Day of Vengeance: Dorothy Martin investigates murder in the cathedral (A Dorothy Martin Mystery) by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page A

staff who did all the work.’
    ‘Hmm. Well, whoever has done it, it’s good work.’
    The church itself, as we approached it, was large but not at all attractive. Built of red brick with dirty white granite trim, it was typical Victorian grim in style. Its architect had apparently leaned toward the Old Testament school of religion, the God of wrath, the sort who, as a schoolboy is reputed to have put it, ‘watched to see if you were doing anything fun and put a stop to it’. The forecourt, of unadorned paving stones, was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence topped with spikes, and the gate, though wide open at the moment, had a large and business-like padlock attached to the hasp.
    ‘Brrr,’ I said as we turned to enter.
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘Are we going to introduce ourselves to him?’
    ‘Perhaps after the service.’
    The bells began to ring for the service just then, and I was surprised to find them melodious, in tune and well rung. I was surprised, too, to see a steady stream of worshippers turn in at the gates and move toward the door. There weren’t hundreds of them, but in an area of working people, it was heartening to find more than a handful of old ladies to attend a church service at three thirty in the afternoon.
    Inside, the church was comfortably warm. I looked at Alan in surprise. Virtually all English churches house a chill that even the warmest summer day seems unable to dispel. He nudged me and pointed to the base of the wall. Under each window sat a low electric heater, in the style of American ‘baseboard’ heating.
    Good grief. Central heating in a huge church. Amazing!
    For the church was huge, the vaulted roof high overhead, the nave wide. Even the clutter of tombs and memorials that spoils the proportions of any old church couldn’t destroy the impression of immensity. It was not beautiful. Actually, the pseudo-Romanesque styling reminded me of a railway station with garish stained-glass windows. But it was undeniably impressive.
    A verger was directing people to the front pews – pews, not chairs, I noted – and I exchanged glances with Alan again. Apparently, they expected a large congregation that needed to be properly seated.
    And the expectation was fulfilled. The stream of people grew, slowly and then more rapidly, so that by the time the bells ceased their clamorous invitation nearly a third of the church was full. The worshippers were of all ages and descriptions, from the predictable old ladies, most of them white, to young Pakistani mothers with their babies, to Chinese couples, young and old, to young black men. My surprise had by now turned to astonishment. This simply couldn’t be happening in an inner-city London church in the twenty-first century. I pinched myself, but the crowd was still there.
    The organ struck up a voluntary, and yet again I looked at Alan. I had thought I was beyond surprise, but instead of the reedy sound I’d expected, this was the glorious full-throated sound of a proper pipe organ. I looked around for the pipes.
    ‘Electronic,’ Alan whispered in my ear, pointing to a speaker high overhead. ‘Not bad, eh?’
    Then the choir entered on an opening hymn, and it was more like what I had expected. Obviously not professional, the choir was mixed, with women taking the place of the boys of the usual cathedral choir. But they sang on key, they sang enthusiastically, and the congregation joined them with a will. I watched them file into their pews to one side of the altar, not a formal quire as in a Gothic church, but adequate for their needs. The singers were led by a verger and followed by a clergyman in cassock, snowy surplice, and stole. The rector, presumably.
    He turned around to face us, and I was stunned. The man was gorgeous. There is simply no other word for it. His silver hair, thick and wavy, set off a tanned face with eyes that rivalled Paul Newman’s: blue, blue, blue. His smile was enough to light up the church, even had the sun not