Mark Sanderson - The Whispering Gallery

He had felt on top of the world and wanted Stella to feel the same way. Together they had seen the City in a whole new light – a light enhanced and reflected by the flaming golden urn above them.

Johnny had made a point of going to places where neither of them had been before. The relationship was new territory for them both. Finally, in Postman’s Park, with its wall of plaques dedicated to local heroes, including Daniel Pemberton – foreman LSWR, surprised by a train when gauging the line, hurled his mate out of the track, saving his life at the cost of his own, Jan 17 1903 – Stella, fed up with all the talk of death, had said: “Next time, let’s go to the pictures like a normal couple.” The fact that she had referred to them as a “couple” had gone a long way towards mollifying him.

A love of the movies was another interest they shared. The death of Jean Harlow the month before had shocked them both. Hollywood’s first “sex goddess” was only twenty-six: four years younger than they were. Johnny had been mesmerised by her breasts the first time he had seen them burst out of the silver screen. He preferred her as a femme fatale in gangster flicks such as Beast of the City and Public Enemy rather than as a dizzy blonde in comedies like Hold Your Man and Wife versus Secretary . However, his reporter’s instincts were still intrigued by the echoes of Harlow’s personal life in Reckless .

The suicide of her on-screen husband Franchot Tone in the film recalled the death of Harlow’s second real-life husband Paul Bern, who was said to have shot himself in 1932. His apparent suicide note had a claim to being one of the worst ever:

Dearest dear. Unfortunately this is the only way to make good the frightful wrong I have done you and to wipe out my abject humiliation.

Paul.

You understand that last night was only a comedy.

What was more humiliating than being reduced to blowing out your brains? Yet the suicide rate had been climbing on both sides of the Atlantic throughout the decade. On the face of it Bern appeared to have had a lot to live for: he was both rich and respected. Even so the director had chosen to roll the end credits of his life story. Or had he? The men from MGM had been on the scene long before the cops or the coroner. What had the young Harlow seen in the much older, and reputedly impotent, man? She might have shot him herself in frustration. Johnny smelled a cover-up. One day he would write a book about it.

He had arranged to meet Stella in the middle of the sunburst on the floor beneath the centre of the dome. It was a visual representation of heaven on earth, a sign that Wren’s Masonic masterpiece was designed to unite the two. If Stella agreed to be his wife, the two of them would become one, and he would be in paradise. He stood 365 feet – one for each day of the year – beneath the golden cross that topped the dome. It didn’t seem a second since he and Stella had been laughing on top of the Monument – so much had happened since then. He glanced around yet again, hoping to spot her making her way towards him. No: as usual she was making him wait the full eight minutes.

Chapter Two Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Part Two - Dark House Lane Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Part Three - Sans Walk Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Bibliography About the Author By the same author Copyright About the Publisher Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

A woman screamed. A sickening crack echoed off the Portland stone. Tourists scattered across the black-and-white chequered marble. Johnny turned and, instinctively going against the flow of fleeing sightseers, moved closer to the centre of the action.

The jumper had fluked a soft landing but was surely dead. Black blood seeped from his head. Johnny knelt down and, using his fore and middle fingers, felt for a pulse behind the man’s ear. To his amazement, he detected a faint beat. He rolled him off the unfortunate clergyman he had landed on. It was too late: the corpulent priest resembled a beetle crushed by a callous schoolboy. He lay face down, his limbs and neck splayed at crazy angles. There was a hole in the sole of his left shoe.

Johnny, feeling nauseous, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. If he had stood his ground for just a few seconds more it could have been him lying broken on the floor. Perhaps there was a god after all.

The suicide opened his eyes. The escaping blood had created a sticky halo round his head. His lips moved. Johnny bent down to hear what the beanpole was trying to say.

“I’m sorry. I . . .” His eyelids fluttered.

“What’s your name?” asked Johnny, already thinking of the piece he was going to write. He felt in vain for a pulse. The wretch was wearing a black suit of good quality. It was as if he had dressed up for the occasion. Johnny went through the man’s pockets. That was odd – they were completely empty. There was no wallet or loose change, no keys, not even a handkerchief.

“Can you believe it? He’s robbing the poor guy!” An American, flushed with indignation, pointed a pudgy finger at Johnny. The rubberneckers, reassured that it had not started raining men, had slowly gathered round to get a closer look. The circle tightened round him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m trying to find out who he is. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go and find someone in authority?”

“There’s no need.” A middle-aged man in a dog collar gently cut through the crowd. Beady eyes took in the scene. They showed no sign of shock or grief. Countless funerals – in Britain and in France during the Great War – had inured him to death. “Please stand back.” He was plainly accustomed to being obeyed.

“Is he one of yours?” Johnny nodded at the flattened priest.

“And you are . . .?”

“John Steadman, Daily News .”

“Ah.” The gimlet eyes bore into him. “Mr Yapp was a member of our chapter. I presume he’s beyond our help?”

“Indeed. My deepest condolences.”

The clergyman searched for but could not detect a note of insincerity. “I’m Father Gillespie, Deacon of St Paul’s.”

“How d’you do.” They shook hands. Johnny reached into his pocket and flipped open the notebook with its miniature pencil held in a tiny leather loop. It went everywhere with him. “What were Mr Yapp’s Christian names?”

“Graham and Basil. He was proud to share his initials with Great Britain.”

“Thank you. I don’t suppose you know who the other man is? It seems he jumped from the Whispering Gallery.”

“He wouldn’t be the first to have done so.” The deacon sighed and lowered his voice. “And doubtless won’t be the last.” The eavesdroppers craned their necks. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stand back. This is a house of God, not a freak show.”