Halfway down the church was a contingent from the art gallery, drained of all individuality and somehow swallowed up by their black garb, only Aubrey Carstone with his height and military bearing standing out from the rest. Bill Hignett kept tugging at the older man’s sleeve to attract his attention, Carstone responding with untiring forbearance to each fresh appeal. Cathy Hignett stood on her son’s other side. Wearing a cheap trouser suit that didn’t look anywhere near warm enough, she appeared restless and distracted, fidgeting with hymn books and the order of service.
A gaggle of female staff seemed to be propping each other up, though Esmée Crocker’s demeanour suggested she did not much care for the proximity of Rebecca Summerson whose glazed expression hinted strongly at the consumption of a few vodkas beforehand. Benedict Bramwell too regarded the facilities manager with chilly disfavour.
Marcus Traherne managed to look spivvish even in mourning, Markham thought grimly. That brocaded frock coat was hardly appropriate. Made him look like Hugh Grant playing Jeremy Thorpe.
But was Traherne his man, the DI wondered. Venal and sleazy he might be, but was he capable of murder? Not as the principal, perhaps, but Markham could see him as a cat’s paw . . . the question being whose?
Markham noted that Daniel Westbrook was not with his colleagues but tucked away behind a pillar in a side aisle. Standoffishness? Dislike? Fear? He certainly appeared reluctant to look their way, the stocky body rigid with tension, muscles tightening beneath the jawline. Traherne shot him the odd furtive look and Carstone’s gaze was compassionate, but other than that he appeared curiously isolated from the rest.
A shaft of winter sunlight suddenly streamed through the stained-glass windows above the altar, intensifying the jewel-like splendour of the saints in their emerald, ruby and turquoise robes. The DI caught sight of Gemma Clarke’s enraptured face, pinched little features transfigured to something approaching beauty as though she reflected the glory of another world.
A moment, and the glory was no more. The light was all withdrawn and the shining church turned cold and sombre.
Something shifted in the atmosphere and silence fell.
Bearers carried the coffin, heaped with lilies, down the aisle and placed it gently on trestles at the front. Heartbreakingly, a thin spare man with a stoop detached himself from the rest and pressed his lips to the coffin. Presumably this was the deceased’s brother, come all the way from Australia to say goodbye to his sister.
Markham felt his guts twist at the thought of the pathetic remains inside, patched and mended after the post-mortem into some sort of presentability — sheeted up to the neck for the viewing room — to conceal the horror and desperation of Helen Melville’s final moments.
The organ began to play and the Requiem Mass got underway.
As always on such occasions, Markham felt the funeral pass in a haze of unreality, like an out of body experience where he looked down from above with all the wicked-faced little gargoyles high up on their corbels in the transept.
A survival mechanism, he supposed. It was the same way he coped at the funeral of his younger brother, long since lost to drink and drugs.
There was a short but sincere eulogy by a young priest who was well briefed and appeared to mean what he said, unlike the usual synthetic balderdash and sentimental clichés. Markham felt glad that Helen’s brother was there to hear her intellectual and personal gifts acknowledged. Whatever the twists and turns of her life, it was rounded by a dignified and genuine tribute.
Finally, the service was over.
As the coffin departed to an asthmatic recessional from the little organ, Markham felt an uprush of rage at the snuffing out of a life full of promise. It took him by surprise, so that for a moment he felt he could not breathe — as though he was trapped in a bell jar full of poisonous vapours.
And the murderer was there inside the church, he knew it. Watching sedately under cover of the congregation while his victim — shut up in a box — was consigned to moulder into dust . . .
Waiting his turn to shuffle out with the rest, the DI’s glance fell on the statue of a dark young priest with sorrowful eyes. Its face had a look of Charles Randall. Markham felt a piercing sense of loss as he remembered the young researcher, handsome features alight with enthusiasm, talking about the discovery of St Peter’s bones in Rome. Hard on the heels of that memory came the picture of Randall’s father waiting patiently for his boy who would never come home.
At least the gallery staff would be spared the ordeal of another funeral any time soon, he reflected. Whatever special courtesies applied to Helen Melville were apparently not being extended to the Randalls. That service would take place at Medway Crematorium, but no date had been set.
