While Hitchcock was undergoing the long tube journey to King’s Cross Station, Jennings, Peter Dowerty, and two other detectives were hurrying up the stairs to Hitchcock’s flat. There had been no sign of Angus McKellin on the street, and it was still not yet time for his replacement to appear. Jennings feared the worst, and found it in Hitchcock’s flat.
“It’s Angus,” said Peter Dowerty, who knelt by the body for a clearer look at the face. “Somebody’ll hang for this.”
Nine
Emerging at King’s Cross tube station, Hitchcock quixotically wished he’d retained the murder weapon to cut his way through the pea souper. It had grown thicker and heavier, and he was breathing with an effort. Ahead of him was a newspaper kiosk lit by a kerosene lamp. The owner was a shabby little man missing his upper front teeth and sporting what appeared to be a week’s growth of beard. He hawked his newspapers spiritedly while wishing the fat man now confronting him would decide which paper to buy and go on about his business.
“Is there a church nearby?” asked Hitchcock, hardly a picture of piety.
“Which denomination, guv?” The little man’s head was cocked to one side; he resembled a scruffy starling.
“I believe the vicar serves tea and bread to the homeless/’
“You don’t look particularly hungry, guv.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Hitchcock, on the verge of bristling with indignation, “it’s long past my dinner and my lunch was nothing remarkable.”
“You sound like a toff down on his luck, guv.”
“My luck of late hasn’t been terribly remarkable either.” He wondered if Bellowes had reached Jennings and the wheels had been set in motion to rescue Alma.
“Well, now,” said the man, scratching his beard, “you mean Mr. Peach, Mr. Lemuel Peach. If you turn the corner there past the pub, across the street is Mr. Peach’s church. He’s usually in the basement.”
“Thank you. You’re most kind.” While getting his directions, Hitchcock had managed to scan several newspaper headlines. There was nothing about him and the murder at the cottage. He was beginning to feel unnecessary. At the corner outside the pub, he was accosted by a prostitute with Joan Crawford shoulders, broad and padded. A cigarette hung precariously from her lips, and her string purse dangled from a wrist, “ello, dearie,” she said, and Hitchcock imagined he could do a two-step across her breath, “love for sale.”
“Loathe that song,” snapped Hitchcock and continued on his way to the church. What the prostitute shouted after him to do was a physical impossibility. The church was located in a cul-de-sac, and as Hitchcock approached it, he could see it was in a sorry state of disrepair, perhaps a metaphor for his own life at the moment. There was a tiny blue light over the basement door, and with great care, Hitchcock made his way down the stone steps, eroded by centuries of footsteps. At the heavy wooden door, he thought he could hear some shuffling about from within. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He found a bellpull and tugged it. After a few moments, a little wooden door in the larger door opened and Hitchcock saw a pair of steely blue eyes staring out at him. A stentorian voice inquired:
“Are you a good Christian ?”
Hitchcock swallowed and responded gravely, “One of the best.”
“I don’t know you, you haven’t been here before, have you?” There was a hint of an accent—not North Country, not Welsh, either.
“You come highly recommended. I’ve been told you serve bread and tea. “
“You don’t look hungry.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” He almost added, And so can vicars—that is, if it was the vicar guarding his gates like Cerberus in the Underworld.
“There’s no bed for you tonight. I’m all full up.”
“I don’t need a bed. I… I’m used to sleeping rough.”
“I should well imagine that, with all that flesh on you. Come in.” The door was unbolted and opened, and Hitchcock entered the basement. There was nobody there except the man he assumed to be Lemuel Peach. There was a long wooden table on which rested loaves of bread and urns that Hitchcock imagined contained the tea, but no downtrodden other than himself. There were a number of cots in evidence against two walls, but none of them was occupied. A most peculiar charitable hostel, Hitchcock decided. When the door shut behind him with what sounded like an ominous clang, Hitchcock examined his host as he shot the bolt back into place. He was wearing a business suit, a polka-dot bow tie, and, for reasons known only to the man himself, a green eyeshade, the kind usually sported by croupiers in third-rate gambling casinos in Hollywood Westerns. “This way,” said the man as he led Hitchcock to the table, sliced some bread, drew a mug of black tea, and served the mean repast to his guest, who was lacing and unlacing his chubby fingers nervously. “Why are you uncomfortable?”
“Are you the vicar? Are you Mr. Peach?”
“I am Lemuel Peach.”
“You don’t look like a vicar.”
“Most nights I dress in mufti. One gets so bored with clerical drag.” His face hardened. “What do you want? You’re not really hungry. If you were, you’d be wolfing the tea. Were you expecting drippings with the bread? I don’t serve drippings here. This isn’t your mum’s kitchen, you know, this is a house of God, and my God is a bit skint.”
Hitchcock leaned across
