Murder In The Cathedral

Preface

Two years since last story. My wife succumbed to Alzheimer's, then I got a dicky ticker but a pacemaker and a valve job and Bob's your uncle. I apologize to both my fans.

-- §§§ --

Murder in the Cathedral

Per usual, Megs opened the door to my office, saying "Knock, knock" as she walked the three steps to the guest chair. It wasn't a Deaf Day, so I held up an index finger, quickly finished the sentence I was working on, saved the document (better safe than sorry with Word), then turned to her. Even though I'd worked with Megs almost two years at Intercontinental Investigations (aka II), my first daily glimpse of her still tweaked my pulse.

-- § --

MARGARITA CARMEN Cansino (

Megs

to her friends) was the issue of an idyllic-yet-lustful weekend shared by a Barbadian beauty and a Liverpudlian Able Seaman whose freighter spent a few days in Bridgetown. At odds with his Liverpool origins, he could (and did) recite Elizabethan love sonnets as readily as

Rules of the Road

or

Knight's Modern Seamanship

.

When his ship tied up seven months later, he quickly reunited with the Barbadian lass, only to discover that she was Great With Child. He was not merely an amorous seadog, though, he was also a man of principle. For the next 18 years, as he rose through the ranks to First Mate, he sent ever-larger money orders to Margarita Carmen's mother from distant ports of call.

Only the gods were aware of the irony that on the very day Margarita Carmen received the wondrous news that she had won the biennial All-Caribbean Honors Scholarship, her ever-faithful father was lost in a punishing storm in the Indian Ocean. The money orders ceased, but seven weeks after his ship went down her mother received a cheque for £300,000 from Seafarer's Life Insurance Ltd. It paid for her passage to Liverpool and, later, her BSc from Magdalene College, Cambridge.

-- § --

LUNCHTIME WITH MEGS would make a good day better. "Time for lunch?"

"Not today, Harry. I brought a bacon butty to eat on the way to the range--"I cut her off, trying to mask my disappointment at yet another turndown.

"The range? Quals are still a couple of months off."

"Yeh, but I swopped my Sig for an H&K SPF9. I want to get used to the feel and make sure it shoots where I aim it."

"But why switch from.380 to 9mm? The 9mm hits harder, sure, but it kicks harder and--

Her turn to cut me off. "Eric told me a.380 is a girly gun when I got mine. I'm a big girl, I can handle the recoil."

-- § --

ALL THIS TALK OF handguns probably raises the question of how we Private Enquiry Agents at II could speak so casually about our sidearm., After all, only a few British law enforcement officers were allowed to carry them and most private citizens faced time at His (no longer Her) Majesty's pleasure if found with one in their possession.

The forerunner to II was born in 1860 when Queen Victoria, aware of certain misgivings about how the British ruled their empire, decided she needed a confidential, reliable source of information about such anti-monarchy sentiments, especially in those larger far-flung rose-coloured countries on world maps such as Australia, Canada, India, and much of Africa.

For help she turned to an old and trusted advisor, Prince Albert's older brother Ernest II, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. After listening to her concerns, he founded the Imperial Information Institute (commonly called III). It purported to be a news-gathering enterprise serving London newspapers,

a la

Associated Press in the States. It also not-so-surreptitiously swept up gossip about straying spouses and minor financial misdemeanors, plus the occasional vetting of proposed hiring or promotions.

None of those distractions, however, revealed its true purpose: sussing out anti-royalist individuals and groups. Responding to these discoveries was left to the Secret Intelligence Service, precursor to MI6. Not all such responses were benign.

As befits an institution with such a storied history, its headquarters was a smallish-but-pretentious Greek Revival temple in the City of London--a square mile (more or less) in the heart of the Big Smoke. It housed a host of prestigious firms and, for a time, was the financial capital of the world.

The two world wars hastened the demise of the British Empire. The final nail was driven in 1977, when the UK turned over the Hong Kong Crown Colony to China. Long before that, however, the appellation "Imperial" had lost its luster. On 1 January 1948, Imperial Information Institute (

aka

Triple I or simply III) became Intercontinental Investigations (II) and relocated to a much less pretentious three-story red-brick office building with a markedly reduced staff, but still in The City.

