Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  “I’m going out.” He moved unsteadily toward the door.

  “Where?” She was always frightened when her son was away from home; if she had had the strength she would have barred his way, locked the door, and kept him prisoner in the house. As it was, her vision blurred, the room seemed to tilt, and she thought that she might faint. Oh, Rupert, if only you were here.

  “It’s my business where I go.” He tugged the door open, turned back to face her. “But if you’re really worried, Mother, I’m going into the cathedral. Don’t you like the idea? The house of God, Father’s shrine of worship, the place where he spent the most of his dreary, hypocritical life. That’s where I’m going.”

  “I don’t want you to go in the cathedral, Adrian.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “Why ever not?”

  “Because … because …” Her pallid, hollowed cheeks flushed, the tears that misted her eyes began to roll. “Because your father’s memory should be left in peace.”

  “You mean people will see me, associate me with him, think that maybe when he was younger he was like me.” He spat on the floor. “I expect he was. Do you know what organists and choirmasters are notorious for, Mother? You don’t? Well, I’ll tell you, then. They interfere with young choirboys.”

  “Adrian, how dare you!”

  “Well, it’s true, if you believe what you read. You want to live in the real world, Mother, read the papers. The proper ones, the ones that tell you what goes on in this sordid life that’s camouflaged by do-gooders. Only last week a vicar was put away for doing naughty things with little boys. Five years he got; it should have been ten. Just think about it, think what somebody did to old Poppleton, and to your husband, my father. Somebody got their revenge for …”

  “Shut up!” Philippa screamed, on the verge of hysteria. “Your father would never dream of doing such things.”

  “That’s what all wives and mothers say until it’s proved otherwise.” Adrian began closing the door behind him. “You mark my words, Mother, and remember what I said when the truth comes out!”

  The door slammed shut and Philippa Frame sank down into the hall chair, buried her face in her hands, and wept openly.

  * * *

  Dick Lumby stood in the vestibule just inside the west doors of the cathedral, his huge frame drawn up to its full 6ft 2ins, his sombre Verger’s uniform straining at the seams and buttons. He smiled to himself, lips drawn back from his protruding teeth, an expression of self-importance and smug satisfaction on his face.

  This morning he was in charge. Of the entire cathedral. Everybody else was attending a meeting up at the deanery, something to do with new schedules for the coming winter. He didn’t understand what it was all about, he probably wouldn’t have been any the wiser had he gone along with the rest. Which was why he had been delegated the duty of verger-in-charge for the next few hours. The reason for his brief spell of authority was immaterial; he would bask in it whilst it lasted. Whatever the outcome of the assembly, Homer would write out his instructions in his own flowery and semi-illiterate hand and pin them up on the notice board. Dick Lumby would do as he was ordered; he would follow them to the letter; if one obeyed the guidelines laid down by the Head Verger that was a sure recipe for a peaceful existence.

  He moved into the doorway, stood where he could be seen by the houses opposite, surveyed the blustery autumnal morning. Sunshine and squally showers, just like the weatherman on the television last night had predicted. A formation of black clouds had scurried on past the central spire, left in its wake concrete pathways glinting wetly in the aftermath of the heavy storm. Leaves blew, scattered in an easterly direction, piled up in any sheltered place that trapped them. Tomorrow, if the strong winds abated, a man with a barrow and broom, working at his own painfully slow pace, would continue his seemingly never ending task of sweeping them up. He never seemed to make much impression on the brown and golden carpet that littered the extensive lawns; there were still plenty of leaves left to fall from the lofty boughs of the horse chestnuts that lined the north side of the Close.

  Lumby squinted through the thick lenses of his spectacles. Up by the schoolhouse in the corner of the Close some boys were poking amongst the leaves with sticks, hunting for conkers. It reminded him of his own boyhood, how he used to bake them in the oven until they were rock hard and …

  Somebody was coming, a lone figure slouching down the wide slabbed walkway attracted his attention. He stiffened, his pulse raced. At least somebody would witness his brief moment of importance, seldom were there visitors in the cathedral before midday at this time of the year. By which time Homer—or his duly appointed deputy—would be here to officiate. Lumby checked that the flaps were outside his pockets, that his jacket was buttoned. He began to rehearse his welcoming smile.

