An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  And, yet again, he knew he’d distinctly hit a nerve. For the first time since meeting her, she looked distinctly discomfited. He smiled. If nothing else, it made him feel better. ‘Well, thank you very much for all your help. If we ever need to speak to you again…?’ he said smoothly.

  ‘Oh, please,’ Chloe said, and swinging her leg elegantly back onto the floor, she rose without a ripple and walked off, a tall, graceful figure in lilac. As the door closed behind her, a heavy silence fell.

  ‘So,’ Jason said at last, rousing himself and looking at his sergeant. ‘What do you make of all that?’

  Flora heaved a long sigh. ‘Not sure sir. That was a real blinder about Reverend Gordon loving oranges, wasn’t it? And she seemed to have it in for Sir Matthew.’

  ‘Hmm, not that I’d read too much into that,’ Jason said. ‘If I were a woman I wouldn’t mind dropping the old misogynist into it either.’

  Flora grinned. ‘No, sir. Mrs Bryce seemed to go out of her way to implicate Graham Noble, too, didn’t she?’ Flora knew she was treading on dangerous ground here and spoke carefully. Ever since that last murder where they’d come across the Nobles, Flora was uncomfortably aware that Jason seemed to find Monica Noble an admirable woman.

  Jason grunted. ‘Yes. Has the report from the local shop and pub come in yet?’

  ‘I’ll go and see, sir,’ Flora said, glad to get out of the room for a little while. The atmosphere in there was becoming distinctly oppressive, and not for the first time, Flora found herself thinking of Monica Noble with something less than fondness.

  Jason slowly paced about the room, coming to stand in front of the windows that overlooked a rose garden and a pretty koi-carp-filled pond. Was he really going to have to regard Graham Noble, of all people, as a possible murder suspect? Technically, yes, of course he was. After all, no one was above suspicion. But in reality?

  From all he knew of the man from their previous encounters, it was absurd. And would you really kill someone just because they’d embarrassed you in front of your wife? No. But what if Celia had been more determined to cause trouble in the Noble household than either of them had admitted? Would Graham kill to remove the threat to his marriage? Would he kill to keep Monica Noble?

  Jason began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, not least because he felt, in Graham’s position, he himself would do almost anything to keep her safe.

  Lunch in the dining hall was a distinctly subdued affair. All morning they’d been answering questions put to them by fresh-faced policemen; those not yet interviewed knew that the afternoon would soon bring their turn. Nobody was quite able to meet anyone else’s eye. There was a rumour going around that Celia Gordon had died because of her peanut allergy. Someone had heard one of the waiters talking with a waitress about peanuts in the gateau, and by now, the story had done the rounds, and people were beginning to accept the theory as fact.

  It was a terrible thing of course, but surely it had to have been an accident?

  Nevertheless, the waiters reported back to the kitchens that the desserts, which consisted of apple pie, apricot crumble and blackcurrant cheesecake, were singularly unpopular. Most people went straight to the coffee after their main courses.

  Jason’s unease was not helped later on, when Flora confirmed that the village shopkeeper, one Phyllis Cox, remembered Graham Noble buying a bag of peanuts yesterday morning. Nor, to the best of her memory, had she sold any nuts to anyone else who’d been attending the conference. The landlady at the Bridge and Wagon confirmed that two of her regulars had bought peanuts that week, and although a constable had been dispatched to ask the two bemused villagers concerned what they’d done with them – ‘Well eaten ‘em of course, sonny what’dya think?’ – Jason wasn’t really putting them in the picture.

  Damn it, why couldn’t the man have made done with a packet of crisps, like anyone else, he fumed.

  The preliminary forensics reports were not encouraging, nor were the results of the interviews so far. Nobody, it seemed, had particularly liked the Reverend Gordon, and some had mentioned the bad feeling between Sir Matthew and the lady. But there was nothing new. Nothing he could really get his teeth into.

  ‘I notice the interviews all focus on the dinner last night,’ Jason said, tossing aside the interview reports. ‘Put the word out that I want them to ask about Saturday breakfast time as well, and Saturday lunchtime.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Flora said.

