Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

  Making short work of his own whisky and soda, he spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Well, the SOCO boys should be able to shed some light in due course. Meantime, I’ll get Noakes started on research. Whoever buried those poor souls must have been able to come and go, so we need to work out who had access. Archaeologists. Contractors. Council staff.’

  ‘You’re taking over the investigation then?’ The note of relief was unmistakable.

  ‘I asked to be assigned to this one, Liv. By virtue of my new-minted status as police wunderkind.’

  Markham said nothing about abasing himself before ‘Slimy Sid’, as DCI Sidney was popularly known, to ensure he bagged the St Mary’s investigation. He dreaded to think of the DCI’s likely response to the news that Olivia was working at the choir school. He’d have to make sure that Noakes and the rest of the team preserved omertá about her employment there.

  Olivia’s agitated tones interrupted Markham’s private monologue.

  ‘Terrible to think that two human beings were tossed into the slurry like so much worthless garbage.’ Her eyes were wide with horror. Then she corrected herself. ‘Though Cynthia said that the burial was staged. A sick joke. Some sort of propitiatory ritual – you know, a sacrifice to appease the deities of the grottoes.’

  Markham repressed a shudder as he recalled the crime scene photos: the skeletons exposed like braille for experts to decipher; the pitiful wet nest of dark hair on the skull which bore the garrotte; the bleached cavities of stomach and sockets, where the bodies had been slowly digested; the carious piano work of ribs. The uppermost skeleton had the awful gaping mouth of death. The head of the other rested at an acute angle, looking as though he had nodded off to sleep in the grave.

  Unexpectedly, tears rose to his eyes.

  ‘ “The snares of the wicked surround me. My life is poured out like water,” ’ he murmured softly. ‘ “I can count all my bones.” ’

  Olivia reached across and sympathetically squeezed Markham’s hand, comforted by the words of the funeral psalms, as though their utterance had somehow cast a protective mantle around the wretched inhabitants of that dank grave. The fact that her lover never lost sight of victims’ individuality – never regarded them merely as serial numbers on case files – struck her anew. Somehow, he had resisted the coarsening effects of daily contact with Bromgrove’s underbelly, and he was known to react savagely when subordinates treated human remains with any want of decorum. Members of his team knew better than to exhibit gallows humour at homicide crime scenes and generally retreated to a respectful distance while their guvnor communed with the dead.

  Markham cleared his throat.

  ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that these sinister goings-on at St Mary’s have given you second thoughts about accepting the job?’

  A part of him fervently wished that he could wrap his girlfriend in bubble wrap and keep her well away from those sinister grottoes. He knew all too well, however, that the scent of a mystery, together with concern for her friend, was catnip for Olivia.

  ‘I called Desmond O’Keefe earlier to say I’d take the position,’ she said sheepishly.

  ‘Well,’ replied Markham, resolving to make the best of it, ‘from what I saw of him the other night, he seems a pleasant fellow. More like a churchman than a layman, though… Reminded me of school and the Jesuits…’

  Markham rarely spoke of his upbringing and described himself as a lapsed Catholic, but Olivia – herself a practising Anglican – had early detected the undertow of a deeply felt religiosity.

  She spoke lightly. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. Moves as though he’s on castors, very suave and discreet. I kept looking round for the cassock and surplice! Quite attractive in an understated sort of way.’

  ‘Hmmm. Hugh Grant of the grottoes then?’

  ‘Hardly!’ Olivia’s giggle was so infectious that it elicited an answering grin from Markham.

  ‘Forgive my dog-in-the-manger instincts, love. It’s good to know I’ve nothing to fear from any clerical smoothies.’

  For answer, he received a further squeeze of the hand and a tender look. It was enough.

  ‘When do you start?’ he enquired.

  ‘I asked for a couple of days just to get ready – go through some schemes of work with Cyn, find out the lie of the land, that kind of thing. I start officially next week. They’re breaking up for Christmas in another fortnight anyway, so it’ll be an easy run-in.’

  ‘Excellent. Perhaps you might be interested in coming with me when I pay Sir Philip Soames a visit tomorrow morning. This discovery at the grottoes means he’ll have to be consulted, though I can’t imagine he’ll have anything much to contribute to the investigation.’

