Read Online Murder in a Cathedral by Ruth Dudley Edwards - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Dudley Edwards
Tags: Fiction, General, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Satire, England, 20th Century, English Fiction, Amiss; Robert (Fictitious Character), Gay Clergy
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’Cos when you fall down the mine shaft to hell, you’re not on line to God any more. Only to Satan.’
Even Amiss was feeling rather guilty and depressed by this time. So, like the rest of the congregation, he was relieved when Bev Johns decided to lighten the tone. ‘OK, OK. That’s enough of the’ – he raised his index fingers and mimed quotation marks – ‘ “Bad News”. Now for the’ – he repeated the business with his fingers – ‘ “Good News”.’ Then he leaped in the air. ‘Jesus is our friend!’ He motioned to his hearers. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus!’
‘Jesus is our friend!’ they cried.
‘Jesus loves us!’
‘Jesus loves us!’ they shrieked.
‘Show you love your brothers and sisters! Hug each other for Jesus.’
Apprehensively, Amiss looked sideways at Pooley, who was standing as rigid as a young officer at Rorke’s Drift waiting to be overwhelmed by the Zulu hordes. As Amiss made a feeble gesture in his direction indicating that they might be better off hugging each other than awaiting the attentions of perfect strangers, he was grabbed by a large black woman in a cartwheel hat, who enveloped him in her capacious arms and squeezed him painfully. As soon as she put him down, she was replaced by a haggard man in a woolly hat who smelled of unwashed clothes and yesterday’s whisky. Amiss tried not to flinch and to return the hug with the appropriate pressure. It cheered him somewhat to see that a horror-stricken Pooley was being pawed by a couple who looked like terminally ill vegans.
Bev, who had been jumping about in the pulpit urging them on, called the proceedings to order. A hunched and twitching Pooley moved close to Amiss. ‘I may never forgive you,’ he whispered.
‘A singularly inappropriate response, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
They were drowned out by a holler from Bev, who plucked the microphone off its stand and began to croon with the assistance of an electronically enhanced guitarist who had leaped onto the altar:
‘Where on earth is Jesus?
Is he at the bar?
Is he out there raving?
Going much too far?
‘Taking dope and drinking,
Kicking up a fuss,
Is he in a harlot’s bed?
No! He’s here with us!’
The beat induced most of the congregation to bop along enthusiastically and the applause was such that the Rev. Bev went through the performance again with redoubled élan. ‘That was a song for Jesus,’ he yelled at the end. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus, now, brothers and sisters. Save me, Jesus!’
‘Save me, Jesus!’ screeched his flock.
‘Save me, Jesus!’
‘Save me, Jesus!’
He motioned them into silence. ‘Every week I give you new hope that Jesus wants to save everyone. No one is too wicked or depraved for him to love. Make ready now to greet your new sisters and brothers and help them to Jesus, our Lord.’
He stabbed his right forefinger towards the main entrance and the double doors were pulled open simultaneously. There was a tremendous din of revving engines and then, in a thunder of sound, down the aisle came a vast black-and-silver motorbike with two black-clad riders. It drew level with the platform, juddered to a halt and as it fell silent another bike came through the door, to be followed by another and another until seven stood silent. The dramatic effect was slightly lessened by the outbreak of coughing brought on by the exhaust fumes.
The coughing died down, and in well-choreographed symmetry, the riders propped their bikes against the south wall, strode to the front of the platform, turned their backs on the congregation and raised their arms towards the preacher.
‘Praise the Lord!’ he cried.
‘Praise the Lord!’ was what Amiss presumed they shouted in return; the sound was muffled by their helmets. Picked out in silver studs on the back of each black leather jacket was the legend:
HEAVEN’S ANGELS
BIKERS FOR JESUS
‘Hallelujah, hallelujah,’ cried the preacher. There was a lusty chorus of hallelujahs
Even Amiss was feeling rather guilty and depressed by this time. So, like the rest of the congregation, he was relieved when Bev Johns decided to lighten the tone. ‘OK, OK. That’s enough of the’ – he raised his index fingers and mimed quotation marks – ‘ “Bad News”. Now for the’ – he repeated the business with his fingers – ‘ “Good News”.’ Then he leaped in the air. ‘Jesus is our friend!’ He motioned to his hearers. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus!’
‘Jesus is our friend!’ they cried.
‘Jesus loves us!’
‘Jesus loves us!’ they shrieked.
‘Show you love your brothers and sisters! Hug each other for Jesus.’
Apprehensively, Amiss looked sideways at Pooley, who was standing as rigid as a young officer at Rorke’s Drift waiting to be overwhelmed by the Zulu hordes. As Amiss made a feeble gesture in his direction indicating that they might be better off hugging each other than awaiting the attentions of perfect strangers, he was grabbed by a large black woman in a cartwheel hat, who enveloped him in her capacious arms and squeezed him painfully. As soon as she put him down, she was replaced by a haggard man in a woolly hat who smelled of unwashed clothes and yesterday’s whisky. Amiss tried not to flinch and to return the hug with the appropriate pressure. It cheered him somewhat to see that a horror-stricken Pooley was being pawed by a couple who looked like terminally ill vegans.
Bev, who had been jumping about in the pulpit urging them on, called the proceedings to order. A hunched and twitching Pooley moved close to Amiss. ‘I may never forgive you,’ he whispered.
‘A singularly inappropriate response, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
They were drowned out by a holler from Bev, who plucked the microphone off its stand and began to croon with the assistance of an electronically enhanced guitarist who had leaped onto the altar:
‘Where on earth is Jesus?
Is he at the bar?
Is he out there raving?
Going much too far?
‘Taking dope and drinking,
Kicking up a fuss,
Is he in a harlot’s bed?
No! He’s here with us!’
The beat induced most of the congregation to bop along enthusiastically and the applause was such that the Rev. Bev went through the performance again with redoubled élan. ‘That was a song for Jesus,’ he yelled at the end. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus, now, brothers and sisters. Save me, Jesus!’
‘Save me, Jesus!’ screeched his flock.
‘Save me, Jesus!’
‘Save me, Jesus!’
He motioned them into silence. ‘Every week I give you new hope that Jesus wants to save everyone. No one is too wicked or depraved for him to love. Make ready now to greet your new sisters and brothers and help them to Jesus, our Lord.’
He stabbed his right forefinger towards the main entrance and the double doors were pulled open simultaneously. There was a tremendous din of revving engines and then, in a thunder of sound, down the aisle came a vast black-and-silver motorbike with two black-clad riders. It drew level with the platform, juddered to a halt and as it fell silent another bike came through the door, to be followed by another and another until seven stood silent. The dramatic effect was slightly lessened by the outbreak of coughing brought on by the exhaust fumes.
The coughing died down, and in well-choreographed symmetry, the riders propped their bikes against the south wall, strode to the front of the platform, turned their backs on the congregation and raised their arms towards the preacher.
‘Praise the Lord!’ he cried.
‘Praise the Lord!’ was what Amiss presumed they shouted in return; the sound was muffled by their helmets. Picked out in silver studs on the back of each black leather jacket was the legend:
HEAVEN’S ANGELS
BIKERS FOR JESUS
‘Hallelujah, hallelujah,’ cried the preacher. There was a lusty chorus of hallelujahs
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