror. That was better kept quiet for the moment for a lot of reasons; it might not even have any bearing on police investigations. There were no logical grounds for suspicion; Borman had emphasised that to the press.
Just Ford’s gut feeling and he was keeping a tight rein on that for the moment. This was no time for playing wild hunches. Charles Homer had stated that Feiffer seemed to be in good health and spirits when he had left the cathedral that night. But why had the canon gone on a tour of inspection at that hour?
“I’ve already been interviewed about Rupert Frame’s death.” Corms’s protruding ears turned a shade of pink. Next thing, they would be accusing him.
“This isn’t exactly an interrogation.” Ford knew how to smile reassuringly; there were times when you got what you wanted out of people by appearing casual. This was one of those times. “I’m attempting to build up a profile.”
“Of the killer?”
“Yes, but also of organists in general. I need to find out what makes them tick, and, hopefully, what might make somebody want to kill and mutilate them. I haven’t ruled out a sexual motive.”
“The guy’s probably just a psycho. Look at some of the famous cases that have made the headlines: Dahmer, Nilsen, the Russian cannibal, the Black Mantis, that guy they called ‘The Hangman.’ ”
“You’ve read up on them.” Not a flicker of his shrewd eyes betrayed Ford’s surprise.
“Morbid interest, I guess.” Corms was suddenly uneasy. “I used to read horror novels, but nowadays I just read the newspapers. I don’t see how I can help you, Sergeant, this guy doesn’t have to have a reason, does he?”
“Not a reason, a cause, something that triggers off the urge inside him to kill, maybe something that happened as far back as his childhood. Find that and we’re halfway to finding the killer.”
“I don’t see how I can help you.”
“Neither do I right now, but it may be that you can tell me something which might seem meaningless to you but it’s what I’m looking for. Tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Me? Oh, all right, not that I’ve had a very interesting life. I took a Latin and music degree at Birmingham University. After I graduated, I went on to teach music at Wrekin. Teaching wasn’t my vocation, though, but I stuck with it for ten years, then I saw the assistant organist’s job was vacant here. I applied and got it. Rupert Frame had been here about two and a half years, then. I guess that’s all there is to tell, really.”
“How did you get on with Rupert Frame?”
“Detective Sergeant Clifford quizzed me on that.” Corms was suspicious again.
“I’m just interested to know. Like I said, I need to know a lot about organists.”
“I got on okay with him. That about sums it up. I neither liked nor disliked him, and I think he felt the same about me. We had a working relationship; we never met socially. The only time I’ve ever been inside his house was on the day of the interview. If I needed to ask him anything outside working hours, I either phoned him or went round to his place. I never got beyond the front porch. Rupert was dedicated to his job, he never once put upon me. If anything, it was just the reverse.”
“Can you think of any enemies he might have had?”
“No, he wasn’t the kind to make enemies. If you disliked him, you did so at a distance. He just got on with his job. He wasn’t a conversationalist. If you met him out and about, he just passed the time of day. If he had anything to tell you, he told you. He was abrupt but you knew it was just his way, nothing personal. I doubt if anybody outside his family has ever got close to him. His biggest disappointment was his son. The boy was regularly in trouble with the police, still is. If you ask me, Adrian’s a corner flag short of a football pitch. Whatever his father was, his son is the exact opposite. Have you met him, Sergeant?”
“I’ve still that pleasure to come.” Jason Ford was thoughtful. “Do you know how father and son got on?”
“Only what I’ve heard, and as I’ve said, Rupert wasn’t one to disclose anything of a personal nature. They say that Rupert did everything humanly possible to help the boy. He took him to several psychiatrists, once to a hypnotherapist. The boy resented it; after each attempt to help him, he retaliated immediately. A fight, shoplifting—anything that would drag his father’s name through the mud. He seemed hell-bent on tarnishing the family’s reputation. Everything was, and still is, due to drugs, I reckon. He’s been busted for them more than once. Drugs can make you do things out of character, can’t they, Sergeant? They cause a personality change. Take that woman shopper who was stabbed in a busy shopping precinct the other week. She didn’t even know her attacker; he just got an urge to stick a knife in her. The papers said the killer was high on crack. Now, just suppose this bloke who is killing organists has a crack addiction, it would account for the murders and mutilations, wouldn’t it, Sergeant?”
“It might,” Ford agreed. It was at the top of his list of possibilities, had been right from the start. But he had a hunch that there was more to this than drugs alone. “But you’ve helped me to form a general profile of an organist, Mr Corms, and that could be very helpful in the future. Tell me, how does James Drinkwater fit into the cathedral scene?”
