A Dead Man Out of Mind (2 page)

Dramatis personae

PROLOGUE

    
What profit is there in my blood: when I go down to the pit?

Psalm 30.9

It was a clear case of a burglary gone wrong; the police at the scene were in no doubt about that. They'd seen plenty of these church burglaries – an increasing number in recent years, and not just in rich London parishes like this one. Invariably they fell into two categories of crime. The professional burglar knew what he was looking for, often stealing to order; he would be in and out of the church quickly, leaving a minimum of mess behind. In these cases, the stolen items – silver mostly, and antique ecclesiastical furniture – would be on a boat to the Continent before they were even missed. The other sort of church burglary was of the opportunistic kind, and usually left chaos in its wake.

From the shambles in the sacristy, it was apparent that the burglary at St Margaret's Church, Pimlico, was in the second category. Papers and documents, evidently from the open safe, were scattered around the floor, a table had been overturned, an empty communion wine bottle smashed, and in an act of wilful and mindless vandalism, the purple chasuble which had been laid out for the next celebration of the Mass had been slashed to ribbons. But there was one significant difference from the usual pattern: by the safe lay the body of a clergyman, the back of his head caved in.

‘He must have caught them in the act, poor devil.' Detective Inspector Pierce touched the arm of the young uniformed constable who had been the first officer on the scene; the man looked distinctly green round the gills, thought Pierce with compassion. They couldn't do any more until the police pathologist arrived to certify death – not that there was any doubt about it, but procedures must be adhered to – so Pierce began talking to take both their minds off the gruesome sight before them.

‘I suppose it was kids,' he said with a detachment he didn't feel. ‘These sorts of crimes usually are. Unpremeditated. They break into a church looking for something they can turn into a bit of ready cash. For drugs, you know – that kind of thing.'

The PC's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he gulped convulsively, grateful for the distraction. ‘And what do they do with . . . with the stuff they take, sir?'

‘Oh, they flog it for a few bob. It usually turns up down the Portobello Road in a day or two.'

‘And do you usually catch them?'

Pierce smiled grimly. ‘Sometimes we do, and sometimes we don't. Most of them are pretty stupid, you know. At least in this sort of crime. With the pros we don't have much chance of catching them, but the kids are a different story. The pros never leave prints, of course, but often the kids do. They wipe the obvious things and then leave a clear set of prints on a door handle. Or they wear surgical gloves and then peel the gloves off and leave them at the scene – with their prints inside.'

‘So you think you'll catch whoever did . . . this?' The PC's eyes returned without volition to the bloody mess that was the priest's head, and he gulped again.

‘I'd say we've got a damn good chance,' Pierce reassured him. ‘They're sure to have slipped up somewhere. They probably panicked after the priest surprised them, and when he ended up dead I imagine they got out in a hell of a hurry.' He fell silent for a moment, contemplating the body on the floor.

Pierce was undecided about the dead man's age; his black cassock gave no clues, and while his face was young and almost boyish, his dark hair was peppered with grey in virtually equal measure. That youthful, unlined face was turned towards Pierce, its blue eyes staring at him in a final look of sightless surprise. ‘God, I wish that doctor would get here,' the inspector muttered, jamming his hands in his coat pockets.

A moment later his wish was granted. The police pathologist shoved his way into the room, made a quick examination, and nodded curtly. That was the signal for the scene-of-crime officers to begin their detailed work; as the specialists moved in to bag the hands of the corpse and gather evidence, Pierce led the PC out of the cramped and overcrowded sacristy and into the church.

‘Can't you tell me what's going on in there?' The man who hovered outside the door looked terrible, his face as bloodlessly white as that of the dead man in the sacristy. In fact, thought Pierce, he had something of the look of a death's head about him, with a cadaverously gaunt face, sunken eyes in deep sockets, a high bony forehead, and a balding crown with a few lank and lifeless strands of hair brushed across the top. ‘I'm the one who found him,' he added, wringing his hands. ‘When I came in this morning. He must have surprised some intruders. Thieves, robbers. Oh, it's just too terrible! That's what happened, isn't it?'

‘You know just about as much as we do at this point, but it seems likely.' Pierce looked the man up and down. ‘And who are you, sir, if you don't mind my asking?'

‘Oh, sorry. Sorry.' The hand-wringing ceased as the man raised a hand to smooth the strands on the top of his head. ‘Stanley Everitt. I'm the Parish Administrator.'

‘So you work here?' It had never occurred to Pierce that people other than clergymen worked in churches.

