The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries)

by Ockley, Martha

  “I didn’t sleep a wink all last night, worrying about poor Trevor. He didn’t have anything to do with…” Jessica broke off, the tears welling up again as they both looked towards the altar where Alistair Ingram breathed his last.

  Faith held her hand and squeezed it. Jessica took a deep breath.

  “Trevor’s not been well. He gets so low. And lately with his dog – Barney – he’s been so sick. Well, he was just too old. Trevor loved that dog.”

  Past tense. Does she know? Faith thought.

  “So Trevor was upset about his dog?” she prompted.

  Jessica’s eyes flickered, but she went on as if Faith hadn’t spoken.

  “I went to see Trevor this morning. I knew Pat would be away by ten. There’s a Country Ladies’ club outing to Mottisford Abbey Garden,” she added unexpectedly, almost as if they were having a normal conversation.

  Over Jessica’s shoulder, Faith caught sight of a scene of crime officer standing looking in on them from the vestry door. The man met her eyes with a quizzical look. She shook her head in a faint negative. The man retreated, walking softly.

  “How did you find him – Trevor?” Faith thought of the dog laid out on the bale of rotting straw. “Had something happened to Barney?”

  Jessica’s face crumpled. “Barney was dying. Trevor had never moved all night. Right there in the kitchen. He was so upset.” She turned her face away.

  That’s not what she was going to say, thought Faith. I wonder what’s been edited out.

  “That dog’s been in pain for weeks.” Jessica’s words came more rapidly now. “You could see it in the way he breathed, and he hadn’t been eating. Last week the vet told Trevor he must be put down, but Trevor couldn’t do it. Barney was the last one bred from a bitch he bought the year his mother died. He was his last family. And then all this happened.”

  Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the view of the altar before them. She drew in a sharp breath. “He’d been doing so much better!” Her hands were balled in tight fists. “Then the police – all the questions…”

  Jessica reached out and gripped her arm with such unexpected force that Faith flinched.

  “I encouraged him to buy the pesticide! I told him, start small; start on a little patch by the house. A corner of his mother’s garden. Make it grow again…” The pace of her words accelerated, her face flushed and fat tears ran down Jessica’s face, her breath coming short.

  “Shhh,” Faith tried to soothe her. Much more of this and there would no getting any sense out of her.

  “So you went to see Trevor this morning, because of what Fred said to us at the church hall meeting,” prompted Faith.

  Jessica Rose nodded, her face down. She let go of Faith’s arm and slumped against the pew.

  “You said Trevor was upset about his dog. How upset?” Jessica shifted in her seat until she had almost turned her back. Faith’s voice was insistent. “How upset was he, Jessica? Did you think he was a danger to himself?”

  Jessica looked up, her eyes pleading. “I took the pesticide,” she said in a small voice. “I thought if the tin was gone, then he couldn’t get in trouble.”

  Faith was caught out by a sudden kick of anger. Jessica was a grown woman, not a child!

  “You didn’t just leave him?” she exclaimed. She heard the force of the indignation in her own voice, and made an effort to speak more calmly. “If you really thought he was likely to hurt himself – if he was that bad, surely he needed professional help?”

  “I tried to help him!” Jessica was crying again. “From the beginning, I tried! But he wouldn’t let me tell. I had no right…” Jessica imprisoned her hands between her knees, her arms tense. She rocked a little, back and forth. “We’re not related. I haven’t known him that long. Trevor’s a very private man.”

  Her distress was infectious. Faith felt her own eyes tearing in sympathy. But there’s more, said a cool, detached voice in her head. Jessica Rose is hiding something she feels guilty about – and it’s not just that tin of pesticide. All that blood in the kitchen – it wasn’t put there in the first few minutes after she’d left.

  “When you saw Trevor this morning in his kitchen, what happened?”

  Jessica’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, on the altar.

  “He died here,” she said, her voice a whisper in the silence.

  Who was she talking about? Faith glanced up at the altar. Did she mean that the chain of circumstances that led to Trevor’s death began here?

  Alistair Ingram had died here, behind the altar.

  Jessica closed her eyes.