  He peered again. The on-comer was closer now, he could make out the hunched shoulders, those dragging feet scraping leaves in their wake, kicking them in a slovenly demonstration of his boredom and dissatisfaction with life itself.

  Dick Lumby’s smile faded, he sensed unease, apprehension. That figure was only too familiar with him; he didn’t need to see the disagreeable features with their rash of spots. It was Adrian Frame, all right, undoubtedly heading for the cathedral. And that in itself was no small matter of concern.

  The Verger’s mouth had gone dry; he licked his lips in an attempt to moisten them. On a couple of recent occasions, the youth had mooched around the cathedral with an attitude of disinterest that bordered on contempt for his magnificent surroundings. He had stood for several minutes at the top of the nave staring fixedly up at the organ loft.

  Perhaps he had been remembering his late father, paying a silent tribute, regretting the feud that had existed between them now that it was too late to make his peace. Until you caught a glimpse of the other’s features: the staring eyes, lips clamped in a thin bloodless line. An expression of sheer malevolence, of drug-induced madness.

  Homer had noticed it from his desk in the vestibule and, like a flitting ghoul, he had shadowed Adrian Frame until finally the other wandered back outside. It had been a disturbing experience.

  “I don’t want him in here,” the Head Verger had told his subordinates at their weekly meeting. “He’s up to something, I’ll warrant. He’s revelling in what happened to his father, and he’s planning something. Vandalism, doubtless, possibly a desecration of the cathedral. He should be locked up for the safety of the public. He’s dangerous. If he returns, request him to leave. If he refuses, call the police.”

  But how did one, especially a substitute Head Verger, deny a member of the community access to the cathedral? The doors were open to the public, entry was invited, encouraged because of the latest restoration appeal. A quarter of a million pounds was needed to repair the spires, every donation counted. Lumby fidgeted with his hands behind his back. Maybe—it was a desperate hope—the Frame boy wasn’t actually coming inside, maybe he would stand and admire the statues of the kings that adorned the west facing architecture. Or perhaps slouch his way around the perimeter of the Close. No, he wasn’t the type to take a morning constitutional.

  The Verger stood with his powerful frame blocking the doorway, tried not to meet the hostile stare of the approaching youth. Lumby was physically strong, he weighed almost sixteen stones, he was a match for anybody; a teenage weakling stood no chance against his bulk. All the same, he trembled. Because the other’s expression was one of sheer evil.

  “’Scuse me.” Adrian halted, his posture threatening. Possibly, had the other been of a slighter build, he would have attempted to barge his way past.

  “Yes?” Lumby looked up. “Can I help you, sir?” He had a slight impediment of speech caused by his uneven teeth.

  “You can get out of the bleedin’ way, for starters!” Adrian’s white and bony fists clenched. “I’m going in there.”

  Involuntarily, Dick Lumby stepped to one side, despised himself for his cowardice. He swallowe
d, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and back down again. “Sorry.” He dribbled, wiped the string of saliva away with his hand, hated himself for apologising.

  But the other had already pushed past him, gone on inside, his trainers slapping the floor like wet plaice on a fishmonger’s slab, echoing up to the roof. Adrian glanced contemptuously in the direction of the offertory table, headed on down the nave.

  Lumby watched from a distance, knew that the Frame boy was going to stand and stare up at the organ loft the way he had done on his previous visit, a maniacal expression of hate for his dead father on his acne-infested features. Well, there was no real harm in that so long as he was gone by the time Homer returned from the meeting. Nobody need ever know that he had been here.

  The Verger returned to the doorway, continued watching the leaves blowing off the lawns; their rustling was soothing, a rippling sea of golden brown. But his ears were trained back inside the cathedral, listening apprehensively. Those slopping footsteps had ceased; there was only an ominous hush from within.

