On a Friday afternoon in September, light skewed through
the trees of Holland park and distracted Louise Besancourt.
A clerical gentleman was peering into the window of her
patisserie. She smiled as a giggling child pointed at his
ample backside.
The Reverend Marcus Bloom was bent in his examination of
pastries. When he rose and entered the shop, Louise noted
his black stock and white silk shirt.
‘Good afternoon,’ remarked the clergyman.
‘Can I get you something, Father?’
‘Can you get me something? Well, let me see.’
‘P°ù´Ç´Ú¾±³Ù±ð°ù´Ç±ô±ð²õ?’
‘Ah…profiteroles…chocolate…I think
not.
‘A meringue…perhaps?’
‘Meringue?…now let me see…No. I think
not. And this is?
‘Tarte aux glaces, monsieur.’
‘Tarte aux glaces, indeed. Ah, yes, tarte aux glaces
will be splendid. Yes, that will be splendid.’
Taking the pastry and wrapping it in a box with a blue ribbon,
Louise noted his eyes, patrolling the shop and its customers.
Greedy eyes, she thought.
‘I thank you,’ nodded the clergyman.
‘My pleasure!’ smiled Louise.
She handed him a white box tied with blue ribbon and watched
him waddle towards the junction of Pollard Place and Clarendon
Cross, where an oak tree overshadowed some seats.
Marcus paused in the shade. With his free hand, he swept
away a mantle of leaves on a wooden bench, sighed and settled
himself. He placed the pastry box alongside, carefully spreading
the tails of his jacket to protect the creases.
His black suit felt heavy, shoes tight. He needed a few
minutes rest to ponder the imminent prospect of cherries
glistening in cassis and to be tantalised at the promised
taste of a custard.
As leaves drifted, Marcus’ eyes strayed from the white
pastry box gaily tied with blue ribbon and contemplated
the Temple Gallery at Clarendon Cross a few yards away.
Here, behind discreetly protected windows, Jeremy Sturgess
sold icons. An Annunciation, recently arrived from Egypt,
awaited his pleasure. He would save his pastry until he
had savoured the icon.
Ambling towards the gallery, he lingered before the cherished
images in the window. These mysterious icons were of more
than passing interest. They excited in him a great desire;
he felt almost lecherous. A Coptic Virgin and Child - eyes
huge and black amidst gold leaf - lured him from the London
streets into dreams of lust and wealth. Marcus returned
the stare of the Virgin and meditated upon her with rapacious
intent.
The door of the gallery was locked. Marcus, clutching his
beribboned treat, pressed a button above the intercom.
‘Who is it?’
‘Jeremy, it’s Marcus Bloom.’
A thin old man appeared behind the glass. He wore blue jeans,
brown loafers, and a blue denim shirt. His face was yellow,
the cheek bones jutting, black pools beneath his eyes. Marcus
watched him look up and mouth something, hands trembling.
The door swung open with a hiss.
‘More pastries, Marcus? Think of your heart, your
heart.’
Jeremy turned and Marcus noted his wasted hips, the jeans
slipping as he shuffled into the gallery. The old man glanced
up at a plaster cherub and wheezed:
‘S±ð²õ²õ²¹³¾±ð±ð!’
The door hissed shut.
Russian chant filled the gallery. The solemn music reminded
Marcus of the colouring of ancient icons.
‘Ah…vespers,’ whispered the old man.
Marcus followed him into a corridor and down a flight of
steps. They passed through an open door, into a windowless
room, lit by candles. The music grew sombre and austere.
‘The ‘Hail Mary’…ah…set by
Trubachev,’ explained Jeremy looking upwards.
Another hiss. Marcus heard the door close behind them. Now
the music was hushed, throbbing but distant. Marcus sniffed
burning wax and gaped at a wooden panel, overlain with gold
leaf.
On the stone floor, Jeremy had spread an Afghan rug. He
took a stool from the corner and placed it on the rug before
the icon. The movement disturbed the candle flames and sent
shadows skittering along the walls - Marcus grotesque, still
holding his blue stringed box; Jeremy like a reed in the
breeze.
‘My latest Annunciation. There it is. Late…er…twelfth
century. Monastery of St Catherine…Sinai...ah…Egypt…beyond
price.’
Marcus was transfixed.
At the top of the icon, a strip of turquoise represented
the heavens; at the bottom, another strip, the sea. Above
the sea, lay a sandy swathe rich with herons, fish and octopus.
Marcus perched on the stool in silence. Jeremy coughed behind
him, disturbing the flames. Shadows jumped.
The Virgin sat on a gold chair, clothed in black, her feet
slippered in red. Gabriel, in swirling robes of gold, propelled
by blue wings, his head a shock of brown curling hair, raised
his right hand in greeting, finger and thumb clasped. Startled,
Mary clutched a basket of red wool. From the turquoise heavens,
a shaft of light bisected a dove and fell onto the Virgin’s
shoulder.
