The Body in the Bell Tower

It had been the summer I had unexpectedly acceded to Viscountcy of Goresby (on the Ouse.) My brother, Sinjun, had just succumbed to an overdose of shotgun pellets whilst porking Lady Agatha in the conservatory. It had all been very messy. I remember Lady Agatha being particularly put out by her husband’s timing.

“God! Couldn’t you have waited thirty seconds, Frederick?”

Her voice had echoed all through the East Wing in pursuit of the report from the Earl’s shotgun. Unfortunately, his reply, if there was one, is not a matter of public record. When she’d finally emerged she’d looked a frightful sight with her white silk ball-gown all splattered with Sinjun’s blood, and little bits of skull and brains stuck all over her. Actually there wasn’t much grey matter in old Sinjun’s head, so the Earl must have got lucky. So had Lady Agatha if the truth be known—the Earl was a rotten shot.

Anyway, I’d gone to the cathedral to arrange Big Bro’s funeral and I was looking for the Bish. Although to the laity Roderick was generally believed to be a good egg, I was about to learn that it had long been surmised in ecclesiastical circles that the bishop of Sleazeby must have been appointed to the diocese as a consequence of his having blackmailed the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury with compromising photographs depicting them in an act of mutual gross indecency. Of course, this was only a rumour but, ‘there’s no smoke without fire,’ as the saying goes.

I remember Canon Belshazzar telling me in confidence; “Roderick, Bishop of Sleazeby, is living proof of the Apostolic Succession, for the Bishop is clearly descended from Judas Iscariot.”

Honestly, the senior clergy were all cattier than the sphinx. As I approached the chapterhouse in the wake of the Canon I overheard the Dean let slip the opinion, that, when the Bishop eventually achieved his just deserts he’d be able to bend the Devil to his will with little more than an anonymous note formed from words cut from a newspaper.

As it turned out, the bishop must’ve already been cutting and pasting because when we eventually found him he was hanging from a bell rope in the tower.

It had been the unexpected tolling of ‘Big Bob’, the great bell that occupied pride of place in the belfry, which had alerted us to old Roderick’s fate. The bells were hideously noisy and local residents had petitioned the local council and the Noise Abatement Society to take action limiting the time and frequency of bell ringing practice. They’d managed to slap an injunction on the cathedral, which was strictly enforced. Consequently, any unscheduled bonging elicited an immediate response from those with the rights of high, middle and low justice in and around the building. So, at the first chime the Dean and Canon had taken off like startled rabbits, and I’d pootled along in their wake.

We stood in a loose group and looked up at the Bishop’s legs dangling like a pair of clappers within a bell of purple cassock. He seemed to be quite a long way up and it was going to be a hell of a job getting him down. The rope must have been looped around his neck and he’d either jumped or been pushed from the clerestory which ran around the interior of the tower some twenty feet above our heads. He was swaying gently from side to side.

“Phuqin’ Hell!” exclaimed the Dean, grumpily, “Can’t hush this up. We’ll have rozzers swarming all over the place with their great flat feet and their long noses poking into church business before you can say, ‘Nunc Dimitis!’”

“Well, Barnabus, you’ve just said it, yet I hear no sirens. Nor do I espy the swarming of policemen,” said Canon Belshazzar. “And we are unlikely to do so before the secular authorities have been notified. Regrettable though the consequences may be, I feel it is my duty to do so. Would you be so good as to remain here while I go and telephone them? Perhaps you might spare a prayer for the Bishop while you’re waiting.”

“Pompous twat,” muttered the Dean under his breath and he flashed a look of pure venom at the Canon’s departing back.

Emboldened by his refreshingly earthly demeanour at a time of high drama within the confines of this ancient and grandiose temple to the Almighty, I asked if there was anything I could do.

“Eh, what? Oh, I’d forgotten about you. No, not for the moment, but you’d better hang around. You’re a witness and the filth are gonna want to talk to you.”

“Oh, I say. How exciting,” I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. After all, I’d just realised that this was the second suspicious death I’d been involved in in less than a week, although someone dying from a shotgun blast as a result of shagging the Earl’s spouse might be considered natural causes. “Shouldn’t we cut him down, or something?”

“No. The cops don’t like it when you mess with evidence. Upsets the forensic team. Trust me, this ain’t the first murder I’ve seen.”

“Ah, yes, well it’s not mine either, come to think of it, but I bow to your experience.”

The Dean gave me a quizzical look. And then he laughed. “I was forgettin’” he said, “It’s an ill wind, eh?”

He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled packet of Woodbines. “Fag?” he asked, folding back the lid.

I’m not one to reject an offer of camaraderie so I gratefully accepted the proffered ciggy and gently teased it back into an approximation of straightness before putting it between my lips. The Dean did likewise and then lit them with a zippo. I couldn’t help noticing it was emblazoned with the motif of the local chapter of Hell’s Angels. I also observed that his nicotine stained fingers sported home-made tattoos spelling out the words GOD on one hand and JESUS on the other. We puffed in quiet companionship while the Bishop’s pendulumic oscillations slowly subsided.

“So, you don’t think it was suicide?” I asked after a while.

“Not Bloody likely,” replied the Dean, breathing out a cloud of smoke. Much more probable that someone did for the old bastard. Could be anyone, from the chairwoman of the women’s institute to MI5. Made a lot of people nervous, did the Bishop.”

“Oh dear…”

“Yeah. Oh dear is right. It’ll all come out in the wash—you’ll see. Once the press gets hold of it there’ll be hell to pay. Church’ll never recover from it.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” I said, “It got over the crusades all right, and Thomas Becket.”

“Well, there wasn’t no Rupert Murdoch in them days, was there, nor no tweeting internet, neither.”

He had a point.

“Why do you think MI5 would have knocked the old boy off? Anyway, surely they’d have been a bit subtler about it. Wouldn’t they have just fixed it so he died in a car crash or had a heart attack or something?”

“Maybe, but the best laid plans and all that…”

“Well if they did, you can guarantee they’ll slap a D notice on the story and micromanage the information flow.”