‘Some of the time.' The man's voice, with its unpleasant sibilance, took on a pedantic tone and he almost seemed to forget why the policemen were there as he explained. ‘I'm actually the Administrator of St Jude's. You know, the big church up the road. St Margaret's is a satellite of St Jude's, so it comes under my jurisdiction as well. Most of the time I'm based at St Jude's, but I spend one day a week here. Fridays. I always come here on a Friday.'

‘But this is Saturday,' interposed the constable, a stickler for details.

‘Yes, of course, but there's a wedding today, and the Vicar asked me to—' Everitt broke off, suddenly recollecting what had happened. ‘The Vicar! Oh, how am I going to tell the Vicar?' The hand-wringing resumed with increased agitation. ‘He'll be shattered. He's so over-worked already – however will he manage now?'

Pierce frowned in puzzlement. ‘You mean that bloke in there isn't the Vicar?'

‘Oh, good heavens no. He is . . . was . . . the curate. Father Julian Piper.'

‘The curate?'

‘Technically the curate of St Jude's
and
St Margaret's, of course,' Everitt explained. ‘It's a combined benefice. Father Keble Smythe, the Vicar of St Jude's, is Priest-in-Charge at St Margaret's. But he's far too busy at St Jude's to have much time for St Margaret's, so Father Julian usually takes – or rather took – the services here. Oh, dear. I just don't know what's going to happen . . .'

Pierce, tiring of the man's rather prolix officiousness, interrupted the flow. ‘Mr . . . um . . . Everitt, as soon as they're finished in there, I'd appreciate it if you'd take a look and let me know what, if anything, is missing. It will help us in our enquiries. Unless you'd rather that I asked the Vicar—'

‘Oh, no, you mustn't disturb Father Keble Smythe!' Everitt pursed his lips and squared his shoulders self-importantly. ‘I'll do all I can to help, of course. That's what a Parish Administrator is for.'

‘Thank you.' Pierce's eyebrows lifted in unconscious irony but his voice was without inflexion.

‘And I'll break the news about Father Julian's . . . death to Father Keble Smythe,' Everitt added. ‘He'll be so upset. It wouldn't do for him to hear it from a stranger.'

An hour later, the scene-of-crime officers had collected their evidence with meticulous precision, and the body had been removed to the mortuary. But the chaos remained, and Stanley Everitt flinched as he surveyed the wreckage of the normally tidy sacristy. ‘Why did they have to make so much mess?' he moaned.

‘Pure maliciousness, most likely,' the policeman at his side explained dispassionately. ‘But this isn't bad, Mr Everitt. You should see some of the scenes of crime that we get called to. You wouldn't believe the unpleasant things some burglars do to . . . leave their mark, let's say. I won't go into details.'

Everitt turned a startled gaze on him, then opened and shut his mouth soundlessly. ‘Really?' he said at last.

Pierce nodded. ‘So if you wouldn't mind having a look round . . .'

The inspection didn't take long; Everitt was evidently familiar with the contents of the sacristy. ‘The chalice is missing,' he proclaimed at once. ‘It would have been set out ready for early Mass, so they would have seen it straightaway.'

Catching the eye of the constable, Pierce nodded meaningfully. ‘Anything else?'

‘I don't think so.' He stuck his head in the safe. ‘The other silver is still here, all wrapped up – the alms dish, the ciborium, the candlesticks, the altar cross, the thurible, the monstrance, the ewer. I suppose they were in too much of a hurry to look any further after . . . well, you know.'

With his toe, Pierce indicated the papers which were scattered about the floor. ‘What about this lot? Anything important missing?'

Everitt frowned. ‘I can't imagine why there would be. These are just things like insurance forms and faculty documents – no reason to steal them. And the registers haven't been damaged – they're still in the safe.' He patted the leather-bound volumes reassuringly. ‘Of course I'll have to sort through everything and get it back in order. What a lot of work!'

Patiently, Pierce tried to return his attention to the matter at hand. ‘So as far as you can tell, only the chalice has been taken.'

Stanley Everitt straightened up and looked slowly around the sacristy. ‘There's just one other thing . . .'

‘What is that, Mr Everitt?'

‘One of the brass candlesticks seems to be gone. See, there's just the one, there on the vestment chest. Its mate is missing. Why would someone steal one brass candlestick?'

Pierce smiled grimly. ‘Oh, you don't have to worry about that, sir. We know exactly where that is. It's on its way to the lab, sealed in a polythene bag.'

‘But . . .'

‘Evidence.' He took perverse pleasure in spelling it out. ‘You see, Mr Everitt, that candlestick was used recently for something other than throwing light. That candlestick was used to smash in the back of your Father Julian's head.'

Everitt closed his eyes. ‘Excuse me a moment, Inspector,' he said faintly, heading for the door.