Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  But Noakes’s anti-clerical misanthropy was at full flood.

  ‘A pervy priest’d fit the bill, Guv. Maybe Saddington and Sister Felicity both found out some juicy gossip…. Hey, what if there was something going on between Father Reynolds an’ the rector? Didn’t Saddington’s missus call him the rector’s blue-eyed boy? What if—’

  Markham held up a hand. ‘Hold it, Noakes. I don’t think Jackie Collins style shenanigans are really Father Hassett’s style.’

  Heading off further muddle-headed confabulations, he added, ‘But something in my gut tells me we’re right to focus on the priests.’

  Noakes looked mollified, throwing a ‘so there’ look at DC Doyle.

  The DI stood at the window, his back to the other two.

  Sex and money, he thought. One or the other was usually a motive for murder. Which was it in this case?

  He looked towards the horizon where a bank of dense purplegrey clouds was brooding. It felt as though a malign entity was out there, gathering itself. Terror. The Furies. Hatred. And something else too. The worst….

  Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

  ‘Saddington’s missus said summat about the priests having money troubles,’ Noakes volunteered, interrupting Markham’s reverie.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. “Siphoning stuff off” were her words.’

  ‘Does that mean stealing, sir?’ DC Doyle pressed him. ‘I mean, aren’t there rules and things about church valuables?’

  Markham’s tone was speculative. ‘I imagine there’s some sort of trust governing church property … for all anyone knows, the priests could’ve done everything by the book.’

  Despite his ingrained resistance to the notion of St Cecilia’s priests as embezzlers, the DI’s pulse quickened.

  Money, he thought. Money. The best of men might be tempted to make a Faustian pact with the devil and sell their souls for filthy lucre.

  What if … what if hard cash was at the heart of this spider’s web? He had assumed that men of the cloth were immune to the lure of mammon. But why should this be so? If the history of the church through the ages – from the Borgias onwards – showed anything, it was that everything had its price.

  Any overt suggestion of financial impropriety would have Slimy Sid and Bishop McGettrick baying for blood. His blood.

  But it was a lead. And men had killed for less.

  Whoever is dishonest in the least will be dishonest also in greater.

  He felt a surge of energy. As though a rubicon had been crossed.

  ‘Sergeant, I believe Mrs Noakes has her ear to the ground thanks to the Women’s Guild and her … Inter Faith work.’

  The DS sat up alertly.

  ‘That’s right, Guv.’

  ‘Well, this being a matter of some delicacy, I wonder if she could take soundings … find out if there’ve been any rumours about St Cecilia’s finances. She could lead round to it by talking about Father Thomas Egerton – the priest who left them that windfall. It came just in the nick of time from the sound of things.’

  It was a risk. But Muriel Noakes was second to none when it came to gossip. If there was anything to the story, then she would be guaranteed to sniff out the details faster than any truffle hog.

  ‘Leave it to me, Guv.’ Noakes positively bridled.

  ‘What about that lot down at the university, sir?’ Doyle asked.

  ‘Hmm. Somehow, Leo Wolfitt and his sidekick struck me as lightweights … self-important posers … up to malicious vandalism and graffiti but not much else.’

  ‘Yeah, Mr Future Lawyer and Mr Future Banker,’ Noakes added in what he doubtless intended to be a man-of-the-world drawl.

  ‘Which isn’t to say that we won’t be keeping a close eye … discreetly, of course. There’s some sort of bierkeller bash at the Students’ Union tomorrow evening, Doyle, so if you fancy some undercover work sinking pints …’

  The young DC nodded enthusiastically before flashing a cheeky grin at Noakes. ‘It’s a tough job, Sarge, but somebody’s gotta do it.’

  ‘Humph. Well, just don’t be making eyes at all them pretty lasses,’ the DS growled. ‘You’re spoken for, remember.’

  Before Noakes could embark on a retrospective of his colleague’s rocky path to romantic bliss, Markham hastily interposed, ‘Right, let’s call it a day, gents. But I want you both in here first thing tomorrow morning for a quick heads-up. We need to break this case.’

  Before another body turns up.