-- § --

GETTING BACK TO girly guns and Megs swapping...erm, swopping handguns: Eric Jaeger was range boss at the quasi-secret government agency that authorized and issued our sidearms. This outrageous violation of the contemporary British disdain for private guns not intended to shoot waterfowl or cape buffalo was due to a Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) mistakenly issued to III in 1886 and mindlessly rubber-stamped by some Deputy Assistant Sub-Minister of Something Or Other every quadrennium since.

Because II was the direct successor to Imperial Information Institute, we unsung minions therefore continued to be issued our very own personal sidearms. We dutifully kept them locked in a vault originally built to hold Things Of Great Value, retrieving them only for the required annual qualification shoots on a range at An Undisclosed Location.

Megs was getting a little testy, so I backed off. "Eric's a bigmouthed cockwomble who loves to yank everybody's chain, Megs, you know that. You shouldn't take him seriously."

She shrugged. "Neh, I know, but I've been thinking about the change for a while now. If I ever have to shoot someone I want to stop 'em, not just piss 'em off." With that she stood, gave me a little wave, then leered. "Besides, he's a crack shot." With that parting sally she was off trailing a whiff of

L'Air du Temps

.

-- § --

I DIDN'T COME TO England with Great Expectations like Megs; I came as a latter-day kept man--I married a UK citizen studying in the US. Fiona Archer and I were students at Colorado University Boulder, she in pre-med and I in pre-law. After we discovered a mutual carnal attraction, we dubbed ourselves the Pre-Pair--motto, of course,

Be Pre-Paired

. Two years into her pre-med, she transferred to the Anschutz campus in Aurora to get a BSN. We graduated a few days apart, married the following weekend, and flew to Will's Sceptr'd Isle after a libidinously exhausting honeymoon week in Vail.

By the time we left the US, Fiona had negotiated a surgical nurse job at a private hospital in Slough, just west of London. After we got there, I lucked out and was hired as a potential paralegal, mostly on the strength of my pre-law curriculum, by Cox Dixon Peters, the largest law firm in Slough.

In response to their query about other languages, I asked if ASL (American Sign Language) counted. I was proficient in that non-verbal mode of communication because my younger sister was born deaf. When my parents immediately started lessons to learn ASL; I insisted on learning, too, so I'd be able to converse with my sister.

They asked if I could also learn BSL (British Sign Language); after some research I said I could, but it would take quite a lot of time. It was like learning another spoken language, complicated by the fact that the two sign languages are similar, like spoken Russian and Ukrainian. CDP sponsored me to evening classes for almost two years, after which I had decent conversational skills in BSL.

As my skill progressed, I was able to deal with the occasional client who communicated in BSL; more often, however, I dealt with deaf relatives or friends of clients. After a few years of this, the Managing Partner (Sir Thomas Peters) asked if I'd be willing to take part in the firm's occasional need for investigations by pretending I was deaf, able to communicate only via sign language, in the hopes that I might overhear valuable information.

That sounded like an interesting addition to my job so I said OK, little realizing how it would change my life. Before I started, he insisted I should undergo some training to compartmentalize my reaction to sudden noises. There followed a stressful period of strangers bursting into my office shouting, often unintelligibly; loud banging that sounded like a dustbin lid dropped on the floor; sudden reports that could have been fireworks, car backfires, or shots; and the like.

All that proved worth it when people assumed they could speak freely in my presence as long as I couldn't see their faces. The times I was told to play dumb came to be called Deaf Days. I soon looked forward to the occasional Deaf Day as a welcome change to what had become a fairly routine job.

Then Intercontinental Investigations asked Cox Dixon Peters they could recommend anyone from their investigative staff as an II operative trainee. After a bit of hemming and hawing (as I later learnt), they suggested that I might fit the bill. Sealing the change in my life, they recommended me.

In the meantime, Fiona had decided that life in England would be much improved if she dumped the Mild Colonial Boy for a rakish (and richish) neurosurgeon. I changed jobs and got the marital boot the same week. Ultimately, they both turned out for the better.

Ultimately.

-- § --

A FEW DAYS LATER, Megs came in without knocking on a Deaf Day. I didn't look up from my keyboard (yeah, I spend way too much time on the damn computer, comes with the territory) until she flicked the light switch off and on, our Deaf Day signal. When I turned to face her, I was more than a little bit taken aback. She looked miserable. Uncharacteristically, she spoke up on a Deaf Day.

