Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Whatever it is, Father, we will take care of it.’ Father Calvert’s tones were calm and steady.

  ‘The papers.’

  It was a strange flaring of nervous energy. The hoarse whisper grew more urgent.

  ‘Sorry … had to do it … my papers … desk …’

  His fellow priests exchanged puzzled glances – was there a message for them in his room? – but had no time to wonder. Father Thomas was sinking fast.

  ‘We will check your papers and sort everything, Father, never fear.’ The rector’s voice was commanding and resolute.

  ‘Sorry …’

  That word again.

  ‘Whatever sins you have committed, Father, you can lay them down now.’ Father Hassett held the shaking hands in his own firm grasp. ‘God does not despise a broken spirit and contrite heart.’

  Their confrère closed his eyes, the twitching hands finally stilled.

  The rector was about to signal Father Calvert to fetch the holy oils so they could anoint their confrère, when he was forestalled by a shuddering sigh.

  Father Thomas Egerton had slipped away to his eternal reward.

  2. Give and Bequeath

  ‘WELL, I MUST SAY this is very nice! Can’t think why George and I haven’t come across it.’

  Muriel Noakes gazed round at the exposed beams and white garden furniture of the Copse Antique Centre Tearooms, patting her freshly lacquered hair complacently.

  Now that her choice of venue for afternoon tea had Muriel’s seal of approval, Eve Griffiths could relax. She had always been fond of the conservatory café attached to the listed former church of St Stephen’s which now housed Bromgrove’s antiques market. Whether it was grand enough for the queen bee of her little circle – wife of a detective sergeant in Bromgrove CID no less – was another matter, but Muriel seemed to think the place was quite a find. Eve exhaled surreptitiously and settled back to enjoy her melt-in-the-mouth scone with clotted cream and jam, being careful not to smear her chin.

  Located just outside the town centre, the tearooms overlooked gently rolling fields of rape, so blindingly yellow that they hurt the eye, forming a startling contrast with a sky of cornflower blue across which scudded fluffy picture-book clouds whose airy buoyancy rivalled the café’s fabled meringues.

  Muriel speared an éclair with deadly accuracy. How was it, Eve wondered exasperatedly, that her friend invariably managed to eat pastries without making cream spurt everywhere. Probably born knowing how to do it, she reckoned.

  Awkwardly, Eve tugged at her ill-fitting, fussy jacket and skirt, furtively wiggling a finger around inside the waistband. Tea with Muriel was an occasion, but now she wished she’d worn something floaty and comfortable. Uneasily conscious that her nose was shiny and her hair losing its curl in the heat, she wondered if it would be terribly greedy to help herself to the last fondant fancy. Oh well, in for a penny…

  Eve was looking rather hot and bothered, reflected Muriel, her eyes swerving from the table to catch a becoming view of her hairdo in the long mirror which ran the full length of the café’s inner wall. So important to go to a good salon regularly. Really, it was a question of not letting oneself go. That tight pink and lilac get-up did Eve no favours at all. And sticking her little finger out like that when she was drinking her tea. Who on earth was she trying to impress? Of course, with Jack Griffiths being the convent’s odd job man, it was no use expecting marvels of sophistication.

  Muriel smiled graciously across the table. ‘An excellent choice, Eve,’ she said in the manner of one conferring a benediction. ‘Quite exclusive. I’ll be recommending it to my Women’s Guild.’

  Eve ducked her head in embarrassed acknowledgment and turned a deeper shade of puce, compliments from Muriel Noakes being few and far between.

  ‘And now, my dear.’ Muriel’s face bore the avid intensity of one bent on acquiring information, her small eyes alight with interest. ‘What news of St Cecilia’s? How are they all bearing up after Father Thomas’s death?’

  Tears pricked Eve’s eyes. Unseen beneath the white tablecloth, she dug stubby nails into the palms of her hands. It would never do to start snuffling at the tea table.

  ‘It’s hard to believe I won’t see him again, Muriel,’ she replied softly. ‘He was always so kind to me. Always made me feel … well, special, as if I might actually amount to something one day.’ She laughed tremulously. ‘Like I wasn’t just a middle-aged Mrs Mop but someone in my own right.’

