Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series) by Guy N Smith

Author:Guy N Smith [Smith, Guy N]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
ISBN: 9781907846755
Publisher: Black Hill Books
Published: 2013-08-30T12:00:00+00:00

* * *

Michael Corms wondered why Homer was insistent upon taking the late shifts himself; apart from Needes and Lumby, there were other vergers. The Head Verger’s role was virtually an administrative one, to delegate.

“Good evening, Mr Corms.” Homer was like a cadaver, standing back in the gloom to allow the assistant organist to pass through the partly open north transept door. “I trust that the choir practice went well. Mr Drinkwater informs me that it did.”

“It was up to standard.” Corms was uneasy about having the door locked after him, it gave him a trapped feeling, just the two of them imprisoned inside this eerie place. “You can leave me the key if you like, Homer, if you want to get off. I can drop it through your letter box when I leave.”

“Oh, no, sir!” A stern reprimand that such a thought should even cross the other’s mind. “My duty is to lock and unlock the door, admit or refuse entry depending upon who it is and not to leave the cathedral unattended until – 10:30.”

“Of course.” Corms wished that the other would not follow on his heels the way he did. Security had obviously been tightened up recently following Lumby’s neglect on the night of Rupert Frame’s murder. “I’ve a few pieces to go through. I want to be away around nine.”

“Give me a call, sir. I shall be at the desk. I have ample paperwork to keep myself occupied.”

Michael Corms was decidedly nervous tonight, more so than usual. Logically, he had no reason to be, he reminded himself. The cathedral was secure; there was a man on night duty. No unauthorised persons could gain entrance.

Unless they were already inside.

He didn’t like the organ loft, never had; even before Frame’s death it had been a disturbing place. So cold and inhospitable, the lighting over the organ in a huge place of semi-darkness and shadows gave one a sense of being watched. You could be seen without seeing.

He sat listening for a moment or two before he switched on the organ. Total silence, not even Homer’s echoing footsteps; the Verger was probably already seated at his desk by the west doors, immersed in his paperwork. Corms listened for that familiar hollow cough, like a death rattle, a nervous habit of the other’s unless he had a bronchial complaint. There was none.

Michael Corms consulted his schedule; they had already practised Handel’s I Know That My Redeemer Liveth earlier, he ought to run through it again. Also Psalms 41-43, they would be needed for Choral evensong on the first day of the Festival. Most of all he needed to work on Elgar’s Serenade for String Orchestra; Rupert Frame would have played that on the third night, it wasn’t an easy piece.

He had stepped into a dead man’s shoes.

He wasn’t playing well, he was aware of that. Homer would be listening with a critical ear, making comparisons. ‘Herbert Poppleton was the greatest, you know, a legend in his own lifetime. Nobody will ever match him’.

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