‘There’s a Reverend Sinnott ’ere at reception asking for DS Noakes.’ The desk sergeant sounded suspicious. ‘Says it’s about St Mary’s.’
Noakes was galvanized into action.
‘Sinnott’s kosher, Sarge,’ he barked into the intercom. ‘I’ll be right down.’ Turning to Markham with a faintly apologetic air, he added, ‘Figured we couldn’t wait till Tuesday, boss, so asked Steve to come in soonest. He’s a family man himself, you see…’
‘You did right, Noakesy.’ Markham’s voice was warm. ‘We need something to break this case. I’ll take whatever your mate has to offer.’
* * *
The Reverend Sinnott, Markham reflected, looked more like a prop forward than a priest with his burly frame, crinkly ram’s wool hair and plug ugly features. But his hazel eyes were astute and compassionate. It was the steady gaze of a man only too familiar with the darkest recesses of the human heart.
There was no time for polite preliminaries.
‘What can you tell us about Canon Dick Woodcourt?’ Markham asked bluntly. ‘We’re investigating a possible paedophile ring going back many years and Woodcourt keeps turning up.’
Sinnott exhaled deeply before replying with an air of quiet deliberation which commanded respect.
‘Woodcourt’s a very able administrator, Inspector, and highly regarded for his pastoral gifts. I’d heard rumours over the years about pre-pubescent boys… There always seemed to be a coterie of young lads in attendance, so tongues tended to wag. In fairness to him, though, I’d say stories like that are pretty much par for the course if you’re wearing a dog collar and working with young people.’
‘Not for you!’ Noakes was outraged.
Sinnott’s smile was rueful. ‘I have a wife and kids. That was a protection of sorts. Being ex-Job helped too. But a guy like Woodcourt … well, there’s something a bit finicky and precious, about him. That’s what fanned the flames.’
Markham frowned. ‘It was an issue for the church authorities, then?’
‘Well, Woodcourt got moved about a fair bit.’
‘But that’s normal, isn’t it?’ Noakes was playing Devil’s Advocate.
Sinnott shrugged. ‘From what I heard, he had made one or two places too hot to hold him. There was gossip about Black Masses too, which didn’t help.’
‘Black Masses? What do you mean?’ Markham leaned forward intently.
Sinnott emitted a rumbling laugh. ‘Oh, it was just a load of hokum due to him dabbling in fringe stuff outside the mainstream. Theosophy, as I recall. A talk to some historical society or other about occultist philosophies ended with him being denounced to the bishop as a practitioner of the dark arts and devil-worshipper to boot!’
‘Hmmm.’ Markham was thoughtful. ‘Isn’t theosophy meant to be non-diabolic and peaceful?’
‘Oh sure.’ Sinnott nodded vigorously. ‘Woodcourt was banging on about its origins in alchemy and astrology. He gave another talk later about its links to the great world religions, but by then all sorts of nonsense was doing the rounds.’
‘You didn’t find anything sinister about it?’ Taut as a bowstring, Markham watched as Sinnott considered the question.
‘To be honest, at the time no, I didn’t. After all, it’s a common enough aspersion in religious circles, Inspector. The Early Christians were accused of cannibalism and all kinds of occult practices. Then, a few centuries down the line, the anti-Semitic brigade accused Jews of kidnapping and murdering Christian children to siphon off their blood.’
‘The blood libel.’
Sinnott looked at Markham with heightened respect. ‘Quite so.’
Noakes stared from one to the other in bafflement.
‘Let’s skip the University Challenge bollocks, Steve,’ he pleaded. ‘You said you didn’t find anything sinister about the Black Masses shitstorm at the time.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But what about later? Did anything happen to make you change your mind?’
Markham held his breath. He could tell from the sudden stillness which came over Sinnott that the DS was on to something.
‘Something close to home?’ he prompted gently. ‘Something to do with your kids?’
The other stiffened. ‘It’s personal—’ he muttered gruffly.
‘Nothing’s personal in a murder inquiry, mate,’ interjected Noakes.
‘Murder!’ Sinnott’s ruddy cheeks blanched.
‘Ongoing inquiries,’ Noakes confirmed portentously.
