The Whispering Gallery

by Mark Sanderson

Whenever possible Johnny remained in the shade. At the end of Old Bailey he cut straight across Ludgate Hill and entered Pilgrim Street. It was downhill all the way: the ground only stopped sloping when it reached the Thames. In Broadway a middle-aged couple sprawled on the pavement passing a bottle of gut-rot between them. A pungent whiff of cheese – and other things – hung above them. Only homeless people wore overcoats in this weather.

  “Your good health, sir!” said the man, his tone of hail-fellow-well-met immediately putting Johnny on his guard. “Could you possibly spare sixpence so my dear wife and I might eat today?” The woman in question smiled to reveal an incomplete set of green teeth. Two pairs of yellow bloodshot eyes stared up at him.

  Without breaking his stride Johnny flicked the coin towards the couple. Christ! He would rather kill himself than be reduced to such a servile state. What kept them going? The fact that they were, in spite of everything, still together? It was impossible to imagine himself and Stella in such reduced circumstances – and yet everyone was at the mercy of the economy. Stella had her family, but Johnny was alone in the world – which was one of the reasons she meant so much to him. The more he thought about her recent behaviour the more insecure he felt. She was not given to caprice. There was always a reason for her actions. Why had she suddenly made herself scarce?

  “A thousand thank-yous, sir! God bless.” The beggar’s words rang hollow. The good Lord had not shown him much benevolence. Johnny kept on walking and soon turned left into Carter Lane.

  Wardrobe Place, where Graham Yapp had lived, was on the right, opposite a school for infants. Although all its high windows were wide open not a sound came from any of the classrooms.

  A covered passageway led into the deserted courtyard; another one straight ahead led out to Knightrider Street. The space in the middle was rectangular rather than square. Five Georgian terraced houses, only the top floors raked by the sun, faced five more across the narrow divide. The heavy air pressed down on Johnny’s head and shoulders. It was like entering a cockpit.

  According to Father Gillespie, the Church Commissioners owned all the property in the yard. Yapp had lodged at Number Five. Johnny grasped the knocker – inappropriately shaped like a turban – and rapped on the freshly painted door. God was obviously a good landlord.

  The knocks echoed off the surrounding blocks. Nothing happened. Johnny took out the mysterious key and tried it in the lock. It did not turn. However, before he could remove it, the door was opened with such force that Johnny was dragged forward. He almost fell over the step.

  “What the devil d’you think you’re playing at?” An old man in a collarless shirt, braces dangling, snarled at Johnny. His full head of snow-white hair was haywire. “You woke me up.”

  “Who are you?”

  “What’s it to you?” The geriatric bantam put his hands on his hips.

  “I’m John Steadman from the Daily News.” The door would have slammed shut if he hadn’t had his foot on the threshold. He winced in pain. “Father Gillespie sent me.”

  That wasn’t quite true – the priest had merely given him the address – but it had the desired effect. The door swung open again.

  “Should’ve said so right off.”

  “You didn’t exactly give me much chance.”

  A smirk replaced the snarl. “Haggie’s the name. I looked after Father Yapp, God rest his soul. Now what can I do for you?”

  “You can let me in, for starters.”

  The housekeeper stood back. Johnny entered a bare hallway. A smell of baking – Dundee cake? – filled the air. He could almost see his face in the green linoleum beneath his throbbing foot.

  A Victorian painting of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane hung on the wall. It was always hot in Palestine: why would anyone go around with all that hair? The mere thought of a beard was enough to make him feel itchy. Only a man with something to hide would cultivate so many whiskers.

  “Did Father Yapp live here alone?”

  “Not likely – he was only a subchanter. He shared the house with three others.”

  “Are they based at St Paul’s as well?”

  “No. One of them works in the Dean’s office, but the other two are attached to different churches in the City. I look after them all.”

  “Do you live in?”

  “No thank you very much. I still like to go home to the missus – even after forty-three years.”

  “Are residents allowed female guests?”