  Faith felt a hand on her shoulder. Ben slipped into the pew behind them. She had been concentrating so hard that she hadn’t seen him come in. She felt his presence, solid at her back.

  Jessica didn’t move. Faith touched her arm and she opened her eyes.

  “Jessica, this is Inspector Shorter. He is with the police.”

  “Mrs Rose,” said Ben in a matter-of-fact voice. Jessica barely acknowledged him. “I’ve just come from the Shoesmith farm. I have a couple of questions about your visit there this morning.”

  Peter was standing by the door holding a notebook. Jessica’s eyes were fixed on Faith. She looked at Ben, apparently uncertain what to do.

  “Suppose you see if you can find us a cup of tea?” Ben said. Faith bridled. She wasn’t his servant! She bit her tongue. He held her look and gave a faint jerk of his head towards the door.

  It was his investigation and he had the authority. Besides, she had the feeling that Jessica had said as much as she was going to for the time being. She rose. Jessica looked after her longingly.

  “I’ll be right back,” Faith reassured her.

  She made for the vicarage, a few yards away through the lime trees. Don was standing in the garden outside the kitchen, watching the activity at Trevor Shoesmith’s farm. Two more police cars had arrived, and an ambulance.

  “What’s up at the Shoesmith place?” he asked without preamble.

  “Shoesmith’s hung himself.” The brutality of the statement caught her by surprise. She hadn’t meant to say it right out like that.

  Don looked startled. He was thoughtful for a moment, then he snapped out of it. “Do you want me for something?”

  “Tea. I was hoping I could beg four mugs of tea.” She looked back. “To take to the church. Inspector Shorter and his sergeant are interviewing Jessica Rose in there.”

  “No problem.” Don led the way into the kitchen.

  “Jessica Rose, you say,” he said, setting out mugs and popping a tea bag in each. “How’s she doing?” The kettle boiled.

  He’s not questioning why she’s there, thought Faith.

  “Not great.” Faith poured the boiling water into the cups.

  “I don’t suppose she is,” he grunted. “Two admirers dead in a week. That woman’s toxic.”

  She slopped hot water over the edge of the mug. It pooled on the countertop and ran in a rivulet towards the edge.

  “What?” Now it was her voice that had the hysterical edge.

  Don looked down at her with a sly expression.

  “Oops!” He leaned over to grab a cloth from the sink, and mopped up the spill.

  “None of that!” She waved his hand aside. “This is serious. Jessica and your father?”

  “I’m surprised one of the Worthy worthies hasn’t dropped you the hint yet. They’re slipping. Mind you, the lovebirds were very careful.” He slid her a speculative look under his long lashes. “Shocked? They were both single, you know.”

  Faith thought about it. No, she wasn’t shocked. She saw the distinguished-looking Alistair Ingram as he was when alive, and then Jessica sitting on the floor by the body, rocking and holding the dead man’s hand. It was obvious! How had she missed it?

  “Why was it such a secret?”

  “Dad liked to be private about personal affairs. She’s divorced. Then there’s that priest/parishioner thing. It’s a bit like a doctor g
etting it on with a patient.”

  “Hardly!” For heaven’s sake, vicars were human beings too.

  Don cocked his head at her. “Oh, come on! In a village like this? Blonde divorcee snags vicar? The old biddies would be in uproar.”

  “Did the bishop know?”

  “Dad had a few private meetings up at the bishop’s house.”

  She thought of Bishop Anthony. She would have guessed he was quite traditional about such affairs, but she wasn’t sure. A widower and a divorcee. Personally she couldn’t see anything wrong in that – as long as the widower hadn’t been involved in the collapse of the divorcee’s previous marriage. She wondered why the bishop hadn’t mentioned Ingram’s relationship, and then dismissed the thought. Why on earth should he blab to her? She wasn’t the police. She had to keep reminding herself of that these days.

  “Was that why your father was retiring?” She asked.

  Don shrugged. “Part of it. Dad was full of his new life ahead. Just him and the new woman.” Bitterness threaded through his words, like concealed razor wire. “He couldn’t wait.”

  Faith picked up the tray. “I’ve got to get back now, but we’ll talk about this.”

