Clerical Errors

by D M Greenwood

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Knocked off your perch, old son.’

  He looked closely at Dhani. ‘Seen you before, haven’t I? At Cambridge. Used to pretend you were an undergraduate. Yes?’

  Dhani didn’t answer. The Dutchman stepped forward and hauled him back on to the bunk.

  ‘I could be mistaken. All you niggers look alike to me.’

  He seemed to lose interest in Dhani and turned to Julia. But before he could speak, Julia demanded, ‘Why did you kill my cousin? And why did you hack off his head?’

  For a minute Markham looked puzzled. He made no answer. Julia, in spite of her terror, looked closely at him. The pupils were very contracted. The pallor was pronounced and his thinness not disguised by the bulky cotton sailing smock.

  ‘Cousin?’

  ‘Paul Gray.’

  ‘Ah, the priestling. Your cousin, eh? You’re prettier than he was. I didn’t know you were one of the family. I thought you were just a typist to the fatuous Canon … what’s his name? Dealer? Wheeler?’ Markham rocked backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘Both sons of the Lord spiritual methinks. Metaphorically of course. I set one son to look upon the other son. The one was physically blind the other spiritually so. A nice conceit. No? I leave the conundrum with you. And I warned the first son, or I would have done if that bitch of a typist hadn’t treated me as though I were a heavy breather. “Canon Wheeler’s office” forsooth. Man’s a pseud.’

  ‘Why did you kill my cousin?’ Julia repeated levelly.

  ‘Kill him? Why should I kill him? I knew no evil of him. Did you?’

  Julia didn’t answer and after a moment’s hesitation Markham turned to the Dutchman. ‘Just empty their little pockets, Jacob, there’s a good fellow. Try and be slightly more efficient than our good friend Jefferson. He’s a little inclined to leave important things behind. The foolish fellow that he is. It’ll slow down the process of identification. Never help anyone, let alone the fuzz.’

  There was nothing in Dhani’s pockets.

  ‘A striking testimony to your simplicity of life,’ said Markham.

  Julia watched with fascination the changes between sane, rational penetration and the facetious posturing with which it alternated. From Julia’s Barbour the Dutchman extracted the asylum candle and the number plate. After a further fumble he came up with Ian’s note. These were laid on the table. Markham gazed at them for a moment and flushed with annoyance as their significance became clear to him. Delicately he picked up the candle and then with a sudden movement tapped it on the edge of the cabin table. The bung fell out and a thin trickle of grey powder ran over the polished surface. Dhani’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Busybody Ian, the knight so shining white’s been muscling in again I see. I wondered where I’d left my little trophy.’ He indicated the plate. Again Julia wondered whether he was acting or whether, as she suspected, the careless leaving of the number plate was simply another flourish, like putting a head in a font. In the end Geoffrey Markham didn’t really care whether he was found out or not. At least half of him wanted to be discovered.

  ‘So you know all,’ Markham said in a tone worthy of an early film villain. This time he was certainly acting. ‘In that case, it’s final good night all round, friends. Tuck them up nice and safe, Jacob, old fruit. No need for night caps though.’

  The Dutchman, short and heavy with a square head and square fingers, hesitated between the two of them and finally picked Julia up by her roped hands and feet and carried her aft. She found herself bundled into a locker which appeared to be already full of something which felt like wicker or basket work. There was a pungent, not unpleasant, smell which Julia recognised as incense. A moment later in the intense dark she felt Dhani’s light body dumped partly on top of her. Dhani gasped out an apology as he rolled himself off her. Her head appeared to be beside his feet. After a moment the tiny chink of light from the loosely fitting doors of the locker allowed her to see his recumbent form. She was surprised to find that what she mostly felt was anger rather than fear. It was one step on, she thought.

  ‘Dhani, why haven’t they killed us yet?’

  ‘I think their resident neck-breaker was out for the count,’ said Dhani quaintly employing what he thought was an English idiom. ‘And shooting us on the Amy Roy might have been noisy. I imagine they’ll dump us when they next put to sea.’

