by Guy N Smith
“I gave you twenty yesterday!” Indignation, there was no hint of guilt.
“And you borrowed fifteen back to go to the pub!” She screwed the tea towel up into a ball.
“What’ve you spent the five pounds on?” His expression was aggressive, accusing.
“Food, for starters,” she snapped. “The chicken we had for tea tonight cost four quid, not to mention the veg and the pudding. And little Michael needs a new pair of shoes, just in case you hadn’t noticed that the soles are coming adrift.”
“Put it in the book, then.” His sarcasm camouflaged any hint of guilt that he might have felt. “Since you went on that book-keeping course, I hope your arithmetic has improved!”
“See for yourself, then.” She reached a small cashbook from by the telephone, opened it up, and held it out for him to see. “Including the fifteen you took back last night, and not counting the remaining sixty pounds you owe on this week’s housekeeping,” she tapped the relevant page, “currently, Michael, you are in debt to me for the sum of one hundred and eighty seven pounds!”
“Well, that certainly proves something.” He smirked.
“What?”
“You’ve managed admirably, so I must’ve been paying you too much in the past.”
She fought back a retort, her eyes watered. Rarely had she stood up to her husband in the past. A thought crossed her mind: Gerald, so strong and confident, so kind. She would not have to put up with this forever. Suddenly four years seemed an eternity, and she knew she could not hold out that long. Little Michael would be all right—he had to be. “I see,” she said, “so I’m not going to be paid the arrears?”
“An assistant organist doesn’t earn a lot.” He had never confided his salary in her.
“Enough to keep him in drink every night of the week, though.”
“I don’t drink a lot. One pint, two at the most.”
“Another thing.” She felt her confidence surge, sensed that he was backing down.
“Yes?”
“You’re in this house for about an hour every day. You come back from the cathedral, go up to your study, and work until the meal’s ready. Then, as soon as you’ve eaten, you’re off to the pub. The kids have noticed it. In fact, Julie commented on it.”
“I’ve just been up and said goodnight to them.”
“And what’s happening about my car?” She sensed an advantage; pushed for everything she could think of.
“The assessor’s going to look at it on Tuesday. Then we’ll know whether the insurance will write it off or pay for it to be repaired.”
“And if they write it off?”
“I’ll buy it back off them and Wally will do a good knock-out job, you’ll never even know it’s had a bump.”
“And you’ll settle with me out of the write-off cheque, won’t you, Michael?”
“I’ll work something out.” He edged towards the door.
“When?”
“I’ll see how things go.” He paused, rested his hands on the doorknob. “Oh, and I’ve got an axe to grind, too, San.”
“Have you?” She took a deep breath, held it. Michael always retaliated; you never got away with anything with him. “What’s that?”
“Sex.” He eyed her steadily; the smirk was back on his face. “I begin to wonder if it will ever happen again.”
“If you stayed home on the odd evening, or even came back at a respectable hour, it might.” She hoped he wouldn’t take her up on that; she would feel guilty. It would be a betrayal of Gerry, the way things were now.
“You’re always asleep. Or too tired. Or something.”
“I don’t like being woken up for sex.”
“I think you’re getting it somewhere else.” His eyes fixed unwaveringly on her.
“How dare you!” Sandra’s heart seemed to flip, her legs felt rubbery. She sensed cold perspiration on her forehead.
“It’s just a thought,” he laughed.
“A diversion, so that we don’t have to discuss unpleasant subjects. Like money.”
“I told you, assistants don’t earn a lot.”
“Well, you’re acting organist until after the Festival so things have to look up temporarily.”
“I don’t get paid any extra for doing Frame’s job. It’s considered an honour.”
She was watching him carefully, now she sensed something in him that she had never seen before: an uneasiness, a nervousness. Lying didn’t affect him that way; there was definitely something disturbing him. She said, “They might just appoint you organist full-time.”
“I don’t think so.” It came out in a rush.
“You don’t want the job?”
