“I 'ave not, but I will if you wish it so.”
“Can you imagine that, Dr. Coran, every word a patient says in there”-he stopped to point to his psychotherapy office-”heard at some remote location by any and all who happen along? It would be the ruin of me, but perhaps it might also enlighten some otherwise intelligent folk who still have not one flimsy idea that evil walks into my office every day.”
Before Jessica could reply Strand cautioned her, saying, “You'd best watch this old magician, Dr. Coran.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you know what we in England call a psychiatrist, Doctor?”
“Inform me.”
“A trick cyclist is what.”
She laughed at this and Luc Sante sneered. “Go on with your duties. Saint Martin. And if you haven't enough to keep you busy about here…” he threatened.
“I'm gone, I'm gone, and how very pleasant to've met you, Dr. Coran.”
“Out! Get out!” The old man ended near tears of laughter. Jessica thought him sweet; obviously a man who lived every single moment to the fullest.
Father Strand and Doctor Luc Sante's relationship was charming, and Jessica felt the latter was an extremely likable, knowledgeable Renaissance man, quite up on criminal psychology. He had quickly won Jessica's confidence and friendship.
“I wish to thank you for the tour of the cathedral, Dr. Luc Sante, and for deciphering the mysterious words found under Burton's tongue.”
“You are leaving so soon?”
“There's a great deal waiting back at the Yard for me, yes.”
“At least keep this and read it,” he said, lifting the copy of his book that Jessica had skimmed in the car coming over.
“Let me pay for the book,” she insisted. And while he began to protest, in the end, he willingly took the British currency amounting to $24.95 American.
“It barely covers the printing costs. Dr. Coran,” he apologetically added. “But I'm pleased, in the end, that you have taken a copy of my self-published treatise on the subject of the ultimate evil.” Jessica read the book's abbreviated title, without the Jungian preface, giving pause to the words: Twisted Faiths. A tagline read: A History of Fetishism and Cultism in Middle Europe and Great Britain 1400 to Present Day.
Jessica said her good-byes and Strand returned in time to usher her to the door where he smiled and said, “He's a wonderful soul, that man.”
“Yes, I think we can well agree on that.”
“I could do nothing to harm him. Yet here I am taking his one love, St. Albans, from him in a matter of weeks.”
“He seems to have made his peace with it, and he… Well, I daresay he couldn't have selected a better successor. Will you also be doing the trick cyclist's work?” she quipped.
“I have some certification papers to finish up, but yes, as a matter of fact, I will. Regardless of what some think, the Vatican is interested in our carrying on as usual here at St. Albans.”
“Good luck to you then, and I'm sure we'll see one another again.”
“I'm sure.”
He waved her off, the handsome Billy Budd of the place, looking like Richard Chamberlain in his youth, a regal and muscular young turk, she thought. The man was at extreme odds with the old man of St. Albans, so filled was Strand with rich life, earthy color, vigor, and power. He waved to her as she dashed down the walk doing her best to remain dry without an umbrella.
The midday drizzle had turned the sky a gunmetal gray, and the gargoyles far up overhead, guarding St. Albans as it were, wept under the steady drenching they stoically took. Yet, many of the gargoyles enjoyed the wet, even ciphoned off water from the roof, their tubular interiors acting as waterspouts, a utilitarian use of art if Jessica had ever seen it. On the one hand, the statuary stood as sentinels between two worlds, on the other, as sediment-filled drainpipes-quite the concrete opposite of the otherworldly symbolism attaching to the grim-faced stone monsters, and an oddly disproportionate thing to behold, she thought. But then, each day she discovered something new and queer and fascinating about London, England, and with this final thought on the matter, she climbed into the police car left behind for her “transport needs” by the ever thoughtful Inspector Sharpe.
EIGHT
Evil is not only a presence; it infiltrates mankind as the ultimate disease.
Jessica and Sharpe spent the rest of the day in a frustrating effort to gain access to the recently buried Frank Coibby. When they were finally able to get the paperwork, it was learned that Coibby's body had been misplaced. “By order of the Crown that no bodies be buried in the realm,” due to the terrible overcrowding in British cemeteries. It had been for this reason that O'Donahue's body had been cremated into uselessness. Now Coibby simply appeared misplaced, as mortuary after mortuary was being checked.
“I thought you said there'd be no problem with this,” Jessica asked, her rising voice telegraphing frustration.
Frowning, Sharpe replied, “I ordered the body be held intact, funeral service or no, and-”
“Funeral service?”
“Thrown together affair by the estranged family, out of a sense of duty, I suppose. In any case, the mortuary paid by the family for services rendered, such as they were, simply shipped the body out to another mortuary, I am now told.”
“Odd, isn't it?” Jessica wondered if there might not be some hidden agenda in all this.
“A falling out over the billing costs, I'm told, caused the second mortuary to return the body here, but they have limited storage facilities, just as we do at the Yard.”
“And so?”
“The mortician here has the body at his… home.”
“His homeT
“In a full-sized freezer there. Bugger figured to leave it there until such a time as someone came asking for it back.”
“Well, now we're asking,” she huffed.
“Mr. Coibby's body will be returned to the mortuary by 8 a.m. tomorrow,” came back the promise from the mortician, a Mr. Littelle.
And for tonight, Jessica found herself having dinner with Richard Sharpe at the Trafalgar Square's famous Rules restaurant, known for having fortified English stomachs since 1798. They ate quickly so that Sharpe could show her some of the sights and the famous area within walking distance of her hotel room at the York. Richard offered to take her to see Soho by night as well, and that invitation she found far too enticing to turn down. She planned to return another day to take in the nearby National Gallery.
“We will have to motor to West End, but my car is close at hand,” he informed Jessica.
“Yes, wonderful… Soho. I've heard so much about the area.”
Soho didn't disappoint. Jessica was delighted when she found herself on Oxford Street, London's number one shopping street, which history told her had been a road since Roman times. From there, Richard took her through Soho Square, a brooding place, laid out in the 1680s. “See the church there?” asked Richard, pointing to a spiraling steeple.
“Yes.”
“French Protestant. French Huguenots formed the first wave to settle the district, followed by a melting pot of other nationalities, giving the place its international flair while maintaining a villagelike appearance.”
“Much like Greenwich Village in New York,” she replied. “Exactly. That cosmopolitan flavor.”They strolled Frifth Street to Old Compton Street and on to Charring Cross Road, a place lined with fascinating and quaint bookshops. At Cambridge Circus, Richard pointed out the restored Palace Theatre, a fascinating sight, and soon they were on Gerrard Street, a pedestrian-only area in the heart of China Town. Richard asked if she cared for anything to drink as they stood outside the Dragon Inn.
“Yes, a drink would do me well,” she agreeably replied. “But only one.”
“My limit as well,” he warned with a smile. “What would you like?”