Читать книгу The Whispering Gallery - Mark Sanderson - Страница 14

Chapter Seven

“Pipped at the post once again, dear boy. Never mind. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Henry Simkins, sleek and cool in a linen suit, looked the new arrival up and down with amusement.

Johnny was aware how hot and dishevelled he must be. As he caught his breath he inspected the smart, well-to-do lady waiting beside his rival. In spite of the heat she was dressed all in black. Her red-rimmed eyes suggested she had been crying.

“Mrs Callingham. How d’you do? I’m John Steadman.” He touched his hat and held out his hand. Ignoring it, she turned to Simkins in confusion.

“Ha, ha, ha, Simkins! Don’t try and deceive this poor woman,” said Simkins. “She’s been through quite enough as it is.” His eyes shone with mischief as he watched Johnny’s already red face get redder.

“Mrs Callingham, this unscrupulous toff is in fact Henry Simkins from the Chronicle.”

Simkins laughed and shook his bare head. His chestnut curls gleamed in the sunlight. They were so long they almost touched his narrow shoulders.

“If you don’t admit who you are this minute I’ll knock the damn truth out of you.” Johnny clenched his fists. He turned to the widow they were fighting over. She must have been about forty years of age. Her almost oriental eyes exuded misery. “This man is an impostor. He wasn’t with your husband when he died. Has he shown you any identification?”

“Leave her alone, Simkins,” said Simkins. “You’re adding to her distress.” He put an arm round her shoulders and tried to shepherd her away. “I must say, Simkins, I find your joke in somewhat poor taste.”

Johnny showed the woman his press card. She studied his photograph.

“It certainly looks like you.” Simkins laughed.

“Where’s yours?”

“I have no need for such fripperies,” sighed Simkins. “Anyone can fake them. Shame on you, Simkins, for trying to dupe this grieving widow.”

Johnny remembered the slip of paper that Father Gillespie had passed on to him. It was worth a go. He retrieved it from the back of his notebook.

“If I wasn’t with your husband, how did I get this?” He thrust it towards her. Simkins read out the proclamation – I love you daddy – and tried to snatch it, but Johnny was too quick for him. “Oh no you don’t, you bastard.”

Mrs Callingham gasped at the coarse epithet.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. D’you recognise it?”

“Yes, yes I do.” Tears sprang into her eyes once more. “Freddie kept it in his wallet. Daniel gave it to him when he was four – he’s fifteen now.”

Simkins knew the game was up. Before either of them could shower him with recriminations – or worse – he made off towards London Wall.

“See you Friday evening, Steadman. You’ll have a ball, I promise!”

As if he could trust any promise Simkins made. Johnny assumed he must have been invited to the Cave of the Golden Calf as well.

“So you really are Mr Steadman?” She returned the lace handkerchief she was clutching to her handbag. They finally shook hands. “Why was that gentleman pretending to be you?”

“He was intending to hijack your story. Simkins has the morals of a snake. He must have inherited them from his father, who’s a Tory member of parliament.”

“And he chooses to write for the yellow press?” She blushed, realising what she had said. “Excuse me. I meant no offence.”

“None taken.” Johnny was used to being held in low esteem – at least in certain quarters.

“How did he know I wanted to see you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not the only one with connections at Snow Hill. Money loosens most tongues and he’s not averse to using his own to do it. After all, he’s not short of a bob or two.”

They were impeding the constant stream of foot traffic that flowed in and out of the police station.

“We can’t talk properly here. Fancy a cup of tea?”

They walked down to Moorfields and found a café opposite Moorgate Street station. The sound of slamming doors and whistles reached their table through the open windows. Once the harassed waitress had taken their order – Johnny, having skipped breakfast, was starving – Mrs Callingham launched into what was clearly a pre-prepared speech.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr Steadman, for being there on Saturday. I know you tried your best to help Freddie. If it weren’t for you I’d probably still be tearing my hair out at home.” Her immaculate coiffure gave no sign of being disturbed.