“Nah—It’ll be all over the tabloids within the hour. Belshazzar’s a terrible gossip and he’s probably tweeted it already! Loves to be the centre of attention does our Canon.”

The Dean must’ve been right about the loose lipped and busy fingered cleric, because at that moment we were distracted by the click of a camera shutter and the flicker of a flash. Looking round he saw that it was Harry Hopkins, the photographer from the Church Times.

“Oi!” Yelled the Dean and he took off in hot pursuit of the already rapidly retreating wannabe paparazzo. He had a remarkable turn of speed for an elderly clergyman and he quickly overhauled the intruder and felled him with a flying rugby tackle that Laurence Dellaglio would have been proud of. Mindful that the Bishop should not be left unattended, I watched from the doorway as the Dean smashed the camera on the flags of the South Transept and bloodied Hopkins’ nose with his meaty tattooed fist.

“Show some respect, yer bastard!” I heard him shout as he continued to punish the transgressor.

By this time the wail of police sirens was audible in the distance and perceptibly becoming louder as they rapidly approached the cathedral close. Hearing them, the Dean desisted from his remonstrations and, dragging the now unconscious photographer by his collar, he re-joined me in the doorway. As a damage control exercise, I reflected, success could only be measured from one point of view, but it could be argued that a certain rough justice had been achieved.

The Dean was just wiping his bloodied knuckles on Hopkins’ trench coat when there was a squealing of tyres from outside, followed by the clunking of doors and the sound of heavy-footed policemen tramping up the knave.

“’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello; What’s going on ‘ere then?” boomed the voice of secular authority, echoing from the hallowed walls. There, before us, stood the criminal's nemesis, Inspector Corner of the Yard.

To be continued…

It got me chuckling away, but there is a lot of vernacular for which our American cousins would be scratching their noggins.

I must admit that "pootled" still has me baffled.

And for Gods sake the "almighty" deserves a capital A

Take care. Look forward to more.

M.

'pootled' - perfectly acceptable method of perambulation.

Corner of the Yard - hehe.

Love the phrase 'cattier than the sphinx' - though speaking of deserts, maybe you meant 'just desserts'.

Awaiting episode 2 with bated breath.

H

MAN & hill, thank you both for reading and enjoying (and I've fixed the pudding typo, hill). Shouldn't have to wait too long for part two. It's on its way and if not posted this evening it will be by tomorrow morning.

Live and be well - H

This is an awesome story. It makes you want to keep reading, has a great hook, keeps the gas down and is wildly amusing. I really enjoyed reading.

In particular, I think the beginning is excellent writing, it's weird and funny, and sets the tone for the rest of the story. Sinjun's death was a great hook.

I like a lot of the details of the story as well; a man hanging from a bell tower to commit suicide is quite original IMO and the church times paparazzi character made me laugh out loud. Also love the god and jesus tattooed dean with hells angels connections. Great character.

The prose is excellent, and packed full of wit and sharp detail.

I have a few suggestions as well, take heed of them as you will.

Quote:

---

The rope must have been looped around his neck and he’d either jumped or been pushed from the clerestory which ran around the interior of the tower some twenty feet above our heads. He was swaying gently from side to side.

---

As soon as I read "-he'd either jumped or been pushed -" I knew he'd been pushed. I think it would work better if you didn't have that line, and just introduced the idea in the later conversation.

I had one other comment but on a second read I disagree with myself.

Anyway, great story I enjoyed.

The wordsmanship is superb in this piece, and also the humor. I moved from giggles to chortles to guffaws within minutes! What, please sir, is a rozzer?

Grit: Thanks for reading and enjoying my little tale. I'm delighted that you find it so gripping. As to whether the Bish Jumped or was pushed... well, it is possible that neither is actually the case :D You'll just have to wait and see.

Steven: Glad you like it: so far at least ;) As for a definition of rozzers: You will observe that the Canon's reply actually explains the term, though indirectly. I grant, that as a word for policemen it is a little dated, Jeremy Clarkson still uses it :D As for it's origins, I'm afraid they are probably lost in the mists of time, though a quick Google will probably turn up some speculative explanations.

Now, read on....

Live and be well - H

The Inspector’s watery blue eyes took in the scene as his gaze flowed over us like treacle. His cavalry moustache bristled alarmingly when he noticed the bruised and battered reporter lying in a crumpled heap at the Dean’s feet.

“Well, well, well,” he said, transferring his attention to the pugilistic clergyman, “If it isn’t ‘Hatchet’ Harry Slaughterman, the Terror of Torrington! You did five years in Parkhurst, if I remember rightly. Assault with a deadly weapon and sixteen counts of GBH, on account of chopping bits off people with an axe. Got religion in prison, took holy orders and given parole twenty-five years ago. Seem to have kept your nose clean since— at least, until now.” He poked the recumbent photographer with his toe. “Who’s this then?”

“Harry Hopkins, Church Times,” replied the Dean, sourly. “I remember you too, copper. How’d you escape the purge in the West Midlands Regional Crime Squad, eh?” For a minute I thought he was going to spit.

“By not being a scumbag, like you,” said the inspector, menacingly. As he spoke he leaned right into the Dean’s face and fixed him with a dead eyed stare. The Dean didn’t flinch and stared right back, eye to eye. The Inspector cracked first and nonchalantly swivelled his attention to me. “And Lord Peter! Two bodies in a week! You are keeping busy, aren’t you. You’re even associating with known criminals! How’s the Earl getting on in Broadmoor?”

“It’s Lord Goresby, actually. My first name is for my friends, and the Earl, as far as I know, is as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. As for associating with known criminals, don’t the police do it all the time? I just came to the cathedral to arrange a funeral.”

“Humph. Planned to bury the Bishop, I suppose.”

“Not really, no. He was supposed to be burying my brother.”

“Well, now you can put ‘em both in the same hole, can’t you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Inspector. The family vault doesn’t have room for stray bishops.”

