The Whispering Gallery

by Mark Sanderson

  “She won’t have forgotten. There are only two reasons why she hasn’t rung: either she’s unable to or she doesn’t want to. Dolly’s been asking around but not heard anything encouraging. A lot of her friends don’t have a telephone.”

  “Perhaps she’s just staying on the beach for as long as she can,” said Johnny. He never sunbathed: his pale skin soon burned.

  “Are you still in touch with Sergeant Turner?” Bennion, who generally made a point of looking everyone in the eye, gazed over Johnny’s shoulder. So that was it: he wanted something. That explained his embarrassment.

  “I’m seeing him later,” said Johnny, and drained his glass.

  “Another?”

  “Please.” The publican, having served a couple of customers, returned with a fresh pint. The pile of pennies remained untouched.

  “Could you ask him to make a few enquiries?”

  “I’m as anxious as you are to see Stella again,” said Johnny. “She’s only been gone for a day though. It’s too early to report her missing. Besides, she could turn up at any second.”

  “And what if she doesn’t?”

  “I’ll do everything I can to find her – and that includes enlisting the help of Matt and his men. If she’s not back by Monday morning I’ll raise the alarm myself.” The possibility that some ill had befallen her filled him with panic. He drowned it with beer.

  He was half-cut after his third pint. The heat increased the power of the alcohol. There was still no sign of Stella. The pavement beneath his feet felt spongy. He sauntered down Hosier Lane, along King Street and into Snow Hill where John Bunyan’s earthly pilgrimage was said to have come to an end.

  It was cooler now: the incoming tide had brought a freshening breeze which felt delightful against his hot skin. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue dome that stretched serenely over the exhausted capital. A kestrel hovered overhead. Johnny stopped and enjoyed one of those rare, uncanny moments when, despite its millions of inhabitants, thousands of vehicles and ceaseless activity, there was complete silence in the city. Seconds later it was shattered by the sound of smashing glass and an ironic cheer.

  The Rolling Barrel was only a few doors down from Snow Hill police station, so it was the first place that thirsty coppers made for when they came off duty. It was gloomy and smoky inside the pub. All the tables were taken so Johnny went to the bar. The clock behind the bar showed it was five past eight.

  “What are you doing here, Steadman?” Philip Dwyer, one of Matt’s colleagues, glared at him. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

  The sergeant’s eyes were glazed and his speech was slurred. Surely he couldn’t have got in such a state in five minutes?

  Dwyer leaned forward. A blast of beery breath hit Johnny in the face. “Be a good chap and fuck off.”

  As a journalist, Johnny was accustomed to being unpopular. However, his unmasking of corruption at Snow Hill in December had hit a nerve both within the force and without. The ensuing scandal had made Johnny’s name – but at considerable cost to himself and Matt. His investigations had also led to the deaths of four other men. They would always lie heavily on his conscience. Rumours about what had happened to him and Matt continued to circulate – out of Matt’s earshot. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of the big, blond boxer.

  Johnny was in no mood to be pushed around by a drunken desk sergeant, especially when he could see that Matt wasn’t in the boozer. There was no point in buying a drink just to annoy Dwyer: in the state he was in he might throw a punch, Johnny would throw one back and then end up being arrested. Johnny strolled out and soon he found Matt propping up the bar in the Viaduct Tavern, round the corner in Giltspur Street.

  “Dwyer just told me to fuck off.”

  “Glad to see you did as you were told for once.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  Johnny meant it. He immediately felt at ease in Matt’s company. He always did. It was as if a chemical reaction took place, their personalities somehow combining to produce a sense of well-being. No one else had this effect on Johnny. Matt was a winner of the lottery of life: he was tall, very good-looking and popular. He literally saw the world in a different way to other, shorter, people. As much as Stella made Johnny happy and alleviated his habitual loneliness, she didn’t make him feel safe, secure and stronger in himself the way Matt did. It was, he supposed, his role to make her feel that way. At the moment, though, Stella was making him nervous and fearful. Nervous about what she would say when he eventually popped the question and fearful about her disappearance. He needed some Dutch courage.

  “Same again?”

  “I’ll have one for the road, thanks. I promised Lizzie that I’d be home by ten – and given the mood she’s in these days there’ll be hell to pay if I’m not.”

  Once upon a time Johnny would have experienced a stab of jealousy at such a remark. He had fallen for Lizzie as soon as he set eyes on her and had been heartbroken when she had – quite understandably, in his opinion – chosen Matt as her husband instead of him. Lizzie had worked hard to convince Johnny that his love for her was just an adolescent crush. Now they were, in the time-honoured phrase, “just good friends”.Nevertheless, a part of Johnny remained unconvinced. He was happy for Matt – he and Lizzie had an enviable marriage – yet in his eyes she would always be “the one that got away”.

  “How is Lizzie?” They moved over to a table that had just been vacated by a pair of postmen. Johnny set down the glasses on its ring-stained veneer.

  “She’s finding the heat unbearable – although it’s not quite as suffocating in Bexley.”

