The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) (5 page)

“Simon…” Bishop Anthony began. In the way of families, his son did not wait for him to finish.

“The flying tomato needs a tune-up; it’s making a terrible racket. I was going to take it to that fellow off St Cross Road. Do you know if he’s still in business?”

“The man down by the hospital? I think so.”

“Thanks. I’ll try him.”

The door clicked shut.

“My son, Simon,” explained the bishop unnecessarily. “He’s getting about in my wife’s old car while he’s with us. It’s always developing some rattle or other.”

George Casey cleared his throat.

“As I was saying – in a situation such as we face now in Little Worthy, it is imperative that people – if you’ll forgive a secular phrase – stay on-message.”

Faith struggled to keep her expression benign. To be honest, she was a bit shocked. The man was talking as if he thought the church should emulate the media management of political spin doctors. She glanced at Bishop Anthony – was he in agreement with this?

“All it takes is an overly chatty parishioner or the passing opinion of some retired canon and…” The press officer made an exclamatory shape with his lean fingers. “I don’t want to seem alarmist, but a story like this can affect the way people perceive the diocese for years.”

Behind his desk, Bishop Anthony issued a soft “tut”. Casey stared at Faith accusingly as if hers were just the sort of passing opinions he was hoping to silence.

With an inelegant lurch, Faith extricated herself from the depths of the seat to perch on the edge of it.

“These chairs are a bit all-embracing, aren’t they?” she remarked cheerfully. Bishop Anthony looked faintly startled.

“Mr Casey, I appreciate your desire to provide the bishop with a professional service,” she said, hoping she sounded more polite than she felt. “But a clergyman of this diocese has been murdered right in the middle of a Eucharist – a traumatic and tragic event which was witnessed by twenty or more members of his congregation.” She appealed to Bishop Anthony. “I don’t see how the diocese – or anyone – can hope to control what people say about that event, or even if we should.”

George Casey opened his mouth to respond.

“Naturally, the press will be aware of the police investigation,” Bishop Anthony intervened diplomatically.

“Indeed,” agreed Casey curtly, “and of course, we have no control over what leaks there may be from police.”

Really, the man was intolerable.

“I can assure you that the senior investigating officer in charge will be just as keen as you to keep press involvement to a minimum,” snapped Faith.

“You know him?” Casey’s eyes brightened. “That could be useful.” His expression shifted to thoughtful. “Of course, we can always stick to the ‘can’t comment due to ongoing investigation’ line…”

Anthony Beech appraised Faith with a glance.

“Sadly, we have no time to continue this discussion today,” he said firmly, rising. “I must have a brief word with Faith before I leave for my next appointment. Thank you so much for coming in, George.” Faith watched, impressed, as he shepherded his press officer to the door. “I am glad you two have had an opportunity to meet.”

The bishop watched the pair of them in a fatherly manner as they exchanged a perfunctory handshake. “I can assure you, George, that with her background, Faith is better aware than most of the media implications of our…” – the bishop hesitated briefly – “…situation.”

Casey produced a stack of business cards and thrust them at Faith. “If you could make sure any press contacts go through me,” he said, “and do check your emails for the approved statement.” He smiled thinly and left.

Bishop Anthony returned to his desk.

“You’ll want to run up to Birmingham to fetch some things, I know, but the churchwardens are hoping you’ll be able to join them. They’re meeting in Little Worthy church hall at noon.”

Fifteen minutes later, Faith sat in her car outside the diocesan offices rearranging the Reverend Casey’s cards in her handbag. She was startled by Bishop Anthony’s efficiency. In less than twenty-four hours he had spoken to her bishop and her vicar, and arranged for her to take temporary charge at St James’s, Little Worthy. He must have started phoning last night, she thought.

Her life had been hijacked.

Just think how Alistair Ingram must feel.

Now that was inappropriate, she scolded herself. Ben was a bad influence on her.

She sat in the reassuringly familiar comfort of her little blue car, took a deep breath and wondered what she should do next.

The cure of souls of the parish of St James’s was in her care.

At least temporarily.

She had over an hour before the church hall meeting.

There are others who need you
.

She wasn’t sure the voice was correct. Don Ingram seemed quite happy to be on his own.

It can’t hurt to try
.

