by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
From Murder to a Cathedral
(Gideon’s Wrath)
First published in 1967
Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1967-2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
075511759X 9780755117598 Print
0755118634 9780755118632 Pdf
0755125665 9780755125661 Kindle/Mobi
0755125673 9780755125678 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Acknowledgment
The author is extremely grateful to all those who advised him on the facts of this book, particularly the Friends of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the vergers there and elsewhere, and the clergy and others at Westminster Abbey, Westminster Cathedral and the London Synagogue.
1: THE WORSHIPER
The great nave was hushed and still. A pale light, tinted a dozen colours as it filtered through the ancient stained glass of the window, touched the stone wall and the threadbare standard of a long-vanished regiment once carried by a man of valour. The light, subtle as the harmony of an old tapestry, changed in depth where it fell upon the polished brass of a plate, which covered the last resting place of a politician who had done all that any politician could do to make himself right with God. Beyond this, the light faded into a dim, pale glow and vanished at the entrance to the private chapel of a saint seldom remembered.
This chapel was bare and bleak, empty save for a few dozen hard and shiny wooden chairs, a dark oak bench running round the walls like that in a court of law, and two or three paintings, each of the same saintly figure of half-forgotten history. The altar was covered with a cloth of handmade lace, and on it stood four candlesticks and a silver crucifix.
In front of the altar, at the rail, knelt a man.
There was so little light here that only those who came close could have noticed him. He knelt, in an awkward pose, on a tapestry hassock. One knee dented the middle of the hassock, the other edged to the cold stone floor. The man’s hands were clasped on the rail, not in an attitude of prayer, but tightly, as if in physical pain or mental anguish.
His breathing was laboured, almost sibilant. He had been in that position for a long time, as if unaware of the discomfort, his eyes sometimes closed and sometimes wide open. Now and again his lips moved.
“Oh, God,” he would whisper; and after a long pause, “Oh, Christ.”
After a longer pause, he would say, “What can I do? What the hell can I do?”
Suddenly, after a longer pause, his breathing became torturous and he began to choke and groan, until words burst out of him.
“I’ve killed her!”
The sounds died away, as if the anguish had suffocated him. Then he whispered again: a name.
“Margaret . . . Oh, Margaret”
And then, hardly audible, “Oh, Christ, I’ve killed her.”
His hands, still tightly clasped, slid off the polished altar rail and dropped to his raised knee. Save for his breathing he was silent, his eyes tightly closed as if to shut out even the darkness. Outside in the nave the pale colours glowed, and the hush was complete - until a footstep disturbed it rudely.
The man at the altar rail jerked his head up and turned. Another footfall sounded, and he moistened his lips.
A third footfall came and suddenly the filtering light was blotted out by darkness. The figure of a man showed black. The supplicant who had killed a woman now stared, teeth gritted in fear. A second later the light returned as the solitary man passed on, his footsteps hardly audible.
A verger?
A steward?
A priest?
Another worshiper?
Another sinner?
The man by the altar began to move, with great caution, helping himself by pulling against the rail. His knees, one warm, one cold, were stiff, his movements slow and clumsy. He listened intently for the slightest sound, heard none except the agitated beating of his own heart. The spell of anguish and remorse was broken, fear replacing it - dread that he might be seen or recognized; dread that retribution would soon catch up.
He crept to the door of the chapel, careful to avoid those beautiful colours; staring towards the choir and the high altar beyond. He heard nothing and for a while saw nothing, until suddenly a yellowish glow appeared, startling in the darkness, wavering as if held in an unsteady hand. Soon it settled on something which glistened, silent and golden. After a moment or two, shadows appeared; the glistening object moved, but not the light. Mesmerized by what was going on in front of him, the man by the chapel became aware of other things that glistened or glowed, all farther away from the radius of the pale light.
Another object disappeared; a rustling was followed by a faint clink of sound, a pause, a shadowy movement, another clink. Only after this had happened several times did the man who had killed realize what was happening; it was as if a voice within him cried: He’s stealing the altar plate!
