‘Oh, you mean Blavatskya.’ Olivia laughed. ‘All perfectly harmless. Papers on secret societies and occult symbolism, with the odd wonder-worker thrown in for good measure. The last one was all about some character called the Count de St Germain, if you please – Robin Hood crossed with the Scarlet Pimpernel! The kids love seeing Sir Philip’s knick-knacks and trinkets—’
‘The kids? What kids?’
Olivia was startled by the sharpness of Markham’s tone.
‘Well, boys from the choir school. Nat and Julian told me all about it. The kids go to look at Sir Philip’s treasures, and he spins exotic tales for them – masters of ancient wisdom fighting for the poor and oppressed. Boys’ Own stuff. Cynthia says they really lap it up. There’s no harm in it surely.’
Markham pulled a comical face. It was an attempt to reassure Olivia, but secretly he felt a growing disquiet. With assumed nonchalance, he forced a clumsy laugh.
‘I hadn’t figured Sir Philip for Jules Verne! Well, it’s certainly a little unconventional, so I can understand why O’Keefe covered his back by letting me know.’
At that moment, they were interrupted by Giuseppe bearing two plates of cassata ‘on the house’. His face lit up as Olivia clapped her hands together like a child and exclaimed in delight over the layers of cake, ice cream and fruit.
‘That’s a work of art, Giuseppe. Almost too beautiful to eat … though I’m going to force myself!’
In that instant, Markham decided not to tell Olivia about the three Bromgrove teenagers whose disappearance twenty years earlier he felt increasingly sure was somehow linked to St Mary’s. Far safer for her if he kept those details to himself for the time being.
Looking at his girlfriend tucking happily into her pudding, her delicate features irradiated by the pool of candlelight, Markham’s mind roved uneasily over what Olivia had told him about Woodcourt’s peripatetic career. Mike Bamber’s question echoed relentlessly in his head like a hammer on an anvil. What if there’ve been other disappearances over the last twenty years – say from outside the area – but no-one’s joined the dots? The notion that an elderly and well-respected clergyman like the canon could be implicated in a ready-made paedophile ring – running undetected for years – was hard to swallow, particularly when he recalled Woodcourt’s gentle affability and unaffected kindness. And yet …where better for a serial abuser to conceal himself than within the stronghold of the Church of England, smack bang in the heart of the establishment? Due to the epidemic of historical sex abuse cases, men of the cloth could no longer count on slipping under the radar. But twenty years ago, it would have been a very different story.
The syrupy juices of his cassata suddenly filled Markham with an overpowering nausea. In his mind’s eye, he was watching Woodcourt dig down into the spongy clay of the little cemetery. Sickened, he abruptly pushed his plate away.
‘Gil?’ Olivia’s voice was full of tender concern. ‘Are you OK?’
Markham somehow summoned up a smile, though he felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He needed to keep his mounting suspicions of Woodcourt to himself at all costs. Any alteration in Olivia’s demeanour towards the canon could put her at risk.
And there was no proof. It was all ‘rumour, painted full of tongues’. What if his suspicions of Woodcourt were nothing but an appalling, unspoken slander?
‘It’s been a long day, my love,’ he conceded, reaching across the table for her hand, ‘and the pressure to crack this one is well and truly on. I feel—’
‘—like Saint Sebastian shot with arrows!’
Olivia’s anxious eyes belied her merry tone.
Markham held her gaze. ‘You just concentrate on getting ready for next week. It’s been a while since you were up to your neck in lesson plans and curriculum targets, remember. Leave the detecting to CID!’
‘You don’t think Cynthia and Edward Preston have got themselves into some sort of trouble do you, Gil?’ Markham noticed that Olivia was nervously plucking at Giuseppe’s spotless napery, a sure sign that the conversation she had overheard was preying on her mind.
‘It was probably just personal stuff. Can’t be easy trying to have a relationship in a goldfish bowl like St Mary’s,’ he said firmly, ‘particularly with the likes of Sir Philip and that beady-eyed principal taking it all in. Preston probably has a tough time of it as piggy-in-the-middle between the two of them.’
‘I thought you liked Dr O’Keefe.’ Olivia was surprised.
