Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Matt,’ Olivia said reluctantly. ‘What with Gil’s job, I’m a bit paranoid … jump at my own shadow, you know.’

  Sullivan could imagine only too well, though from what he’d seen of Markham it was likely that Olivia received only the most tightly edited feedback from the police front line.

  ‘Hey, no reason you shouldn’t put in for a job at St Mary’s if Cynthia wants some support and you feel up to it,’ he declared reassuringly. ‘Far more satisfying than all the supply malarkey. To be honest, you’re wasted at Hope.’

  Olivia gurgled. ‘I certainly don’t speak the head’s language.’

  ‘As in fluent bullshit?’

  ‘Precisely! Now, how about a refill?’

  By mutual consent the subject of St Mary’s was dropped, the two friends launching into a highly enjoyable round of gossip and mildly scabrous character assassination.

  When Markham returned later that night, he was secretly thrilled to note that Olivia was looking more animated than he had seen her for some time. Breathing a silent prayer of thanks to Matthew Sullivan, he sank into his own especial armchair and enquired, ‘Well, I’m all ears. How did the intelgathering go?’

  ‘Matt couldn’t offer me much in the way of dirt unfortunately.’

  Was it Olivia’s imagination, or did Markham look relieved?

  ‘There was some case he told me about – something about a female member of staff disappearing a while ago. And there were a couple of boys who absconded too.’

  ‘Umm, yep. Rings a bell. Think it was before I transferred here.’ He shot her a keen glance. ‘You want me to check it out?’

  Olivia flushed. ‘I know you’ll think I’ve got some mad idea about sleuthing with Cynthia, sweetheart, but honestly it’s not that.’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘I just want to be there for her – help her with whatever’s wrong.’

  Markham kept his tone deliberately light. ‘Bet you wouldn’t mind having a peep at those relics too, my little amateur historian?’

  His reward was a look of deep gratitude. ‘It’d certainly be an interesting place to work,’ Olivia agreed. ‘And lashings of glorious music into the bargain – perk of the job!’

  ‘Plus a free pass to the St Mary Grottoes.’

  ‘Grottoes! Matt didn’t say anything about them!’

  ‘Don’t know all that much about them myself, to be honest. They featured on the agenda at tonight’s meeting.’ He yawned. ‘Long story short, there used to be a pagan ossuary in the caves and tunnels under land at the back of the school.’

  ‘Like a catacomb?’

  Olivia’s voice was eager.

  ‘Yes, something like that. Anyway, over the centuries this boneyard was replaced by votive altars to the Virgin Mary. The place became a site of pilgrimage apparently, then fell into disuse when restoration work was halted for lack of funds. Thanks to Sir Philip Soames, the renovations are back on, but the earthworks are dangerous so the place isn’t open to the public.’

  ‘How romantic!’ Olivia breathed, her eyes like stars.

  Suppressing a sigh, Markham smiled at his rapt girlfriend. ‘I guess that just about clinches it for you. When will you be signing on the dotted line at St Mary’s?’

  Olivia had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘After Cyn told me about the vacancy, I sent a quick e-mail to the principal’s office – an on-spec enquiry so to speak. They’ve asked me to come in for an interview tomorrow.’

  ‘I might have known!’

  But Markham sounded resigned and Olivia knew then that she had won the day. Diplomatically, she turned the conversation.

  ‘How was the meeting? Did Noakes behave himself?’

  ‘He was so busy hoovering up the sarnies and vol-au-vents, that opportunities for causing mortal offence were mercifully limited. Actually, Noakesy mentioned something to do with St Mary’s. Now what was it? Oh yes, something about a reported desecration in the cathedral graveyard. From the sound of it, just an elderly parishioner frightening herself over nothing. He went down there to have a look – spoke to the cemetery staff – but everything seemed to be in order.’

  ‘Shame.’ Olivia spoke teasingly. ‘I was waiting for something blood-curdling!’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint! Come on, dearest, let’s call it a night. You’ll need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for that interview tomorrow.’

  They were heading for the stairs when Markham stopped and laid his hand on her arm.