Although during this exchange I’d kept my eyes in contact with the inspector’s, my peripheral vision encompassed the Dean, and I was sure that I’d seen him smile with grim approval at my handling of the situation. It gave me the warm feeling that the bond of camaraderie established by the shared smoke beneath the pendulant Roderick was being reinforced, moment by moment. However, the inspector, having failed to elicit a confession from the first two people he’d met, decided that he might as well examine the crime scene.

“Perkins,” he said to a supernumerary constable, “You’d better call an ambulance and keep an eye on Mr. Hopkins until it arrives.” He then addressed a plain-clothed lackey. “Frost—”

“Yes Guv?”

“Bring these two and come with me,” and without further ado he pushed past me and entered the tower. The Dean and I followed under the watchful eye of Frost, who brought up the rear. I took the opportunity to exchange a quiet word with the Dean.

“I thought Canon Belshazzar called you Barnabus.”

“Well, ‘Hatchet’ Harry ain’t really a suitable name for a priest, not even if you’re a biker chaplain. I changed it when I took Holy Orders. It’s quite kosher.”

“Fair enough,” I said. Personally, I thought ‘Hatchet’ Harry was quite a catchy name, but I could see why it wouldn’t go down well with the clergy, not if the Canon was anyone to go by.

“Ah-ha!” Corner exclaimed, interrupting our exchange, “Nasty… We’re going to have a hell of a time getting him down from there.”

We were all looking up. The Bishop had ceased to oscillate, but he was slowly revolving.

“We could call the fire brigade,” suggested Frost.

“Or you could take the stairs up to the clerestory and hook the rope with one of the window poles, then pull him over,” said the Dean.

“I’ll decide what to do about him, thank you very much, and that’ll be after the SOCO’s have had a look round. Any sign of them yet, Frost?”

“Should be about fifteen, Guv.”

“Oh well, I guess we’ll have to wait. Perkins!”

“Yes sir.”

“Get hold of your uniform buddies and tell ’em to put up some crime-scene tape, or something. Can’t have Joe Public wandering in and out. Tell the buggers to make themselves useful, there’s a good lad.”

“Will do, Sir.”

“Hello, what’s this then?” said Corner looking down at the tiles beneath his feet. He’d found our dog-ends.

“Oh, those are ours,” I said, indicating myself and the Dean. We had a quick smoke while we were waiting.”

“Did you, now? In the habit of smoking Woodbines in church, are you? Wouldn’t have put you down as Woodbine sort of guy.”

“I gave him one of mine,” interjected the Dean, “And this ain’t a church, it’s a cathedral.”

“And finding a dangly Bishop is enough to make anyone light up, if they’ve the habit,” I added.

“So you found him then?”

“Well, Canon Belshazzar, the Dean and I found him after we heard the bell. We were all outside the chapter house at the time and we came here to find out why the bell was ringing. The Canon went to telephone for the police and we remained here to keep an eye on things.”

“What about Hopkins?”

“Well, I can’t account for him until we were alerted to his presence when he took a photograph. The Dean restrained him.”

“Restrained?”

“Well, maybe subdued,” I conceded, salving my conscience with the balm of relative truth. Both the words I had chosen were entirely appropriate, even if they implied a slightly different scenario to the one I had witnessed. Anyway, Hopkins had got here faster than the police, and they’d not taken their time. The photographer had to be considered a suspect by my reckoning.

“That’s right, I ‘restrained’ and ‘subdued’ him,” said the Dean with a grin. “I was makin’ a citizen’s arrest of someone attemptin’ to flee the scene.”

“Given the state of him, you want me to believe that, do you?” said Corner with palpable disbelief.

“He resisted.”

“I thought the clergy were supposed to turn the other cheek.”

“What can I say? The flesh is willin’ but the spirit is weak, my son,” said the Dean, and he blessed the Inspector, making the sign of the cross with two fingers, although whenever I’d seen a priest blessing someone before they’d kept the fingers together and presented them the other way round.

By now the bluebottles were stringing up their crime-scene tape all around the tower and we were gradually becoming ensnared in a web of the stuff. The Inspector instructed Frost to keep us under guard while he bimbled off to interview the Canon. Shortly after his departure the ambulance turned up for Hopkins and the forensics team arrived. The latter quickly busied themselves carefully labelling our dog-ends and photographing them. Then they photographed the dangling Bishop from below and eventually found their way up to the clerestory to take pictures at a different angle. Something seemed to have attracted their attention up there because they were still sniffing around and photographing something on the floor when the Inspector returned.

As soon as he’d ducked under the tape and re-joined us in the bottom of the tower, an eager little man in a white paper suite scuttled up to him proudly waving a small polythene bag.

“What have you got there, Pierrepoint?”

“Evidence, Sir!”

“Well now, let’s have a look then,” said Corner, taking the bag and holding it up to the light. Slowly, he smiled an evil smile then turned triumphantly to the Dean, and, with immense satisfaction, said, “You’re nicked, sunshine! Cuff ’im, Frost!”

Before I’d realised what was happening, the Dean had been shackled and was being led away to a waiting paddy-waggon, screaming, “It’s a plant, you bent bastard!”

Then I was able to see what was in the bag. It was a collection of half a dozen Woodbine dog-ends and sundry ash. Well to me this was rather circumstantial as evidence, but to Corner of the Yard it was incontrovertible proof of the Dean’s guilt. After all, he was a known criminal with violent tendencies; the state of Hopkins was testament to the fact. I had absolutely no doubt that the butts would hold the clergyman’s DNA, but they could quite easily have been filched from his ashtray.

It was just too glib; too convenient. I didn’t believe the Dean to be guilty for a moment. Besides, I rather liked him. I confess that I didn’t actually think that the police had planted the evidence, but someone had, and it was probably someone who knew about the Dean’s unfortunate past. I decided, then and there, that I was going to make it my business to find them out.

To be continued…

Wonderful Hawk! Your characteristic humor is at its best although some words sent me back to dear old google. :D You know just where to end your episodes...now I can't wait for the next part.

