Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  But there the journal broke off as if the ballet master had been afraid to bring the nightmare to life.

  Who was Shaw quoting at the end, Markham wondered. Could it be the murderer?

  *

  ‘How creepy,’ Olivia said with feeling as they ate baked potatoes and cheese together that evening. ‘So, you think Brian Shaw might have been on the point of confiding his suspicions to his journal?’

  ‘I think he’d heard the murderer say those words, yes. Something seemed to dawn on him when we were in Baranov’s house last night. He just seemed to shrivel.’

  ‘Poor man.’ She looked at him closely. ‘You don’t agree with George Noakes that it could be suicide?’

  Markham’s handsome face was unusually drawn.

  ‘I doubt we’ll get anything conclusive from the PM. Whoever did this was forensically aware, so there’ll be no prints. Nothing useful…’

  He sighed heavily. ‘I think the likeliest scenario is that Brian Shaw arranged to meet the killer sometime late last night after he got back from the visit to Baranov’s place.’

  ‘Wasn’t that incredibly risky?’

  Her lover smiled sadly. ‘Yes. Incredibly risky,’ he repeated. ‘God knows what was going through his mind. Perhaps he thought he could persuade him or her to hand themselves in… Perhaps he wanted to confront them … understand the why and how…’

  ‘Perhaps in a sense it was suicide.’ Olivia’s voice was very gentle.

  Markham’s dark head reared back.

  ‘Perhaps he’d had enough of life now that George Baranov had gone… Perhaps he hoped that was how it would end… “In love with easeful Death.”’

  Markham recalled those searingly melancholy letters.

  You have withdrawn your magic and left me empty… Only your love can lift the mists of doubt… You have tied me to you with the thread of Ariadne, so however far I wander, I will always be yours…

  ‘You could be right,’ he replied, thinking of Shaw’s curiously secretive smile. ‘Come to think of it,’ he continued slowly, ‘there was something strange about the last entries in his journal just before the part where it broke off.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In between a couple of references to class and rehearsals, there was a quotation. “The bright day is done and we are for the dark.” The writing was so cramped and distorted it was practically illegible, but I could just about make it out.’

  ‘From Shakespeare’s Anthony and Cleopatra, just before Cleopatra commits suicide.’ Olivia’s eyes gleamed with recognition. ‘Don’t you see, Gil? The quote must’ve been an unconscious lapse … his attention wavered and what was in the depths of his mind suddenly rose up to the surface.’

  Strange, incoherent, intruding words which shaped themselves into a vision of Shaw welcoming his visitor (one-time friend?) in the knowledge – the hope? – that this was the end.

  ‘How do you think it happened, Gil?’

  He came to himself with a start.

  ‘An overdose of diazepam in the whisky till he was unconscious, and then smothered with a pillow.’

  ‘Didn’t you say earlier that there was a gas leak and all the windows were shut?’

  ‘Window dressing, dearest.’ Markham’s face was grim. ‘All part of the mise-en-scène to manipulate plod into thinking that Shaw committed suicide from grief and remorse after murdering George Baranov and Sheila Bloom. Case closed.’

  ‘Only it isn’t?’ she ventured timidly.

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’

  Markham thought back to Shaw’s cosy bow-fronted living room filled with books and ballet mementoes. Leaning crazily against a cushion on the overstuffed sofa was a Petrushka doll with tragical features, mittened hands and turned in toes. Immediately he recalled the two lolling corpses with their grotesque accoutrements.

  The gentle civilized ballet master could no more have perpetrated those murders than flown to the moon. And it was down to him to prove it.

  With the luminous smile that never failed to lift his spirits, Olivia turned the conversation into less gloomy currents.

  ‘I went along to a ballet class at the university today.’

  ‘Really?’ Markham was intrigued. ‘D’you know, Kate Burton told me she’d been a budding ballerina at school. Sounded like her mum was poised to become one of those irritating stage-school mothers, only Kate didn’t make the grade.’

  Olivia smiled at the image of Markham’s earnest colleague treading the boards. Who’d have thought the sensible prosaic detective harboured a Dying Swan.

