the bodies lying around made the place ghoulish in the darkness even if they were a bunch of kings and queens, poets and statesmen. A ghost was a ghost.
His phone rang. It was in his breast pocket, a palm-sized cellular. Well, it didn’t actually ring—he had the ringing turned off and the vibration mode on. He felt the vibration against his heart. It kept going off and he grabbed it.
“What?” he whispered.
“Did you find the body of the crime?”
Dutton groaned, tempted to throw the phone down and jump up and down on it. “There’s someone in here with me,” he whispered hoarsely to Cohn, his editor.
“In the Abbey?”
“Where the fuck do you think I’m at? I dropped by to be fuckin’ crowned.”
“Good Lord! It’s probably a serial killer, someone Howler learned about at the coroner’s office. A killer in there with you, what a story.”
“I’m going to be fuckin’ murdered.”
“ Grrreat story. What—what does he look like?”
“How would I know? Don’t you give a shit that I’ll be murdered?”
“Of course I care, Tony.” Cohn’s voice was honey.
The last time Dutton had heard the man’s voice purr like that was when he had called in a story that one of the Royals was caught on camera having her toes sucked on the Riviera by her accountant—while people in Rwanda were eating children to stay alive.
Dutton shut off the phone and put it back in his pocket, cutting off Cohn. Lousy bastard. A tabloid editor’s heart was harder than that of a Soho whore.
The moon was coming out again, giving the window a faint gloomy glow as cheerful as a granite headstone. As the hazy glow spread, shadows formed in the cathedral and appeared to move.
Was that all I saw? A play of shadows?
He let out a deep breath of relief that he had cooped up somewhere.
You’re just a schoolgirl, Tony Dutton. No guts. Now get your ass in gear.
* * *
A CROSS THE HOLY OF holies cathedral, a rat scurried across the floor. It was no ordinary rat but the breed of a big, brutal creature known as a wharf rat that had invaded the public buildings near the Thames since Britannia first ruled the waves and ships returned home from faraway lands with more than cargo.
The rodent went up the tomb of Queen Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, coming to rest on top of the queen’s effigy atop the tomb. In the opposite wing was Mary, Queen of Scots, whom Elizabeth impolitely had beheaded because of a disagreement over whose church wore the biggest boots.
The rat stopped and sniffed the air. Lacking Tony Dutton’s imagination, it was not at all concerned about the metal statues it ran over. The rat was a carnivore and the blood it sensed was fresher than the centuries-old corpse entombed beneath it.
The rat had followed the scent of blood across the Abbey. Now its nervous system caught on fire and it froze, ready to dash away as its own dark eyes locked on to a pair of startling blue ones.
5
Dutton crept down the center aisle, keeping to the right side. He was certain that what he had seen was nothing more than shadows that moved as clouds swept the light of the moon coming through windows, but … he wasn’t that sure.
He hummed a little, almost noiselessly, a little air passing his lips to keep him company, to give a little life to the oversized crypt of a church. He’d had to memorize Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” as a kid and some of the lines never left him. Now he hummed a bit of it. Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, into the valley of death rode the six hundred, cannon right and left, brave six hundred, do and die … He wondered if Tennyson was buried in Westminster.
He wondered what he had seen in the darkness.
His phone vibrated in his breast pocket again and he ignored it. It was probably Cohn calling to see if he could get an exclusive interview with the killer while the maniac chopped up Dutton’s body. Tabloid editors had the moral fiber of used-car salesmen
His phone rang. It was in his breast pocket, a palm-sized cellular. Well, it didn’t actually ring—he had the ringing turned off and the vibration mode on. He felt the vibration against his heart. It kept going off and he grabbed it.
“What?” he whispered.
“Did you find the body of the crime?”
Dutton groaned, tempted to throw the phone down and jump up and down on it. “There’s someone in here with me,” he whispered hoarsely to Cohn, his editor.
“In the Abbey?”
“Where the fuck do you think I’m at? I dropped by to be fuckin’ crowned.”
“Good Lord! It’s probably a serial killer, someone Howler learned about at the coroner’s office. A killer in there with you, what a story.”
“I’m going to be fuckin’ murdered.”
“ Grrreat story. What—what does he look like?”
“How would I know? Don’t you give a shit that I’ll be murdered?”
“Of course I care, Tony.” Cohn’s voice was honey.
The last time Dutton had heard the man’s voice purr like that was when he had called in a story that one of the Royals was caught on camera having her toes sucked on the Riviera by her accountant—while people in Rwanda were eating children to stay alive.
Dutton shut off the phone and put it back in his pocket, cutting off Cohn. Lousy bastard. A tabloid editor’s heart was harder than that of a Soho whore.
The moon was coming out again, giving the window a faint gloomy glow as cheerful as a granite headstone. As the hazy glow spread, shadows formed in the cathedral and appeared to move.
Was that all I saw? A play of shadows?
He let out a deep breath of relief that he had cooped up somewhere.
You’re just a schoolgirl, Tony Dutton. No guts. Now get your ass in gear.
* * *
A CROSS THE HOLY OF holies cathedral, a rat scurried across the floor. It was no ordinary rat but the breed of a big, brutal creature known as a wharf rat that had invaded the public buildings near the Thames since Britannia first ruled the waves and ships returned home from faraway lands with more than cargo.
The rodent went up the tomb of Queen Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, coming to rest on top of the queen’s effigy atop the tomb. In the opposite wing was Mary, Queen of Scots, whom Elizabeth impolitely had beheaded because of a disagreement over whose church wore the biggest boots.
The rat stopped and sniffed the air. Lacking Tony Dutton’s imagination, it was not at all concerned about the metal statues it ran over. The rat was a carnivore and the blood it sensed was fresher than the centuries-old corpse entombed beneath it.
The rat had followed the scent of blood across the Abbey. Now its nervous system caught on fire and it froze, ready to dash away as its own dark eyes locked on to a pair of startling blue ones.
5
Dutton crept down the center aisle, keeping to the right side. He was certain that what he had seen was nothing more than shadows that moved as clouds swept the light of the moon coming through windows, but … he wasn’t that sure.
He hummed a little, almost noiselessly, a little air passing his lips to keep him company, to give a little life to the oversized crypt of a church. He’d had to memorize Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” as a kid and some of the lines never left him. Now he hummed a bit of it. Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, into the valley of death rode the six hundred, cannon right and left, brave six hundred, do and die … He wondered if Tennyson was buried in Westminster.
He wondered what he had seen in the darkness.
His phone vibrated in his breast pocket again and he ignored it. It was probably Cohn calling to see if he could get an exclusive interview with the killer while the maniac chopped up Dutton’s body. Tabloid editors had the moral fiber of used-car salesmen
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