The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) (5 page)

It was Marjorie who answered. “Trish would bring him
round when I needed something fixing. He mended my kitchen cupboard door. It never closed properly for years. I was always catching myself on it. But Trish’s Adam, he fixed it, just like that.” Lucas’s uncle had clearly made an impression. The old lady wore a fond expression. “He was so very kind. He and Trisha were always cheerful and helpful,” she reminisced. “He fixed my bath leak, too.”

Pat’s eyes sharpened; she was no doubt about to say something cutting. Faith intervened to head her off.

“So – Lucas’s father is dead, too?” she asked, in a rush. The trio of old ladies opposite her greeted the question with comically similar looks of startled embarrassment.

“No one ever knew who Lucas’s father was,” Clarisse explained.

“Trisha never said,” Sue agreed. “He never seemed to figure in their lives.”

“Walked out before the baby was born,” Pat got her word in at last. “No wonder the boy strayed off the path so young.”

“Being dead can hardly be the boy’s fault,” Sue responded, sharply.

Pat wrinkled her neat nose. “It is a tragedy, of course – but young Lucas had gone off the rails since his mother died. He stopped going to school.” Pat shot a challenging look at Sue. “You know he did, Sue. Your Emily said so.”

“My Em attends the same school,” Sue clarified for Faith’s benefit. “She is a couple of years younger, of course.”

“What was he – sixteen?” Faith asked. “It must have been devastating to lose his mother like that.” A sliver of guilt twisted in her. What had Ben said earlier – “one of yours?” As it turned out, he could well have been. Why hadn’t she known about this tragic family? She felt the force of Ben’s disgust. She had given him up, and so much else – her career
in the police, her “normal” life, for her belief in her vocation as a priest. She thought she had followed that vocation here to St James’s, Little Worthy, and its people. It hurt that she had been found wanting. If she had been more aware, more in touch with the community around her as vicar, might she have been able to help this orphaned boy?

You and your saint complex!
She heard Ben’s voice mocking her.
Who made you responsible for everything?
He had a point. Just because a person believed they might be called to a vocation, that didn’t give you superpowers. You did what you could.

The conversation had moved into argument and Pat showed signs of being under siege.

“Trisha did work hard. You have to give her that, Pat,” Sue said.

“And how did she afford some of those things she gave the boy on a carer’s salary?” Pat demanded.

“He never seemed short of money.” Mavis Granger spoke low.

Pat leaned forward to give her an approving look. “Those break-ins?” she lifted her sandy eyebrows.

“Pat!” said Sue. “Let’s not speculate.”

“How did that boy afford that brand new bike he’s been riding around?” Pat defended herself. “Where else would he get the money?”

“You think Lucas Bagshaw was stealing?” asked Faith.

“More often than not it is the youngsters these days. Stealing or something worse.”

“Drugs?” said Elsie, speaking up for the first time in ages.

“Well, I would hardly know about that!” Pat bridled.

Faith thought of standing by Peter down at the river’s edge that morning and the burglary Mavis Granger had
referred to when they had met earlier. Mrs Granger’s face was hard to read. Caught in an unguarded moment, she was looking down at her hands. She appeared tired.
A long day
, Faith thought, sympathetically. She’d come to volunteer her charitable services and now she had to sit through this. Perhaps they should get on to business. But Pat wasn’t finished yet. She had the tenacity of a small Scottish terrier. She turned her glare on Mavis.

“What about your break-in this summer?”

Mrs Granger’s head lifted, startled. “In June, wasn’t it?” Pat said, for the rest of circle.

“It was more damage than anything,” Mavis Granger said vaguely, as if to brush the topic away.

Pat was never good at picking up hints. “Now Mavis – I remember how it upset you,” she said, touching her friend’s arm. “Some stranger coming in, trampling through your home and touching your private things.” The churchwarden’s cheeks were pink with sympathy. “It’s a violation.”

Mrs Granger looked acutely uncomfortable.

“Oh, look at the time!” Faith exclaimed. “Don’t you think we had better get on with our meeting, Pat? It’s a cold night, and I am sure everyone would like to get home.”

Pat widened her eyes at her, pursed her lips and unzipped her leather folder. The leather was a rubbed claret colour, with the initials GMM embossed in gold leaf in the top left-hand corner. No doubt a relic of her husband, Gordon Mackenzie Montesque, now deceased. Faith wondered what kind of man Pat’s husband had been. Another Scottish terrier, like her? He must have had some strength of character to have partnered Pat for forty years or more.

