From Murder To A Cathedral

by John Creasey

  When the Dean had gone, Lemaitre looked at Gideon’s set face and said uneasily, “The old man talks a lot, but he’s no fool.”

  “No,” agreed Gideon dryly. “And no one’s going to agree with the last half of your sentence more heartily than he will. But we’ve got to pull out all the stops, Lem. Not being a fool isn’t enough to produce the culprits. I saw the Commissioner this morning, and the Lords Spiritual are beginning to chase the Home Secretary, who is beginning to chase us. We’ve got a really ugly situation on our hands. If you can solve this one quickly—”

  “I’ll solve it,” Lemaitre interrupted, with a confidence he could not justify. “Don’t you worry, George. I’ll solve it.”

  When he had gone, in turn, Gideon wondered for the first time whether it had been a mistake to give this case to Lemaitre. Overconfidence could be disastrous.

  Toni Bottelli was overconfident, too.

  He felt quite sure that he had not been seen and recognized, because he had travelled to Southend from London on one motorcycle, a BSA, and from the rendezvous on the Honda, wearing helmet and goggles. The Honda machine was in a village car park and could not be connected with him or the murder; someone would come and collect it in a few days. There was nothing to worry about, no direct association between his photographic studio cellar in Tottenham and the one in Fulham from which Rhodes had been driven.

  So he could go back to Sally Dalby.

  He did not know himself really well, but there were things he did recognize; among them the fact that certain girls had a fascination for him. He wanted to dominate them absolutely, wanted to make them do everything and anything he desired. He did not know why he felt that way about one girl in twenty or so, he was only very sure that that was the way he felt. Twenty would look more or less alike, their measurements wouldn’t greatly vary, but one of them would have the quality that mesmerized him. Until she was virtually his slave, he could not look at anyone else. Once he had a girl completely under his thumb, she lost her attraction. Three of them had been so appalled and horrified at the lengths to which he had gone that they had threatened to tell the police.

  So he had poisoned them with Veronal; and they had died.

  Now he was going back to his latest “slave”, Sally. Sally was still attractive to him; he had brilliantly circumvented any danger which might have spread from Harry Rhodes and could concentrate with an easy mind on the girl.

  14: “I WANT TO GO HOME”

  “I want to go home,” Sally said.

  “What’s the matter with this place?” Bottelli asked. “Isn’t it grand enough?”

  “It’s lovely, but I want to go home.”

  “Why can’t you be at home here?”

  “It isn’t the same,” insisted Sally.

  She sat up in a big bed, looking almost incredibly attractive, her hair falling in golden strands to her shoulders, her eyes only just touched with eye shadow, her naturally curling lashes very slightly darkened, her complexion wholly without blemish. She wore a frilly bed jacket, high at the neck, and the pillows behind her were downy and luxurious. The bedspread was of a very pale pink. Opposite her and on each wall were huge mirrors, from which one could see reflections at every conceivable angle.

  Toni sat on the side of the bed, very handsome, dark and swarthy. He was not annoyed or angry, but in a teasing mood, knowing exactly what he wanted. He knew too that the drugs would gradually weaken her resistance, until a moment would come when she would be wholly compliant.

  “I should think it’s not the same,” he said. “This is luxury, you live in the slums.”

  “Oh, I don’t!” she protested.

  “Not far off,” he said. “Have you got a room of your own?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “You share it with little sister Mary,” he reminded her. “She’s a school kid who throws her clothes all over the place, uses your lipstick and powder and borrows your stockings. Remember?”

  “Well, she is my sister.”

  “And she gets under your feet all the time.”

  Sally looked at him steadily and soberly, and then said, “I don’t care what you say, I want to go home.”

  “Okay, so you shall - one of these days.”

  “No - today.”