  ‘And see if you can track down this Dr Simon Grade,’ Jason added.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Flora said, pushing away her plate. There was one good thing to be said for having an incident room on the premises – they weren’t going to starve. The chef had insisted on feeding all the unexpected police guests and the food was fabulous, as you might expect from such a well-regarded establishment.

  ‘And get on to pathology. I know it’s early, and I don’t expect they’ll have come across anything startling, but you never know.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Flora said. Then, a shade more tentatively, ‘Do you want to speak to the Nobles again?’

  ‘No,’ Jason said shortly. ‘Not just yet. Let’s get all the interviews over and done with first. Besides, I want to read up on any background material the office has come up with next.’

  Flora nodded, her face deadpan. When she came back, ten minutes later, her arms were full of folders. ‘I’ve found Dr Simon Grade, sir,’ she said, putting the papers down with a grunt on the nearest desk. ‘He’s the proprietor of the Black Friars’ museum in Woodstock,’ Flora filled him in. ‘I called him up and asked him to be here and available for interview at 3.30.’

  ‘Fine,’ Jason said shortly. ‘These the faxes from Bath?’

  ‘Yes sir. Her bishop, the Reverend Gordon’s bishop that is, would be glad if you could call him.’

  Jason sighed and nodded. No doubt he would. ‘Later,’ he said succinctly.

  And for the next half-hour there was silence as the two police officers read up on the life and times of Celia Gordon.

  ‘She was quite a goer in her own way, wasn’t she, sir?’ Flora said finally, shutting the last folder with a snap and looking across at Jason thoughtfully. ‘I can’t understand why someone like that, with a university degree and all, would want to join the church though. With qualifications like she had, she could have become a lecturer or consultant or anything.’

  Jason grunted. ‘If you ask me, she had her eye on becoming the first female bishop,’ he said flatly. ‘But you know what I really don’t like?’ he suddenly demanded of his sergeant. ‘There’s nothing in here,’ he indicated the paperwork that made up the victim’s history, ‘to say why someone wanted her dead. It’s been bugging me all along. These are vicars we’re talking about,’ his voice rose slightly in obvious frustration. ‘Vicars don’t kill vicars because they’re ambitious. Or because they flirt with you. Or because they make you look like a fool at dinner. There’s just no motive here.’

  Flora nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Unless Sir Matthew did it because he’s loopy. That might make sense – you don’t need a motive if you’re nuts,’ she pointed out prosaically, and oblivious to her rather poor choice of words, given the circumstances.

  Jason sighed. True. A madman didn’t need a motive. But it just didn’t seem to fit somehow. ‘Let’s go about this another way. We’re agreed that the best time to go into the kitchen to doctor the sponges would have been during the lunch hour, right, when all the staff were busy in the other part of the kitchen?’

  ‘Right,’ Flora nodded. ‘There’d be far less chance of being seen then.’

  ‘So let’s go through the interviews and see what people can remember of the comings and goings during that time.’

  And people remembered rather a lot, it seemed. At least thirty or so never left the table from the moment they came in until they left after the meal. Some visited the facilities, but some, unfortunately, came in and then left early, meaning that they could have slipped into the kitchen and done the
deed then. Several remembered both Arthur Bryce and his wife leaving their table at some point. And Flora and Jason noted with equal interest, Sir Matthew Pierrepont had been gone for quite some time in the middle of his meal.

  Graham Noble, Jason was pleased to note, had been seen in plain view at his table throughout all that lunchtime, and hadn’t moved from it.

  A knock came on the door and another constable stuck his head around. ‘Sir, there’s a Dr Simon Grade outside. Says you called him in for interview?’

  Jason closed the folders and nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. Send him in.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Dr Simon Grade walked in, dressed in spotless white tennis slacks and a dark green shirt. Jason smiled. ‘Dr Grade, thank you for coming over.’

  ‘Oh, quite, yes. I quite understand. It was terrible. I heard it on the radio this morning. No, I don’t mind coming at all. Besides, I’d already put St Bede back to bed, as it were.’

  Jason blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  Dr Grade looked at him somewhat disapprovingly. ‘The St Bede’s Manuscript. That was on loan here yesterday.’ He spoke as if the manuscript should have been all that he was thinking about. ‘It was removed very early this morning so that none of the guests should be disturbed. I was here to oversee the operations.’