  Despite herself, the other was touched. Tactfully, she looked away from the over-bright eyes and focused on the view until Eve had her emotions under control.

  ‘I know Father Thomas did a lot of good work with the down and outs,’ Muriel said with amiable condescension, quite unaware of any unflattering inference that might be drawn by her woebegone companion. ‘Of course, George and I worship at the cathedral. But I know St Cecilia’s quite well from the Inter Faith Network. And Inspector Markham’s—’, – disapproving pause – ‘partner has started attending. Quite a regular, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Olivia.’

  ‘Yes, Olivia Mullen.’ This with a certain increase in stateliness of which Eve was happily oblivious.

  ‘She’s ever so friendly.’

  That figures, thought Muriel sourly, her thoughts turning to the flame-haired flibbertigibbet ex-teacher who, she was wont to inform members of Bromgrove Ladies’ Bridge Circle with a tight little laugh, ‘has quite bewitched my husband’.

  For the umpteenth time, Muriel asked herself what it was about Olivia Mullen which had such a potent effect on the opposite sex, even someone as stolidly unimaginative and level-headed as her George. Of course, the inspector never stood a chance once she fixed those witchy grey-green eyes on him, but Muriel was willing to bet it wasn’t just the highfalutin talk about everything under the sun which had snared Gilbert Markham. She’d dropped the occasional dark hint to George, to no avail. He was a noodle about the woman and, for all his general willingness to bow before the yoke, practically bit her head off when she broached the subject. After that, she had preserved a discreet silence, comforting herself with the sage reflection that, since trouble unfailingly followed Olivia Mullen, it was all bound to end in tears.

  Muriel cut through Eve’s happy prattle about Olivia with the single-mindedness of a sharpshooter.

  ‘The community must be so relieved that their financial troubles are at an end.’

  Eve coloured and fell silent. Then, seeing that Muriel was waiting implacably for corroboration, she fluttered, ‘Well, let’s see, it’s Thursday today and I think Mr Roberts from Farrer’s came about the will on Tuesday … yes, I’m sure that’s right …’

  Her companion looked as if she was expecting more.

  ‘Everything’s been just the same as usual really.’ Eve faltered. ‘I mean, everyone knew Father Thomas was leaving his money to St Cecilia’s.’

  ‘Didn’t the rector make an announcement, or at least say something?’ prompted Muriel.

  ‘He had to sort out all Father Thomas’s books and papers. Then there’s the funeral. Father Calvert said there’s going to be a notice in the parish bulletin.’

  What an anti-climax, thought Muriel crossly. She had been hoping to glean some tidbits about St Cecilia’s altered prospects, but clearly with Eve it was a case of slim pickings.

  Conscious of having disappointed her friend, Eve cast around for other conversational gambits, but could think of nothing.

  ‘Father Hassett looked ever so upset at the Novena on Wednesday evening’ was her lame offering. It was certainly true enough, she thought, recalling how pale the rector had appeared, his eyes smouldering like dark coals in a wintry landscape, the belt on his cassock cinched up a notch. He hadn’t made any effort to lead the responses, leaving young Father Reynolds to cover for him. Some obscure feeling of loyalty prevented Eve from sharing these observations.

  ‘I imagine they’re all very upset about Father Thomas down at the convent.’


  It was like flogging a dead horse, Muriel thought grimly.

  ‘Oh yes.’ There was a note of shy pride in Eve’s voice as she continued. ‘Jack’s friendly with a few of the nuns. Sister Felicity told him she was Father Thomas’s counsellor—’

  ‘Counsellor?’ Muriel’s tone suggested she regarded this as a reversal of the natural order.

  ‘Well, a sort of listening ear … like a trainer … someone for him to talk things over with …’ Eve screwed up her face in an effort to remember. ‘It’s called a spiritual director … nuns can do it too.’

  ‘I see,’ the other replied, though her expression suggested the reverse. ‘Is Sister Felicity one of the older nuns then?’

  ‘I think so. She’s retired now, but Jack says she used to be a nurse.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  There was something almost poignant about the way Eve proffered these little snippets, as those to appease a hungry deity.

  ‘Jack says Father Hassett wants to have a meeting with Mother Ursula about security.’

  Muriel’s antennae twitched. This was news.

