The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries)

by Ockley, Martha

“He was. And a good man…So you don’t think this is my punishment?” she asked in a child’s voice.

  “Certainly not! My God is a loving God; he is neither petty nor vindictive.” Faith was categorical. “And he’d have to be both to sacrifice a good man to punish a simple human mistake. What could possibly be loving about that?”

  Jessica didn’t look completely convinced, but she seemed a little comforted. She sighed.

  “I’m dreading tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Trying not to make a fuss in case someone should notice. I don’t know how I am going to sit through it, pretending…”

  “You don’t need to pretend.” Jessica’s blue eyes swung up to meet Faith’s. “People knew what you and Alistair meant to each other – in this church, I mean. You won’t be alone, and you don’t have to pretend.”

  As she spoke she made a mental note to ring Fred. If he could pick Jessica up tomorrow, she could take her home herself after the funeral. She glanced at her watch. Nearly two already. Pat and the Lively sisters would be arriving before long to do the funeral flowers. It would be a good idea to get Jessica away before that. She shouldn’t have to suffer Pat’s scrutiny in her present condition.

  “Why don’t you go home now and try to get some sleep?” Faith shepherded a docile Jessica to the door. “I’ll organize someone to pick you up tomorrow and I’ll take you home afterwards myself.”

  As Jessica was getting into her car, something Clarisse and Sue had talked about earlier surfaced in Faith’s mind.

  “Jessica – how did Pat get along with Alistair?” she asked. “Were they friends?”

  Jessica looked surprised. “Friends? She was his churchwarden, that’s all.”

  “Did the churchwardens have regular meetings with Alistair at Pat’s house on the green?”

  “No.” Jessica leaned back against the headrest wearily. “Alistair wasn’t really the type who went round for tea with his parishioners.”

  “But he would call on Pat to discuss parish business?” insisted Faith. “Is she the parish treasurer? Does she keep the books?”

  Jessica frowned as if she was trying to concentrate. “Alistair would call on her in the evening once a week. He was always careful about being on time because Pat would make a fuss if he was late. But Fred’s the parish treasurer; he keeps the books.”

  After she waved Jessica off, Faith checked her emails on her laptop, feeling, as usual, oddly incongruous tapping away at her keyboard in such an ancient setting. The rural dean had been in touch with a broad order of service and some suggestions. Faith made a mental note to discuss some of the finer points with Don, and wondered for the first time if he’d come at all. Crossing the threshold might be too much for him.

  Next, she rang the funeral directors, sitting on a bench in the porch to the church. She spoke with Richard Blackney, the current general manager. Soft-spoken and professional, he assured her that everything was prepared, and intimated that the rural dean was handling many of the finer details so Faith wasn’t to worry. This she found mildly irritating, but understood that her superiors were probably just trying to remove any minor pressures, rather than interfering.

  As she was wrapping up the conversation, Pat appeared on the path with the Lively sisters in tow, and a couple of buckets of chrysanthemums. Pat conducted the flower arranging with military precision. They were finished in time for the six o’clock news, which, she informed Faith, she never liked to miss.

  Faith locked up the church feeling a little as if she had survived a strong wind. Pat was a force of nature.

  Darkness was drawing in. Faith paused to admire the pink sky over Shoesmith’s farm. This is the evening before Alistair Ingram’s funeral, she reminded herself. So much had happened in so few days. She felt off balance; unreal. Through the lime trees she saw a light go on in the vicarage kitchen. She thought of Don’s face on the day of Trevor Shoesmith’s suicide – was that really only two days ago? Don had stood in almost this exact spot outside the vestry door. I’m not going in there…

  How was he going to manage the funeral, then?

  This was real; she should go and check on the murdered man’s son.

  The kitchen looked like a brightly lit stage set from the shadowy garden. An empty set. She opened the door and called out. She heard Don saying something to someone and the sound of the front door closing. She waited. He walked back into the kitchen. He looked amused as he saw her.

  “Hello!” he greeted her. Inexplicably, he glanced back over his shoulder as if there were someone behind him, but there was no one there.

  “Is this a convenient time? I just wanted to check in with you; see how you’re doing.”

  His expression was politely puzzled. “I’m fine.”

  “How are you feeling – are you going to be OK tomorrow?” She could see that he wasn’t going to make this easy for her. Don stared back at her blankly.

  “It was my impression you didn’t feel comfortable about setting foot in the church,” she stated baldly.

  “Oh, that’s all right!” he responded jauntily. “I don’t need to. I’m not going to go to the funeral.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.” His face stretched into a stiff smile. “Can I offer you coffee – or something stronger? I fancy a G&T. Oh, before I forget!” He held up a finger, indicating she should wait there, and disappeared into the hall. He re-emerged holding a parcel. “The postman left this. Church supplies of some sort.”

  It was a box of palm crosses for next Sunday’s service.

  “Thank you.” Faith took the box, her brain whirring. How to handle this? Alistair Ingram’s son was clearly in an odd mood, and she didn’t know him well.

  “I think a gin and tonic would be an excellent thing,” she said brightly.

