Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Right, Noakes, back to the station. We need to prep for that bloody press conference.’

  Unseen by either of them, a figure flitted through the narthex from its place of shadowy concealment and disappeared into the dimly lit cathedral beyond.

  8

  Undivulged Pretence

  At the end of Evensong, Nat felt he had acquitted himself well. There had been one wobble during the Miserere, but Mr Sharpe hadn’t minded and even told him ‘Good effort’ at the end. Julian had sloped off, muttering that he had ‘things to do’ before Prep. Nat felt obscurely hurt by this desertion, but knew better than to ask what was wrong after having been rudely repulsed when he caught his friend crying behind the changing rooms before rugger. Julian was fierce and sullen by turns these days and sometimes seemed almost to despise him, though he was quick to lash out at anyone who bothered Nat. It was all very puzzling and Nat did not know what to make of it.

  Sighing, he disrobed in the vestry then went out into the cathedral. This was his favourite time, when everywhere was peaceful, the vast space lit only by the sanctuary oil lamps and votive candles which flickered on stands in the side chapels. Magnificent floral arrangements glowed softly in the darkness against the stark white marble. Nothing disturbed the sacred hush, subtly perfumed with the mingled scents of blooms and incense. Slipping into a pew, he closed his eyes.

  It had been exciting going underground at the grottoes. Exciting but scary too. He had been afraid they might find something bad down there. He could tell Julian was creeped out because he turned a funny colour and looked like he was going to puke. Suddenly he felt a fierce desire to help his friend. Please let Julian be all right, please let him be like he was before, amen. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but he meant it with all his heart.

  Maybe the police would solve the mystery of the Night Watchman. The hooded man’s breath made a sort of whistling sound. Like he had false teeth or something. That’s how he knew the prowler wasn’t make believe. No-one made a weird noise like that unless he really existed.

  He hoped Miss Mullen would stay at St Mary’s. When she smiled at him, he felt warm from top to toe as if a light had switched on inside him and she understood him without the need for any words. Julian said she looked like the picture of Morgana le Fay, the fairy witch in Nat’s picture book Legends of King Arthur that Mr Woodcourt had given him for coming top in Latin. But Nat could tell Julian liked her too.

  Somehow Nat must have drifted off, drawn into the heartbeat of the cathedral like a small creature nestling up to its mother.

  A creaking of the pews recalled him to the present. If he didn’t get a move on, he would miss Prep. With a sigh, he rose to his feet and made his way out through the narthex (fortunately still unlocked) and round to the cloister garth.

  It was twilight now, and he blinked in the gloom, still under the spell of the cathedral which slumbered behind him like some great beast. Gradually, the night air broke his trance and he shivered as the cold of the stone flags struck through to his bones.

  Suddenly, he caught the odour of wood-smoke. Dimly, in a far corner of the garth, he made out a figure. Moving closer, he saw a strange and unexpected sight.

  In the darkest corner of the cloister garth, Canon Woodcourt stood next to a still smouldering pile of embers which appeared to be the remnants of a small fire on which he had been burning papers. A few fragments, their edges curling brown, were all that remained. Woodcourt’s face was troubled as he gazed unseeing at the dying blaze. Clearly, he had chosen the moment when he believed himself least likely to be disturbed, since Prep was sacrosanct and no students were supposed to be abroad at that time.

  With the delicate sensitivity to another’s pain which reflected his own love-starved childhood, Nat stole away, reluctant to obtrude upon a private interlude. But, quiet as he was, the canon heard him.

  ‘Nat, my dear boy! Come and join me,’ he called softly.

  Nat was embarrassed. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you, sir, or be a nuisance.’

  ‘You could never be a nuisance!’ Woodcourt declared firmly and was rewarded by a shy smile.

  ‘I’m going to confide in you, Nat, because I know you to be loyal and true. Indeed, wise beyond your years.’

  ‘I’ll never let you down, sir,’ came the earnest reply.

  ‘If I am sure of anything, I am sure of that.’

  The canon hesitated as if uncertain where to begin. Finally, as though each word was a red-hot brand, he said, ‘I have uncovered some evidence of a most serious nature—’

  ‘Is it about the Night Watchman, sir?’ interrupted Nat eagerly.