  After his two subordinates had sauntered off in pursuit of beer and pork scratchings at The Bromgrove Arms, the DI remained standing listlessly in his office.

  The threatened storm did not materialize, but a fine plume of rain swirled like mist outside the window and a sudden breeze blew shadows across the street, whirling up insects like ash. The hissing static of the downpour on the station’s mansard roof was oddly hypnotic. Markham shut his eyes and visualized sheets of water turning the gutters into glimmering waterfalls, rinsing away the day’s grime and frustration.

  The chug of a hoover and clanking of wastepaper bins being emptied in the outer office interrupted these musings. With a sudden decisive gesture, the DI reached for his mobile. He’d ask Olivia to meet him at The Grapes, their favourite pub, for an early start to the weekend. Perhaps on neutral territory they’d both be able to relax.

  The Grapes, bunched and bulging like an old seadog with lumbago, was resolutely unfashionable but blessedly free of braying yuppies and the ‘mwah mwah’ air kissing brigade whom Markham held in abhorrence. The hostelry comprised a few plain deal tables in the front room next to the bar. Behind this was a smaller, more intimate room lined with oak booths, allowing patrons greater privacy. Funny little corridors, crannies and inglenooks which appeared to serve no purpose added to the eccentric charm of the place.

  Looking in at the main lounge, carpeted in a ferociously contrapuntal red and black fleur de lys which was Denise the proprietor’s pride and joy, Markham noted with amusement that the collection of brasses and warming pans had now swollen to include an array of barometers, compasses and other nautical instruments, heightening the establishment’s resemblance to a seafaring concern just waiting for high tide.

  Denise bustled over and hugged Markham to her capacious bosom. The ranks of CID would have marvelled to see the way their tall austere colleague (“Lord Snooty”) unbent in the warmth of her greeting, smiling broadly and ribbing the motherly peroxide blonde about her latest acquisitions.

  Eventually, she dispatched him to the back room where Olivia was waiting. ‘Looking a bit peaky, your girl,’ she admonished him. ‘Needs to get some meat on those ribs.’

  Despite the season, there was a small log fire crackling cosily in the back room, casting leaping shadows over the warped wooden floor that it made one seasick to walk across. Seated at her favourite banquette in a corner of the room, with her profile towards him, Olivia’s look of an illustration from Hans Christian Andersen – coiled chignon, transparent pallor and long graceful neck – was more pronounced than ever. With a sudden spasm of dread, he felt that she might at any moment be swept away from him like the swan princess of legend.

  Ruthlessly suppressing his qualms, he went to greet her, determined for one night at any rate to banish gloom.

  An hour and a half later, as they savoured their after dinner brandies, Markham had reason to congratulate himself that he had succeeded. During their meal – bangers and mash followed by apple crumble – the subject of murder was banished by mutual consent. But now, relaxed and mellow, their talk turned to the investigation.

  The notion of Mrs Noakes being co-opted onto the team tickled Olivia’s fancy. ‘Just imagine the airs she’ll give herself as your “secret weapon”, Gil.’

  Markham grimaced. ‘Needs must.’ Then he broke into a reluctant smile. ‘Noakes looked like the cat that got the cream. Proud as punch. And who knows, maybe our Mata Hari will produce the goods!’

  ‘It’ll certainly give Mu
riel an excuse to poke her nose in … lots of thrillingly confidential tête-à-têtes about the trials of poor Father Hassett. She hero-worships him, you know.’

  He felt a moment’s unease. Loose talk could be dangerous.

  But right now, what else did they have?

  He cradled his brandy glass, gazing into its amber depths.

  ‘I’ve just got a feeling in my gut that the answer to all of this lies at St Cecilia’s. I don’t know how all the threads link up, Liv, but the answer’s there somewhere, I’m sure of it.’

  Olivia reached across the table and gently stroked her lover’s dark taut face.

  ‘Copper’s hunch?’

  ‘That or what Slimy Sid calls my “flair”.’

  Markham broke into an imitation of DCI Sidney’s peevish, nasal tones. ‘“Don’t get carried away by those famous instincts of yours, Markham. Attention to detail, that’s what we need, not flair.”’

