Authors: Morgan O'Neill
“They’re certain there’s only one killer?”
“Yes, based on the evidence. If you take into account Brandon disappeared just before the most recent spate of incidences occurred, there’s only one logical conclusion as to what happened to him. He was one of the first, if not the very first victim. The perpetrator may be a kind of Jack the Ripper. He appears to use a knife.”
“Appears?”
“Yes. I’ll explain in a moment. Unlike the Ripper, this bloke doesn’t deliberately court infamy, in that he doesn’t dissect the bodies or leave them lying about. He nabs his victims, kills them, and then disposes of the corpses by weighing them down and dumping them into the Thames. By happenstance, three have been discovered washed up on shore, one body, or what was left of it, found after the heavy storms of last winter, the other two found in the past month. All were badly decomposed, and it was difficult to determine the exact cause of death, although forensics recently discovered what appear to be knife wounds on the two most recent finds.”
“I remember reading about some bodies washing up, but I don’t recall the papers linking the corpses to a murder spree.”
“You’re correct. The details have been kept from the public pending further investigation.”
“So, you believe Brandon was murdered by this bloke?”
Clive shrugged. “Perhaps, but I can’t draw a definitive conclusion until the body is found.”
“Definitive would be nice and tidy, but you mentioned strange twists?”
“Yes, I did.” Clive glanced away, drummed his fingertips against the desk for a moment, then resumed eye contact. “First off, let me make this clear
—
I’ve never believed in the supernatural. I always thought it was stuff and nonsense. But now I’m not so sure.”
Arthur leaned forward. “First Lloyd, now you suggesting the supernatural. What the hell is going on?”
Clive nodded. “Quite so. Lloyd may be closer to the mark than we thought. You see, I came across reports of ghosts fading in and out of view in London, as witnessed by several credible persons, including two members of the Metropolitan Police. That case happened near St. Etheldreda’s, not too long after Brandon disappeared, and it did remind me of what Lloyd told you. The bobbies were off
duty and there for a service with their families, but it made me wonder what they bloody well saw.”
He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, withdrew a card, and handed it to Arthur, who quickly perused it, reading,
James Findley, Detective. Criminal Investigation Department. New Scotland Yard.
Clive continued, “Findley is with CID now. He said he would speak to you. He has a rather interesting theory as to what happened to Brandon. Give him a ring. He said he’d like to meet you at Ely Court, near the chapel, at the very spot where he saw…something. Coincidentally, he was involved in the Brandon case at the outset. I think a meeting with him would be well worth your time.”
…
Late afternoon was walk time. With her terrier in tow, Catherine made it back home before impending rain and nightfall ruined their outing. Duffy was not terribly fond of walking in the dark.
She was in the process of unlocking the front door when she heard the telephone ring in the foyer. She quickly got inside, unhooked the lead from the dog
’s collar, and
then grabbed the phone’s receiver.
“Hastings residence,” she said, hoping whoever was on the line hadn’t rung off.
“Catherine, good. You’re home,” Arthur said. “Would you be able to meet me tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, I know it’s a bit of a bother being so last minute,” he said, then added, “Give me a moment, will you? I need to take care of something. Please stay on the line.”
It was clear he’d put his hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece, because Catherine could hear the muffled sounds of conversation. While she waited, she speculated as to what his plans were for tonight. Despite his reassurances during their most recent phone conversation, her thoughts were mired in self-recrimination, and she felt the fool. The Palace had been an utter fiasco she would never live down.
Was this the end? Had he a change of heart? Was this why he wanted to meet her tonight?
How I ruined what should have been one of the happiest days in my life!
“Catherine, are you still there?”
She nodded, then realized her foolishness in doing this and found her voice, “Yes.”
“I’ve got some news I’d rather tell you in person. News from Scotland Yard.”
She took a deep breath. So, this was not a change of heart
—
it was obvious the news concerned Jonnie. Any relief she felt was instantly suspended, though, replaced by a stab of fear. Had they found his body?
“Are you there, love?”
“Yes, uh… Do you wish to come here, or shall I meet you in London?”
“Do you know St. Etheldreda’s?”
“Er, yes. It’s near The Bishop’s Crook.”
“Will you accompany me there?”
“No, I can’t go there, Arthur. Surely you understand—”
“Catherine, you misunderstand. Will you come with me to Ely Court and then to St. Etheldreda’s? I’ll meet you at Chancery Station at six tonight. If your parents wish to join us, please extend the invitation to them as well. I’ll buy supper.”
Supper?