  ‘When will that be?’ asked Julia who preferred to be killed by a bullet in the head rather than choking to death on sea water.

  ‘If they keep to their regular pattern, on the next tide from Narborough, which is tomorrow, or rather this evening, at about six. I expect we’ll be slipping downstream any time during the day.’

  ‘Dhani, what are they up to?’

  ‘As Ian said, it looks like drugs. That stuff he poured on to the table was heroin. The hollows in the candles are stuffed with it.’

  ‘How did they do it?’

  ‘Bring them in from Holland in this boat in consignments of all this Eastern trash.’

  Julia had a sudden vision of the stall in the market where she’d seen Mrs Thrigg last Saturday afternoon leaning forward over a pile of just such Eastern trash. ‘Dhani,’ she said ‘the market stall I saw Mrs Thrigg at, the man keeping it had a foreign accent.’

  ‘Dutch?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, it would be a good cover. I’ll bet there are papers to cover brass, wicker goods and candles perfectly in order. I should imagine, too, most of the candles are OK – drug-free. But some aren’t.’

  ‘The ones with the St Manicus arms on them?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So when it comes to sorting them out, the St Manicus arms ones are separated and stowed somewhere and then passed on? To Paul and the youth club?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not? It’s immensely profitable.’

  ‘No. I meant, why the arms of the Cathedral?’

  ‘He’s a droll fellow, isn’t he? An actor. A jester, wouldn’t you say? One for flourishes and gestures. Cocking snooks. He clearly meant Canon Wheeler to find the head in the font.’

  ‘It was Canon Wheeler’s month in residence. He’d be due to take Evensong,’ Julia chipped in, ‘on the Friday afternoon when Mrs Thrigg and I found the head in the font. And the Evensong was scheduled for the St Manicus chapel that day. But why did he want to torment Canon Wheeler with such a sight?’

  ‘ “Son sees son”,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he has something against Wheeler or perhaps it’s just joking carried that much further – in the same spirit as with the candles. The candle burns for Christ and the bottom holds damnation. That sort of thing.’

  ‘What about the candle on Paul’s altar?’ asked Julia. If she was going to die she might at least understand how it all happened.

  ‘If Jefferson was a partner in the drugs ring and, though I’m not sure of his motives and I think they may be more complicated than merely money, he clearly was,’ said Dhani thoughtfully, ‘he might have emptied the drug out of the candles and then simply recycled them in Paul’s direction. On the lines of waste not want not. And throwing them away might arouse suspicion.’

  ‘So Paul need not have known about the drugs at all. The candle doesn’t necessarily prove that he was implicated.’ There was both pleading and relief in Julia’s tone. She desperately didn’t want her cousin to be guilty.

  ‘It’s certainly possible.’

  ‘What about the candles in the asylum out-house? How did a candle find its way there?’

  ‘I wonder if it might not be some sort of black magic. It’s easy to see why a black magician might want a candle with the arms of the Cathedral on it. If you’re into black arts you probably want to invert or misuse as many symbols of the orthodox rites as possible. It may be that the group, whoever they are, didn’t realise the candles they had contained drugs as well. I was listening carefully to what Markham was saying. Did you notice he said Jefferson wasn’t too careful abou
t looking or finding? Some words of that kind.’

  Julia nodded and realising Dhani couldn’t see her in the blackness, answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I wondered if that meant that Jefferson had let one or more of the candles slip through, still containing their load of drug. If, say for argument, that had happened on Thursday evening, might not Jefferson and Markham have gone looking for it or them as soon as they realised?’

  ‘Would that be why Jefferson was pursuing me, because I had a candle with drugs in it?’

  ‘It’s a probability.’

  ‘I still don’t know why they should kill Paul,’ Julia said. ‘Unless perhaps he found out about the drugs and threatened to go to the police. Nor do I see why they had to kill Canon Wheeler, unless he found out about the drugs too.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Dhani, ‘if you listened to what Markham said when he mentioned Wheeler, I got the impression that he thought Wheeler was alive. He didn’t speak of him in the past tense. You found the body this morning. He may not have seen the evening papers, and if he didn’t kill Wheeler there’s no reason why he should yet know he’s dead. That would mean that someone else killed Wheeler, and if so who and why?’