  She searched his handsome face. Just how angry had he been about his father’s choice? He met her gaze blandly.

  She put the tray into his hands.

  “You can make yourself useful.”

  He took the tray and they walked in silence across the garden and along the path through the lime trees.

  “He loved her,” Don said quietly. “To be honest, I think they loved each other.”

  “And what about Trevor Shoesmith?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you know that they were friends – Jessica and Trevor?”

  “You’ve got a dirty mind,” he chided, flicking a glance at her dog collar with a sly grin. “Nah. It wasn’t like that. I think she was just doing good works.”

  He stopped short, a few feet from the vestry door. Faith glanced up and was surprised by his tense expression.

  “I’m not going in there,” he said flatly.

  Faith took the tray from him.

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  He began to move away, backing in the direction they’d come. His usual confidence clicked into place as if it had never faltered.

  “But come see me after, eh? Let me know what’s going on. I’ll make you a sandwich,” he ended with a wave.

  Faith nodded a vague acknowledgment, and carried the tray into the church.

  Ben greeted the tea with barely suppressed frustration. Jessica was wan and silent. There was a faintly stubborn look about her mouth. He can’t have brought up Trevor’s suicide yet, then, thought Faith. She felt a twinge of guilt at being party to such a deception. She resumed her seat next to Jessica on the pew. Behind them, Ben sat back. She took the movement as tacit approval.

  “Jessica,” she said, handing her a mug, “I was wondering why you didn’t mention your relationship with Alistair Ingram.”

  All credit to Ben. He didn’t move a muscle. Jessica, on the other hand, blushed like a guilty teenager.

  “Well, I…” She wouldn’t meet Faith’s eye.

  Faith took a sip of tea. “Was it a serious relationship?” she enquired conversationally. Behind her, she heard Ben exhale brusquely through his nose. Jessica looked at Faith, shocked, as if she hadn’t expected such a query from a vicar.

  “Of course! We were engaged to be married.” A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. “Alistair thought it was best he was retired before we made it public. We were in love.” Her voice was reverent. “He was the most wonderful man I have ever known. And he’s gone.”

  There was such loss in that small phrase. Faith cleared her throat. She felt filthy, prying like this, but she had to ask.

  “Did Don know of the engagement?”

  “Alistair was going to tell him that day – that morning.”

  Why hadn’t Don mentioned the engagement? Perhaps his father died before he could broach the subject. Faith thought of her first glimpse of Don storming away from his father, and his father reaching out to him from the vestry door. She wondered about a son who had lost his mother and then, in his eyes, lost his father to the church. Just how angry might such a son have been to learn that that father was prepared to give up the church that had appeared to mean so much more to him than his surviving family, for this woman?

  She saw Don stopping short at the vestry door just a few moments ago. I’m not going in there.

  “How about Trevor Shoesmith?” Faith started at the sound of Ben’s voice. She had almost forgotten he was there.

  “Trevor?” Jessica repeated. She seemed bemused.

  “Didn’t he fancy himself in love with you, too?”

  Ben could have phrased that more tactfully! Faith glared at him behind Jessica’s back. He rolled his eyes at her in an entirely unprofessional way as he felt in his pocket. He took out a letter in a plastic evidence bag, and read:

  “I am sitting here thinking of the barn and the feel of your hair against my skin. Jessica, you know what you are to me – everything. In your arms I can be all those things you say I can.”

  Faith felt like a pervert. She wished she was anywhere else but sitting there in that pew. Ben seemed entirely unaffected by what he was doing. He was watching Jessica. She was rigid.

  “Were you having a relationship with Mr Shoesmith?” asked Ben.

  “No!” Jessica was indignant. “It was nothing like that.”

  “No?” Ben looked down at the letter in its plastic bag. “So what did happen…in the barn?”

  Jessica tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear and squirmed in her seat. “It was one time…Trevor told me some things about his past; he got upset; I tried to comfort him. It was a tender moment – but not passionate,” she said emphatically, and shook her head once. “I didn’t feel that way about Trevor.”

  “Did you tell him that?” Ben’s voice was sarcastic.

  “Oh yes, I did. I did tell him.” Jessica’s eyes filled with tears again.