  Jason nodded. ‘Oh yes. The manuscript.’ He wondered why he hadn’t been told more about it, then silently wondered what possible bearing a centuries-old piece of paper could have to do with anything.

  ‘Yes, it was as safe as houses here last night, I know. Sir Andrew was kind enough to show me his security arrangements. I’d just got everything back in order when your sergeant called.’

  Jason observed the man in silence for a moment. He was babbling, of course, but that in itself meant nothing, especially in a man as self-important as this one. ‘The manuscript is valuable, I expect?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Oh I should say,’ Dr Grade said quickly. ‘It’s not the original, of course, but …’ and before either Jason or Flora could stop him he was off and running. Eventually, even Simon Grade could think of nothing more to say on the subject and sat looking at Jason helplessly.

  The Chief Inspector shifted slowly on his seat. ‘That’s very interesting. Graham Noble was telling me that you gave very much the same speech yesterday afternoon to a group of people waiting to go in to his lecture.’

  Simon Grade paled just a little. ‘Oh. Oh yes. I suppose I do get carried away,’ he admitted, picking an imaginary bit of lint from his trouser leg.

  Flora’s eyes sharpened. She had at last picked up on something that Jason had begun to suspect almost from the first minute of meeting the museum owner. He was upset about something. Very upset.

  ‘Did you happen to notice if the reverend was eating anything at the time, Dr Grade?’ Jason asked casually.

  Simon started nervously. ‘Sorry? Which reverend are we talking about? There were so many …’ he spread his hands in a helpless gesture and smiled apologetically.

  Jason smiled back. ‘I’m sorry. I should have been more explicit. Reverend Noble is the one who … well, I’ve been told that Celia Gordon, the woman who died, made quite a thing about meeting him again,’ he clarified delicately.

  Simon flushed. ‘Oh him! Poor man. Yes. Er … sorry, what was the question again?’

  Jason nodded. Yes, the good Dr Grade’s mind was definitely fixated on something else. ‘Was he eating anything, do you know?’ he repeated patiently.

  Simon looked at the carpet. Then at the windows. Then at an inoffensive computer printer. ‘Er… I believe he had a bag of something that he offered around,’ he acknowledged reluctantly.

  ‘But you don’t know what?’

  ‘I wasn’t close enough to see, Chief Inspector. Some of the others were still crowding around, asking questions.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that,’ Jason said. Then took a shot in the dark. ‘Was the Reverend Gordon one of those asking questions?’

  Bingo!

  He watched the little man literally jump in his seat and then give a rather sickly smile. ‘Oh I don’t think so. As you say,’ he suddenly said, a relieved smile taking the place of his rather cheesy grin, ‘she was flirting with the local vicar.’

  ‘But earlier on, before the lecture was due to start. Or afterwards even. Did she inspect the manuscript then?’ Jason insisted.

  The man began to sweat. Jason could quite clearly see his pores oozing just below his hairline.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Simon said, making a show of giving it some thought. ‘But then, I might not have remembered,’ he hastily covered himself, realizing that the police might find witnesses to prove that she had. ‘So many asked about it. It’s such an important document you see. To clerics.’

  ‘Did you know that the Reverend Gordon was something of an expert on mediaeval languages, Dr Grade?’ he asked quietly. ‘And, I imagine, was something of an authority on documents of the same era?’

  The sweat turned into a veritable torrent, so much so that the museum-curator was forced to reach into his tennis-whites for a handkerchief to mop his brow. ‘Phew, it’s certainly hot again isn’t it?’ Simon once again offered them his cheesy grin. ‘As to your, er … question … er, no. No, I had no idea Reverend Gordon was … er … an academic.’

  And he didn’t like it, Jason thought wryly. Not one little bit. ‘I understand that you fainted last night, Dr Grade?’ he said, causing an embarrassed flush to take the place of his sickly pallor.

  ‘Yes. It was so awful. I’m afraid I’ve always been rather sensitive,’ Simon babbled. ‘It made my life hell at school. I was bullied.’ He suddenly broke off, as if aware that he was beginning to make himself seem ridiculous. He stared at the carpet again.