  He stood up, half frowning, half smiling. Looking up at him Sally was a little frightened, and at the same time a little admiring; he was so good-looking. She wondered if she had made him angry, while in rather a vague way she associated him with pain.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised. He moved toward the door, then hesitated, came back to the bed and selected a chocolate from a rich-looking box at the bedside. He bit into it appreciatively. “Like one?”

  “They’re lovely.”

  “They’re the best - only the best is good enough for you!”

  She chose one with a nut on top, as he knew she would; and she would eat several more, now she had started. In each was a grain of hashish, which would make her forget all about that tiresome desire to go home. Her fears and tensions would relax and she would do whatever he wanted.

  He knew, because she already had.

  He knew, also, because there were three other girls to remember, all of whom had become compliant after eating those chocolates while reclining in that bed.

  Golightly entered the supermarket where a girl named Daphne Arnold worked, walked past the bright stacks of tinned and packet foods, past bread and cheese in great variety, past meat and pies displayed at the delicatessen counter, and finally reached the office marked MANAGER. A surprisingly youthful man looked up with irritable preoccupation and demanded, “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to see Miss Arnold,” Golightly said.

  “The staff can’t be spared for private matters in business hours.”

  Golightly simply took out and proffered his card. The young man’s manner changed at once. He sprang up and with a murmured apology hurried out, calling sharply, “Miss Arnold - wanted at the office, please.”

  A girl approached from one of the counters. She had an exaggerated mop of black hair, a snub nose and a figure which managed to overcome the disadvantage of a mass-produced, dark blue smock. She looked at Golightly demurely.

  “Yes, Mr. Smith?”

  “This gentleman would like a word with you. I’ll be in the storeroom.” The manager went out abruptly, while Golightly waited for the girl to drop her gaze.

  “You’re a friend of Sally Dalby,” Golightly said at last

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “She told you she was going to pose as a photographer’s model.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you know where she was going to pose for him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Did she say anything more about it?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Would you like to come along to the police station for a few hours, until you’ve recovered your memory?”

  The girl’s eyes rounded with alarm. “No! I haven’t done anything!”

  “Sure about that?” asked Golightly. He let his gaze move about the supermarket, at the cash desks and the crowded shelves, looked back at her, and went on. “What else did Sally tell you about this photographer?”

  “Not much,” Daphne Arnold said.

  “How much? Let’s stop wasting time.”

  “All I know is that she said his name was Toni,” answered Daphne with a rush. “But she made me promise not to tell anyone, because if her father knew, he would be hopping mad. That’s the truth - I promised her.”

  “What else did you promise not to tell anyone?” Golightly demanded.

  “Nothing, really. She’d been to see this feller once, and she told me what the place was like.” Boldness crept back into the girl’s eyes and manner and confidence returned with it. “She said there were hundreds and hundreds of photographs around the walls, she wasn’t the only one to be photographed without any clothes. There was no
thing to be ashamed of, she said. Her figure was as good as anyone’s there.”

  “Did you ever see this Toni?”

  “No. I swear I didn’t.”

  “Did she ever talk about meeting other people with him?”

  “No, she wanted to keep him to herself.”

  “Why?”

  “He was ever so handsome, she told me,” Daphne said. Her expression changed again and her voice rose. “He was an Italian, or a Spaniard, or something like that.”

  Golightly felt that he had made quite a step forward.

  When he felt sure there was nothing else that the girl could tell him, he went straight from the supermarket to the street of small, terraced houses where Sally Dalby lived. Her father was a sign painter who worked in a shed in the back yard. Her mother was a grey, fluffy, vague individual, on whom nothing seemed to make an impression.

  “Oh, it’s another policeman . . . Come about Sally, I dare say . . . You haven’t found her, I suppose? . . . No, well, I expect she’ll turn up one day, like a bad penny . . . Yes, my hubby’s in, will you come through?”

  He followed her through the house to a shed which smelled of potatoes, paint, and varnish. The whole of one wall was of glass, and crowding the others were half-finished paintings in vivid and striking colours. A stack of gilt picture framing was piled in one corner beside a bench crammed with pots of paint and half-filled jars of brushes. On another bench were some inn signs and notices, all boldly and effectively done.