  “But he hadn’t given up his hopes?”

  She raised a small fist to her mouth. “No,” she said, and began to sob.

  Faith put her arms around her and held her as she cried. Behind them, Ben sat back relaxed, one arm stretched out along the pew back, watching and waiting. She tried to ignore him.

  “This morning,” Faith spoke softly, “what happened? Why did you leave him?”

  Jessica’s voice was clogged with tears. “He’d started again,” she said.

  “Started again?”

  Leaning into her like a child, with one hand Jessica drew a vague slicing gesture across her arm just below the elbow.

  “Trevor would cut himself?” asked Faith.

  The blonde head nodded once, like a puppet. “He’d been doing it off and on for years, I think. I’ve been trying to help him.” Jessica rummaged around in a pocket and brought out another handkerchief.

  “So you did your best,” Faith’s voice was gentle.

  Again the puppet nod. “I did my best.” She blew her nose.

  Jessica lifted her head. She turned to look back at Ben. “How did you get that letter?”

  He looked back at her in silence.

  “Where’s Trevor?” Jessica asked. She blinked twice, then gave a tiny shake of her head. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Ben.

  “I am so sorry, Jessica.” Faith wished words weren’t so inadequate. She wondered how Ben could sit there so unmoved. Now Jessica’s beautiful eyes, full of tears, turned wildly to her.

  “I left him!” Her voice was shrill. “I left him there this morning. I knew the state he was in and I left him!”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Jessica made a clumsy gesture in the direction of the letter Ben held, and her hand hit the pew hard. She didn’t even flinch.

  “Bec
ause of that. Oh, I knew he had feelings for me! I thought we’d had that out months ago – I made it clear: we were just friends, that was all. He said he understood. But then, this morning he got so worked up – pleading with me. He said he was doing it for me! What was he trying to prove? The blood! It was disgusting. I knew he’d had times like this before. He told me once it was a release. A release? How could it be a release?” She was rocking back and forth now, with an intensity Faith found worrying. Her phrases came out in an odd, mechanical rhythm. “I was making it worse. I had to leave – but I took the pesticide, in case…”

  “In case he used it on himself?” Faith asked, hoping to cut into her mounting hysteria.

  Jessica nodded, her lips compressed, her jaw rigid.

  “And what did Trevor think of your relationship with Alistair Ingram?” Ben’s voice intruded. Faith glared at him. His question galvanized Jessica. She swung to face him.

  “Trevor was a good and kind man!” she howled at him. “He never hurt anyone but himself!” She folded herself up as if she wanted to disappear and began to rock, moaning in a way that made the hairs stand up on the back of Faith’s neck.

  CHAPTER

  11

  FAITH FELT WRUNG OUT. SHE SAT in her car outside her sister’s house, too tired to get out. It was exhausting, dealing so intimately with misery and death.

  They’d had to call a doctor to Jessica. He’d given her a sedative. Faith had seen her home, limp and passive, to her cottage in a hamlet outside Little Worthy. Jessica’s neighbour, Di, a primary school teacher with three grown-up children, had offered to stay with her. Together they had put her to bed in her low-eaved room with its embroidered linen and limewashed French furniture. In the sunny room Jessica’s head lay on the freshly laundered pillow, her face blotchy with tears, clutching the bedclothes under her chin like a child.

  Despite everything, Faith had made her meeting with the rural dean on time. Life goes on. Canon Matthews had been sympathetic, but businesslike. They had discussed plans for Alistair Ingram’s funeral that coming Friday. The bishop would take it. It would be a public affair. The press had got wind of the story. Faith wondered how Don was feeling about the church assuming charge of Alistair Ingram’s final farewell as if he belonged to them, his son no more than a mourner. She tried to raise this with the rural dean, but Canon Matthews merely looked wise and said something about anger being a natural stage of bereavement. Faith let it drop for the time being: perhaps she should speak to the bishop himself. Canon Matthews had frowned at her idea of physically cleaning the church alongside her parishioners, asking if there wasn’t a regular cleaning rota. Faith had said that wasn’t quite the point and he had shrugged, admitting it might serve some “symbolic” function.