The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) (3 page)

“Not our department,” said Peter, a little defensively. “But you know the statistics on theft. Hampshire’s clear-up rate is less than 20 per cent.”

“Not a conviction score to brag about.”

“No. But like I said, not our department.”

The Markham house was a 1930s building with a modern extension. To one side stood the barn that Oliver Markham had converted into his joinery workshop. Ben had shed his white boiler suit and was waiting for them outside.

“There hasn’t been a recent break-in here, has there?” Faith asked Peter, as they stood side by side, wrestling their way out of the nylon fabric.

“None reported,” Peter replied, curtly. His attention was fixed on freeing his lower leg from the clinging forensic suit, but she could tell her question had hooked his attention. They joined Ben.

“You took your time getting rid of her.”

“Recognize who that was?” Peter asked. “Mrs Neil Granger.”

“Ah…” Ben snorted.

“Who is Mrs Granger?” queried Faith.

“Mrs
Neil
Granger? Put herself up to be a magistrate not so long ago. Likes to speak out on behalf of her community.”

“She told me her husband was very well known,” said Faith.

“Even if he’s heard of more than seen,” Peter said, rather naughtily, Faith thought.

“Piling up the dosh keeps him away from home,” Ben added. “Mr Neil Granger does a lot of business over in Scandinavia, so they say. I was thinking, sergeant, we should invite Mr Markham down to the station for a chat. He’s in the kitchen with young Eagles.” Peter nodded and went in.

“You can’t be serious,” Faith said. “You can’t think Oliver Markham is responsible for that boy.”

Ben looked down at her fondly – or maybe it was just condescension. “You know about the shotgun incident?”

Faith sighed. “Peter told me. It’s a jump from that to murder, isn’t it?”

“I thought you were keen on leaps of faith,” said Ben. He was definitely smiling now.

Peter came out of the house with Markham, holding him loosely by the arm. She glanced at his profile and tried to see the carpenter objectively. He was a big man, with strong shoulders and forearms, and broad hands. Right now he had them clenched as if he might hit out. But did Oliver Markham really look like a man who had murdered on impulse and then been caught red-handed trying to dispose of the body? Faith hurried over.

“Oliver! What a wretched business.” She pulled back her outstretched hand before it touched him, repelled by the electricity of his suppressed emotion. It took him a moment to recognize her.

“Faith!” he greeted her jerkily. “I forgot. Sorry – can’t offer you coffee.”

“Where are Julie and the girls? Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

Oliver blinked. “Gone to London for a few days; Christmas shopping. No need to bother about them.” He lowered his head and gave Ben a bull-like stare. “Are we going, or what?”

Faith sat in her car, waiting for the heaters to breathe life into her hands. Down the lane, the postman was chatting to the man from the AA. At least some Christmas cards would be delivered late that day. Her phone beeped officiously. She needed to leave for her next appointment at the cathedral. She watched Ben execute a neat three-point turn and drive off with Peter and Oliver not talking to one another in the back.

Surely all this with Oliver Markham would sort itself out soon enough. She prayed that it would.

As Faith attempted to turn in the lane (less successfully than Ben), an additional thought stole into her mind unbidden, though it seemed trivial in the circumstances. If Ben’s ridiculous suspicions had any foundation, Little Worthy’s Christmas pageant had just lost their Joseph. And they still had no donkey.

A light snow began to fall, and the road into Winchester soon clogged with slow-moving vehicles. After crawling in traffic for longer than seemed worth it, Faith finally found a space in a car park not too far from the cathedral. She felt glad of her padded winter boots. Whirling snowflakes filled the air, veiling everything in white as she made her way to the high street.

She might have mailed her cards, but she still had nothing to give to her mother. Her sister offered no problems – Ruth liked to know she was getting a refill of her favourite perfume – and Sean, her nephew, had been considerate about letting her know a couple of things he would be happy to receive. But Mother – she must find something nice. She hadn’t been able to get over to Birmingham to see her for a couple of weeks now because of the Advent rush. Ruth had been dropping dark hints that they “needed to talk” about their mother. She must schedule some time to find out what that was about.

