Nor Will He Sleep by David Ashton Read Free Book Online Page A

160 feet into the air, was the
bell tower.
    It pointed uncompromisingly to heaven and set at the top was a clock face to inform the passing citizen just how much time was left in this life.
    St Stephen’s resembled not so much a house of worship as a fortress of religion. Had there been slits for the archers of God to shoot through at the unbelievers not one devout eyebrow
would have been raised.
    For this was a deity who valued defence.
    Preferably in advance of attack.
    The interior shunned ostentation; it was set in octagonal lines with doors leading to staircases that spider-webbed upwards to mysterious destinations. At the back similar doors opened onto
descending stairwells that guided to rooms where children schooled and mothers plotted sales of work. After that the stairs plunged into the murky depths of the foundations.
    What was hidden in those depths?
    Something forgotten or still remembered?
    Jonas Gibbons stood below the high-imbedded pulpit whence, in deep resonant tones, he preached fiery sermons that attracted the godly from his dreich rivals all over the city, and bowed his head
in sorrow.
    ‘Poor woman,’ he murmured, though it was close to a rumble. ‘She has gone to the bosom of a merciful Lord.’
    ‘It’s not where she’s gone that concerns me,’ said McLevy. ‘So much as who sent her there.’
    The minister seemed to accept the remark at face value.
    ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ he responded.
    ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,’ grunted the inspector and signalled to Mulholland, who produced a crumpled piece of paper from his tunic pocket, which he smoothed out
best he could and then presented.
    It had been agreed between them that the constable would retain any pieces of evidence, since McLevy inevitably misplaced them in the crevices of an untidy attire or lost them in his station
cupboard.
    ‘Would this bring anything to your mind, sir?’ asked Mulholland.
    Gibbons peered down at the scrap and then brought it up closer; he was somewhat short-sighted but considered glasses a vanity. Which way the vanity worked was open to question, however he let
out a cry of recognition.
    ‘I am almost certain. It is from my own bible!’
    ‘Is it missing a page then?’ enquired McLevy suspiciously.
    ‘No. But – oh – poor Mistress Carnegie.’
    ‘If you might just – proceed to the nub, sir.’
    Gibbons nodded at Mulholland’s polite dig in the ribs and sighed.
    ‘The Good Book. Its back-binding had come loose.’
    ‘No doubt through reputable usage,’ encouraged Mulholland.
    ‘No – it was the moths,’ replied Gibbons. ‘Mistress Carnegie offered to take it home for repair. She was very handy with a needle. And thread. My own wife, Martha, lacks
that ability.’
    ‘Very sad,’ said McLevy. ‘Well there was no sign of any book, good or otherwise.’
    ‘I’m afraid that is correct, sir,’ added Mulholland. ‘The killer may possibly have taken it.’
    ‘My personal bible? In the hands of a murderer?’
    ‘Unless he chucked it in the harbour,’ McLevy hazarded.
    The minister’s head came up sharply at this but Mulholland diverted potential indignation.
    He had summed up Jonas Gibbons as a man who admired the sound of his own voice. The man was small of stature and had a handsome broad face, with mutton chop whiskers luxuriant in the
Lord’s name that formed a furze under the neck but left the strong chin bare. A formidable personality, but despite all this a certain childlike need for attention.
    Women are often sore attracted to such men and the older ladies of the church no doubt fluttered around like insects to the flame.
    ‘Are you absolutely certain sure, sir,’ ventured the constable, ‘that the page is from your book? It may be vital as the case unfolds.’
    Gibbons nodded acknowledgement, then called over his son and acquainted the young man with the sad facts. John, after strong scrutiny, confirmed the provenance of the page.
    ‘It is from my