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.