Medieval and Tudor timbered buildings looked on benignly through the falling snow. “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer
”
played from a sound system somewhere. Along the high street, crowds of serious shoppers, bulky with bags,
mixed with rushed mothers hoping to pick up some Christmas presents in the last hour before the school run. Such a fuss surrounded this winter holiday – it was as if the whole street pulsed with illuminated anticipation of the one day in the year when happy families would exchange the perfect gifts and enjoy the perfect day.

Faith made for the shelter of the porticoed shops of the Pentice, just the sort of place she was bound to find a suitable present. On the way, she spied a nifty calendar clock in an electrical store’s display. That would be useful for the kitchen – never again need she forget what day of the week it was. The clock could tell her the day, the date and the time as she made the morning coffee. The thought of herself standing in her kitchen brought her up with a start. Christmas food. Oh dear! She hadn’t got back to Ruth about that either. The problem with being a vicar at this time of year, Faith meditated, gazing at an incongruous pink teddy bear in a Santa’s outfit, is that there just isn’t enough time to organize Christmas with your own family.

Ruth usually had Mother over since Dad died, and nephew Sean would be back from uni for Christmas at least (New Year was another matter). Ruth would be expecting Faith to join them. Faith’s elder sister was a born hostess. She liked cooking and laying out feasts for other people. Ruth even found time to maintain Mother’s old tradition of constructing elaborate Christmas table decorations. As a child, Faith’s favourite had been a cardboard boat with painted sides and aluminium foil sails, chocolate coins covered in gilt paper concealed in its hold. That one had lasted for years (minus the chocolate, of course). It was probably still in Mother’s attic somewhere.

She drifted closer to a shop window framing an enticing Christmas scene. The sight of all those perfectly wrapped
boxes surrounding the silver gilt tree brought to her mind Peter’s words about young offenders stealing other people’s Christmas presents. The atmosphere curdled around her as the horror of the morning returned. The black and white of the dead boy’s face came between her and the glow. He’d never see another Christmas.

Flakes of snow found their way inside her collar and dripped cold on her skin. Faith tried to move toward the shelter of an awning, but she found herself elbowed out of the way by a group of excited young people, absorbed in their conversation. Suddenly the glut of festivity seemed terribly shallow, feverish and misplaced.

She shook herself, physically and mentally. The boy’s death was a tragedy, but she had to get on with her day. Others were relying on her. She ventured inside the shop and selected a beautifully carved bird table for her mother’s garden.

Having paid, she looked at her watch. Mr Postlethwaite had said he would be rehearsing until three. She still had time to visit her avenue.

Its parallel lines of graceful trees always took her breath away – and today the sparkle of frost and snow had transformed them to a fairyland. The cathedral’s west front, snow-dusted, soared like an intricate ice palace against violet cloud-banks heavy with snow still unshed.

She savoured every moment of walking through her avenue of winter trees in stately rank, turning back as she reached the steps of the cathedral to appreciate its loveliness from another angle.

Faith had never met the junior choirmaster, and wondered what he would be like. Postlethwaite – wasn’t that a northern name? She imagined a small, portly Yorkshireman with a balding head. Mr Postlethwaite, it seemed, had had some
success running youth choirs locally, but the collaboration with the cathedral was a new venture entirely. George Casey, the diocesan press officer, had been circumspect about the appointment, which in Faith’s eyes was as good an endorsement as any. Pat too, and that added a further naughty satisfaction.

She crossed the threshold into the chill, lofty space, looking up at the medieval builders’ attempt to encapsulate eternity. They had certainly captured peace. At this time of day a hush fell over the cathedral, its few visitors dwarfed in the vastness. Her rubber-soled boots padded silently across the stone. Her white breath suspended in space for a moment as she exhaled.

