The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy

by Duncan Simpson

‘Today you see a battle-scarred man, a man who has to lean on this lectern for support,’ he paused for effect and regripped the edges of the wooden stand. ‘But today, with your support I feel strong. I humbly ask you to join me in the fight for our city. Will you join me?’

  Applause blasted out from all directions. Feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, he closed his eyes and let the sound fill his body.

  Chapter 21

  ‘Can I get you a towel sir?’ enquired the elegantly dressed male receptionist of Boodle’s private members’ club, the second oldest gentlemen’s club in the world. Founded in 1762 and situated in the exclusive third of a square mile in London known as St James’s, Boodle’s was named after its austere first headwaiter, Edward Boodle. By the serious expression of the receptionist who had just handed Blake the towel, he could have been a direct descendant.

  During the short walk from the tube station to the distinctive white facade of Boodle’s club, raindrops the size of small marbles had started to pelt down on Blake. Now he stood bedraggled and dripping in the grand foyer of one of London’s most prestigious clubs.

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Blake. 12.30 luncheon with Mr Ricard, very good,’ confirmed the man, consulting the reservation book at the reception desk. ‘Sir, the rules of the club state that a tie must be worn at all times in the dining rooms. I hope this one is acceptable?’ he asked, placing a plain silk tie on top of a white towel and handing them both to Blake. ‘Let me show you to the bathroom and when you’re ready, I’ll take you to the dining room.’

  As Blake was escorted across the foyer, his attention was drawn to the line of paintings that graced the walls. Noticing that they had caught his eye, the receptionist added a brief commentary.

  ‘Portraits of notable Boodle’s members. That one is of William Petty-FitzMaurice, 1st Marquess of Lansdowne,’ he said, nodding up to the painting of the regal-looking man with a sword hanging from his waist. ‘He was British prime minister during the reign of George III.’ Blake said nothing and trailed the man. His shoes made a wet clapping sound on the polished marble floor. ‘Here is William Wilberforce, leader of the abolition movement, and next to him Adam Smith, the famous Scottish philosopher and political economist.’ The man stopped next to an unmarked wooden door and smiled up to the last portrait in the group. ‘And Sir Winston Churchill, I think, needs no introduction.’

  Blake disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a short time later, his hair roughly tousled. He pulled at the poorly knotted tie, first one way and then the other.

  ‘Let me take you to Mr Ricard. He’s waiting for you in the dining room,’ said the man with a hint of disdain.

  The dining room was a large airy space, filled by thirty or so mostly occupied tables and lit from above by an ornate cast-iron skylight. The percussive sound of raindrops bouncing off the glass high above filled the room. Blake could feel the eyes of the diners follow his progress through the centre of the room. As he wound a route between the tables, it became clear that their destination wasn’t the open space of the dining room but a small private area off to one side.

  They rounded a corner marked by a miniature laurel tree and then entered the discreet alcove. A handsome, bronzed man wearing a fine dark blue suit sat alone at the table. He peered over his glasses and then stood up to offer Blake a firm handshake.

  ‘Mr Blake, very good to meet you. Please come and sit down,’ said Ricard.

  As Blake settled in his chair, the receptionist excused himself and was almost instantaneously replaced by a waiter wearing a light grey suit.

  ‘Something to drink?’ asked Ricard. ‘A glass of white wine perhaps?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Blake smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Before he knew it, the waiter had draped a crisp linen napkin across his lap.

  ‘Just a glass of wine,’ said Blake returning the napkin to the table.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for lunch?’

  ‘Quite sure, thank you. It’s a very kind offer, though.’

  From over his shoulder, an elegant glass half-filled with straw-coloured liquid was placed close to his silver knife.

  Ricard dismissed the waiter with an arch of his eyebrow. When the waiter left, Ricard leaned forward.

  ‘Mr Blake, I read about that horrible business at St Paul’s. It was simply dreadful.’