‘Look, Mr Sinnott,’ said Markham, trying to suppress a rising tide of impatience, ‘if Woodcourt’s our man, then he’s a predator. We’re dealing with someone who camouflaged himself as a priest to target his victims and cut the weakest from the pack. The perfect disguise.’
As his friend’s head sank lower, Noakes attempted some bluff reassurance. ‘The canon certainly fooled us good and proper.’
Sinnott looked up at the two officers with a hunted expression. ‘Could be something and nothing,’ he murmured, ‘but I noticed a change in my younger boy. It was a while back when I was starting out in Boscastle. Woodcourt was doing lots of outreach with the Youth Group, and my lads belonged to a Junior History Club or some such. It all seemed harmless enough. Kept them out of mischief.’
Markham and Noakes exchanged a long wordless look.
‘Gabriel became moody and withdrawn,’ Sinnott continued. ‘Thirteen’s a difficult age, of course, hormones running riot and all the rest of it. But there was something not right. Then when I picked him up one evening from a JHC meeting, I noticed Woodcourt watching him when he didn’t realize I was looking. Something about the expression on his face gave me the creeps. Like a fox in a chicken coop. And then it was gone so quickly that I could almost believe I’d imagined it. But I felt an overwhelming urge to get Gabriel away from the man…’
Some colour washed back into Sinnott’s cheeks.
‘I was a coward, Inspector. I never voiced my suspicions. Just found something else for Gabriel to do on JHC nights. Gradually prised him away from Woodcourt and decided to let sleeping dogs lie. I didn’t want to upset my wife by making a fuss – especially since Gabe hadn’t mentioned anything untoward. Also, I didn’t want to screw my career by offending Woodcourt. He had a fair amount of clout in those days.’ He grimaced. ‘And I could have got it wrong. Some parishes can be a right nest of vipers – you wouldn’t believe the bigotry and petty-minded hypocrisy – so I felt I just had to give Woodcourt the benefit of the doubt, whatever my own personal misgivings about the man.’
Markham felt a headache coming. There was something hovering just at the outer reaches of his peripheral vision. Whatever the phantom was, he could not pin it down.
With an effort, the DI recalled himself to the present.
‘Who was pulling strings to protect Woodcourt, then?’ Noakes returned to the attack. ‘C’mon Steve, we need names. Who else was involved in this freaky theosophical mumbo jumbo? College types, hippie priests, those whatchamacallits … gurus – the wacky baccy crowd – or what?’
‘Heavens no, it was all quite scholarly really. Just a bit far-out for the more conservative congregations, which led to misunderstanding. I mean, Woodcourt had some perfectly respectable backers…’ Sinnott’s eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Let me see. There was Sir Philip Soames for one and Colonel McIn –’
‘Say that again!’
Noakes sprang to his feet, his eyes locking onto Markham’s.
Startled, Sinnott looked from one to the other.
‘Sir Philip Soames,’ he repeated falteringly. ‘He’s quite well known in Bromgrove, isn’t he? Local philanthropist and all that… Look here, Inspector, are you all right?’
Markham had turned very pale, but brushed aside the enquiry in a hoarse voice. ‘I’m fine, Mr Sinnott. Please go on.’
‘I’m not sure I can add much more,’ Sinnott replied reminiscently. ‘Woodcourt and Soames both read Greats at Balliol. Then Woodcourt went on to Besant Theologica
l College while Soames dabbled in antiquities – he’s an amateur archaeologist and orientalist… Of course, the family fortune helped. But he’s been a generous patron of the church – sponsored restoration work at the cathedral and St Mary’s and helped any number of struggling clergymen … stuck to Woodcourt through thick and thin, otherwise he’d have been out on his ear … swung him the canonry too, I shouldn’t wonder. Got some sort of terminal illness now, but still turns out for diocesan youth pilgrimages. Amazing willpower. They don’t make them like that anymore.’
Sinnott paused, alarmed by Markham’s lowering taciturnity. He turned anxiously to Noakes who looked equally grim.
‘Surely you can’t imagine…’ he stammered. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Sir Philip… My god.’
Markham’s face was like a carved mask. Ignoring Sinnott, he addressed Noakes.
‘So that’s the connection.’
Noakes nodded slowly.