“He doesn’t, frankly.” Corms smiled guiltily, he was not in the habit of gossiping about other members of the cathedral. “He’s a misfit. Like Frame in a way. Odd bloke, got a good voi
ce, knows his job. Feiffer didn’t like him, though. I think the feeling was mutual, so Homer told me. Not that one can believe everything that Homer says.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, just petty suspicions, not even rumours. Some of the choir had been visiting Drinkwater at his place; I guess it happens at most cathedrals. Maybe I should have some of them back to my place, but when you’ve got four kids of your own, you never get round to it. Anyway, Feiffer got to know and carpeted Drinkwater. At least, he spoke to him about it. The precentor was one to bear a grudge; in his eyes, the Vicar Choral was up to something sordid and that was that. Feiffer didn’t like Homer, either; they’d had a sort of feud for years. You know, ignoring each other, Feiffer was looking for every fault he could find with Homer and so on. But as for Drinkwater, I’ve always found him pleasant enough. I think he’s lazy, but he does his job in the cathedral so that’s none of my business.”
“And Clay?”
“Well, what can I say?” Corms laughed aloud. “The general opinion of him is that he smells, he pinches girls’ bottoms, and he’s a general bloody nuisance to the community.”
“Has he a record of sexual assaults?”
“Oh, no, maybe I shouldn’t have put it like that. He once—perhaps accidentally—touched a girl’s bottom in a shop and she slapped his face. Nobody’s ever forgotten it; it’s a standing joke. But he did recently cause a titter by paying seventy-five quid for a nude painting from an art exhibition. If he’d just walked in and bought it, nobody would have batted an eye. But he tried to create an obvious smoke cover, rang up and asked for it to be wrapped up, walked around the gallery until it was empty before picking it up. This city thrives on petty gossip, you know. But I’ll vouch that he does smell. BO, and very strong. Take a tip from me, Sergeant, don’t stand too close to him! And if you get talking to him in the street, it’s like trying to shake the old man of the sea off your back. A lot of folks cross over the road when they spot him coming. But Drinkwater doesn’t seem to mind, they were old school friends and they both sell books. So they’ve obviously got plenty in common. I guess people talk about them, but myself, I couldn’t be bothered. I mean, a guy who gets his thrills out of paintings of nude women isn’t likely to be gay, is he? Not that it’s any reflection of him if he is; I’m just making a point. I think both Drinkwater and Clay are very lonely and that’s the basis of their friendship. If they’d got the courage they’d probably join a lonely hearts club, except that they’re too set in their bachelor ways. Oddities but quite harmless, that’s how I see them.”
“Thank you, Mr Corms.” Ford stood up, “I’m most grateful for what you’ve told me. You never know, somewhere amongst it all, you might have given me some valuable information.” He moved closer to the door.
“Sergeant?” Michael Corms was suddenly nervous again, glancing towards the stairway in case any of the children might be out of bed and listening. Sandra had gone down to the shop for a jar of coffee; as soon as she returned, he would get out. Tonight he was due at the Shoulder of Mutton; he always went there on Thursdays.
“Yes?”
“I’m taking over as organist until a full time replacement is appointed …”
“I see.” And you’re shit scared right now. Jesus Christ, how do you tell a guy he’s not likely to get topped when he’s stepped right into the firing line?
“I shall have to do some evening practices next week—the Festival’s only ten days away. Everything has to go to perfection.”
Ford smiled reassuringly; it was a con, made him feel guilty. Because he knew the risks as well as Corms did. Better, in fact.
“There will be a police presence.” It sounded vague, a kind of half promise. “Just as there was at Frame’s funeral. Every cathedral service has a plain clothes officer in the congregation, and there are round-the-clock vigils in the Close. I don’t think the killer will strike again in Lichfield.” He had to boost the organist’s confidence—that was the least he could do. There were several thousand tourists in the area for the Festival and more were arriving daily; the murderer had the cover he needed. The police could only do their best. Somebody had to play the organ in the cathedral. It happened to be Corms; he would be protected as far as was possible. Policemen were only human. But Ford could not tell the other that.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Michael Corms seemed relieved.
“I’ll see you around. I may need to talk to you again,” Ford said, and stepped back outside into the evening sunshine. It was as if the balmy atmosphere had lost some of its warmth. It could just have been that summer was well advanced, that the nights were turning cooler. But Ford knew a hunch when he felt one. The killer had not left; he was still around, still in the city.