  ‘Why is that? Have they been burgled? Don’t they have an alarm system?’

  ‘It’s something to do with troublemakers from the university – folk who don’t like nuns and priests.’

  Hmm. Muriel could well believe it. She’d heard the nuns called ‘black crows’ often enough, and she knew George was downright superstitious about them – crossed the road if he saw one coming.

  ‘One assumes the police will be consulted,’ she said with an agreeable sense of superiority. ‘There was that business at the choir school which George and Inspector Markham solved, so they’re used to dealing with the clergy.’

  As Eve looked suitably awed, Muriel felt this disposed of St Cecilia’s for the time being.

  ‘Now, my dear,’ she said. ‘How about a fresh pot of tea?’

  That same afternoon, as Eve and Muriel chatted desultorily over their tea, Olivia Mullen sought refuge from Bromgrove’s scorched pavements in the cool darkness of St Cecilia’s church, her thoughts darting hither and thither like eager minnows even as she sat motionless in a pew towards the back left-hand side of the nave.

  She thought about what Father Calvert had said at yesterday’s Novena – about the design of a single eye in a triangle being hidden somewhere in every stained glass window. It meant that the Eye of God was upon the place.

  There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed, nothing concealed that will not be illuminated.

  Olivia shivered at the thought of that all-seeing eye penetrating her inmost secrets. To distract herself, she left her seat and walked slowly down the nave to St Cecilia’s shrine, taking her place on the long red cushioned kneeler in front of the glass reliquary.

  She found the sleeping figure unnerving. What if the saint were to turn around? Would her eyes show holy resignation, or would they rail against her grisly fate with a wild, hobgoblin glare?

  Eyes again. Eyes.

  As she knelt there, a bar of sunshine fell across the shrine, streaming through the central lancet window above the high altar. Olivia felt uneasily that it was picking her out, pinioning her in its beam.

  Nothing hidden that will not be brought to light.

  Her hands tightened on the velvet altar rail, the knuckles showing white. On either side, the little silver hanging lamps seemed to swim in their own radiance.

  Usually she enjoyed contemplating the picture which hung above the shrine’s stone table. But today the triumphant youth looking upward seemed inscrutably remote and unknowable, and there was no relief for the weary hollowness which weighed her down.

  C’mon, buck up, she told herself fiercely.

  Stiffly, she stood up and, as she raised her eyes, thought she saw a face passing like a blanched moon across the window of the community oratory.

  Then it was gone.

  A discreet clanking told her that she was not alone. There was a headscarved woman lighting a votive candle at the stand to the far right of the high altar.

  Being in no mood to talk, but equally reluctant to wend her way back to the flat that she shared with Detective Inspector Gilbert (‘Gil’) Markham, especially as he wouldn’t be home for hours yet, Olivia decided to call by the convent.

  She had encountered Sister Felicity two years previously, in the aftermath of the murders at Hope Academy, when the nun had been recommended as a counsellor. Although wont to avert her eyes whenever she saw any of the sisters out and about in Bromgrove – as if Gorgons lurked beneath their veils, teased Markham – her initial mistrust rapidly melted and a firm friendship had spring up. ‘I haven’t told you everything yet,’ she blurted out impulsively to the woman who she felt saw not with the eyes of the body but with the eyes of the soul. ‘Don’t worry,’ came the tranquil response, ‘one day you will.’ It was through Sister Felicity that Olivia had discovered St Cecilia’s church. Normally, however agitated her mind, when she crossed its threshold, stillness fell upon her as if from a quietening hand. But today was different. She had the flicker of an odd presentiment. A presentiment of evil. It hardly made sense, since Father Thomas Egerton’s death was the passing of a saint – one who, so Father Calvert said, would surely be welcomed into the courts of heaven amidst cries of rejoicing. Sister Felicity would have laughed and said what she felt was just the noonday devil – demonio meridiano – nipping at her heels. Looking up at the dark roof space of the organ loft and the sombre shadow of the side aisle, Olivia was not so sure. The growing conviction that something was amiss burrowed, leechlike, into her consciousness and would not be dislodged.

  Quietly, she slipped away.

