Eldridge Murder at St Paul's Cathedral

The gripping wartime murder mystery
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-0-7490-3183-1
Verlag: Allison & Busby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 352 Seiten

Reihe: Cathedral Mysteries

May, 1941. One of the senior choristers at St Paul's, Edwin Roberts, is found beaten to death in the crypt of the cathedral and Detective Chief Inspector Coburg and Sergeant Lampson are called in to investigate. The dead man was far from popular. That, coupled with a small army of staff at work at the famous landmark, including those on the Night Watch striving to protect the cathedral from the worst of the Blitz, means that there is no shortage of suspects. The case is complicated further by links to the top-secret war work being carried out at Bletchley Park and by the black market in rare books and valuable art which casts its shadow over St Paul's. When the killer strikes again, St Paul's is in danger of becoming known as a place of death rather than worship, and Coburg and Lampson are under pressure to get to the bottom of a fiendishly complex investigation.

Jim Eldridge was born in central London towards the end of World War II, and survived attacks by V2 rockets on the King's Cross area where he lived. In 1971 he sold his first sitcom to the BBC and had his first book commissioned. Since then he has had more than one hundred books published, with sales of over three million copies. He lives in Kent with his wife.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Eldridge, Jim

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE

London, Tuesday 6th May 1941

In his office at Scotland Yard, Superintendent Allison listened attentively to the voice on the telephone, then said, ‘Please tell the Archbishop he can depend on us here at Scotland Yard. I shall be sending our top detective, DCI Saxe-Coburg, to St Paul’s immediately.’

With that, he hung up, then dialled the internal number for Detective Chief Inspector Coburg’s office. It was answered by DS Lampson.

‘DCI Coburg’s office,’ said Lampson.

‘This is Superintendent Allison. Please ask the chief inspector to come to my office. Is he there?’

‘He is, sir.’

‘Then I need to see him at once.’

He hung up, and shortly afterwards there was a knock at his door, then the figure of Chief Inspector Edgar Saxe-Coburg walked in.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Yes. I’ve just had an urgent call from Lambeth Palace. There has been a tragic incident at St Paul’s Cathedral. The dead body of one of the Cathedral’s senior choristers has been found in the crypt. The implication is that he was murdered. It needs to be investigated with the utmost care and discretion. I have suggested you be the investigating officer.’

‘Thank you, sir. Have the local police attended?’

‘No, Lambeth Palace feel this case requires a more senior level.’

‘Usually, sir, the local force are the first called, and they decide whether Scotland Yard needs to be summoned,’ Coburg pointed out.

‘That may be, but this is St Paul’s Cathedral, Chief Inspector, which comes under the remit of the Archbishop of Canterbury. They are particularly worried about negative publicity. They have avoided informing the local police for fear of them, in turn, informing the press and word of this leaking out.’

‘Why are they so concerned about that happening?’

‘I’m sure they will tell you their reasons when you see them,’ said Allison. ‘I have told them you will be with them immediately. They have reserved a parking place for you beside the Cathedral steps.’

As they approached the Cathedral, their car winding up the hill towards the magnificent white building with its distinctive dome dominating the skyline of the City of London, Lampson commented, ‘Amazing it’s still standing, considering how many times it’s been hit by the bombing raids.’

‘That’s thanks to the St Paul’s Watch,’ said Coburg.

He was referring to the small army of volunteers, most of them staff at the Cathedral, who were tasked with protecting St Paul’s. Coburg remembered reading a magazine article about them. Effectively, the Watch was the Cathedral’s own fire brigade. St Paul’s was particularly at risk from the bombing because of the ancient timbers supporting the dome and indeed the whole Cathedral. The incendiary bombs dropped by the Luftwaffe burst into flames on impact. Coburg remembered newspaper reports about the heaviest raid on the Cathedral to date, on 29th December 1940 around twenty-eight bombs had hit St Paul’s that night, and all were dealt with by the Watch. Some of the incendiaries had even settled in the roof timbers, and the volunteers had crawled along smouldering beams to put out the flames.

When they arrived at St Paul’s, Coburg was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by Arthur Waterson, someone he had been at Eton with many years before, and who was now sporting a dog collar.

‘You’re a vicar,’ said Coburg, taken aback.

‘Actually, I’m a vicar general,’ said Waterson.

