Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  She glanced around apprehensively, certain that she had heard the soft whistle of indrawn breath, had seen a shade detach itself from the depths of the cloister before melting into the opaque blackness beyond.

  The moonlight and shadows mocked her, fluctuating in the night wind that had suddenly blown up from nowhere. At that moment, Georgina felt uneasily convinced a baleful influence haunted the very air of the cloister and venomous eyes watched her closely. Was it some resurrection of the flesh or a risen ghost?

  Time to take herself firmly in hand. What would Geoffrey think of her giving way like this?

  With shaking fingers, she stuffed the scraps of paper into her handbag and stood irresolutely as though waiting for inspiration.

  What should she do? Confront the writer? Go straight to the police? No, surely not that. She owed him the chance to explain.

  The thought of Inspector Markham briefly steadied her. She recalled the compassionate, searching gaze, the calm air of authority. Remembered too the quiet earnestness of his manner when he requested that she should say nothing to anyone about Joan’s story. For the first time since being widowed, she had felt valued – not dull and dreary, like a remaindered volume with no story worth hearing.

  She would write the inspector a note as soon as she got home and deliver it to the station first thing in the morning. Nothing explicit, not yet, but enough to point him in the right direction. If it was the right direction. Heaven help her, could she even be sure this was not some hideous misunderstanding – that she was not looking through the wrong end of the telescope and distorting what she saw?

  Abandoning the heap of ash on unsteady legs, Georgina never noticed the figure standing, frieze-like, against the wall of the cloister. Never noticed the silent watcher in the dark.

  Later that same evening, with the students at last packed off to bed, lights blazed in the common room at St Mary’s. The low-ceilinged, sprawling room, adjacent to the chaplain’s cottage, was comfortably furnished with a chesterfield and several wing chairs. Joan had wheeled in the tea trolley which, unusually, featured her celebrated melt-in-the-mouth scones in addition to the usual bourbons and custard creams.

  ‘You’ll be needing to keep your strength up, sir,’ she told the principal with a kindly pat on the arm. Desmond O’Keefe, poleaxed after a day spent reassuring staff and students, made no demur as he sank gratefully into a chair and held out his hands to the aromatic log fire.

  He was pleased to see that the cook was looking much more cheerful than she had done of late.

  ‘I was worried you were coming down with something yourself, Joan, and we might have to do without you for a while,’ he observed, watching as she busied herself with cups and saucers.

  Joan swelled like a bantam in her outrage. ‘And leave it to those flibbertigibbets of schoolgirls to see to things! I think I know my duty better than that, Dr O’Keefe!’ She cast a critical eye round the common room. ‘Now, I think you’re all cosy in here, sir, so I’ll be off.’

  ‘Thank you, Joan. It was all hands to the pumps today. I don’t know what we’d have done without you!’ said the principal with quiet sincerity. Mollified, she bestowed a motherly smile on him before bustling away.

  O’Keefe stretched out his legs in front of him. God, he felt demolished. Utterly bone-tired! What a nightmare start to his new job! ‘And the hits just keep on comin’!’ he muttered as Alex Sharpe slouched into the common room.

  Watching as Sharpe helped himself to tea before disappearing behind a copy of the Gazette, O’Keefe chided himself for being uncharitable. The man, admittedly, was unprepossessing, but he must be under considerable strain. That wife of his looked as though she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, for a start. Then there was what he had heard referred to as the previous principal’s ‘reign of terror’. O’Keefe surmised that the Director of Music had no doubt borne the brunt of that.

  The principal’s thoughts turned to the canon. If ever a man was unsuited to the unpleasantness of cathedral intrigue and municipal in-fighting, it was him! He had looked alarmingly frail today. A holy old man like that would have no more chance against the likes of Sir Philip Soames and Sharpe than a rusty nail against a pair of pliers.

  On the plus side of the equation, thank heaven for Cynthia Gibson, dependably supplying the acting matron’s deficiencies. Though she too had looked quite wretched today and was uncharacteristically fierce with the boys over some misdemeanour or other. Understandable, given the ghastly business with Irene Hummles. Rumour had it that Cynthia and the startlingly good-looking Edward Preston were ‘an item’. They seemed an unlikely couple, which perhaps explained her strained appearance and air of constant watchfulness.