  ‘Just one thing, Liv. I’m sure everything’s above board at St Mary’s. But if the place does hold any secrets, then for God’s sake tread carefully. You don’t want to stir up old troubles.’

  It felt like a premonition.

  As she turned into the forecourt of St Mary’s Choir School the following morning, Olivia ruefully told herself that late-night discussion of ossuaries, boneyards and the like was not the best prescription for a sound night’s sleep. She felt heavy-eyed and sluggish, her downcast mood a perfect match for thin drizzle and leaden skies. The brilliant sunshine and perfect winter crispness of the previous day had vanished along with her earlier optimism. Suddenly she felt rather foolish. Did she really imagine she could waltz into this sedate little enclave like some latter-day Lara Croft and begin ferreting out its mysteries? Wasn’t it sometimes better to let sleeping dogs lie?

  Then Olivia thought of Cynthia. The alteration in her friend’s looks was disturbing. What on earth could have wrought such a dramatic change?

  Olivia looked up at the glorious honeyed frontage of St Mary’s. Not even the murk of a dreary December day could wholly muffle its radiance. The yellow Cotswold stone glowed softly like yellow jessamine.

  ‘Beautiful but deadly.’ The words were out of her mouth almost without her being aware of uttering them. As though triggered by something in her subconscious. As though to warn her of a worm in the bud.

  At that moment, other details forced their way through Olivia’s preoccupation and she noticed the large number of cars parked in front of the school. One vehicle was a Bromgrove police car.

  Some sort of trouble, she asked herself with a flicker of curiosity.

  A tall, thick-set man lumbered down the elegant front steps.

  Distracted by her anxiety about Cynthia, Olivia nearly cannoned into him. Close-set eyes regarded her with unmistakable hostility and his jaw shot out pugnaciously. Surely this couldn’t be the charismatic new principal?

  She became aware that a voice was barking at her. ‘I asked if you have an appointment.’

  The voice was as unattractively abrasive as the man’s appearance.

  ‘I’m here to see Miss Gibson,’ she answered politely but with a hint of frost.

  ‘It’s all right, Alex.’ Cynthia suddenly appeared behind him, out of breath and uncharacteristically flustered. ‘This is Miss Mullen. She’s here for a meeting with Dr O’Keefe about the English position. Liv, this is Alex Sharpe, our Director of Music.’

  The Director of Music did not appear mollified. ‘Unfortunate timing to say the least.’

  Olivia looked from one to the other in confusion.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ Cynthia said swiftly. ‘Come on, Liv, I’ll explain in the parlour.’

  As she meekly trotted along behind Cynthia, Olivia felt Alex Sharpe’s gaze hot on her back.

  In the visitors’ parlour, tranquillity reigned. The English and Welsh martyrs in their gilt frame continued to gaze at some vision of celestial bliss beyond the reach of mere mortals. Olivia would have given much to share that serenity. But she sensed a shift in the atmosphere of St Mary’s.

  ‘What’s with the police car, Cyn? Has something happened?’

  Cynthia looked uneasy and her eyes slid away from Olivia. ‘I don’t really know, to be honest,’ she said hesitatingly. ‘It’s something to do with the renovations. You’ll have heard of the St Mary Grottoes—’

  ‘Yes, Gil filled me in.’

  ‘Gil?’

  ‘My partner.’ There wa
s an awkward pause. ‘He’s a DI with Bromgrove CID. Not many people know. We’re happier to keep it under the radar.’

  Cynthia looked startled.

  ‘A policeman,’ she said slowly. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Olivia continued brightly as though oblivious to the other’s obvious discomposure, ‘he said you’ve got some sort of necropolis or temple down there – pagan and Christian artefacts, that kind of thing.’

  Cynthia recovered herself. ‘That’s right. The site has archaeological significance, hence the excavations and preservation work.’

  She fell silent then resumed.

  ‘Well, it looks like the workmen have found human remains.’

  The words dropped into the silence of the parlour like pebbles into a deep well.

  Olivia was puzzled by her friend’s visible constraint.

  ‘Isn’t that to be expected? Presumably they’re bound to disturb the odd set of bones.’

  There was a pregnant pause.