From a side chapel she heard voices singing with energy and without accompaniment. Captivated by the joyous energy of song, she followed the sound.

A blast of hot air basted her as she passed a garden-style heater. Beyond, the choir ran through rehearsals with its back to her – maybe twenty or more young people, teenagers mostly; early twenties at the most. Their attention was focused on someone invisible from where Faith stood. She slipped into a pew to listen. A young man’s voice came in a beat late. He broke off with an exclamation of frustration.

“That’s just slightly off…” The choirmaster’s voice was calm. “But we’re getting there.” Voices dropped and Faith heard a murmured altercation with the soloist. Two girls in the back row noticed her sitting behind them, then several other heads turned.

“OK. We’ve run out of time. Thank you, one and all.” Chairs scraped back and a rising hum of young voices drifted over as the group before her fragmented. The junior choirmaster’s voice rose a notch. “Wednesday, 6 p.m.; meet in the choir room. Text alerts will follow.”

Faith was conscious of the stares examining her as the group passed – especially from the girls. She rose from her seat and saw the conductor for the first time. Neither short nor bald – mid-thirties, Faith guessed. He rose a comfortable two or three inches taller than her, with close cropped fair-ish hair. He hailed her.

“You must be Faith?” He had guarded, worldly, hazel eyes. “Jim Postlethwaite.”

“Faith Morgan,” she responded. His hand gripped hers.

Without warning, Faith suddenly felt a little faint. She reached for the support of the nearest pew-back. The choirmaster slipped a steadying hand under her elbow. He bore her weight easily.

“You all right?”

“So sorry! Festive stress. I’ve been running on empty since first thing.”

“Really? I thought this time of year was supposed to be joyous,” he said ironically. She was grateful for the lack of fuss. His tone made her feel a little less of a fool.

“And it is,” she replied, “but less so when you are short of a donkey for the nativity pageant. You try booking a donkey this close to Christmas.” The dizziness passed and she straightened up.

“It’s freezing in here,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gasping for a cuppa. How about we transfer to my lodgings? I might even have a stale mince pie sitting around.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Faith. “Lead on.”

They left the cathedral by the south door. The snow had ceased, leaving a glimmering in the dusk.

“So tell me about your choir,” Faith said. “How many should I expect for our Midnight Mass?”

“Probably fifteen or so. They won’t all turn up, but I’ll bring
those that do in the minibus, so you’ll be sure of a quorum.”

They made their way cautiously down the icy paths crossing the Close toward the ancient King’s Gate.

“How did you come to be here?” asked Faith.

“You think I don’t look the part?” Jim gestured back at the historic magnificence of the Close behind them. He grimaced self-deprecatingly. “You’re probably right. I came to Winchester on an Arts grant this summer –
Bringing harmony to troubled lives
…” Faith looked at him sideways.

“Really?”

He grinned – an endearingly open and boyish grin.

“Well, that was the pitch. The dean came to one of the concerts. He thought it might be something we could replicate with the cathedral’s backing. I help out with the main choir as well, of course.” Jim stopped before a painted mews house. “Here we are.”

They climbed a polished oak staircase and he unlocked the door to a suite. What had once been gracious proportions had been divided into more modern spaces by plasterboard partitions – a bedroom, bathroom and a truncated sitting room dominated by a startlingly lofty window. The space was furnished with chairs and a sofa bed covered in an easy-clean fabric in a dull red. On the short wall, a drinks fridge and a mini microwave gave the appearance of a galley kitchen. An electric kettle sat on a narrow worktop beneath a cupboard too small to hold much more than a few mugs.

“Take a seat,” he said. She peeled off her outer layers and sat on the uncomfortably geometric sofa while Jim flicked the kettle on.