  Cynthia’s friend was likely to prove an asset. He’d warmed to Olivia Mullen at first sight and was untroubled by her rumoured connection to Inspector Markham. Thinking back to his first impressions of the faunlike English teacher and the gravely courteous policeman, he found he was not surprised by their liaison…

  The next moment, O’Keefe was startled by the arrival of Sir Philip Soames in the common room. Leaning heavily on Edward Preston, he gestured at an armchair with his elegant silver-topped cane. ‘I’ll sit there, Preston. Hopefully this won’t take long.’

  ‘I’m sorry, did we schedule a meeting?’ The principal sounded confused. That was all he needed, he told himself savagely, some interminable committee convened to appease Sir Philip’s seigniorial sensibilities!

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about, O’Keefe.’ The patron was very suave. ‘Preston is going to describe developments at the grottoes since,’ he gestured eloquently with his cane, ‘I cannot visit the site in person. If the mountain will not come to Mahomet…’

  ‘Quite.’

  O’Keefe wondered irritably why Preston could not have called on Sir Philip, but then it occurred to him that the latter no doubt wanted to flex the muscles of his power to be sure that they – unlike his rapidly atrophying physique – were still in working order.

  ‘I daresay Mr Sharpe may even condescend to share his plans for this year’s Christmas programme.’

  Abashed, Sharpe emerged from behind the Gazette and shambled over to join the other two.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen, Sir Philip. Ah, tea!’ Canon Woodcourt came in rubbing his hands.

  He looks absolutely flattened, thought O’Keefe. What a change since this morning!

  Conscious of the principal’s concern, Woodcourt pulled a tragi-comic face. ‘I know, I know. I’m a superannuated old crock fit for nothing but the knacker’s yard!’

  ‘I apologize, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest…’ The principal was embarrassed to have been caught out.

  The canon laughed. ‘Your face is an open book, O’Keefe. In my world of church diplomatists, that’s actually quite refreshing!’

  He settled himself in a chair next to the chesterfield and looked attentively at Sir Philip.

  Just like a medieval court, thought O’Keefe in amusement, wondering how soon he could slip away.

  ‘No need for you to stay, O’Keefe.’ Sir Philip had an uncanny ability to read his thoughts. ‘Unless you want to, that is.’

  O’Keefe needed no second prompting. Rising to his feet with alacrity, he made his farewells.

  Some forty minutes later, with the main business of the evening completed, St Mary’s common room was winding down. Preston and Sharpe had left together, but Sir Philip and Canon Woodcourt lingered a few moments longer. The weary night cleaner, passing her hoover desultorily across the deep pile carpet, heard nothing more enlivening than the following exchange.

  ‘Good to know you’ve pre-empted that difficulty for us, Canon.’ Sir Philip’s deep tones expressed satisfaction. ‘Sharpe obviously requires monitoring,’ he continued, ‘but it’s all a question of developing some backbone. Between us I am sure we can supply the necessary resolve. Preston certainly seems sound enough.’

  The canon’s response was drowned by the hoover.

&nb
sp; ‘Right, I believe we can call it a day. Forgive me, Canon, necessity compels me to make use of you, so I’ll ask for your arm to my car. My factotum will be growing anxious by now.’

  Slowly, they moved towards the door. ‘Would you like me to keep the Friends of St Mary’s advised of developments, Sir Philip?’

  ‘Oh, I think so, don’t you?’

  The swing doors, swooshing shut behind them, let in a draught of ice cold air. Shivering, the cleaner’s pace quickened. Five minutes later, silence reigned once more.

  9. Quiet Consummation

  As she walked up the front path of Cathedral Mansions the following morning, Joan looked approvingly at the beautifully landscaped communal gardens lying under a sun-spangled frost. Even on a winter day, their meticulously clipped herbaceous borders, pergolas and flower beds neatly stocked with bedding plants offered a pleasing prospect. Joan knew that Georgina missed The Old Rectory’s wildflower meadow, but at least her move to the assisted living complex – just off St Mary’s Lane and a stone’s throw from the cathedral – had not robbed her of year-round vibrancy and interest. Her green-fingered friend also delighted in the apartment’s tiny balcony, where she tenderly nurtured dwarf orange trees and coaxed an amazing variety of plants into a profusion of beauty.