  Johnny had been afraid that he would see less of his friend when he moved from Islington to one of the new housing developments that were sprawling out across the virgin countryside round the capital. However, because police officers were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station, the move had produced the opposite effect. Matt had to sleep in the officers” dormitory at Snow Hill more often than in the past.

  Lizzie, who had cajoled Matt into the move, now complained that he was hardly ever at home. She had been forced to give up her job in Gamage’s, the “People’s Popular Emporium”, when she became noticeably pregnant. Apparently customers did not wish to be served by mothers-to-be – even in the maternity department. Six months on, she was stuck in the new three-bedroom house, miles away from all her friends and with only the baby inside her for company.

  “When’s the big day?” said Johnny.

  “A couple more weeks – but we’ve been warned that first babies are often overdue.”

  “Who can blame them?” Johnny took another swig of his bitter. “What a time to enter the world.”

  “At least I won’t have to enlist: being a copper is a restricted occupation. Pity, really. I fancy killing a few Nazis. What will you do if and when the balloon goes up?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought. My flat feet will keep me out of the army. Perhaps I’ll get a job with the Ministry of Information, or I could be a stretcher-bearer.”

  “Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Chamberlain might yet save the day.”

  “Sure – and I’m going win the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

  “You’ll have to write a novel first.”

  “As a matter of fact I’ve started.”

  “Pull the other one. You’ve been talking about writing a book for years.”

  “It’s true. I’ve only written the first few chapters, but I’m enjoying the process so far. It makes a change from having to report the facts. It’s so liberating to be able to make things up. It’s like taking off a straitjacket.”

  “Have you got a title?”

  “Friends and Lovers. But I’ll probably change it.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “You and me, amongst other things. Most first novels are autobiographical.”

  Matt put down his pint. His blue eyes stared into Johnny’s. “I trust you’ll be discr
eet.”

  “Of course. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Matt – even if it ever does get published.”

  “I hope so. Does Stella know you’re writing about her?”

  “She knows I’m writing a novel. Actually, she’s the reason I haven’t been making much progress.”

  Matt laughed. “Real-life lovers are more fun than made-up ones.”

  “In most cases, certainly. However, it seems Stella’s gone missing. Her parents haven’t seen her since yesterday morning and I still don’t know whether or not she turned up at St Paul’s this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps she’s punishing you for putting the job first.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind. But it doesn’t explain why she’s taking out her frustration on her parents. She told them she was staying in Brighton last night. If she’d decided to stay another day, she should have let them know.”

  “She probably guessed you were going to propose. That’d be enough to make any woman run a mile.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Johnny lit a cigarette but didn’t offer Matt one. He was trying to give them up. Lizzie didn’t like him smoking in their new home. “Any news about the nameless suicide?”

  “Nothing. A post-mortem will be held on Monday.”

  “Perhaps the Daily News will come to your aid.”

  “I saw your piece. It was good of you to play down the horror of the situation. Imagine learning of your husband’s death in a newspaper.”

  “I did – hence my reticence. However, the bloody halo round the dead man’s head was too good an image not to use. Some will no doubt find it sacrilegious and/ or inappropriate. There’s never any shortage of readers willing to go out of their way to be offended.”

  Matt checked his watch. Should he tell Johnny now? No, there was no point worrying him unnecessarily. The postcard might prove to be nothing more than an empty threat. Johnny had enough on his plate as it was. He got to his feet. They still ached at the end of the day, even though he no longer had to pound the pavements the way he had before his promotion.

  “I must be off. Why don’t you come down to Bexley on Wednesday? I’ve got the day off and could do with some help in the garden. I say ‘garden’ – at the moment it’s just a square of dry, brown earth. Lizzie would love to see you.”

  “It will be a pleasure – kind of. As long as there’s plenty of beer.”

  He watched Matt make his way out of the pub, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. No one, sober or not, wanted to pick a fight with the handsome giant. Johnny felt very fortunate to have such a friend.

  Stella lay in the darkness, alone and afraid in the strange surroundings. She had a raging thirst. The pain came in waves, ebbing and flowing as she tried to find a more comfortable position. She had been an utter fool to trust the man. To make matters worse he was the only person who knew where she was. She was still scared by his blithe assurance that her ordeal would soon be over.

  The bleeding had stopped – eventually. She had to get out of here. But how could she, when each move made her cry out in agony? She was paying for her impulsiveness now.

  A sudden draught told her that somewhere a door had been opened and closed. Stealthy footsteps came down the stairs.

  “Ah, still not in dreamland?” His whisper was menacing rather than soothing. “Here, this will help.” He took her arm. The needle sank into her flesh. Moments later she was unconscious.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday, 4th July, 4 p.m.

  He left the bedroom window open, lay naked under one sheet, but still found it difficult to sleep. The heat seeped down from the cooling roof-slates. Stella haunted his dreams, one moment laughing at his foolish fears, the next lying dead in a back alley. She had no right to treat him like this. The ring was back in his mother’s jewellery box.