“They’re a good bunch,” he was saying, as he deposited three mince pies on a chipped floral plate. “The numbers fluctuate, but we have maybe twenty to thirty regulars,
aged between sixteen and twenty-one.” He nodded over his shoulder to a pile of leaflets lying on the coffee table. “Some of the kids came from the summer choir; others are newbies. You might be interested in those. Publicity leaflets. St James’s is in the list. Take a bunch to hand out at your pageant. Might pull in a few more punters for Midnight Mass – you never know.”

The flyers were eye-catching – candid shots of choir members against lozenges of colour. Faith’s eyes stopped on a youth with his head tilted to one side against the weight of a fringe like a black wing.

The dead boy’s eyes were striking – they looked straight out at her.

“You don’t take sugar?” Jim was leaning in front of her, placing the mince pies on the table. She shook her head in a rapid negative, startled by the warmth spreading over her skin as he looked down at her. She dropped his flyer on the table and took a mince pie.

“That boy with the black fringe down the bottom there…” she said. “The picture against the yellow
…
”

He leaned over her to look and then converted the movement, twisting his body gracefully to sit down, lounging, relaxed, opposite her. The flyer lay on the table between them.

“Lucas Bagshaw. Pity,” he grimaced, regretfully. “He had a really good voice.”

“Had?”

“He walked out on me,” Jim said wryly. He smiled at her, unguarded, as if they were old friends. “These kids aren’t always reliable. Lucas left us in the lurch; didn’t turn up for Sunday’s performance.” For a moment his hazel eyes reflected annoyance. “Didn’t even bother to text to give me the heads-up. He had a solo, too – you heard us trying his replacement. He is a good lad, but like most of them, he lacks confidence.”

“Lucas?” Faith asked, confused. Jim frowned, puzzled a moment. Then his face cleared.

“I meant the substitute. No. Now you mention it, Lucas is pretty mature for his age.”

He got up, and poured boiling water into two mugs. Faith let her teeth sink into the pastry of the mince pie. She couldn’t be sure – could she? She swallowed without chewing properly.

“I don’t suppose I could use your facilities?”

“Feel free,” he replied. “It’s just down the hall. First on the right.”

She locked the bathroom door behind her and fumbled in the depths of her bag for her phone. It barely rang twice before Ben picked up.

“Shorter.”
He’s in a mood
, she thought. There was no use beating about the bush when he was like that. Faith took a deep breath.

“Lucas Bagshaw – he could be the…”

“The victim at the river?” Ben cut across her. No small talk. No preamble. Just straight in, the way it always used to be.

“His face is on a flyer for a choir. I think. He is – was – a member of a youth choir performing around the diocese.” There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“Where are you calling from?” She had a sudden vision of herself sitting on the covered toilet in the bathroom of an attractive man she had only just met. She felt the heat rise up her cheeks.

“The cathedral,” she answered. Bother! That sounded defensive. What was she – sixteen? Faith screwed up her face, waiting.

“Where
abouts
in the cathedral?” Ben’s voice asked in her ear.

There was a gentle tap at the door.

“Are you all right in there?” Jim asked.

Faith muffled the phone in the towel hanging by the sink.

“Fine!” she called out, cheerily. “Be out in a minute.” She heard him retreat down the corridor.

“Got to go,” she said hurriedly in to the phone, and rang off. She depressed the toilet handle and washed her hands, drying them carefully to buy herself some time. Until Ben confirmed the ID, she’d keep this to herself. “Bluff,” she told her reflection. “Just bluff.”

“Anything wrong?” Jim asked as she reappeared. There was a steaming mug beside the mince pies.

“Had to take a phone call,” she said breezily. “Mobiles are convenient, but so
inconvenient
sometimes – don’t you think?” She smiled at him, picking up her tea and taking a sip while she sat back down. “Tell me more about your choir,” she resumed. “Where do you draw the kids from?”

“They come from all sorts of places.”

“But all from Winchester and hereabouts?” She paused to drink more tea. “Do you not worry about them, these kids, when they fail to turn up or drop out all of a sudden?”