The fact, to him, was so monstrous that the enormity of his own crime was momentarily forgotten. Here, under his very eyes, was sacrilege. His mouth opened; a cry rose within him but, gripped by an instinct that valued his personal safety above everything else on earth, he did nothing. The light moved, and so keen was his sense of perception and so much better his vision that he could make out the hands and fingers, even the shape of the thief’s head and shoulders as the area of his depredations widened.
The murderer by the door pushed it, and the hinges creaked faintly. He caught his breath, but the man inside did not pause. Cautiously the murderer pushed open the outer, much heavier, door and stepped into London’s night.
It was cold. He shivered. He turned toward the main steps and the main doors, the shivering worsening like ague. His teeth chattered. His hands felt icy. In the distance, a car engine sounded and soon a car hummed by, its headlights dipped and dim against the light from tall street lamps. The red light disappeared, and the man by the cathedral steps looked toward the emptiness of Ludden Hill and Ludden Circus.
Across the road, the light of a telephone kiosk shone, hard and warning. He crossed to it, fingering the coins in his pocket, hesitated, then pulled open the narrow door. More light sprang up so that he could see the notices, how to dial, how to put money in the slots, how to call the police.
Dial 999. Of course.
He lifted the receiver, hand steadier now, and put the tip of his forefinger in the hole. 9 - brrrk. 9 - brrrk. 9 - brrrk.
Almost on the instant, a man said briskly, “Scotland Yard.”
“I want - I want to report a burglary,” the man said in a hoarse agitated voice.
“Thank you, sir. If you will give your name—”
“At St. Ludd’s!” the man cried. “There’s a thief in St. Ludd’s!”
He thrust the receiver down with frenzied vigour as the disembodied voice asked him for his name. For a dreadful instant he had nearly answered, so deeply ingrained was habit. He had nearly said, “This is Eric Greenwood.” It did not then occur to him how unlikely it was that they would associate him with Margaret’s lifeless body, her swollen throat. He swung round, pushing the door open, stepping out. A policeman stood only twenty yards in front of him, advancing slowly from the faint white stone of a great new group of buildings.
For a split second, the murderer stood rigid. The policeman, without quickening his pace, drew nearer. The murderer, nervous tension near to screaming point, turned suddenly on his heel and went back the way he had come, the voice inside him warning: “Don’t hurry. Don’t panic.” All the time, his heart beat time to the refrain, racing so wildly that the self-injunctions ran into one another. Don’t hurry - don’t panic - don’t run. Don’t hurry don’t panic don’t run. Don’t run don’t run. Runrunrunrunrun. Because he knew the district well, he turned right, toward the Mansion House, passing the new buildings there; only when he was on the other side of the road did he look round.
The policeman had not followed him.
He turned again, and heard a car approaching at great speed, from Ludden Circus. He also heard a squeal of tires, and glanced over his shoulder to see a car pulling up in front of St. Ludd’s. The police, he thought, the police he had summoned, they would catch the thief who had dared to commit sacrilege but not the man who had disobeyed the command, Thou shalt not kill. As he made his way, something of the earlier anguish and fear and remorse returned, but the anguish was not so acute, not so obsessive. He could think, as well as feel. He could recall the picture of Margaret’s face, so round and pretty and so gay, and the sudden change in it to distress, as she had said, “I can’t go on, Eric, my darling! I can’t go on.”
It had been like a great iron ball, smashing into his head.
“You must understand,” she had pleaded. “I can’t go on deceiving Geoffrey like this. I can’t look him in the face. It was bad enough when he was away, but now he’s home again it’s impossible.”
He had thought in a spasm of wild fury, “She wants to leave me. She wants him!”
“You’re tired of me! That’s the truth, you’re tired of me!”
“No. It isn’t that. It’s just that I can’t go on cheating him - and I can’t leave the children. Eric, you know I can’t. Eric. Eric!” Suddenly, as his hands had closed about her throat, her voice had risen to a scream. “Eric!”
Now, she lay dead.
Now, he had prayed.
Now, he had to save himself from the consequences of his wickedness.
