“That’s a profound thought, Mother.”
“Thank you, dear. I blame the sherry. Shall we eat?”
After supper, they said their goodbyes and Faith returned to her flat. It was a modern conversion on the first floor of an Edwardian terraced house near her parish church. She had a living room with the kitchen at one end, one bedroom and a bathroom. She liked the high ceilings, and the living room had an attractive bay window. She had left in daylight and the curtains were drawn back. When she closed the door behind her, she didn’t turn on the light at first. She stood in the orange glow of the street lamp, looking around.
What was she supposed to pack? She didn’t know how long she would be in Little Worthy. She thought of Ruth’s cramped spare room with the Cabbage Patch dolls. She felt a pang at the thought of separation from the things that made her space her own. A pair of nineteenth-century seascapes she’d found in a junk shop in Southampton; the battered trophy she had won in a dinghy sailing competition in the Solent, aged twelve; the illustrated edition of Sherlock Holmes her father had given her when she passed out of Hendon. They were like whorls and loops on the fingerprint of her life.
The stillness in the flat was palpable. She picked up the phone and dialled.
“Meg, I am sorry to call so late, but is Jonathan around? I was hoping to speak to him.”
“Faith! Of course,” said Meg. “We’ve been thinking about you. Here he is.”
Meg passed the phone over to her husband, and Canon Jonathan’s voice came on.
“Faith, you’ve been having terrifying times, I hear,” he said in his usual dry way. She felt her eyes tear up.
“So-so,” she said.
“Alistair Ingram. He died in the middle of the service?”
“Yes.”
She heard the intake of his breath.
“I knew him – well, I’d met him. Alistair was often called in to address diocesan seminars. He was very good on finances; a wizard at fund-raising. Had some impressive contacts in the city.”
“He was poisoned. Pesticide in the communion wine.”
“Dear God! Anyone else hurt?”
She was finding it oddly difficult to speak. “No. It happened quickly. He drank and that was it.”
“How are you holding up?” he asked. “How do you feel about being parachuted in to look after the parish?”
“I’m not entirely sure what I am doing,” she said. Her voice quavered. She paused to pull herself together. She looked around at her flat. “I don’t know what to pack,” she heard herself say, and gave a small, shaky laugh.
“Right,” he said briskly. Jonathan always understood. “Unfortunately I have to go out now.”
“Bible class,” Faith said. Bible class was always held on a Monday night.
“How about you come and see me tomorrow morning. We can have a chat?”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got to pack. It’s over two hours’ drive back, and I’m expected in Little Worthy.”
“You come and say Matins with me – 7 a.m.,” Jonathan said in his rector’s voice. Faith heard Meg’s voice indistinct in the background.
“Meg says she can come over and help you pack after that. She’s offering breakfast.” The warmth of their kindness steadied her.
“Thank you. By the way, the Little Worthy investigation, it is still ongoing. I’m not sure the details are supposed to be public knowledge.”
“Don’t worry. We shan’t be repeating anything.”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, then. You go have a bath and get some sleep.”
She did just that. But after her bath, she checked her emails and felt a fresh flush of annoyance at the stuffy form of words George Casey had sent her. That man! She hovered the mouse over delete, but thought better of it. Instead, she switched off the computer and took out her Book of Common Prayer. She liked the idea of it – that all across the church over the hours of that evening, thousands upon thousands would repeat the same words; pray the same prayers. She read the Collect of the day to herself – taking care with the words. She was reading the psalm when a couplet sprang out at her.
Stand in awe, and sin not:
Commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still.
She went to bed comforted. Good fellowship and good people, she thought, as she drifted off, and in her imagination she felt God smile.
CHAPTER
7
FAITH PARKED HER CAR ON THE GREEN across from the church. Down the lane she could see the corner of Trevor Shoesmith’s farmhouse through the trees. It was barely 11:10 a.m. She’d made Little Worthy in record time.
She wound down her window. There was a chill in the air today. Stratocumulus clouds, low and clumpy, were gathering across the sky. The green was as pretty as a print; a smooth, pastoral expanse bordered with white and timber-framed cottages, some with low-pitched roofs of dense thatch, standing back behind colourful gardens. It was a people-less idyll. Everyone seemed to be at work. It took money to own a house on the green.
She was in uniform today – a soft ivory clerical shirt and dog collar matched with a russet tweed skirt and boots in concession to the cooler weather. She felt the breeze on her skin. She was faintly embarrassed about her weak moment of the day before. She’d set the alarm for 5:30, but woken full of energy when it was still dark at ten past. She mused for a moment on the mysteries of the internal body clock. Whenever she set her alarm on an important day she always seemed to wake up by herself twenty minutes before it was due to go off.
Matins with Canon Jonathan had felt like a farewell. It was odd. For all its familiarity, the echoing Victorian church of St Michael’s had seemed distanced, as if she had already peeled herself off from her previous life. Perhaps the pain and confusion she’d experienced last night had been the moment of severance. She had woken with a clearer head, her mind focused on the challenge ahead. Jonathan and Meg had waved her off on the road soon after eight. Filled with friendship and Meg’s home-made muesli, she drove away from the parish that had been her home for more than two years without a backward glance.