  For an infinitesimal instant Woodcourt’s face appeared so altered – parchment-white, with the skin stretched taut over the temples – that Nat failed to recognize his friend. What, he wondered fearfully, could have caused such a transformation?

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled. The man who had always been so good to him had obviously come upon something which wounded him to the core. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Woodcourt sighed. It sounded to Nat as though wrenched from the depths of his being by some almost unbearable pain.

  ‘You are not the cause of my distress, Nat. But there is someone who has abused my trust and blackened the honour of our school. Those papers you saw me burn showed me what has been going on.’ He stared down at the remains of the fire as though in the grip of some profound emotion. ‘Now,’ he said slowly, ‘I must decide what to do.’

  Nat’s heart beat very fast. It must be the Night Watchman, he thought. Mr Woodcourt knows who it is. His thoughts were tripping over themselves. Or maybe he’s found out what happened to Miss Hummles and those people in the grottoes.

  Whatever the nature of the canon’s discovery, Nat could see it had come upon him like a thunderbolt, so that he appeared to have aged a hundred years in the space of just a few seconds. Patiently, he waited for the clergyman to recover, confident that the man who had looked out for him from the moment of his arrival at St Mary’s would know what to do.

  Eventually, Woodcourt roused himself. ‘But you’re freezing out here! Let’s go back inside. No, not that way,’ as Nat headed for the little wicket which connected the cloister garth to the school quads, ‘why don’t we take a turn around the cathedral while we’ve got it to ourselves.’ Correctly reading Nat’s anxious expression, he added, ‘Don’t worry, you won’t get into trouble. I’ll clear it with whoever’s taking Prep tonight.’

  Back in the cathedral, it felt warm and safe.

  They turned into The Forty Martyrs Chapel adjacent to the vestry.

  Visitors to the chapel, expecting to see images of venerable saints in classical poses, were generally taken aback by the startling impact of its avant-garde design.

  Nat, however, loved the sunburst fresco with abstract geometric shapes in white and grey which hung above a simple granite altar. He wondered what the artist meant by it and why he hadn’t painted holy men and women with haloes around their heads. Perhaps he thought that was too boring. Perhaps he wanted people to imagine the martyrs’ souls in glory, leaving the world of finite time on their journey out of darkness to the bright light at the end of the tunnel.

  Under the fresco was a rectangular Perspex box with brightly coloured wood-block chalice, sword, pillar and whip vivid against swirling concentric patterns in blue, red and green. The canon had told Nat that these items represented Arma Christi, the instruments of Christ’s Passion and the symbols of His victory over the Devil. They seemed to burn and pulse with a mysterious triumphant fire of their own, so that he could not look away.

  ‘Come on,’ murmured Woodcourt, smiling at Nat’s rapt expression. ‘Let’s go up to the balcony, there’s a good view of the baldachin from there.’

  Together they mounted the spiral stone steps to the upper level with its tiered pine benches bounded by a low steel rail. Nat’s favourite vantage point at the front afforded a bird’s eye view of the aluminium crown of thorns, compo
sed of multiple interlocking rods, suspended above the main altar. Like the implements in the chapel below, it seemed to defy time and space, beckoning him to come closer, making him feel almost light-headed…

  The boy’s head swam and his world seemed to tilt.

  ‘Woah, Nat!’

  Strong hands grasped him roughly round the waist and yanked him back.

  ‘Canon!’ It was Alex Sharpe, his voice rough with concern. ‘Nat was very nearly over the rail! It’s dangerous for him with his vertigo. Remember, we nearly lost him last Christmas from the organ loft!’

  ‘I had forgotten, Alex. It was most remiss of me.’ Woodcourt sounded dazed, as though he shared something of Nat’s dislocation from time and space.

  Nat noticed that Mr Sharpe was looking closely at them. He pulled himself together. The last thing the poor canon needed right now was a lot of fuss and bother just because he’d had one of his turns. If he’d toppled out of the balcony, it would have served him jolly well right.

