The Suffocating Sea dah-3

by Pauline Rowson

  He had felt the stares of Catherine's relatives boring into his back and heard their whispers, making him feel like a leper. 'What do you mean he hasn't got anybody? Everybody has someone.' Not him. Not then.

  Uckfield had been his best man. Horton wished now it had been Cantelli, who had proved himself far more of a best man than Uckfield.

  The small nativity set beside the Christmas tree reminded him of Emma. This year would be the first he wouldn't be at home. God, how he missed her! He recalled her sad little face staring out at him from her bedroom window when he'd turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep in October. It tore at his heart and the only solace he had was that he knew his daughter loved him. And this was the place to utter a silent prayer, though he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. For years his prayers had gone unanswered. Please God bring my mum back to me. He hadn't, so that was the end of God.

  Horton brought his mind back to the job, leaning over to read the cards on the flowers that were laid out on the steps up to the altar, beside the nativity scene. Someone had cared for the Reverend Gilmore.

  'We'll miss you. God Bless. Elsie and Douglas Winnacott.'

  'Thanks for always being there. May you Rest in Peace. Sharon Moore.'

  And there were several others in the same strain.

  He straightened up and stepped back, gazing around him. There was no sign of Mr Gutner. Perhaps he was in the gallery, which he could see running round the remaining three sides of the church. On his right, above him, was the organ and below this stone pillars. In the depths of the gloom he could make out the confessional box. This church must be High Anglican if the vicar heard confessions, he thought, crossing over to it. He found some steps to its left, which he swiftly climbed. Soon he was peering down on the nave. Still no Mr Gutner. Perhaps his wife had got it wrong and he hadn't come here.

  How big would the congregation be in a church like this? It had been built for hundreds probably, in the days when this area of Portsmouth had been a slum teaming with little houses full of poverty-stricken working-class people, many of whom would have worked in the dockyard. Now he reckoned the reverend would be hard pushed to get a handful of people here. Had Tom Brundall been one of them on Tuesday afternoon attending a special service? Why come here though? This parish church was a long way from the area where he had been raised and even further from the marina.

  Horton walked towards the far end of the gallery. Now he was above the door by which he had entered. From here he couldn't see anyone entering the church.

  The sound of footsteps caught his attention. He headed back to the stairs to see a man in his late seventies with white hair and a creased and crumpled leathery face rather like a walnut, settle himself at the organ. Mr Gutner, Horton presumed.

  'Struth, you gave me a fright,' the old man cried, clutching his heart.

  Horton apologized and decided to postpone asking questions about Brundall. He was curious to find out more about the Reverend Gilmore. Without introducing himself, he said, 'I was sorry to hear of the vicar's death.'

  'So were we all. We'll miss him.'

  'He was well liked?'

  'Never a bad word nor a cross one. He didn't ask for much and didn't get much. Not like the kids today. Grab, grab, grab.'

  'How long had you known him?'

  'Since he first came here in 1995.'

  Horton was surprised and shaken. He had assumed that Gilmore had been the vicar here for years. He cursed himself silently for not getting more information from Anne Schofield, and for letting his emotions overwhelm his curiosity. He should have asked more questions. And now that first article that Gilmore had put a ring round and had written his mother's name in the margin began to make more sense. Gilmore had seen it on his arrival in Portsmouth. So where was Gilmore from? And more puzzling was how would he have known his mother and Tom Brundall?

  The old man was saying, 'Reverend Gilmore did wonders for this place, and the community. Oh, you don't want to judge him or us by this gloomy old church; this wasn't what he was about.'

  Horton didn't think he had shown any visible distaste for the church. Perhaps this man was so used to people criticizing it that he automatically went on the defensive.

  'Reverend Gilmore knew what it was like to be poor. He had his fair share of tragedy too; lost his wife and daughter.' The old man's expression clouded over as he shook his head sadly.

  'How?' Anne Schofield hadn't said, but then maybe she didn't know. She had told him that she was a stranger to the area.

