Ritual Murder

by S. T. Haymon

  At Little St Ulf’s tomb they were busy too, clearing up. The drugget was rolled up, bowls and sieves and trowels were piled into cardboard cartons ready for removal. The table, its flaps down, its legs folded, rested precariously against the hoarding. The two detectives found Professor Pargeter and Mosh Epperstein discussing the infilling of the excavation with a narrow-chested young man from the Cathedral Architect’s office.

  The Professor greeted their arrival with exaggerated delight.

  “In the nick of time!” he exclaimed. “Let us hope the strong arm of the law may prevail where the sweet voice of reason entreats in vain! This gentleman—” with a ferocious glare at the young man, who reddened and looked down at his shoes—“proposes, in the name of something he chooses, God save us, to call safe pedestrianization, to seal up this spyhole on a significant moment in the history of Western man with enough slag, scoria, and sullage to make a medium-size supermarket. How, in heaven’s name, does he think we’re ever going to be able to come back to it, once the tumult and the shouting have died, if we have to blast through a veritable pyramid of Cheops to get there?”

  Jurnet said, “The amount of trouble this particular spyhole’s caused East Anglian man, never mind the Western variety, I can only hope the gentleman—” with a courteous inclination of the head to which the young man responded with grateful surprise—“will see his way to using reinforced concrete, unless he can think of something harder.”

  “Sod you,” remarked the Professor, without animus. “And what the hell are you here for, anyway?”

  “To see you, for one thing.” Jurnet felt in his pocket and brought out the small, semi-transparent envelope the Professor had given him when he had visited his home. For a moment he stood looking down at it, flat on his palm. Then he raised his head and looked at the man directly. “I wanted to know why you told me a lie.”

  Professor Pargeter did not answer. He looked older. He even shrank: not as much as Joe Fisher, but suddenly there was less man.

  Jurnet turned to Mosh Epperstein, who stood moistening his lips with a thin tongue.

  “You, of course, have known all along.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The statement, apparently, sounded so unconvincing to the archaeology student himself that he began again. “If you’re talking about Stan Brent—”

  “I wasn’t, actually, but I don’t mind if we do.”

  “He’s up in the triforium, helping Liz pack up.”

  “Oh ah. Pack up what?”

  “Her cameras and stuff, of course.”

  “Ah. Her stuff. Now, that does interest me. Think we’ll take a little climb up there, and have a word.”

  Mosh Epperstein cried out, “You know what Stan Brent’s like!”

  “Yes.” Jurnet nodded slowly. “I think I do. A bad ’un. You can smell them a mile off. But you know—” the detective’s voice took on the tone of an adult explaining to a child—“it’s a funny thing, badness. I often think it’s a talent, really, like being able to draw, or play the violin. Something that operates within very narrow limits. Just because you’re a ruddy marvel at blowing safes, it doesn’t follow you’ve a bent, or should I say a brent, for pushing drugs. So what’s Stan Brent’s specialty?”

  Professor Pargeter proffered, “There are some allrounders.”

  “Certainly.” But Jurnet shook his head nevertheless. “Have you noticed how Stan Brent moves? At the risk of sounding a queer myself, I’ll tell you. He carries his body as if he was a king carrying his crown and sceptre. Maybe he realizes it’s all he’s got to be proud of, I wouldn’t know, but proud of it he is. And the way I read him, he wouldn’t want to risk spoiling it with dope. He once told me what he thought of filling your body with dirt like it was a dustbin. I think he meant it.”

  Epperstein burst out with, “What’s his bloody, beautiful body got to do with it? He doesn’t have to be on the stuff to push it.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Jurnet conceded. “Though, speaking personally, I’ve never yet met a pusher who didn’t take a trip him or herself.”

  “Liz doesn’t—” The archaeology student stopped short, aghast at what he had almost said.

  “Oh yes, she does,” returned Jurnet, understanding perfectly, and noting in passing that even the most appalling sexual humiliation did not necessarily kill love. “Only she, if you’ll excuse the vulgarity, takes hers by ejaculation.”

  They tried the door up to the triforium and found it locked.

  Jurnet said, “No sweat. I know from Epperstein there’s a couple of doors somewhere with only bolts to undo.”