She put the car in gear and set off in the direction of Little Worthy.

“I
T’S YOU!
” D
ON GREETED HER
as he opened the front door.

“It is,” responded Faith, a little surprised to find him so friendly after their conversation at the hospital the day before.

“Come in,” he said, sweeping a hand out in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. He wore a crisp white shirt loose over tapered black jeans that fitted him well. He was a good-looking boy. “Come to advise me on funeral arrangements?” His tone was unsettlingly jaunty.

“Can I help? Do you need help in finding a funeral director, or…”

“Already sorted.” He cut her off mid-sentence, ushering her towards the kitchen as if they were friends. “Spoke to them first thing. Business of death all under control.”

“I just thought I should drop in to see how you are…and,” Faith took a deep breath, “warn you that the bishop has asked me to stay on a while.”

Don stopped in his tracks.

“I am going to be helping out at Little Worthy.”

He stared at her, his eyes like ice.

“Filling the former incumbent’s shoes – so soon?” he asked, his voice smooth and sarcastic. Then his face became human again. “Don’t worry.” He backed away from her, gesturing that she should follow. “Coffee?”

A sheaf of cards lay fanned out on the table.

“These have already started coming in.” He flipped open one of the condolence cards. “
Condolences on your father’s passing
,” he read. “Haven’t the faintest who sent it.” He made a disgusted noise in his throat. “His passing! That’s Little Worthy for you; must keep up the façade!” He tossed the card back on the pile.

“How are you doing?” Faith was concerned. “You haven’t spent the night here on your own, have you?”

“I’m fine,” he said. He looked at her almost indulgently. “Sean came over. He’s gone off already. Had an interview somewhere this morning, but we fitted in the phone call to the funeral director before he left. We’re aiming for Friday. Cappuccino?”

Faith watched him produce the frothy drink from an elaborate, gleaming coffee machine with much hissing of steam.

“Friday – you mean the funeral?”

“Yes. Here in the church. I suppose someone has to take it,” he added, as if the thought had just occurred to him. He looked at her directly. “You free, by any chance?”

She felt absurdly honoured. It was almost as if he trusted her. “It would be a privilege, but I’m not sure…This isn’t my diocese; I would need to consult the bishop.”

His face closed down. “Of course! My father’s death is a church matter, after all. By the way, your policeman friend rang,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “It’s confirmed. The wine was poisoned.”

Her policeman friend. Just how much background had Sean been giving him about her? Don sat down opposite her across the pine expanse of the table. In full light he seemed brittle. His skin was sallow and his eyes weren’t entirely focused.

“And they’re releasing the body to you already?” asked Faith, slightly surprised as the words left her mouth. She’d known murder victims in the mortuary for weeks.

“The full post-mortem isn’t done yet but they say I should have Dad back – well, most of him – by Friday.” He stopped suddenly.

It was the word “Dad” that tripped him up, Faith thought. He was doing so well until then.

“Is there no other family you can call?” she asked. “Someone should be here to stand alongside if nothing else.”

“Stand alongside!” His snort of laughter was humourless. “Is that what family does?”

“Didn’t you get on with your father?”

He shrugged, his eyes on his coffee. “He was all right. We didn’t exactly sing from the same sheet.” He glanced up at her. She saw his eyes were tearing. “Man of God, son of science. Different world views.” He looked away again.

“You’re studying physics, I think.”

“You’ve been asking about me,” he quipped.

She smiled. “And not a churchgoer.”

“No.” He looked up from his coffee, challenging her. “I think religion does more harm than good.” He cocked his head. “Do I offend?”

“Not in the least,” she responded cheerfully. “Sometimes I agree with you.”

She’d startled him.

“But,” she added quietly, “for me, faith is a different matter.”

Don cleared his throat. “It seems your inspector has a suspect.”

Faith felt a pang of anxiety. “Oh?”

“They’ve taken Trevor Shoesmith in for questioning. The farmer next door. Someone told the policeman about his dispute with my…” – he hesitated over the word – “…father. Not sure who.”

That was quick work. But then, Ben never hung around.

Don was watching her reaction. And, to her surprise, Faith felt a little guilty. She kept her expression bland.

“Do you think this Shoesmith is a likely suspect?” she asked.

