The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) (12 page)

“So, how do you find us?” asked her neighbour, a neat-featured clergyman with gold wire-rimmed spectacles. He was dressed in full high-church black. “Neil Steppins – St Jude’s. And you’re the new girl – Faith Morgan, parachuted in all the way from Birmingham to help out the stricken folk of St James’s.” He pursed his lips and twinkled at her slyly.

“How do you do?” She shook hands. His nails were beautifully manicured.

“So, not too dull?” he chirped.

“Not all. That last discussion was rather lively,” Faith answered, watching the irate businessman who had been cornered by the jolly deaconess, with a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

“Mr Prudhoe?” Neil followed her gaze. “Oh, he’s always working himself up into a lather about something. It’s traditional at these affairs. Highlight of my morning. But tell me the gossip.
What
about Alistair Ingram!”

His delivery was amusing, but Faith wasn’t certain what to make of his frank curiosity. She smiled and didn’t respond.

“A murder at Little Worthy. I suppose it looks the part.” He nibbled the edge of a ginger nut, his eyes wandering over the company. “Village green, cottages and flowery gardens – that Miss Marple look.” He sighed, glancing at her sideways. “Poor Alistair. Murdered. Who knows, maybe Mammon caught up with him.”

What did he mean? She wouldn’t have cast Neil Steppins as a Puritan.

“Because he used to be a money man in the City? That’s a bit severe.”

“Oh! Not that! We all like a bit of money – don’t we – if we’re honest? No. I heard he’d left the City under a cloud all those moons ago. One might think it all forgotten, but when something like this happens…” He brought his cup to his lips. “One does wonder.” He sipped his coffee.

What’s his game? Faith wondered. Neil was eyeing her quizzically, waiting for her to lob his conversational tennis ball back.

“What happened?” she asked, slightly annoyed that her curiosity had been piqued by what was likely hearsay, and at worse, scurrilous gossip.

“The partnership Alistair worked for got caught out in embezzlement or fraud or something; one of those cases where the investors lost everything.”

“And Ingram was prosecuted?”

“Not that I heard, but I seem to remember his partners were.”

“That sounds as if he wasn’t involved.” The impression was forming that Neil Steppins got pleasure out of stirring things up.

“Ah! But perhaps some irate investor might have thought he was.” Mr Steppins looked thoughtful. “I wonder if the police know.”

“Perhaps you should tell them,” Faith said curtly.

“Me? Oh no! I don’t know anything really.” He shrugged off the responsibility. “Can’t even remember who told me, it’s all so long ago now – but I’m sure they could check.”

Through the crowd Faith saw Canon Matthews heading for the door.

“Excuse me. I must catch a word with the rural dean,” she said and left him.

Canon Matthews was an old warhorse of a clergyman. For an older man with unruly grey hair, he moved at quite a pace. Faith followed as he headed for the cloisters, his mobile phone to his ear. He finished his call. She caught up with him just as he scribbled a note in his diary.

“Canon Matthews – I am sorry to disturb you but I wondered if you expected Bishop Anthony this morning? I was told he might be dropping by.”

“Miss Morgan – Faith. Yes, the bishop. Bishop Anthony has been called away on a family matter. I am sure if you have a word with Margaret, his secretary, she’ll make you an appointment.” He seemed to catch up with himself and added: “Actually, there is something I need to speak with you about. How are you managing at St James’s?”

“I’m keeping my head above water – I think.”

They began to stroll together side by side beneath the colonnade. The canon seemed to find it hard to stand still, as if his legs needed to keep pace with his brain.

“You’ll keep an eye on young Donald, will you?” He looked down at her over his spectacles. “Blackney’s handling the funeral arrangements – he’s an old friend of mine, and his family has been in the business for generations.”