  ‘God, that man’s loathsome. Hatred of genuine talent’s hardwired into his DNA.’

  ‘Well, he’s got the might of the church behind him on this one.’

  ‘By the by, talking of churchmen, I met an interesting specimen at St Cecilia’s earlier.’

  She described her encounter with Edward Lightwood.

  Her lover listened attentively, trying to subdue his jealous misgivings at the ease with which the young curate had won her confidence. Of late, Olivia looked as though there was a sheet of glass between her and the rest of the world. As though, if the glass broke, so should she. But this had presented no obstacle to Lightwood.

  ‘Sounds an engaging sort of fellow,’ he observed at the conclusion of her story.

  If Olivia was aware of his reserve, she gave no sign of it.

  ‘There was something familiar about him,’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘Familiar?’

  ‘Well, I felt I knew him from somewhere … had met him before.’ Her face was troubled. ‘I couldn’t pin it down …’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘Oh, take no notice of me, Gil. I’m just rambling. It was a bit weird, that’s all.’

  Markham’s eyes rested lovingly on her flushed face.

  Leaning towards her, he murmured, ‘Nothing you say is uninteresting to me, Liv. Who knows, maybe you have come across Lightwood somewhere before.’ He strove to sound light-hearted. ‘Or perhaps you’re just kindred spirits.’

  She took his hand and squeezed it gratefully.

  ‘He made it sound like a casual visit …’ Her voice faded uncertainly.

  ‘But you think there was more to it than that?’ Markham’s gaze held hers.

  ‘Yes, only I can’t think what.’ She struggled to order her thoughts. ‘He seemed very interested in the priests … said something about checking out the opposition…’

  Markham waited patiently.

  ‘He made a joke about poaching members from other churches. Then he asked what sort of character reference would I give the rector and Father Calvert … were they the living saints of local repute… It was very breezy, but I had the feeling he was deadly serious underneath it all – that he really wanted to know ... had a reason for asking.’ She set down her brandy glass with an exasperated groan. ‘God, I’m useless.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Something stirred in the depths of Markham’s consciousness but refused to come to the surface. ‘I’ll pay a call on Mr Lightwood. If he has an angle on St Cecilia’s, then I want to hear it.’

  A short time later, with Denise’s fond farewells ringing in their ears, they emerged into a light drizzle which swept the pavement half playfully in one long brush-stroke as though for a watercolour. Bromgrove at twilight. Drizzle notwithstanding, it was a fine still evening with a rose-tinted sky and the distant hills painted against it in layers of filmy lavender.

  Their apartment being only a short distance away, Olivia and Markham chose to walk home, gratefully inhaling the scents of a town washed clean.

  It felt like a fresh start.

  The phone rang at half past four on Saturday morning.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’ It was Doyle. He sounded tense.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Markham eased himself out of bed, speaking softly to avoid waking Olivia. ‘Hold on a moment.’

  He padded through to his study, absentmindedly switching on the main light. Its glare made him wince. Hastily flipping it off, he went over to the window and pulled back the curtains. Outside, the landscaped gardens basked in the lustre of a beautiful morning, dawn unfolding like a luscious bloom.

  He braced himself.

  ‘Right, what’s up?’ At such an hour, it was unlikely to be good news.

  ‘Trouble at St Cecilia’s, sir.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘Father Calvert’s gone missing.’

  ‘Father Calvert.’

  The news came out of left field.

  ‘Didn’t we have a unit doing patrols?’

  ‘No-one saw anything, sir.’

  ‘Who called it in, then?’

  ‘The rector.’

  ‘And?’ Markham’s voice was sharp. He felt sandbagged with exhaustion, his mind spinning as he tried to process the implications.

  ‘Apparently, Father Calvert didn’t show for a service.’ Doyle was clearly consulting his notes. ‘Dawn Prayer… Lauds, I think they call it.’ More rustling and throat clearing. ‘Father Calvert hadn’t been very well earlier, so the … the infirmarian – Brother Christopher – went to check on him later, after the service. But Father Calvert’s bed hadn’t been slept in. That’s when they realized something was wrong.’