  Dalby was a short, stubby-haired man; a hedgehog of a man.

  “Where’s the detective who usually comes to see me?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “Following another angle,” Golightly told him smoothly. “Mr. Dalby, has your daughter ever talked to you about a man named Toni?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know she was interested in posing for a photographer?”

  “If I’d known, I’d have had the hide off her.”

  “I see,” said Golightly. Rollo had told him that talking to Dalby was like talking to a brick wall, and he began to understand what his colleague meant. “Have you had any message at all from or about her?”

  “If I had, I would have told you,” Dalby stated.

  Golightly looked at him steadily, nodded, and turned away. As he reached the door he heard a movement behind him, but he did not turn round until he was halfway to the back door of the little house.

  “Superintendent,” Dalby called.

  “Yes?”

  “Find her, for God’s sake find her,” Dalby pleaded in a desperate voice. “And tell her she can come back. Whatever she’s done. I won’t take it out of her. You must make her believe that.”

  Golightly thought, but is it true? and turned to face this man squarely, the question on the tip of his tongue. He did not say it, however; he needed no telling at all that at the moment Dalby’s whole being was in the words he had uttered, that he was flagellating himself because of a sense of guilt at having driven his daughter away.

  “We will do everything we can,” Golightly promised.

  As he drove off, he wondered what would happen in this strange household if he had to report that the girl had been murdered.

  About the time that Golightly drove away from the Dalby house, Rollo entered the laboratory at Southend Police Headquarters to talk to the pathologist, who had finished the autopsy on Rhodes. Eric Greenwood was walking up the gangway of a ship which had brought a special cargo of llama wool from South America. Entwhistle was making himself some strong coffee. Mrs. Davies was waiting for the verdict as two surgeons fought to save her husband’s life. The Dean of St. Ludd’s was entering the main gates of Lambeth Palace to report to the Bishop; while Elspeth Chaplin watched her grandfather’s pale face and pain-racked eyes, sharing his distress at the damage to the church he loved.

  While all these things took place, part of the surging, throbbing vitality of London’s life, while the police and the transport men and in fact all of London’s eight million human beings went about their business, Lemaitre stepped out of his car outside the last of the churches to be damaged. Along the road there was a branch post office, and letters were being left there for sorting before the next morning’s delivery.

  Among the letters being carried in a big sack was one posted by the man whose flat overlooked Westminster Cathedral. Oblivious of this, as the police must be of so many crimes in their incipient stage, Lemaitre went into the Roman Catholic Church of St. Augustine, Maida Vale. The routine work was finished and much tidying up had already been done. Eight or nine men were busy among the litter caused by the explosion, and one of them turned and limped toward Lemaitre. This was Father Devan, a priest well known because of his television appeals for charity. He was a round, chubby-faced man, with merry eyes; bald, rather portly, and distinctly rubicund. His voice was clear and beautifully modulated.

  “Hallo, sir. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Superintendent Lemaitre, from Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, I heard you would be coming, Superintendent. May I say how appreciative we are of the consideration of the police.”

  “We do what we can,” Lemaitre said. “Can you spare me ten minutes?”

  “Of course. My study will be the best place.” Father Devan led the way toward the side of the church. Passing the workers he went out to a house almost adjoining and took Lemaitre into a small room with a table, two chairs, a crucifix, some books, and on one side, some manuscript paper and a quill pen. Lemaitre noticed that there were illuminations on the manuscript pages. Seeing the way he glanced, Father Devan said, “I’ve a great love for illustrated manuscripts, and it’s always been my hope to transcribe the Bible in my own hand.” He motioned to a chair. “Please sit down.”

