The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) (3 page)

“Mr Donald Ingram?”

He nodded impatiently; a posturing boy. Peter looked to Faith.

“There’s been an accident at the church,” she said gently. “This is Sergeant Peter Gray and my name is Faith Morgan. Can we come in?”

Don opened the door. There was a flight of three steps down to the garden. He stood in the doorway and looked down on them.

“What accident?”

Hadn’t he heard the sirens? Faith wondered.

“I am afraid your father was taken ill during the service,” she said. “I was there. It looked like a heart attack…”

Peter took over. “I am sorry to have to inform you, sir, but your father has passed away.” He handed Don his card.

Don’s face didn’t change. They were only words after all.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” Faith said.

Don stepped aside. “I suppose you’d better come in, then.”

As she followed Peter in, Faith noticed a pretty Georgian salt box with satinwood banding hanging behind the door. The lid was open. It had been converted into a key store. That’s a shame, she thought. But then, who needs that much salt these days?

It was a large kitchen. The country-style fitted cabinets stood well back from a massive scrubbed pine table.

“Should I offer you coffee or something?” Don said, looking at Peter’s card.

“Shall I make some?” offered Faith. What was it about making tea and coffee in a crisis?

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Peter said, producing a form from the document case he carried. “There are just a few details…”

Date of birth, place of birth, the leaflet on
Sudden Death
– Faith knew the routine too well. The tramlines officialdom imposed to cross the unknowable mystery of death.

“Where is he?” Don asked, staring out of the window once more, his back to them.

“He’s being taken to the Winchester Royal.” Peter’s tone was professionally inoffensive. “The churchwarden, Mr Partridge, is with him – and another church member. A Mrs Jessica Rose.”

“Of course!” Don snorted, then paused. “Was…Were they there with him when he…”

“We all were,” Faith responded, her heart going out to him. “Well, not Sergeant Gray. Your father was taken ill very suddenly during the service. It was very quick.”

Don took a deep breath. He looked particularly young for a moment.

“I’d better get to the hospital, then.”

“We can get someone to take you. Would you like us to fetch someone? Someone to be with you?” Faith asked.

“One of those old church biddies you mean? No!” He paused again, and turned to them. “No. I’ll call a friend…” The words dried up and his mouth twisted. “We can make our own way to the hospital. I have a car.”

He swung about abruptly. Faith watched him silhouetted against the window, his mobile to his ear.

“Hi. It’s me. Look. Something’s happened. Can you come over? Bad? Yeah. You could say that.” A long pause. “Dad’s dead…OK.”

He put the phone down and leaned with both hands on the counter, arms rigid from the shoulder. His head dropped down.

Faith was overwhelmed with compassion. It propelled her across the room. She put a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t crying. She felt as much as heard his shallow breathing. He didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then he shook her off.

“I’m all right,” he said, straightening up. He glanced at her with a half-apologetic side look, and tossed his head.

“You can leave. I’ll be fine. My friend’s coming over.”

He walked ahead of them to the front door.

The kitchen door led into a spacious hall; Georgian, with high-ceilinged rooms opening off it. The place was better kept and decorated than Faith would have expected for a vicarage. The hall floor was a wide expanse of polished parquet. A couple of modern works of art hung in handsome gilt frames against crimson walls. Possibly originals. Faith glimpsed a front room through a half-opened door. There was a beautiful Persian rug on the floor and a Bang & Olufsen sound system.

Peter broke the silence.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said. “You have my card. The senior investigating officer in charge of the case is Detective Inspector Shorter. If you have any queries, just give me a ring. And if you want to talk to someone, these are the contact details for the local Victim Support.” He held out another card. “I’ve written the case number on the back.”

Don stared at the oblong of cardboard between his fingers.

“But this is a crime number. You said my father had a heart attack,” he said numbly.

“It’s just routine,” Faith heard herself saying. “It was a sudden death. Besides, every time the police are called there’s always a number.”

She thought of the inflammation in Alistair Ingram’s mouth and the peculiar smell. It probably wasn’t routine. Why lie? Because a twenty-year-old who had just lost his last close family member had enough to deal with. The mysteries surrounding the manner of the death would keep. After all, she was a civilian now. She didn’t need to know any better. She looked at Peter. He was watching Don.

“I should like to come back and check on you later, if I may?” she said.

Don only half-acknowledged her with an uneasy glance.

“Are you sure you don’t want someone to wait with you?” she asked again. Don Ingram was pale but he seemed calm enough. “Just until your friend comes. I can stay if…”

“No.”

He shut the door on them.

They stood outside a moment contemplating the green door with its polished knocker. They walked down the drive.

“What sort of salary does a vicar get these days?” asked Peter casually.