Waiting.
And Corms was Ford’s bait.
12
Ford had never liked paperwork, but he had accepted it as an integral part of the job, a compilation of facts that often knitted together and threw up a vital piece of information which otherwise might have gone unnoticed.
He was meticulous in this respect. Most evenings he stored fresh facts on his laptop, used his own private filing systems in conjunction with police computer files. The organist killings were going to use up several discs.
“Anything new?” Brenda leaned across him, set a mug of tea down on the desk.
“We’ll see in a minute.” He was tired; the late July heat had taken its toll on him today. The computer whirred, asked the user to wait one minute.
“Clay?” She kissed her husband on the cheek.
“No, I haven’t got a lot on him so far. All hearsay: voyeurism, possibly bisexual. The computer can’t make up its mind, it needs more facts. Same goes for Drinkwater.”
“Who, then?”
“Homer, Charles.” It was as if the software heard her, answered her question spontaneously.
Age: 77
Occupation: Head Verger, Lichfield Cathedral
Duration of Employment: 1961–64, 1966–
Description: Greying hair, Balding, Height 5.10, Powerful, reputed to hold black belt
Convictions: None
Suspicions: Believed to have been involved with S&M group in Essex c1964
Territorial Army service: 1964–1966
Marital status: Divorced
Enemies: Canon George Feiffer, Precentor (deceased)
Rupert J. Frame, Organist (deceased)
Petty feuds
“There you go, then.” Brenda read the file through. “A nasty man, a pervert, and his enemies have both recently died.”
“One from natural causes.”
“The other was murdered and sexually mutilated. Homer was suspected of being into kinky sex. He disliked Frame. Seems to me he’s your number one suspect.”
“My hunch says ‘no.’ ”
“Your hunch could be wrong. What was his quarrel with Frame?”
“A general resentment of authority. Two of the other vergers, Needes and Lumby, confirmed that independently. Homer has also, apparently, transferred his dislike to Corms. It will doubtless be passed on to the new organist when he’s appointed. Homer’s like that. I haven’t discarded him.” Ford sipped his tea, looked thoughtful, “My main worry is why the north transept door was left unlocked on the evenings of both deaths.”
“Lumby had gone for fish and chips when Frame was murdered, you know that.”
“Yes, sheer carelessness. But on the night Feiffer had a heart attack outside, Homer was inside, although he had not locked the door behind him as is the inflexible rule, and he’s a stickler for the rule book.”
“Maybe he just forgot.”
“Or else he was expecting somebody.”
“Feiffer?”
“Unlikely. I’m told that the precentor almost never went into the cathedral in the evenings except when there was a rehearsal. There wasn’t one on that night—it had taken place earlier, immediately after evensong.”
“Who, then?”
“Darling.” For
d switched off the screen, twisted round to meet her lips. “That is what I have to find out. And I’m damned sure Charles Homer isn’t going to tell me. Incidentally, it was Hebert Poppleton who recommended Homer for the job. And it was Poppleton who persuaded him to come back to the cathedral after his TA service. And they both came from Essex originally.”
“Could be they were both into S&M, then?”
“That’s guesswork, but it’s a possibility. Two perverts who quarrelled. But Frame most certainly wasn’t into kinky sex, so we’re back to the original organist link. And now Corms is in the hot seat and scared shitless.”
“It’s only three days to the Festival.”
“Precisely, and that makes me think we’re running out of time. If the murderer thrives on notoriety, then what better time to make his third strike? And when that happens, we are up against a serial killer.”
Jason Ford stood up, pulled a dust cover over his computer. “I’m going out,” he said, refraining from adding, ‘I might be some time.’ That quip had worn thin during his three years of marriage.
Brenda did not ask where or when she might expect him back. Her own period of service in the force had taught her that CID officers did not work to a time schedule.
However, she was not immune from concern. Only too well she recalled the Black Mantis and the one they had dubbed “The Hangman.” One more killing and it might not be deemed lucky for Ford.
* * *
“I think we might vary the eating establishment occasionally, don’t you?” Cecil Clay picked at his French fries, grimaced through a mouthful of burger. “I mean, it gets much of a muchness, doesn’t it?”
“The Kabin closes at five.” James Drinkwater stared at his Filet-O-Fish. “There’s nowhere much after then, even during the Festival. Hotels come expensive. We could try takeaways.”