  “This ain’t a knocking shop!”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  The janitor gave a snort of derision. “What d’you think? Course not. Don’t mean they have to be celibate, though. We’re not bloody Romans here.”

  “When was the last time you saw Father Yapp?”

  “Saturday morning. I cook breakfast and dinner for the boys every day except Sunday. They have lunch wherever they happen to be.”

  “It must be very hard work.”

  “For them or for me?”

  “For you.” Johnny met Haggie’s eyes. “It must be exhausting if you need a siesta.”

  The old man was the first to look away. He shuffled his feet.

  “The heat gets to me, that’s all. It’s not every day. How about a cuppa?”

  Johnny followed him along the hall and down the steep stairs to a basement kitchen. The low ceiling didn’t bother him.

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Sixteen years.” The housekeeper filled the kettle and set it on what looked like a new gas stove. “It was my first job after leaving the army. Damn lucky to get it, I was. There’s always a demand for religion – especially in hard times – and men of the cloth don’t walk out on strike.”

  “It can’t pay much.”

  “Enough to keep the tallyman from the door. Like a slice?”

  Johnny, all too aware that he had skipped lunch, was eyeing the fruitcake on the dresser hungrily. “Please.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at the well-scrubbed table. “What sort of man was Mr Yapp?”

  “He had a heart of gold. Do anything for anybody, he would.” Haggie set a generous piece of cake before him proudly.

  “Thank you. Did he have many friends?”

  “Everybody liked Graham.”

  “Anybody in particular? I know he wasn’t married.”

  “Not that I know of. He didn’t discuss such matters with me. You’d have to ask the others. The Church was his life – I don’t know as he had much of a one outside it.”

  “What did he do at St Paul’s? I haven’t a clue what a subchanter does.”

  “Graham was an assistant to the precentor.”

  “I’m still in the dark.”

  “Go to church much, do you?”

  “Not at all.” Saturday had been the first time he’d set foot inside a house of God since he’d followed a possible informant into St Bartholomew-the-Great in December.

  “The precentor is responsible for the liturgy and all the music. He runs the choir as well.”

  “Important man, then.”

  “Very. Which is why he needs an assistant. I take it you’re a non-believer?”

  “I believe in some things, but the Holy Ghost isn’t one of them. The idea of an all-seeing, omniscient old man who sits on a golden throne in heaven surrounded by trumpet-tooting angels and fluffy clouds is ridiculous. If he existed he’d have to be a sadistic bastard to allow so many of his children to suffer such agony, misery and deprivation. It sounds highfalutin, but I suppose what I believe in is truth and justice – or the fight for them, at least – and . . .” A tone of defiance crept into his voice. “I do believe in love.”

  “God is love.” It was said sincerely. Johnny smiled.

  “I’ll stick with the more earthbound version, thanks. Religion is just a means of control, a con trick that promises jam tomorrow only if you put up with dry bread today.” He took a bite of the cake which, packed with raisins, was rich and moist. “Mmmm. Delicious. You certainly
know how to bake.”

  “The army teaches you a lot.” He got up, poured boiling water into an enormous brown teapot and returned to the table.

  “Does the name Frederick Callingham mean anything to you?”

  “Not offhand. Why?”

  “He’s the man who broke Mr Yapp’s neck. He was a doctor.”

  “I thought pill-pushers were supposed to save life, not take it.”

  “It could have been a freak accident. From what you’ve told me, no one appeared to bear a grudge against him. Perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “D’you recognise this?”

  The housekeeper studied the key. “I don’t think it’ll open anything here.” He took out a large key-ring from one of the dresser’s drawers. “We’ve only got one Chubb lock and that’s in the back-door. See . . .” He showed Johnny one of the keys on the ring. “They don’t match.”

  “Can we try it, all the same?”

  “If you must – but you’re wasting your time.” His knees cracked as he got to his feet. “Follow me.” He led Johnny down the dark passage to a door at the rear of the building. “Go on then, see if it fits.”