Pat took out a sheaf of paper typed on her old electric typewriter. You didn’t often see print like that these days;
it reminded Faith of her childhood and the activity sheets Brown Owl would hand out at Brownies. Pat handed her sheets around the circle.

“I’ve broken down the assignments,” she was saying. “Based on last year, we are looking at attendance of a hundred and sixty or so. Elsie and Grace – a hundred and fifty of your little cakes, I think. Remember: finger food! And do think of the carpet runners – nothing with cream or jam, if you please. It’s bound to get trodden in, and we’ll have to hire the cleaner to get it out.”

Faith couldn’t see her own name listed. She wondered whether to be relieved or put out. She looked over the page. Pat had divided out each person’s task and responsibilities, down to the precise number of mince pies and fairy cakes they were to supply, along with times to the half hour when they were to be delivered to the church hall, and a detailed rota for setting up.

“Perhaps Pat was a quartermaster in another life,” Sue murmured.

“It’s certainly impressive,” Faith agreed.

“Marjorie – your cheese straws are always popular,” Pat was saying. Marjorie flushed with brief pleasure. “And Mavis has very kindly agreed to donate festive table arrangements,” Pat moved on. “We are lucky! I do think we should offer Mavis a round of applause for her generosity.” Pat raised her plump hands to chest height and patted one cupped palm brightly. After a startled moment, the rest of the company joined in.

“What is going on with Pat and Mrs Granger?” Faith whispered to Sue, under cover of the clapping.

“I heard that Pat wants to be the next chair of the Women’s Institute,” Sue whispered back. “The elections are coming up and the sitting president’s endorsement usually makes for a
shoo-in.” Sue cleared her throat and said out loud, “Pat – are you sure about numbers? We wouldn’t want to seem stingy in our hospitality. And don’t forget the youth choir’s coming to sing at Midnight Mass. Some of them are coming quite a way; what are we going to give them?”

Pat looked a little put out. “A pan of soup and some bread should be sufficient, if you really think it necessary,” she said. “Myself, I never eat after 7 p.m. if I want to sleep at all.” Suddenly, she checked herself. She turned to Mavis. “Do we know how many of these young people there are likely to be?” she asked, in honeyed tones.

Sue saw Faith’s surprise at the direction of Pat’s enquiry.

“Your boy’s in the choir, isn’t he?” she commented, helpfully. Mavis nodded.

“Yes.” She glanced over at Faith with a touch of defiance. “My son joined in the summer with some friends. Well – a girl. I employ her in my shop,” she ended curtly.

Faith couldn’t quite work out whether Mrs Granger thought the youth choir inappropriate for a young man from a good family such as her son, or whether her distaste stemmed from her son’s relationship with her employee. She was intrigued. Perhaps her son had been friendly with Lucas? That might account for some of her discomfort with the preceding conversation.

“I am a little concerned about welcoming this choir,” Pat said dubiously. “I hear some of these young people have been gathered up from who knows where.” Her face froze for one split second as she remembered her company. “Your son excepted, of course, Mavis. Beautiful manners; a lovely boy. You must be very proud of him.”

“And we are very grateful to him,” Faith interrupted, smoothly, “along with all the other young people who are
giving their time and energy to come and sing for us at Midnight Mass. So – soup and bread for, let’s say, twenty-five, for the visiting choir. And an extra batch of chocolate chip cookies for those with a sweet tooth. I can organize that.” She made a note. “Now,” she smiled efficiently at Pat, “is there anything else you need? I don’t see my tasks on this list.” She hoped her offer sounded sincere.

Her churchwarden gave her a firm look.

“I thought it hardly fair to burden you, vicar,” she said, with a thin, sceptical smile. “I know how little time you have during this season.” It was patently clear Pat did not think much of her vicar’s organizational skills. “We can manage the practicalities.”

“Pat – that’s hardly fair,” Sue protested. “Faith is already doing her fair share and more. She’s written the pageant script and cast the leads, and that’s on top of all the extra sermons and services at this time of year…”

“Of course, of course.” Pat shuffled her papers. Here it comes, thought Faith.
And what about the nativity? What about the donkey?
“Although I have to say, I am concerned about that girl you’ve cast as Mary, vicar. The pageant is the highlight of our year at Little Worthy. Of course, being a newcomer, you are not to know, but Alice Peabody from the Hare and Hounds is flighty. She is bound to let you down at the last minute.”