Hi Ripley, So glad you're enjoying this little tale. I'll try not to make you wait too long for the next instalment. It's on its way but progress is a little slow due to other commitments. I've mapped out the plot though. :D Anyway, thanks for reading this far!

Live and be well - H

And an amateur sleuth is born!

Keep em' coming Hawk, I'm quite enjoying this story, I hope the Dean doesn't get strung up for it (tee hee bad pun).

Thanks Grit, glad you're enjoying it. Now read on... :D

I decided that the first thing I should do was to ensure that the Dean had adequate legal representation, and, if I got my cousin Bertie to do it, I could legitimately act as his assistant and be privy to all the details of the case. The police, having arrested their juicy suspect, seemed to have lost interest in me, so I sloped off to make a phone call.

I made my way back to the Bentley and got comfortable before dialling Bertie’s number on my mobile. After a couple of rings he answered.

“Robbem, Blind and Fleecem…”

“Bertie?”

“Yes, who’s that?”

“It’s Peter Flimsy. How are you fixed?”

“Peter! Nice to hear from you, old boy. How am I fixed? Well, fair to middling, as they say. Sorry to hear about Sinjun. By the way, does the coronet fit, and do you look as ridiculous in stockings and ermine as everyone else?

“As for the ermine; I haven’t tried it on and I don’t have the legs for stockings, although the coronet is just dandy, thanks. But I’m afraid the head beneath it lies a little uneasy. I seem to have got myself mixed up with a dangly bishop.”

“A what?”

“A dangly bishop. I’ve just found the current incumbent of the see of Sleazeby hanging from a bell rope in the cathedral.”

“Good God! You do seem to be collecting bodies… You’re not a suspect are you?”

“Not officially, at least not yet. They’ve arrested the Reverend Barnabus Slaughterman. He’s the Dean of the cathedral. I’d like you to represent him.”

“Oh, really; why?”

I told him.

“I see,” said Bertie. “I’m not sure that it’s a particularly good idea. What if the law comes after you? There’d be a conflict of interest if I were to represent you both and the Dean said anything which might incriminate you.”

“Well, to be honest I don’t see how he can. I only met him about 3 minutes before we found the body. I arrived at 10:30 am and was either in plain sight or in the company of Canon Belshazzar at all times. Besides, I have no motive.”

“Oh, all right then. But I’ll drop him like a hot rock if things look dodgy.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Right, I’ll find out where they’re holding him and arrange to meet you there when I know.”

“Good man, Bertie. I’ll see you later,” I said, then hung up.

So, with stage one of my great endeavour now in hand I was left with trying to figure out how to go about instigating stage two. I needed information but with policemen swarming all over the place like Orcs in Moria it wasn’t going to be easy to do any investigative poking around. I wanted to get a look at the clerestory, and I wanted to talk to the canon. I sat in the car listening to the inside of my own head, which, for some reason, kept playing Dido’s Lament on a continuous loop. That wouldn’t do at all.

I watched as a coroner’s van pulled up. Two grisly chaps got out who proceeded to extract a gurney from the rear and wheel it into the tower. So, they must’ve got old Roderick down. If they were busy in the bell tower, then maybe I could sneak in through the side entrance and see what I could see. I opened my briefcase and took out a clipboard with some papers on it. I was dressed reasonably smartly; after all, one doesn’t go to a cathedral to meet a bishop to arrange one’s brother’s funeral in a sweatshirt and jeans, and a man carrying a clipboard always looks official. Perhaps I could pass unnoticed in the crowd. I got out of the car and walked purposefully into the cathedral through the South entrance.

As I entered the nave I could see that all the activity was indeed around the tower. No one was paying any attention to the spot where the Dean had restrained and subdued Mr. Hopkins. There was a small amount of blood spatter on the flags and bits of camera where scattered around. I took out my iPhone and took some pictures, hoping that the flash wouldn’t attract undue attention. Then I found the camera’s memory card lying under a chair. I photographed it where it lay. It was cracked, but looked intact, and I hoped that I’d be able to recover what was on it. I picked it up by sliding a sheet of paper underneath, then folded it into a makeshift envelope and slipped it into my pocket.

As there was no way I was going to get near the tower, I decided that the car parks might be able to supply some useful information. There were only half a dozen cars in the visitor’s car park that had been there when I arrived, and entry to the parking space was controlled by an automated barrier which dispensed dated and time-stamped tickets. In order to get out again one needed it to open the exit gate. While the car was parked, it was mandatory to display the ticket on the dashboard. I photographed them all, making sure that I could read the ticket and had recorded the number plate of the associated vehicle.

There was also a staff car park, and I was delighted to discover that this one had an attendant. Brandishing my clipboard as officiously as possible I flashed my membership card for the Sleazeby Golf Club at the elderly gentleman in the peaked cap who occupied a little booth then engaged him in conversation.

“Inspector Flimsy, Regional Crime Squad. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Well, I can’t say as I’d mind, exactly, after all, it’s a long day and I don’t get to talk to folks much. I think it’s the peaked cap. Puts folk off, does a peaked cap, especially when youse in a black uniform. You only got to look at traffic wardens. Everyone hates traffic wardens. I mean, if youse wearing a black uniform and a peaked cap and exercises the authority vested in you by the state in a way what infringes a person’s freedom to park their car without let or hindrance, then youse not going to be the most popular bunny on the planet; know what I mean?”

I had to agree that I did. People like that tended to pick on Bentleys, but I needed to get the conversation back on track.

“Have you been on duty all morning?” I asked.

“Since 6 o’clock. Cathedral day starts early.”

“And would you know everyone who drives the cars parked here?”

“Arr, I wouldn’t say that. It’s not like they all invites me round to dinner, on account o’ me peaked cap.”

I could see that I was dealing with a literal mind. I rephrased the question. “Well, let me put it this way; would you recognise them?”

“Oh, I’d recognise them all right. Seen most of ’em before.”

“Most of them?”