‘I’m reserving judgement. That fellow’s almost too good to be true.’ Markham flashed Olivia one of his rare, impish grins. ‘Or maybe I’m just jealous that you’ve succumbed to his well-oiled charm.’
Olivia giggled. ‘It is a bit practised, I suppose.’ Markham was pleased to note that the restless fingers were stilled and the cloud had lifted from her face.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said brightly. ‘Cyn and her beau were obviously completely in the dark about poor Irene Hummles. From the sound of it, the canon tried to save Irene’s job … had to have been him cos I can’t imagine Alex Sharpe playing the Good Samaritan…’
‘God, no.’ Markham yawned. ‘Right, better get the bill before I end up face down in the cassata and Giuseppe tells me never to darken his door again!’ He hesitated, somewhat embarrassed. ‘I left Noakes holed up in the office doing some research and…’
‘…you want to check with him before coming home.’ Olivia punched Markham playfully on the arm. ‘And they say romance is dead!’
Arm in arm, the couple weaved their way somewhat unsteadily to the door and were eventually allowed to depart in a flurry of affectionate arrivedercis.
Outside, they stood for a moment looking up at the gauzy, navy blue sky pricked with myriad gem-like constellations. Markham found himself hoping passionately that the poor victims in his current case had now left evil far behind and found peace.
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less.
Olivia slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. There was no need for words.
Back at the police station, DS Noakes was also contemplating the night sky from the window of the CID office, though his thoughts were running on potential opportunities for overtime rather than anything more poetic.
Wearily massaging the back of his neck, he turned back to his desk, cleared away the detritus of his lonely fish and chip supper and reflected with some satisfaction on a good evening’s work.
He thought he might be on to something with the canon all right. Cross-referencing Crockford’s Clerical Directory against missing persons and unsolved homicide indexes had thrown up such a glaring set of coincidences. that it seemed incredible no-one had ever made the connection.
But to Noakes it was clear as day. Wherever Woodcourt had served, one or more young boys subsequently went missing. A couple had eventually turned up in waterlogged trenches, but in such an advanced state of decomposition that the forensics were worse than useless. It was all there for the guvnor on the spreadsheet. Dates, locations, the lot.
Noakes picked up one of the sheets of notes that he had made and glanced over it. In all cases, Woodcourt had figured as a volunteer of information.
Stephen Harper, aged twelve, had sung in the choir of St James’s, Cedar Hill. ‘He was a dear, devout boy,’ said the Reverend Mr Woodcourt, thirty-two, vicar of St James’s. ‘Only a madman could have contemplated harming such a child.’
Then there was Henry Lewis, aged thirteen. ‘He was a shining light here at Holy Trinity,’ said the rector, the Reverend Mr Woodcourt.
It was the same story with other lads who had somehow slipped through the church’s net.
Woodcourt was invariably on hand to offer a soundbite.
What was it they said about Jimmy Savile? Hiding in plain sight. Well, the same could be true of Woodcourt too. The ultra-respectable clergyman living a double life.
The DS thought back to Nat’s shining-eyed hero worship of St Mary’s Chaplain. He had been curate, then vicar, and
rector. Why had he suddenly decided to do chaplaincy work? All right, he was made a canon, but he wasn’t running a proper parish. Was he lying low, out of the limelight? Replaying his conversations with Nat and Julian, Noakes felt the undigested chip supper churn inside him. Come to think of it, Julian hadn’t appeared to share his friend’s enthusiasm for Woodcourt. Possibly the older boy had picked up on signals that went right over Nat’s head…
It occurred to Noakes that Woodcourt had pulled the wool over his own eyes as well. Not your typical sky pilot, and he’d been taken in by the lack of airs and graces. Markham too, he reckoned.