Catherine considered this. She didn’t think Arthur would extend such an invitation had he discovered dire news about Jonnie.
She said, “Oh, no. You see, Dad closed his office a bit early today. He and Mummy have gone shopping, then they made plans to have supper with some friends.”
“Yes, well, come alone then. I hesitate to get our hopes up, but I’m meeting someone at Ely Court who might have information about Brandon’s disappearance. From what I’ve heard, he seems a credible source.”
So, her instincts were correct. Jonnie’s body hadn’t been found. But someone did have information.
“Catherine, it promises to be a good lead, though I think not an answer, as yet. I would very much like you there with me tonight.”
“Oh, my. All right,” she said nervously. “Thank you, Arthur.”
Her hand shook as she hung up the phone. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly 4:50. She scrambled to feed Duffy and write her parents a note as to her whereabouts. She grabbed her coat and handbag and then headed out the door.
The ride into London was uneventful, the train empty but for an older man buried in his newspaper and a young couple still in their teens. She watched as the couple began to touch and snuggle, then turned away in embarrassment when they started necking.
Her mind betrayed her, and she closed her eyes, her imagination gone wild as she recalled kissing Arthur.
She felt his mouth on hers, his kiss hungry with need. Their lips parted and their tongues touched, then she heard him moan—she felt tingles below and sat bolt upright. She glanced back at the couple. They were watching her. She looked beyond them to the man. He was staring at her, too, with a most disapproving look.
Oh God, why
…
?
Her eyes widened in horror. Had she moaned out loud?
Mortified, she felt heat blossom on her face. “I…I’ve a terrible backache,” she stammered. “I should walk.” She got up and hurried to the other end of the train car, then sat.
Pulling her hood down almost to the bridge of her nose, she hid from the unwanted scrutiny. She let her gaze go unfocused and tried to imagine Arthur waiting for her at the station. A smart dresser, he would look debonair in his coat and hat. They’d stroll together down the streets to Ely Place, through the alleyway, and toward The Crook. She forced her mind to move on to Ely Court and the chapel, and made a mental list of what she knew about St. Etheldreda’s.
It was a medieval church which had survived Henry VIII’s Reformation, the Great Fire of 1666, and the Blitz. A true relic. Few spots in London were as ancient. It was even older than The Crook—
Why does my mind always come back to that damnable place? Stop it, you hear? Think of something else!
Her life had changed forever because of what happened to Jonnie in there. She’d considered it a wonderful place before his disappearance, their special place. But now it held only dark, terrible imaginings for her.
Her thoughts veered back to the day Jonnie stood in the doorway of The Crook, just before he gifted her with Duffy. Major Jonathan Brandon was resplendent in his RAF uniform. Handsome beyond compare, his black hair gleamed in the sun. She saw his beautiful blue eyes staring at her with such love and devotion.
And…desire.
No! You mustn’t! He
’
s gone. It
’
s over. Arthur is your future!
But was he? What if Jonnie wasn’t dead? What would she do if—?
Noooo!
You can’t play these maddening games!
The train pulled into St. Paul’s Station, one stop from Arthur.
Arthur, I’m so sorry! I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you badly. You’d be better off without me.
She leapt to her feet and rushed off.
She went outside. It started to mist, and she pulled her hood close about her and walked on, with no idea of where she was going.
What have I done?
She was stricken with the realization Arthur was waiting for her, still waiting at Chancery Lane Station.
…
Arthur waited for a half hour at the train station before worry took hold. He went out into a light rain to find a telephone call box and rang Catherine’s house. No answer.
Her parents obviously weren’t home yet. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost half six. Where was Catherine? Concerned, he looked at his watch again and pondered the time
—
6:27. He’d set it up to meet the policeman at St. Etheldreda’s tonight, and he wanted Catherine there as well. The meeting was to begin at 7:00 sharp.
Arthur had no idea what to do. Night had fallen, and it had begun to rain hard.
Bucket down
, he thought, knowing he was going to get drenched. The streets were nearly empty of vehicles and foot traffic. London after dark on a stormy night was no place for a lone, pretty twenty-one-year-old.
Catherine, where are you?
He looked back at the station entrance. He couldn’t imagine what had delayed her and hoped to God she was all right. He’d just have to miss the appointment with Detective Finley and apologize later.
The only logical choice was to go inside and wait for Catherine.
But first, he would try calling her parents’ home one more time.