“Arr, every now and then we gets someone new.”

“How often is that?”

“’bout every five year or so.”

“So can you put a name to everyone who’s parked here today?”

“Can’t say as I knows all their names,” replied the attendant with the kind of thoughtful gravitas of a philosopher who was unwilling to commit himself to a belief in either the existence or non-existence of god.

“How about their faces?” I tried.

“Probably,” replied the attendant, still hedging his bets.

I tried a different tack. “Have you got any security cameras in the car park?”

“Yeah, we’m got cameras.”

“Where are the pictures recorded?”

“Oh, I got ‘em here, in my little booth. All gets recorded onto the computer thing.”

“Where are the cameras?” I asked, because I hadn’t seen any.

“Well, there’s one up there,” said the attendant, pointing up at the top of the wall of the chancel, “and that gives an overview of the courtyard, and there’s one in the entry barrier what records everyone what comes in.”

“Is it the same for the visitor’s car park?”

“Yes, I got that in here too.”

I was relieved to hear it, because I didn’t think this man would make a very helpful witness.

“Good. I’m going to need a download of all the footage from this morning until 11am,” I said.

“Why’s that then?”

“Don’t you know there’s been a murder?” I asked incredulously.

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” came the reasonable reply.

“Well can you give me the footage?”

“Er, that might be a bit tricky.” There was a hint of nervous anxiety in his voice.

“Why?”

“I don’t know how to do it.”

“Don’t worry, I do,” I said. Fortunately I’d just installed a new security system in the castle, so I was pretty au fait with the technology.

I pushed past him and entered the booth. I brought up the relevant feeds and scrolled back to the appropriate time slot. “Any discs in here?” I asked.

“You could try the draws,” said the attendant, helpfully.

I pulled a few open and eventually found a couple of new discs. I fed one into the disc tray and started copying. Within five minutes I had what I wanted and had boxed and pocketed the evidence, which I’d review at my leisure.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” I said, as I walked outside. “What’s your name again?”

“I’m Mr. Blowjob,” said the attendant.

I tried to keep a straight face. “Well, Mr. Blowjob, don’t worry if another officer comes and asks you for the same thing. It’s just routine. Sometimes different departments duplicate requests where there’s an overlap. No need to mention me.”

“Fair enough,” he replied with bovine acceptance.

I gave him a nod and taking my leave, sauntered back to my car. So far so good I thought. What I needed now were a few minutes alone with Canon Belshazzar.

To be continued…

I found the Canon getting loaded in his office in the chapterhouse. His door was ajar so I snatched a peek at him through the crack. He was sitting slump-shouldered at his desk, with a glass in his hand and a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker standing un-stoppered on the blotter. He looked a bit depressed. My knock on the door made him jump.

As I walked in he looked frightened for a moment but visibly relaxed when his brain registered who I was. I could see the cogs turning behind his eyes, which remained guarded. He was working out how to play the scene; after all, he’d just been discovered getting quietly blotto by someone, who, to all intents and purposes, was both a complete stranger and a peer of the realm. It was a combination of circumstances which might be construed as embarrassing for someone in his position. Not unreasonably, he went for the ‘comrades in adversity’ ploy.

“Lord Goresby! A bad business, most shocking. I’m sure you could use a little fortification. Won’t you join me?”

“Thanks, I don’t mind if I do,” I said, shutting the door behind me.

He extracted a glass from a drawer and poured me a stiff one, indicating that I should pull up a pew. I accepted both gratefully.

“Cheers,” I said, and took a sip, watching as his hands fluttered nervously while he poured himself a refill. He raised his glass.

“Ditto,” he replied, then downed it in a single gulp.

I couldn’t help remembering how composed he’d been when we’d found Roderick. Something far more upsetting than discovering a dangly bishop must have pricked his bubble, and the only thing I could think of which might have done it was his interview with Corner of the Yard. Corner seemed to be remarkably well informed about the Dean, but then, I’d gathered from their exchange that they’d met before. Now I was wondering what he knew about the Canon.

“They’ve arrested the Dean,” I said, conversationally.

“Good Lord!”

The Canon looked both utterly surprised and incredibly relieved.

“It won’t stick, of course.”

The Canon’s air of relief evaporated like a petrol spill on a hot pavement. “It won’t?”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t think so. Rather circumstantial evidence, I think.”

“Evidence?”

“A handful of Woodbine cigarette ends discovered in the clerestory. I’d be very surprised if the Dean would be that stupid. Besides, all three of us were outside when the bell rang, so unless the time of death turns out to have been significantly earlier than when we found him, we’ve all got a cast iron alibi, haven’t we.”

“Yes. Quite. Of course.”

For some reason my statement hadn’t cheered him up. His glass tinkled as the mouth of the open bottle vibrated against it while he poured himself another stiff refill with a shaky hand.

“Still,” I continued, “I suppose they might be able to charge him with assault on Harry Hopkins.”

“The Church Times photographer? What was that little sh— I mean soul, doing there?”

“Good question. You haven’t been tweeting, have you?”

“Certainly not! My Twitter account is used exclusively for jumble sales and service times; well, that sort of thing anyway.” He gulped his drink.

His demeanour was such that I believed him. Perhaps the Dean had been a little uncharitable about the Canon’s habits. “He arrived before the police did,” I said.

“It is possible that he’d come to see the bishop. They seemed to have a lot of business together.” Somehow the Canon had managed to imbue his comments with a considerable inflection of distaste.

“Anyway,” I said, “The Dean ‘restrained’ and ‘subdued’ him while he was attempting to take snapshots of the Bishop’s unfortunate plight; gave him a bit of a pounding.”

“How unfortunate.” The remark was expressed with an element of barely suppressed satisfaction, and he who’d uttered it looked far happier than I’d seen him at any time since I’d walked in.

“You don’t like him?”

“He is a soul for whom Christ died,” came the evasive reply, accompanied by a penitential glance towards the heavens.

I took a sip of my scotch and then contemplated the liquid amber as I swirled what remained around the inside of my glass. “What did you make of our inspector?”