"I'm afraid I might have bad news, Harry." She held out the piece of paper she was carrying. "You've been summoned to the Lion's Den." Lion's Den was what we called the corporate offices one floor up. The only circumstances for a summons were to receive a promotion (highly unlikely in this instance), a reprimand (I hurriedly determined that I couldn't think of a recent misstep), or (in the worst case) a dismissal. I was wrong, there was a fourth possibility.

Still puzzling about the unexpected summons, I walked to the private lift that carried victims to the Lion's Den. After the brief ride, the door opened onto a short corridor guarded by the receptionist's desk. She was absorbed reading something and affected not to have heard the ding that announced the lift's arrival. When she finally deigned to acknowledge my presence, her RBF gave her the look of Cruella de Ville stepping on a Dalmatian turd. She picked up and held out an envelope.

"This is for you, Mr. Lime. Don't open it until you have returned to your office."

I took the proffered envelope, then returned to the open doors of the waiting lift. As soon as the doors closed I ripped open the envelope.

Mr. Lime:

The fact that you didn't follow instructions not to open this until you returned to your office merely confirms our suspicion that you are definitely not our sort. Accordingly, you will clear your office of all personal belongings; Security personnel will oversee to make sure you do not take anything more. On the Monday next, you will report to our branch in Coventry.

Have a nice day.

Sincerely,

II Senior Management

Bloody hell! (I've been here way too long.). No name, just "II Senior Management." Assholes--err, arseholes--the lot of 'em. And they assumed that I'd open it too soon (correctly, of course). Bloody hell indeed!

-- § --

I REPORTED TO the II office in Coventry on the appointed Monday. The head of the group was one Simon Legere, who looked to be a pompous ass. As soon as he opened his mouth he confirmed it.

"I've no idea why you've been sent here, Lime, they didn't tell us anything beyond to expect you here this morning. That speaks ill of you, I'm sure, so it would behoove you to put on your best behaviour whilst you're here. I'm sure you can understand that."

Much as I wanted to tell him to piss off, I held my tongue and just nodded as if in assent.

"And we've no need of that pretend deafness nonsense. You'll be given routine tasks--surveilling a suspected errant spouse or ferreting out items of information required by other, more trusted, operatives--until you've proven your trustworthiness and mettle. Do I make myself clear?"

This time he obviously expected me to respond, not just nod. "I quite understand, Mr. Legere. You've made yourself eminently clear." As I figured, he apparently had neither the ears nor the nose for sarcasm.

I found a bedsit overlooking the Godiva monument, overpriced but still within my budget. It was above a Starbucks and close by a pub,

The Chased Maid

, which quickly became my local. Its appeal included good pub grub, a comely barmaid named Bettie Paige, and some really colorful regulars.

The first few weeks on the job proved as routine--read monotonous--as Legere had promised. I went through me assignments using basic skills possessed by any recent secondary school graduate: sitting in a nondescript hire car watching to see when a suspected errant husband would leave his suspected paramour's flat; spending a few hours poking around the internet or the local library looking for answers to questions that "other, more trusted, operatives" couldn't be bothered to suss out; or simply trying to look busy when I had no particular assignment.

For the umpteenth time I wished I'd been seconded to an II outpost on The Continent, as they used to call it, usually meaning France. That way I could pretend to be The Continental Op (thank you, Mr. Hammett). But no, the only justification for the "International" in our name was our one-man outpost in Wales; the Scotland office was shut down years back when the gingers got all lathered about independence.

Instead I was just a simple private enquiry agent. Legere's attitude emphasized the

simple--

he never missed an opportunity to climb my ass. "What's wrong, Lime, is our work too challenging for you?" or "For God's Sake, Lime, is it too much to ask that you at least look like you understand what you're about!" I soon hated him, and grew ever more disappointed that I'd been sent to Coventry.

That disappointment, however, was often made up for by the time I spent in the Maid. I was getting more involved with my newfound home away from home, my family of eccentric regulars, and the pretty barmaid Bettie Paige (I read her name tag). She sparked my interest. I asked her if Bettie was short for Elizabeth.

"No, me Ma put Bettie on the birth certificate so that's what I'm called."

I had to put away my notion to recite "Elizabeth, Eliza, Betsy and Bess..." Just as well, I suppose.