Faith felt a little breathless. “Yes, about that,” she said, realizing she might not get another chance. “I’m not sure how Don will feel: he’s not really all that fond of—”

Canon Matthews sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. “Ah yes! The poor lad thought he could have a private affair, but it won’t do. Not in these circumstances. George Casey will handle the press – that’s a blessing. The media lads and lasses need someone to keep them in line. We won’t let them film in the church, but we can’t shut them out entirely. There’ll have to be some stand-ups outside the church.” The jargon sounded odd from his lips, but he displayed a faint pleasure in his knowledge of the term. “Are you game? It does us good to give a young female face to the church. George tells me we old chaps just look too stuffy.”

“But has Don Ingram agreed to all this?” Faith suspected that there was no stopping things now, but she wanted to raise a small flag for the son’s rights.

Canon Matthews looked faintly puzzled.

“I phoned him last night. Actually, that’s what I had to speak with you about. Donald asked if you wouldn’t mind taking part in the service.”

“He did?” She felt her cheeks flush pink with surprise and pleasure.

“I’ve drawn up an order of service,” Canon Matthews was saying. “I’ve put you down for some prayers. I’ll email you a copy,” he went on. “Let’s make a date for a phone consultation, and we can go through it.”

In the rural dean’s diary she glimpsed a dense mass of times, arrows, and notes in a tiny, spidery hand. It made her ashamed of the remaining white spaces in hers. They reached the end of the colonnade and turned back in silence.

“You found that farmer, Shoesmith, I hear,” Canon Matthews said abruptly, as they approached the path. “How are you coping?”

Faith paused. His face was very kind. It seemed important to be honest.

“I am struggling a little, I suppose.” Her smile felt tight. “Trevor Shoesmith’s life was such a tragedy. It’s the old dilemma. How can a loving God permit such misery?”

Canon Matthews nodded his grey head.

“And no one tried to help him?”

She thought of Jessica. “Someone did. But for all their good intentions – maybe they made it worse.”

And my loose words may have helped push him over the edge. The thought stung.

“A light in the darkness.” The phrase caught her attention.

“A light in the darkness,” Canon Matthews repeated, putting a hand on her shoulder. “This is only a moment in time. We Christians are supposed to take the long view. I am aware of your professional background, Faith, of course, but could you be in danger of becoming a little over-involved in the police investigation?”

That was the question, but nevertheless Faith felt a little spurt of annoyance hearing it expressed out loud like that. In the distance, a cluster of clergymen in traditional black suits were walking slowly towards them, deep in discussion. She stared in their direction.

“I suppose I am finding it a little hard to distinguish the boundaries of my role.” She looked at up at the grey-haired man beside her. “Aren’t we supposed to do all we can to pursue the truth?”

“We’re supposed to uphold the truth…” Canon Matthews corrected her – a little patronizingly, she thought.

“But what if you aren’t sure what the truth is?”

Canon Matthews fixed her over his spectacles. “As ministers of the gospel, we’re not here to pursue the truth,” he said.

“We’re not?” Faith was shocked. There was a twinkle in his eye. He must have a point.

“Or should I say, the
secular
truth. Our job,” he clarified, “is to proclaim the Good News of Christ. For the rest…” his voice took on a rich pulpit note, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” He gathered himself up. “I must go. I have a meeting. If young Donald has any questions, get him to give me a ring – any time. Until our next!” He waved a hand cheerily above his head as he loped off in the direction of Church House. He was barely a few yards down the path before he was intercepted by the approaching vicars, and drawn into their discussion.

Render unto Caesar. Not exactly helpful. Which bits were Caesar’s?

It would be helpful if God could be more precise in his communications, Faith thought crossly, and headed back in the direction of her car.

G
EORGE
C
ASEY STOOD OUTSIDE
C
HURCH
H
OUSE
talking to a small group of casually dressed men and women by the car imprinted with the TV station’s logo. Faith’s stomach rumbled. She did a quick about-turn and headed for the high street in search of somewhere to eat.

The first place was a chain outlet. It had no spaces left – except for one of those uncomfortably high bar stools, and those gave her indigestion. She spied a small independent café with a homely look, and crossed the street.

