A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  ‘Well?’ asked Liddell as they stepped out into the sunlight. ‘What do you think?’

  Morris Black frowned, looking down the blasted remains of the narrow street. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit,’ he said quietly. ‘None of it.’

  * * *

  By the time Black returned to London it was already early evening, the weak, lowering sun turning the sprawling city into a hazy, pewter-shaded invention of itself, hollow and unreal in the silvery half-light, its population invisible behind closed doors and blackout-shuttered windows. Over it all a thousand barrage balloons drifted at the end of their taut cables, as though trying to lift the entire city up from the ground and out of danger and once again the sirens had begun their nightly caterwauling, announcing the imminent arrival of the Luftwaffe’s grumbling, dark-winged hordes.

  Black paused briefly at his flat on Market Street, but after examining the meagre contents of his refrigerator, he went out again. The market shops were long since closed for the night, and he had no appetite for the strained bonhomie and watery meat pies served at Ye Grapes across the way, so he walked up to Piccadilly and turned east, arriving a few minutes later at the below-street-level entrance to the White Horse Cellar between Dover Street and Albemarle Street, a few blocks short of the Circus.

  Ignoring the temptations of the bar, he went directly into the dark, low-ceilinged restaurant and was taken to a small table at the rear of the almost empty room. He ordered, allowing himself the nerve-soothing balm of a pint of bitter, just as the first bombs began to fall in the distance.

  The White Horse was located below the bulk of an office-converted mansion, so he felt reasonably safe but even so he could feel a nagging tic begin to pull at the muscles of his cheek as the raid continued. He finished his beer before the food arrived and ordered a second with his meal. The restaurant was only a hundred yards or so away from Whites on St James Street, and he consoled himself with the fact that if he was bombed in the midst of his cutlet, he’d be going in good company.

  As he ate, he pondered the anomalous fate of Ivor John Dranie, the retired Vickers machinist from Southampton. There was no doubt that he’d died at the hands of Queer Jack but with the exception of the telltale letters on the wall behind his head there seemed to be no continuity between his death and the three previous murders. Rudelski, Talbot and Eddings all appeared to have lived in the twilight world of underground homosexuality, while Dranie was a widower. The three others had all been young, less than twenty-five, while Dranie was twice their age. The three had been murdered in anonymous, rented rooms but the older man had been slaughtered in his own house. Dranie had been laid out on his bed fully clothed; the others had been naked. It didn’t add up.

  It would, of course, in the end. Queer Jack wasn’t the first multiple murderer, nor would he be the last, but no matter what form their madness took – the Borgias’ poisons, the Ripper’s evisceration of Whitechapel prostitutes, or George Smith’s grisly use of the mundane bathtub – there was always a pattern, a link that bound the chain together. The pattern might be obscure, even invisible to the ‘normal’ eye, but it would be there, of that Morris Black was absolutely sure. In the end it was simply a matter of perception: what Morris Black saw as an inconsequential detail might be glaringly obvious to Queer Jack.

  ‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice. Black looked up, startled. ‘It’s the policeman from the train, isn’t it? The stamp collector? “Keys” and “Ky-us”?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Black was surprised at how well he remembered her and how quickly. ‘You’re the “warco” who writes about potatoes and has an uncle in Cambridge.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She smiled. ‘Katherine Copeland.’

  ‘Morris Black.’

  ‘I think we’ve gone through this before. Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘No, please do.’ Black gestured towards the chair on the opposite side of the table. She slipped into it gracefully, one hand slipping automatically under her thighs to smooth her dark grey skirt. Black found the gesture startlingly intimate and he cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘I was in the bar. I took a peek in here and saw you.’

  ‘You’re waiting for someone?’

  ‘For almost half an hour. I think I’ve been stood up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said frankly, smiling across the table at him. He picked up his napkin and brushed it across his shirtfront, desperately hoping he hadn’t spilled gravy on his tie or dragged a shirt cuff through the soup. Idiotically, he felt guilty about the mess on the table and then, magically, the Italian waiter reappeared and began to clear away the dishes. Relieved, Black sat back in his chair.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘That would be nice. Do you think they serve that frothy stuff here?’