  They sipped their drinks in silence, facing one another across the kitchen table. Her drink was long on gin and short on tonic. She felt the liquid seep in, relaxing her muscles. Don was watching her. She had a cartoon vision of him as a big sleek cat and herself as a small brown mouse. He was going to sit her out.

  He didn’t know how stubborn she could be.

  “So, what are your plans?” she asked.

  “Plans?”

  “After all this. Where will you go?” This vicarage was tied to his father’s job. Not much mercy for the orphans of serving clergy. Lose your home and parent in one package. She would be angry if she were him.

  He glanced around the spacious kitchen.

  “Getting ready to move in?” he asked flatly.

  “It does look like a nice house.” That took him aback. He almost smiled. “But no. I was actually asking about you.”

  Don got up to freshen his drink. He took a long swallow.

  “I’ll be all right. Dad’s left me well provided for.” He watched her reaction. “He was quite wealthy – but you know that.”

  He came back to the table and sat down again.

  “I’ve found a flat in Southampton. Convenient for the university. It’ll do me for now.” He seemed to be challenging her somehow. “Sean’s going to be my lodger.”

  Lucky Sean, she thought. He’s fallen on his feet. Don’s standards of living were much higher than the normal student could expect.

  She examined the handsome, half-formed face across the table. Don sat, his long limbs sprawled, one arm draped along the back of his chair, his free hand rocking his glass on the tabletop. He seemed to be waiting for something. The moment passed.

  “So my father’s dead and I’ve come in to a nice inheritance.” His eyes fixed hers aggressively.

  “Oh! I’m sure you have an alibi,” said Faith calmly, and sipped her drink.

  He blinked.

  “Brilliant!” A grin transformed his face. “Welcome back, Nancy Drew!” He raised his glass to her. “Actually, I don’t have one,” he resumed. “An alibi. I was here on my own that morning.” His eyes defied her to challenge him. “Which fact, as I am sure you will recognize as a student of crime, indicat
es that I did not poison my father. For being, as I hope you will allow, intelligent,” he bowed self-mockingly from the waist, “had I murdered him, I would have provided myself with one – an alibi, that is.”

  What was he? Nineteen, maybe twenty years old? There he was, utterly alone, his mother long dead, facing eviction from his home and the funeral of his murdered father, and yet he still had the guts to put on this performance. Faith wanted to applaud and cry at the same time.

  “But then I suppose,” Don struck an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose, “you might say I lost my temper and struck out on a whim. After all, they do say I hated my father.”

  Faith grimaced. “Not precisely. What I understood was that you quarrelled over certain things.”

  He pouted, as if he were considering the point. “And sons have been known to dispute things with their fathers,” he pointed out.

  Peter Gray had said much the same thing.

  “How did you feel about your father’s engagement to Jessica?” she asked.

  “His engagement?”

  “Jessica told me your father was going to tell you about it that morning.” She didn’t need to add which morning. They both knew.

  “I saw you,” she forestalled his denial, “coming out of the vestry. You looked upset. Your father called after you, but you didn’t turn back.”

  “Don’t you get around,” he said sulkily. Faith kept her eyes on his – the connection seemed almost physical. To her surprise, he capitulated.

  “Yes. He told me.”

  “And it made you angry?”

  “Not really.”

  It was tiring maintaining this intensity. She hoped she wouldn’t lose him.

  “You looked angry. So what was the quarrel about?”

  “Not that – he was a grown-up. He could marry again if he wanted. I wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway.”

  “If not that, then what?”

  He drew air in through his nose with a sharp sniff and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Lifestyle choices,” he said. “Another drink?”

  “Thanks, but that’s my limit.” She tossed back the last of her drink and stood up.

  Oops! That gin and tonic was strong. She steadied herself surreptitiously on the tabletop as she picked up the parcel of palm crosses.

  “I should drop these off at the church.” She looked at him directly. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  She glimpsed anxiety flicker across his face. He really wasn’t very old.

  “Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said quietly. “It’s just a place.”

  He seemed to be listening to something a long way off. Then he pushed back his chair, the legs scraping the floor with a harsh sound. He took the parcel out of her hands.

  “OK.” He led the way. “But if you’re afraid of the dark, why don’t you just admit it?” He stepped down into the shadowy garden.

  Following him out, Faith’s eyes rested on the Georgian satinwood salt box by the door. She remembered the keys hanging inside.

  “How are you about locking up when you’re not around?” she asked.

  “The front door locks itself. Dad was always forgetting his keys.”

  “So you often leave the back door unlocked?”

  She caught the movement of his shoulders as he shrugged in the gloom.

  “Crime isn’t rife round here. Don’t know that anyone locks their back door – unless they’re going away.”

  It was really quite dark under the trees. She didn’t remember the ground being this rough.

  “We should have brought a torch.”

  “Wait a minute, your eyes will adjust.” His voice was surprisingly close. “The sky’s clear tonight.”

  They’d stopped. All of a sudden, she was conscious of his breathing. His presence was an outline in the dark.

  “I can’t prove I loved Dad,” he said, “but I did.”

  St James’s Church loomed on the other side of the trees, a solid presence between them and the night sky.