  ‘I’m all right sir, honestly,’ he reassured the Director of Music. ‘I lost track of time after Evensong. Mr Woodcourt knows I like it up here and was going to bring me back.’ No need to mention what he had seen in the cloister garth.

  ‘C’mon then.’ Sharpe spoke gruffly but his expression was kind. ‘You can walk back with me. Prep’s over but you’ll be in time for tea. Assuming the others haven’t wolfed the lot.’ He turned to Woodcourt. ‘I’ll see you later this evening at the committee meeting then?’ The canon nodded absent-mindedly, as if his thoughts were far away.

  Nat felt a pang as he looked at his friend. He had always thought of him as indestructible – a giant-slayer – but, slumped there in the shadowy cathedral, Woodcourt suddenly looked infinitely sad and spent, as though all his strength had leached away. Gently, Nat touched his sleeve. ‘Thanks for looking after me, Mr Woodcourt. I’ll be all right now. After Prep I’m going to read your book about King Arthur. I’ve got up to where the knights expel Sir Mordred.’

  He was pleased to see a gleam of animation pass across the other’s face. ‘Ah yes, Nat. Sir Mordred, destroyer of Camelot. A traitor indeed.’ Woodcourt chuckled. ‘Right, off you go now.’

  Alex Sharpe led Nat carefully down the stone spiral and they disappeared around the corner of the vestry.

  Woodcourt sat on in the cathedral, motionless as one of the figures in the stations of the cross below, his head bowed. The evening wore on and still he remained, preserving his lonely vigil.

  A short time afterwards, a trim upright figure passed through the cloister garth. Georgina Hamilton was feeling unusually buoyant. Tea had, of course, been excellent as ever. Such a wonderfully light hand as Joan had with scones. And so generous to give her the recipe. That should guarantee victory at the next Women’s Guild Bake Off!

  Even better than the tea had been Joan’s tearful relief when Georgina told her about the meeting with Inspector Markham and Constable Noakes.

  ‘I’d almost convinced myself I must have imagined the whole thing, Georgina,’ she confided, ‘but I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. I wanted to tell someone, but it sounded so far-fetched, like something only a madwoman would dream up. Do the police really think there could be something in it?’

  Georgina had replied in the affirmative before impressing upon her friend the need for absolute discretion. Giddy with gratitude, Joan clutched her hand.

  ‘I can sleep easy now I know the police are taking care of things. I was just,’ the plump face creased with worry, ‘afraid in case it had something to do with what they found in the grottoes or, God forbid, poor Miss Hummles … though I can’t for the life of me see how.’

  Suddenly, as she found herself doing increasingly often, Georgina thought of her dead husband. ‘Be you ever so high, the law is above you’, Geoffrey was fond of quoting as he went about his civic duties. Was it possible, she wondered, that what she had told the police might bring down a murderer who thought to have evaded the inexorable reach of justice?

  Deep in her own thoughts, Georgina skidded on something lying in her path, almost turning her ankle.

  Hold on a moment, it looked like she had trodden in some ashes mixed with fragments of paper scattered amongst the smoking remnants of a fire.

  Gingerly, she bent down and picked up a few shreds which appeared to have survived the conflagration. It meant the end of her brand new gloves, but that couldn’t be helped. Far more important to retrieve what looked like pages from a diary.

  The moonlight was Georgina’s ally as she hastily skimmed their contents.

  It was the work of minutes.

  ‘My god!’ she whispered, her arms falling heavily to her sides. ‘I know that handwriting! But surely he could not be involved in anything so evil!’

  What was that?

  She glanced around apprehensively, certain that she had heard the soft whistle of indrawn breath, had seen a shade detach itself from the depths of the cloister before melting into the opaque blackness beyond.

  The moonlight and shadows mocked her, fluctuating in the night wind that had suddenly blown up from nowhere. At that moment, Georgina felt uneasily convinced a baleful influence haunted the very air of the cloister and venomous eyes watched her closely. Was it some resurrection of the flesh or a risen ghost?

  Time to take herself firmly in hand. What would Geoffrey think of her giving way like this?

  With shaking fingers, she stuffed the scraps of paper into her handbag and stood irresolutely as though waiting for inspiration.