-- § --

A COUPLE OF THE regulars were old Paddy, who was neither very old nor very Irish, and Tillie, who looked somewhat older than Paddy and was definitely not Irish. She often referred to herself as Queen Mab, but if she was Queen of the Faeries then Paddy was the Prince of Wales.

One especially memorable evening, Paddy finished his pint of Crafty Old Hen and quickly belched the alphabet. Not to be outdone, Mab signaled the barkeep for a pint of Guiness, drained it in one go, then grabbed her left butt cheek and farted God Save the King.

It brought the house down. We all roared and slapped our thighs and wheezed in great boozy guffaws until, gasping for breath, we finally quieted down. Paddy and Mab didn't pay for another pint that night, or several nights thereafter.

Most often I showed up late afternoon for a pub lunch and pint or two. One slow afternoon, Bettie hung around my booth to chat, making my day. She started off with a question.

"So why do you always eat a lunch for supper, Luv?" I knew that "Luv" didn't mean anything more than maybe a nudge for a good tip, but it still made me feel good.

"I have a bedsit above the Starbucks on Godiva Square, usually have a Flat White or Americano with a scone for brekkie. Most often I skip lunch coz I'm too busy, plus I'm cheap, so I have my dinner here. It's good pub grub--bubble & squeak, ploughman's lunch, shepherd's pie, you know the menu. That plus a couple of pints is more than enough for my day."

"But you always look so down in the dumps. Sounds like you've got a pretty good life and all."

I didn't want to tell her that I've missed Megs ever since I came to Coventry. I mean, how smart is it to tell a woman you're interested in, especially a pretty one like Bettie, that you miss another woman?

"It's been raining all week. Depressing as hell."

She wasn't sympathetic. "You're the third man to carry on about the weather. You blokes don't know when you've got it good. Must be something in the beer."

"Nope, it's something in the rain." That won a brief smile, a small plus.

Another time I asked her where she grew up. When she looked a bit uncomfortable I apologized for asking an inappropriate question, but she perked up a bit.

"No, no worries. It's just that I was raised in a dodgy council estate in Brum. Not a happy time."

"Sorry I asked. Uh... where's Brum?"

"That's what we call, well, what some of us call Birmingham. Sometimes I forget you're a Yank." I was delighted to hear her say that, figured she'd accepted me as more than just another customer who might tip well. I resolved to ask her out some evening she wasn't working sooner rather than later.

Sooner turned out to be a couple of days later. When I asked her what days she was off, she got all cute about it. "Why d'ya want to know, Luv? Making plans, huh?"

"Why yes, I'd like to buy you a proper dinner and maybe dance a bit some evening you aren't working here."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? I'm not working day after tomorrow. Is that too soon?"

"No, that would be perfect." I resisted the urge to pump my fist and shout "Yeah!"

And so it was. One date led to another, and pretty soon the regulars were calling us an item. Not many weeks passed before we wound up in my bedsit after fish and chips and some vigorous dancing. She wanted to see what it was like to live over a Starbucks and I was only too glad to show her.

She took the lead. "Well, if it's called a bedsit, shouldn't we be sat on the bed?" And so we did. One thing led to another, and soon carnal behaviour ensued. After what I reckoned was a seemly amount of foreplay, I thrust my vorpal blade into her frumious Bandersnatch. It didn't take many repetitions of One, two! One, two! until she shrieked. A frabjous day was enjoyed by all. More than once.

-- § --

LATE ONE AFTERNOON, after my supper of bangers and mash, Bettie led me to a quiet spot in the corner farthest from the bar. "I overheard some troubling talk from a couple of blokes earlier today," she said. I raised my eyebrows without responding, encouraging her to go on.

"They were talking about something that was going to happen at the old cathedral tonight. Something violent."

"Well, don't be so mysterious, Bettie, what was it?"

"That's just it, I couldn't really make it out, but it was obviously something that could involve violence against someone else.. The two of them were talking, but from what I could hear only one was going to the cathedral."

"Why are you telling me this? Why don't you tell the police?"

"Do you think they would take me seriously if I told them just what I told you? What's the Old Bill going to do if some barmaid told them a vague story about something bad that might happen at the old cathedral? No, I think you and I should go to the old cathedral and try to see what they're talking about, maybe even stop it."