Broken Voices (Kindle Single) by Andrew Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

that.’
    Faraday’s face
was in shadow. But he shifted in his seat as if someone had touched him. It was
the anthem that Hampson Minor had sung in Faraday’s place.
    ‘He died as a
result of a fall,’ Mr Ratcliffe went on, ‘and he’s buried in the north choir
aisle. There’s a tablet to him on the wall more or less opposite the organ
loft.’
    ‘But why is he a ghost?’ I said. Into my mind slipped an image of Dr
Atkinson, who was small, red-faced and irascible, draped in a sheet and
rattling chains like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
    ‘If he is,’
said Mr Ratcliffe. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’
    ‘Has anyone
seen him, sir?’ Faraday asked, leaning forward. ‘They must have done.
Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said he was a ghost last night.’
    ‘You must be
patient.’ Mr Ratcliffe began the elaborate ritual of cleaning, filling and
lighting his pipe. ‘Did you know that the Cathedral once had a ring of eight
bells? One of our canons, Dr Bradshaw, wrote a standard treatise on the subject
in the sixteen-seventies. Campanologia Explicata . There were eight bells, and they hung in the
west tower. You know, I am sure, that our church bells are rung according to a
series of mathematical permutations.’ He looked up at us and took pity on our
ignorance. ‘It’s like a pattern of numbers. Each bell has a number and it rings
according to its place in the pattern.’
    By now Mr
Ratcliffe was crumbling flake tobacco into the palm of one hand. He fell
silent, concentrating on rubbing the strands into a loose, evenly distributed
mixture.
    ‘Bells don’t
last for ever, you know. Our bells had to be taken down in the eighteenth
century. They needed to be recast. This was done, at considerable expense.
There was to be a service of dedication when the new ring of bells was rung for
the first time. The Dean and Chapter asked Mr Goldsworthy to compose a special
anthem to mark the occasion, to be based on Psalm a hundred and fifty. “Praise
him in the sound of the trumpet: praise him upon the lute and harp”.’
    Mordred, who
had been slumbering on Mr Ratcliffe’s lap, jumped to the ground. He stretched
himself out with luxurious abandon on the hearthrug.
    ‘They say that
Mr Goldsworthy was an ambitious man,’ Mr Ratcliffe went on. ‘And a troubled one.
The Dean had a piece of patronage in his gift, the Deputy Surveyorship of the
Fabric, a position that came with an income of two hundred pounds a year for
the holder, and entailed no obligations apart from a few ceremonial duties. Mr
Goldsworthy thought there was no reason why the post should not go to himself
as to the next man. And the Dean gave him to understand that it might well be
his, if his new anthem was a particularly fine piece of work that brought
renown on the Cathedral. And, no doubt, on the Dean.’
    As Mr Ratcliffe
was speaking, Mordred rose to his feet. He stared at the three of us in turn
and, to my surprise, came towards me and rubbed his furry body against my legs.
I felt the vibration of his purring against my legs. Flattered by his attention,
I bent down and stroked him.
    ‘The problem
was,’ Mr Ratcliffe continued, ‘Mr Goldsworthy found that for once his
inspiration failed him. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time. His career
was at a crossroads. If he failed in the commission he would earn the Dean’s
disfavour. To make matters worse, I believe there was a lady in the case: and
Mr Goldsworthy could not afford to marry without a larger income.’
    The cat
unsheathed the claws of his right paw and ran them into my calf. I squealed
with pain and shock.
    ‘Mordred!’ Mr
Ratcliffe said. ‘I’m so sorry — he can be such an unmannerly animal. Perhaps
one of you would put him outside.’
    Mordred
frustrated this design by going to ground under the grand piano, sheltered by
the wall on one side and a pile of books on the other.
    ‘What did you
do then?’ Faraday said. ‘Did he compose the anthem in the