  The old man lowered his voice and looked warily about him, as if he was about to divulge a secret and was afraid that Gilmore, wherever he was now, would hear. 'His little girl was killed in a boating accident, on the Reverend's yacht. She was only eight. They were out sailing when she fell overboard. She was dead by the time the Reverend could reach her.'

  Horton suppressed a shudder. The church felt colder and darker than before. He tried not to imagine how he would feel if it happened to Emma whilst she was on his boat. Catherine would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself. He wondered if he would be able to continue living.

  'The Reverend's wife never got over it. She was dead within six months. Committed suicide.'

  Horton felt an icy chill run through him as he imagined the poor woman's grief.

  'The Reverend Gilmore had a nervous breakdown. Tried to kill himself too. He knew what despair was. He understood.' His eyes filled with tears. 'God helped him out of it, and that's when he decided to become a priest.'

  'So this all happened before he was ordained.'

  'Yes. After God saved him, the Reverend decided to give away all his wealth and enter the church. He went to some college up country to study and came out a priest.'

  'He was once a wealthy man then?'

  'Must have been to have a yacht.'

  Not necessarily, thought Horton, considering his own tiny yacht; that certainly wasn't any millionaire's pad. But the old man had given him a wealth of information, much of which he would be able to check, if he wanted to, though he didn't see why he should and where it would take him except to that connection with Brundall. If, of course, Mr Gutner had really seen him here; his eyesight might not be a hundred per cent.

  'Do you know where the Reverend Gilmore lived before he came here?' Horton asked.

  The old man eyed him keenly. 'You're a copper, aren't you?'

  'Does it show?' Horton smiled. He liked Gutner. Policemen can never ask questions casually, it seemed. This man was no fool.

  'Can smell them a mile away, even if they're wearing leathers. You undercover?'

  'No, just riding a Harley.'

  'Saw it outside, nice bike. Hope it's still there when you leave.'

  'So do I.' Horton returned the old man's smile. 'How come you know I'm a policeman, apart from the smell?'

  'Because no one asks that many questions about someone they don't know, in a church that's off the beaten track, in a hole like this. Oh, and my wife phoned me on my mobile to say a handsome young copper in leathers was looking for me.'

  Horton laughed. There didn't seem much that got past Kenneth Gutner.

  'Besides I knew that sooner or later one of you lot would wake up to the fact that the Reverend's death was no accident, or a natural one.'

  The laughter died in Horton's throat and the smile vanished in an instant. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind. He tried to tell himself that the old man must be exaggerating, or that he was upset and needed someone to blame, but deep inside him he knew that wasn't the case. Half afraid of where this might lead him, he said, 'What do you mean?'

  'I used to be an ambulance man and I've seen a lot of deaths in my time including stroke victims, and I'm telling you that weren't no stroke the Reverend Gilmore had.'

  Horton didn't like the sound of this. He eyed Gutner closely. Others might have dismissed the elderly man as being senile, but Horton wasn't that rash or stupid. His copper's antenna was radiating like it had just b
een struck by lightning.

  'What happened, Mr Gutner?'

  Gutner eyed him sharply for a couple of seconds, seemed to like what he saw and nodded. 'Reverend Gilmore had only just started to welcome the congregation to the Candlelight Christmas Service when I could see that he was having trouble getting the words out. His mouth was moving but the words sort of got stuck. And before you say that's what happens when you have a stroke, I know it does but not like this. A stroke victim doesn't have convulsions and Gilmore convulsed before he collapsed. I rushed down to help. I was playing the organ as usual that night. There was a crowd around him by the time I got to him. I pushed them aside. His breathing was all wrong. I shouted for someone to call the ambulance and spoke to Gilmore gentle like until they arrived. An hour later he was dead.' There were tears in the old man's eyes.

  Horton thought he could hear the church creaking and groaning as if in sympathy with Gutner's words. One part of him said, the old man is mad; it was a natural death. And yet Horton's instincts were screaming the opposite. Why had Gilmore written Horsea Marina on his blotter? Why had Brundall come here? And why had both men died on the same night?

