by Guy N Smith
“I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient moment.” The detective stood his ground. Possibly the other was expecting him to leave, return another time. You didn’t play it that way; it gave the opposition breathing space, time to rethink. It was always a bonus to catch people wrong footed.
“Oh, no, not at all,” embarrassment, a pursing of the lips. “Would you care to come inside?”
“Thank you.” Ford stepped into the small hallway, detected that unmistakable smell of a bachelor abode; a lingering staleness, cooking smells that permeated the bungalow, air-freshener sprayed in an attempt to mask that nauseating aroma.
“Coffee?”
“Please.” Hospitality was always a delay tactic, you exploited it.
“I’ve only got instant, I’m afraid. The percolator’s broken.”
“That’s fine.” Ford watched the other busying himself filling the kettle in the kitchen sink. Clay was clearly ill at ease. He spilled some coffee granules on the working surface, swept them up with his hands.
The detective’s gaze roved the lounge, came to rest on the picture hanging above the fireplace. A rear view of a naked girl. There was nothing unusual in that; nude artwork was in vogue.
The frame hung silently off centre; the glass was spotted with drops of water like the outside of a window pain after a rain shower. Ford was puzzled; oil paintings were rarely framed behind glass. It looked odd. Maybe Clay had put it in the glass himself for some reason. To protect it from the damp? How did it come to be splashed in this dry centrally heated room?
“Sugar?”
“No thanks, just a splash of milk.”
Clay came through, the mugs seemed to weight him forward, arced his spine. He stumbled awkwardly, slopped some of the dark brown liquid. “You’ve got your man, then, Sergeant. Or, rather, somebody has. I read in The Mercury that he did to himself what …”
“We don’t have any conclusive evidence that the killer was Adrian Frame. Just a similarity between the mutilations and the mode of suicide, that’s all. Maybe we won’t ever know for sure.”
“Oh, I see …” The other’s expression changed, he appeared to have become paralysed in the act of setting the drinks down on the low coffee table.
“A nice piece of artwork.” Ford was staring at the picture over the mantelshelf. “Bought it recently?”
“Yes … I … um … er … purchased it from … from an exhibition in the … Arts Centre during the … Festival,” Clay stammered, his cheeks suffused with blood so that a mass of freckles stood out starkly. His ears had turned a bright red.
“It looks like you’ve had it standing outside in the rain.” Ford’s remark was made to seem casual. He saw how the other stiffened, was trembling.
“Oh … oh, I see what you mean.” Clay lurched over to the painting, rubbed at the droplets with his fingers, smeared the glass. “Dear me, how careless of me … I’d hung it in the bathroom, just somewhere to put it temporarily. I’ve only just brought it downstairs, you see.”
“It’s a nice picture. It must have set you back a bit.”
“I … er …” Clay was vigorously lathering his hands with non-existent soap. “A few pounds, I can’t remember exactly how much.”
“It’s erotic if you look at it long enough. A turn-on. Don’t you think so?”
The other’s blush was even deeper now. “I … I … I never thought of it in that way, Sergeant, but now that you mention it … yes, I suppose it could be … if you’re that way inclined.”
“You were a choirboy, weren’t you?” A sudden direct question, fired without warning.
“Yes.” A swallowed admission.
“In Poppleton’s time, obviously.” A statement.
Cecil Clay nodded; he was visibly shaken. He glanced back at the picture on the wall. The droplets of water had trickled to the bottom of the frame. A drip splashed onto the carpet.
“You used to go round to his place for tea and scones sometimes.”
Another nod, the other’s Adam’s apple bobbled. His blush had gone, the freckles had faded, his complexion had paled.
“Did … anything ever happen?”
“I … I’m not sure what you mean, Sergeant.” Clay sank down into an armchair, averted his eyes.
“I mean were you ever … interfered with?”
Silence. Cecil Clay’s hands went up to his face, hid it. His head was bowed, he leaned forward. A shudder, it might have been a sob of despair. Of guilt. The whispered “yes” was superfluous.
“I see.” A long silence during which Ford watched the other fidget, shift his feet, writhe inwardly. Clay looked out from between splayed fingers, closed the gap.
“I needed to know, Mr Clay.” Ford’s tone was apologetic. “I’m sorry if I’ve distressed you. It would have helped, though, if you’d told me before. I suspected as much. You see, I need to form a profile of Herbert Poppleton. I need to know as much about him as his killer. There has to be a reason why he was killed, why Rupert Frame was killed.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference, would it?” Clay looked up. “I mean, the killer’s dead, isn’t he? Poppleton wouldn’t have done anything to the boy, Adrian wasn’t born in those days, and anyway, Frame wouldn’t have been abusing his own son, would he?”
“He could have been. It happens. Frequently. But I, personally, don’t believe that Adrian Frame murdered his father or Herbert Poppleton. Everybody has jumped to a convenient conclusion. All Adrian did was top himself in a bizarre copycat suicide. Maybe it was a crack-crazed final revenge on the father he hated, or even a twisted tribute to the real killer. We don’t know. I mean to find out the truth.”
Clay’s head jerked up and he stared; for a moment speech was beyond him.