  It didn’t. Johnny was disappointed.

  “What’s on the other side?” Haggie, anticipating the question, had the correct key at the ready.

  “Nosy blighter, aren’t you?”

  “Have to be, in my job.”

  Johnny expected to see a postage stamp-sized yard containing nothing but a washing line. However, although a couple of table-cloths hung limply in the humid air, they were stretched across a common paved area, not more than eight feet wide, to which all the houses backing on to St Andrew’s Hill had access. The angry horn of a tug-boat drifted up from the Thames.

  “Is there any other way into here?”

  “A passage leads to the church round the corner.”

  Johnny, pushing the laundry on other lines aside, headed to where the housekeeper had pointed. A dog-legged path between high brick walls ran all the way to St Andrew’s. The plain, rectangular church, designed by Wren, had attracted some attention the previous year after one of its three bells from Avenbury – which had only been installed in 1933 – had tolled all by itself when a rector of the Wiltshire parish had died. Johnny didn’t believe in ghosts. He jumped as a single peal marked the half-hour.

  The housekeeper stood waiting impatiently for him. “The tea will be stewed now.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s half-past three. I’ve got to be off.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “When will the other residents be back?”

  “Not till this evening. Dinner’s at six.” He locked the door behind him and led Johnny up the stairs to the hall. Before the housekeeper reached the front door it opened. A sturdy young man, blond hair plastered to his forehead, sweat beading his upper lip, burst in.

  “Ah, Haggie. I . . .” He stopped when he saw Johnny. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You didn’t. I was just leaving.”

  “This is John Steadman. He’s a reporter from the News,” said Haggie.

  “How do you do. I’m George Fewtrell.” He wiped his palm on his cassock before shaking hands. “Excuse me, but I must get on.” He headed for the stairs.

  “I’m investigating the death of Father Yapp,” said Johnny. “What can you tell me about him?” The cleric turned to face him.

  “Nothing that you probably don’t already know. It’s a tragedy. Graham will be sorely missed.” He resumed the climb.

  “Well, if you think of anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem, I’ll be back again this evening.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Johnny doubted that very much. He thanked Haggie for the fruitcake. The dogsbody nodded a farewell and closed the door.

  Johnny looked up at the flat-fronted house. No one could be seen at the open windows but he was sure he was being watched.

  Why had the word reporter made the colour drain from Fewtrell’s face?

  Chapter Ten

  Three hours later Johnny returned to Wardrobe Place. A muffled din from the nearby printing works revealed that the early editions of the next day’s newspapers had already gone to press.

  PDQ had told him to hang fire on the story of the gruesome bouquet. A body of a young female, with or without a missing limb, had still not been reported. Johnny’s sole contribution to the evening edition was a paragraph identifying the man who had plunged to his death in St Paul’s on Saturday. Simkins, who had written a similar item in the Chronicle, would be pleased at his apparent failure to land a scoop.

  A thorough search of his desk failed to unearth any more postcards of obscure saints or anything else that might have been sent by the lunatic with beauty on the brain. However, beneath the mess of discarded type-scripts, cuttings and invitations – to press conferences, parties, tree-plantings, unveilings and openings – he did find a sub-layer of paper-clips, treasury tags, rubber bands, pencil-shavings, crumbs and fluff. He had emptied the drawers when he inherited Bill’s desk. It was astonishing, and a little disgusting, how much detritus had accumulated in three months. This was not the sort of muck-raking he enjoyed.

  The only connection he could see between Frederick Callingham and Graham Yapp was St Paul’s – and it was more than tenuous. So far Yapp was defined by his job: he was what he did. Johnny realised the same could be said of him: but there was more to him than crime-reporting, even if it did consume most of his life. As well as being a newspaperman he was an only child, a friend and lover – though he was trying not to think about Stella at the moment. Yapp had to have been more than just a shuffler of sheet music.

  Johnny grasped the brass turban and knocked on the door.

