The Whispering Gallery

by Mark Sanderson

  Their footsteps on the dusty floorboards echoed off the empty walls where only the ghosts of paintings remained. Johnny started on the top floor – two small attic bedrooms intended for staff – and worked his way down the other four floors to the basement kitchen. The house was in an excellent state of decoration. Money clearly hadn’t been a problem for its owner.

  “Is the house going to be let or sold?”

  “Let, I believe.”

  “The bastard thinks he’s coming back then,” said Johnny. “He actually thinks he’s going to get away with it.”

  He picked up the telephone that was on the floor in the hall. It was still connected. As he replaced the receiver it rang. Both men jumped.

  “Good afternoon. The Bravard residence,” said Johnny, adopting the tone of a snooty butler.

  “So, you found me then. I knew you wouldn’t dis appoint me.” The voice on the other end, although just a whisper, made his blood run cold. He was talking to the man who wanted to kill him.

  “I’m afraid I must . . .” Johnny was by no means as good a mimic as Simkins but he did his best to reproduce his upper-class vowels. “Steadman’s lost all interest in you, said he had bigger fish to fry, so he’s passed your story on to me. I’m his good friend Henry Simkins of the Chronicle. I promise I can guarantee you more column inches. Lord knows why you chose the cocky little pleb in the first place.”

  Johnny imagined he could hear the cogs of the killer’s brain whirring as he took in the misinformation. He was pretty sure they had never spoken to each other before, so it was unlikely that his deception would be detected. Before he could say anything else the line went dead. Johnny, frowning with disappointment, hung up.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” said Woodling.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tuesday, 13th July, 8.40 a.m.

  Johnny was ten minutes late for work – the very first time in his career. It had taken him hours to get to sleep and when he did drop off the recurrent nightmare soon returned. This time though the figure at the foot of the bed was Bravard. A large carving knife glinted in the moonlight. “All changed, changed utterly,” the maniac whispered. “A terrible beauty is born.”

  Johnny had woken feeling hungover and unrested. He’d admonished himself for his apocalyptic dread. Yeats was writing about terrorism not torture.

  “I thought Bravard had got you,” said PDQ. “Seen what he looks like?” He held out a copy of the Chronicle. A handsome army officer – the very image of an English gentleman – stared out of the front page: the caption read THE FACE OF A KILLER. Simkins claimed to have unmasked the sender of the gruesome parcels. His article contained exactly the same information as the one Johnny had written on his return to the office the day before – but that was illustrated with a picture of Helena Nudd. “By the way, Stone wants to see you.”

  Johnny’s spirits sank – then immediately rose again. If the editor was going to take him off the story it could work in his favour. If Bravard were to see Blenkinsopp’s byline instead of his own it would corroborate what he’d told the lunatic yesterday and fill Simkins with false confidence.

  The telephone rang. It was Matt. “Get yourself over to St Paul’s right away. There’s been another jumper. It’s George Fewtrell.”

  PDQ assured him that he would tell the editor he was chasing a lead and would visit the seventh floor immediately upon his return. Johnny grabbed his jacket and notebook and hurried out into the sun. Why would Fewtrell have jumped?

  The cathedral was closed to visitors. A copper stood by one of the side-doors. “It doesn’t take long for flies to find a corpse.”

  “And it’s good to see you again, PC Watkiss.”

  “Your boyfriend’s inside.”

  “I presume you’re referring to Sergeant Turner. Does he know that’s what you call him?”

  “Doubt it – and you won’t tell him, if you know what’s good for you.”

  It was like stepping into another world. The vast stage-set of Portland stone cast a cool, soft light on the cluster of men standing round the curate. There was no doubt that the body had fallen from a great height. Fewtrell had landed on his face – but the back of his head was black with blood.

  Father Gillespie was talking to Matt. Johnny waited until they had finished their conversation.

  “Don’t say it.” Matt, as always, appeared more intimidating in uniform.

  “What?”

  “Two suicides in ten days. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Of course it isn’t. Are you sure he killed himself?”

  “Why?”

  “Look at the back of his head, for a start. How come it’s caved in if he fell on his face?”

  “Perhaps someone turned him over.”

  Johnny glanced at Gillespie. “He said he didn’t touch him,” said Matt. “I bet he didn’t tell you that Fewtrell was screwing Callingham’s son, Daniel. He was at the funeral. They both sang from the same song sheet – literally. They were in the choir here.”

  Matt gave a deep sigh. “Here we go again. Queers are nothing but trouble.”

  “You might as well blame the Church. Men in frocks in charge of pretty boys . . .”

  “Perhaps Fewtrell killed Callingham because the good doctor found out that he’d been fiddling with his son and was threatening to call the police. Fewtrell would have known this place like the back of his hand.”

  “He told me that Daniel seduced him.”

  “A likely story. We’ll need to talk to the boy as soon as possible.”

  “The last I heard, he was off to France.”

  “Very convenient.”

  “I’ll try and speak to his mother today.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Of course. Who found the body?”

  “Father Gillespie. That chap over there.”

  “Thanks. We’ve already met. Any news on Bravard?”