Faith allowed herself a smile. Either Pat hadn’t appreciated the Joseph predicament, or she had chosen not to bring it up. For either, Faith was grateful.

They had all left with their chorus of goodbyes. Faith locked the door of the church hall. Poor Lucas Bagshaw and his broken life filled her thoughts. In this season of Advent, God
called you to face up to the sin in the world. In the crumpled remains of that dead boy she felt faced with an acute and actual example.

And what are you going to do about it?

The voice came from both within her and without.

The snow glittered around her in the frozen silence. She pulled her scarf up against the icy wind and buried her nose in the soft wool. She hadn’t forgotten her superiors’ concern over her getting mixed up in the last police investigation. The outcome of that had been painful, of course. But looking back on it, she believed she had been of some use to everyone caught up in it. And George Casey might protest, but he had used her connection to Ben and the Winchester police more than once. She knew she wasn’t in the police force any more but, she protested silently, you didn’t confront sin by ignoring it. If indeed she had the care of souls in St James’s parish, she needed to understand how Lucas Bagshaw’s young life had come to its end in that muddy river.

“You can’t change who you are,” she sighed into her scarf. “And the truth is, you are a nosy parker by nature.”

The little robin on the bird table was a picture postcard of winter cheer against the backdrop of her frozen garden, a flash of red and a charming chubby outline. It caught Faith’s attention as she sat at her desk struggling with the bones of her next sermon.
Make ready for the coming of the Lord
… And instead she was watching a bird pecking at the scatter of icy seeds she had put out the day before. The delicate Edwardian dial of the vicarage’s enamelled clock read thirty-five minutes after eight. She’d left her phone in the kitchen.

The robin paused, head up, alert, then flew off in a blur of brown and red. She stood up and saw the Beast, a handsome silver and grey shorthaired tabby with a charming face and a gift for murdering small mammals and birds. He looked up and opened his pink mouth to mew silently at her through the glass.

“Oh, very well,” she told him and went into the kitchen, carrying her laptop with her. She opened the door to the garden a couple of inches, and took a sachet of cat food from the stash she kept in the cupboard by the sink. The door opened a fraction more and the Beast padded in. He
chirruped at her with an expectant look. She put the dish of cat food down for him.

“Here you are. Eat this and keep away from my birds,” she told him, crouching down to stroke his thick fur. The Beast had excellent manners. He expected conversation before he dined. He rubbed his head against her knee before focusing his full attention on the jellied meat in his bowl. She made herself a mug of tea and sat at the kitchen table to check her emails.

Another donkey potential ruled out. Heather at the RSPCA sanctuary regretted to inform Ms Morgan that the one possible donkey they had in their charge was otherwise engaged. Things were getting serious.

“I’ve prayed for guidance on this one,” she informed the Beast. “The good Lord must have better things to worry about.” The Beast sprang gracefully onto the table beside her. He sat, curled his tail around his feet, and gazed at her. Inspiration struck and she set to her sermon again.

The next time she looked up, it was nearly twenty past nine. She had to be at the cathedral by 10:30. The tabby mewed indignantly as she showed him the door. She rushed around making the bed, brushing her teeth and collecting her bag. A yard from the front door, the house phone rang. She hesitated. She was still officially in, standing there in the hall. She debated for a second whether to let the answer-phone get it, then picked up the receiver on the hall table under the mirror.

“
There
you are!” It was her sister. She saw the brief annoyance in her face reflected in the mirror and then felt the rush of accompanying shame. She looked down at the table:
Repeat after me: Family is important.

“Good morning, Ruth – I am just on my way out…”

“Of course you are, but I need to talk to you.”

“Right now?”

“It’s about Mother. And Christmas.” Despite the studied pause, Faith understood this was not simply a topic of conversation. Ruth was worked up about something.

“Of course – I’d love to talk about that, but I am running late…” She grimaced as she heard herself. The face in the mirror blushed. She could feel the phone glowing hot in her hand. She turned her back on the mirror and took a short step toward the door. “Really – I have to be at the cathedral in thirty minutes,” she pleaded. “And you know what the traffic’s like this time of day.”

“Of course, your life is important,” her sister said. She didn’t have to say the rest out loud; they both knew Ruth believed she carried the burden of the family alone. “And I’m pretty busy, too.” Ruth worked for the council. Faith visualized her sitting at her desk, everything neat and in order, with a fresh cup of coffee to hand. “But I need to know what we are going to do Christmas Day.”