  What was Adrian Frame doing, for Christ’s sake? Lumby didn’t want to go and find out; the other was an obnoxious character in every conceivable way, he would probably turn out a string of blasphemous obscenities at the Verger’s appearance. The youth was both arrogant and abusive and he smelled strongly of stale sweat, he probably slept in the clothes he wore by day because he was too idle to get undressed for bed. Likewise, it was doubtful that he washed or bathed.

  You’ll have to go and look, it’s your duty. You’re in charge. Dick Lumby’s pulse raced at the thought.

  The other might be defacing something, wantonly vandalising some tomb or memorial. And the Gospels were still on display in the Chapter House …

  The Verger had to wait for his poor eyesight to adjust to the gloom of the interior after the bright sunshine outside. He took off his glasses, wiped them with a grubby handkerchief, put them back on. Looked again.

  There was no sign of Adrian Frame, no sound by which he could be located. Just an eerie, menacing silence.

  Oh, hell, this could get Lumby into an awful lot of trouble should Homer return unexpectedly.

  The Verger coughed meaningfully and the sound echoed, grew in magnitude before it died away. The silence surged softly back.

  He crept forward, tried to walk on the balls of his feet, but there was no way his cumbersome form could move silently. His leather soles clip-clopped, sounded like castanets, grew in volume. He abandoned stealth; he had to check on the Gospels immediately.

  “My dad was a fornicating shit!”

  The words hit with the force of a physical blow. Almost threw him back. An enraged, hysterical scream came at him from all directions, rippling with maniacal laughter. He smelled his own sweat, felt it turn icy with terror. His bowels threatened to empty, his legs weakened beneath him.

  His thick neck jerked one way, then another. Gloomy shadows that could have hidden somebody even in the daytime. Another peal of laughter.

  The nave and the aisles were empty. Unless the one he sought hid behind a stone pillar. There was nobody in the choir stalls, either, unless they were crouching down out of sight.

  “I’m glad my dad’s dead.”

  The roof space vibrated. Dead … dead … dead. Mocking laughter reached its peak, faded.

  The ensuing silence was worst of all. Standing there in the nave, Lumby felt eyes boring into him. Mad orbs that burned with crazed hatred. His mouth gaped, his frightened eyes rested on the distant altar; he offered up a prayer for his own salvation, glanced heavenwards. And met the hate-crazed stare of Adrian Frame.

  “My dad got what was coming to him and I’m glad!”

  Lumby recoiled, his eyes bulged like air bubbles about to burst. Above him, visible from the waistband of his jean upwards, Adrian Frame stood on the balcony adjoining the organ loft. His features were scarcely recognisable except for that unmistakable mass of acne, a gargoyle come to life so that it might vent its malevolence on those who revered this house of God, an awesome thing slunk up to its lair, aloft and now standing at bay.

  The organ lights were switched on, a soft glow that was a sinister background behind the drug maddened creature that mouthed blasphemies and whose stretched lips frothed spittle. An arm came aloft; something glinted in the twisted fingers. A length of steel, a blade that shimmered. A knife honed to razor sharpness.

  “I can smell my father’s blood!” The nostrils dilated, the clogged mucus bubbled. “As fresh as the day it was spilled, it will still stink a thousand years from now. A sacrifice to the memory of the innocents who suffered at his soiled hands, a memory to be savoured now that he’s gone.”

  Lumby trembled visibly; he thought that he was going to throw up.

  “Come on up and see for yourself. The bloodstains are still visible if you look hard enough. Come and look, and smell the stink of his vile blood!”

  No!

  “Come on!” The knife was thrust forward, pointed at the cowering man below.

  Dick Lumby found that he could move. Where terror had petrified him, paralysed him, now it provided him with the impetus to turn away. He heaved and bile scorched his throat, dribbled from his lips. Those legs which had struggled to bear his bulk now gave him the impetus to turn away, to flee.