  ‘It looks,’ said Julia tremulously, ‘as if we might never know. Dhani, are we going to die?’

  ‘Would you mind?’ said Dhani gravely.

  ‘I’m not sure. No. Yes. I think I mind how I die and I hate to see bullies get away with it. Joking, manipulating, coercing and killing – I don’t want to be a victim of that. I’m sick of being a victim.’ She paused. ‘I don’t suppose Paul wanted to die. He shouldn’t have been put in a position where he had no choice. No one should.’ She fell silent at the prospect.

  ‘Holding, as I do, a doctrine of ahimsa,’ said Dhani theoretically, ‘I’m surprised to find how very much I agree with you. Perhaps it’s my English schooling. Independent schools are hierarchies and hierarchies license a certain amount of bullying so that the products tend to feel it’s all right. I myself look for a commonwealth of free, rational and equal beings and for that reason,’ he grunted and Julia felt his body first become tense and then relax beside hers, ‘I intend to slip my collar and see what can be done.’

  With amazement, Julia felt his hand on her feet. ‘How?’

  ‘Oriental cunning,’ said Dhani complacently. ‘I imagine the combat expert who is hors de combat would not have made the mistakes which the square Dutchman did with knots.’

  When they were both free and had recovered from the surprising pain of restored circulation, Dhani said, ‘It’s still dark. The last bell I heard from the Cathedral clock struck two. We don’t know if they’ve left anyone on guard. I think it would be safest to swim for it. You do swim, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia firmly, quelling her fear of drowning. She knew she was competent, if not keen.

  ‘If either of us makes it,’ said Dhani carefully, ‘the first phone box or the first policemen. No more beggaring about with self-help. Time the professionals did their bit. I’ve had enough of rough houses. I always thought England was such an orderly country.’

  Julia found herself giggling. ‘I thought so too. I’ve seen some terrible pub fights in Australia and I haven’t seen one in England.’

  ‘It has other ways of being violent.’

  Julia thought of Wheeler’s bullying and then of his broken neck. The Cathedral clock struck the half.

  ‘Right,’ said Dhani quietly, ‘Let’s push off.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Earth Upon Earth Has Set All His Thought

  ‘Ian Henry Caretaker, I arrest you for the murder of Charles Victor Wheeler. I have to warn you that you do not need to say anything but that anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

  Tallboy’s tone was gruff with triumph. His clothes appeared to fit him even less well than usual. The two constables closed in on either side of Caretaker. It was Tuesday morning. The culmination of two hours further questioning by the police in the conference room of St Manicus house had been Tallboy absenting himself for fifteen minutes and returning to make his charge.

  Ian smiled at him kindly, with genuine fellow feeling. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought you might. However, before you do anything rash’ – he leaned forwards towards Tallboy – ‘anything which might be detrimental to your career, might I suggest that you call a meeting of the Dean, Archdeacon, Bishop, even Deaconess Braithwaite and perhaps Miss Smith? If you like you could bring your heavies with you to make sure I don’t make a break for it.’

  Ian indicated the two seemingly twelve-year-old constables standing beside him. He tried to keep the contempt out of his voice because, after all, it wasn’t their fault that they had a dolt for their boss.

  ‘I can assure you,’ said Tallboy heavily, ‘I am acting on the full authority of the Superintendent and the Chief Constable. And the Bishop knows,’ he added defensively. ‘Moreover, may I remind you that’ – exasperation got the better of him – ‘everything you say is being taken down.’ He looked at the WPC who was scribbling away with every appearance of interest.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Caretaker. ‘I hope she got that bit about your career.’

  ‘Constable, take this man back to the station,’ said Tallboy.