  Sister Felicity’s convent, the Convent of Bon Secours, was a twostoried, slate-roofed Victorian edifice three blocks away from St Cecilia’s church and built of the same warm red sandstone. As she surveyed the simple building, its lattice-paned windows – some frosted, some stained glass – winking in the hot sun, Olivia felt her unreasoning terror subside, though a lingering uneasiness remained like sediment at the bottom of a wine glass.

  Sister Isabella, on duty at the door, smilingly waved her through to the visitors’ common room situated at the end of a long corridor whose parquet flooring was so highly polished as to resemble a skating rink. The soft-shoed nuns seemed to glide along, unruffled and serene, thought Olivia ruefully, whereas she invariably skidded and lurched like a drunken sailor.

  The red-carpeted common room was empty. Settling herself gratefully in an armchair next to the open French windows, she inhaled a dizzying medley of scents. Roses and lilies, delphiniums, lupins and sweet peas. The flower beds offered a symphony of rich colours, and golden privet hedges blazed in the sunshine. Birds fluted in the tall beeches at the bottom of the lawn, while over everything hung the intoxicating garden smell of summer and a kind of spiritual aroma which trembled in the air like the premonition from another world.

  The holy time is quiet as a nun

  Breathless with adoration.

  The common room itself was modestly furnished with comfortable chairs and sofas arranged to form little breakout clusters. Ivory-hued walls were interspersed with various holy statues on wooden jardinières, tiny crimson flames of tea lights burning in front of them as though before makeshift altars. Olivia grinned as she recalled Sister Felicity’s irritation with Mother Ursula’s latest fetish for adorning these miniature shrines on special feast days. ‘There’s something every blasted day,’ was her muttered complaint to Olivia, ‘and between you and me, those things are a bugger to dust.’

  The room boasted only one picture. A reproduction of the Virgin of the Rocks. Olivia loved it, not for its religious properties but for the mysterious green-gloomed setting, emerald groves and glimpse of a cerulean vista in the background. On such a humid day, she felt almost as though she could plunge into the panorama’s hazy illimitable depths.

  When Sister Felicity Murphy arrived, panting, she smiled to see Olivia’s gaze fastened on
the painting.

  ‘This heat’s simply the end. To think those early Christian monks actually chose to frazzle in the desert. Like living in the heart of a furnace. Saint Simeon Stylites must have been deranged!’

  ‘Wasn’t he the one who lived on top of a pillar for thirty-nine years?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘The very same,’ her friend replied drily. ‘And even then, he worried that it wasn’t enough to get him into heaven. Talk about “holy fools”!’

  Olivia chuckled. ‘I’m sweating like a pig.’

  ‘Don’t let Mother Ursula hear you. Remember, ladies “glow”!’

  Confronted by the earthy robustness, kind shrewd eyes – like shiny pebbles behind the spectacles – and no-nonsense Irish brogue, Olivia felt her drooping spirits begin to revive. She handed Sister Felicity a little nosegay of violets. ‘Coals to Newcastle, given the splendours of your garden, Sister, but I thought you might put these in your room … to look at when you’re thinking of Father Thomas. I remember you saying they were his favourites.’

  The other’s smile grew luminous.

  ‘How very thoughtful, dear child.’ She caressed the velvety petals softly, then added briskly, ‘I’m going to ask Sister Mildred for a vase right away. And I think we could both do with some lemonade. Back in a jiffy.’ And, with that, she whisked out of the room, straightening her black veil and dusting down the plain navy dress which was the nuns’ uniform.

  At that moment, Mother Bernadette, a former superior of the community, bustled in. She looked pleased to see Olivia.

  ‘Hello, my dear. Does Sister Felicity know you’re here?’

  Upon Olivia answering in the affirmative, she drew up a chair next to her.

  ‘And how is Inspector Markham? Mother Ursula so appreciated his contribution towards the new library.’

  It came as no surprise to Olivia that her reserved, fastidious boyfriend had said nothing about a donation. In so many ways, he was still an enigma to her. She knew that he had been raised a Catholic before lapsing from the practice of his faith. ‘It’s a wilderness,’ he said sadly, but she knew the wasteland was peopled by the ghosts of all those he had failed to rescue, the conundrum of undeserved suffering cutting him off from the God of his earliest experience. ‘I must wait for my second birth,’ he told her ruefully, ‘like Nicodemus.’