  A lumbering gait, he bumped against a pew, somehow kept his balance. Heavy footsteps, the echoes pursuing him, he dared not look back. His heartbeat, the roaring in his ears, was deafening. In his mind he saw the other coming after him, wielding that knife, stinking not of stale body odours but of the blood of a mutilated man.

  Thirsting for blood again.

  It seemed an eternity before he reached the vestibule, Homer’s partitioned office on his right. He looked for the Head Verger, prayed that the ghoulish figure might rise like an apparition from behind the desk. A man feared by all—even Adrian Frame would be afraid of him.

  But there was no Charles Homer seated at his desk. Nobody at all. The cathedral was empty except for himself and the madman who craved another mutilation and murder.

  Nobody reached out to grab Lumby, to haul him back. No blade sliced into his unprotected quivering body. He stumbled through the vestibule, almost collapsed in the doorway.

  Then he was outside, staring fixedly at the wind-blown leaves, and the schoolboys in the distance still searching diligently for conkers. The sun was hidden behind the next formation of dark clouds; it was starting to rain again, heavy spots that danced on the concrete.

  The boys abandoned their search, ran for cover. Only then did Dick Lumby start to scream but the gusting rainstorm whipped his shrieks away, carried them back through the open door and into the cathedral.

  Nobody heard him except the youth who stood in the organ loft brandishing a knife and laughing insanely. For him, it was sweet music in his ears, for he knew now how his father had screamed before he died.

  17

  “Good morning.” James Drinkwater’s tone was flat and expressionless, far removed from his singing voice in the choir. A man who lacked self-confidence smiled weakly and averted his eyes, glanced down at his scuffed suede shoes.

  “Oh, good morning, Mr Drinkwater.” Sandra Corms held the door open. There was an expression of nervous curiosity in her expression. She wore black jeans and a hand knitted black and white sweater. Her usually immaculate dark hair was in need of brushing; delivering four children to school was a harrowing experience. She had been making the beds when the front doorbell rang.

  “Not a nice morning.” The Vicar Choral licked his lips nervously, looked at her, looked away again.

  “It’s certainly autumnal. Can I help you?” The question should not have been necessary, but she envisaged them standing there on the step making polite small talk for the next hour. It was draughty with the door open.

  “Er …” It was as though the other had forgotten the purpose of his call. “I … I just called to congratulate Michael on his appointment as organist to the cathedral.”

&nb
sp; “He’s not in, I’m afraid.” The door edged an inch or two closer, framed her in the gap. “He’s in a meeting at the deanery.” Her forehead furrowed, Drinkwater should have known about the meeting even if he did not include an invitation to members of the choir. And, in any case, he could have conveyed his congratulations to Michael after Choral evensong later in the day.

  “Oh, I see. Yes, I seem to remember somebody saying something about a meeting this morning.”

  “I’m not expecting him back till around midday or later. Depending upon whether or not he goes to the pub for a lunchtime drink.” She eased back a little; the gap between the door and the lintel narrowed another couple of inches.

  “Oh, dear,” he sighed, “my memory never was much good. I could have saved myself a walk and a soaking if I’d remembered about the meeting.”

  She saw how wet his showerproof macintosh was, the way even his wiry, tufted hair was plastered flat on his head. A bedraggled figure, downcast after a futile walk on a blustery morning. Possibly he had wanted to be the first to congratulate Michael, hence he had not waited for a later opportunity. Which was why she said, “Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “That would be most welcome, provided it’s not putting you to too much trouble.” Drinkwater edged a little closer to the door.

  “No trouble at all.” It was an inconvenience—she had never liked early morning callers. Almost a slave to domestic routine, she liked to get the beds made and the dusting done before her day started. She had hoped that he would make an excuse to leave. He obviously had time on his hands. Now it was too late; he was inside the hall, a nervous, boring creature like the rest of those associated with the cathedral. He bored her already, and he was making her nervous, too.

  “Perhaps Michael will be back soon.” He followed her through to the kitchen, knew instantly that she would apologise for the dishes stacked in the sink and the crumbs on the scrubbed pine table.