  “Shall I look while you wait here? Those two might tip her the wink.”

  Jurnet shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. Pargeter knows there isn’t a hope in hell for that girl unless we do pick her up. Halfa mo.” The detective had caught sight of Harbridge hurrying along the aisle, burdened with bucket and mop. Jurnet had to quicken his pace to overtake the man, and the man was not pleased to be overtaken.

  “Shan’t keep you. Just show me the nearest way up to the galleries.”

  “The galleries?” The verger’s frown deepened. “Keys are in the vestry an’ I haven’t the time—” He broke off and resumed on a different tack. “Dean won’t be happy, I can tell you that. All those police up there before, some of the trippers got the idea it was open to all an’ sundry. Could have been some nasty accidents.”

  “This time it’s only Sergeant Ellers and myself. We’ll be very careful.” Jurnet finished, “And if it’s all that dangerous up aloft, maybe you should get the Dean to do something about those doors that only have a couple of bolts on—on this side.”

  The verger threw the detective a fretful glance, and muttered, “Next one along. Back o’ the old stove.” He had picked up his bucket and mop afresh when Mr Quest, the head verger, came hurrying, full of the importance of office.

  “What’s this, Mr Harbridge? I thought you were to be in the Treasury.”

  “Kid’s sicked himself back of the Bishop’s throne.”

  “I’ll find somebody to take care of it. You get over to the Treasury.” As Harbridge moved away, still carrying his implements, the head verger called out sharply, “Leave’em, man! I told you, I’ll have it seen to.” When the verger had at last departed, it seemed to Jurnet with bad grace, Mr Quest had time for lesser things. “Anything I can do for you, Inspector?”

  “I don’t think so, ta. You’re busy this morning.”

  “It’s the spring weather.” And with a ponderous nod the head verger removed himself before the detective could ask a favour, if such indeed were in his mind.

  The stove was easily found, and the door behind it. Jurnet drew the bolts, and the two detectives stepped from the aisle on to a stair that wound narrowly upward between the two layers of the cathedral wall. It was, as Jack Ellers pronounced cheerfully, enough to give you the willies.

  To be projected out of that living entombment into the airiness of a gallery full of arches shaped liked hands joined in prayer was a resurrection to be relished. As Jurnet and Ellers took their first steps along the triforium, keeping prudently away from the low parapet overlooking the body of the cathedral, sweet music began to infuse the air about them; a lovely confidence trick that brought to Jurnet’s mind—he could not think what.

  Exasperated, he leaned out of an arch through which he could see down the length of the presbytery into the choir. The choristers were at practice, their voices bright with youth, their red cassocks aglow against the dark panelling. Up in the organ loft, Mr Amos’s head, visible above the console, nodded in time with the music.

  The detectives walked along the gallery in silence, until Jurnet stopped and exclaimed, “This must be where Joe collected his pot!”

  The two hung over the edge and peered directly down on to the dig, where the impassioned discussion about the infilling appeared to be continuing.

  “See what I mean? Everything he described
fits exactly, if you’re looking down at it from here. The table would have been set up then, he could have seen the broom—everything. Except something I never noticed till this minute. The tomb, the hole in the floor, the most important thing—Joe never even mentioned it. Because, d’you see, he never saw it. That pillar cuts it off completely.”

  “Does that mean we have to let him go? The stuff was found on his premises, even if he didn’t do Arthur in.”

  “We’ll think about Joe later. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Look who’s here!” Liz Aste exclaimed, down on her knees packing cups and plates into a wicker basket. “The sheriff and his posse!”

  Stan Brent, propped against a tea chest, held out the remains of his sandwich and called invitingly, “Here, posse, posse!”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late,” the girl said. “We’ve eaten up all the food.”

  Slender throat upstretched to display the white silk shirt open between the breasts, she looked up at Jurnet, perhaps with intent, probably because that was the only way she knew of looking at a man. The detective could see that her heart wasn’t in it. Her lips had a bitter twist to them. The blue eyes were dull and wary.

  “On the contrary,” Jurnet contradicted her. “We’re not too late at all, since we’ve caught you.”