  ‘Matt said he’s more or less a recluse.’

  Markham was amused to note Olivia’s whippet-like air of alert interest. Maybe this business at St Mary’s wasn’t such a bad thing, he told himself. She’d become jaded and run-down at Hope, and this was the first real flare of animation he had seen in a long time. He decided to fan the spark.

  ‘I reckon Sir Philip will agree to see a representative from Bromgrove CID,’ he commented drily, ‘if only to keep himself in the loop. He’s supposed to be suffering from myasthenia gravis – some sort of neuromuscular condition. Lives alone in that mouldering pile with just a manservant for company. So, gird yourself for a trip to Castle Doom. We can pass you off as teacher liaison or some such, but for God’s sake no PDAs!’

  Olivia threw her arms around his neck. ‘I’ll be like your number two,’ she exclaimed happily.

  ‘But no unnecessary risks, eh, Sherlock!’

  ‘You’re the boss!’ Olivia was ready to promise anything.

  Markham hugged her close with fierce intensity. ‘Yes, and don’t you forget it!’ An image of the honeycombed trenches of St Mary’s Grottoes – stretchers borne away to waiting hearses – rose unbidden to his mind, but he ruthlessly beat it down and the conversation shifted to other subjects.

  Gazing around the neglected garden of Sir Philip Soames’s residence the following morning, Olivia reflected that the square unsheltered house in Bromgrove Crescent, a sedate cul de sac at the bottom of St Mary’s Lane leading from the cathedral, seemed almost to shun its neighbours. A low Georgian structure, Thurston Lodge stood behind high iron gates swinging drunkenly on their hinges. Two turrets reared up at either end of the property, with dead-eyed shuttered windows which repelled scrutiny. The frontage was stained with damp, rising up the stark grey stone like a defilement, and a couple of cracked slates hung crookedly from the eaves. There was a blankness about the place, unrelieved by a sparse shrubbery with its straggling bushes of elder and lilac. Altogether an unwelcoming aspect.

  Markham stepped up to the oak door and tugged at its massive bell pull. From deep inside the recesses of the shadowy building came an answering echo.

  The door was finally opened by a beefy sallow-skinned man whose hangdog features gave him the look of a dyspeptic bulldog. His right leg exhibited a distinct peculiarity of gait – or foot drop – so that, as he walked, it seemed that he was attempting to genuflect to everything in front of him. Perfectly correct in manner, however, he escorted them through various gloomy reception rooms – hecatombs of furniture muffled up in great winding-sheets – to a small sitting roomcum-library. Compared to the ungarnished appearance of the rest of the house, this was a thickly carpeted room, lined with quaint cabinets full of morocco-bound books, coins and oriental curios. There was a certain odour of cigar smoke, overlaid by the mustiness of a church vault, which seemed to emanate from the chimney breast. Over all hung a pall of silence and mystery. The retainer waved them to two dreary button backed chairs and departed to fetch his master.

  The visitors sat for some minutes, drinking in Sir Philip’s sanctum before Olivia moved across to the vast mahogany desk which dominated the centre of the room and picked up the leather gilt-tooled volume which lay face down on its cluttered surface.

  ‘The Secret Doctrine,�
� she said wonderingly. ‘Sounds mystical.’

  ‘Indeed it is, young lady,’ came the sardonic response from somewhere in the shadows. ‘No need to be embarrassed,’ the gravelly voice continued, brushing away Olivia’s flustered apologies as its owner emerged from the shadow of the doorway and advanced into the room. ‘Your curiosity is natural. It’s a text about the universal essence and the self-denial that leads to enlightenment.’

  Which leaves us none the wiser, thought Markham in amusement, though a renunciation of material comforts might go some way to accounting for the dilapidated state of the house.

  Time to make the introductions. ‘Miss Mullen is a new member of staff at St Mary’s,’ said Markham, ‘and I am—’

  ‘The rising star of Bromgrove’s CID. Your reputation has preceded you, Inspector Markham. How may I be of assistance?’

  The words were perfectly polite, but the expression of the great hooded eyes was watchful.