  Not a day had gone by when Blake hadn’t experienced some sort of flashback to the shootout deep within the foundations of the cathedral.

  ‘I still can’t quite believe that Ema Mats of all people was involved in anything so ghastly,’ said Ricard, his face hardened with conviction.

  The subterranean battle had left the industrialist Ema Mats and two notorious hitmen dead and Blake and a Vatican official seriously injured.

  ‘You knew Ema Mats?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Of course, the Mat’s academy is one of the best business schools in London. Ema Mats was very well known for her charity work in the East End.’

  Instantly, Blake’s jaw tightened. He fought the impulse to stab his fork into the table. Mats had blown a hole in his knee and was about to kill him with a hunting knife, save for the timely arrival of the tramp and her dog. Instead, Blake thumbed his chin for a second, picked up his wine glass and drained it of most of its contents.

  ‘That’s why I was so shocked to hear she had been involved,’ said Ricard, with a concerned glance at Blake’s wine glass.

  Another waiter appeared out of thin air and within moments his wine glass was refilled. Blake mumbled a thank you and then settled back in his chair with his arms folded.

  ‘Mr Ricard, as I said on the phone, I’m here concerning Enoch Hart.’

  Ricard nodded and lined up his knife with the edge of the table.

  ‘What can I tell you?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s no surprise, but Enoch Hart is the chief suspect in the St George’s killing.’

  Ricard slowly nodded in recognition.

  ‘Hart’s psychiatrist said that he was working under your supervision at the church, at the time of his first killing?’

  Ricard crossed his legs and the toe of a pristinely polished black brogue poked out from under the tablecloth.

  ‘Enoch Hart was an exceptional member of the parish. Committed, hardworking, a man who showed a great compassion for people.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The pressures of his calling, I’m afraid. He was showing signs of exhaustion from his pastoral duties in the parish. He was given the time, space and love of his church family to recharge his batteries. At first, the church elders gave him some light administration duties.’

  ‘He did the bookkeeping for the church?’ said Blake.

  Ricard nodded. ‘Yes, he was a mathematical whizz and quickly got to grips with the church’s finances.’

  ‘So he had access to the safe codes in the church office?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ricard. ‘Regrettably, we didn’t deem it necessary to change them after his incarceration. After all, he was in a secure psychiatric facility.’

  ‘He cleared out the safe?’

  ‘Some twenty thousand pounds in all,’ said Ricard. ‘All the church’s tithes and collections for the last three months. We have had to apply for emergency funding from the ecclesiastical council just to pay the bills.’

  Blake swept his gaze across the room and tried to reconcile the talk of a church funding crisis with the luxury of his current surroundings.

  ‘And your role in the church?’

  ‘I’m one of the lay church elders, I help where I can.’

  ‘You were telling me about the events leading up to Hart’s breakdown.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I understand you were in the church when Hart killed for the first time?’

  ‘A terrible day, a truly terrible day,’ said Ricard, his voice tinged with emotion. ‘One of our parishioners was struggling with mental health issues. The church had reached out and offered her shelter and support.
She had become very disturbed and asked for spiritual counselling. Hart and the vicar arranged a meeting with her at the church. I was doing some paperwork in the church office at the time.’

  ‘Why Hart?’

  ‘Hart was very experienced in this type of counselling and he volunteered to help. Aside from the fact that it’s always best practice to have two counsellors at this type of meeting. There was nothing to indicate at the time that he would do something so awful.’

  Ricard cast a worried look over the table. ‘The screaming was monstrous. From what I could make out, our dear vicar tried to escape, but Hart caught up with her outside and—’ he paused. ‘Well, I think you know the rest. When I got there, it was too late. There was blood everywhere and Hart was just sitting there next to the body with the gardening fork in his hand.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And now he’s done it again. Do you think we’re safe? You know he was in the military before joining the church?’

  Blake nodded. ‘We are doing everything we can to put him back behind bars. Have you got any idea where he might be? Anything at all, no matter how small.’