“Would you care to tell me about it? I’d be most grateful and I promise you complete confidentiality and anonymity.”
“All right.” Clay grabbed for his coffee, spilled some as he gulped it, oblivious of the stain on his bathrobe. “There really isn’t much to tell, though, I’m afraid. Poppleton used to invite us round to his house from time to time. His wife was always absent, upstairs resting, I think. It was a strange informal—yet at the same time impersonal—meeting. Frightening, because you knew what was coming and you daren’t refuse. Nor tell anybody.” He reached for his coffee again.
“Go on.”
“Always compliments, you were made to feel that you were the best in the choir, that he relied on you totally. Then … then …” Clay hid his face, spoke through his fingers. “Then he’d move across, sit beside you on the settee, and he’d say … he’d say …”
“Yes?”
“He’d say …” The words were barely audible. He closed his eyes and it seemed for a moment that he was about to faint, slump back unconscious into the chair, spare himself the shame and ignominy of his reminiscences. “He’d say, ‘ Shall we now sing Psalm 151?’ ”
Ford’s eyebrows raised, he did not speak.
“You understand, Sergeant?” A fluster of embarrassment, like somebody who had told a lengthy joke but his audience had missed the point. Explaining would be an anticlimax; the only laugh would be at the expense of the teller.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“Of course, it was silly of me to expect you to understand. You see … there are only one hundred and fifty psalms, the hundred and fifty first is non-existent.”
Ford’s forehead puckered, he waited.
“Psalm 151 was a signal that Herbert was … going to … to do things. I’d … I’d rather not go into details.”
“Of course not.” The detective stiffened. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to, you have been a tremendous help to me, Mr Clay. But, did these … things happen on a regular basis?”
“Infrequently. At least, as far as I was concerned. You must remember that there were eighteen choirboys.” He paused. “So one’s turn came round periodically. Sometimes, though, it was just tea and scones and a chat. I suppose
it all depended on his mood.”
“And the other boys—did you discuss it amongst yourselves?”
“Certainly I never told anybody, I was too ashamed. The memory has haunted me throughout my life … made me what I am, an insecure loner. I can never erase the feeling of guilt.” He stared at the painting; the droplets had dried, left smears on the glass. “But Rupert Frame wouldn’t have done anything like that. At least, I don’t think so although I didn’t know him. It was a long time ago. Charles Homer was a junior verger in those days.”
“You knew Homer, then?”
“Yes, an unpleasant man, he toadied to old Herbert. If he knew you’d been up to something, he’d shop you to him. They used to say that Homer only got the job because of Poppleton, that they’d known each other somewhere previously. I can’t for the life of me think why Poppleton befriended somebody like that. Homer used to go round to his house frequently, so it was rumoured.”
“That’s strange, indeed,” Ford’s eyes narrowed. He refrained from making a joke about Psalm 151, reminded himself of the old saying that there was many a true word spoken in jest. “I’ll need to talk to some of the other choir members, Mr Clay.” He rose to his feet. “Perhaps you might be able to furnish me with a list of names which I can try to trace. Nearly forty years is a long time.”
“I …”
“Complete confidentiality,” Ford promised and smiled reassuringly. “You have my word on that.”
Cecil Clay slouched from the room in slippered feet, his body bowed. A few minutes later he returned clutching a blue cloth-bound booklet, tattered and dog-eared. “This should tell you all you need to know, Sergeant.” He held it out. “A school register and diary of events for one of the years when I was a pupil. In the flyleaf is a list of choristers. I’m sorry I don’t have any addresses. The only one that I’ve kept in touch with is James Drinkwater. I wish I could be more helpful.”
“You’ve been more help than you’ll ever know.” The detective pocketed the booklet.
“You don’t think Adrian Frame was the killer, then?” Clay’s head was thrust forward as though the other’s answer was of vast importance to him.
“I only have my own opinion.” Ford shook his head; he wasn’t prepared to explain his hunches. “I’ll return your book in due course, I promise.”
He cast one final sideways glance at the painting over the fireplace. For a brief second the girl seemed almost lifelike; he found himself tensing in anticipation of her turning around, smiling and unashamedly displaying the fullness of her nudity for his personal pleasure.
Which was why Cecil Clay had taken it up to the bathroom with him.
He pitied Clay for everything that he had undergone, the traumas of a disturbed boyhood that had spilled over into manhood. Whatever delights the girl afforded him, he deserved them.
20
“Just when are you going to do something positive?” Sandra had to restrain herself from shouting; anger and frustration had been building up inside her throughout a sleepless night. As soon as she had delivered the children to their respective schools she had gone straightaway to her lover’s house. “I mean, we’ve talked and talked, promises and more promises, and we’re no further forward than when we got together in the summer. July 17th, in case you’d forgotten the date,” she added sarcastically.
“Look.” Gerald Norman was visibly strained, the lines in his bearded face were etched deeply, he chewed hard on the stem of his pipe. “We’ve explored every possibility. You want a house, but right now I don’t have the money to buy one. At my age I’d only get a ten-year mortgage, at most and there’s no way I can afford that.”
“What about this hoped-for bestseller that you finished last week?” She tapped the desk meaningfully.