“Not that much. Mr Ingram must have had a private income.”

The drive led out onto the village green.

“Suppose the son will inherit…” Peter said.

They turned right to follow the road that looped back to the church.

“You handled yourself like a pro,” Peter glanced down at her. “Done much of this sort of thing, have you?”

Faith suppressed a smile. His curiosity was palpable.

“Actually, I was a pro once,” she admitted. “Well, almost – in a previous life. I trained at Hendon. I was in the police for nearly four years.”

“That’s where you met the boss.”

She nodded.

“Aaah!” he said, drawing out the word into two syllables.

“Ah?”

“I’m saying nothing.” He grinned sideways at her. She had to laugh.

“I’ll have none of your cheek, young man. Remember, I’m ordained,” she mimicked the way Ben had emphasized the word. “You’re supposed to respect the likes of me.”

“I already do, Faith,” he answered.

They walked on in silence, at ease in each other’s company. They were almost back at the church gate. She could see the sky-blue bonnet of her car hemmed in and incongruous among the various police vehicles. Thankfully the police personnel all seemed occupied in the church.

Peter’s phone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, and stopped to answer it.

Faith walked off a few paces to give him privacy. She wondered if she should just get into her car and leave. It would take twenty minutes to get to the bishop’s house. She looked at her watch. Amazingly she might actually get there soon after one, not much later than originally intended.

Just as she was making up her mind to pantomime her goodbyes, he rang off.

“That was the boss,” Peter said, deadpan. “He told me not to forget to collect your contact details. He may need to talk to you again.”

“I
T IS VERY BEAUTIFUL, OF COURSE
, but we need rain,” said the bishop. The new leaves of the stately elm standing across the lawn below looked dusty. “The seasons seem increasingly off balance of late. Consequences. It is time our society faced the consequences of our self-indulgence.” He sighed and turned away from the high window where he had been showing Faith the charming view of old Winchester.

Bishop Anthony Beech was a tall man in his mid-sixties with a healthy tan and a slight stoop. His almost tawny eyes were round and bright.

“I am so glad you felt up to coming to see us.” He bobbed his head twice to emphasize his sincerity. “So glad.”

They stood in a well-proportioned space flooded with light from three tall windows. The middle of the room was dominated by a vast, antique mahogany table surrounded by a set of ten chairs with high, carved backs. One end of the table’s rich dark surface was set out with an assortment of plates; battered old favourites that might have been bought at a charity shop. Bishop Anthony steered Faith towards a chair with a hand on her shoulder blade.

“I am shocked. For Alistair Ingram to go so suddenly, during the very rite itself…And then the police investigation…” Words failed him.

Faith felt sorry for him and even a little guilty. She had been the one to sound the alarm.

“I am afraid the police had to be called.”

The bishop gave her a sober, direct look.

“You are sure?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

They contemplated the implication lying between them.

Alison Beech, a small woman with a colourless complexion and nondescript pale hair secured flat against her neat skull, came into the room carrying a basket of baked potatoes. Through the open door came the sound of a man’s voice holding forth in the next room.

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you – without a secure commitment of some kind, the whole enterprise…” To Faith’s ears, the voice had a note of desperation to it.

The bishop’s wife closed the door softly.

“Our son, Simon,” she said. “Such an unexpected treat. He’s just turned up from Africa.”

“He runs an irrigation project in Tanzania,” explained the bishop.

His wife placed the basket on the table. “We don’t get to see him and Celia that much.”

“Celia?” asked Faith. Her hostess’s eyes were sad.

“His wife – she stayed back this trip. No children, but they’re such a good team. I’d introduce you, but he’s a bit fraught,” Mrs Beech said, with an apologetic grimace.

“Funding difficulties,” explained her husband. “His project may have to fold.”

“Oh dear,” said Faith sympathetically. She could feel their parental concern.

“Yes,” the bishop’s wife agreed quickly. “Simon does work so very hard. But enough of that. What about this horrid business?” Mrs Beech put out a hand towards Faith. “Poor Mr Ingram. We knew he had trouble with his heart – that’s why he had decided to take early retirement, wasn’t it, Bishop?” She addressed her husband, making the title sound almost cozy. “And now to go just like that, when he had hardly a few weeks left in the parish.” She shook her head. “Oh please, do sit.”

The food was simple. Salads of iceberg lettuce and tomato and a selection of cold meats laid out in a decorative spiral on a carved African wooden platter. Bishop Anthony bowed his head and recited a simple prayer of thanks for the food in front of them.

“It must have been horrible for you, Faith.” Mrs Beech’s pale eyes widened in sympathy. “He became ill during the service?”

Faith glanced at Bishop Anthony, unsure how to respond. Fortunately, Mrs Beech took her hesitation for distress.