  ‘Just an elementary class, nothing too complicated, but the teacher was an ex-dancer.’ Olivia chuckled. ‘Well and truly destroyed my romantic illusions, I can tell you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, I’d thought of ballerinas as somehow ethereal … angelic. Those beautiful painted faces.’ She giggled endearingly. ‘But you ought to have heard Angie describe what it’s like in performance … all the previous night’s over-indulgence in ciggies and cocktails comes streaming out of their pores while they’re doing the turns, jumps, glides and what have you.’

  ‘Sounds distinctly penitential.’

  ‘You bet… And as for glamorous post-performance parties, well, it’s all a myth. Your face is like a beetroot. Your hair is soggy. You can’t stop sweating and you’re so exhausted you can’t swallow any food.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell Kate, just in case she’s still harbours any fantasies of tutus and pointe shoes,’ Markham rejoined with a grin.

  ‘Isn’t Muriel Noakes something to do with the Friends of the Royal Court?’

  Markham grimaced.

  ‘Fraid so.’ He sighed. ‘Which means I’ll be treated to her insights tomorrow afternoon at the run-through for The Nutcracker’s special effects.’ He shuddered. ‘Let’s hope it goes better than last time.’

  ‘Isn’t the theatre out of bounds? I mean, don’t your forensics guys need to keep everyone out?’

  ‘The DCI’s come through for me for once.’

  ‘Oh?’ Those were words Olivia never expected to hear.

  ‘Sidney got the ACC to authorize extra manpower and resources for the forensics sweep – saturation coverage so the company can get back in there for the final rehearsals. His wife’s a patron, and I heard on the grapevine that the ACC’s missus belongs to the same coven.’

  ‘The show must go on.’

  ‘Indeed. Civic pride and all that. To say nothing of the good burghers of Bromgrove getting value for all that sponsorship money… The theatre’ll probably throw in some warm white wine and sausage rolls.’

  ‘I was going to ask if you could sneak me in to this impossibly glamorous occasion, Gil,’ Olivia gurgled, ‘but on second thoughts…’

  ‘Actually, there is something you could do.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘George Baranov’s funeral is tomorrow morning and I’d be grateful for your company at St Cyril’s.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘The Russian Orthodox clergy have pulled strings apparently. And given his celebrity status…’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I should warn you, there won’t be any pews or padded cushions. It’s a case of standing room only, but I’d say the great man will be guaranteed a full house.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come, Gil. Don’t think I’ve ever been inside St Cyril’s.’ She winked mischievously. ‘I bet it’s all very Last Days of the Romanovs. Don’t Russian services last for hours?’

  ‘God, I hope not,’ was the fervent reply. ‘With the DCI to placate and a ballet company in turmoil, I don’t want to be out of circulation for too long.’

  ‘How do you think Sidney’ll react to your theory about Brian Shaw?’

  Markham took a hefty slug of wine.

  ‘Well, he wants a quick solve, obviously. But, on the other hand, he wants it scandal-free in terms of nothing untoward emerging about company members—’

  ‘Such as a middle-aged homose
xual killing Baranov cos of his infatuation with a twenty-four-year-old ballerina then offing the wardrobe mistress who was blackmailing him.’

  Markham winced. ‘Something like that, yes.’ He looked at his wine glass as though surprised to find it empty.

  Tenderly, Olivia came round the table and linked her arm through his.

  ‘That’s enough shop-talk for tonight. Television, my love, then bed. We’re going to need all our stamina to cope with the Russian mafia tomorrow.’

  Outside all was still. But somewhere in the winter darkness a voice gloated, ‘Death is long and without music.’

  10. The Road to Nowhere

  GEORGE BARANOV’S FUNERAL COMMENCED at 9 a.m. sharp on Thursday morning in St Cyril’s Russian Orthodox Church.

  Even though Markham and Olivia had arrived at 8.30 a.m., the church was virtually already full.

  After receiving a lighted candle apiece, they somehow wedged themselves in, and by 9 a.m. the congregation was virtually immoveable.