  ‘Did you know the Reverend Gordon, Dr Grade?’

  ‘No!’ he squeaked. ‘Of course not,’ he clarified in a more normal tone. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jason mused. ‘She had a parish in Bath. As a curator and museum-owner, I assume you do a lot of travelling, on the trail of artefacts and donations and so forth. Bath, I would have thought, would have been just the kind of place that you’d frequent.’

  Dr Grade smiled tremulously. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I came across some rather interesting Roman artefacts from Bath … but the price was too high. But I assure you, I didn’t run across the Reverend Gordon,’ he added primly.

  Jason shrugged. ‘Did you know she was allergic to peanuts?’

  Simon Grade blinked. ‘Good gracious, no.’

  And then, if he’d been a bird, Jason would clearly have seen all the doctor’s feathers ruffle up. ‘How on earth could I have possibly known something like that, Chief Inspector?’ he demanded challengingly. It was the first hint of bravado that he’d shown since entering the room, and Jason had to wryly acknowledge a hit.

  How indeed should he have known such a thing?

  ‘Well, perhaps you can tell me what you remember of dinner yesterday?’ he pressed.

  Simon, reassured, launched into his remembrances of the dinner. Unlike Chloe Bryce’s recital, his was filled with name-dropping and self-aggrandising, but nothing helpful. When he was finished, Jason nodded. ‘Do you recall what the Reverend Gordon ate?’

  Simon blinked. ‘Sorry. I can’t say I noticed,’ he said stiffly.

  Jason nodded. ‘Well, I think that’s all for the moment. Oh, Dr Grade,’ he added quietly, as the man leapt to his feet. ‘You will be available for further questioning, should the need arise? I mean, you’re not scheduled to go abroad for your summer holidays or anything?’

  Simon Grade paled a little, but shook his head. ‘No, indeed. I’m due to go to Malaysia but only in September.’

  Jason smiled. ‘I hope you have a good time,’ he said blandly.

  The museum-owner looked at him blankly for a few seconds, then nodded, burbled something, and walked quickly towards the door. When it had shut behind him, Flora sighed heavily.

  ‘How d
id you get on to him so quickly, sir?’ she asked, a shade plaintively. ‘It took me ages to catch on. All that guff about St bleeding Bede!’

  Jason smiled. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘He was well scared about something,’ Flora said promptly. And frowned. ‘But… .’

  ‘Not about the dinner itself,’ Jason helped her out.

  Flora nodded. ‘No.’

  ‘But something certainly happened earlier that day that put the wind up him,’ Jason said. ‘Of that I’d bet any amount of money you’d care to wager.’

  ‘Not me,’ Flora snorted. ‘And he didn’t like it when you told him Celia Gordon was a bit of an egg-head.’

  ‘No. I want you to get someone checking up on our Dr Grade. Make it a priority. And check the statements when we’ve finished to see if anybody recalls Celia Gordon inspecting that manuscript of his. Because something tells me that she did – and in quite some detail.’

  ‘Sir. You think he’s a real suspect?’

  ‘I think he’s hiding something,’ Jason corrected, ‘And is most definitely scared about something. I want to know what it is. But whether it has any bearing on the murder …’ Jason shrugged elegantly.

  ‘And he wasn’t really in much of a position to put peanut paste on the sponges was he?’ Flora mused. ‘According to Mr Banks he arrived during lunchtime, but was in the hall, setting up the manuscript. He had two security men with him most of the time.’

  ‘It isn’t likely, I admit,’ Jason said. ‘But when someone’s as nervous as that, it makes me very curious. Oh and Flora, come back with Graham Noble, will you?’ he added flatly.

  At the door Flora nodded, her face carefully blank. ‘Yes sir.’

  With her errand run, and an eager-beaver constable despatched to prepare a ‘This is Your Life’ for Dr Simon Grade, Flora found Graham Noble on the lawn. His wife, she noted, was busily chatting to someone on the far side under some cedar trees. She very neatly and discreetly hooked him out from the impromptu garden party and ushered him into the lounge.

  ‘Hello, Graham,’ Jason rose briefly and pointed out a seat. ‘Please sit down. I’ve learned something in the course of the morning that I hope you can help me clear up.’