She caught sight of her suitcase in the mirror. It loomed behind her on the back seat. Ruth wouldn’t get home from work until five. Faith had no fixed appointments until her meeting with the rural dean at four. She felt untethered. Fred had given her a set of keys to St James’s at their meeting yesterday afternoon. Perhaps she should go in and familiarize herself with her new church.
The image of Alistair Ingram’s crumpled body behind the altar sprang up, and she shied away from the idea.
Dear Lord, help me with this day!
St James’s looked down on her from its rising ground. From her vantage point there was no hint of the horror that had taken place just two days ago. The grass in the graveyard was trim and the shrubs along the path well cared for. She was responsible for this place of worship – even if only temporarily. She felt the awe of such a duty of care.
This church has endured here for over 900 years; it looks so neat and tidy now, she told herself, but just think of what this building has weathered through time – marauders, civil war, epidemics, famine – and now murder. It is still standing. It represents love and redemption.
Sin shall not have dominion over you.
You shouldn’t be afraid.
She spoke the Lord’s Prayer aloud in her car.
“…thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
She knew what she needed to do. She would organize an event to reclaim St James’s from the awful desecration of the weekend. On Thursday perhaps. In her mind’s eye, she saw members of the congregation cleaning the church and saying prayers for Alistair Ingram. They needed to face what had happened as a community, and reassert the true purpose of the building as a house of God and love.
She would speak to the rural dean about it that afternoon.
But first she should check on the living – she would see if Don was in. She bent d
own to gather up her handbag.
As she straightened up, she caught a flash of colour behind the trees out of the corner of her eye. Someone was taking a short cut from the direction of Trevor Shoesmith’s farmhouse. It was a woman. Faith caught a glimpse of blonde hair. She recognized Jessica Rose.
Jessica was carrying a bright beach bag over one shoulder. Faith watched idly. The bag’s gaudy flamboyance seemed incongruous. Jessica had struck her as a woman who dressed to blend in, not stand out.
Jessica approached the church, half screened by the trees. As she passed a gap, Faith thought she saw the imprint of something boxy stretching the fabric of the bag.
Jessica walked up to the church, unlocked the vestry door, and went in.
That’s odd, Faith thought. Pat Montesque’s complaint, overheard before the meeting in the church hall, echoed in her memory: although Jessica is of course welcome, she is not an elected officer.
Why should Jessica have a key to the church?
Maybe it’s because she does the flowers; you’re being ridiculous! Faith told herself. Stop seeing conspiracy everywhere. There is probably a perfectly innocent explanation.
Should she go in too, and have a word?
She stayed in the car.
A dove, as white as snow, flew down and perched on the yew tree by the church gate. It preened itself and cooed. There must be a dovecote nearby.
Barely a minute or so passed and Jessica came out of the vestry again. She locked the door, glancing around hurriedly – almost furtively, thought Faith; will she see me watching?
But Jessica just hurried off with her head down, clutching the flat beach bag to her chest, returning the way she’d come.
She watched Jessica’s fleeting form through the trees until it dropped out of sight in the lane.
Faith sat considering what she’d seen. Through the open window she heard an engine start up. In her wing mirror she saw a silver car come out of the lane leading to Shoesmith’s farm. As it paused to turn onto the green, she caught a glimpse of Jessica at the wheel. The car sped off in the direction of Alresford and disappeared.
Faith rummaged in her bag. Finally her fingers found the elusive piece of card. She took out her mobile and dialled.
There were roadworks on the way into Winchester and the traffic was bad. Faith had trouble finding a parking place. She was ten minutes later than she’d intended when she entered the café round the corner from the police station. Peter was sitting at a table by the picture window with two coffees in front of him, his eyes fixed on the screen of his mobile. He looked up as she walked in, and rose to his feet to greet her.
“Thanks for meeting me at such short notice,” Faith said, putting out her hand. Her fingers were cushioned momentarily in his large palm.
“No trouble,” Peter said. “I ordered you coffee – hope that’s OK?” He looked at it dubiously. “It’s better than the tea – usually.”
“That’s fine.” She sat down opposite him. His jacket was open. She noticed that his buttons strained a little against the fabric of his shirt, as if he’d recently put on weight. He smoothed down his tie.
“So, what’s up?” he said.
Faith took a deep breath. “I have some information – it may mean nothing…”
Peter cocked his head. He’s wondering why I’m not talking to Ben, she thought.
I’m not talking to Ben because he’ll probably take it the wrong way.
No. She couldn’t say that. Better just to plough on.
“I have been talking to the churchwardens at St James’s. Fred Partridge – the man with me when we first met? He’s a farmer’s merchant.”
“Has a business on the road to Alresford. I know,” Peter nodded encouragingly.
“Well, everyone agrees that Trevor Shoesmith doesn’t use pesticide. He has always been insistent about not believing in spreading chemicals about, apparently – but Fred mentioned that he’d sold him some just the other week.”
Peter leaned forward.