  Black turned to the waiter. ‘Two cappuccinos, please.’

  ‘Certainly.’ The waiter nodded and then shimmered away, his arms loaded down with dishes and cutlery.

  ‘Is the food good?’ Katherine asked as the man disappeared into the gloom.

  ‘Quite good, considering the circumstances.’ Ironically, Black could feel the meal souring in his stomach as he spoke. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. Once again the stumbling schoolboy. He suddenly remembered that she’d smoked on the train and he fumbled in his jacket pocket, finally producing his lighter and a partially crushed packet of Gems. He held the packet out to her. ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘Sure.’ She took them, shook one out and put it between her lips. He flicked his lighter on and she leaned forward, the dancing flame cutting deep shadows under her cheekbones. She really was beautiful. He lit a cigarette for himself and then the coffee arrived. The waiter withdrew and Black glanced around the room. They were the only people in the restaurant now.

  With the cigarette still between her fingers, Katherine lifted the cup using both hands and sipped cautiously. A thin line of froth coated her upper lip. She smiled and licked it away slowly with the tip of her tongue. Black remembered Fay doing the same thing a few months before the sudden onset of her disease made going to places like the White Horse impossible and suddenly there was a bitter edge to the pleasure he’d begun to feel.

  ‘A penny for them.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Your thoughts.’ Katherine smiled. ‘A penny for them. You look… bemused.’

  ‘Old memories.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘Neither, really. Sad, perhaps.’

  ‘Bit of a luxury these days, don’t you think?’ She glanced up. Outside, in the middle distance, the bombs continued their thundering symphony.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He managed a weak smile. ‘I had my first trip in an aeroplane today, maybe I’m still in shock from that.’

  ‘Where’d you go?’

  ‘Southampton.’ There was no reason not to tell her that much.

  ‘Something interesting?’

  ‘Murder.’ Still safe enough, even though she did work for a newspaper.

  ‘That’s almost funny.’

  ‘Not to the dead man.’

  ‘I didn’t mean funny like a joke. It just seems strange that policemen are investigating murders at a time like this. The war and everything.’

  ‘People still have lives. Wives murder husbands and vice versa, villains burgle houses, cars get pinched.’

  ‘I suppose so. My father fought in the last war. He said he used to sit in the trenches at dusk and watch the swallows and nighthawks flying above him. He said it seemed very strange that birds were going about their business while thousands of men were dying below them. I guess it’s the same thing.’

  ‘I think the war makes it worse. We’ve all been thrown into a different world. Some people seem to think the old rules and laws no longer apply.’

  ‘I know a few like that.’ Katherine paused, drawing on her cigarette. ‘There was another murder today,’ she said after a moment. ‘Two, actua
lly. At the zoo.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Black, both interested and annoyed. Since his abrupt departure from the Yard he’d been cut off from the day-to-day gossip and her comment reminded him of how much he missed it. ‘I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘One was an American, the other worked for Swedish Airlines.’ She frowned. ‘I’d have thought you would have known all about it.’

  ‘I’m involved with other things right now,’ Black answered vaguely. ‘Where exactly were they killed?’

  ‘One of the toilets.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She caught his intonation and shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think it was anything like that. They say the American was a cop of some kind.’

  ‘Really? And just who is “they”?’

  Katherine grinned and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I work for a newspaper, remember? We’ve got all sorts of “theys”around. First cousin to the well known “high-ranking official” and brother to the “unimpeachable source.”’

  ‘What sort of American policeman would be wandering around the London zoo?’

  ‘Somebody from the State Department presumably. The FBI has a liaison office here as well. Who knows?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she sighed. ‘Not my beat though. I’m supposed to be doing something on Princess Elizabeth and her dollhouse or something.’ She sighed again. ‘Which reminds me. I should be getting home.’