  'What time was this?'

  'The service started at six o'clock with a procession of adults and kiddies holding candles as they walked to their seats. The candles were extinguished, the congregation sat and the Reverend began the service at about six thirty. He was taken to hospital just on seven o'clock. The verger stepped in after that and we carried on with our worship, but nobody's heart was in it.'

  The fire on Brundall's boat had started at seven thirty, forty-five minutes after Gilmore's collapse. If Gilmore's death was suspicious, and it was a big if, then it was certainly possible for the killer to have had time to get from here to Horsea Marina. Yet how could someone have killed the vicar in full view of the congregation without anyone seeing him?

  'I believe you saw a man called Tom Brundall talking to the Reverend-'

  'Yeah, and that's another thing, why did his boat catch fire the day he visited the vicar?'

  Gutner might be elderly, but there was no fooling him.

  Horton said, 'It could be a coincidence.'

  'Since when have the cops believed in coincidence?' Gutner scoffed.

  He was right. With admiration for the man's intellect, which hadn't diminished with age, Horton said, 'OK, tell me what happened.'

  Gutner settled back in his seat. He paused. Horton could tell it wasn't for effect but that he was marshalling his thoughts to give as accurate and concise an account as possible. He would have made a good copper.

  'St Agnes's is a great big barn of a church, as you can see. The lights were on; it was a grey, miserable Tuesday, with a heavy blanket of cloud closing in on you. Even with the lights on though there are places in this church that are still dim; it has a hundred nooks and crannies. I came up here to practise the organ and heard the door open and footsteps below-'

  'The time?'

  Gutner puffed out his cheeks and thought. 'About three thirty, give or take a minute. I thought it was the vicar at first but then realized it didn't sound like his tread. I looked in my mirror, here above the organ, and saw a man walk towards the nativity. It was that man whose picture was on the television, Brundall you said his name was. Then the vicar came out of the vestry. I didn't even know he was in the church. I came in that way, and didn't see him, there's a door that leads up from there to here. He saw this stranger and looked as if he'd seen a ghost.'

  'Was he pleased or afraid?' Horton asked sharply.

  'Afraid,' Gutner replied instantly. 'Vicar went white and staggered back. Brundall moved forward as though to help the vicar, but he waved him away. "I'm all right," the vicar said, then, "What are you doing here? We swore never to see one another again. I've made my peace with the Lord and tried to put right what we did wrong all those years ago."'

  Horton felt a thrill run down his spine. What had they done wrong? Did this have anything to do with Brundall's death? Horton wouldn't mind betting on it.

  'Go on,' he encouraged, not that he really needed to; Gutner was enjoying this despite mourning his vicar.

  'Brundall said, "I'm dying, cancer. I haven't got long. I want to confess and I want you to hear my confession." Vicar went even paler, he said something but I couldn't hear what it was because he spoke so softly. Then I heard Brundall say, "Did you know that Jennifer Horton's boy's a policeman, a detective inspector here in Portsmouth?" Hey, that's you, I bet it is.'

  Horton tensed. He felt the breath being sucked from his body. First Gilmore and now Brundall, and now they were both dead. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Desperately he tried to keep his face expressionless but his head was swimming with this information, and his heart was pounding as though he'd just run a marathon. He hoped he sounded neutral when he asked, 'What else did he say?'

  Gutner didn't seem to notice anything untoward with him. Easily, the old man continued. 'The vicar said, "Leave it, Tom. It's over, done with." Brundall replied, "Not until I make my confession. If you won't hear it, Rowley, then I will have to find another priest," and then they moved out of earshot and sight. Brundall followed the vicar into the vestry.'

  'Do you know if the vicar heard his confession?'

  'No. I waited for a while before starting to play the organ. I didn't want them to think I had been eavesdropping, but they didn't come out of the vestry. Not then anyway. I started playing and didn't see the vicar until the candlelight service on Wednesday night and then he died.'