  “Oh dear! That sounds ominous. What on earth can I have done? Or is it Stan you’ve got the warrant for?”

  “I haven’t got any warrant. Just asking a few questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, did you kill Arthur Cossey?”

  She got up then, leaving her packing and moving so close to Jurnet that he could smell her scent. Nothing out of a bottle: the clean, sharp odour of a hunted animal, awaking in the detective all the lusts of the chase.

  “You’re joking, of course?”

  “No joking matter, murder.”

  Liz Aste asked scornfully, “If I had killed that boy, d’you suppose I’d say so, just like that? As it happens, so far as I know, I never even set eyes on him. Where you ever got the idea I can’t think—”

  “That’s easily explained,” Jurnet replied patiently. “And please, Miss Aste, in your own interest, don’t tell me any more lies—not even little ones, because then, don’t you see, I shan’t be able to believe a single word you say. You see, I know that Arthur Cossey was your delivery boy. I know all about his paper round and the drugs delivered along with the papers to half the junkies in town.”

  “If you know all about it,” she rounded on the detective, with a spirit he had to admire in spite of himself, “I can’t see how it matters whether I tell lies or not. If you’ve proof, you can always prove me wrong. If you’ve proof. Actually, I think you’re simply trying to trick me.”

  “Not trick. Let’s say, just trying it on for size.”

  “But that’s disgusting! If the whole thing weren’t so utterly absurd I’d get my father, Lord Sydringham, to take it up with the Chief Constable.”

  “You do that, by all means. Meantime, if, for any reason, you don’t feel able to give us a free hand to go through this stuff you have here, I’ll have Sergeant Ellers here nip back to Headquarters to pick up that warrant you were talking about. It’s up to you.”

  Jurnet saw the girl’s eyes flicker; but she stayed cool and mocking.

  “It’s too ridiculous! If Arthur Cossey really had been working for me, the way you say, I’d be needing him, wouldn’t I? I hardly suppose they’d take a small ad at the Argus: ‘Wanted, bright boy to deliver hash and the hard stuff to selected customers. Only applicants with first-class references need apply.’ So why on earth should I want to do him in?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. Mind you, I do have a kind of inkling. Arthur was an enterprising lad. Any little peccadillo of his friends and acquaintances, he was on to it like a shot. And you, Miss Aste, in your line of business, and with your family connections, would be more vulnerable than most.”

  “There you go again! I’m sure it’s dreadfully unethical, trying to trip an innocent person up.” Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I can’t say what Stan may have been up to.”

  Stan Brent settled his red head in a fresh position against the tea chest, and observed lovingly, “Bitch!”

  Jurnet said, “Oh, I don’t doubt but that Mr Brent’s been up to plenty. After all, he’s been on your payroll too, hasn’t he?—taking delivery from your suppliers, and stockpiling the goods in that hut down by the river. Go down with one knapsack, come back with another identical. So long, that is, as there aren’t any fuzz hanging about on the staithe. Or unless the consignment wasn’t just the good old pot which never did anyone any harm, but acid and heroin as well, which—and I quote your own words, Stan—was like filling your body full of dirt like it was a dustbin.” The detective shook his head in a parody of concern. “Oh, what rows you two lovebirds had because Stan wouldn’t have anything to do with shifting the hard! Down at the marina, you made such a racket we could hear it all the way to the nick.” Enjoying the startled dismay the girl was unable to conceal, he finished, with mock condolence, “Quite understand how it must have knocked you all of a heap. Stan Brent with qualms! What was the world coming to?” Jurnet turned his attention to the young man. “That nifty cabin cruiser with the old folks at home. That was how it was done, wasn’t it?”

  Stan Brent said, “Very respectable people. OAPs trying to pick up a bit extra. Who can blame them, the stinking pension. You’ll never guess what their name is. Potter!” He frowned at Jurnet and explained painstakingly, “Pot. Potter. Joke, son.”

  “Ho, ho.” Jurnet looked at the young man curiously. As the detective watched, a bright flush spread upward over the freckled skin from neck to forehead, and as quickly subsided. The eyes blinked, a muscle in the cheek began to twitch uncontrollably. Stan Brent sprang suddenly to his feet and stood swaying. He brandished the remains of his sandwich in the girl’s face, and screamed, “You lousy scrubber!”