  The man in the broad-brimmed sunhat and dark glasses picked up a copy of the News on the way to the cinema. He never ventured far in daylight. The Globe was only a three-minute walk away from St John’s Square on the corner of Skinner Street opposite the public library.

  Before he entered the picture house, the man dodged into Northampton Buildings across the road and, sitting at the top of the coal-cellar steps – his back to any unlikely passers-by – hurriedly leafed through the paper. When he did not find what he was looking for he cursed and went through the rag again with more care. No, his gift had been ignored. He flung the newspaper down the steps.

  The Globe, formerly the People’s Picture Palace, was an archetypal fleapit which actually made him glad its tip-up seats, instead of being upholstered, were made of slatted wood. The barn-like auditorium was similarly devoid of embellishment. A female attendant in a tatty excuse for a uniform walked down the aisle spraying a concoction of water and scent that simply added to the soupy atmosphere.

  The manager, in a desperate – or ironic – bid to boost his dwindling box office returns, had selected Heat Wave as the main feature. The man had no desire to see Albert Burdon and Anna Lee warble their way through the dismal comedy. It was the audience, a dozen lost souls, that interested him. The flickering light cast the upturned faces in silver. One of them made his heartbeat quicken.

  Stella, still lying on her bed, sighed and turned over. She wiped her face with a damp flannel. The flimsy, floral-patterned curtains swayed in a soft breeze that brought with it a faint hint of river-stink. According to her oval Waterbury wristwatch – a present from Johnny – it was already after seven yet hardly any cooler.

  The roar of well-oiled conversation two floors below suggested they had a full house tonight. She was much better physically now – the stabbing pain had been replaced by a dull ache – but mentally she felt wretched. She seethed with self-recrimination. Her much-prized independence – not to say her life – had been in jeopardy.

  There was a tap on the door. Her mother, not waiting for a reply, came in.

  “You’ve got a visitor.” Stella sat up, swinging her bare legs over the edge of the bed. She was pa
nic-stricken.

  “Please tell me it’s not Johnny. He’s the last person I need to see.”

  “He should be the first, though, shouldn’t he?” Dolly’s anger had given way to bitter disappointment. “You said it was different this time. You said he was Mr Right.”

  “Well, I was wrong.” She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. She must look an utter fright. “Who is it?”

  “See for yourself. I’ve shown him into the parlour.” She turned on her heels and clomped wearily back to the bar.

  Stella spent ten minutes painting her face – Johnny called it gilding the lily – before putting on a pink-and-white candy-striped dress that showed off her slender figure. The frock belled out as she twirled in front of the mirror. It was all about appearances.

  As she glided down the stairs, finally deigning to welcome her gentleman caller, she found herself wishing that everything could be repaired so easily.

  Haggie, the sleeves of his collarless shirt rolled up, nodded towards one of the doors on the left. An aroma of braising steak and boiled cabbage made Johnny’s stomach rumble. A bacon sandwich and a slice of cake was not enough for a working man – but it was more than many people had in a day.

  “I’ll leave the introductions to you,” said the housekeeper. “Don’t worry, you’re expected. As soon as I’ve done the dishes, I’m off.” He skedaddled back to the scullery.

  Two men, both in clerical garb, were drinking coffee at a circular dining table. They exuded an air of post-prandial satisfaction. It was all right for some. They were housed by the Church of England, fed and watered by the Church of England and even clothed by the Church of England – albeit in frocks. Furthermore, instead of paying for all this they received salaries as well. No wonder the collection plate was always being passed round.

  The sinecurists did not get up when he entered.

  “Evening, gents. Sorry to disturb you. I’m John Steadman from the Daily News.”

  The priests – with their identical short back and sides, freshly shaven cheeks and shining eyes – might have been real siblings rather than mere Christian brothers. They were no older than he was, but their smug, half-mocking attitude made them seem prematurely middle-aged. They had got their feet under the table – literally – and had no intention of moving. Johnny felt like punching them. Would they hit back or turn the other cheek?