The Black Seraphim

by Michael Gilbert

  “You’ll be lucky if it’s only a spot,” said James. He explained that a sort of stationary cloudburst seemed to have settled over Melchester. “I think perhaps that was one of the things that upset me.”

  The little place around the corner turned out to be a wine lodge, with a back room which had half a dozen tables in it. The Medical Registrar was already in possession of one of them.

  “I told you there were two reasons for dragging you up to town,” said Dr Leigh. “Bunny’s the second one. He’s got some news for you.”

  “I hope you’ll think it good news,” said the Registrar. “I certainly do. You probably know that I’ve been badgering the Governors for some time to let me have a proper Number Two. I’ve always wanted you for the job. Originally they jibbed at the idea of appointing a pathologist. I told them being a pathologist didn’t mean that you couldn’t do an administrative job as well. Anyway, I convinced them. It’ll mean more money, of course, quite a lot more. And there’s a flat goes with the job. I hope you’ll say yes.”

  “I won’t only say yes,” said James breathlessly, “I’ll say thank you very much. It’s terrific news.” He thought for a moment. “When you said a flat – would it be big enough for two?”

  Both men looked at him. Then Dr Leigh waved an imperious hand and said to the waiter, who came scurrying up, “I see we’re going to need a bottle of champagne. Don’t bother about putting it on ice. Just bring it along with three glasses. Who is she?”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s Amanda Forrest.”

  “The Dean’s daughter? The one they were making a dead set against at that inquest?”

  “Until you and Bill Gadney came and stood them all on their heads.”

  “You ought to have been there, Bunny,” said Dr Leigh. “By God, there’s not been anything like it since St George killed the dragon and rescued the beautiful damsel.”

  “Was the Coroner being difficult?”

  “No. Let’s be fair. He was all right. But it was a hanging jury if ever I saw one.”

  The champagne arrived and Amanda’s health was drunk.

  “I only wish Bill could have been here,” said Dr Leigh. “That would have made it perfect.”

  James was feeling extraordinarily warm and happy. Part of it, no doubt, was reaction from the gloom of the morning, but there was more to it than that. These were not only friends, they were colleagues. They were the sort of people he liked dealing with. Adult people who thought professionally and didn’t allow sentiment to cloud their judgment. This was his real life. The other life, the life he had become involved in when he had stepped into Melchester Close a month ago, was a fantasy. A world peopled by men and women motivated by childish animosities and raw emotions. The whole thing could easily have been a dream. The only real character in it was Amanda, and he proposed to extract her from it as soon as he possibly could.

  “You’ve said nothing for three minutes,” said the Registrar. “I hope your thoughts were happy ones.”

  “Most of them,” said James apologetically. “There’s one piece of business I’ve got to clear up. It’s not going to be agreeable, but it’s got to be done. I’m afraid you must have thought I was a bit stupid when you were talking about Ron Highway’s work, but I did understand what it meant.”

  “It’s answered your immediate problem, has it?”

  “Yes,” said James sadly. “I’m afraid it has.”

  At three o’clock that afternoon Valentine Laporte summoned a council of war.

  Present were Chief Superintendent Terry, head of the uniformed branch; his deputy, Superintendent March; Bracher, representing the CID; and Grant Adey in his capacity as chairman of the Watch Committee of the Borough.

  They had all read the article in the Guardian and they were all angry.

  “Any help you want from the Council,” said Adey, “I’ll guarantee you get it. The man’s making a laughing stock of all of us. It’s got to stop.”

  There was a rumble of assent.

  Laporte said, “I’ve taken advice from our legal people. They say the position’s clear enough. Anyone can refuse to answer questions. We know that. But if you can prove that someone is trying to prevent other people from answering questions, that’s obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. He can be taken in and charged. And what’s more, he can be refused bail.”

  “Kept inside, you mean,” said Adey.

  “Until he gives suitable undertakings. Yes.”

  “But you’ve got to be able to prove obstruction.”

  “Do we need any more proof than that?” He pointed to a piece of paper on the table. “Everyone in the Close got one of those last night.”

  The document, which had apparently been typed and then photocopied, said:

  As you will know, one of the possible reasons which was put forward to account for the sudden death of Archdeacon Pawle was that he had contracted virus pneumonia. This is a very dangerous and highly contagious disease. Since there is a possibility that this infection may have been passed on to other members of our Close community, I have decided, in the general interest, to declare the Close an area of possible contagion. Until further notice, no members of the public will be admitted on any pretext whatsoever. You will, no doubt, have to go out, but you are advised to keep your contacts with the town to a minimum.

  Signed: Matthew Forrest. Dean.

  “Is he enforcing this?” said Adey.

  “He certainly is,” said Bracher. “All gates except the High Street Gate have been locked, and Mullins or one of his assistants is on duty the whole time.”

  “I suppose it’s medical nonsense,” said Terry.

  “Complete nonsense,” said Laporte. “I’ve spoken to Dr McHarg. The Archdeacon had been down in the docks area three or four days before he died. That’s what gave some colour to the original theory that he might have caught the disease. The maximum reinfection period is six days. The Archdeacon died – for God’s sake – more than three weeks ago. Twenty-four days, to be precise. Of course it’s nonsense.”