She opened the half-glass door. A steamy warmth redolent of sausages in onion gravy enveloped her. She entered just in time to see the last free table grabbed by a couple of shoppers overflowing with bags. She scanned the room. Alison, Bishop Anthony’s wife, was sitting alone at a table in the far corner by the window, lost in thought. Should she go over? It would be an intrusion.

“
Excuse
me!” said a man in a suede jacket impatiently, as he reached beyond her for some condiments set out on a table against the wall. She stepped to one side and Mrs Beech saw her. The bishop’s wife looked around, noting the crowded tables.

“Faith!” she called out. “Come sit here with me. I’ve just been having a coffee.” She brushed up some crumbs from the table and absent-mindedly deposited them in her coffee cup. There were grey smudges under her eyes.

“I’ve just come from my first deanery meeting,” Faith said, balancing her umbrella against the window and taking off her coat.

Mrs Beech smiled, but Faith could see that her eyes wanted to wander off into the middle distance.

“What can I get you?” asked the waitress.

Faith resisted the temptation of the sausages and settled for carrot and coriander soup.

“I was hoping to have a word with Bishop Anthony,” Faith said, as she watched the waitress retreat. “I understand he’s been called away…I hope everything is all right? If you’ll excuse my saying, you look worried.”

Mrs Beech’s eyes focused on her. “Yes.” She fiddled with her cup. “I am worried,” she said with emphasis. “We’ve had some worrying news from Tanzania.”

“Where your son lives?”

“We’re glad he’s home, but it’s our daughter-in-law. Celia’s a health worker with Care United. She’s been working with refugees from the conflicts in Burundi and the Congo at a big refugee camp on the border. There’s always tension between the camp and the locals, but a friend of Anthony’s rang us today to say it’s getting very unsettled; there’ve been riots.”

Faith made a sympathetic noise. “And you’re worried about Celia?”

“We haven’t had an email from her for ten days. We can’t seem to raise her – but phone lines do tend to be a problem, particularly at times of trouble.”

“Your son must be beside himself.”

“Simon’s very worried. We all are. He’s been trying to get a flight back, but there’s nothing at the moment. He and Anthony have spent the morning phoning. Simon has a contact at the embassy in Dodoma. Apparently the area’s been sealed off – even embassy staff are having trouble getting in.”

“It must be terrible,” Faith said.

“We have to wait for the people on the ground to get back to us,” said Alison. “Simon’s gone down to Blossom Cottage – our retirement cottage,” Alison continued in response to the query on Faith’s face. “In Lymington. We bought it years back while we were still in Africa.”

The waitress arrived with Faith’s soup and a warm, crusty roll. It was home-made, fragrant and tasty.

“We’re all very fond of the cottage,” Alison said, watching Faith eat. “It’s the most peaceful place, just by the golf course. Lots of open space.”

“It must be very hard for your son, and so worrying for you all,” Faith said, mentally kicking herself for sounding so inane. She wondered if she should change the subject.

Mrs Beech looked out into the street.

“I’ve been worried for some time,” she said, her voice distant.

Faith had the impression she was listening in on private thoughts. She kept very still.

“Celia’s not one to complain,” the older woman went on, “but reading between the lines…” Her pale eyes met Faith’s. Careworn, Faith thought; that’s the expression. She looks careworn. “Simon has to travel quite a distance to reach his work. Some weeks they hardly see one another, and of course WATA’s financial problems have been a strain,” Alison began, and then stopped.

“Every couple goes through a sticky patch or two.” Faith found herself talking to fill the gap. “And when you are working far from home, that must add to the pressures.” What platitudes! I’m not being much help here, she thought, sipping her soup. What wisdom could she possibly offer a woman who had probably been married nearly forty years?

The same thought must have occurred to Alison.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, with something of her old briskness.

Faith used a piece of roll to mop up the last traces in her bowl. As she popped it in her mouth, Alison leaned towards her across the table.