  God, oh dear God.

  Markham knew with sickening certainty that Austin Calvert was dead.

  The malignity he had sensed earlier, like a golem with its hands around his windpipe, was right there in the monastery.

  The enemy within.

  He found his voice.

  ‘Get on to Noakes and tell him to meet me there.’ Nervous energy coursed through him. ‘And I want a news blackout, Doyle, d’you hear me? Not a whisper until I give the word.’

  Markham stepped out of his car into the buttery morning heat. The dawn mist, opalescent and mysterious, was burning off as sun poured across the forecourt of St Cecilia’s. To his apprehensive gaze, the haze felt menacing, as though there was nothing that it might not conceal. To one side, the little cemetery seemed to float up from the ground, its ranks of white crosses like so many outstretched arms pleading with Markham to find the missing priest. A soft breeze out of nowhere brought a strange tar-like smell to his nostrils then wafted it away.

  Everywhere felt thick with sleep, as though the world lay under a spell …

  Noakes arrived in a screech of gravel and the spell was abruptly broken.

  Lurching across to Markham in a miasma of stale beer, he looked like a man with a very bad hangover, his horribly crumpled light coloured suit and (of all things) white panama hat making him a walking parody of the big game hunter.

  Only it was a human predator they sought.

  ‘Inside job then, Guv?’ Noakes grunted.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Markham replied tersely. ‘The patrol didn’t pick up anything.’

  They walked around to the front door of the monastery where the rector was waiting.

  His face was drained of colour, the hawk-like cheekbones more pronounced than ever.

  Again, it struck the DI what an imposing figure he was. Goodlooking and virile too, despite his age, with those Aztec features and athlete’s body. Markham silently acknowledged that he preferred his priests like that – men rather than eunuchs. His lips curled as he recalled Bishop McGettrick.

  ‘Austin’s room is on the third floor, Inspector.’

  Father Hassett spoke with an effort, each word emerging on a whistling breath from deep, deep down. No wonder he looked ravaged, Markham thought. Austin Calvert was not only his brother in Christ but his best friend.

  The rector led them in silence up to the third floor where Father
Calvert’s bed-sitting room was situated. Pale, frightened faces looked out from behind doors as they passed. At a gesture from Father Hassett, two figures joined them. Markham recognized Father Reynolds, his Praxitelean perfection only enhanced by pallor, and rubicund Brother Christopher.

  The corridor was dimly lit, lined by doors along one side, each bearing a neat plaque with the name of the occupant in bold type.

  Father Hassett turned to Markham. For a moment, the rector looked as though he wanted to weep, then a blind came over his face and he was once more in control of his emotions.

  ‘It appears Father Reynolds was the last to see Father Calvert alive.’

  The DI turned keen eyes on the younger man. ‘What time was this, Father?’

  ‘Late afternoon … half three or thereabouts. We’d had afternoon prayers. My room’s just here at the top of the stairs. Father Calvert’s is down at the far end. We walked up together and then went our separate ways. I remember Austin said something about having a letter to write.’

  ‘Did you actually see him go into his room?’ Father Reynolds appeared taken aback.

  He frowned.

  ‘Well, now I think back … no, I didn’t.’ His eyes held a plea for reassurance. ‘As you can see, it’s fairly dark up here.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Stygian gloom in the interests of economy …’

  The young priest gazed intently down the passage, along the length of the dreary oatmeal carpet which had long ago lost any colour or definition of pattern it may once have possessed, as though by that means he could will his confrère to reappear.

  ‘I remember Austin walking away from me … he was there one minute and gone the next … so he must have gone into his room.’

  Markham slowly wandered the length of the corridor with Noakes while the three religious stood in a huddle close to the stairs, as though struck by a superstitious dread which interdicted them from taking another step.

  The DI noted two deeply recessed alcoves breaking up the line of doors. On a plinth in the first was an imitation bronze figure of a woman – presumably the Madonna – in a long robe, her arms extended and her eyes raised to heaven. The second held another statue, this time a forbidding looking bishop with crook and mitre, the index finger of his right hand raised skywards in admonition.