Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  A flush crept slowly up Noakes’s neck.

  ‘We take everything of that kind very seriously, Mrs Hamilton,’ he stuttered. ‘I went and checked it out myself. Spoke to the groundsman too. Everything was as it should be… He wasn’t aware of any unusual activity, but he’d been off sick for a few days and the company hadn’t been able to arrange a substitute. So, he couldn’t be one hundred per cent positive as to comings and goings.’

  ‘No need to justify yourself, Mr Noakes. I’m sure you did everything by the book. I’d worked myself up into quite a state that night when I went to the station. When I look back, I can’t even be sure that I didn’t imagine the whole thing… But somehow I don’t think so.’ She gave a convulsive shudder. ‘I can still hear the taller man’s voice. There was something evil about it. I’d know it again anywhere.’

  Markham felt a needle-sharp pain between his shoulder blades, all his senses suddenly on high alert.

  ‘What was it exactly that you saw, Mrs Hamilton?’ he asked levelly.

  She smiled ruefully at him. ‘It looked like an interment at the back of the Soames Vault. Afterwards, I wondered if it could have been reinterment following an exhumation.’ Her face fell. ‘I remember my late husband Geoffrey saying that reburials generally take place in the small hours to ensure maximum privacy. But this was early evening and it didn’t feel official.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘No, it didn’t feel like those gravediggers had anything to do with the cathedral. I think they’d counted on no-one being around at that time … there was something sneaky and underhand about them…’

  Interference with human remains in the cathedral graveyard. Discovery of three skeletons in the precincts of St Mary’s Choir School. Markham did not believe in coincidences. Grimly, he made an internal resolution to re-visit the matter of the Soames Monument. If that meant putting various officials’ noses out of joint – or the coroner’s for that matter – then so be it.

  ‘But I’m not here to talk about that,’ Mrs Hamilton continued briskly. ‘No. Joan the cook at St Mary’s is an old friend of mine. She used to ‘do’ for me and Geoffrey until we moved into assisted accommodation not long before Geoffrey died.’

  Georgina paused as though suddenly at a loss for words.

  It was Noakes who gently encouraged her. ‘Go on, Mrs Hamilton.’

  ‘Well.’ The earnest, intelligent face clouded over. ‘This sounds very foolish, but Joan is an eminently level-headed sensible woman with no nonsense about her… Sometimes she sleeps over at the school if there’s been a function or late dinner. There’s a little room for her at the end of one of the boys’ dormitories.’

  Again, she paused, unknotting the scarf at her throat as if it suddenly felt too tight.

  ‘Joan swears that something made her wake up one night. She listened for a while before convincing herself it was just the usual sounds and trying to settle back down to sleep. But for some reason she couldn’t drop off.’

  Georgina twisted her garnet ring round and round, looking pleadingly at the two men for reassurance.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Hamilton,’ said Markham softly. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘She said she felt there was something out there. Something wicked that made her neck prickle. She slipped out of bed and looked round her door down the dormitory. There was a light flickering, she thought. It cast a shadow on the wall. Like a hooded figure. For one crazy moment, she thought perhaps it was the ghost of a monk come back from the dead. Then the shape seemed to bend over one of the beds before straightening up, almost as though it was aware of being watched. The light went out and everything was dark again. She doesn’t know how long she stood there, rooted to the spot with fear. But eventually she went back to bed, though she didn’t sleep a wink all that night.’

  Georgina stumbled to a halt, looking flustered.

  ‘As I say, it must sound a bit daft…’

  ‘Not at all.’ Markham was authoritative. ‘You naturally wondered, in retrospect, if what Joan saw might relate to the discovery of bodies at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much it, Inspector.’

  ‘Has Joan spoken to anyone else about this, Mrs Hamilton?’

  ‘No, she decided to hold her peace. Felt the poor new principal had enough on his plate without having to listen to what she calls her megrims.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The DI sounded upbeat. ‘I’d like her to keep it that way. This is just between the four of us, understood?’

  ‘Do you think it could be relevant, Inspector?’ Georgina sounded uncharacteristically tremulous.