  “That’s clear enough, then,” said Terry. “Pull him in.”

  There was a moment of silence. Everyone was thinking of Dean Forrest locked up in a cell below the police station. The idea thus suddenly presented was so inappropriate as to be almost outrageous.

  Adey said, “Might it just be worth making one last effort to induce him to see sense? If he knew what was going to happen if he refused—”

  “How are we going to talk to him when he won’t come out and won’t let us in? He’s not even on the telephone.”

  “I was thinking about that. One man he might listen to is his own Chapter Clerk. Henry Brookes is quite a sensible bloke. I had a lot of dealings with him when he was an estate agent in the town. And he hasn’t been in that Close long enough to get infected with the ecclesiastical bug.”

  “How do we get hold of him?”

  “Telephone him. Say that I suggested it. I think he’ll come.”

  The others considered it. They were none of them enthusiastic about the idea of imprisoning a leading churchman. At the back of their minds were old ideas of sanctuary and clerical immunity. The shadow of the Cathedral loomed over them.

  “If we do see Brookes,” said Laporte, “we shall have to tell him most of the truth. That this evidence we’re looking for is the last link in the chain. To put the matter bluntly, that by preventing us from getting it, the Dean is protecting a particularly unpleasant and unscrupulous murderer.”

  “Name her, you mean?”

  “I don’t think we can go as far as that. But, short of putting a name to the suspect, we’ll have to put our cards on the table. Then he can take back a message to the Dean which he can’t misunderstand: Either he helps us or we pull him in.”

  “I agree with that,” said Adey. “But what if he says no?”

  The Chief Constable looked at his watch. He said, “This has got to be finished tonight. The weather will be a help. There won’t be
too many people about. We’ll reconvene at eight o’clock, gentlemen.”

  The down train reached Melchester at six o’clock, fifty minutes late and spouting water like a whale. What might have been a tedious journey had been enlivened for James by the presence of Lady Fallingford, who had also been up to London. She had a copy of the Dean’s circular. She had approved of it strongly and had said so.

  “It’ll keep that nasty creature Brasher or Brayford or whatever he calls himself away from darlings like Claribel Henn-Christie, who couldn’t say boo to a goose. It’s lucky for him he hasn’t tried his third-degree tactics on me.”

  James said, “He can’t keep the police out forever.”

  “Not forever. But for a good long time. Then everyone will be able to say: ‘Oh, that’s so long ago, I’ve forgotten all about it.’”

  “I hope you’re right. It was a pretty risky step.”

  Lady Fallingford gave a throaty chuckle and said, “He’s a man who likes taking risks. From what I’ve heard, he’s spent most of his life taking them.”

  When the train drew into Melchester, there was a rush for the ticket hall, led by two men in dirty raincoats. The ones who were first out grabbed the three taxis which serviced the station. Almost everyone else decided to wait for their return. Only a few brave spirits fancied stepping out into the unrelenting downpour. James and Lady Fallingford took their places on the end of the long bench in the ticket hall. Counting the numbers ahead of them, he reckoned that they might have to wait for a third or fourth relay.

  The taxis had come back once and picked up a second load of passengers when Bill Williams arrived on his motorcycle. He had defied the weather in a complete suit of black rubber and came in off the forecourt dripping water, like a diver emerging from the sea.

  He said, “James! Just the man I wanted.” He gestured toward the door of the inner waiting room. James got up and followed him, shutting the door behind him. There was no one else there.

  Bill said, “Just when I needed you, you have to go gallivanting up to the metropolis. Things have been moving down here, I can tell you. And they’re coming to a head tonight. That article in the Guardian was the last straw.”

  “I didn’t think the authorities would like it.”

  “They’re hopping mad. They’re going to present the Dean with an ultimatum: Either he lifts his ban or they pull him in.”

  “Arrest him?”

  “Right.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Obstruction, or something of the sort.”

  “Because of that circular he sent round? Lady Fallingford showed it to me in the train. A bit drastic, but not entirely unreasonable.”

  “They’re prepared to argue about that in court. If it gets that far. They don’t think it will. They think that when it comes to the point, he’ll give in. Though, personally, I rather doubt it.”

  James thought about it. He said, “How do you know about all this?”

  Bill said, “If I tell you, in strict confidence, that one of our girls has got a bosom friend – and, incidentally, what a bosom, but never mind about that – who’s a typist at the police station, you can imagine that we’re kept pretty well in the picture.”

  “I often wondered how the press got its information. But there’s still one thing I don’t see. You said, just when you needed me. How do I come into this?”

  Bill got up, opened the door and looked out. He said, “It’ll be ten minutes before you can move. I can see that I started at the wrong place.” He shut the door, came back and sat down. “The fact is, old Fisher’s promised me a Wednesday extra.”

  “A Wednesday extra?”

  “Just a double sheet. To come out tomorrow. It’s not something we do very often. It’s too damned expensive. Overtime for the printers and no advertising. But we make it up in goodwill and publicity. The first time we did it, I’m told, was when the Kaiser’s War was thoughtless enough to start itself on a Tuesday.”