“Horrible.” The corners of her mouth turned down in almost exaggerated sorrow. “And his poor son! He’s already lost his mother to cancer, and now this. Dreadful! Quite dreadful.”

“When did Don’s mother die?” asked Faith, thinking of the vicarage. There had been no obvious trace of a woman’s presence in the decor.

“Eight years or so ago. He would only have been twelve at the time. What tragedy that boy has suffered.”

“It was his wife’s illness and death that brought Alistair to us,” explained the bishop. “He was a money man in the City. Joined a bereavement group at St Martin-in-the-Fields and ended up training for the ministry. A great asset to the church. He will be sorely missed.”

“Of course, he had been having a terrible time,” chimed in Mrs Beech. “Not happy. No…” She was searching the table and missed her husband’s warning look. “All that bother with the neighbouring farmer. Chutney?” she asked, offering a jar to Faith. “It’s home-made.”

“Reverend Ingram had been having trouble with a neighbour?” asked Faith.

Bishop Anthony looked uncomfortable. When he’d suggested that Faith take a look at Little Worthy, he hadn’t mentioned any disputes.

“A little local difficulty over a covenanted field,” he said, and put a forkful of salad in his mouth.

“A bit more than that, dear, wasn’t there?” said his wife. “Didn’t Luke tell us that the poor man found a load of manure dumped halfway down the vicarage drive in the middle of the night? Luke McIvor,” she explained to Faith. “Agent for the diocesan lands.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” said Faith. “Were there other incidents?”

The bishop shifted in his chair. “Not exactly incidents. Well, these rural parishes, you know…”

“There has been a long-running dispute between the family that farms the land that runs alongside the church and the vicarage – and the incumbent at Little Worthy.” Faith wondered if Alison Beech was short-sighted. She certainly didn’t seem to be aware of her husband’s expression as she rattled on. “Some say it goes back centuries.”

Faith thought of the pony she’d seen in the field beside the church, scratching around in the field of weeds. So Alistair Ingram had more reasons for taking early retirement than just his dodgy heart. She filed the thought away. It was too easy to get carried away with speculation. She wondered how Ben’s information gathering was progressing. The bishop was staring at a spot just above his plate. His expression was poignant. Her conscience wrestled between curiosity and compassion. Compassion won. Faith helped herself to a rolled slice of ham.

“What a remarkable platter,” she commented.

Mrs Beech’s face lit up.

“It’s Bantu. From Tanzania. We were out there for – oh, nearly twelve years.” She looked nostalgically at the platter. “Missionary work is something of a family line, as you may have gathered, Faith. Those were very happy years.”

Both the Beeches’ faces were bright with remembered affection.

“We miss our friends there,” said the bishop, simply. “Our people – our congregation – such energy; so simple and wholehearted in their belief. Such a young people, and yet utterly trusting in the Lord.”

“And your son still works there?” asked Faith.

“Yes,” said the bishop, looking down at his plate. “He runs WATA.”

“It stands for Winchester Aid for Tanzanian Agriculture,” he explained. “But sadly, the finances aren’t good. It’s always the same. The hardest part is raising the money.”

“So we haven’t abandoned them entirely,” Alison said, meeting her husband’s eye over the platter. There was a note in her voice that made Faith wonder whether it was a phrase that had been often repeated. “More salad, Faith?”

“Thank you,” said Faith, helping herself to seconds from the proffered bowl. “These tomatoes are wonderfully flavoursome.” Bishop Anthony smiled. “You don’t grow them yourself?” she asked.

“No. Sadly I don’t have the time, but I do like to go and watch them grow.”

Faith thought for a moment that he was joking, but the bishop’s expression was sincere.

“Anthony is a great supporter of ACORN; it’s his pet project. And I encourage him,” declared Mrs Beech. “He needs a peaceful place to get away from all the pressures of this job. And the farm’s only fifteen minutes down the road.”

“ACORN?” echoed Faith.

“Agricultural Community for Organic Renewables Now – I think that’s what it stands for; I can never quite remember,” said Alison. “It’s run by some wonderful young people. Anthony negotiated their use of diocesan land a few years back and they have done marvellous things. We get all our vegetables from them.”

“It is a sustainable development project,” the bishop took over, his commitment clear. “It is about minimizing human impact and living in harmony with nature. Most inspiring. As Alison says, they are an excellent group of young people. Enthusiastic and caring of one another…”

“Wholehearted,” said Faith, smiling.

“Yes. Wholehearted and Christian too. They live in and out of their faith. They give me such hope for the new generation.”

“And speaking of the new generation…” Mrs Beech pinned Faith with a look. “Anthony mentioned that you have family in the area, Faith.”