“May I ask? You are single yourself?”

Faith swallowed, taken aback by the switch in direction. Alison’s light eyes were fixed on her face with an intensity that was quite disconcerting.

“Ah, yes…”

“But you’ve had what the young people call ‘relationships’?”

Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss her personal life with the bishop’s wife – but given the present confessional atmosphere, she didn’t see how she could avoid the question.

“Before I came into the church,” Faith replied, picking her words carefully, “I did live with a man for several years.”

“And it was a committed relationship?”

Faith thought of how deeply she had been in love with Ben in those days. She had imagined they would spend their lives together.

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you marry?” Alison asked. The question might have been accusatory, but the bishop’s wife merely sounded intrigued.

Faith stared at her for a moment. This was getting close to the bone.

“When the question finally came up, I found I wasn’t sure that we were compatible.”

“And yet you lived together for years?”

“Some three years.”

“It took you so long to discover this…incompatibility?”

“We encountered extraordinary circumstances.”

“And he didn’t pass the test?”

The bishop’s wife’s simple question stung. Faith had never looked at it that way before. She didn’t know what to say. Mrs Beech’s sincerity seemed to cut right through all her defences, leaving her vulnerable and uncertain.

Alison reached out and covered her hand as it lay beside her empty bowl.

“Human beings do fail, you know; sometimes they stumble, sometimes they can go quite awry. But that is what love is about. Real love grows out of failures and forgiveness as much as a mutual passion. It is something that takes two people a lifetime to learn.”

She fell silent. All around them, shoppers gossiped and drank and ate. Faith waited.

“But there can be some very hard times,” said Alison sadly, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. She straightened her shoulders. “Was there something you wanted to speak to the bishop about?” she said in her old manner. It seemed that the confessional part of the conversation was over.

“It’s not important.”

Alison went on as if Faith hadn’t spoken. “I’ve sent Anthony up to the farm. It always cheers him up to have a walk around. You can catch him there.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb him – he’s been having such a day…”

“Nonsense. It is simple to find ACORN, you just take the Andover road towards Itchen Abbas.” Mrs Beech took a pencil out of her handbag and drew directions on a napkin. “It’ll do him good to have something else to think about. If you go now you should still catch him.”

It seemed she was being dismissed. Faith got out her purse and counted out payment for her bill.

“If there is anything I can do to help, you will let me know?” She knew the offer was practically pointless, but it seemed important to make it.

“You can keep Celia in your prayers.”

“Of course.” Faith picked up the little map of directions to ACORN. She said her goodbyes and left.

It was an idyllic piece of country on the banks of the River Itchen. Faith spotted an open gate, marked with a simple drawing of an acorn, leading down a track – old established woods to one side, and pasture on the other. The recent rain had buffed up the vivid green. A herd of black-faced ewes and their lambs were grazing at the scrubby grass. Faith rolled down her window and breathed in the fresh air. Well, she’d wanted to check out the ACORN farm, and now here she was. Her car bumped across a cattle grid. The track sloped downwards and turned a corner. A group of silvery wooden barns with traditional red-tiled roofs appeared facing one another around a large sandy square.

She drew up in a parking space alongside a minivan with “ACORN Produce” stencilled on the side. Across the way, a group of black and white saddleback pigs with large, floppy ears were rooting around in a pen. One poked its head through the fence, resting its chin on the bar as it contemplated her. It looked cheerful. She went over and scratched its bristly head between its ears.

“So where is everyone?” she asked. “Have you seen a passing bishop, by any chance?”

The pig shifted its weight and sighed. She spotted a sign, “Farm Shop”, high up on a barn wall. A board hung beneath it: “Open” it read, with an arrow below pointing across the square.

If it’s open, there should be someone there, she thought.

She had crossed the square wondering whether to go left or right, when she spotted a couple in the middle distance walking towards her. Two men – and one of them was Ben.

She thought of the abrupt end to their last conversation. Just her luck to run into Ben now. She resisted the temptation to turn back. Taking a deep breath, she walked on at a steady pace, controlling the urge to speed up.