  Despite age and infirmity, the man opposite Markham radiated considerable power. Squat and barrel-chested, his massive head –broad forehead made squarer by the horizontal sweep of white hair, hooked nose, surprisingly sensual mouth and glittering coal-black eyes – spoke eloquently of a forceful character. He took Olivia’s hand and kissed it in the continental fashion, raking her with a keen glance before returning his attention to Markham.

  Careful, Markham told himself, this is a man to be reckoned with.

  ‘No doubt you’ve heard about the discovery in St Mary’s Grottoes, Sir Philip. Given that you are St Mary’s patron, I wished to say that you will of course be notified of any developments.’

  ‘Most courteous, Inspector.’ Sir Philip paused. ‘I suppose nothing is known of the victims’ antecedents?’

  ‘Nothing yet, sir, but if you can think of any incident from the school’s past…’ Markham looked interrogatively at the other who returned his gaze with calm equanimity.

  ‘Alas, nothing comes to mind, Inspector. It is some time since I last visited St Mary’s.’ He grimaced. ‘I regret that I did not find the previous principal temperamentally congenial.’

  Markham decided this was an avenue best left unexplored. Hastily, he added, ‘There was also the reported interference recently with graves adjacent to the Soames Vault.’

  Something flickered at the back of Sir Philip’s eyes and was gone. For an instant, his gaze was empty, devoid of all expression.

  Markham felt a spasm of self-reproach. God, this is too much for him. Local grandee or not, he’s a sick man.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about, sir. An over-zealous parishioner, recently bereaved, with too much time on her hands.’

  ‘An occupational hazard for the elderly, Inspector.’

  Sir Philip’s tones of ironic detachment reassured Markham that he had not delivered the coup de grâce to St Mary’s patron. Nonetheless, aware of the manservant hovering protectively, he decided to bring the meeting to a close.

  ‘We won’t take up any more of your time, Sir Philip. It was good of you to see us.’

  ‘Please feel free to consult me at any time, Inspector Markham.’ He turned his penetrating gaze on Olivia. ‘You too of course, Miss Mullen.’

  Olivia was looking at an engraved plaque on Sir Philip’s desk. It bore the inscription: When the pupil is ready, the teacher will be found waiting. Time and space are no barriers between the Master and his aspirant.

  ‘Bequeathed to me by my father, Miss Mullen. He was a theosophist.’

  Theosophy! That was throwing them a curveball, thought Markham wryly, taken aback by this allusion to the pseudo-religion of occult mysticism. Sir Philip hardly looked like a man out there on the nuttier edges of the fringe, but his conventional appearance clearly belied more exotic interests.

  With this, the taciturn domestic ushered them courteously but firmly to the door.

  As Markham and Olivia walked down the driveway, a gust of wind blew up out of nowhere.

  The elder and lilac bushes writhed and twisted as though to give a warning.

  Then all was still once more and the mansion resumed its vacant Gorgon stare.

  * * *

  Later that day, Olivia was back at St Mary’s at the behest of Dr O’Keefe, having agreed to meet two of the students – Nathaniel Barton (Nat for short) and Julian Forsythe, twelve and thirteen years old respectively – the plan being that they would show her the famous St Mary’s relics and generally impart a flavour of school life.

  ‘To be quite frank with you, Miss Mullen, I have an ulterior motive for arranging this meeting,’ Desmond O’Keefe said to Olivia as they talked in the visitors’ parlour before the arrival of the boys.

  Olivia looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘I’m concerned about these two youngsters.’ O’Keefe’s face was shadowed with anxiety. ‘Nat has a sad family history. Both parents died in a road accident when he was very small, so he was adopted by an aunt. He’s twelve and here on a scholarship. Voice of an angel with temperament to match … a sweet, sensitive boy. No issues to speak of. At least not until now.’

  ‘What’s changed?’ asked Olivia.

  O’Keefe appeared sensible and level-headed – not inclined to romanticize. If he thought there was cause for concern, then he was probably right.