“It’ll take time, you know that. A moderate advance, the usual, and then we have to hope that it sells. Then we have to wait for royalties, six months after publication. Even with a blockbuster we wouldn’t see any serious money for eighteen months.”
“You do my head in,” she sighed.
“You’re always saying that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“All right.” He spread his hands. “Let’s just go take a chance. We’ll probably live on the breadline, maybe under it. Okay?”
“I want security.” She became sullen. “For the kids’ sake.”
“Fair enough, but you know the risks shacking up with a writer. It’s a precarious way of making a living. But if you prefer, you can stay with Michael. You’ll be unhappy and lonely, he won’t give you a penny more than he absolutely has to, but you’ll have a roof over your head and food on the table. You have to weigh whether that’s worth putting up with what you’ve been putting up with for the last twelve years.”
“You’re a sod!” She smiled. “You know damned well what I’ll choose. Michael married beneath him; I know damned well that’s what his mother thinks. But I serve a purpose: I do his washing and cooking, bring up his kids, stay at home whilst he goes to the pub every night and …”
“And that, too?”
“Not anymore, I told you that.”
“I want to give you everything I possibly can.” His voice was husky, and for possibly the first time in forty years he was close to tears. “God, I do, San.”
“I know.” She sat down, her hand found his, squeezed it gently. “I’m sorry, Gerry, it’s just that …”
“What?”
“I thought Michael was going, he was scared for his life, but now that the killer’s dead, he’s changed. He’s been appointed cathedral organist, it’s what he wants. So he’s staying. Nothing has changed, life will go on as before, down to the pub every night, me left alone with the children. Bored and lonely, as you say. I can’t stand it.” She couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. “I want to go now.”
“All right.” He put his arm around her. “I’ll do something. I promise.”
“I know.” She buried her face against him. “I know you will, darling.”
After a while he extricated himself gently. “I’ve got to pop out for a while.”
“Shopping? I can get you anything you need.”
“No, more complicated than that, I’m afraid. Research. I need to spend an hour or so in the cathedral.”
“Oh!” She was surprised, alarmed. “Michael’s in there, practising.”
“So what?”
“It doesn’t matter, I suppose.” She was watching him carefully. “It’s just that he happened to mention on one of the few occasions when he found the time and the inclination to chat that you’d taken to going into the cathedral quite frequently lately.”
“Because I’m setting a thriller in a cathedral setting.” He laughed, but it sounded forced. “Anything wrong in that?”
“No, I suppose not. It’d give me the creeps to go in there again after what’s happened, Gerry.”
“At the back of your mind you think that just by seeing me around, and knowing that you do a bit of work for me, he might put two and two together.”
“Michael would never suspect in a month of organ recitals,” she sighed. “Not even if somebody told him. In fact, if I confessed, he’d call me a liar. He just wouldn’t believe it possible, and neither would half the Close.”
“The trouble with you, Sandra,” he said, his expression serious now, “is that you’ve been made to feel like a second class citizen. From now on you’re a person in your own right, you’re important. To me. Get it?”
“I love you.” She reached out for him again. “And Gerry …”
“What’s worrying you now?” He sensed that she had been holding something back.
“Something else I have to tell you.” She averted her eyes. “I should have told you a couple of weeks ago; I guess it isn’t really important. It may never happen again, but it worries me all the same.”
“Go on, tell me.” He sat down again.
“Drinkwater, the Vicar Choral, he called round the morning after Michae
l’s appointment was confirmed. He said he wanted to congratulate him, but he must’ve known that Michael was in a meeting in the deanery. Like a fool, I invited him in. He asked me to call in at the shop, said there were books there that might interest me. He was quite insistent; I found it rather scary. It was his eyes that frightened me most, like he could see right through my clothing.” She shuddered at the memory. “That was the morning they found Adrian Frame dead. I was wondering how to get rid of Drinkwater when the police and ambulance arrived and it was the most welcome diversion I’ve ever known. I haven’t heard from him since, maybe he’s got the message that I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“He’s a sly bastard.” Gerry Norman’s expression was angry. “I don’t know him except to pass the time of day with, but I can believe what you say. An introvert, maybe a secret pervert, the same as that mate of his, Clay. There are rumours that Clay pinches girls’ bottoms. If he comes round again, let me know.”
“Thanks.” She nodded. “I wasn’t going to mention it to Michael; I didn’t want to cause any trouble in the cathedral.”
“I must go.” He moved towards the door. “God, it’s pouring rain again. Still, I’ll be dry enough in the cathedral.”
Sandra sat there staring at the door after he had gone. She didn’t like him spending so much time in the cathedral. She shuddered, goose pimpled. For her, it was the most terrifying place on Earth.
She could not imagine why he needed to spend so much time in there.
* * *
Mark Millington was in his early fifties, slim and dapper with greying hair. He stood on the forecourt of his car sales plot and surveyed it with pride. A pair of Mercedes sedans gleamed in the wan autumn sunlight in an attempt to seduce a prospective buyer. Mark was proud of them, too; status symbols, you didn’t need to drive them, you just stood beside them, basked in the envious glances of passers-by.