  “And this one is going to be about the Dean’s arrest?”

  “That would be part of it. But it wouldn’t be worth an extra by itself. For one thing, we couldn’t beat the national press on it. There were men from the Mirror and the Express on the train with you.”

  “Were they the two men who trod on everyone’s toes getting to the door and grabbed the first taxis?”

  “That sounds like them,” said Bill with a grin. “Pushful lads. No doubt they’ll pick up the story and it will be in their papers tomorrow. So we’ve got to do better than that. And we can. Because we’ve got the other half of the story and they haven’t. But if I’m going to write it, I’ve got to be on the spot tonight, and that’s where you can help me.”

  James was going to say that he didn’t see why he should involve himself, but changed his mind at the last moment. This new development had opened up a number of possibilities, some of them disturbing.

  He said, “Help you? How?”

  “I expect I can get into the Close. Though it’s not going to be too easy. The river’s over its banks already. But once I’m there, I’ll have to have somewhere to work from. I’ve written a lot of the story – the background and that sort of stuff – but the part that matters will have to be dictated directly from the battlefront. I could base myself on the school cottage, all right. Alan and Peter wouldn’t have objected to that, I’m sure. But it hasn’t got a telephone. So I had this idea. You’re staying with Henry Brookes. He’s a broad-minded sort of chap. Why couldn’t I do the whole thing from his house?”

  James was now not only alarmed, he was angry. He said, “I see no reason why Brookes should help you to crucify the Dean in your bloody paper.”

  Bill looked astonished and hurt. He said, “I’m not explaining this very well. We’re not going to crucify the Dean. We’re on his side. We’re going to help him.”

  “You think publicity is going to help him?”

  “The right sort of publicity.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No fooling. Totally serious. What we’re going to suggest is that the police are taking this outrageous step in order to discredit the Dean before he discredits them. A typical fascist ploy. If someone’s in a position to hurt you, blacken his character first. Then no one will believe anything he says.”

  “And how exactly is the Dean going to discredit the police?”

  “By publishing the fact that a leading policeman, Detective Superintendent Bracher, was one of the parties to the supermarket swindle.”

  “Can he do that?”

  Bill looked a bit embarrassed. He said, “He can’t, not at the moment. But we can. And once the truth’s out, it’ll be easy enough to suggest that the Dean knew about it all along.”

  “I see,” said James. He knew enough about newspaper tactics to realise that what Bill had said was plausible. He said, “You’ll have to have some definite proof.”

  Bill had been unzipping the front of his waterproof jacket. Now he brought out a pouch, opened it and laid four pieces of paper on the table. James could see that they were blown-up photographs of what looked like cheque stubs.

  “The originals are safely locked in the bank,” said Bill. “But these will show you that we mean business. Four payments of twenty thousand pounds each, made two years ago by Gloag to his partners in crime. Because the supermarket deal was a crime. Aren’t they beautiful? Two members of the Council, both with inside knowledge of the new ring road. The press represented by Arthur Driffield of the Melset Times – I think that was what finally persuaded my boss to go ahead with the extra – and last, but by no means least, H.C.B, for Herbert Charles Bracher.”

  James carried the fourth photograph over to the window. He stood there for a long minute, looking at it. Then he said, “You’ll have to cancel your extra. You can’t use this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve made a very common mistake: You saw what you wanted to see. You knew that Bracher was a crony of the other three and you hoped he’d
be involved. If you looked at this without any preconceived ideas, you’d have seen that the middle initial isn’t C. It doesn’t really even look like C. It’s G.”

  Bill looked from the photograph to James and back again to the photograph. The expression on his face was one part dawning realisation and two parts horror.

  Lady Fallingford put her head around the door and said, “Our taxi’s coming up.”

  “Negative,” said Bracher. “Total negative.”

  “All right,” said Laporte. “That means we go ahead. The first thing we decide is how we’re going to get into the Close.” He turned to Terry. “I understand we’ve had a bit of a setback there.”

  “The thing is,” said Terry, “during the war the gates had to be kept open so that fire engines and rescue crews could get in if needed. Which, luckily, they weren’t. However, when the war was over, we somehow forgot to give our set of keys back. Maybe we thought they’d come in useful. Of course, they’re only keys to the wicket gates. The main gate’s barred or bolted on the inside.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Adey. “Go in through the wicket and open the main gate.”

  “It would be all right,” said Terry, who came from Devonshire and liked to deploy facts slowly, “only when we tried them, they didn’t work. They must have changed the locks sometime.”

  “Crafty,” said Bracher. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the Dean did that.”

  “All right,” said Laporte. “We go in over the river.”

  “Difficult,” said Terry, “and dangerous. By last reports, it was two foot over its banks and running like a millrace.”

  Adey said, “If it’s just a question of putting your men over the wall at some quiet spot, we could lend you one of those hoists. The sort of thing we use for servicing the overhead street lamps.”

  Laporte thought about it. He had a sudden vision of one of his policemen poised in a metal bucket on the end of a long expanding arm. He said, “No. I’d like to keep this as simple as possible. All we need is a couple of twelve-foot ladders from the Fire Brigade.”