  ‘At least if anyone faints, they won’t be able to fall,’ Olivia observed as the packed throng undulated gently like prairie grasses. Markham could almost swear the icons which seemed to cover virtually every inch of the walls and ceilings were rocking too. He could not distinguish individuals in the sea of black, but had no doubt Baranov’s Russian and ballet families were all present and correct.

  The flickering candles and thick cloying incense made the church’s interior dim and hazy with a shimmering iridescence, so that Markham barely took in the jewelled frescoes and ornate robes of the officiating clergy. Chiefly he was concerned that he and his girlfriend should make it to the end of the proceedings in one piece, shifting his weight from foot to foot and glancing anxiously at Olivia’s slim figure. As the choir filled the church with the anthems of the Orthodox Church, she gave him a reassuring wink, totally unfazed by it all.

  It was a long and beautiful service of choral singing and chanting in Russian, with the open coffin at the front of the church wreathed in clouds of incense spread from four bronze burners, each on a tall stand. A young priest, standing over six feet tall, officiated from the altar, reciting the liturgy in deep resonant tones.

  Markham reflected that the power of ritual, communally shared, should have conveyed a sense of order and opened the road to healing. And yet, throughout the ceremony, he was aware of an undertow of loss, fearfulness and even anger, as though his brain heard only the bass line of an orchestral symphony. It occurred to him that probably the only person comfortable and at peace was the deceased…

  Markham’s mind drifted. Then suddenly he became aware that the service was reaching its end, with mourners being invited to approach the coffin and pay their respects. He and Olivia waited inconspicuously in their places at the back of the church, more comfortable now that the crowd was thinning.

  Morbidly, the DI wondered how George Baranov looked in his bier, that high forehead covered by the Orthodox funerary band. People were bending over, bringing their faces close to his, touching his hand … petting it. Some made clumsy obeisances which Markham doubted would have found favour with the choreographer. Others placed flowers around the body.

  A poignant memory came to him as he watched, Paul Gayle describing how Baranov used to stand in St Cyril’s with Sheila Bloom discussing angels’ wings. With a fervour that took him by surprise, Markham sent up a silent prayer that the two friends were enjoying some form of celestial bliss with those same angels. Intuiting his sadness, Olivia gently squeezed her lover’s hand.

  Suddenly there was a shriek.

  ‘Didn’t you hear it? He sniffed! And his mouth twitched… Didn’t anyone else see it? I saw it!’

  A small apple-cheeked woman bundled up in a headscarf and long black shawl was gasping, backing up. ‘His nostrils moved, I’m telling you!’

  For a moment, everyone appeared paralyzed, frozen with shock.

  Then Eddie Bissell, white-faced but composed, was next to the woman, an arm round her shoulders, practically carrying her out of the church as she continued to weep and moan. Eventually the cries died away.

  The orderly procession resumed.

  Finally, the tall priest placed an icon between Baranov’s hands (St George at a guess) and drew a shroud over his body before sprinkling it with holy water and closing the coffin.

  ‘What happens next?’ Olivia murmured.

  ‘Burial in the little cemetery behind the church. By special permission of the Bromgrove Metropolitan. I think that’s him over there.’ Markham gestured to an elaborately vested cleric whose mitre glittered with precious stones.

  ‘D’you want to…?’ Olivia was hesitant, aware of Markham’s intense identification with his murder victims and concerned for him.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ He smiled at her. ‘Call it a gesture of respect for a remarkable man.’

  Although outside the weather was far from restful, the morning having turned tumultuously windswept, grey and watercoloured, the little cemetery seemed curiously tranquil, its silver birches bending gracefully over the weathered headstones like so many attendant ballerinas. Markham and Olivia stood a little way apart while the mourners formed a circle, clustered around the grave, huddling close as though trying to find solace in each other. A trio of lumpen gravediggers stood on the outskirts, leaning on their shovels.

  The tall priest once again led the prayers, his long, curled hair and belly-brushing beard fluttered by the wind into black-brown streamers.

  Then Eddie Bissell stepped forward, supporting Marguerite Aroldingen whose hands gripped his arm like eagle’s claws.