…
Everything was gray and gloomy. So, when Catherine spotted the bright red call box, she decided to ring up her mum and dad and let them know she would be coming home. This would work to reassure Arthur, too, should he call her parents to ask her whereabouts. But what excuse could she give for the change in plans?
A migraine. Yes. She’d plead a bad one. That would do the trick. Everyone would accept her need to return home. No one would question or blame her for not meeting Arthur.
God forgive me. I’m not only going crazy, I’m becoming quite the competent liar.
With a grim smile and a grimmer resolve, she entered the call box and dialed the operator.
“Number, please.”
Catherine gave her home phone number and then put a few pence in the slot.
Taking a deep breath, she readied her mind for the lie and vowed she would become a better person tomorrow.
…
Arthur got a busy signal, which meant someone was home at the Hastings residence. He hung up, waited a minute, and then tried again.
“Hello?” Lily answered.
“It’s Arthur—”
“Oh, my word! I’m glad you called. Catherine just rang us. She pleaded a headache and told us she’s coming home.”
Arthur frowned with concern. “Where is she, Lily? I’d be happy to meet her and see her safely to your doorstep.”
“She’s in London, but I didn’t think to ask where, since she said she would be home straightaway. I’m sorry for your inconvenience, Arthur. She did request, should you call us, that we pass a message to you.”
“Yes?”
“She said please go ahead and meet your gentleman friend at Ely Court. She also asked that you ring her up tomorrow. She has something important to tell you.”
He hesitated, sensing doom. What did Catherine want? Was all this talk of Jonnie making her rethink their budding relationship?
He swallowed and asked, “Important?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Lily calmly replied. “She hasn’t been feeling well, but she’s young and strong and much better now. If I may say so, you’ve been good for her. Both George and I believe this very strongly.”
By the way the conversation was going, Arthur guessed Lily knew nothing about what happened at The Palace.
He thanked her and said good
-bye, then hung up and left for Ely Court, wondering about Catherine’s plans for tomorrow.
He hadn’t the foggiest idea what he would do if she wanted to end what he sensed was theirs for the taking
—
a shared destiny of love and marriage.
Chapter Twenty
I’ll tell Arthur tomorrow. I’ll let him know I’m no good for him.
Catherine thought her mind was all made up about heading home when the wind started to blow, driving the rain sideways. She needed to get out of this storm in a hurry. Pulling her hood close about her face, she glanced around and saw the shimmering marquee of the Crown Cinema, which proclaimed: “Now playing!
Cary and the Bishop’s Wife
. With Cary Grant, David Niven, and Loretta Young.”
Also known as
The Bishop’s Wife
. The title was different than advertised in the newspapers, because she’d heard the film company was trying to drum up business with the prominent mention of its leading star. She wondered if the ploy was working, because word on the street deemed the film weepy.
Which is the last thing I need.
But given the storm, she had no real choice; she needed to find shelter. Minding her feet so she wouldn’t slip on the slick footpath, she bent into the gusts and headed for the Crown. She went to the ticket booth, plopped three pence on the counter, and reached for her ticket, suddenly aware of her shaky hand. In fact, her whole body had started to tremble, a clear combination of the damp chill and her powerful emotions.
“Enjoy the show,” the woman in the booth said with flat boredom.
“Th-thank you,” Catherine replied, her voice trembling as well.
The woman looked up, straight into Catherine’s eyes. “Enjoy, luv,” she gently repeated, clearly sensing her pain.
Enjoy?
Catherine wanted to scream
.
Instead, she forced a smile and entered the cinema lobby. She got a big whiff of buttered popcorn mingled with cottony candy floss, which made her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten since noon and realized if she didn’t purchase some food, she might get that migraine after all. She ordered a Coke and some popcorn and then turned and caught from the corner of her eye the figure of a tall, dark-haired man, standing on the other side of the lobby.
Lord, could it be
…
?
Heart racing, she tried to find out, but a couple stopped in front of her and blocked her view.
Oh, bother! Move!
She stepped aside and saw the “man” was actually a life-size, cardboard cutout of Cary Grant. How she felt the fool! Certainly, the actor had always reminded her of Jonnie; they possessed the same smile and
joie de vivre
, both men blessed with that rare combination of handsomeness and dry wit. But still, she felt herself spiraling down the drain. What was wrong with her?
She shook her head.
No matter where she turned, Jonnie was here, there, and everywhere.
What would a psychiatrist say about my obsession? Will it ever stop?
Catherine felt a dismal certainty it wouldn’t as she skulked into the cinema. She recalled what the woman in the ticket booth had said.
Enjoy.
How?