The Canon closed his eyes and gave a little shudder. “Something of a diamond in the rough, I feel.”

“Yes, I know what you mean; hard and unpolished.”

“Er, yes… Salt of the earth though.”

“More potassium nitrate than sodium chloride, I’d say.”

The cannon allowed himself an ironic chuckle. “You might be right about that.”

“Gave you a rough time, did he?”

“He was rather aggressive.”

“Yes, I noticed that. I think his basic technique is to accuse everyone he meets in the hope that they’ll crack. What sort of questions did he ask you?”

“Oh, the usual, I suppose. What time I arrived, what was I doing at such and such a time, who was with me etc. etc.”

“Any blank spots?” I enquired with casual ingenuity.

He gave me an appraising look through narrowed eyes. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing, your reverence, but there’s bound to be the odd few minutes nobody can vouch for. I don’t know about you but I’m not in the habit of going to the loo in company. You must’ve taken a pit stop sometime this morning.” I’d given him an out.

“I see what you mean. Well I may have been ‘indisposed’ for a few minutes around 9:45 ish,” he conceded, warily. “That would have been after I’d conducted the 8.am Eucharist. I had a meeting with the Bursar at 10 and after that I encountered you in the cloister.”

“You did indeed. I don’t suppose you’d know what the Dean would have been doing before we met him, would you?”

“He’d have been grooming the choirboys from 8 till 9:—”

“Eh?”

“Polishing their singing,” the Canon explained hurriedly, “He assists the organist. They are both talented musicians. Then he’d have taken the Bible class from 9 till 10.”

“So the choir wasn’t busy with the morning service then.”

“It’s not a choral observance. If you were to attend regularly, you’d know that.”

“Ah, sorry.”

Canon Belshazzar was now looking far more at ease. Of course, it might just have been the whisky. Nevertheless, I suspected that my inquisitiveness was becoming irritating. Whatever the reason, he was giving off an air which suggested that he’d prefer privacy; but I’d come to the cathedral to arrange a funeral for poor old Sinjun and I couldn’t really let the lack of an extant bishop deny him his funerary rites. Given the circumstances, it seemed politic to engage the Canon to do the honours, so before taking my leave I broached the subject with the old boy.

“Yes, of course, my lord. When did you have in mind?”

“I thought Thursday the 26th at 11 am would be a convenient time to get big bro tucked away with his ancestors. Would that be ok?”

“I’m sure we can fit him in.”

“That’s one thing off my mind anyway.”

We stood and shook hands. I thanked him for the drink and his time then he showed me, a little unsteadily, to the door and I took my leave. As the door closed behind me I reflected that it had been a very interesting conversation.

To be continued…

On returning to the car park I noted that there were considerably fewer police cars in evidence. The coroner’s van had also departed, presumably with the rapidly cooling Bishop Roderick inside, but the crime scene waggon was still there. Rather foolishly, someone had left it unattended with the back doors open. There was a uniformed constable outside the West entrance, but he was some distance away. If I wanted to get a closer look at that gallery I probably wouldn’t get a better opportunity than this, so, still brandishing my clipboard, I strode up to the back, waved at the constable, then helped myself to a white paper suit and some latex gloves. Thus attired I was able to infiltrate the crime scene unchallenged.

Access to the clerestory was via an unusually wide spiral staircase. My previous experience of spiral staircases had been that they were precariously narrow. The ones in the castle certainly were, but then again, they had been designed to be defensible. Whoever built this pile hadn’t envisaged that it would be attacked by anybody and consequently it was on a scale which reflected the size of the rest of the building. The gallery was also considerably more spacious than it had looked from the ground floor.

I made my way around the inside of the tower and was surprised to discover, tucked behind a pillar, one of those clever sack-truck things with two sets of three wheels, designed to facilitate the transportation of heavy loads up staircases. It was covered with a tarpaulin held in place with some slack bungee cords. It appeared to have been overlooked because it didn’t have a plastic number tag on it. I took a photo of it with my phone then carefully lifted a corner of the tarp. There were some purple threads caught on the metalwork and I photographed these as well. The remaining crime scene investigators, who were concentrated in the area where the cigarette ends had been discovered, looked as though they were getting ready to pack up. I was about to make their day.

I walked up behind one and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Inspector Corner asked me to confirm where you found the fag butts,” I said.

The scene of crime officer consulted his own clipboard. “Er, that’d be tag sixteen,” he said, pointing to a spot near a pillar.

“Great, that’s that then. You nearly done here?”

“Almost; we were just about to wash up.”

“Ooops,” I said with a grin.

“Ooops?”

“Yes, ooops,” I repeated and showed him the pictures on my phone.

“Bollocks! George…”

“Yup,” said George.

“Don’t pack up yet. Got a job for you.”

The two moved off to investigate the sack truck. While they were busy I had a closer look at the spot where the fag ends had been found. The first thing I’d noticed about them was that they’d all been stubbed out. If they’d been smoked up here then there should be some trace of where they’d been stubbed. There wasn’t. Besides, when I’d shared the smoke with the Dean he’d just chucked his butt on the floor and trodden on it. I’d just come to the conclusion that I’d found out what I needed to know when my eye lighted upon a long pole with a hook on the end. Then I wondered how they’d got the old Bish down.

“Hey,” I called to the crime scene types on the other side of the tower.

“Now what?” replied George, grumpily.

“How did you get him down?”

“We hooked the rope with a pole and pulled him in.”

“Where’d you get the pole?”

“It was lying by the outside wall, next to the stairs.”

“Did you process it?”

“Err…”

I decided it was time to make myself scarce and beat a hasty retreat down the staircase before it occurred to the officers to start asking me questions.

*****

I caught up with Cousin Bertie on the steps of the headquarters of the Sleazeby constabulary just as the town clock was striking three. He’d phoned to announce that he’d discovered where the errant cleric was being held and established himself as the Dean’s legal representative. Then he’d told me when and where to meet him.