“Not much,” Faith continued – which makes it all the more suspicious, her inner voice added in silent commentary in her head. “But Fred was surprised at the time, and now he’s concerned. It’s not that he thinks Trevor’s done anything, but…” she trailed off.
Peter raised his eyebrows.
“I know,” she responded, “but I’ve been talking to my mother.” Now, that sounded silly. She began again. “My mother used to live round here.” Faith struggled to find the words to justify her trust in her mother’s judgment. “She knew the Shoesmiths – both the parents and Trevor too.”
Peter looked polite.
Now she said it aloud, how flimsy it sounded! This man I’ve never met just couldn’t be a murderer because my mother says so. It was a good thing she’d chosen to speak to Peter rather than Ben; at least he had the good manners to hear her out as if he were actually interested.
“She told me about a family tragedy – in Shoesmith’s past, and…”
“When he was fifteen he killed his elder brother in a farming accident,” Peter supplied calmly, and drank some coffee.
“You know about it?”
He swallowed. “There’s a file.” He put down his cup. “Turned it up on the background check. He had some counselling afterwards. There’s a report from some psychiatrist that says he was depressive.”
“Well, he might be! My mother described him as a sad boy and a loser.”
“But she knew him in his teens…?”
“And twenties,” cut in Faith. She knew what was coming.
“OK. But even given that, he’s what – in his early forties now? A lot can change a man in that time.”
“But time doesn’t change fundamental character,” she insisted. “Trevor Shoesmith sounds like someone who’s self-destructive, if anything. Look at the farm. That’s not the farm of a man who takes action.”
Peter shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s speculation. You know the inspector: ABC – Assume nothing…’
“Believe nothing. Check everything!” Faith chimed in.
“So he’s always been like this?” Peter grinned.
“Oh yes!” Faith smiled back wryly. She looked down at the dregs in her cup. He was right, of course. She knew what Ben was like; that’s why she was talking to Peter. And what on earth was she expecting him to do?
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Peter asked.
She lifted her eyes to meet his; they were sympathetic.
“The reason I called you…” Here I go again, she thought. “I was parked outside the church and I saw Jessica Rose coming from the direction of Trevor Shoesmith’s farm with this big bag – a beach bag. Completely out of season!” She tried to make a joke of it. “Anyway, I’d swear there was something bulky in it. She went into the church, and then she came out minutes later and whatever was in the bag was gone.”
“You’re sure?”
Faith bit her lip and grimaced. “I’m sure.”
“She didn’t see you?”
“No. The church is on rising ground and there’s the wall. I was parked on the other side of it. I could see her, but I think all she’d see was the top of the car, not me in it.”
She looked at Peter across the table. His face was solemn.
“You’re observant,” he commented.
If Ben had said those words they would have been loaded with sarcasm. Peter clearly meant it as a compliment. Faith felt embarrassed.
“Some might call it nosey.” Might as well make a complete report. She told him about Jessica driving off in her silver car. That old Hendon training was hard to shake.
Peter was looking into the middle distance. “How come she had keys to the church?” he asked. He turned back to her. “It was locked, I presume?”
It was Faith’s turn to be impressed. Peter was quick.
“I know, I wondered about that,” she agreed. “She’s not a churchwarden. Maybe she had a key so she could do the flowers or something.”
&
nbsp; “I thought you didn’t have flowers in the church over Lent.”
“It varies from church to church.”
“Oh.”
Their eyes met over the tabletop, their expressions solemn.
“I’m going to have to tell the boss.”
“Of course.” She’d always known that Ben would have to know. She just hadn’t wanted to face him herself. The truth, she told herself sternly, was that she wanted to participate without taking responsibility for the consequences. Ben was right; she was a coward.
Peter made up his mind about something. “Jessica Rose’s name has already come up in the investigation,” he said.
“Really?” She could sense his excitement. He was bubbling over with the desire to share some discovery with her.
“When we went to interview Shoesmith at the farm – to ask him about his dispute with the vicar – the boss spotted this letter. It was in plain sight; on the desk. And you know the boss – he’s got eagle eyes. Never leave anything around you don’t want him to see.” Peter’s admiration for Ben saturated his voice.
Ben had that effect on his juniors, reflected Faith. They hero-worshipped him. Especially the young men; the women just fell for him.
“What was the letter?” she prompted, just to be saying something.
Peter leaned forward. He looked like an eager small boy in a grown-up’s suit.
“A love letter from Trevor to Jessica.” He sat back trying to look like a man of the world, but the tips of his ears were blushing with his enthusiasm. “He had a thing for her.”
Faith thought of the woman she had met so briefly; was she the type to be having a clandestine relationship with an inadequate farmer? She could imagine men of all kinds would be drawn to Jessica’s blue-eyed prettiness. She had an element of Marilyn Monroe’s sexy vulnerability about her. But as another woman, her impression of Jessica had been of someone tender-hearted and self-effacing. She thought of Jessica rocking beside the fallen vicar, and then her vehemence when they’d discussed reporting Fred’s sale in the church hall – had that been more than a sensitive person’s Christian concern for a neighbour?
The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) Page 7