“My elder sister lives near Little Worthy. We grew up here in Winchester.”

“So you’re thinking of coming home?” suggested Mrs Beech.

Bishop Anthony was listening with a benignly neutral expression. Faith was uncomfortable. She didn’t want to mislead him. It was flattering that he should be interested in attracting her to the diocese, but she wasn’t clear in her own mind what she was doing here. For the last few months she had been restless. She had a sense that she was being nudged in some new direction – perhaps, she hoped, even by God – but she wasn’t clear yet what that direction was. How should she answer?

Just speak the truth
.

“I think I am ready for a new challenge,” she said.

After lunch, Mrs Beech suggested they head down to the hospital to check on Reverend Ingram’s son. The hospital was eerily quiet when they arrived. Faith had to remind herself that it was Sunday afternoon.

Alison was thoughtful. She caught Faith watching her.

“Hospitals!” she said. “The time I’ve spent!”

Faith was intrigued. Alison looked a little embarrassed.

“It’s just that we had quite a time with our Simon when he was young. We were out in Africa, upcountry, and he became very ill, poor little boy. It was quite a do. I flew back with him to England. Anthony and I were separated for months. But we all survived in the end. This way, I think.”

Mrs Beech found a porter who led them to an anonymous corridor where they discovered a bored constable standing a few yards from a line of tubular steel chairs. On one of the chairs Don Ingram sat looking at the grey linoleum between his feet.

“Is that the boy?” Alison asked in a whisper. Don raised his head and looked at them.

“Faith Morgan. You remember me from earlier? This is Mrs Beech, the bishop’s wife.”

Alison captured one of the youth’s hands in both of hers.

“Donald, I am so very, very sorry,” she said with great sincerity. “It is a dreadful loss. Your father was a good, faithful man.” She paused, gazing compassionately into his face. “Would you like us to pray together?”

Don looked revolted. Faith winced internally. She could see that he was not one of the young who prayed – at least, perhaps not publicly on demand.

“Why are you alone?” she intervened. “Has anyone come to tell you what’s happening? Have you seen your father?”

“They won’t let me see him,” Don said dully.

“What? Won’t let you see him? But why ever not?” Mrs Beech looked up and down the corridor. She homed in on the constable and shepherded him a few yards away.

Don turned accusingly on Faith. “The police think it’s murder.”

She met his stare.

“Murder?” she repeated cautiously.

“Poisoned by the wine – the communion wine.” He snorted. “Written off by the rite. There’s irony!” He gave a hard little laugh.

She covered his hand with hers. His long fingers were cool.

“But your father believed in it.”

“Yes.” He nodded, sobered. “Yes. He did.”

His eyes wandered away down the blank corridor.

“This is weird.”

“Yes. It is.”

Don resumed his study of the floor between his feet. Faith looked down at the back of his head. His hair was thick. He had little lamb curls at the nape of his neck.

“I thought you had rung your friend,” she said.

Don slid her a look then glanced away down the corridor.

“He’s here. He’s just getting coffee.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Perhaps I’ll go see if I can find someone.”

“Follow the blue line on the wall in that direction,” he indicated briefly, with a slight toss of his head.

Follow the blue line. The corridor turned.

She almost collided with a slim young man with wise, watchful brown eyes and floppy blond-brown hair, holding two cups of coffee.

“Sean!” Faith’s mind flashed to Ruth, terrified that something awful had happened to her. This day couldn’t be getting any worse, could it?

“Aunt Faith.” Sean had always been unflappable, but surely he wouldn’t be this calm if something had happened to her sister. He seemed pleased to see her.

“Sorry I missed you last night. I was out.” Holding the coffees to one side, her nephew pecked her on the cheek.

“What
are
you doing here?”

Sean’s face turned solemn.

“Supporting a friend. His father’s just died.”

“You know Don Ingram?”

Sean looked surprised.

“You remember Don. We were on the cricket team at school? We’re at uni together?”

“That Don?” Faith had heard the name, but she’d never really been around enough to notice Sean’s friends. Then she wondered if Don had recognized her. If so, why hadn’t he said anything?

The coincidences were unsettling. It was as if Winchester was reclaiming her. Sean gave her a lazy smile.

“Good to see you.”

“You too. We must catch up.”

He glanced down the corridor leading back to Don. He grimaced.

“Maybe not tonight, though. I was thinking of staying in town with Dad.”

Sean’s father Brian had left Ruth when Sean was a baby. He was an ambitious IT salesman who had traded up to a wife whom he considered more suitable to his career path. Brian had always liked money. Faith had never thought much of him, but he was an amiable father. He and his latest wife had a townhouse in the centre of Winchester and they always welcomed Sean there.