  “We’ve traced the removals company that cleared the house in St John’s Square. They’re under the impression that the owner is moving to Switzerland.”

  “Switzerland! How? It’s not easy getting citizenship there.”

  “Bravard Senior was a banker.”

  “Ah, money. The magic key to all doors.”

  “More to the point: Switzerland doesn’t have an extradition treaty with Great Britain. We won’t be able to touch him, if he’s already there.”

  “I very much doubt he’s left without saying a long goodbye to me. He must want to explain himself, to try and justify his murder spree and why I’m to be his final victim.”

  “We’ve alerted the ports and London Airport. Anyone resembling Bravard’s photograph will be stopped.”

  Fewtrell’s body was being loaded on to a stretcher. “Will the investigation into Callingham’s death be re-opened now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Matt. “The coroner will only reconsider the open verdict if new evidence turns up.”

  “Surely a dead body counts as evidence?”

  “Let’s see what the pathologist says. I’ll call if there’s any news.”

  “Thank you. By the way, you might want to ask Watkiss why he refers to me as your boyfriend.”

  Matt scowled and stormed off towards the exit. Johnny went over to the deacon. “A true tragedy. He was a fine tenor.”

  “Did you know he was Daniel Callingham’s lover?”

  “Certainly not. What on earth makes you think they were? Fewtrell would have been defrocked. Inappropriate friendships do sometimes crop up, but we endeavour to nip them in the bud. Boys of Daniel’s age often go through a period of confusion. Most of them turn out all right.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t notice anything untoward? You know, secret smiles across the nave. Whispers in dark corners . . .”

  “To the pure all things are pure. George was an excellent curate. His faith was very important to him.”

  “Fat lot of good it did him. When did you find his body?”

&n
bsp; “Just after eight this morning. He was stone cold. He must have jumped last night.”

  “How would he have got in here?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he hid somewhere before the sexton locked up. There’s no shortage of places. Only half the cathedral is open to the public. It has its own mysteries as well as celebrating the mystery of God.”

  “Why d’you think he jumped?”

  “I’ve no idea. Are you quite sure about him and Daniel?”

  “Fewtrell told me himself. It will all become clear once I – and the police – have spoken to Daniel.”

  “This news fills me with great sadness. I do hope it isn’t going to bring St Paul’s into disrepute. However, it may explain why George felt it necessary to end his life. If he was molesting Daniel, the thought of prison, of being separated from the boy, may have unhinged him.”

  “I can see the headline now,” said Johnny. “THE QUIRE OF QUEERS.”

  “The bishop will do his best to minimise the damage.”

  “God is truth – but only when it suits you? Would you have gone to the police if Fewtrell had confessed everything? Of course you wouldn’t. Mother Church looks after her sons.”

  “You’re a bitter man,” said Gillespie. The whites of his eyes were actually yellow. “You must be very unhappy.”

  “Don’t change the subject. I’m interested in the fact that you haven’t pointed out the coincidence.”

  “What – that both Callingham and George jumped from the Whispering Gallery?”

  “No. From the condition of the corpse Fewtrell could just as well have jumped from the Stone or Golden Galleries. It can’t be a coincidence that both Daniel’s father and lover chose to die in the same way – if they did choose suicide and weren’t murdered.”

  “The coroner said there was no evidence of foul play in the case of Frederick Callingham.”

  “Indeed. It will be interesting to hear what he says about Fewtrell.” Johnny pretended to check something in his notebook. “The coincidence I had in mind is the fact that two out of the four residents of Wardrobe Place are now dead.”

  “You have such a suspicious mind. What possible significance could that have?”

  “Your training teaches you to think the best of everyone. Mine the worst. Call it the triumph of experience over hope. I think something – something nasty – went on in that house. Perhaps it was where George and Daniel made the beast with two backs. Daniel was a child and he should have been safe there. I must be right – why else would I have been beaten half to death after chasing Fewtrell from the building?”

  “I really can’t help you there. You should thank the Lord for your survival. If there’s anything more I can do, don’t hesitate to telephone me. The sooner this ghastly mess is cleared up the better.”

  “I still haven’t found where the key you gave me fits, but I have a feeling that when I do everything will become clear.”

  Gillespie bowed with a smile. “God speed.”

  The red light went out and the green one started to glow. Johnny entered the lion’s den.

  “Steadman. Good to see you. Take a seat.”

  Johnny, to his surprise, felt butterflies flutter in his empty stomach. The editor’s minions weren’t usually in the room long enough to sit down. Stone seemed nervous too. A Pifco fan whirred uselessly on his enormous desk.

  “Look here, Steadman. Are you an invert?” Johnny leapt to his feet. “No, I am not!” He wasn’t going to discuss his sexual orientation with his boss.

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind if you are. There’s plenty of them in the Open-Air Tourist Society.” Stone’s fondness for naturist holidays was a standing joke. “I guess they appreciate the scenery. I’ve never been bothered with such paltry affairs – except, of course, when they concern matters of state. I heard that you touched Dimeo in the showers.”

  “I didn’t touch him, I punched him! He’s been screwing my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, glad to hear to it – if you know what I mean. This place is full of Chinese whispers. I hope you knocked him out.”