They’d have to do any investigating of Woodcourt on the QT. Apart from the fact that it wasn’t their job to re-open old crimes, they could hardly charge around turning out every cupboard in the canon’s life over the past twenty years. Slimy Sid would never stand for it. And the church would no doubt batten down the hatches at the merest whiff of scandal, whisking Woodcourt well out of reach. What they needed was someone discreet, someone on the inside…
And he knew the very man! Steve Sinnott. When Sinnott had announced he was leaving the police to train for the Anglican priesthood some fifteen years previously, Noakes had been as bemused as the rest of CID. But they’d stayed in touch over the years, exchanging Christmas cards and the odd e-mail. Muriel had derived a certain cachet from the connection, peppering her conversation at the Women’s Guild with references to ‘George’s friend the vicar’. Well, time for His Reverence to do Noakes a favour. He looked at the office clock: 10.30pm. Not too late to make a phone call. After all, it wasn’t as if the guy would be out whooping it up. He’d probably be glad of the diversion.
* * *
When Markham arrived at the office half an hour later, he found his DS looking like the proverbial cat that got the cream. But as he listened to Noakes describe his ‘man in the know’, it turned out the preening was more than justified.
‘Steve’s a diocesan youth leader for North Cornwall, Guv. Ex-job too, so you can count on him being discreet.’
‘Well done, Noakes.’ At last they were getting somewhere! ‘How soon can he get the intel?’
‘I’ve set up an appointment for Tuesday. That’ll give him time to work his contacts.’
Markham ran a hand over his face. He felt sandbagged with exhaustion, but beneath the fatigue was an undercurrent of elation. This had to be the break they were looking for, had to be.
‘D’you think the canon’s still, you know, at it?’
Markham winced. Noakes was never one to beat about the bush.
‘If you’re asking is he an active paedophile, then I think the likely answer to that is yes, Noakes. But it’s complicated, and I can’t work out how all the pieces fit together. What I think we can hypothesize is that Irene Hummles, Georgina Hamilton – and likely those two poor lugs in the grottoes – were killed to stop them revealing what they knew.’
‘What about the kids at St Mary’s? Are they safe?’ Noakes spoke gruffly, but Markham knew that Nat and Julian had somehow wound themselves round his weather-beaten old heart.
‘With St Mary’s being a crime scene, I’ve arranged twice-nightly patrols. Despite the press sensationalism, parents aren’t clamouring to remove youngsters from the school—’
‘Cos it’s a handy dumping ground!’ Noakes was indignant.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Noakes!’ Markham exploded in tones of purest exasperation. ‘Get that chip off your shoulder. We’re not talking Dotheboys Hall! In case you’ve forgotten, this is a choir school. Christmas is the biggest gig of the year. The only thing that matters is who’s going to snag the treble solo for ‘Once In Royal David’s City’!’
Noakes was momentarily distracted from class warfare.
‘They did Bromgrove proud last year,’ he said reminiscently. ‘Sang like angels. Better than Aled Jones, Muriel thought.’
‘There you are then,’ Markham said hastily before the DS proceeded to share further musical insights from Mrs Noakes. ‘It’ll be business as usual for the cathedral.’
‘What about the Night Watchman bod?’ Noakes had the bit between his teeth.
‘Given the level of police scrutiny, I’m willing to bet he’ll take a back seat for the time being. Too risky. But I’ll brief Dr O’Keefe as a precaution.’
Markham swayed on his feet, causing the DS to eye him narrowly.
‘Look, Guv, you’re all done in. You need to head off home and get some kip. Won’t, er, your girlfriend be wondering where you’ve got to?’
Exhausted as he was, the DI was amused to note Noakes’s self-consciousness when alluding to Olivia. No doubt he imagined she had some sort of sexual marathon lined up!
‘You’re right, time to call it a night.’ He bit his lip and turned to go. Noakes would only think he was ‘losing it’ if he articulated his acute sense of foreboding. He suspected five children had been abducted and murdered. Five that they knew of. It looked increasingly likely that there were others. His former mentor’s words kept ringing in his ears like a death knell. The same monster did for them all. Somehow they had to break the pernicious cycle.
Saturday at St Mary’s was a half day, usually taken up with choir rehearsals and sporting fixtures. After prayers in the chapel at 5pm followed by tea between 5.30 and 6pm, students generally had the evening free so that they could unwind before the rigours of cathedral services the following day. Then it was lights out – 8pm for the juniors, then the seniors an hour later.