  ‘He was a private man, he didn’t really socialise as far as I know.’ Ricard picked up his glasses from the table and began to clean the lenses with the stylish silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket. ‘I remember him saying that he was an only child and both his parents were dead. I have no idea where he could be. Do you think he is still in London?’ he said returning his glasses to the table.

  ‘Not sure,’ said Blake. ‘But you can stay underground for quite a long time with twenty grand in your pocket. Especially someone with Hart’s type of training.’

  Ricard folded his arms. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more of a help.’

  Blake gave a slight grimace at the dead feeling in his knee as he rose to his feet.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Ricard. And don’t worry, we’ll nail him. He’ll make a mistake. He’s probably made several already.’

  Blake rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket and located a small collection of business cards. He squared them up in his hands and handed one to Ricard, who scooped up his glasses from the table and examined it. The card was damp and the top left corner curved inwards like the ear of a dog.

  ‘Please phone me if you think of anything,’ said Blake.

  ‘Absolutely,’ affirmed Ricard.

  The two men shook hands and Blake made to leave but paused and turned back to Ricard.

  ’Oh, and thank you for the drink.’

  Ricard looked up from table.

  ‘You are more than welcome, Mr Blake. Perhaps we can have lunch another time.’

  Blake smiled and then began to weave his way through the empty tables towards the exit. It was only several hours later that Blake realised he was still wearing the tie given to him by the club’s receptionist.

  Chapter 22

  Blake paused at the door to the physiotherapy suite. He had come to hate the place. Sarah’s recent progress was painfully slow, and her frequent clashes with her therapist just made matters worse. Sarah was a strong-minded girl, just like her mother.

  Perhaps that was part of the therapy? Engineered by the rehab clinician to ignite the desire to fight back, to prove her wrong. The sessions had often ended in tears and cursing, with the therapist and Sarah both staring coldly at each other over the no man’s land of the walking bars. There had been no pleasantries during Sarah’s rehabilitation of late, just the hard reality of the difficult work still to be done.

  So when Blake heard laughter, like birdsong emanating from the other side of the door, he paused. It was Sarah’s laugh of old, before the incident, infectious and full of fun. He was caught at the threshold, unsure whether to open the door and risk the laughter escaping forever, like air rushing out of a balloon. Blake’s hand rested on the door handle, balancing on the tension of its spring. He closed his eyes and drank up the giggles of his daughter.

  Eventually, he just couldn’t stand it any longer and pressed down on the handle easing the door open with his shoulder. Two grinning faces turned towards Blake in the doorway, their expressions momentarily frozen before they collapsed into a fit of giggles. Blake wanted to share in the amusement, but he felt self-conscious.

  ‘Dad!’ Sarah’s voice punctured the tension.

  ‘Hello darling.’ Blake walked over to Sarah. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Alina said I was walking like a penguin,’ said Sarah, and the mention of the animal sparked off another round of sniggering.

  Blake took a step backwards and pretended to examine the outline of his daughter.

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said with a wink before smothering his daughter in a bear hug. A muffled cough rumbled through the folds of his coat. The sound was accompanied by the wallop of a fist against Blake’s chest.

  ‘Can’t breathe,’ complained Sarah, who could hardly contain her giggles.

  ‘Mr Blake, I’m Alina,’ said the young woman standing at the other end of the walking bars. ‘I’m Sarah’s physio for a few weeks, until a replacement is found.’

  Sarah’s new therapist was a pale woman in her early thirties with dyed black hair and a dash of freckles at the top of each cheek. A line of eclectic-looking tattoos wrapped around her left arm like ivy before disappearing under the short sleeve of her white hospital uniform. Her voice sounded Eastern European.

  ‘Replacement?’ asked Blake quizzically.

  The new physio paused for a moment, her face turning serious, extinguishing any trace of the previous levity.

  ‘I had assumed that Sarah’s consultant had informed you?’

  Blake shook his head, his brow beginning to interlock.