The DI gave an almost imperceptible jerk of the head towards the door. It was the signal for his subordinate to conclude the interview. Within a matter of minutes, the Reverend Sinnott was on his way.
‘Can’t tell you more at this stage, mate,’ Noakes said as they shook hands on the station steps.
‘I understand. Good luck, Noakesy.’
The interview had stirred up unwelcome memories for Sinnott who stared unseeing at the downy snowflakes dancing past in chilly drifts, softening Bromgrove’s stark architecture with their crystalline monogram.
Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a gust of wind whipped up bearing the sound of gleeful childish shrieks.
Sinnott grasped Noakes’s arm. ‘Those poor kids…’
The other didn’t trust himself to speak, but he wrung his friend’s hand once more. As much as to say, we’ll nail the bastards!
Back at the threshold of CID, Noakes pulled up short at the sound of stentorian bellowing.
Chuffing hell. DCI Sidney! That’s all we bloody need!
He put one ear to the door. Best not to burst in while the DCI was giving it to the guvnor with both barrels.
‘The very idea is simply preposterous, Markham!’
Slimy Sid’s fury was off the Richter Scale.
‘Do you have the slightest idea of the implications for the Local Authority Policing Partnerships? Investigating a distinguished clergyman based on malicious gossip and innuendo – it’s clutching at bloody straws and I won’t have it, Inspector. You’ll make us a laughing stock.’
Markham’s response was inaudible but it clearly didn’t mollify the DCI.
‘Total supposition!’ Sidney was withering. ‘You’ve got nothing except coincidence and…’ There was the sound of outraged spluttering. ‘…that Father Brown misfit you’ve just smuggled into the station.’
A wave of heat travelled up the back of Noakes’s neck. Father Brown! Still, he stayed where he was. Sidney was bound to run out of steam sooner or later.
But it sounded as though the DCI was merely getting his second wind.
‘I’ve also received a serious complaint from Sir Philip Soames…’
The decibel level dropped somewhat, but snatches of indignant accusation floated into the corridor.
‘…gratuitous harassment … needless distress ... besmirching reputations … years of service to the community … appalling ingratitude to a benefactor…’
On and on it went, with allegations that Markham was looking for a scapegoat to cover his own deficiencies as Senior Investigating Officer.
From the way Sidney was wheeling out the rack, Noakes figured that the cathedral clique had got the wind up. But how far did the conspiracy go, he wondered. Who could they trust at St Mary’s?
‘You will drop this ridiculous vendetta, Markham. That’s an order.’ Sidney was inexorable. ‘You can forget Mike Bamber and his half-baked theories.’ A further twist of the thumbscrews. ‘The man’s a crank and leading you up a blind alley with his obsession about the Warr case. Obviously, there’s a maniac out there with some sort of deranged religious fixation – possibly something to do with the shrine and its relics. Make local mental hospitals your focus. And leave Sir Philip Soames alone.’
Silence.
Clearly the guvnor was resorting to his usual strategy for dealing with the DCI. Polite compliance masking a determination to go his own way regardless.
Tetchy harrumphing heralded Sidney’s imminent exit from CID. Thinking quickly, Noakes reversed down the corridor and slid into the stationery cupboard, his usual hiding place on such occasions.
A soft whoosh of the lift indicated the DCI’s departure to the upper regions.
‘You can come out now, Noakes.’ Markham’s voice was sardonic. ‘Thanks for your support back there.’
‘Figured you had it covered, boss.’
Noakes looked anxiously at Markham.
The inspector’s voice was devoid of emotion but his eyes blazed with determination.
‘Right, Noakes,’ he said, ‘this is what we’re going to do.’
14. No Comfortable Star
Their unmarked police car sped through streets blanketed with snow. The winter night seemed particularly tense, as though holding its breath in anticipation of some frightful revelation.
‘I’ve checked with St Mary’s.’ Noakes’s voice was level, with an undercurrent of suppressed vehemence. ‘Apparently Woodcourt’s at a meeting in the cathedral.’ He frowned down at his notebook. ‘Dr O’Keefe said something about him having to see the suffragan or summat like that.’