Outside the church, Markham and the team paid their respects to Helen Melville’s ravaged-looking brother. The DI did not utter a superfluous word, condensing his determination to catch the killer into a strong handclasp and the promise ‘She will have justice.’ The two men locked eyes, then the hearse and funeral cars were pulling out of the car park, headed for Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery and the private burial service.
Markham’s team, various mourners and a gaggle of lesser gallery personnel, amongst whom he recognized Gemma Clarke and several security attendants, clustered irresolutely in the church forecourt as though uncertain what came next.
Olivia hung back, it being part of her delicacy never to obtrude on her boyfriend’s professional role.
Muriel Noakes had no such compunction.
‘Gilbert, such a relief to see you back to your old self,’ she gushed in the carefully rounded vowels which he once confided to Olivia affected his nerves like fingernails scraping a chalkboard. ‘You were looking so dreadfully tired after that business at the Royal Court.’ A knowing glance at Noakes. ‘Such a slave to duty, but I told George it was time for you to spread the load . . . let others do their share.’ The subtext being that her husband’s boss was unlikely to receive any such cherishing in the domestic quarter.
God, she was an awful woman. Not least as she appeared to labour under the delusion that Markham had an unspoken tendresse for her, which only misguided loyalty to the flighty Olivia prevented him from disclosing.
Her funeral attire was as dire as the hat, he concluded, trying not to boggle at the faux fur tasselled cape which made her look like a down market extra in Dr Zhivago.
But Noakes clearly saw nothing amiss with his wife’s couture, beaming with pride at the impression she had produced on the gathering. As far as he was concerned, the cossack-cum-princess-margaret ensemble left the rest of ’em standing. Even Olivia’s ethereal beauty could not compete.
The DI reminded himself that there was no accounting for tastes and that the woman doubtless possessed hidden virtues lost on the casual observer. ‘“A box where sweets compacted lie,”’ as Olivia put it. Certainly, to look at Muriel and Noakes, one would never imagine that they were leading lights of Bromgrove’s ballroom dancing circuit, where they dazzled like moths emerging from their chrysalis.
Markham was spared from having to having to enter the conversational fray by the arrival of Barry Lynch who murmured conspiratorially, ‘Looks like we got away with it, Inspector.’ This being the kind of meaningless platitude which was Lynch’s stock in trade, the DI merely nodded and turned to the bystanders. ‘I believe there are refreshments back at the gallery,’ he said. With a smile which managed simultaneously to embrace and dismiss the non-police members of the party — what Olivia called his ‘discarding manoeuvre’ — he succeeded in dispatching them to their vehicles. Muriel appeared inclined to linger, but Markham personally escorted her to his girlfriend’s car, settling her into the front seat with the courtly gallantry to which she was highly susceptible. ‘Drive carefully,’ he told Olivia and watched sympathetically as she headed out into Chilcot Avenue. It was only a ten-minute drive to the gallery, but he reckoned every minute would feel like an hour to his long-suffering lover.
‘
Are we going to the eats then?’ Noakes lost no time in enquiring.
‘Yes, Sergeant.’ The DI sighed. ‘But can you, for the love of God, show some decorum and try not to scoff everything in sight.’
‘Funerals make me hungry, guv.’
‘I’m a bit peckish myself,’ Doyle chimed in. ‘Feels like a long time since breakfast.’ Noakes was clearly gratified by the show of solidarity from the lanky DC, though it was obvious that Burton disapproved.
‘Well, keep your eyes open while wolfing down the sausage rolls and vol au vents, the pair of you,’ Markham said with some acerbity. ‘At least I can count on you to stay focused, Kate.’
A rosy glow stole into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the falling temperature.
She’s still got it bad, Noakes thought to himself, an’ the guvnor doesn’t have a clue.
With that philosophical reflection, he turned to Doyle. ‘Right, lad, you c’n drive me an’ Burton. Meet you there, guv,’ he said. Instinctively, he knew that Markham needed a few minutes alone in the snow-covered churchyard — to tune into the vibes or undertake whatever personal ritual he needed to perform before adjourning to the gallery.
