The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) (19 page)

“I knew something was terribly wrong,” Alison murmured. Her eyes looked at nothing Faith could see. “But not this, not this.”

Bishop Anthony took her arm. “Now, Mother, we’ll find a way. We’ll find a way.”

Mrs Beech straightened up. She separated herself carefully from her husband. Walking mechanically, she crossed over to the police car where her son sat in the back, while the officer spoke on the radio.

Love’s front line, Faith thought. How can God cope with this?

Alison touched her son’s shoulder. He reached up and grabbed her hand and hung on to it, sobbing. Faith could see the tremors pass through Alison with each sob.

Tomorrow was Palm Sunday, Faith realized with a lurch. She was taking the service. “I’m not sure my faith’s up to this,” she said out loud.

Ben’s hand cradled her neck. He was pulling her towards him. Somewhere inside she braced herself – but he just dropped a kiss on the top her head and let her go.

“It’s OK,” he said above her. “No one else heard that.”

B
Y SIX O’CLOCK THAT SAME DAY
, Faith was sitting in Ruth’s spare room with the Cabbage Patch dolls looming over her, staring at the blank screen of her laptop. In less than sixteen hours she would be preaching on Palm Sunday. As curate of St Michael’s back in Birmingham, her Palm Sunday processions had been a highlight of the season. The cursor blinked at her reproachfully. She’d been sitting here for twenty minutes. She had plenty to say about sin; it was the hopeful celebration she was short on right now.

To be honest, for all her successes in that line, she had a problem with Palm Sunday. She was uncomfortable with the re-enactment of the fair-weather crowds acclaiming Jesus as a celebrity as he entered Jerusalem – the same crowds who would turn on him, a mere five days later, baying for his blood. The message seemed to be “you can’t trust humanity; it lets you down”.

She’d been able to sit down briefly with Jessica after the hour or so of police interviews.

“When I get through this, I’m going away,” she’d said. “I want a new start.”

“But you have friends here.”

Jessica had glanced at Faith bleakly, and then her face had softened. “Thank you. But I don’t want to be known like this. Maybe I’ll come back when all this has died down.”

“What will you do?” Faith had asked.

“A friend was talking about a job in an accountancy practice in Cheshire.”

“Dealing with footballers’ wives and their fortunes?”

Jessica had laughed humourlessly. “I thought I’d try the material life for a while.”

Perhaps she was right. Faith had thought of Simon Beech. People can go mad looking for God too hard, she’d thought.

The harsh overhead light had caught Jessica’s hair. The carefully tinted blonde highlights were growing out. The naïve bloom she’d had when Faith had first set eyes on her was gone. She’d seemed somehow reduced and refined to an essence of herself. Faith had decided she liked what remained.

Jessica had looked straight at her.

“Do you think I’ll survive this?” she’d asked.

“Yes. I know you will.”

They’d sat silent together in the blank room. They’d been through so much together of late, it was quite peaceful.

It’s not about fixing things; sometimes it’s about being alongside in the midst.

The next morning she was there, in the church, half an hour early. She walked through the empty nave in her cassock, listening to the peaceful sounds of Fred and Pat laying out service sheets and hymnals. She came to a halt before the altar. The three windows behind were perfectly proportioned. A harmony of light and stone and glass, and in the middle, the cross.

It’s about love.

But what if there is no truth to it?

It’s a gamble
, said a calming voice.

She looked back. Fred and Pat had their heads together. They were laughing at some joke. They’re worth the gamble, she thought.

In the event, the service was rather upbeat. Peter brought his wife, Sandra, and their two little boys. Peter proved himself useful as an animal wrangler when the donkey Sue had borrowed from a sanctuary down the road turned out to be a little skittish. With Peter’s coaxing, the donkey became quite the star of the show – along with Clarissa and Timothy’s little girl, Alisha, who rode on his back, beaming, as the Christ figure. They all sang and waved palm crosses. And Faith’s sermon seemed to go down quite well. It’s the people who make the celebration, she thought.

She didn’t mention the events at Blossom Cottage. She overheard Fred telling Pat that Jessica had been called away. They would read about it in the papers soon enough; it wasn’t her story to tell.

She was saying goodbye at the church door when Ben came up the path.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Did you want me for something?” she asked.

He paused and then let that one pass.

“No. Peter. We’ve got a new case.”

“He’s taking the donkey home. He should be back in a few minutes.”

Ben looked down his nose at her.

“Barely a week and I see you’ve got my sergeant under your thumb.”

They strolled a few yards round the now familiar circuit. The chestnut pony no longer stood in the field of weeds. It had gone, along with the rest of Trevor Shoesmith’s stock, to an RSPCA sanctuary in Dorset. Faith wondered if Luke McIvor would finally get the land. He’d probably do better by it.

“Will Simon be extradited to Tanzania?” she asked.

“Not sure. Bishop Anthony has some connections. My guess is that the defence will plead insanity. As long as he’s locked up, the African authorities may be willing to let the British courts handle it.”

He swept a look up and down her clerical surplice and stole.

“So, how was it?” he asked.

“OK,” she smiled. “Faith finds a way.”

He pulled a face. A poor joke, but her own. The clematis flowers had dropped. Petals lay in a drift at the foot of the grey wall.

“Next up, Holy Week,” she said.

“I’ve been asking around,” he said. “Holy Week’s supposed to be about death and crucifixion, isn’t it? Seems appropriate…”

She stared at him for a moment. He was deliberately looking away from her across the empty field. She bumped him lightly with her shoulder.

“You know, you keep surprising me,” she said.

His eyes crinkled at the sides. “Well, that’s a start, I suppose.”

Peter was waving at them from the church gate.

“Must be off.”

He gave her a mock RAF salute. She watched his familiar figure disappear down the path.

“Vicar!”

Faith took a big breath and turned.

“Pat,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“The kiddies enjoyed the service, I think.” Pat somehow managed to infuse the compliment with an element of disapproval. “I just wanted to let you know that yesterday the glass restorers came to fetch away that panel at last. I had a firm word,” she looked coyly at Faith from under her lashes, “if you know what I mean; and they swore to me they’d have it back in a week or two. A week, I told them; a week is what you’ll get, or I’ll be on to you. I’d like to see it in for Easter. That boarded up window’s an eyesore.”

So the Lamb of God was on its way to being reinstated at St James’s Little Worthy. That was a pleasing idea.

Easter. Faith looked up at the mellow stone sides of St James’s planted so neat and personable in its churchyard. The thought of celebrating Easter in her own church filled her with a rush of pride and exhilaration. She was home. She glanced down affectionately at her churchwarden. A member of her congregation, she thought sentimentally; her family.

“I am planning something very special for the altar.” Pat was as enthusiastic as Faith had ever seen her. “A big, bold display. It’s such a treat to have an excellent preacher like Canon Arbuthnot coming to take our Easter service. It’s important to make an effort.”

Faith looked down at the perfectly coiffed head bobbing beside her, and smiled.

“That would be lovely,” she said.