Don grimaced dismissively. “He’s a loser; a loner. Doesn’t talk much. I do know he’s a lousy farmer. I wouldn’t want to be one of his animals. RSPCA’s been on to him more than once.”

“You think he’s unhinged?”

Don shrugged. “How should I know? We didn’t socialize.” He leaned across the table and picked up her empty cup. “More coffee, Nancy Drew?”

Ten minutes and another cappuccino later, she left him with her mobile number and a promise to call again in a couple of days. She wasn’t sure what to make of Don. Perhaps she should ask Sean. He was an excellent judge of character.

The vicarage had one of those rare untouched nineteenth-century gardens with romantic old trees and swathes of daffodils along the drive. She stopped to appreciate it for a moment. So many of these plots had gone for development; covered over by executive homes of raw brick with contrasting concrete, pocket handkerchief lawns and spindly plants in designer gravel. She sighed and breathed in the country air.

“Faith!” Through the trees, she saw Peter Gray hailing her from the field running alongside the vicarage garden. She walked over and they shook hands across the open fence.

“Fancy meeting you,” she said.

“Been visiting the son? How is he?”

“A bit odd.”

“Odd?” Peter lifted his ginger eyebrows in enquiry. The expression was a little comical on his open, boyish face.

“Odd. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I suspect it is youthful bravado. I’m not sure that father and son got on terribly well.”

“I didn’t with my father when I was his age.”

Faith knew she liked Peter. He was sensible. Lots of young men didn’t get on with their fathers. It didn’t make them murderers.

“I hear you’ve been questioning the farmer. Think you have a suspect?”

“Don’t know about the poisoning, but he’s not a good farmer,” Peter’s expression darkened. “You should see this place. I’d say Trevor Shoesmith has been struggling for some time.”

“He’s on his own, then?”

“Yes. Just him since his parents died. Word is they ran a neat place. They must be turning in their graves.”

“Poor man. Do you think he’s depressive?”

“Maybe.”

“What does Ben – Detective Shorter – think?”

Peter half-smiled at her slip, but she realized she’d made him uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry. I keep forgetting. You can’t discuss the investigation.”

Peter’s face cleared. “That’s all right. I trust you – the boss isn’t looking forward to the story getting out. He hates journos and they’re going to be all over this. He’s invited Shoesmith in for questioning, but he’s hoping to use the RSPCA for cover. They’ve been out to the animals.”

Faith wondered if Ben thought he’d got his man. Would he have picked up Trevor Shoesmith if she hadn’t repeated that piece of hearsay? It made her uneasy.

She realized Peter was watching her, waiting for her to speak.

“I should get going. I am expected at a meeting at the church hall,” she said.

“I’m heading the same way,” he replied.

They walked down together towards the village green, with the fence between them.

“Do you live locally?” she asked.

“Over in the next village. Sandra and I moved in a couple of months ago. We’re still settling in.”

“And you’ve children?”

“Two boys – Daniel and Charlie; six and four.” He beamed with pride.

“You like it here?”

“It’s pleasant. But we haven’t found ourselves a church yet.” He slid her a side glance from under his stubby lashes. “You thinking of staying on at St James’s?”

“The bishop’s asked me to fill in just for now,” Faith admitted.

“That’s brave of you.”

She smiled wryly. She didn’t feel brave. She felt as if she were stumbling blindly into the unknown.

They’d reached the boundary wall facing the green. She faced him across the fence. “So perhaps I shall see you and your family here one Sunday?”

“That you may.”

She left Peter to follow the stone wall down to the gate.

“And Faith…”

She turned back.

“If anything comes up,” Peter tossed his head in the general direction of the church, “and you want to discuss it, feel free.” He held out his card across the fence. She took it. He had written his private mobile number on it. She smiled and put it in her pocket.

The church hall was once the village school. It was a neat, single-storey stone building with “1880” chiselled over the lintel. The arched wooden door was freshly painted white in gleaming contrast to the black iron strap hinges. Well maintained, Faith thought, as she turned the heavy ring handle. The parish finances must be sound.

She stepped into a chilly, cramped lobby painted an unfortunate shade of green. A door to her left stood open. She heard Pat Montesque’s unmistakable tones in the room beyond.