  “As a matter of fact, sir, I did.”

  “Excellent. I see, thanks to your sterling efforts, your would-be assassin has been identified. My wife, for some reason, is most concerned about your safety. She has asked me to invite you to stay with us until the man is caught.”

  “Thank you, sir. However, I need to be where he can find me if I’m to be the one who collars him.”

  “Simkins seems to have got the bit between his teeth.”

  “Only because I let him. I’m dangling him as bait.”

  “I didn’t hear that. Such a gambit would be most immoral.”

  “It’s just using a prat to catch a mackerel.”

  Stone winced. “I must say, I admire your ability to retain your sense of humour in such circumstances – even if it is a poor one. Sure you don’t need Blenkinsopp’s assistance?”

  “I’ve come this far by myself, sir. I’d like to see it through in the same way.”

  “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, all you have to do is say the word. Good luck.”

  As it happened, his luck seemed to be running out. He had just sat down at his desk when the telephone rang. It was one of the Hello Girls.

  “You weren’t answering so I took a message from a Mrs Callingham. She says her son’s gone missing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The telephone was answered after two rings. He had expected to hear the affected tones of a housemaid but it was Mrs Callingham who simply said: “Hello?”

  “It’s John Steadman. I’m sorry to have missed you.”

  “I’ve not been straight with you, Mr Steadman, in spite of your kindness, and I now fear I’m paying the consequences.”

  “You say Daniel’s missing. Whereabouts in France was he?”

  “He never went there. He refused to leave me by myself. However, I suspect he didn’t wish to be separated from George. He’s probably with him now.”

  “I’m sorry to say that he’s not, Mrs Callingham, and that’s a fact.”

  “Call me Cynthia. How can you be so certain?” Johnny hesitated. He should be in Barnes so he could see her face, gauge her reaction, ensure she wasn’t lying to him – and ensure that she didn’t become hysterical. However, it would be cruel to keep her hanging on.

  “I’m sorry to say that George Fewtrell was found dead in St Paul’s this morning.”

  “Did he jump too?” Her voice had hardened. Instead of surrendering to tears she had let iron enter her soul.

  “The police think so – but it’s too early to tell at this stage. My own opinion, for what it’s worth, is that he was murdered.” He took a deep breath. “Did you know that he and Daniel were very close?”

  “You mean perverts? Not until yesterday. When I confronted Daniel, he admitted that he loved George and refused to accept that they were doing anything wrong. Of course it’s all George’s fault. He must have led Daniel astray. The thought of him abusing my son turns my stomach. However, Daniel swore that if I informed the authorities I’d never see him again.”

  “Did your husband know about the relationship?”

  “I didn’t think so – but I’m not so sure now. Frederick was very concerned about Daniel’s adulation of the older boy. He couldn’t understand what Daniel saw in him.”

  “Did he ever talk to George about his friendship with Daniel?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “George told me that when he tried to end the affair, Daniel threatened to tell the police about him.”

  “I wish he had. So my son’s a blackmailer as well as a pervert.”

  “He’s a mixed-up boy who needs our help. I think someone found out about their friendship, guessed the true nature of it, and turned it against them. I think this person killed Fewtrell and . . .” The doctor’s wife gasped.

  “Is Daniel also in danger?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “I can’t l
ose him as well as Frederick. I can’t . . .”

  “Let me contact the police this very minute. I have a friend who’s a sergeant at Snow Hill. I know he will be very keen to speak to you, so stay where you are. I’ll call you straight back. Don’t worry, we’ll find Daniel soon enough.”

  He replaced the receiver. Before he could call Matt, Tanfield placed a yellow piece of paper in front of him. Perhaps luck had not deserted him after all. It only took five words to save the day:

  Daniel Callingham is in reception.

  Johnny, breathing a sigh of relief, in too much of a hurry to wait for a lift, hurtled down the stairs to the foyer. There was no sign of the boy.

  “Where’s the young man who was waiting to see me?”

  The doorman shrugged. Johnny ran over to the reception desk. “Well? Where is he? Daniel Callingham. He wanted to see me.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your voice down, sir. He left a few moments ago with another gentleman.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Early twenties, fresh-faced.” The old soldier paused for effect. “There was one more thing: he was wearing a dog-collar.”

  Johnny dashed out into Fleet Street. The rush hour was in full flow. All he could see was a mass of milling backs. What should he do? Call the cops now then follow his instinct, or race to Wardrobe Place straightaway? He felt sure that was where Daniel would be taken. The boy’s life was at stake. He ran to the telephone exchange at the back of the building. Ignoring the protests of Doreen Roos, he demanded to be put through to Snow Hill. Matt had just gone off duty. He didn’t trust anyone else at the station. His wish to see it through by himself had been granted.

  The plain bogeys had a different canteen to the officers. It was somewhere they could take the weight off their feet and get any grievances off their chest without the risk of being overheard by their superiors. Only a couple of tables were occupied, but even so the hum of conversation died down when Matt marched straight into it. Herbert Watkiss, a cigarette dangling from his lip, was sitting alone. Matt was amused to see that he was flicking through the Daily News, but didn’t show it.

  “Have you got anything to say to me?”