Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

Giles obeyed at once and put his talons away.

“Let’s step to one side and we can talk,” Gillespie said as if he was the soul of generosity. “I have a few minutes before my next interview. In fact, if you happen to share my views, you may wish to appear alongside me. Perhaps inform the public how much a madman’s irrational belief has cost your family? The personal toll, you understand, Mr–?”

“Jericho.”

“Of course.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re one of the travelling people.”

“I am,” I confirmed. “And in fact, I support a lot of your opinions, Doctor. Especially what you say about vulnerable people being exploited by psychic con artists. But do you consider what you’ve just done—making a publicity stunt out of my aunt’s death—just as cynical an act of exploitation?”

That dour little mouth puckered. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr Jericho. I assure you, such a motive was not at the forefront of my mind. However, if you think me cruel then I’ll gladly accept that criticism. Kindness is a luxury the rational world can no longer afford. If we continue to indulge the superstitious, then all too soon the human race will find itself in a new Dark Age.

“You don’t understand, belief in the paranormal is not on the wane. Indeed, ghosts and Ouija boards and telekinesis and astral projection and whatever else you care to name are now more popular than ever. You might think, so what? Let the fools indulge their inane fantasies. They aren’t hurting anyone, are they? But I assure you, such nonsense has real-life consequences. Today it’s a ‘harmless’ visit to a clairvoyant, tomorrow it’s belief in invisible voices telling us what to do, and demonic possession, and blood sacrifice, and religious wars. You say I’m unkind, but no one has ever read my books and then gone out and butchered people in the name of reason.”

“No,” I agreed. “But they may have lost some hope that was dear to them.”

“Then they should find new hope in science,” he scoffed. “In the perfect patterns of mathematics, in the structural beauty of the double helix, in the awesome but predictable clockwork of the universe. There is nothing there, I assure you, to inspire the slaughter of witches.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“The slaughter of witches,” I echoed. “I wonder why you’d use an expression like that?”

The doctor shrugged. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”

“Is it? You also referenced witches in your press conference just now, didn’t you?”

“Well, considering the circumstances of your aunt’s murder—the ritualistic nature of it—I suppose a natural association of ideas came to mind.”

“Then tell me, Dr Gillespie, where did you get your information about Tilda Urnshaw’s death?”

He stared at me through those tortoise-shell glasses, his suddenly wary eyes magnified. “I believe… uh… I mean, it’s the gossip of the area, isn’t it? Perhaps I overheard one of the reporters talking about it. I really can’t recall.”

“You can’t recall where you learned the explicit details of a ritual murder, even though you probably only heard about it in the past few hours?” I let the question hang. “All right. Let’s see if your memory is any better concerning the events of yesterday. You were standing right on this spot when you likened people such as Darrel Everwood to a brain tumour that had to be cut away. Burned out. You’re also on record as saying that you’d stop at nothing to eradicate belief in the supernatural. Just how far would you go to achieve that aim, Doctor?”

“You think I’d murder each and every psychic in existence?” He laughed. “My boy, I really wouldn’t have the time.”

“But maybe one or two would do, as a warning to the others? Could you fit that into your schedule of after-dinner speeches, Joe?” I knew I had only moments left before the doctor’s bluster gave way to questions of his own. “What time did you leave the fair last night?”

“It’s Joseph,” he corrected. “And I left at eight-twenty. Before the murder, certainly.”

“You’re very precise in your timekeeping.”

“I happened to glance at my watch. I was running late for another engagement.”

“Another engagement? But you’d finished delivering your speech to the crowds at least half an hour before you left. Why would you hang around if you were needed elsewhere?” When he didn’t answer, I tried a different tack. “What did it feel like when you lost control of the audience last night? I bet that was a unique experience for such an accomplished performer. Did it make you angry?”

“It was… unfortunate,” he admitted.

“You should never let your disciples see you weakened, Doctor,” I advised. “If they realise that their god is just flesh and blood—perhaps even as fallible as the believers he laughs at—what might they do then? There are always other gods, aren’t there? Just waiting in the wings, ready to steal your halo.”

“I must get on,” Gillespie snapped and began to move away.

“I’ve just been speaking with Genevieve Bell’s sister,” I called after him. He stopped and turned back to face me. “Not your biggest fan, I’m afraid. Though, like me, she has some time for your arguments. Can I ask one last question before you disappear? What did you really think of Genevieve? I’m not talking about as a psychic, I mean as a person.”

He fiddled with his cuffs before answering. Not that preening gesture this time, but something like a nervous tic.

“She was… badly damaged,” he said slowly. “Even before the podcast recording began, she looked grey, worn down. Mr Jericho, you might think that my work is designed purely to feed my ego, and maybe there is some truth in that. The spotlight can be addictive. But when I met Genevieve Bell, it brought home to me, very powerfully, the corrupting nature of the supernatural. Her life had been twisted by her convictions. Beliefs founded upon shifting sands that could no longer bear the weight of her self-deception. That was why I said we