He licked his lips, averted his gaze. “After what’s happened to Rupert? And Poppleton? I’d have to be crazy.”
“Somebody will continue to play the organ in the cathedral, they won’t suspend services. I thought you always wanted to be an organist, Michael? I didn’t think you were the type to get cold feet.”
“I’m not, I’m just thinking of you. And the kids. I won’t be any good to anybody if I go and get topped.”
She sighed. He had turned everything to his advantage, as usual. He was scared, all right, but it was a good excuse for not taking on a demanding job. All Michael wanted was enough money to enable him to go to the pub every night, and if he could get away with paying her as little as possible, have his children looked after and his food on the table, that was fine by him. Well, he was in for a shock soon. She must talk to Gerry, tell him she was ready whenever he wanted her.
“I’d better be going.” Corms edged the front door open, stood there hesitantly. “I wish I knew who was doing it, San.”
“So does everybody else. I guess , if they catch him, it’ll turn out to be some psycho with a record, probably set free on parole by some crazy judge. Somebody we’ve never heard of.”
“It has to be somebody we know.” His features were pale; the fingers on the doorknob shook slightly. “Somebody who, for some crazy reason, has it in for organists. Lichfield Cathedral organists.”
“Maybe, but in Poppleton’s case they left it an awful long time. He’d been gone from here five years.”
“Maybe we’ll move on after the Festival” He stepped out into the street, “I’ve heard there’s a couple of posts going. Or I might even go back to teaching.”
Sandra stood there, experienced a sense of triumph. She hadn’t got any money out of him, that was too much to hope for, but by the time the Festival was over, she would be gone from here.
Later she would phone Gerry.
10
Canon Feiffer was angry. He had been angry for the past couple of days for a variety of reasons.
Charlesworth, the headmaster, was attempting to fob him off over the incident of those dreadful boys focusing binoculars on Mrs Feiffer’s bedroom window. The culprits had claimed upon being questioned that a nest of starlings had hatched out in the eaves and they had been studying the fledglings with their lenses. Poppycock! Worse, the headmaster believed them, he had even been along to check for himself, and there were some baby birds up there. He had apologised for the nuisance and stressed that he had instructed the boys not to focus their binoculars on the precentor’s house again.
Feiffer tore the letter into shreds, showered it in the direction of the waste paper basket. The boys were liars; they were cunning enough to find a plausible excuse for their disgusting voyeurism. Worse, Charlesworth actually believed them. Neither the bishop’s nor the dean’s secretary had had the courtesy to reply to the precentor’s letter.
And that policeman had called this morning. Without a prior appointment, what a dashed cheek! The fellow wasn’t even dressed befitting the force, a sweatshirt and a pair of grubby jeans. Ford, his name was; Feiffer scribbled it on his jotter. He might write a letter to the chief constable and point out how sloppy the police were becoming.
The detective had implied by innuendo that Feiffer might have known the killer, that it might be somebod
y connected with the cathedral. And those questions Ford had asked about Herbert Poppleton were preposterous. Slanderous, in fact. Could Herbert have had homosexual tendencies? Not Herbert—a man of his standing would not have stooped to such depths. It was unthinkable. And he most certainly would not have been a womaniser. Had he not told everybody on numerous occasions that in fifty years of marriage he had never seen his wife naked? So why should he want to view any other woman unclothed?
Jobs for the boys, that was the trouble with the police. That fellow Ford should be out there hunting the murderer, not making insulting suggestions about Herbert’s morality. Feiffer had told the detective as much, in no uncertain terms.
Something else angered Feiffer, but it had not occurred to him until now. The night on which Rupert Frame had been murdered, Lumby had deserted his post, gone to fetch fish and chips from the shop downtown. Had the Verger remained in the cathedral then in all probability the organist would still be alive today. Lumby had been disciplined, a written warning, no more. Was night duty being observed or was it being shirked? That was Homer’s responsibility; he was Head Verger.