  What should she do? Confront the writer? Go straight to the police? No, surely not that. She owed him the chance to explain.

  The thought of Inspector Markham briefly steadied her. She recalled the compassionate, searching gaze, the calm air of authority. Remembered too the quiet earnestness of his manner when he requested that she should say nothing to anyone about Joan’s story. For the first time since being widowed, she had felt valued – not dull and dreary, like a remaindered volume with no story worth hearing.

  She would write the inspector a note as soon as she got home and deliver it to the station first thing in the morning. Nothing explicit, not yet, but enough to point him in the right direction. If it was the right direction. Heaven help her, could she even be sure this was not some hideous misunderstanding – that she was not looking through the wrong end of the telescope and distorting what she saw?

  Abandoning the heap of ash on unsteady legs, Georgina never noticed the figure standing, frieze-like, against the wall of the cloister. Never noticed the silent watcher in the dark.

  Later that same evening, with the students at last packed off to bed, lights blazed in the common room at St Mary’s. The low-ceilinged, sprawling room, adjacent to the chaplain’s cottage, was comfortably furnished with a chesterfield and several wing chairs. Joan had wheeled in the tea trolley which, unusually, featured her celebrated melt-in-the-mouth scones in addition to the usual bourbons and custard creams.

  ‘You’ll be needing to keep your strength up, sir,’ she told the principal with a kindly pat on the arm. Desmond O’Keefe, poleaxed after a day spent reassuring staff and students, made no demur as he sank gratefully into a chair and held out his hands to the aromatic log fire.

  He was pleased to see that the cook was looking much more cheerful than she had done of late.

  ‘I was worried you were coming down with something yourself, Joan, and we might have to do without you for a while,’ he observed, watching as she busied herself with cups and saucers.

  Joan swelled like a bantam in her outrage. ‘And leave it to those flibbertigibbets of schoolgirls to see to things! I think I know my duty better than that, Dr O’Keefe!’ She cast a critical eye round the common room. ‘Now, I think you’re all cosy in here, sir, so I’ll be off.’

  ‘Thank you, Joan. It was all hands to the pumps today. I don’t know what we’d have done without you!’ said the principal with quiet sincerity. Mollified, she bestowed a motherly smile on him befo
re bustling away.

  O’Keefe stretched out his legs in front of him. God, he felt demolished. Utterly bone-tired! What a nightmare start to his new job! ‘And the hits just keep on comin’!’ he muttered as Alex Sharpe slouched into the common room.

  Watching as Sharpe helped himself to tea before disappearing behind a copy of the Gazette, O’Keefe chided himself for being uncharitable. The man, admittedly, was unprepossessing, but he must be under considerable strain. That wife of his looked as though she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, for a start. Then there was what he had heard referred to as the previous principal’s ‘reign of terror’. O’Keefe surmised that the Director of Music had no doubt borne the brunt of that.

  The principal’s thoughts turned to the canon. If ever a man was unsuited to the unpleasantness of cathedral intrigue and municipal in-fighting, it was him! He had looked alarmingly frail today. A holy old man like that would have no more chance against the likes of Sir Philip Soames and Sharpe than a rusty nail against a pair of pliers.

  On the plus side of the equation, thank heaven for Cynthia Gibson, dependably supplying the acting matron’s deficiencies. Though she too had looked quite wretched today and was uncharacteristically fierce with the boys over some misdemeanour or other. Understandable, given the ghastly business with Irene Hummles. Rumour had it that Cynthia and the startlingly good-looking Edward Preston were ‘an item’. They seemed an unlikely couple, which perhaps explained her strained appearance and air of constant watchfulness.

  Cynthia’s friend was likely to prove an asset. He’d warmed to Olivia Mullen at first sight and was untroubled by her rumoured connection to Inspector Markham. Thinking back to his first impressions of the faunlike English teacher and the gravely courteous policeman, he found he was not surprised by their liaison…

  The next moment, O’Keefe was startled by the arrival of Sir Philip Soames in the common room. Leaning heavily on Edward Preston, he gestured at an armchair with his elegant silver-topped cane. ‘I’ll sit there, Preston. Hopefully this won’t take long.’