  ‘Not much chance of finding a cab with the raid on.’

  ‘I’ll walk.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not far, really.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Hertford Street.’

  Black smiled, pleased. ‘Shepherd’s Market?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got a flat on Market Street, just around the corner from you.’

  ‘We’re neighbours then.’ She smiled warmly.

  ‘Why don’t I escort you home?’

  ‘All right.’

  Black gestured for the waiter. He gave the man a five-pound note and the Italian went off to get change.

  ‘I’ve just had a thought,’ said Black. ‘Maybe you can help me out. One of those “theys” you have lying about.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  Black took his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and flipped it open. ‘Have you ever heard of something called Photo Union?’

  ‘Sure.’ She nodded. ‘It’s a picture agency. One of the big ones.’

  ‘And the name Paul Lamm? A photographer?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’ She smiled. ‘Which doesn’t mean much.’

  ‘How could I find out about him? Does Photo Union have an office in London?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Katherine shrugged. ‘Probably. I could ask around. What exactly do you want to know?’

  ‘I saw a photograph credited to him today. It might have some significance to my investigation. I’d like to speak with Lamm or at least find out more about the picture.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Can I see the photograph?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Black nodded. ‘I’ll have a copy made and send it around to your office.’

  ‘Great.’

  They went up the short flight of steps to street level and paused. Night had fallen and it was fully dark but to the east the sky was bright as day. The East End and the docks were obviously taking the brunt of the attack but Black could see thick clouds of roiling smoke and huge tongues of flame rising much closer at hand.

  Two people appeared out of the gloom: a man in his twenties, one hand firmly gripping the elbow of a much older woman, hurrying her along. The woman’s long grey hair had come undone and was flying in all directions. She was wearing a man’s topcoat over her nightdress. Her eyes were wide and panic-stricken. Her mouth was a puckered, toothless O of fear. Black caught a fragment of their conversation as they passed.

  ‘Hurry up, Mum, we’ve got to get to the shelter.’

  ‘My teef!’ the old woman moaned, lisping. ‘We’ve got to go back and get my teef!’

  ‘They’re dropping bombs, Mum, not sandwiches.’ And then they were gone, swallowed by the darkness. Black and Katherine continued down the street.

  It looked as though at least one bomb had fallen in the area around Piccadilly Circus. As the explosions continued there were enormous flashes of brilliant light and they could see the plump shapes of the silvery barrage balloons strung up over Covent Garden and Leicester Square. The ack-ack batteries in St James’s Park added their own steady barking to the raging noise surrounding them and Black could feel the muscles in his jaw tensing.

  ‘Maybe we should find a shelter until this lets up a bit,’ he said. Insanity piled on insanity, he thought; he was making the raid sound like a summer shower.

  ‘Not on your life!’ said Katherine, raising her voice above the pounding din of the bombs and the anti-aircraft guns. ‘This is incredible!’

  ‘Hardly the time for sightseeing.’

  ‘I want to get closer.’ She took Black’s hand in her own and headed east, her eyes wide with excitement. Feeling like a fool, but bound by the soft warmth of her palm and fingers, he let himself be dragged along.

  Keeping close to the questionable security offered by the buildings beside them, the couple walked quickly up Piccadilly, crossing Albemarle Street and then Old Bond Street.

  Piccadilly was deserted, blind windows all around them reflecting the leaping light from the fires farther east and Black knew that they were putting themselves in terrible jeopardy. He prayed for the sudden appearance of an ARP warden to force them into a shelter, more than willing to suffer the humiliation of an officious dressing down when it was discovered that he was a police inspector.

  He gritted his teeth; another few steps and then he’d insist that they go to a shelter. There had to be one close by and he looked around, searching for one of the ubiquitous signs posted on the side of a building.

  Suddenly Katherine drew up short, staring. ‘What’s this?’