Feiffer decided to make an unscheduled visit to the cathedral in order to find out if the late duties were being observed. If there was nobody around and the north transept was unlocked, then he would ensure that Homer was sacked. The fellow was not suitable for the job. Feiffer had disliked him over the years; this was his chance to rid the cathedral of him once and for all.
The precentor waited until dusk. He had no fears of the dark, and anyway, the murderer was only interested in organists, all the newspapers confirmed that. Just a quick check. If a verger was on duty, fair enough, if not …
He left the house with his well-known shambling gait, arms swinging by his sides, cheeks inflating and deflating. It was a balmy evening, sweat trickled down his wide forehead, stinging his eyes. He paused, fumbled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow and wiped his spectacles. Voices, laughter had him peering into the gathering dusk.
Dashed if there weren’t still tourists in the Close! A group were clustered by the well, one of them pointing towards the cathedral. “That’s where the murder was done. It’s locked up now, but we’ll be able to go take a look tomorrow.”
Anger shook the precentor again. That was all these people had come for, to gawp and drool over a scene of bloody murder. The Mercury had claimed an influx of tourists due to the killing; one of the tabloids—so Feiffer had heard, he wouldn’t read such trash—had headlined it, “Thomas Becket in Lichfield Cathedral.” The tourist board would not admit it, but Feiffer knew it all right, saw it as a boost for tourism. It was an ill wind …
With some difficulty he negotiated the wide flight of steps down to the north door. He tried the handle, the door swung inwards. Whoever was on duty should have kept it locked; those ghouls out there might well trespass in search of the murder scene. It was the duty Verger’s job to lock the door behind him once he was inside; clearly this task had been overlooked lately.
Feiffer listened but there were no strains of organ music coming from within. Because Rupert Frame was dead and his temporary replacement preferred the evils of alcohol to the holiness of the house of God.
Corms would have to go after the Festival, Feiffer was determined upon that. There was a meeting scheduled for early August to discuss the appointment of a new organist. The precentor intended to put his own case strongly; a new assistant must be appointed also. Corms must be dismissed. Not only did the man lack dedication, never mind obvious talents, but he was a drunkard who brought the Church into disrepute. Also there were rumours about his wife; Feiffer would not mention those unless more substantial evidence came to light in the meantime.
The dim lighting cast weird shadows, patches of blackness that might have hidden a lurking killer. His own footsteps sounded hollow, echoed eerily as he walked across the nave, paused to bow to the altar.
May God have mercy upon my soul. And Rupert’s and Herbert’s, too. He felt his heartbeat, a sudden twinge made him wince. He hesitated. This was foolishness; the cathedral was deserted, whichever verger was on duty had left his post, left the place unlocked. They must be punished for their negligence.
Feiffer walked down towards the south transept door. Perhaps that was unlocked, too. He clicked the handle, but the heavy door would not budge. Anyway, a cathedral’s weakness was one unlocked door no matter how secure the rest.
His misted vision alighted on a square of Stygian blackness that nestled in the wall. It might have been the entrance to a bottomless pit; it seemed so sinister in the deep gloom. Or a dungeon where Cromwell had cast his prisoners during the siege, their skeletons still lying twisted on the floor. Or a secret passageway like the one that had once run from the bishop’s palace.
No, it was none of these; his imagination was running riot. Behind that low oaken door lay a flight of steps that went upwards, a spiral staircase that twisted its way skywards inside the great central spire. From aloft, through the arched windows, an unparalleled view of the city and its surrounding landscape was afforded the privileged sightseer. Nowadays, only the fortunate few were permitted to embark upon this tour of breathtaking scenery. Vertigo was the price asked; all but steeplejacks and mountaineers clung dizzily to the handrail at a height of 258 feet above ground.
Feiffer had scaled it once in his early days here; even as a young man he had refused a second invitation. The memory of that trip had his equilibrium threatening to orbit. The authorities were wise to keep that door locked; the central spire was an ideal setting for a spectacular suicide.
He walked back, bowed again to the altar before turning his back upon it and shuffling westwards down the nave. Above him, stained glass windows cast kaleidoscopic patterns on the architecture as they reflected the last light of a saffron sky and the dazzling exterior illuminations of the Close.
