Pray for the Dying

Forty-Eight

Lowell Payne had seen the interior of Westminster Abbey several times, but only on television, when it had been bedecked for royal weddings or draped in black for funerals, and packed with celebrants or mourners. As he stepped inside the great church for the first time, he found himself humming ‘Candle in the Wind’ without quite recalling why.

It was the sheer age of the place that took hold of him, the realisation when he read the guide that its origins were as old as England itself, and that the building in which he stood went back eight centuries.

He knew as little of architecture as he did of history, but he appreciated at once that the abbey was not simply a place of worship, but also of celebration, a great theatre created for the crowning of kings and, occasionally, of queens.

In common with most first-time visitors, he paused at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, wondering for a moment whether the occupant’s nearest and dearest had been told secretly of the honour that had been done him. ‘Somebody must have known,’ he whispered as he looked down, drawing an uncomprehending smile and a nod from a Japanese lady tourist by his side.

He moved on and found a memorial stone, commemorating sixteen poets of the First World War, recognising not a single name. Charles Dickens he knew, though, and the Brontë sisters, and Rabbie Burns, and Clement Attlee. Stanley Baldwin was lost on him, but somewhere the name Geoffrey Chaucer rang a bell.

His mobile did not ring, but it vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, feeling as if he was committing a form of sacrilege, until he realised that half of the tourists in the place were using smart-phones as cameras.

He read the screen and took the call. ‘Chief,’ he said, keeping his voice as low as he could, and moving away from the throng of which he had become a part.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Skinner asked. ‘You at the station already?’

‘No, I’ve got time to kill, so I’m doing the tourist thing. Does the name Stanley Baldwin mean anything to you?’

‘Of course. He was a Tory prime minister between the wars, and even less use than most of them. He took a hard line on Mrs Simpson and made the King abdicate, but he didn’t mind Hitler nearly as much. Bloody hell, Lowell, what did you do at school? You’ll be asking me who Attlee was next.’

‘No, I know about him. What can I do for you?’

‘Cancel your return flight. I’d like you to stay down there overnight. Can you do that?’

‘Sure. Has there been a development?’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure. But if something plays out. .’ His voice drifted off with his thoughts for a few seconds. ‘I’ll know in a couple of hours, but meantime you just hang on down there. I’ll be back in touch.’

The conversation ended with as little ceremony as it had begun, leaving Payne staring at his phone. ‘If you say so, Bob,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if I can put a West End show on expenses.’