The DI looked at him gratefully. ‘See you down there, Noakesy,’ he said, missing the wistful look that flashed across Burton’s face.
* * *
In no time at all, the car park was deserted, only Markham remaining in silent contemplation of the powdery mounds where long-dead priests slumbered oblivious.
He felt a sudden sharp sensation of unease and whipped around, looking back towards the darkness of the church porch.
Thinking about it afterwards, he could have sworn he saw a face. An evil, narrow wedge-shaped face looking back at him from the shadows.
A face that was at once strange and yet somehow familiar. A face he had seen before in a different setting.
Come on, get out of it, you fool, he told himself impatiently. His mind was playing tricks on him after the long service. There were probably a few worshipers still in the church — maybe even some of the gallery folk lingering to say their own private goodbyes to Helen Melville. One of them must have looked out at the door. That was all.
* * *
Later that afternoon, the team sat in the gallery café amidst the debris of a buffet, surrounded by plates of sausage rolls, sandwiches, quiche, potato salad, fruit cake of somewhat geological appearance, tea and coffee urns and mountains of industrial white crockery. Markham had packed the staff off home. ‘The clearing up can wait till tomorrow,’ he told them. ‘It’s been a stressful day.’
Now it was time to take stock.
‘That went okay.’ Noakes patted his paunch with satisfaction. ‘Thought it’d be jus’ cheese on sticks an’ Pringles, but they made a bit of an effort.’
‘Glad you approved the funeral baked meats, Sergeant,’ Markham said drily.
‘Well, as my missus always says, there’s nothing worse than a stingy wake.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Helen Melville’s brother never showed,’ said Doyle.
‘No. Barry Lynch told me he had to fly back to Sydney later today.’
‘The poor sod prob’ly couldn’t stomach it, guv. I mean, let’s face it, one of this lot’s a murderer . . . he’d have been chowing down with whoever did for his sister an’ that poor lad.’
‘It was a weird atmosphere.’
‘How so, Kate?’
‘I don’t mean the usual weird . . . I mean, no one’s a big fan of funerals,’ she replied frowning. ‘All that in the church reminded me of my uncle. It was years ago, and I was only a teenager . . . but it was still hard.’
The DI nodded encouragingly.
‘And it wasn’t just that Helen Melville was murdered,’ she went on, looking somewhat embarrassed. ‘Oh, there was just something really off about it all . . . creepy and artificial . . . like we were on a stage set or something . . .’
‘It’s all them pictures an’ statues an’ things,’ Noakes said comfortably. ‘Watching an’ listening — all smug, like they know summat we don’t.’
‘Maybe that’s it, sarge,’ Burton conceded. ‘When the light falls on them in a particular way, you start to think they’re moving, or the expression on their faces seems to change . . . like they’ve seen something but they’re not going to tell you about it.’
Doyle looked from one to the other as though he could scarcely credit this shared flight of fancy.
‘Unsettling, I agree.’ Markham approved the stirrings of détente. ‘Rebecca Summerson’s suggestion that people should feel free to explore the gallery was rather out of left field.’
‘I showed your Olivia some of them stick figure paintings,’ Noakes said shyly. He shot a glance at the remnants of sausage rolls. ‘She told me that bloke Lowry said all the art in the world wasn’t worth a meat pie if a person was hungry.’
Clearly, as far as Noakes was concerned, no further imprimatur was required.
Mischievously, Markham observed, ‘And yet Mr Lowry’s favourite painter was Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one of the Pre-Raphaelites.’
‘Yeah, we had a look at them too.’ Noakes sniffed. ‘Not very realistic. An’ some of them lasses had too many pies if you ask me.’ He caught himself up lest this sweeping dismissal of Victorian art be taken as a criticism of Markham’s girlfriend. ‘Your Olivia knew all the stories behind the pictures,’ he said admiringly. ‘She could put any of them tour guides out of a job.’
Just as well Mrs Noakes hadn’t come upon her husband listening spellbound to his Scheherazade, Markham thought with amusement.
As though prompted by the pricking of his guilty conscience, Noakes said, ‘Jus’ before the missus left, she told me something odd happened.’