He was curious to know whom the duty Verger was. The roster book, kept on a shelf by the Head Verger’s desk just inside the west doors, would tell him. He needed the exact information in order to press for the sacking of the culprit. Having ascertained that fact, he promised himself that he would leave. And he would write the necessary letter before retiring for the night. The desk area was in deep shadow, a kind of partition behind rows of stacked hymn and prayer books. He wished that he had brought a torch; the subdued lighting did not infiltrate here. But he knew where the book was kept, he could find it by feel, take it into a patch of light to scan the pages until …
“Good evening, Precentor.”
Feiffer started, almost cried out. The pain in his chest stabbed him briefly, left him breathless. A figure, a Stygian silhouette, rose up behind the desk, a nemesis whose features were corpse-like in the darkness. A smile that was sensed rather than seen, skeletal fingers gripping the desktop.
“Homer!” Feiffer wheezed.
“Yes, sir?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve taken over from the duty Verger, sir. Needes went home sick only a few minutes ago. Why, is there anything wrong?”
“No …no … Yes, there is, Homer. The north transept door is unlocked.”
“Yes, Precentor, Needes left that way, I have his key. I was just on my way to lock it.”
“Oh, I see.” Disappointment because there were no grounds for a written complaint.
“It’s unusual to find you in here at such an hour, sir.”
“I … I just wanted to look around. After the tourists had left. I thought there would be more light than this in here.”
“I can switch the lights on for you, sir, if you wish.”
“No, no, Homer, it doesn’t matter.” Because I don’t feel well enough to stay any longer.
“They’ve removed the tent now, sir.” The Head Verger’s eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.
“The tent? Oh, you mean the tarpaulins they erected in the south transept for restoration work?”
“No, Precentor, I am referring to the one
in the organ loft. The one erected by the police in their search for clues. The cleaners did a magnificent job, removed most of the traces of blood, but there are still a few stains visible if you look hard enough. Would you care to take a look, Precentor?”
“No!” The word came out as a throaty scream.
“Pilgrims came to view the bloodstains of Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral, sir. A kind of memorial to a holy man, don’t you think? Rupert Frame may never have a monument erected to him, sir, but there will always be traces of his blood remaining where it has seeped between the stonework. Do let me give you a glimpse, Precentor.”
“No. You’re mad, Homer.”
“Perhaps, sir, but we’re all mad in our different ways, aren’t we? Take this murderer, he’s mad. Evil. He has to be, doesn’t he, to do what he did to Rupert Frame? And to Herbert Poppleton. And he enjoyed every second of it; it was doubtless the biggest thrill of his life. A sexual crime, the ultimate in perversion. I can understand him, sir, even if I can’t condone his crime.”
Feiffer backed away a couple of paces, lost his balance and almost fell. “I … don’t … want … to … see, Homer.”
“Very well, Precentor, but I think you should see where a devoted servant of the cathedral died. He shed his blood in the services of God, no man can give a greater sacrifice than to …”
“Stop it, Homer!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’m going now, Homer.” Still backing away, afraid to turn his back upon the other. The sharp pain in his chest had intensified; his vision had blurred so that the Verger’s silhouette was quivering like a reflection in a pool of water.
“As you wish, sir. Would you like me to escort you to the door?”
“No.”
“I have to lock it after you, sir.”
Feiffer bumped against a pew, managed to regain his balance.
“You can sense murder in the atmosphere, can’t you, sir?” Homer’s nostrils flared, he sniffed the air. “A kind of cloying smell. Like blood, in fact. I guess it will always remain; the vibes of violent death are strong. You can almost believe that the murderer is still in here, hiding somewhere. You ask yourself where, glance all around you, peer fearfully into the shadows. A trick of the light, an unrecognisable noise has your heart pounding, your pulse racing. You think you see him crouching in the darkness, you can’t be sure. You fight against the urge to run. Nowhere is safe.”