  Alina hesitated. ‘I am really sorry to say, but Sarah’s previous therapist was killed in a car accident just two days ago.’

  Blake’s face dropped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently, it happened on her way home from the hospital,’ she said. ‘She lived in the flats just behind here. A hit and run. The police still haven’t found the driver.’

  ‘That’s awful.’ Blake released Sarah from his embrace. He suddenly felt that his tie had a chokehold around his Adam’s apple. He pulled it loose and tried to let the news sink in. ‘Did she have kids?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Alina, as she cupped her hands together on her stomach. ‘I’m new here,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know her.’

  For several seconds, no one spoke and then Alina broke the silence. ‘Sarah, shall we show your dad the progress we’ve been making? Then we’ll call it a day.’

  ‘You watch this,’ said Sarah, turning to Blake as she shuffled over to the bars with the aid of her walking stick. Gripping the bar, she jettisoned the stick and sent it clattering to the floor. With building concentration, she pushed the hair from her forehead and readied herself for the exercise.

  ‘Remember, no penguins,’ said Alina from the other end of the bars.

  Sarah’s first steps were shaky, but as she moved along the runway, her movements became slowly more controlled. Blake’s eyes widened. He held his breath, tension building in his chest with Sarah’s every step. His daughter was walking again. His throat choked with emotion. With his jaws clenched as tight as a vice, he willed Sarah on. Three more steps. Two. One. Then, Sarah’s hands snapped back onto the bars. Immediately, she turned to her dad, a sunburst of pride shining in her face.

  Chapter 23

  A line of discarded clothes snaked its way to the bath tub, where Blake lay deep in thought. The bathwater had long since lost its initial heat and was now barely above his own body temperature.

  The freestanding roll-top bath stood in the centre of the large room. The walls were shabbily decorated in a washed-out green colour. In the corner next to the washbasin, a long section of wallpaper had detached from the wall leaving an exposed tract of mildewy plasterboard.

  Blake had bought the crumbling Victorian townhouse with the auction proceeds for the Cabbalistic trinket he had
discovered within a secret crypt beneath St Paul’s Cathedral. The auction catalogue had described it as ‘the earliest known example of a Jewish amulet displaying the Star of David.’ The final sales price was a record six-figure sum, enough to pay off Sarah’s mounting hospital bills and to put down the deposit on the house. The plan had been to do the place up quickly, but apart from an initial cleaning frenzy, the interior of the home was essentially unchanged from the day he bought it. It was on his to-do list.

  Blake’s eyes were alight with movement, flitting randomly in all directions. The focus of his attention was the makeshift incident board that he had constructed on the wall directly in front of the bath. Unlike much of the plasterwork in the house, this wall seemed to be more forgiving to the insertion of drawing pins. His previous attempt at architecting the pastiche of crime scene photographs, handwritten notes, maps and pages from police reports had resulted in a foot-long crack in the plaster of the dining room wall that exposed the brickwork beneath.

  The centre of the montage was given over to a collection of grisly photographs of the victim: three taken from the crime scene at St George’s and two from the autopsy. The sight of them set his teeth on edge, but they needed to enter his brain, for his subconscious as well as his conscious mind to work on them. An elaborate spider web of coloured wool, held tight by bronze coloured drawing pins, formed connections between elements in the collage.

  Blake leaned to the side to take it all in, his movement sending circles of ripples across the surface of the bath water. On the right-hand side were two blown-up photographs of the coin found under the skin of the victim at St George’s. Three taut lengths of red wool radiated from the corners of one of the images of the Tyrian shekel. The first terminated at one of the autopsy pictures showing the cadaver’s pallid torso. To one side of the victim’s navel, the black incision mark contrasted vividly with the surrounding porcelain white skin. The next red line ended in the centre of an artist’s impression of the Second Temple in Jerusalem. He had downloaded the image from a Jewish history website that he had used before. A comprehensive article on the Temple Tax had confirmed everything that Professor Ballard had told him at the Hunterian Museum.