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Liv. Actually, there was a bit of a mistake…’

  ‘How do you mean, a mistake?’ Olivia did her best to keep impatience out of her voice.

  Cynthia spoke slowly, cautiously, as if the words were being dragged out of her.

  ‘Well, the workmen weren’t supposed to be excavating that particular area. The architect and Local Heritage Committee had decided it was out of bounds for redevelopment. I don’t know the ins and outs,’ a slight flush rose to her cheek, ‘but the cathedral architect Edward Preston says it was something to do with the protocols for disturbing human remains. There’s a little Christian cemetery backing onto the old pagan burial ground, so any exhumations would mean a big headache for St Mary’s, what with all the regulations on safeguarding decency and privacy, not to mention the expense.’

  ‘Can’t they just rebury the remains? Or does the council have to OK it? Is that why the police are here?’ The questions tumbled out of Olivia.

  Noticing her friend’s ashy complexion and haunted expression, she pulled herself up short. ‘Sorry, Cyn, I’m being a pain. Tell me to shut up if you like!’

  Cynthia smiled wanly. ‘The whole thing’s been a bit of a shock. You see—’

  Olivia waited. Her friend’s face twisted and she suddenly looked much older than her years, her forehead furrowed by lines which seemed to have sprung up overnight.

  ‘The workmen uncovered two bodies about five feet down, one on top of the other. Apparently, the skeletons were instantly recognizable as modern-day from what was left of their clothing. But,’ she took a deep breath, ‘there was evidence of foul play. There was a garrotte around the neck of the body underneath, with dried blood on it and the remnants of a tourniquet. But most horrible of all…’

  The parlour seemed to have darkened and a shade fell across the faces of the holy martyrs – hung, drawn and quartered centuries before – as though they recalled their own agonized earthly sufferings.

  ‘…the uppermost skeleton was lying over the other, facing it – as though they were locked in an embrace. Its arms and hands were stretched out like claws … like a strangler…’

  Cynthia visibly struggled for composure. ‘I heard one of the guys saying it was sick. As though the skeletons were posed. From the look of it, one had murdered the other before somehow ending up in the slime and sludge with him.’

  ‘ “The wages of Sin is Death,” ’ said Olivia sombrely. ‘A murderer killing to order, then disposed of in his turn. Dead men tell no tales…’

  ‘It’s horrible.’ Cynthia spoke with surprising passion. ‘A desecration. It’s as if St Mary’s has been polluted.’

  ‘Maybe these victims wanted to be found – were ready to be found – and drew the workmen to the grave. So that what was hidden could be brought into the light.’

  Olivia sounded strangely detached, dreamy, like a somnambulist. She started in surprise. Now where had those words come from? It was as though they had risen ready-formed to her lips.

  At that moment, a tempest broke outside, hail rattling like shot against the mullioned windows. Shouts indicated that people were rushing for cover. Inside the parlour, however, all was still.

  Olivia felt oddly disconnected, with an eerie sense of déjà vu. She badly wanted to go away, to make sense of it all. More than anything, she wanted to speak to Markham, to hear his deep gentle tones making light of her fearful imaginings.

  The parlour door opened softly. A slight bespectacled figure, with dark close-shorn hair and keenly observant brown eyes, came towards Olivia with a hand outstretched. She wondered who he was and how much of their conversation he might have caught.

  ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Mullen. I’m Desmond O’Keefe, the new principal.’

  The cultured, musical voice held a hint of Irish brogue which was like balm to Olivia’s disordered senses. She understood instantly why Cynthia had warmed to this man. He was dressed formally in a rather crumpled charcoal grey suit, over which he wore an academic gown, which went well with his quaintly fogeyish courtliness. She wondered how he and the man Alex Sharpe would manage to work in harness. O’Keefe the diplomat no doubt spreading sweetness and light where Sharpe sowed discord!

  Disconcertingly, as though he had read her thoughts, O’Keefe commented mildly, ‘I’m on a steep learning curve just now, Miss Mullen. And, to cap it all, as Miss Gibson has no doubt explained, my arrival has coincided with a criminal investigation!’