  'Have you any idea what the Reverend Gilmore was referring to when he said he'd tried to put right the wrong?' Horton asked more in hope than anticipation.

  'No, but it can't have been much because the vicar didn't have a bad or wicked bone in his body. And now the other man is dead too and I know for definite his death wasn't natural no matter what some smart arse doctor says.'

  And Horton was inclined to agree with him. He wondered what the post-mortem on Reverend Gilmore had shown; there would have been one. If it had confirmed that the death was suspicious then he would have heard, so he assumed one hadn't been conducted yet.

  Had Brundall killed Gilmore? Was there time? The answer was yes. Just. After killing Gilmore, Brundall could have returned to his boat, where he was immediately accosted by his own killer who threw the match on to the gas-filled boat. But how had Brundall killed Gilmore in full view of a congregation? No, it didn't add up. Then a thought struck Horton. Brundall had visited Gilmore on Tuesday at three thirty and had then called Sherbourne at about four fifteen the same afternoon summoning him to Portsmouth. Had Brundall wanted to write down his confession to give to Sherbourne to read out on his death? Yes, that was possible. And someone hadn't wanted that confession heard, which meant there was a third person involved in this 'wrong' that Gilmore had spoken of and to which Brundall had wanted to confess before dying. And that third person had killed Sherbourne in Guernsey to prevent the truth from being exposed. Horton felt his heart racing with this new information. But where the blazes did his mother fit into all this? Horton certainly couldn't remember either Brundall or Gilmore.

  He thanked Gutner and made to leave when the old man said eagerly, 'Don't you want me to come to the station and make a statement?'

  'Later,' Horton said hastily, thinking that was the last thing he wanted. If Gutner made his statement then everyone would learn about Jennifer Horton and until Horton knew just how deeply his mother was involved in whatever had happened to Brundall and Gilmore, he wanted to keep it quiet. He could report Gutner's conversation without mentioning the bit about Jennifer Horton. He knew he shouldn't and that he was withholding vital evidence from Uckfield, but the way he saw it he had no choice. He needed more information before he was ready to expose his traumatic childhood for all and sundry at the station.

  'I'll send someone round later,' he said.

  Gutner seemed satisfied with this. Then he frowned. 'But you will look into the Reverend Gilmore's death, won't yo
u?'

  'I most certainly will,' Horton reassured him.

  'Good.' Gutner started to pump the organ. 'It's been nice meeting you.'

  And you, thought Horton, glad to escape the gloomy atmosphere of the church, and pleased to see that his Harley was still outside and in one piece. He climbed on. It was time to find out more about Reverend Gilmore and he'd start by visiting the diocesan offices.

  Eight

  'I was just going to lunch,' the deputy diocesan secretary grumbled, waving Horton into a seat opposite his modern desk complete with a state-of-the-art computer. Horton had been surprised to find the Diocesan offices had been relocated to a modern office building at the entrance to the continental ferry port. He'd always assumed they were near Portsmouth Cathedral and had lost precious time trying to locate them there before someone had directed him here.

  Horton didn't warm to the burly man in front of him in the dark suit and pink shirt. And he was wearing a cravat, a form of neck gear that Horton always viewed with suspicion. Yelford was in his early fifties with pockmarked skin and remarkably prominent ears. His light brown hair looked as though it was a toupee, but Horton guessed it was just the way he combed and plastered it down with lotion, which smelt of bluebells and vinegar.

  'Why do you want to know about the Reverend Rowland Gilmore?'

  Horton heard the defensiveness in Yelford's question. 'Just routine, sir,' he replied, drawing a sceptical look and a pursing of lips from Yelford. 'I understand the Reverend Gilmore was a very popular vicar.'

  Yelford looked alarmed. 'You've been talking to his parishioners?' He ran his fingers over his cravat as if to check it was still there. 'I hope you don't think there was anything suspicious about his death.'