‘What kind of odd?’
‘Well, it was by the modern art room.’ Noakes cleared his throat. ‘She’s really into all the abstract stuff, see.’
That figured. Anything pretentiously avant-garde would be right up her street.
‘Go on, Noakes.’
‘She heard someone in the corridor shout “Get away! I don’t want you anywhere near me!”’
‘Did she see who it was?’
‘Told me afterwards, once she was back downstairs. It was Daniel Westbrook.’
‘Who was he shouting at?’
‘She left it a minute or so before going into the corridor. Didn’t want to look like she was eavesdropping or owt.’
Perish the thought.
‘Well?’
‘There wasn’t anyone else out there, guv. Jus’ Westbrook. Gave her a dirty look then legged it.’
‘Did she mention this to anyone?’
‘She felt a bit awkward . . . didn’t know what to do really.’ Clearly Noakes was surprised by this rare instance of fallibility. ‘Eventually she had a word with Miss Crocker who said she’d ask Mr Carstone to go look for him.’
‘Did Mr Carstone have any joy?’
‘Nah . . . Westbrook must’ve buggered off.’ Noakes scratched his head. ‘Carstone told the missus not to worry . . . summat about the lad needing to work through his feelings an’ that. Said it was all a bit complicated.’
‘Rather an understatement.’ Markham’s tone was wry.
‘Well, he and the Croc . . . er, sorry, Miss Crocker, were dead nice. Muriel said they were a cut above the rest.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘She said that Summerson one smelled like a distillery . . . An’ shrieking her head off at Marcus Traherne without caring who heard . . . I mean, there’s a time and a place after all.’
‘Mrs Noakes heard an argument, Sergeant?’
‘She was jus’ having a wander round the back of the café . . . overheard this ding-dong in Summerson’s office. Summerson shouted summat like “You’re a real low life, Marcus. A real piece of shit.” Then something about “if they only knew the half of it.”’ The DS concluded shamefacedly, ‘Then Cathy Hignett appeared out of nowhere and told Muriel she wasn’t supposed to be there . . . staff only, she s
aid. Told her to push off. I mean,’ Noakes waxed indignant, ‘how was Mu supposed to know? Summerson more or less said it was access all areas, so she was jus’ having a gander. No law against that, is there?’
‘Wonder what Summerson meant by saying if they only knew the half of it,’ Burton ruminated. ‘Sounds like she was threatening Traherne.’
‘Maybe it’s got something to do with those paintings.’ Doyle was eager to contribute. ‘The ones that got stolen. Maybe Traherne’s some kind of fence.’
‘In addition to running a vice ring out of the gallery.’ The DI’s brows contracted in a manner that boded ill for someone. ‘Quite the busy boy our Mr Traherne.’
‘I asked around about the stolen pictures, sir,’ Burton said brightly.
‘Excellent, Kate. How did they take it?’
‘Pretty relaxed really . . . no one seemed specially self-conscious. They’ve got postcards of the paintings in the shop. Helen Melville was keen on both artists apparently.’
She slipped two photocopies out of her jacket pocket and laid them on the table.
The first, The Soul’s Prison House by Evelyn De Morgan, depicted one of those well-nourished wavy-haired medieval damsels anathematized by Noakes. Sitting on a tomb-like bench beneath a prison grating, she appeared lost in dreamy contemplation of a prayer scroll held in her outstretched hands.
The second was Howard Pyle’s The Secret Room, which looked like the illustration to a lurid Gothic romance or penny dreadful. Its subject was a haggard-looking woman in crinoline and shawl thrusting what looked like a covered plate at a Charles II lookalike who loomed out at her from a hidden staircase.
‘Christ, I wouldn’t want either of those on my walls,’ Doyle burst out. ‘Bloody depressing the pair of them.’
‘That one’s kinda S&M for Victorians,’ Noakes grunted, scrutinizing the Pre-Raphaelite offering. ‘An’ as for the other one . . . must’ve been a fan of Sherlock Holmes is all I can say.’
Markham smiled wearily. ‘Each to their own,’ he countered. ‘Evelyn De Morgan was doubtless trying to say something about the soul breaking free of the body in death.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 115