“Call me Johnny.” He waited for her to reveal her own Christian name. She remained silent. He produced his notebook. “Cynthia is your first name, isn’t it?”

“Is it relevant?”

“I can’t keep referring to you as Mrs Callingham in the interview.”

“There isn’t going to be an interview. I merely wanted to express my deep gratitude and find out if Freddie had said anything apart from ‘I’m sorry’.”

“No, he didn’t. Any idea what he was apologising for?”

“I presume it was for injuring the other man. I do hope he didn’t know that he’d gone and killed him.”

“Why don’t you want me to write anything further?”

“I’ve got Daniel to think of. He’s just lost his father. The last thing he needs is a pack of newshounds chasing after him. We require privacy now, not publicity.” A minute ago she’d been grateful for the attention he had created.

“How is your son?”

She looked at him as if it were a stupid question.

“Awfully upset. What did you expect? Daniel’s a very private child, though. He doesn’t talk about his feelings. It’s even an effort to get him to tell me what’s going on at school.”

“Which school is that?”

“St Paul’s.”

Johnny’s antennae quivered. “Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Not really. The school is in Hammersmith.”

“It used to be next-door to the cathedral.”

“That was years ago.”

“OK. Have you any idea why your husband was in St Paul’s?”

“None at all.” She waited until the waitress had uncere moniously deposited two cups of tea and a bacon sandwich in front of them. Johnny tucked in straightaway. It gave him time to think. He swallowed the mouthful he was chewing and went on the attack.

“Why did he kill himself?”

“He didn’t!” Her eyes welled up. “He wouldn’t! He’d never do such a thing. He was a religious man. He was a devoted father. Freddie was not the type to deliberately leave us in the lurch.”

“You haven’t found a note then?” He couldn’t see a doctor, no matter how desperate, scribbling Dearest dear . . .

“No.” She pressed her thin lips together firmly. Suicide was a crime – just attempting it could land you in prison. Was she so anxious to avoid the social stigma that she preferred to think her husband may have been murdered?

“So you’re suggesting he was pushed?”

It was theoretically possible. Although he hadn’t seen anyone do it, someone could have hidden at the top of the stairs and shot out at an opportune moment to shove Callingham in the back. Surely though – with all those necks craned upwards to admire the dome – someone would have spotted them?

“Not at all. Most likely it was a terrible accident. He must have tripped and fallen over the railings.” That was a precise choice of word. Most people would have said “banister” or “balustrade”.Had she been there at the time? Perhaps she had already visited the crime scene.

“Then why was there nothing – and I mean absolutely nothing – in his pockets?”

“There was this –” She held up her infant son’s loving message. Johnny, concluding that he no longer had any use for it, had let the widow keep the childhood relic.

“It was found in the collection box. Why would he voluntarily give away such a cherished memento, unless he knew he was going to die?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps someone else put it there.”

“Who? Did anyone hold a grudge against your husband?”

“He was a doctor. Doctors don’t have enemies.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Any of his patients die recently? The bereaved, in their grief, are prone to suspect foul play or gross incompetence.”

“My husband was a very good doctor and a very popular man. I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on his character.” She made as if to get up from the table.

“Please wait, Mrs Callingham. I’m sorry. Writing about crime day in and day out tends to make you think the worst of people. You and I are on the same side. We both want to know exactly what happened on Saturday, but we never will unless we continue to talk.” He fished for the key that Gillespie had given him. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Somewhat mollified, she held out her hand for the key. She examined it with interest.

“No, I haven’t. It wouldn’t fit any of the locks in our house. Where did you find it?”

“It was in the same collection box.”

She looked up. “That’s as maybe, but I can assure you it did not belong to Freddie.”

“Perhaps your son might recognise it.”

“Why would he?” She sighed. “If you wish, I’ll ask him this evening.”

“I’d prefer to ask him myself.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Why? It would be in your presence.”

“I don’t want you coming anywhere near our home.”

Johnny chose not to be insulted. “Where do you live?” Seeing her hesitate, he added: “I can easily find out. Your husband will be listed in the Medical Register.”