That shaft of light pierced Marcus and twisted his desire
for possession.
He rose from the stool and stepped back, his shadow dancing
on the wall like a ship tossed on waves. Jeremy moved towards
the icon, making the candles flicker, his arms shaking,
head nodding. Marcus bent and placed his parcel on the stone
floor. As he stood up, he seized the stool. His arms rose
and smashed into Jeremy’s skull. The old man sighed
and fell. Blood seeped onto the rug. The candles jabbed
images in black silhouettes about the white walls. Silence.
Then, Marcus dimly perceived the sound of Russian monks
chanting; the tolling of a bell. Phantoms repeated the sequence
- black on white, black on white.
Marcus took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped
his brow. Then he lifted the stool and wiped it on the rug.
He sat down. The waxy smell of candles, their prancing light,
the glittering icon - all gave him a sense of jubilation.
Bending to the floor, he reached for the pastry. Squatting
on the stool, he untied the ribbon and laid the open box
on his knee. From his jacket pocket he took an elegant silver
spoon, wrapped in a leather pouch and engraved with his
name. It glinted between finger and lip. The cherries were
enticing in the candlelight; their texture delighted his
tongue. The custard was firm, just a hint of bitterness;
the cassis delectable.
On the wall, the startled Virgin looked at Gabriel. The
Holy Spirit hovered. On the roof of a tower, behind Mary,
two birds sat in a nest.
‘Most gratifying!’ observed Marcus, dabbing
his lips. Madamemoiselle Besancourt had excelled herself.
The pastry was sublime.
Outside the room, the music of the Russian monks rose to
a climax with a vibrant Alleluia. Marcus, stood up and carefully
placed the pastry box, the ribbon and the spoon on the rug
away from the corpse. Then, he rummaged in his trousers
for a packet of cigarettes. Wreathed in smoke, he gazed
at the icon and hummed, waving his hand in time to the music
beyond the door.
‘Alleluia!’ he remarked to Gabriel, ‘Alleluia…indeed!’
He needed some air. Going to the door he paused to listen.
The Vespers bell tolled once more. He glimpsed blood on
his cuffs and wildly groped for his spectacles.
‘Cherry juice!’ he whispered joyfully - and
winked at Gabriel.
His spectacles had misted in his anxiety. He wiped them
on his sleeve, pushed back his hair and edged quietly to
the door. He pulled the handle. The door didn’t move.
He pulled again. It was locked.
One of the candles sputtered and he saw his silhouette shiver.
He hugged the wall, fingernails digging at the plaster.
Music throbbed.
‘Calm, Marcus…calm. He didn’t lock the
door…It shut of its own accord. Remember the hiss?
The hiss, damn it.’
Sweat oozed from his neck. He removed the stud from his
collar and threw them both on the floor. The monks were
chanting a psalm. In his frustration he kicked Jeremy’s
body.
‘His pockets…you fool…the keys.’
Marcus knelt and gagged at the blood and tissue around the
dead man‘s skull. He fumbled for pockets, fighting
nausea.
Empty.
Striving to stand, he staggered, hand across his mouth and
retched. Once more, cherries glistened in the candlelight.
He gripped the wall for support. Spittle and vomit hung
on his chin. His suit clung to him like a wet blanket. He
threw off his jacket, then his shirt, stumbling over the
floor, half naked.
Shadows leered from the wall. Gabriel and Mary gleamed in
the guttering light. A Russian antiphon pulsated from the
gallery above. Wax hardened around the base of the candlesticks.
‘The bloody key…Where…?’
He lifted a candle and held it to the door. No keyhole,
no lock - only a metal contact top right.
Candles mocked him, flicking his shadow onto the walls.
Dryness sucked his throat. The memory of Jeremy, wheezing
on about his latest security device, tormented him:
‘Ingenious lock, Marcus…biometric you know...
camera recognises me….microphone knows my voice…ha-ha-ha…’
That laugh - like a drain emptying.
‘I need air! Those bloody monks - for God’s
sake… shut up!’
Tightness gripped his chest. Electric shocks bombarded his
arms and legs. His fists hammered the walls, knuckles bleeding.
The shelves of the patisserie were empty. Louise hummed
to herself as she swept the floor. The tartes aux glaces
had gone very well. She must go to Petticoat Lane early
in the morning and get more cherries. A pastry, saved for
her partner Jean Paul, sat by the till in a white box. Lifting
the blue ribbon, she paused at the door, to look back at
the glass counter and the gleaming tiled floor, to delight
in the smell of lemons and cream. The latch clicked, as
she went into the night.
At Clarendon Cross, Louise went into a boutique to buy blue
ribbon. Glancing over to the Temple Gallery, she thought
she heard music - like monks, she remembered, singing in
Chartres. Thinking of her clergyman customer - he of the
greedy eyes - she smiled. And as for that naughty child
- well…