  Ian said calmly, ‘In the top drawer of my desk, you will find a candle with the St Manicus arms on its base.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tallboy interrupted him with satisfaction. ‘We’ve got it. You’ll be charged with offences under the Possession of Drugs Act as well as murder in due course.’

  Ian felt all the anger which for years he’d suppressed or diverted swell up in him. The fatigue he had felt after his nocturnal exertions left him. He reverted to the diction of his prep school. ‘How can you be so dense, you dunderhead? Haven’t you got anyone with any nous in your flat-footed crew?’

  Tallboy had no intention of finding out what ‘nous’ meant. He jerked his head at the two constables. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  The constables closed their grip on Ian’s arms and began to propel him towards the door. Taller than either of them, he allowed himself to be moved forward for three paces and then stopped dead and swung round. ‘And if you let anything happen to Miss Smith,’ he said, ‘I’ll not merely break your career, I’ll break your neck too.’

  * * *

  Theodora propped her tall self uneasily against the dark wood panelling of the entrance hall of the Bishop’s Palace. She felt extremely nervous. There was no rational justification for her fear, she thought. Her conscience was clear. She was not stupid or ill-willed. She was simply doing what had to be done. Why, then, this irrational sinking of the heart? The Bishop’s authority derived from his office not his person. But at this point she was stuck, for the Bishop, as she well knew, was frightening in virtue of his person not his office. She began to pray one of the two psalms for that morning: ‘Go not far from me, O God. My God haste thee to help me.’

  Theodora had learned of Ian’s prolonged questioning by the police from Mary, the receptionist. She had seen the Inspector and his crew summon Ian to the conference room as soon as he had come in. They had also searched Ian and Theodora’s room thoroughly. Julia had not come in and there had been no phone call asking for leave of absence. When she had gathered all this, Theodora had telephoned downstairs.

  ‘Canon Wheeler’s office,’ answered Miss Coldharbour’s voice, no less poised than when her superior had been alive.

  ‘Miss Coldharbour, I’d like to see you at once please,’ Theodora had said. ‘Would you come up to my office?’

  There had been the slightest of pauses and then Miss Coldharbour’s tone, which perhaps had a touch of constraint in it, had responded, ‘Of course, Miss Braithwaite. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Miss Coldharbour, when she had appeared a few minutes later, had looked, Theodora thought, tired and older than ever before. Theodora had fixed her with her own honest eye and said, ‘Now, Miss Coldharbour, about money.�
��

  I wonder what on earth possessed the two of them, thought Theodora, as she gazed at the Bishop’s arms carved into the lintel over his study door. Suddenly the door was opened by the Bishop’s diminutive secretary who murmured, ‘The Bishop will see you now.’

  Theodora took a grip on herself and strode into the rather small room. A lot of modern fumed-oak panelling gave it the air of a 1930s liner and there were several horrible reproduction club chairs haphazardly arranged. One almost expected to see chromium ashtrays in leather straps over their arms.

  The Bishop was turned away from her, seated in his chair in the bay window, staring out towards the Cathedral. There was an air of lethargy about him and Theodora caught a glimpse of his feet propped on a footstool. He was wearing, as was his right, a purple cassock. Purple for royalty and purple for the colour of dried blood, Theodora thought. She took up her stand mid-stage and waited. It was some moments before he turned stiffly towards her. His large, square, heavy face with its small eyes betrayed no emotion. He fixed his attention on her.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Ian Caretaker.’

  ‘Killed, I am told, Charles Wheeler.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘The police tell me his fingerprints are all over the office.’ The Bishop paused. ‘He had, apparently, the opportunity and the motive in that he had some sort of quarrel, no one seems to be too sure about what, immediately prior to Charles being found dead. Why should you suppose the police wrong?’

  ‘I don’t say that Ian couldn’t have killed Canon Wheeler. What I do feel sure about, after working with him for four years, is that if he had killed him, he would have confessed at once. He’d have gone to the nearest policeman or, more likely, rung the Dean.’

  ‘I commend your loyalty to your colleague. I would remind you, however, that your first loyalty is to the Church in this diocese.’