  It was the first Sunday they had not been together in months. Johnny had spent the morning reading the papers: Amelia Earhart was still missing somewhere over the Pacific. The sports pages were dominated by the Wimbledon singles finals. The American Donald Budge had beaten the kraut Gottfried von Cramm – which was something – and Dorothy Round had saved Britain’s pride by defeating a Pole called Jadwiga Jedrzejowska. However, Johnny wasn’t particularly interested: tennis was a game for posh people.

  He was too restless to sit indoors and work on his novel so, after a stale potted-meat sandwich, he walked up to Islington Green, which was so crowded there wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen. Even the steps of the war memorial were crowded with families. Dress codes had been abandoned. It may have been the Sabbath, but rolled-up shirt-sleeves and knotted handkerchiefs were everywhere. The sellers of wafers, cornets and Snofrutes were making a fortune.

  He strolled beneath the wilting plane trees on Upper Street and, just as he knew he would, found himself going down St John Street to Smithfield.

  The Cock was closed. His knocking went unanswered. If Stella had returned there would surely have been someone home. He had been looking forward to a surreptitious beer but had to make do with the drinking fountain across the way.

  Johnny hated being at a loose end. Work, as Thomas Carlyle observed, was a great cure for boredom and misery. The “great black dome” of St Paul’s, seen bulging behind Newgate Prison in Great Expectations, beckoned.

  Charles Dickens was, as far as Johnny was concerned, the greatest writer that had ever lived. He had read his complete works twice, fascinated by how much and how little his native city had changed. Only three of his characters had ventured into the cathedral: Master Humphrey; David Copperfield, when giving Peggotty a guided tour of the capital; and John Browdie who sets his watch by its clock in Nicholas Nickleby. However, the image that struck Johnny most deeply was that of Jo, the young street-sweeper in Bleak House, who stares in wonder at the cross on its summit as he gobbles his hard-earned food on Blackfriars Bridge.

  He was glad to find there was no service currently in progress. Not a speck of blood besmirched the polished marble where the two men – one by desire, one by ill-luck – had gone to meet their maker. The Whispering Gallery was closed – so even if Stella had been with him he could not have proposed to her.

  “We meet again.” Father Gillespie regarded him over a pair of half-moon glasses. “I saw your item in the News. The bit about the halo was most amusing.” Was he being sarcastic? The deacon sat down beside him. “Any developments?”

  “I haven’t been back to the office since it appeared. I’ll find out tomorrow morning.” Johnny didn’t want everyone knowing he had nothing better to do on a Sunday.

  “I prayed for them both,” said the priest. “Especially the man who jumped – he won’t be buried in hallowed ground. Mr Yapp, on the other hand, will be. The one consolation is that he probably didn’t know what – or rather who – hit him.”

  “And they say God looks after his own.”

  Gillespie frowned. “Such cynicism in one so young. What are you doing here, if you’re a non-believer?”

  “Just revisiting the scene of the crime. I take it you deem suicide to be a criminal act?”

  “Indeed. God has plans for us all. He believes in you even if you don’t believe in Him.”

  “I’m glad someone does. I was going to ask my girlfriend to marry me yesterday, but she’s gone missing.”

  “Ah. Many girls run after an ill-starred suitor pops the question.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No – but . . .” He held up a forefinger to silence him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He looked around for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. “Here you are –” He produced a key and a piece of paper from beneath his surplice. “These were found in the collection box last night. I telephoned the police, but they didn’t seem that interested.”

  The key was a brass Chubb, the teeth of which, when turned upward, resembled the turrets of a castle. It was probably a door-key. The piece of paper was more interesting. It was old and
creased, as if it had been carried in a wallet for years. There were four words written on it in a childish scrawl: I love you daddy.

  Johnny was unexpectedly moved. Had he ever said those words to his father?

  “This is not the sort of thing you’d throw away casually.”

  “I agree.” The deacon nodded. “Which is why I kept it. You’d be amazed at what we find in the collection box: sweet wrappers, cigarette ends, prayers and curses . . .”

  “How often is it emptied?”

  “Every evening when the cathedral closes. We can’t be too careful nowadays. It’s been broken into twice recently. We live in desperate times.”

  “Did they get away with much?”

  “A couple of pounds. Donations have dwindled and yet the list of vital repairs gets longer each year. Secular needs, alas, have supplanted spiritual ones.”

  “Whose responsibility is it to empty the box?”

  “The sacristan’s. He brings the money to me and, having counted it, I lock it in a cash-box kept in my office.”

  “So these items must have been put in the box yesterday. Why?”

  “I was hoping you would find that out, since the police clearly consider the matter unworthy of their attention. Of course there may be no connection between the two items. However, I suspect they could have some bearing on what happened yesterday.”

  Johnny was not convinced.

  “If you’re about to kill yourself, surely you’d keep something of such sentimental value on your person. I love you daddy . . . The first thing to ascertain is whether or not the jumper was a father.”

  “Well,” said Father Gillespie. “That should be easy, once you know his identity. I expect the key may prove more of a problem. I’ve heard of the key to the mystery, but not the mystery of the key!” He laughed at his own joke, then quickly composed himself. “I must prepare for evensong.”