  ‘He’s become increasingly tense and withdrawn. Very guarded too. As though he’s hoarding a secret. I’ve tried to get him to confide, but the drawbridge comes down – he completely retreats into himself and I can’t reach him…’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘You really care about this lad.’ Olivia’s voice was soft.

  ‘Nat’s very special. A bit of a loner, so I was really pleased when he chummed up with our head chorister Julian Forsythe. Julian’s a little older than Nat – usually very frank and sociable, wonderful at drawing out the shyer boys. But something seems to have gone wrong between them...’

  Olivia was matter-of-fact. ‘Isn’t falling out with friends normal at their age?’

  ‘I suppose so…’ O’Keefe hesitated before continuing. ‘But the flare ups are out of character. It’s as though some sort of silent distrust has sprung up between them and they’re scared.’

  Scared.

  Something about O’Keefe’s account was setting off all kinds of depth charges. Olivia badly wanted to consult Markham. She strove for a reassuring tone. ‘Nothing like a pastoral challenge, Dr O’Keefe. Maybe the novelty factor will kick in and they’ll open up to a newcomer.’

  Later, as Dr O’Keefe performed the introduction, Olivia took a discreet inventory. Nat was a small, wiry boy, with nut-brown complexion, wedge-shaped face, Henry V pageboy haircut and lively hazel eyes set either side of an aquiline little nose which almost quivered with excitement. Olivia felt a surge of protectiveness as she observed the narrow torso, stooped shoulders and skinny pipe-cleaner legs – clad as they were in the billowing grey shorts which Olivia gathered was part of St Mary’s games uniform. By contrast, Julian was tall, dark and coolly self-possessed. He looked in repose like a Florentine painting, contemplating her with an air of pensive abstraction.

  ‘Right, boys, I’m leaving you to show Miss Mullen the relics,’ O’Keefe announced briskly. ‘Be sure to do them justice!’ And with that he was gone.

  Leaving the visitors’ parlour, which was adjacent to the front door, the boys ushered Olivia through the entrance hall towards an alcove containing a stout oak door. On the other side of the door was a cobwebby flight of stone stairs whose mossy-smelling stillness recalled the interior of ancient village churches, vibrating with the histories of those who had worshipped in them down the ages.

  Olivia was somewhat disappointed to find that the stairs led merely to a small plain room which had more the feel of a municipal records office than a holy place. The whitewashed walls and grey flagstone flooring gave it a distinctly clinical feel, relieved only by the dark pine of its pews and various framed mementoes of those martyred for their beliefs. The boys’ attitude to this subterranean realm was touc
hingly proprietorial, however, and Olivia could tell that the hidden room and its relics exerted a powerful hold over their imaginations.

  ‘In olden times the nuns at Bromgrove Priory hid some of the martyrs’ remains in pincushions and sewing kits!’

  Nat was flushed with pride at being assigned the task of initiating Olivia into the mysteries of St Mary’s Shrine.

  Personally, Olivia did not much care for what she regarded as backwoods superstition, but there was something beguiling about Nat’s breathless enthusiasm for the treasures of the school’s little museum.

  Julian’s dreamy, almost apathetic, detachment had vanished.

  ‘One of the soldiers got suspicious,’ he said animatedly. ‘He knew how to find things cos his wife had told him. There was loads of stuff – fingernails, bits of bone and skin … even rope from the hangings!’

  Looking at the boys’ eager faces, Olivia felt a sudden resolve so strong that it startled her. O’Keefe had said they were frightened. She vowed there and then that she would do everything possible to find whatever threatened them at St Mary’s, the place above all others where they were entitled to feel safe.

  Intertwined with this impulse was a certain wistfulness. She and Markham were blissfully happy despite the age difference, but she could not imagine children being part of the equation. Watching Nat and Julian, there came a stab of pain so fierce that it made her wince.

  Much gratified by Olivia’s sudden pallor and sharply in-drawn breath, Nat proceeded to cap Julian’s ghoulish recital.

  ‘And that’s not all! We’ve got a priest’s skull here, too. If people tried to move or bury it, there was thunder and lightning and all sorts of terrible things happened until they left it alone.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Mullen.’ Julian had observed Olivia’s discomfort. ‘The head’s in a special chest. They only bring it out on important feast days.’