‘What’s a vicar general?’

‘He’s the first deputy to a bishop. In this particular case, I’m the vicar general of the Archbishop of Canterbury with responsibilities for the London parishes. I’m based at Lambeth Palace. I suppose you could describe me as the Archbishop’s chief executive. With something like this, a murder on Church property, I’m the one who liaises with the civil authorities.’

‘People like me.’

‘Exactly.’ He smiled. ‘A tragic situation, I admit, but it’s awfully nice to see you again after all this time. Twenty-four years.’

‘Yes, it must be,’ said Coburg. ‘It was 1917 when I left Eton and went straight into training. And a few weeks later I was in France.’

‘And badly wounded at Sambre-Oise, I remember. It became quite a story at school.’

‘Others fared far worse,’ said Coburg. ‘But what about you? How did you get into this? I remember your father was a country vicar, but as I recall you were the school maths genius. I’d have thought you would end up as an economist, or something.’

‘I’d hardly say genius,’ smiled Waterson. ‘Adequate.’

‘More than adequate. You topped the maths exams two years on the trot, as I recall. There was talk of you being poached by Cambridge.’

‘Yes, I did read maths and economics there for a bit, but then I switched to theology.’

‘Why?’

‘Ah, that’s a longer story for another time. Right now, we have a dead chorister to deal with.’

He led the way up the steps into the interior of the Cathedral, then down a flight of stairs signed ‘To the crypt’.

‘The dead man is Edwin Roberts, one of the senior choristers of St Paul’s Cathedral choir. He was found beaten to death. The body was discovered by the St Paul’s Watch, of which Roberts was a volunteer member, as are most of the staff at St Paul’s. We’ve left his body where it was found for you to examine the scene.’

They entered the crypt and Lampson stopped, awed by the enormous size of the large area and the imposing ornamental columns that held up the vast vaulted roof.

‘First time here?’ asked Coburg.

‘Yes,’ said Lampson.

‘It struck me the same way on my first visit,’ said Waterson. ‘It does fill one with a sense of awe and history. And not just ecclesiastical history.’ He pointed at a large boat-shaped tomb high on a stand in the centre of the crypt. Lampson approached it and saw the words Horatio Visc Nelson engraved on it.

‘Horatio Nelson’s tomb,’ clarified Waterson. He pointed at another tomb, a huge black stone memorial on which were engraved the words Arthur Duke of Wellington.

‘Two of Britain’s great military heroes,’ said Waterson. ‘If you go round the crypt you’ll find memorial tablets showing where other greats, the artists J. M. W. Turner and Joshua Reynolds, along with Florence Nightingale, are either entombed or remembered. But that’s for later.’ He was about to move further into the crypt, when he stopped and added, ‘But, as we’re here, Sergeant, there’s one you must see.’

They followed him to the south-east corner of the crypt, where a plain stone plaque was embedded in the wall.

‘The tomb of Sir Christopher Wren, the man who created this place. And over here …’ They followed him to a circle of black marble inset in the main floor, which bore a long Latin inscription in capital letters.

subtus conditur huius ecclesiae et vrbis conditor christophorus wren, qui vixit annos ultra nonaginta, non sibi sed bono publico lector, si monumentum requris, circumspice, it declared, followed by a date also in Latin.

‘“Here in its foundation lies the architect of this church and city, Christopher Wren,’ translated Waterson, ‘who lived beyond ninety years, not for his own profit but for the public good. Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you. Died 25th February 1723, age ninety-one”.’

‘Incredible,’ muttered the awed Lampson.

‘And now, to the business at hand,’ said Waterson. ‘My apologies for delaying, but, alas for Mr Roberts, he is dead and our arrival a few minutes earlier would not have changed that.’

No, but it might have given us a chance to examine the scene of the crime a bit sooner, thought Coburg. But, seeing the look of wonder on his sergeant’s face at being here, he decided to keep this thought to himself.

Waterson led the way to a corner at the back of the crypt and out through a stone arch to an area where a tall open-shelved cupboard and a shorter one had been pulled away from the nearest wall and left standing to one side. Thick ropes had been pulled across the area, separating it from the arch that led to the main crypt. The body of a middle-aged man lay beside the wall, and they could see at once that his skull had been caved in with a series of blows with a heavy object. The top of his head was matted...