  The Honourable Liz Aste turned to Jurnet sadly. “Funny. I thought you knew he was into acid.”

  Stan Brent threw back his head and ululated. The sweet sounds of children and organ encased the dreadful noise, but could not contain it. Below, in the nave, startled people looked up, ready to duck. The young man’s body trembled violently, as though it were itself an instrument, twanged by a pitiless hand. His fingers splayed, groping. The scrap of sandwich dropped to the floor.

  The sweat of a mighty effort glistened on Brent’s face; but a fiercer power consumed him. The drug would not be denied. A tic contorted the strained features. Saliva leaked from the corners of his mouth, down chin and neck to the welted neckline of his white T-shirt.

  Jack Ellers moved forwards and pinned the man by the arms, only to be flung back with a force that sent him reeling. Jurnet, hesitating over a flying tackle that might bring Brent’s head crashing down on the stone floor, waited a second too long. In that second, Stan Brent jumped on to the low parapet, and stood there balancing on the narrow strip of stonework above the thirty-foot drop to the nave floor.

  Liz Aste screamed, “Stan! I didn’t mean it! Stan!” She tried to reach the swaying figure, only to be grabbed and dragged back by Ellers. The organ had fallen silent. The children’s voices soared towards the climax, unaccompanied.

  Stan Brent spread his arms downwards and behind him, a diver readying for the plunge. His eyes closed, his face pale and peaceful beneath the bright red hair, he shouted joyfully, “I fly! I fly!”

  In the instant before he could launch himself like a bird on to the cathedral air, Jurnet flung himself forward with all his strength and clasped the teetering figure above the knees.

  Not another murder in the cathedral!

  The iron band across the detective’s ribs burst with an explosion of pain that projected him into a nightmare kaleidoscope of pulsing lights and shapes that expanded and contracted with each excruciating breath. But he clung on, as if it was his life, and not Stan Brent’s, that depended
on it. For what seemed an eternity the two hung over the abyss which opened invitingly below them. To fall was so much easier, so temptingly conclusive, that there was a residual regret in the exhilaration that surged through Jurnet’s exhausted body as the realization came to him that he had won; that he and Brent, the young man whimpering now like a child thwarted of its desire, were rolling on the stone floor of the gallery, safe.

  The Honourable Liz Aste did not look at all pleased.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Batterby, who, of them all, had had most to do with drugs in the city, said: “£125,000, £150,000, even, at street prices.”

  The Superintendent, nevertheless, did not spare a glance for the packages strewn on the table in front of him. He did not look at the detectives either, sitting round the table as if waiting for the cards to be dealt. His gaze fixed upon some remote vista, not pleasing to the eye, he announced, “The truth is, we haven’t a single bit of solid evidence to connect the girl with the death of Arthur Cossey. The most we can do is place her on our little list along with the others.”

  Jurnet who, with his ribs re-strapped, was feeling fragile and unequal to the fray, ventured, “She says she needed him alive. There’s something in that.”

  “Unless he was threatening to give her away. And as to that—” and now it was at Jurnet, and at Sergeant Ellers beside him, that the Superintendent’s hostility was nakedly directed—“our likeliest source of information, to wit Mr Stan Brent, refuses to say a word—except possibly, as I understand it, to complain to the European Court of Human Rights. In some way beyond my comprehension he seems to regard an intervention which undoubtedly saved his life as an unwarranted interference with his personal liberty.”

  “Shock,” Jurnet interposed, his voice stronger with the certainty of what he was saying. “He feels violated. A psychological rape.”

  “Rape?” The Superintendent did not sound notably receptive to the thesis, or at least, not from the source from which it came. “Then he’ll get over it. They always do, sooner or later.” Jurnet, thinking of Millie Fisher, as the Superintendent, in his present mood, doubtless intended he should, said nothing. The other continued coldly, “Whilst in no way denigrating your personal courage, Ben, I can’t say I’m best pleased when a suspect all but falls to his death with two police officers standing gawping within a couple of feet of him.”