“Hail fellow, well met, and all that,” he said, extending a paw with a rueful smile, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Good to see you too,” I said and took his hand. “Don’t think I’ve seen you since Aunt Agnes inadvertently shot Bill Davenport with her crossbow at the county show. How is he, by the way? Did he ever get the use of his right arm back?”

“Limited use, or so I understand. I believe he’s had to learn to masturbate with his left hand.”

“Serves him right, if you ask me. He shouldn’t have been shying coconuts at her when she had a weapon in her hand.”

“Well that’s as maybe, old boy, but you haven’t answered the pertinent question. Do you know what you’re doing?”

I thought about the phone call I’d made to my uncle Marmaduke just before leaving home.

“Absolutely.” I said, “Shall we go in?”

“Right; let’s get this over with,” he said, with a sigh and led the way inside.

I was really looking forward to encountering Inspector Corner again. I’d had time to review my ill-gotten evidential gains on the laptop and I had been delighted to discover that the memory card from Hopkins’ camera had been not only functional but also loaded with revealing images. The security camera footage was also going to be useful in my self-appointed quest to clear the Dean. I’d made copies of everything, and one set, together with the originals, were safely tucked into my laptop bag. All I needed now was a little expositional info from the Dean.

We made ourselves known to the desk sergeant and were shown into an interview room and told to wait while the prisoner was fetched up from the cells. When the Dean was eventually led into our presence by a uniformed constable, he was not looking his best. At some point, between being led away from the bell tower and being presented to us in the interview room, he had acquired a seriously swollen black eye and a conspicuously split lip, which, when he attempted a smile, revealed that he’d also contrived to mislay a tooth.

“Good God!” exclaimed Cousin Bertie, “What have you done to him?”

“Me, Sir? Nothing, Sir,” said the constable with disingenuous ease. “The Reverend gentleman fell down the steps to the custody suite. Very dangerous those steps, I’ve mentioned it to the Health and Safety officer several times. It’s in the accident book,” he added helpfully, then, apparently intending to remain inside the room, he stood at ease by the door.

“Constable,” said Bertie with withering contempt, “Anything which is said in this room while I’m in it is protected by legal professional privilege. Now get out.”

“Oh, right you are sir. Getting out now sir,” said the constable as he reluctantly opened the door and walked outside.

“Yeah, phuq off copper,” lisped the Dean through his bruised lips.

“And shut the bloody door,” I added.

There was a click as the door closed and then we had the room to ourselves.

“Probably won’t make a lot of difference,” said the Dean. “Room’s bound to be bugged.”

“Much good may it do them,” I said with a grin.

“I fully intend to report what I’ve seen here to the CPS,” said Bertie. “It’s utterly outrageous!”

“Nah, just a little old-fashioned policin’,” said the Dean, “But thanks for takin’ an interest. You should’ve seen old Corner’s face when I kicked ’im in the fork.”

Bertie blinked in astonishment.

“Let me introduce you to my cousin Bertie.” I said, “He’s a QC with Robbem, Blind and Fleecem, and between us, we’re going to get you out of this little mess.”

“You are? That’ll be nice,” said the Dean.

“Bertie, this is the reverend Barnabus Slaughterman, Dean of Sleazeby cathedral.”

“So I gathered,” said Bertie, drily.

“How, do.”

“Well, now the introductions are out of the way, what say we get down to business?" said Bertie. “I’ve established from the coroner’s report that time of death was actually between 9:30 and 10 am. His neck was broken. We might as well establish your whereabouts at this time.”

“I was teaching Bible class from 9 till 10.”

“Were you in company the whole time?”

“Yeah, except for my fag break.”

“Fag break in Bible class?”

“What can I say? I’m an addict. Anyway, the boys’re used to it; gives ’em a ten minute break.”

“What time was this?”

“About 9:45.”

“So no one can account for your movements from 9:45 to about 9:55?”

“Now I didn’t say that, did I?”

“So where did you go for your fag?” I asked.

“I was standin’ outside the classroom window. The kids could see me. It’s all very well givin’ ‘em a break but you has to keep your eye on ‘em or they gets up to mischief.”

“So, you dismissed the class at 10. What did you do then?” Bertie asked.

“I went for me tea and biscuit in the cathedral tea shop.”

“Anyone else in there?”

“Course there was.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Probably about 25 past.”

“What were you doing till I met you outside the chapterhouse?” I asked.

“Let’s see… I walked from the tea shop to the car park where I smoked another fag and then you turned up outside the chapterhouse.”

“Well there’s the odd couple of minutes gap,” I said, “But for the most part you seem to be pretty well covered. What on earth was Corner thinking of?”

“Well, he’s an idiot, but mostly it’s personal,” grinned the Dean, but not for long because it hurt too much.

“I’ll have the bugger for wrongful arrest and mistreating a prisoner!” declared Bertie with a considerable degree of relish.

“Good luck with that,” said the Dean, “The police federation is rather good at looking after its own.”

“Well, they may never have had to deal with my uncle Marmaduke before,” I said, switching on my laptop. “He’s a bigwig in the Home Office. But enough of that for the moment, I’d like you to take a look at this.”

I selected the video library from Hopkins’ memory card and opened a file. It showed some rather grainy low angle footage of a woman built like a Bulgarian shot-putter dragging a distinctly limp bishop up to the clerestory balustrade. Then, hooking a bell-rope with a pole, she proceeded to pull it in and loop it around his neck. The metadata on the file indicated it had been shot at 10:15 that morning.

“Bugger me!” exclaimed the Dean, “That’s Mrs Magwitch, the new cleaner!”

“How new?” asked Bertie.

“She’s been at the cathedral about two months,” replied the Dean. “Mrs Pettigrew’s been on maternity leave.”

“Well that explains the fag butts,” I said. Then I pulled up the footage from the courtyard security camera.

Scrolling forward to 10:05 I let it play. The screen showed the same woman pushing a multi-wheeled sack-truck with a load wrapped up in a tarpaulin and secured with what appeared to be bungee ropes. She’d appeared from the direction of the Bishop’s residence and proceeded right into the tower entrance.