  The ballet mistress’s voice, however, was unexpectedly strong, carrying clearly across the graveyard.

  ‘“There is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon,”’ she said, causing Markham to start as he recognized Cleopatra’s lament. How strange that Brian Shaw too should have turned in extremis to Shakespeare’s epic tragedy of love and loss.

  Aroldingen paid moving tribute to George Baranov’s inspirational genius. Then, addressing the coffin directly, she said, ‘We count ourselves blessed at being able to transmit the magical qualities you have instilled in us. And so, dear George, the flame will never be extinguished and you are always with us.’

  A nirvana of pure dance, Markham reflected, was doubtless Baranov’s idea of heaven.

  It was a fitting epitaph.

  Three dancers whom he recognized from the corps went up to the hole and dropped their pointe shoes on top of Baranov’s casket.

  As though this was some sort of signal, the mourners each threw on some soil and began to disperse. Markham and Olivia turned to leave the cemetery, filigree birch trees swaying overhead like a ghostly guard of honour.

  Suddenly there was a minor commotion behind them.

  Isobel Kent was sprawled out at the edge of the open grave, sobbing noisily, with her arms reaching down towards Baranov’s casket. The gravediggers stood nearby, uncomfortable, unable to shovel in the dirt.

  ‘You need to get back, miss,’ one of them said finally. ‘It’s all over now.’

  The dancer did not budge.

  There was general consternation as the departing mourners contemplated the scene in appalled embarrassment.

  The dark-suited figure of Paul Gayle detached himself from the group, put his arms around the distraught woman and lifted her out of the way.

  She looked at him like a sleepwalker and then locked together, the two figures began to dance a waltz right then and there on the dirt path next to George Baranov’s grave. Watching the surreal scene, Markham found the impromptu performance transcendentally uplifting. A moment of Elysian bliss, its setting Eternity.

  Chalk-white and furious, Alexandra Fairlie, Titian hair streaming behind her like a banner, walked up to Gayle and slapped his face hard.

  ‘From me to you,’ she hissed with real venom, her face contorted. ‘You must think me a real fool if you imagine I don’t know what you and that slut have been up to behind
my back.’

  The air of wicked grace – of triumph mingled with something feminine and alluring – with which she regarded the couple was worthy of a cruel Princess in legend.

  ‘Not here, Alex.’

  Gayle attempted to steer her away.

  With an almost exultant light in her eye, she challenged, ‘Where better?’ Then, gesturing to the grave, ‘He knew, didn’t he? George knew.’ With a look of scorching contempt at Isobel Kent, as though spurning her for evermore, the ballerina added, ‘Sheila too, though she never said anything directly … she just looked as though she couldn’t bear to be near the two of you.’

  Eddie Bissell appeared at Fairlie’s elbow.

  Poor sod, thought Markham, first the babushka and now this. Give the man a break!

  ‘It’s all right, I’m done, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Get me out of here.’

  Shielding the slight fragile figure with his own bony frame, his expression stony, Bissell guided her away from all the staring faces.

  ‘Phew!’ Olivia let out her breath slowly. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘God knows,’ replied Markham. ‘With this lot, it’s like some sort of infernal Scottish reel where everyone keeps changing partners at the drop of a hat.’

  His girlfriend laughed.

  ‘Spoken like a born choreographer.’

  ‘Hmm. One thing’s for sure.’ Markham glanced back at the grave that was being rapidly filled in. ‘George Baranov would have loved every minute of that!’

  ‘Is there a wake?’

  ‘I believe the cemetery crowd are going to the Saint Petersburg.’

  ‘Oh yes, that rather chic Russian eatery in the town centre … you don’t fancy it?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll lay on an ample smörgåsbord, but I’m not sure I feel like guzzling vodka and borscht right now.’

  ‘I’m surprised George – our George – didn’t volunteer for the job.’

  ‘Oh, Noakesy’s quite withering about “all that foreign muck”. I think he’s got an idea it’s all horse radish and herrings.’

  ‘As opposed to good honest pie and chips.’