  Lemaitre could not resist picking up a sheet of the paper, scrutinizing the immaculate Old English lettering and the red, green, and gilt scroll at the top. “That’s really good,” he said with feeling. “If I weren’t a flatfoot I’d like to be an etcher. Like to see what I mean?” He took out his wallet, selected a slip of paper, and handed it across the desk, grinning broadly. Father Devan unfolded it, his eyes widening. “How about that!”

  “It’s a five-pound note,” the parish priest observed.

  “All my own work,” Lemaitre boasted. “Good job I was born on the right side of the law, isn’t it?” He waited for a few moments while the other pored over his forgery, then went on. “Did it for a joke.” He took it back, shedding hilarity, becoming at once deeply grave. “The truth is, padre, I’m worried stiff over these explosions. Never know what’ll go next - look bad if they blew up Poet’s Corner in the Abbey, or the Nelson catafalque in the crypt at St. Paul’s, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would be a disaster,” agreed Father Devan.

  “Be a disaster for me, too,” said Lemaitre. “This is one job I mustn’t fall down on.”

  “How can I help?” asked Devan.

  “What I’m looking for is a common denominator,” Lemaitre explained. “Anything in common among all the damaged churches in this part of London. I’ve got a list here - seven R.C. churches and twenty-three Anglican—”

  “As many as that!” exclaimed Devan.

  “Yes, for a start.” Lemaitre opened his briefcase and put a sheet of paper in front of the priest. “There’s the list, and I want to find out if you have anything in common with them. Apart from Christianity, I mean, and that’s not the point. Do you know of anything you have in common?”

  Devan ran his eye down the lists, then slowly shook his head. “I can think of nothing.”

  “Tell you what I want you to do,” said Lemaitre, as if confiding in a bosom friend. “Go through that list with a toothcomb and put down if you’ve ever visited them - whether you know the priest in charge, anything at all to show a connection. And then I’d like you to make out a list of all your associated groups, clubs, societies, mission stations - every possible bit of information you have. I’m going to get a list from every c
hurch and try to find that connection. Tell you one possibility.”

  “Oh. What is it?” inquired Devan.

  “Someone who hates the ecumenical idea. You or anyone at the church have anything special to do with that?”

  “Not as far as I know. There are, of course, my television appeals, but the causes are too widely divergent to be the reason of a specific animosity. However, I will certainly do what you ask to find out any association, any activity - such as service on charity committees and community efforts - which we might share with these other churches.”

  “And let me know when you’ve finished, I’ll get it collected,” Lemaitre said. He stood up, and the priest followed suit, rather awkwardly. “Hurt your leg?” asked Lemaitre commiserating.

  Devan smiled. “I left a piece of one behind in Normandy, on D day.”

  “Oh. Bloody bad luck,” said Lemaitre, and added hastily, “Sorry, padre. Forgot where I was.”

  He strode out, cheered up by the interview. Though he had gained little, there was something about Devan’s personality which appealed to him. As he settled into his car, he began to calculate how long it was likely to be before hearing from all the priests concerned.

  “A couple of weeks, and we need results in a couple of days. What the hell’s the use? If only those so-and-so parsons had let us know before.”

  That night, eight more churches were severely damaged.

  15: THE BISHOP’S PALACE

  On the other side of the River Thames from New Scotland Yard, between Westminster and Lambeth Bridges, lay Lambeth Palace, the Archbishop’s residence and the diocesan offices, where the business of much of the Church of England was carried out. Far less known than the Abbey, which lay between the two buildings, or the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Westminster, which was only a few hundred yards away, it nestled near the river bank, ancient and venerable as buildings go, under the shadow of the Houses of Parliament. Great decisions had been made in the palace during the Lambeth Conferences of all the Anglican Bishops throughout the world. Almost exactly a hundred years ago the first of the convocations had been held, with some dissidence and some heart-searching. During the intervening years a host of subjects had been discussed, many of them controversial, and many recommendations had been made to the Privy Council of the Church. In those early days the recommendations had been cautious and had seldom carried great weight Today, decisions of the Conferences were of key importance in Anglican affairs.