“Number 21 Ranelagh Avenue, SW6.”

Johnny knew his GPO codes. The Callinghams lived in Barnes.

“Was your husband’s practice there?”

“Indeed. Two rooms and a lavatory on the ground floor. The separate entrance made it ideal.”

“Will you stay, or are you planning to move?”

“It’s far too early to say. Daniel’s unsettled enough as it is.”

“Did your husband have life assurance?”

“Is impertinence another concomitant of the job?” The narrow eyes glared at him. “You think I pushed Freddie over the edge?”

“You wouldn’t be the first wife who valued money more than their spouse’s life – but no, I don’t suspect you of murder. Are you the sole beneficiary?”

“Daniel will receive his share when he’s twenty-one – not that it’s any business of yours.”

Johnny tried again. “I really would like to meet him.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid. Term ends this week, then he’s off to France for a fortnight on a cultural exchange organised by the school.”

“He still wants to go?”

“Why wouldn’t he? It will do him good.”

“Do you have any other children?”

“No.” She turned away from him and stared out of the window. A coal wagon rattled past. No matter how high the temperature people still needed hot water. He waited for her to say what was on her mind. “We did have a daughter, but she died sixteen years ago. Scarlet fever. Freddie did everything he could but the infection just kept on spreading.”

“I’m sorry.” His sister’s premature death would have made Daniel, their only son, even more precious. No wonder his mother was so protective of him. “Was your husband particularly religious before your daughter died?”

“He didn’t turn to God afterwards, if that’s what you mean. We’ve always gone to church once a week.”

“Which one?”

“St Mary’s in Church Street. It’s only a short walk away.”

“I’m still puzzled why a religious man would choose to kill himself in a house of God.”

“I told you: he didn’t!”

“Just humour me for a moment. What were his views on suicide?”

“Freddie was a man of science rather than superstition. He saw a lot of suffering in his work and did his best to relieve it. He said there was nothing noble about suffering. It was quite meaningless. He disapproved of those who seemed to take pleasure in wallowing in Christ’s agony on the cross. He found it sadistic and distasteful.” Johnny couldn’t have agreed more. “He was a good man and he did his best to help others. He valued life too much to take his own: suicide went against everything he stood for.”

“Who did he see when he needed a doctor himself?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Perhaps he had discovered that he was terminally ill and wanted to spare you the pain of watching him die inch by inch. Believe me, there’s nothing worse. It is agonising for both parties. My mother succumbed to bone cancer – eventually . . .” A lump came into his throat. Lack of sleep was making him emotional. The older he became the more his memory ambushed him.

“You have my condolences – and my assurance that Freddie was fit as a fiddle.”

“He didn’t appear so on Saturday. He was gaunt, thin as a rake and, at a guess, in mental turmoil. When was the last time you saw him?”

“It was around eleven, I think. He said he was going to visit a patient in Mortlake.”

“Did he give a name?”

“No.”

“What time did he say he’d be back?”

“He didn’t.” Her cup of tea remained untouched. “I can’t believe I’ll never see him again. The thought of being alone for the rest of my life is terrifying. Are you married?”

“Not yet. As a matter of fact, I was going to go down on bended knee on Saturday.”

“You’re like my Freddie: always putting work first.”

“I didn’t have much choice. Please don’t take this as further impertinence, but you’re an attractive lady. I’m sure, in time, you’ll meet someone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else! I want Freddie back.” She burst into tears. Johnny remained silent. Sometimes words were useless.

When she had calmed down again the widow got to her feet, her anger still simmering. “Thank you for being there for my husband. Please leave us alone to grieve. I’m not familiar with the Daily News but I have no wish to provide entertainment for its readers. Freddie took The Times. Goodbye.”

She walked out of the café leaving Johnny to pay. He didn’t mind though. Her parting shot was worth more than sixpence.

If her husband was a reader of The Times she would no doubt announce his funeral arrangements in the classified advertisements on the front page. He would go to the funeral and, one way or another, whether she liked it or not, make the acquaintance of young Daniel Callingham.