  Olivia, who had risen to greet the new arrival, spoke hurriedly. ‘I’m not going to get under your feet. In the circumstances, it was very good of you to see me. I was interested in the English vacancy but—’

  ‘When can you start?’

  Wrong-footed, she stared at him. He smiled back at her.

  ‘I know your academic credentials are rock solid, Miss Mullen, and Miss Gibson has spoken very highly of you. That’s good enough for me. I need a strong team round me and have a feeling we’ll suit very well. The job’s yours if you want it. Have a think and let me know later today if possible.’ He grimaced at the sound of a commotion in the corridor.

  ‘The Visigoths are at the gates! Speak to you later, Miss Gibson. Good to meet you, Miss Mullen. Once the downpour has cleared, why don’t you have a recce … get the feel of the place. There are some maps at reception.’

  And with that, he glided from the room.

  Olivia realized that the die was cast. For better or for worse, St Mary’s was her destiny. Half an hour later, under pewter-coloured skies, Olivia stood in the forecourt feeling better acquainted with the layout of her new domain.

  To the right of the forecourt as she came out of the school was a low wall with a simple arch which gave access to St Mary’s neo-Byzantine cathedral. Olivia felt some of Matt Sullivan’s distaste for the edifice whose stumpy blue slate cupola clashed rather garishly with the red and white geometric pattern of its striped buttresses. Certainly, the cathedral had none of the subdued grace of the choir school with its mellow rendered stonework.

  On the other side of the forecourt, an alley of chestnut trees, barren in the December murk, ran the full length of the school. Wandering through a trellised arch, Olivia passed two blocks of weathered cloisters with checker-block black and white tiled floors; each garth surrounded a courtyard with neat squares of lawn and circular flower beds. The inner walls of the cloisters connected with a glassed-in corridor giving onto studios and classrooms.

  Olivia had found the overall effect pleasing. There was something conventual about the place, in keeping with its ancient monastic origins she supposed.

  Behind the cloister blocks was an uncultivated sedge meadow. Its dun-coloured dreariness and the mournful cry of curlews made Olivia shiver. In keeping with its bleak aspect, a narrow path led to a little cemetery with a row of blackened crosses atop coarse gravel tumuli bearing tarnished brass plaques. From the various inscriptions, it appeared that this was the final resting place of former principals. A stragg
ling hedge separated the strip from the signposted grottoes behind. Presumably this was what Cynthia had meant when she spoke of the complicated position regarding exhumations. It was a desolate place to end up, Olivia reflected, all jumbled up with the accumulated detritus of centuries.

  The famous grottoes themselves were something of a disappointment, though they hardly wore their most promising aspect, looking more like a swampy, churned-up demolition site than a renowned heritage attraction. Three terraced caves, their lichen-encrusted bony sockets open to the sullen sky, formed a natural boundary to the rear of the site, brooding over the sea of peaty sludge like sightless prophets of doom. Olivia pictured the famous catacombs radiating out from beneath their depths.

  More pagan than Christian, she thought with a shudder as she retraced her steps back to the front of the school, speculating that a cordoned-off section of mud guarded by two miserable-looking young policemen likely marked the place where those pitiful, unhallowed remains had been found. All in all, she almost preferred the poky, fussy little school chapel – all pilasters, cherubs and baroque mouldings – situated immediately behind the visitors’ parlour and into which she had peeped before commencing her external tour.

  It began to rain once more, as though the elements wished to signal to Olivia that she should take her leave.

  With one long, lingering look behind her, she headed for her car.

  3

  A Mystery

  ‘So, there you have it, Gil. The Curse of Olivia Mullen. No sooner do I renew ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with Cynthia than they find a couple of skeletons on site! Victims of homicide to boot!’

  There was a manic edge to Olivia’s mirth, thought Markham as he watched his girlfriend downing her G&T like lemonade. And no wonder. After what she had recounted, he had been unable to stop picturing the gruesome bedding consummated beneath St Mary’s Grottoes. Victim and murderer entwined in that horrible parody of a lovers’ embrace; locked together in their putrid underworld for eternity. The notion of some demonic intelligence gloating over the tableau brought Markham out in goosebumps, though he strove to hide his shock and revulsion from Olivia.