Unholy Dying Read Online Free

the feelingthat the ice had been broken, not the warmth or the good food or the sheer relief of having someone to talk to that decided him. It was his judgment of Madge Knowsley as a person—Madge, who sat opposite him, not waiting, not hoping, but eating quietly, and there if he needed her.
    He put down his spoon and told her the whole story.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    The newsroom of the West Yorkshire Chronicle was in the throes of its midmorning frenzy, with stories for its late editions being hastily cobbled together and occasionally checked. In the middle of the scurrying hither and thither, Cosmo Horrocks’s desk represented an oasis of calm. The story Cosmo was working on demanded consideration, even meditation. It was not for a day but for a week, a month—a long and satisfying time span in his world.
    He had been thinking which of his Catholic acquaintances he should approach, and had come up with Brian Marris—a onetime reporter on the Bradford Telegraph and Argus who had gone into local government and was now someone of power in the Parks and Gardens Department. Not generally a person of any great use to Cosmo, but he was honest, and a Catholic, and he might be tricked into telling him what he wanted to know.
    â€œCosmo—long time, no see” came Brian’s voice when his secretary put Cosmo through. The lack of bonhomie in the tone suggested he had not felt it as a deprivation.
    â€œThat’s right, Brian. We must get together some lunchtime.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Cosmo?”
    Businesslike, that was Brian Marris.
    â€œI’m just putting together a possible series of little pieces, Brian, on Victorian churches in the area.”
    â€œHmmm. Chronicle’s going upmarket, isn’t it?”
    â€œJust something for the cubs and juniors to work on. If they do a good job it might see the light of day. Now, there’s Leeds Parish Church, of course—”
    â€œJust pre-Victorian, that.”
    â€œWe may be going upmarket, Brian, but we’re not becoming pedants. We can say nineteenth century, anyway. Then there’s that High Church place off the York Road that’s going to rack and ruin, and the big barn of a place in Birstall. Now, I thought we ought to have a few Methodist or nonconformist places—that Baptist one halfway down the hill in Haworth, for example. And of course some Catholic ones.”
    â€œThere’s one or two very fine ones.”
    â€œSomeone mentioned a St. Catherine’s.”
    â€œSt. Catherine’s in Shipley? I shouldn’t have thought—” For a second or two there was silence at the other end. “Cosmo, are you up to your old tricks?”
    â€œOld tricks, Brian? I don’t know what you mean.”
    From now on there were pauses every time it was Marris’s turn to speak. He knew that with Horrocks every step had to be thought out in advance if you were not to find yourself treading in dung.
    â€œWell, let’s just say I’d be very surprised if any series on Victorian churches ever saw the light of day in your columns,” he said at last.
    â€œI told you it was touch and go if it would. With the juvenile shower we’ve got at the moment, I’d say it was odds against. . . . So there is something going on there, is there?”
    â€œI know nothing about it, Cosmo.”
    â€œYou know there’s something going on, so that’s a start. It’s very seldom someone knows there’s something going on without having some inkling of what it is.”
    â€œIs it, Cosmo? I bow to your experience.”
    â€œI gather Father Pardoe has suddenly taken a rest for spiritual renewal.”
    â€œHas he? That’s not unusual.”
    â€œIt is when it’s a pack of lies and he’s really under investigation by the Church.”
    â€œI told you, I know nothing about it.”
    â€œCome off it, Brian. You live at Greengates,