Markham’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
‘That’s the assistant bishop, Noakes. Sounds as though the church authorities are gearing up for a spot of damage limitation.’ He added in a bitter aside, almost as though speaking to himself, ‘God, it’s enough to make you puke.’
Realizing Noakes was scrutinizing him with unusual intensity, Markham shook his head as though to slough off his sleepy befuddlement.
‘Sir Philip’s a sick man. As things stand, we’ve got nothing on him. But this connection with Woodcourt, which he took good care not to disclose to us, puts him in the frame for those cold cases in Bromgrove—’
‘Jonny Warr, David Belcher and Adam Waring,’ Noakes interrupted eagerly.
‘Yes. And perhaps for other unsolveds as well.’
For all his hirsute dishevelment, Noakes was alert as any bloodhound. ‘So, we’re going to have a crack at him then, Guv?’
‘I’ve logged us as attending St Mary’s,’ answered Markham, ‘but in fact,’ he smiled grimly, ‘we’ll be taking the scenic route via Thurston Lodge.’
‘What about Sli – I mean, DCI Sidney?’
‘What about him? He’s a good man, but he’ll cosy up to the establishment, because he sees himself as one of them. If there’s a meeting at the cathedral, I shouldn’t wonder if Sidney turns up there to give moral support, as it were. So, if he wants to know what I’m up to, let’s say I’m concerned for Sir Philip’s wellbeing. Alternatively, I have reason to believe that he could be in danger. Take your pick.’
It was clear from the quick rising light and fire on Markham’s face that he had determined to defy his senior officer and to hell with the consequences. Noakes felt an answering glow. Good on you, boss!
As they drew up in front of Thurston Lodge, Markham thought back to his visit with Olivia on that other cold still day, when Nature had denuded the dilapidated house down to the bare bones so that it seemed to have kicked off its clothes, defying the casual visitor to find it wanting. He recalled the curious gargoyles which had seemed to sprout from the building’s various corbels; little diamond-shaped faces, with the glazed blankness of death masks. Now, however, the place had quite a changed aspect, gilded as it was by a sort of faery fretwork. Stark angles and crumbling downspouts were softened and transformed by a gently gleaming coat of powdery snow, while the garden looked almost too delicate to be sullied by their rough feet.
For all the sugar-spun airiness and damply
clinging flakes, which caressed his hot aching skin with their welcome chill, Markham found the place no less sinister than before. What secrets lay beyond the shroud-white physiognomy of this house? Whose voices were muffled in its depths?
‘Guv. You OK?’
Noakes’s voice recalled Markham to himself.
‘Fine,’ he replied curtly. ‘You lead the way, Noakes. I imagine the manservant will be screening visitors. We’ll just have to play it by ear.’
Noakes’s hand was raised to the brass bell pull when, to their surprise, the oak door was wrenched open.
Sir Philip’s factotum stood before them frantic and wild-eyed, his features glistening with sweat. The mysterious inscrutability and impenetrable calm that had struck Markham on his first visit were gone.
Noakes and Markham stared at the apparition as though trapped in some infernal hall of mirrors. For a moment, no-one spoke.
Then the vision broke into a flow of hysterical supplication.
‘Help me, please! He was fine when I left him, but now he’s gone!’
‘Easy, mate, easy.’ Noakes laid a kindly hand on the flailing arm. ‘What’s up? Is it Sir Philip?’
Clutching Markham as though fearful of losing him from sight, the manservant drew the two policemen through to the back of the house, his limp even more noticeable than on the DI’s first visit. Nothing had changed. They went along musty winding corridors papered in lurid sea-green, passing the same sombre paintings and tall cabinets towering like catafalques.
Finally, they reached a cubby-hole behind the kitchen which was evidently some personal sanctum. A faded picture of a dumpy little woman in a headscarf adorned one wall. The dresser beneath it held a cheap tea-light holder with a solitary burning candle. Markham recalled a similar stencilled image in the Friends of St Mary’s magazines. Presumably this was Madame Blavatskya, the enigmatic foundress of the theosophy movement. Was this man Sir Philip’s disciple? His partner in corruption? Or simply a devoted family retainer?
‘For God’s sake, do something! Anything could have happened!’ their guide pleaded brokenly, a deformed shadow against the wall repeating and parodying his overwrought gesticulation.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 17