shirt-sleeves and knotted handkerchiefs were everywhere. The sellers of wafers, cornets and Snofrutes were making a fortune.
He strolled beneath the wilting plane trees on Upper Street and, just as he knew he would, found himself going down St John Street to Smithfield.
The Cock was closed. His knocking went unanswered. If Stella had returned there would surely have been someone home. He had been looking forward to a surreptitious beer but had to make do with the drinking fountain across the way.
Johnny hated being at a loose end. Work, as Thomas Carlyle observed, was a great cure for boredom and misery. The “great black dome” of St Paul’s, seen bulging behind Newgate Prison in Great Expectations, beckoned.
Charles Dickens was, as far as Johnny was concerned, the greatest writer that had ever lived. He had read his complete works twice, fascinated by how much and how little his native city had changed. Only three of his characters had ventured into the cathedral: Master Humphrey; David Copperfield, when giving Peggotty a guided tour of the capital; and John Browdie who sets his watch by its clock in Nicholas Nickleby. However, the image that struck Johnny most deeply was that of Jo, the young street-sweeper in Bleak House, who stares in wonder at the cross on its summit as he gobbles his hard-earned food on Blackfriars Bridge.
He was glad to find there was no service currently in progress. Not a speck of blood besmirched the polished marble where the two men – one by desire, one by ill-luck – had gone to meet their maker. The Whispering Gallery was closed – so even if Stella had been with him he could not have proposed to her.
“We meet again.” Father Gillespie regarded him over a pair of half-moon glasses. “I saw your item in the News. The bit about the halo was most amusing.” Was he being sarcastic? The deacon sat down beside him. “Any developments?”
“I haven’t been back to the office since it appeared. I’ll find out tomorrow morning.” Johnny didn’t want everyone knowing he had nothing better to do on a Sunday.
“I prayed for them both,” said the priest. “Especially the man who jumped – he won’t be buried in hallowed ground. Mr Yapp, on the other hand, will be. The one consolation is that he probably didn’t know what – or rather who – hit him.”
“And they say God looks after his own.”
Gillespie frowned. “Such cynicism in one so young. What are you doing here, if you’re a non-believer?”
“Just revisiting the scene of the crime. I take it you deem suicide to be a criminal act?”
“Indeed. God has plans for us all. He believes in you even if you don’t believe in Him.”
“I’m glad someone does. I was going to ask my girlfriend to marry me yesterday, but she’s gone missing.”
“Ah. Many girls run after an ill-starred suitor pops the question.”
“Are you married?”
“No – but . . .” He held up a forefinger to silence him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He looked around for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. “Here you are –” He produced a key and a piece of paper from beneath his surplice. “These were found in the collection box last night. I telephoned the police, but they didn’t seem that interested.”
The key was a brass Chubb, the teeth of which, when turned upward, resembled the turrets of a castle. It was probably a door-key. The piece of paper was more interesting. It was old and creased, as if it had been carried in a wallet for years. There were four words written on it in a childish scrawl: I love you daddy.
Johnny was unexpectedly moved. Had he ever said those words to his father?
“This is not the sort of thing you’d throw away casually.”
“I agree.” The deacon nodded. “Which is why I kept it. You’d be amazed at what we find in the collection box: sweet wrappers, cigarette ends, prayers and curses . . .”
“How often is it emptied?”
“Every evening when the cathedral closes. We can’t be too careful nowadays. It’s been broken into twice recently. We live in desperate times.”
“Did they get away with much?”
“A couple of pounds. Donations have dwindled and yet the list of vital repairs gets longer each year. Secular needs, alas, have supplanted spiritual ones.”
“Whose responsibility is it to empty the box?”
“The sacristan’s. He brings the money to me and, having counted it, I lock it in a cash-box kept in my office.”
“So these items must have been put in the box yesterday. Why?”
“I was hoping you would find that out, since the police clearly consider the matter unworthy of their attention. Of course there may be no connection between the two items. However, I suspect they could have some bearing on what happened yesterday.”
Johnny was not convinced.
“If you’re about to kill yourself, surely you’d keep something of such sentimental value on your person. I love you daddy . . . The first thing to ascertain is whether or not the jumper was a father.”
“Well,” said Father Gillespie. “That should be easy, once you know his identity. I expect the key may prove more of a problem. I’ve heard of the key to the mystery, but not the mystery of the key!” He laughed at his own joke, then quickly composed himself. “I must prepare for evensong.”
“Thank you,” said Johnny. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“I’d appreciate it. I hope the lucky young lady says yes. God bless.”
He hated sunlight. He was a creature of the night, a lover of winter, a denizen of darkness where he could breathe and behave more freely. He was as old as the century, very rich – his dead father had been a banker and his late mother a cheese-parer – and, if viewed from the right, an extremely handsome man. However, those who caught the left side of his face would either stare, quickly avert their gaze or scream.
His townhouse in St John’s Square, Clerkenwell, was a shrine to modernism and, in particular, Art Deco. Chrome and glass sparkled throughout the spacious, sparely furnished rooms. Mirrors, however, were conspicuously absent.
An only child, he had long looked forward to disposing of his father’s art collection which consisted mainly of works by Lawrence Alma-Tadema. The pictures were too tawdry, too decadent; the women were too languorous, draped in too many clothes. He preferred nudes by Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele, and would spend many daylight hours studying the intricacies of the female form and its precious, perfect skin. At night he prowled the streets of the capital, relishing the liberty that the shadows granted him.
He had no need to work – and the thought of having to mix with colleagues terrified him – so he spent his lonely days reading and planning long trips abroad: Paris, Rome, Venice and, his favourite destination, Berlin. His money isolated him from the common herd and silenced the exclamations of flunkeys. His extensive range of hats and scarves, plus the use of cosmetics, enabled him to pass unnoticed for at least some of the time. Heat, though, made