The gap between them closed as if in slow motion. It was hard work keeping a pleasant half-smile on her face, but she’d rather that than pretend to look at something out of their eyeline. Ben was talking. His companion contemplated her with frank curiosity. A stocky young man with thick black hair and rosy cheeks wearing a Barbour jacket and red corduroy trousers, he didn’t quite fit her idea of an ACORN person – his Barbour was too new and his trousers too red. Ben made some remark. The other man laughed. Ben wore his sardonic look.

Just three yards to go…

“Church meeting over for the day?” Ben greeted her sarcastically.

“I’m looking for Bishop Anthony – someone said I might find him here,” she responded, transferring her attention to his companion. She held out her hand.

“Hello. I’m Faith Morgan. I am helping out at St James’s Church in Little Worthy for the interim.”

“Of course! Luke McIvor, diocesan agent. Bishop Beech has mentioned you.” He pumped her hand a little overenthusiastically. So this was the man she’d heard so much about. His voice had an Irish lilt. “Sorry to say you’ve just missed the bishop. He left ten minutes ago.”

Faith felt a twinge of frustration. Not only was it a wasted trip, but with Ben looking over her shoulder, she might not even get an opportunity to ask McIvor about the mystery at St James’s.

McIvor registered her disappointment. His expression was cheerful, although Faith thought she detected just a touch of mischief.

“But don’t you be rushing off. I’m just giving Inspector Shorter the tour. Join us, why don’t you?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Faith caught the flash of annoyance on Ben’s face.

“I would love to,” she responded, matching McIvor’s enthusiasm. She fell in beside him. “Bishop Anthony has told me such good things about this project. Tell me, who runs ACORN?” she asked chattily.

“There’s a wide group of supporters and some volunteers, but the management team comes down to three: Sandy and George – they’re a couple – and their partner, Bill.”

They both seemed to be ignoring Ben, who marched on the far side of the agent, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

“And are they about?”

“Not this afternoon – they’re attending a farmers’ market meeting in Andover – so you’re stuck with me, sad to say.”

He smiled broadly at her, and she grinned back.

“You were going to show me the stores…” Ben cut in impatiently.

“Of course! This way.” Luke McIvor twinkled at Faith. He didn’t seem in awe of Ben at all. She liked him immediately.

“The inspector’s checking me out as a purveyor of poisons,” he said. “That’ll teach me to buy pesticides.”

Faith was puzzled. “You buy them on ACORN’s behalf?” she asked.

“Not exactly. As I was explaining to the inspector, this is an organic farm, as is the neighbouring farm, but we’ve been having a bit of a pest problem of late. The neighbouring farmer says it’s lax control by ACORN, and has insisted on a treated buffer zone between his land and ACORN’s. As agent for their diocesan landlords, I’m playing mediator.”

“But ACORN aren’t keen?” Faith suggested.

Luke McIvor gave the laugh of a man who bore no grudges. “They stockpile the stuff I give them and tell me they’ll get on to it. They never have yet. I understand why; the other farmer’s got fifty times as much land – they want him to sacrifice some of that for the buffer.”

He stopped before a padlocked shed. He brought out a key and unlocked it. “There.” He pointed to a pile of cans bearing the brand logo of a leading chemical company. “That’s all I’ve purchased from Partridge’s Feed and Supply.”

Ben went over and picked up one can, and then another. He shook it. Liquid sloshed audibly inside.

“This one’s been used,” he said.

“Couple of weeks back, I siphoned off a pint for Mrs Beech, the bishop’s wife,” Luke explained. “She was telling me of an aphid problem with her roses. I told her a bit of that, fifty-fifty diluted with water, sprayed on them of an evening, that’ll put paid to them.”

Now, what was Ben going to make of that? Faith shot a look at him, and saw his eyebrows lift a fraction. Even he couldn’t suspect the bishop’s wife did it.