Truth be told, she doubted she would ever enjoy anything again, so dark were the depths of her memories.
I
’
m such an awful mess!
The cinema had but a few scattered patrons, and she walked to an empty section, removed her damp coat, and draped it over the back of a seat. She took the next one and sat, just as the lights dimmed and a Path
é
newsreel flickered onto the screen.
First up was a retrospective of the royal wedding, titled
Our Heiress Presumptive Is Wed!
Catherine sank into her chair and ate her popcorn in silence, watching Princess Elizabeth greet her future with grace and hope, Prince Philip at her side. His love for her was apparent, his smile touching and filled with devotion. Catherine recalled her own small part in the glorious day, when Arthur pulled her from danger and gave her that first wonderful kiss. Because of him, the gates of Buckingham Palace would always have a special place in her heart.
Always.
The film went on, winding through the wedding ceremony and the happy couple’s ride back to the palace in the glittering Glass Coach. When Elizabeth and Philip boarded the train for their honeymoon, Catherine wept with foreshadowed regret as to her own future. Heart breaking, she imagined herself as an old maid, sitting in the cinema and watching newsreels and Cary Grant films. There would be no one at her side. Just like now, she’d be all alone.
Catherine choked back a sob, lovesick and bereft, knowing what she must do, for Arthur’s sake.
How could she not, given her obsession with the past?
…
Blessedly, the pounding rain had stopped, but now a thick fog descended upon London. Arthur walked beneath a street lamp and glanced at his wristwatch. Just a bit past 7:10.
He was late for his appointment with James Findley, but logic dictated the man would have passed him on the street had he already given up and left Ely Court. Arthur hurried on and entered the alley at Ely Place.
Despite the fog, he could just make out the soft light coming through the ancient windows of The Bishop’s Crook. He looked at his watch again
—quarter past seven—
and walked on, passing the pub. Someone had started singing inside, and he heard laughter and cheers.
A pint would taste good
, he thought, but shrugged off his thirst. When he reached Ely Court, a man appeared in the gateway.
“Detective Findley?” Arthur asked. He extended his hand. “Arthur Howard. Sorry to be late.”
Findley shook with him. “Not a problem, old chap. Bloody awful storm. Shall we?” He indicated Ely Court with a tilt of his head.
Arthur followed him to the entrance of St. Etheldreda’s. The church was closed up for the night, the courtyard dark and empty. The only light came from beyond the gateway, making the fog take on an eerie glow.
Findley turned to face Arthur. “Clive filled me in on your interest in the investigation of Major Brandon. I have a theory as to what happened to him, and what Tom Lloyd saw in his pub.”
“Do tell,” Arthur said.
“I was part of the initial investigation of Brandon’s disappearance. Clive gave you the details. I have spoken to Lloyd on several occasions.”
“Quite so. I should like to discuss that with you in detail, perhaps at another time. My own interview with Lloyd was illuminating, to say the least,” Arthur went on. “He really seems to believe Brandon disappeared before his eyes. Yet it seems much more probable the authorities were correct
—
he imbibed too much that day and hallucinated.”
“I had the same thoughts
—
initially. Yet something happened to me on 3 February, 1946, something that made me reconsider the man’s story. I was here at St. Etheldreda’s with my wife and children. A fellow officer with the Yard, along with his entire family, attended as well. We came for the Blessing of the Throats.”
“The what?”
Findley smiled. “They have a service for people with sore throats and other throat ailments. It’s quite ancient, going back many centuries. Always takes place on the third of February. My friend, the other officer, brought his father, who was suffering with cancer of the throat. I’ve never believed in blessings and other such nonsense, or in the supernatural, for that matter, but we came along for moral support. The father died six months later.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Findlay nodded. “Yes, well, something strange happened to me that day, something that made me question my skepticism.” He pointed toward the gate. “Please follow me.”
He waved his hand in the air. “It was here we first heard the music. It sounded like someone was playing the lute. It seemed to emanate from the direction of the pub.”
A lute at The Crook?
That sounded a mite unusual. Arthur listened to the ambient sounds surrounding them. The distant blare of an automobile horn. Another chorus of cheers and laughter coming from inside The Crook. No lute, of course, but if someone had been playing music there, he would be able to hear it.
Findley went on. “I’ll admit when the lute first started I didn’t suspect anything unusual. Neither did anyone else in our party. To be honest, I didn’t even know what a lute sounded like. My wife recognized it.”
He moved through the gate, and Arthur followed. They stopped outside The Bishop’s Crook, where Findley pointed to a spot several paces beyond the door.