We
… Faith felt an inner surge of rebellion. Why did Ruth have to assume her little sister had no life and commitments of her own? Instead, she said tentatively, “I sort of assumed it would be at yours…?”

“Of course you did,” Ruth said coldly. Faith was confused. She always thought Ruth liked to have Christmas on her territory. She heard her sister’s intake of breath down the line. “Well,
I
think we need to discuss it.”

A pause stretched its electricity between them. Ruth’s voice came back on, charged with a false sweetness. “So could we book in a time to talk?”

It was past ten o’clock. She had to go. Why did family have to be so unreasonable? Faith became aware of childish echoes infiltrating her reply.

“I am
so
sorry, sis, but I just have to go. I’m sooo late! I’ll ring you tonight – promise.”

A sign taped to the stanchion read “Interviews” with a square black arrow pointing authoritatively toward the Lady Chapel. The PC took her details and waved her in. Members of the youth choir clustered in the front pews, and beyond them Faith could see Ben’s team interviewing one-on-one. Her entrance attracted attention from a trio of girls sitting between two boys, four rows from the front. They gave her hostile up and down stares then firmly turned their backs. She had been prepared for that: what young girl wanted a chaperone of any sort, these days?

The sounds of voices were hushed. No one seemed upset. Everything seemed calm and businesslike. Faith felt rather redundant. She slipped into a pew a few rows back to be on hand if needed.

Her mind drifted to Oliver Markham. Ben had seemed pretty interested in him, and Ben’s instincts were usually good. She couldn’t see Inspector Shorter from where she sat. She wondered whether he was elsewhere, interviewing Markham and building up a case against him.

Of course, Lucas’s death could have been an accident. Or it could have been suicide. She turned the speculation around in her mind. An accident was terrible, but not as bad as murder. The barrier of her rational thought gave way to a wave of sadness. Lucas’s life had been marked by such awful tragedy; not knowing his father and losing his mother so suddenly like that. At the meeting last night, Pat had referred to Lucas dropping out of school after his mother’s death. Maybe he had given up hope and decided to end his misery. A verdict of suicide would be awful enough, but
marginally better than having to accept Oliver Markham as a murderer… She wished she knew how the investigation was going.

Her eyes searched out the familiar profile and gingery hair of Peter Gray. She would rather pass what she’d learned to him than Ben. She had a feeling that Peter would hear her out rather than barking questions. But Ben’s sergeant was collecting up another subject for interview. A young man wearing a long black coat and a woolly hat pulled down over curly brown hair stood up. He had been sitting by a girl with an abundance of golden hair. Her hand reached out toward him. He turned away and followed Peter over to a pair of chairs overlooked by a life-sized recumbent figure, carved in marble, of some ancient patron of the cathedral.

Something struck the panelled back of her pew, jolting her. She smelt soap and turned to find herself facing the freshly shaven cheek of George Casey, the press officer. She caught him leaning in to address her; their foreheads almost collided. They both recoiled.

George Casey blinked his pale blue eyes rapidly behind the round lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. He pushed the frame more firmly onto his nose.

“Ah yes! Ms Morgan – Faith. Glad to see you could make it. I’ve just stopped by to say hello. Can’t stay, I fear – very busy time.”

“Yes. Advent is rather a busy time for all of us in the church,” she agreed, solemnly.

Casey looked at her blankly. He went on, “Bishop Rodney, our suffragan, he’s recording the Christmas message with the local BBC chaps in ten minutes. He’s got a real way with him. You’ll have heard him on
Thought for Today
on Radio 4?” He hardly gave her a chance to murmur a
response. “Of course; a natural communicator.” He agreed with himself. Then he ran out of words and goggled at her.

Faith felt sorry for him. He could be a bit obtuse, but the only time they’d had much to do with each other was over the business that led to the diocesan bishop, Anthony Beech – the bishop who brought her to Winchester – taking early retirement. The press officer had avoided Faith as much as possible after that. Her presence forced him to struggle with the correct way of referring to his previous employer. Not that Bishop Anthony had been anything other than a good man, but George Casey seemed to find the murder connection unspeakable. It was one of the reasons Faith didn’t entirely approve of him.

“Do you think Bishop Rodney might be promoted?” she asked, trying to fill the silence and turn her train of thought into something less controversial. They were still waiting for Anthony Beech’s successor to be appointed to the bishopric. George Casey grimaced, relieved to be on safer ground.