  “Why should I go tomorrow?” Don seemed to be talking to himself. “It’s their funeral.”

  “It’s your father’s funeral.”

  “He’s not there any more.”

  He was crying in the dark. She could feel his struggle to regain control. She took a step towards him. He flung out a hand.

  “Don’t! I’m OK.” He sniffed. “Just angry.” She saw the line of his shoulders rise as he straightened up. “Let them take him. They took him away a long time ago.”

  “Is that really how you feel about it?”

  He shifted restlessly.

  “He was a perfectly normal guy and then Mum died and he got sucked in. They got him when he was vulnerable.”

  “He changed from the man you knew?”

  “Not exactly. Well, sort of. It was like he had discovered this great secret. Overnight he changed everything, and I had to tag along. We left London. And I’m suddenly the vicar’s son,” he put savage quotes around the phrase, “in the back-end of nowhere…And now he’s dead and he had to die in there,” he ended despairingly.

  Faith was angry with herself. She knew she should have fought harder to make Canon Matthews and the bishop pay more attention to Ingram’s son. Instead, she’d let them take over the funeral with hardly a protest. She hadn’t given Don the support he deserved.

  “They’re the ones burying Dad tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if I’m there or not,” Don muttered.

  “Yes it does. It matters for you.” She thought of Bishop Anthony and the rural dean. They would be appalled if they knew how Alistair’s son felt. She reached out and rubbed his arm. Half a second later, she realized what she was doing and that Don hadn’t pulled away. Perhaps she was making progress.

  “I might as well be invisible,” she heard him mumble.

  “Jessica feels the same way,” Faith murmured. Damn! Did I say that aloud?

  “What?”

  His tone was outraged. She kicked herself for being so unguarded. Of course, at this stage of grief he would see it as a contest.

  “I know Jessica was new to your father’s life,” she said, loading her voice with as much sympathy as she could without sounding too sickly and false. “But they loved one another – she is mourning his loss too. Maybe,” she suggested tentatively, “if you give it time, you will find a bit of comfort in one another.”

  She could feel the tension in him.

  “It is not the same,” she added hurriedly, “but there is a way in which you both have your father in common.”

  He grunted. She couldn’t read his face; it was in shadow. She’d been here before. Ever since she’d committed herself to spreading the word that God’s love was for all, she seemed destined to run up against non-believers to whom church represented only bitter exclusion. She stumbled on.

  “Bishop Beech and the rest, they’re trying to express their respect for your father. Whatever your personal perspective, he was very popular here. He did good work and was appreciated as a good man. You should be proud of that. And you need to be there tomorrow,” she said earnestly. She thought of her own father’s funeral – what she could remember of it, which wasn’t much. “You’ll feel better for it afterwards.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded emphatically.

  They’d reached the vestry door. She took out her keys, squinting at them in the poor light to find the right one.

  “When did you last go inside? Not just the vestry, the church itself?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  She opened the vestry door and turned on the lights. “Come on then, deep breath.”

  They crossed the vestry and entered the nave.

  “I hate this place,” he said passionately. “I can’t breathe in here.”

  “Why?” She thought she knew the answer, but he needed to talk about it.

  “Everything,” he swept his hand out. “All this brass and dark wood and colou
red glass; they’re nothing but magic props – staging to sustain a delusion.”

  A woman past thirty falling for this delusion – for what? Faith gave herself a little shake. She wished Ben would get out of her head.

  “Did your father seem deluded? Was he unhappy?” she asked.

  Don glanced down at her. His expression was vivid with intelligence.

  “Many deluded people are deliriously happy. That’s a sign of delusion, isn’t it?”

  She acknowledged the point.

  “And that’s how your father struck you?”

  He stood staring at the altar and the cross above it a moment.

  “No,” he said finally. “He seemed at peace with himself.”

  She showed him the place where his father died, and talked about the good things she had learned about Alistair Ingram in the last week. Don seemed to listen. After a while, he struck her as calmer; a little less tense.

  They walked past the stained-glass panel and its smiling Lamb of God.

  “I thought that had gone,” he commented idly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I let a man in the other day – I thought he was from the glass company.”

  Faith felt a sudden shot of adrenaline. “What day was that?”

  Don thought about it. “Saturday.”

  “Last Saturday?”

  “Yes, I was listening to the match on the radio and he interrupted. I gave him the key to get rid of him.” He walked on towards the door.

  “Did he say he was from the glass company?”

  “I’m not sure he did. I just assumed.”

  “Did you often give the key out like that?”

  “If I was in and Dad was out and they had a good reason to be there. The glass guys had been around for weeks. Restoration works.”

  “So you would know them by sight?”

  He glanced down at her, amused. He shook his head. “I paid as little attention as possible.”

  “What can you remember about that particular man last Saturday? What did he look like?”

  “Middling – middle-aged, middle height.”

  She gave him a severe look. Don rolled his eyes. He ran his fingers through his thick hair.

  “Not much on top,” he elaborated, “brownish to fair; not bald but close-cropped like guys do when the hair’s going. Tanned, like he worked outdoors.” He shrugged.