Although London slept and the great churches were as empty as the great blocks of offices, the museums, the stores and schools, the halls and stately homes, at one place there was an ever-watchful eye. That was Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. In fact, however, only one section of the building was wide awake: the section which housed the Information Room and the offices of the Criminal Investigation Department. From here, the centre of the web of London’s police, the Divisions and the subdivision police stations were controlled. Each constable on duty in uniform or in plain clothes, each sergeant and officer of higher rank, was directed from one of these police stations, which themselves were directed from Scotland Yard.
A police constable named Glenn, on duty that night at St Ludd’s, was in fact from the City of London Police, another force; but the three men who appeared in the powerful car, just after he had seen the man come from the telephone kiosk, were from the Yard. The two forces worked very closely together, sometimes almost as if they were one. The first car had only just stopped when another, from the City, pulled up on the other side of St. Ludd’s, close to the Crypt Gate. At once, the men began to station themselves by the exits, and Glenn joined a man who stood by the statue of Queen Anne.
“What’s up?”
“Had a tip-off.”
“What about?”
“Burglar in there.” “There” was indicated by a jerk of the thumb.
“Blimey!”
“If it’s not a hoax,” the other remarked. “You seen anyone?”
“Saw a chap come out of the kiosk. He was in a hell of a hurry.”
“Probably the one who tipped us off,” the Yard man remarked. “Get a good look at him?”
“Not bad.”
“Might come in useful.”
Still another car arrived and two big men got out, going up the steps immediately and conferring with a man already by the main entrance to the cathedral. The whispering of voices sounded clear on the still air, and the shapes of the men were sharply defined in the soft light of the moon. Out of the gloom at one side of the cathedral a man in a dressing gown appeared, tousled, bright-eyed. He was a verger disturbed by a call from the police. The whispering continued.
“What doors are open?”
“Only one, on the south side. Near the High Altar.”
“Quite sure of that?”
“Well, it’s the only door that should be open.”
“We’ll put a man at each of the others and try the one on the south side,” decided Detective Inspector Goodways of the City Police. “No need for you yet, sir. We’ll use torches, be easier to surprise this chap. If you’d care to put some clothes on—”
“But I can’t believe—”
“Have to make sure, sir,” Goodways insisted.
“Yes, of course,” the verger said. “Very well, I’ll get dressed and send for the canon.” He turned away again, obviously reluctant to admit that there might be a thief, as obviously determined not to be obstructive. As he disappeared a whispered order was sent out, and soon four men converged on the door through which the murderer had escaped. Detective Inspector Goodways and Detective Sergeant Hodgson from the Metropolitan Force went in, making very little sound for such big and heavy men. But as they stepp
ed into the cathedral itself, someone brushed the door and it clanged sharply.
A yellow light, some distance off, seemed to glow brightly; then it went out.
“He’s heard us,” Goodways whispered. “Go ahead.”
On that instant, first he and then Hodgson switched on powerful torches as Hodgson called in a deep, carrying voice which echoed with strange resonance: “Don’t move! We know you’re there.”
One torch beam shone on a pale statue, the other on the figure of a man carrying a big suitcase. At first, he did not move; it was as if he realized that he had no choice but to give himself up. However, as the two detectives went toward him, and two more of lesser rank followed them in, the thief uttered an obscenity in a shrill, scared voice.
“. . . . you!”
He turned and began to run toward the great doors of St. Ludd’s. The hurried, uncoordinated sound fell as desecration in that house of prayer.
2: GIDEON
No one with the name of Gideon could be oblivious of the fact that to many people the Biblical connotation sprang immediately to mind. There were even those who said that, given a flowing beard, a voluminous gown and a thick and heavy staff, the Gideon who was a Commander at Scotland Yard would make a passable Old Testament prophet. Hearing this Gideon would laugh, but it never failed to touch him with uneasiness. He was of an age, in his early fifties, and of a nonconformist religious upbringing, which could give a puritanical slant to most matters having to do with religion, and he hoped he was neither as puritanical nor as forbidding as many of the Old Testament prophets seemed to him.
It was characteristic of the man, physically so massive and powerful, mentally absolutely sure of himself in his job, that he should be sufficiently introspective to wonder whether any aspect of his character influenced the way he did that job.