“This was intended as a meeting of church officers, and although Jessica is of course welcome, she is not an elected officer. That was my only point.”

The light in the hall was greenish too. Almost as if you were under water, Faith thought. The windows were set high off the floor so that in times past the school’s Victorian pupils could not look out during lessons and be distracted by thoughts of the great world beyond. Columns of plastic chairs stood stacked either side of a plain oak cabinet which might have been a valuable antique had it been waxed up and placed in the right sale. The far end of the hall was dominated by a hessian hanging, appliquéd with a vast stylized dove of peace flying from an orange sun with gold thread rays. Set dead centre before it, Pat Montesque, Fred Partridge and the blonde woman server from the church sat grouped on the far side of a long wooden table, as if they were about to take part in a tableau of Da Vinci’s
The Last Supper.

“Reverend Morgan!” Fred Partridge pushed back his seat and came towards her, clearly grateful for the interruption. “So pleased you are able to join us. We are so grateful for you stepping in like this in the midst of all this…” He ran out of words. Faith silently sympathized. She wasn’t sure of the proper phrase to describe the murder of one’s vicar, either.

“I am glad to do anything I can to help, but please, call me Faith.”

She heard Pat Montesque snort.

“Such a pretty name, and how appropriate to my mind,” Fred said cheerily. “Now, I don’t think you’ve been introduced.”

He ushered Faith across to where the pretty blonde stood shyly beside Pat. “This is Jessica, Jessica Rose, one of our servers and very much involved in the parish. You will have seen her on…” Again his words petered out. Ordinary words were insufficient to the extraordinary circumstances that had brought them together.

Faith shook hands. Jessica’s grip was firmer than she expected. Close up she could see her face was expertly made up to accentuate her striking blue eyes and long black lashes. She wore a sad, stunned look. Somehow she invited protection. Faith had an absurd desire to keep hold of her hand and comfort her.

“Jessica’s a newcomer to the village,” Pat Montesque’s voice cut in. “Divorced. Arrived barely a year ago, but she was very close to the vicar.”

Now that was nasty, thought Faith, and she gave the older woman a firm look. Pat flinched, abashed. Faith immediately felt bad. Pat Montesque, it seemed, was one of those pushing women who frequently spoke before realizing how their words would sound out in the public domain.

“Jessica is an accountant. She does a lot of voluntary work for the diocese and its projects.” Fred Partridge rushed to fill the gap. “She even gave up her holiday to go out to Africa last spring to work as a volunteer on one of the diocese’s charitable projects.” Jessica looked embarrassed.

“That must have been rather hot,” Faith heard herself saying. “Fair-skinned, like me,” she elaborated. “I find hot climates a bit of a trial.”

“It was warm,” Jessica responded, and managed a smile.

It was a getting-to-know-you meeting. Faith got out her diary and obediently made notes of Pat’s instructions about where “the vicar” was expected to be and when. As the notations spread out across Palm Sunday and Holy Week, Faith felt a combination of thrill and awe. She was about to preside over her first Easter celebrations as vicar in charge.

“We’re fortunate that Canon Arbuthnot from the cathedral has agreed to cover the Easter Day service,” said Pat, ticking another item off her list. “At a time like this, I think the congregation would like the comfort of someone with authority.”

Fred looked embarrassed. Faith lifted her eyebrows. She decided to let it pass and discuss that with the bishop later. Eventually Pat reached the end of her list. Faith closed her diary and put it in her bag.

“Perhaps a cup of tea?” said Fred.

“I’ll make it.” Jessica stood and left the room without waiting for a reply.

Pat watched her go. “She was friendly with Trevor Shoesmith, of course,” she said.

Fred’s frown looked incongruous on his round face. Faith knew she shouldn’t be joining in gossip, but she couldn’t help herself.

“The farmer?”

“The man the police took away this morning,” responded Pat with heavy significance. “She spent quite a bit of time over there on Trevor Shoesmith’s farm. Riding.” She looked over the bridge of her small nose.

“From what I understand, Mr Shoesmith was just invited in for a chat. That’s merely routine,” Faith said briskly, cross with herself for encouraging Pat. “In a village like this, I suppose you all know each other.” She looked to Fred for support. He was examining his chubby hands resting on the tabletop. “The police will be asking questions of everyone. It’s what they do.”