  It had been good to see a return of the old decisive Georgina the previous evening. After Geoffrey’s death, she had seemed somehow adrift and strangely wistful, as though all the old familiar landmarks had disappeared and she was groping in the dark. Which was only right and proper for a widow, Joan supposed, but she missed the familiar confident bossiness. That business with the police had been a bit of a godsend. There has been a definite glint in Georgina’s eye when they were discussing the police investigation, and Joan could tell she had taken a shine to Inspector Markham.

  Joan waited outside the ground floor foyer. She had a swipe card and her own set of keys, at Georgina’s insistence, though the apartment was so small that it only required a fortnightly clean. Pressing the intercom, she waited to be buzzed up.

  No response. Joan tried again. Nothing.

  She felt the first stirrings of unease. Georgina was such a creature of habit that you could set your watch by her. Saturdays, she was at home until twelve o’clock then off to the cathedral to join the ladies’ church workers group. After that, it was the Bridge Circle and home for tea by three.

  Joan hesitated, uncertain. She and Georgina had the greatest respect for each other’s privacy – one reason why their friendship had endured for so many years – but she had never known such a deviation from routine. What if Georgina had been taken ill and was lying helpless upstairs? She decided to risk her friend’s displeasure and let herself through to the ground floor using her swipe card.

  The little lift whisked her up to the second-floor apartments in a jiffy. Nothing looked awry or out of place, two tropical potted plants standing sturdily as usual like sentinels on either side of the landing window. The strains of Classic FM came softly from the flat opposite.

  And yet, for all the well-carpeted warmth, Joan felt a sliver of ice cold apprehension stiffen her spine.

  Something was wrong. A subtle change in the chemistry of the place. A sense that someone else had recently stood where she was standing now. Someone who should not have been there.

  Joan knocked hard at Georgina’s door. Not a well-bred knock, more like a pounding. She called her friend’s name again and again.

  The Classic FM halted and Derek Hart, the retiree from across the way, emerged onto the landing, his kindly face anxious.

  ‘Morning, Joan. Can I help?’

  ‘I’m worried about Georgina.’ Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded oddly remote and quavery. ‘There’s no answer and it’s not like her. She’s normally at home this time of day. I’m going to let myself in.’

  The apartment was very quiet. Joan turned left, making straight for Georgina’s living room with her favourite armchair. Almost as though she knew what she would find.

  Georgina was sitting there. She looked very peaceful, eyes shut tight, hands folded neatly in her lap and lips curved gently upwards in a strange secret smile. She wore the same ensemble as the previous evening when she had visited Joan at St Mary’s. The antique rosewood writing desk on one side of the armchair was open, though no writing paraphernalia was visible and the little drawers and dockets appeared undisturbed. The glass-topped side table on the other side held a half full whisky tumbler. What made Joan catch her breath was the empty bottle of Diazepam next to it.

  Oh no, Georgina, no!

  She became aware of Derek gently guiding her to a chair before quietly going back out into the hallway and telephoning the police.

  Joan did not know how long she sat there dejectedly contemplating her friend’s body. Through the half-open curtains, she saw the little orange trees standing jauntily to attention on the balcony, haloed by the nimbus of the morning sun. Suddenly, she was flooded by the conviction that Georgina would never have taken her own life. However lonely the furrow she ploughed, however much she missed Geoffrey, such a staunch believer would never have taken the easy way out. ‘Plenty of time for rest later when the recording angel says “Time no longer”!’ she was wont to declare at any shirking of duty. Tears brimmed in Joan’s eyes at the realization that she would never hear those forthright tones again.

  ‘Come on, Joan, drink this.’ Derek Hart was at her elbow with a well-sugared cup of tea. Looking at the still figure in the armchair, his face was sad. ‘She was a real lady and a good neighbour.’ He hesitated delicately before adding, ‘I would never have thought she was the kind to kill herself. Just goes to show we never really know what’s going on in someone else’s life.’