  Black followed her glance. They were halfway down the block between Old Bond Street and the portico entrance to the Royal Academy of Arts. She was looking down a long, arch-roofed alley, two storeys high and less than twenty feet from side to side, lined with bow-windowed shops. A series of darkened lamps hung between the glassed-in skylights, dangling on long chains.

  ‘Burlington Arcade,’ said Black. ‘It runs down to Cork Street.’

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ Katherine released his hand and began walking down the covered mall. Black followed. ‘It’s like a cathedral or a shrine.’

  ‘I think that was the intention. A temple of excess.’

  Burlington Arcade was home to some of the most prestigious and expensive shops in the city, selling everything from hand-rolled cigars and cigarettes to fine jewellery and custom-made saddlery. He’d once bought Dick Capstick a dusty bottle of cask-aged port for his birthday in one of the vintage-wine shops here, knowing that his large friend would consume it like so much home-brewed beer, smacking his lips all the while. He bought it for him anyway. The gift had been Fay’s idea; most of his best thoughts seemed to have come with her gentle prompting.

  Watching this other, far more beautiful woman wandering bright-eyed along the arcade, Black felt a sudden, terrible longing wrenching at his heart and he hated himself for the small pleasure he’d felt at the touch of Katherine Copeland’s hand.

  ‘We have to get back,’ he called out. ‘This is too dangerous.’

  She turned, facing him, smiling widely. Even from that distance Black could see the thrusting movement of her chest beneath the fabric of her jacket and blouse. She was excited, and God help him, so was he.

  ‘Another minute, please.’

  ‘Now.’ Black held out his hand and she came forward, taking it. Beneath their feet the stone paving was shaking and above them the glass in the skylights was rattling as the raiding bombers droned across the night sky, their engines changing to a louder, ear-numbing scream as they turned abruptly at t
he end of their run.

  ‘You’re no fun at all!’ Katherine grinned as she joined him, squeezing his hand hard. He ignored the comment, returning the grip and pulling her back towards Piccadilly. Somewhere he could hear the sound of approaching sirens and then a groaning, broken roar as a wall collapsed. He pulled her close in under his arm as a fist-sized piece of white-hot metal ricocheted off the wall of the building beside them and skipped out into the street, cutting a scarring zigzag trench into the asphalt. Pushing her forward, Black risked a glance back over his shoulder and saw that the roadway behind them was now littered with the blinding flares of at least a dozen phosphorus incendiaries. Above the city the clouds flashed and flared in pink and orange, fire raining from the sky.

  He felt the blast before he heard or saw anything and reacted instinctively, pushing Katherine away from the yawning opening leading into the arcade. The bomb, a five- thousand-kilogramme high-explosive monster, had impacted at the far end of the enclosed passage almost a block away and the searing, superheated pressure wave of air acted like a huge invisible fist as it pistoned down the long, open-ended tunnel, shattering the glass in a hundred windows and turning the bow-fronts of a score of shops into a hail of lethal slivers.

  Every one of the wire-reinforced skylights in the roof was torn from its wooden frame and the hanging lamps and chains were ripped from their fixtures and sent whirling into the deadly maelstrom.

  Dragging Katherine to the ground, Black threw himself on top of her as the fuming, flaming tumble of flying debris vomited out of the Piccadilly end of the Arcade, blowing a hundred-foot-long blast-furnace tongue of fire to lick against the sculpted front of the Egyptian House on the far side of the avenue. Black felt a stunning weight fall on his back and beneath him Katherine screamed. He had the sudden, brief sensation of soft flesh pressed against his hand and then his nostrils were filled with the lavender scent of soap as his face was buried in her hair.

  Ignoring the pain in his back, he pushed hard, lifting his shoulder and freeing one hand. He clawed madly, thrusting aside the litter of plaster, brick and mortar that covered them, finally managing to free them from the choking mass. He lurched to his feet, pulling Katherine up and they stood there for a moment, clinging to each other desperately.