“The music was still playing when it happened. It was just the two of us who saw it, Officer Smith and me. The women and children had lagged behind with his dad and the wheelchair. It looked like an old newsreel or film, where everything moves a bit faster than real life, sort of like something in a Charlie Chaplin comedy.” He glanced back at Arthur. “A man and woman were dancing around a tree. They were in costume, as if they were performing Shakespeare at The Old Vic. They didn’t seem to notice us as we watched them. Smith and I could hear their laughter and a few words, including the man’s given name, for the woman called him Christopher. The entire episode took perhaps four or five seconds. And then, they vanished. Faded, actually, into thin air.”
Faded into thin air
. Arthur recalled Tom Lloyd said almost the same thing about Brandon. He pursed his lips and considered the alley, no vegetation in sight. “What about the tree?” he asked.
Findley snorted with satisfaction. “You don’t miss much, do you, old chap? Yes, the bloomin’ tree disappeared, too.” He looked straight into Arthur’s eyes. “After everything disappeared, I got chills and gooseflesh like I’ve never had before. Felt ice-cold. Smith told me he had the gooseflesh as well. Since then, I’ve learned it’s a common occurrence among those who claim to see such things.” He nodded to himself. “I’ve given this much thought. The incident reminds me of what happened in The Crook. I’ve put two and two together, and, to me, it seems quite possible Brandon was already dead when Lloyd saw him that day in the pub. Just like those two dancers, dead and gone.”
Arthur gaped at him. “Are you telling me you think Tom Lloyd saw Brandon’s ghost?”
Findley nodded. “In theory, yes.”
“Bloody hell.”
…
Catherine cried through
The Bishop’s Wife
. She didn’t know exactly why, because the critics were wrong; the film wasn’t the least bit weepy. It was, in fact, filled with lovely sentiment and brilliant bits of comedy. Yet she wept through it all, even the funny sequences where an angel visiting Earth
—
Cary Grant as Dudley
—
mischievously bedevils an Episcopal bishop named Henry, played by David Niven. The bishop asks God for guidance, having become obsessed with fund raising for a new cathedral, to the detriment of his family and parishioners. And God answers him by sending Dudley to the parish to help the bishop see the error of his ways.
Catherine’s eyes streamed tears as the bishop’s forlorn wife
—
Loretta Young as Julia
—
delighted in the attention given her by the debonair Dudley. She felt a true bond with Julia, who’d suffered in silence because of her absentminded and neglectful husband. Of course, Catherine realized her case involved a far more devastating loss
—
Jonnie’s vanishing
—
but then Arthur Howard had arrived on the scene, hadn’t he? Like a gift from God. And he’d taught her how to enjoy life again, giving her hope for the future.
The plot twisted and turned as the film moved toward its inevitable happy conclusion. Catherine’s tears suddenly dried up as she watched the scene where poor Henry, now filled with remorse over his negligence, meets with his friend, a kindly old professor. They have a mutually illuminating discussion about Dudley, both having discovered he is not a mortal man. When Henry reveals he thinks he’s lost Julia to the angel, the professor emphatically disagrees. Dudley’s not human, he responds. You are. You have the advantage. Fight for Julia, and she will be yours again.
Catherine sat back and stared into space, her mind awhirl at the implications. The bishop was a man of blood and bone. That was the key. He could give his wife what the angel could not
—
love of the spirit
and
the flesh, a real future.
Arthur is here. He’s alive. Jonnie is not. He’s gone.
She loved them both, but her destiny was clear, the only path to true happiness awaiting her in a flat not far away. First she would telephone her parents and let them know she wouldn’t be home that night. She’d make up some excuse… Staying with a girlfriend… Something innocuous.
She blushed as she considered the true nature of her plans.
Heart pounding with newfound expectation, she rose, grabbed her coat, and left the cinema, knowing exactly what she must do.
…
Arthur sipped rum and cream, which went quite well with his cigar. After such a long, emotionally draining evening, much of it spent out in the cold and damp, he nestled into his easy chair and enjoyed the warmth of his cozy flat. He took a last puff of his cigar, put it out, and carefully rested it in the ashtray. With a sigh of pleasure, he opened his new historical novel,
The Moneyman
by Thomas B. Costain. He’d bought it last week and finally had the time to start reading.
Knock, knock
.
He glanced at his wall clock. It was half past ten. Who could be at his door at this hour?
Rising from his chair, he cinched the belt on his robe and set off for the door. The knocking grew more insistent, a veritable pounding.