  Joan drank the tea and kept her counsel. She would speak to Inspector Markham. Georgina trusted him and he would know what to do for the best. In the meantime, sitting in the flat opposite the tranquil corpse, she made a silent pledge to her dead friend to help the police trap whoever had staged this cruel charade.

  A short time later, Markham stood in the doorway of Georgina’s living room watching silently as white boiler-suited SOCOs flitted like ghosts in the background.

  Thoughtfully, he contemplated the tableau.

  Yes, tableau. There was something too perfect and contrived about it, right down to Georgina Hamilton’s legs, crossed modestly at the ankle as though the proprieties had to be observed even in death.

  Joan had been dry-eyed and composed when Markham got there, adamant that her friend would never have taken her life. Listening to her in Georgina Hamilton’s living room, with an uncanny sense that the dead woman’s soul was hovering a little way above their heads, Markham acknowledged her logic. The two women had enjoyed a happy evening, swapping recipes and gossip. Joan felt that Georgina had begun to haul herself out of the bereavement pit at last.

  ‘She liked feeling useful, Inspector. Talking to you made her feel she was back in the thick of things, that she could do some good. It was the cheeriest she’d been in ages. She was a very religious woman too. I remember watching a documentary with her – about that Dignitas place where people go to kill themselves when they’re terminally ill. Georgina didn’t hold with it at all. She said suicide was a great sin. Kept quoting from the Bible. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away” – those were her very words. She would never have ended it all, Inspector, no matter how bad things got. She was a fighter, you know.’

  Markham did know and felt a sharp sense of personal loss. Having summoned a uniformed officer to take Joan home, he continued to study the scene.

  Questions raced through his mind in dizzying procession. Who could it have been?

  Someone who had followed Georgina home from St Mary’s that night? Someone known to her? An unexpected visitor whom she had nonetheless admitted to the apartment?

  What was the motive? Markham remembered Georgina’s keen, terrier-like gaze. Had she come upon another piece of information about St Mary’s? Somethi
ng of a scandalous or incriminating nature? Had she been weighing what to do when the power to decide was taken out of her hands forever?

  Noakes appeared, his boots creaking, treading gingerly as though conscious of the incongruity between his bear-like frame and this doll’s house with its dainty furnishings.

  ‘All neat and tidy, Guv. Well, she wasn’t the sort to do anything messy. Always very considerate according to the neighbour.’ He coughed uncomfortably. ‘Although I think it gave him a bit of a turn seeing her propped up there like a dummy.’ He stopped short at the expression on Markham’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s just it, Noakes,’ the inspector said intently, ‘don’t you see, she was propped up – positioned for us to find.’ He moved closer to the armchair and looked down meditatively at the shuttered face. ‘I think whoever did this felt bad about it, regretted it. Maybe even felt protective towards Georgina. It’s almost genteel. Nothing sordid, nothing ugly.’

  ‘What makes you think someone offed her, Guv?’ Noakes sounded genuinely bewildered but then launched into his usual verbal shorthand, ticking off bullet points one by one. ‘Widowed not that long ago. Finding it difficult to cope. Counselling for bereavement, leaflets in the kitchen drawer. Sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet. Decided she’d had enough. Finito.’

  Markham pointed at the bottle of Diazepam. ‘If you look closely, Noakes, you’ll see that has a label from the chemist in Wellgrove.’

  ‘What of it?’ Noakes sounded mutinous.

  ‘Think, man! Why would Georgina go all that way to pick up medication? It’s a fair hike.’

  Noakes was not going to concede without a fight. ‘Maybe she happened to be out that way – a day’s shopping or some such. Or maybe she didn’t want folk seeing her at the chemist here. She was the private type, so she might not have wanted people knowing her business.’

  ‘No.’ Markham’s voice held an obstinate note that Noakes knew all too well. ‘No, I’m not buying it. I think the murderer was cautious and collected those tablets out of town. No chance of being recognized that way.’