“Hopkins must’ve been hanging around all morning. I expect he’d come to see the bishop, Canon Belshazzar told me they did a lot of business together.”

“Well if you’re gonna blackmail the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Prime Minister with compromising photographs, you need an obligin’ photographer to get the goods,” said the Dean. “Betcha it was MI5.”

Bertie and I exchanged a look, but I was beginning to suspect that the Dean might be right. It didn’t really matter though. We had more than enough evidence to get the Dean released. We were just about to summon the insolent constable who’d brought him up from the cells when the door burst open and Inspector Corner barged in. He looked rather angry.

“What’s all this then; withholding evidence are we?” he barked from behind his bristling hedgehog of a moustache.

“Well, we’re not,” I replied, “Although either through incompetence or design, I suspect you might be.” And so saying I produced the original card and discs which I’d acquired earlier. “By the way, I have copies. Please be so good as to sign the receipt.”

“And unless you had been illegally eavesdropping on my conversation with my client, no such idea should have even entered your head,” said Bertie. I demand his immediate release from custody and you can expect to be hearing from the Crown Prosecution Service in the very near future.”

The Inspector didn’t look particularly impressed with the threat. “Good luck with that,” he said, with a complacent grin.

“Inspector,” I said, “You’ve absolutely no idea who you’re dealing with and you’ve been thinking way outside your pay grade. I really wouldn’t recommend getting any stupid ideas. Before coming here I made a call to the Home Office and if you do anything silly you’ll find yourself seeing out your term of service as the resident security officer on the island of Gruinard. It’s in a remote part of Scotland,” I added, helpfully.

It was apparent from his expression that he wasn’t actually aware of what that meant. It didn’t really matter—he’d find out, eventually.

The Dean’s one good eye flicked between us during the exchange and he grinned as freely as his split lip would allow. By the time cousin Bertie and I had browbeaten the Inspector into an ignominious retreat, and, having secured his release, stood with satisfaction upon the steps of the police station in the late afternoon sunshine, the Dean’s eye was watering from the pain and his lip had started to bleed again. I offered him my handkerchief to staunch the flow.

He dabbed at his mouth, then shaking us both by the hand he said, “I really can’t thank you both enough. It was worth it just to witness that. You’ve made my day. Corner, Anthrax Island! It was beautiful.”

“Glad to be of service,” said Bertie. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah, will do.”

“Would you like a lift home?” I asked.

“Thanks, that’d be nice.”

“Well, I’ll leave you in Peter’s capable hands,” said Bertie, “Must get along, you know how it is…”

“I do indeed,” said the Dean. “Things to do, people to see.”

“Quite. Well take care and try to stay out of trouble,” and so saying he skipped off down the steps and climbed into his car.

I led the Dean to the Bentley and we climbed in and drove off, to the accompaniment of the chief constable’s prolific swearing. It appeared that I’d been parked in his space.

That evening I was relaxing with what I deemed to be a well-earned scotch when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Peter, my boy, you have been a busy little bee, haven’t you.”

“Uncle Marmaduke?”

“Yes, uncle Marmaduke. Did you mean it when you said you had copies of all those photos and things?”

“Of course, uncle.”

“Oh dear; I should have known. You were always a careful boy. What do you intend to do with them?”

“Nothing, uncle, unless of course something untoward should happen to me, then, of course, they’ll be all over the internet faster than you can say D notice.”

“Well, I do like to draw the line at liquidating members of the family… after all, there aren’t that many of us and we seem to be quite capable of killing each other off on our own.”

“Do you think uncle Fred will ever be let out of Broadmoor?”

“Probably not. Listen, my boy, how would you like a job?”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Well you could start by doing the kind of thing you’ve demonstrated such aptitude for today. We can always use bright lads at 5.”

“That sounds like fun. So was it your lot who were behind it all?”

“Sort of; things got a bit out of hand though. The cleaner was supposed to find Roderick’s sucker list and relieve him of the goods, then see to it that he died of natural causes. Unfortunately the tiresome fellow walked in just as our girl was emptying the safe. There was a scuffle and that led to a hastily improvised solution. Bad business. But you can’t have people blackmailing the PM. It’s just not on.”

“Quite.”

“So, are you in or out?”

“In, of course.”

“I always knew you were a bright lad. I’ll see you in Whitehall on Monday, 9 am sharp.”

There was a click and the line went dead. Well, what was I going to do? It was an offer I just couldn’t refuse.

Of course, over the following days it was announced in the press that Roderick, Bishop of Sleazeby, had died as a result of an unfortunate fall. The famous Inspector Corner, of Scotland Yard, retired from the Force and moved to a remote part of Scotland and dropped out of the public eye. Permanently. Sometimes I wondered if his bleached bones were lying on some crag somewhere, loosely held together by the remnants of a ragged trench-coat, but not very often.

Nobody knew, or seemed to care what had happened to a Church Times photographer called Harry Hopkins. It was as if he’d never been, and the cathedral got a new cleaner who served the clergy very well, until Mrs Pettigrew returned from maternity leave. The Dean healed up and had cosmetic work done on the missing tooth, so his smile was once again as cheerful as before. He could certainly afford it now he was some £100K richer, a result of a prosecution by cousin Bertie and a very generous award for damages.

The Canon kept his word and poor Sinjun was laid to rest in the family vault on the 26th, as arranged. I noticed that the Canon cheered up quite a lot in the wake of the affair. I never let on that I knew about his with the chairwoman of the local Women’s Institute. The evidence had been on Hopkins’ memory card. Least said, soonest mended, I thought.

The official files have been sealed, of course. They can’t be released until 2113, and if I’m lucky that will be shortly after I’m dead. Nobody lives for ever, but I’m going to have a damned good try.

Signed and sealed by my hand this 17th day of November 2017
Peter Flimsy,
13th Viscount Goresby
At Murderem Castle
Goresby on the Ouse.