“Not here, I think,” he said regretfully. “They rarely promote suffragans in their own diocese; it’s just not the way things are done.”

Faith thought it would be kind to keep the thread going. “Have you heard anything?” she asked conspiratorially. The press officer seemed to fill out as his confidence returned.

“Maybe a whisper,” he said, with an arched eyebrow, “but nothing I could talk about just now.” He smiled, letting her absorb his superiority. “I must be off. We have to get something in the can by midday.”

The press officer hurried off with a slight frown, head held high and his leather folder clasped to his left breast. As she watched him leave, she realized that he probably wanted her here as much as Ben did. She was a spy in both camps.

As if summoned by thought, she felt the air shift beside her. Ben towered above her, wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat, his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. He stepped over her and dropped into the seat beside her.

“It’s damn freezing,” he said.

“Don’t swear in the house of God,” she said, with a straight face.

He leaned his head back and gazed up into the stone vaults of heaven above them.

“Sorry,” he said, unconvincingly.

The girls squirmed around in their pew. They were whispering to one another, throwing glances toward Ben. He tended to draw admiring looks from teenage girls. Probably due to the height, the intense blue eyes and dark hair. Faith glanced at his profile. His nose was a bit big and sharp, though, once you knew him. She wondered how she could distil the previous night’s gossip into what Ben would term “intelligence”.

“So where were you, precisely, yesterday, when you called?” Ben was looking at his team and their interviews. “You hung up in a hurry.”

Faith struggled to subdue the memory of blushing on Jim’s toilet seat the day before.

“What’s it to you?” she said. “I’m not under caution, am I?”

Ben snorted, but he was smiling.

Time to take control of the conversation. “How’s the investigation going?” she asked. “Have you charged Markham?”

Ben sank further into his upstanding collar. He flicked a glance at her, his eyes crinkling at the side. “What’s it to you?”

“I am a curious person,” Faith replied.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

She smiled. “So – you must have some prelims from the post-mortem?”

“Maybe.”

Over by the marble statue, Peter had finished with his current interviewee. The young man in the beanie hat joined the blonde girl. Peter spotted Faith and came down the aisle toward them. He sat down in the row in front of them and, with a welcoming smile, stretched his hand over the pew back.

“Hello, Faith.” They shook hands. “Has the boss been bringing you up to date?”

“He’s was about to tell me about the PM,” she replied, reflecting Peter’s warmth in her own smile. “What’s the latest news?”

Peter looked to Ben, and Ben shrugged. “May as well tell her.”

“Death occurred more than twenty-four hours before the body was discovered,” said Peter.

“And we know this because…?” she queried. For a moment she was back in the force, speaking as if Peter were her trainee. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Condition of stomach contents – digested pepperoni pizza and black coffee,” he responded, pleased with himself. Peter was still fresh enough to the investigating team to betray his excitement with his trade. “Probably died sometime in the afternoon or later on Saturday. Pathologist said it was hard to tell.”

“Taking into account the frost affecting decomp?” Faith asked.

Peter nodded. “So that takes Oliver Markham out of the running,” Faith commented, just resisting slipping a pleased glance in Ben’s direction.

“Could be.” Peter’s expression didn’t have the force of
agreement she was looking for. “Markham says he drove his family down to London on Friday night, and stayed with the family at their hotel through the weekend before driving back Sunday night.”

“And you don’t believe him?” Faith addressed her query to Ben. His face gave nothing away.

“We’re checking.” Peter’s response seemed more intended to placate her than give the answer she wanted. She tried another tack.

“I suppose it could have been suicide,” she mused.

“Bruise on the hip and two knocks to the head,” countered Peter. Faith examined Ben’s profile, trying to read him. He ignored her.

Inebriation made you reckless and clumsy. If the boy had been drunk or high… Lots of the young seemed to deal with emotion that way these days. Lucas might have had an accident. His phone had been in his hip pocket, and it had been hit hard enough to break the casing. She tried to imagine a scenario to explain such a bruise and the wounded head. She was conscious of Ben waiting for something – for what? For her to make a fool of herself?

“
Two
knocks to the head?” she repeated, slowly.

Peter nodded. Holding his palms flat, fingers stretched out, he pantomimed a blow with the flat of his hand up the right side of his face, bisecting the temple and then, with the opposite hand, tapped the front part of the crown of his head.

“Here and here.”

Ben was watching her, his expression sober.