Nat always liked Evensong. Tired out from his exertions on the rugby field, he found something very soothing in the gentle chanting of the cantors and soft diapason of the little organ. Wedged between his classmates, the half hour usually passed in a cosy dream, his scurrying thoughts gradually succumbing to the drowsy antiphonal hum, incense and flickering candlelight. With his eyes shut, he could pretend he had a family and home. Aunt Emily meant to be kind, but Nat knew she found him a nuisance. Here at St Mary’s, there were other boys in the same boat, and Mr Woodcourt always said it was more important to lend each other a helping hand than to shine in class.
Best of all, there was Julian. An instant liking had sprung up between them from the very first day of Nat’s arrival at the school. Almost imperceptibly, the older boy had become his friend, his patron and the comforter of all his woes. Sometimes proud and stand-offish with others, Julian watched over him with a grim protection which never faltered. Any lads inclined to pick a fight with Nat soon found themselves confronted by an opponent whose listless manner concealed a fierce loyalty, with the result that they quickly learned to keep a respectful distance from his fists.
But something was wrong with Julian. Terribly wrong. Worst of all, Nat did not know how to put it right.
Opening his eyes, Nat surreptitiously glanced along the line of boys to where Julian stood, haughty and withdrawn as ever. His face gave nothing away, but Nat knew it was an act. He remembered how he had come upon Julian weeping behind second quad just two weeks earlier, his shoulders heaving with choking sobs which had alarmed Nat far more than any angry outburst. He had been tempted to steal quietly away, keenly aware how little his friend would appreciate being caught crying like a girl; but Julian’s frantic grief compelled him to act.
‘What’s the matter, Julian? Has something happened at home? You can tell me.’
He had timidly placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder, but the older boy had flung him off with something approaching terror. ‘No! Get off me! Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!’ he had cried. ‘You don’t know… You can’t – I couldn’t tell you what I’ve done. You’d hate me.’
He had turned away from Nat, cringing with some kind of shame, and Nat had quietly walked away, his heart pounding with fear.
Since then, Nat had watched Julian closely and seen that he was out of sorts. All his timid enquiries had been gruffly, almost rudely, repulsed, however, and he took it sadly to heart that his chief prop and steadfast supporter would not share his troubles. Julian had s
eemed cheerier with the arrival of Miss Mullen – going so far as to call her ‘cool’ – but this revival of spirits had alternated with fits of gloom and silent moodiness, so that Nat could not get anything out of him. Even Mr Woodcourt couldn’t jolly Julian out of his depression, despite holding out the lure of try-outs for the cricket First Eleven. If the prospect of sporting glory could not rouse him, Nat reflected, his friend must be in a very bad way.
Nat made a sudden desperate resolution to collar Julian after tea and get to the bottom of it. They’d pull through whatever it was together. They had to.
After tea, Nat looked anxiously around the boys’ comfortable, though rather battered, recreation room situated at the back of first quad. While the other students clustered in front of the television, happily engrossed in Dr Who, Julian sat in the shadows, so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he seemed scarcely aware of what was going on around him. Nat’s heart sank at the realization that his friend was shunning him, when this was usually their favourite moment of the week. Nevertheless, he bravely sat down next to Julian on the sagging overstuffed sofa and summoned up all his courage.
‘What’s the matter, mate?’ he asked in a rush. ‘Are you sick or something? Why won’t you tell me?’
Slowly, as though coming out of a trance, the older boy looked at Nat with a strange expression in his dark eyes. Half-fierce, half-imploring, he muttered huskily, ‘S’all right, I’m OK. Don’t worry about me.’
Nat looked so hurt and distressed, as though bankrupt in the eyes of their small community, that Julian tempered his abrupt dismissal with a clumsy laugh, though the tears stood in his eyes and his lips trembled.
‘Honestly, mate, it’s nothing for you to worry about… Just, well, personal things.’
Nat felt obscurely reassured by this answer. St Mary’s code of honour meant that you didn’t pry into another fellow’s domestic circumstances. He had never said much to Julian about his dead parents or Aunt Emily, so he could understand the other’s reserve about family. He knew Julian didn’t like his stepfather and guessed he was unhappy at home. That had to be the reason why he was so dejected and unlike himself. Nat could not expect any further revelations and would just have to wait until the cloud had passed.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 14