  ‘Yes, I do. I can’t tell you why at this stage, but you can take my word for it that this is very useful information.’

  Her brow cleared. ‘Thank you,’ she said with real feeling.

  ‘Can we give you a lift anywhere, Mrs Hamilton?’ Noakes enquired solicitously.

  ‘No, I could do with a walk, Detective. Thank you,’ she said again, ‘it’s a weight off my mind to have told you.’

  The two men escorted her to the door of the cathedral. Markham watched her retreating figure until it disappeared. Then he turned to his DS.

  ‘Right, Noakes, back to the station. We need to prep for that bloody press conference.’

  Unseen by either of them, a figure flitted through the narthex from its place of shadowy concealment and disappeared into the dimly lit cathedral beyond.

  8. Undivulged Pretence

  At the end of Evensong, Nat felt he had acquitted himself well. There had been one wobble during the Miserere, but Mr Sharpe hadn’t minded and even told him ‘Good effort’ at the end. Julian had sloped off, muttering that he had ‘things to do’ before Prep. Nat felt obscurely hurt by this desertion, but knew better than to ask what was wrong after having been rudely repulsed when he caught his friend crying behind the changing rooms before rugger. Julian was fierce and sullen by turns these days and sometimes seemed almost to despise him, though he was quick to lash out at anyone who bothered Nat. It was all very puzzling and Nat did not know what to make of it.

  Sighing, he disrobed in the vestry then went out into the cathedral. This was his favourite time, when everywhere was peaceful, the vast space lit only by the sanctuary oil lamps and votive candles which flickered on stands in the side chapels. Magnificent floral arrangements glowed softly in the darkness against the stark white marble. Nothing disturbed the sacred hush, subtly perfumed with the mingled scents of blooms and incense. Slipping into a pew, he closed his eyes.

  It had been exciting going underground at the grottoes. Exciting but scary too. He had been afraid they might find something bad down there. He could tell Julian was creeped out because he turned a funny colour and looked like he was going to puke. Suddenly he felt a fierce desire to help his friend. Please let Julian be all right, please let him be like he was before, amen. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but he meant it with all his heart.

  Maybe the police would solve the mystery of the Night Watchman. The hooded man’s breath made a sort of whistling sound. Like he had false teeth or something. That’s how he knew the prowler wasn’t make believe. No-one made a weird noise like that unless he really existed.

  He hoped Miss Mullen would stay at St Mary’s. When she smiled at him, he felt warm from top to toe as if a light had switched on inside him and she understood him without the need for any words. Julian said she looked like the picture of Morgana le Fay, the fairy witch in Nat’s picture book Legends of King Arthur that Mr Woodcourt had given him for coming top in Latin. But Nat could tell Julian liked her too.

  Somehow Nat must have drifted off, drawn into the heartbeat of the cathedral like a small creature nestling up to its mother.

  A creaking of the pews recalled him to the present. If he didn’t get a move on, he would miss Prep. With a sigh, he rose to his feet and made his way out through the narthex (fortunately still unlocked) and round to the cloister garth.

  It was twilight now, and he blinked in the gloom, still under the
spell of the cathedral which slumbered behind him like some great beast. Gradually, the night air broke his trance and he shivered as the cold of the stone flags struck through to his bones.

  Suddenly, he caught the odour of wood-smoke. Dimly, in a far corner of the garth, he made out a figure. Moving closer, he saw a strange and unexpected sight.

  In the darkest corner of the cloister garth, Canon Woodcourt stood next to a still smouldering pile of embers which appeared to be the remnants of a small fire on which he had been burning papers. A few fragments, their edges curling brown, were all that remained. Woodcourt’s face was troubled as he gazed unseeing at the dying blaze. Clearly, he had chosen the moment when he believed himself least likely to be disturbed, since Prep was sacrosanct and no students were supposed to be abroad at that time.

  With the delicate sensitivity to another’s pain which reflected his own love-starved childhood, Nat stole away, reluctant to obtrude upon a private interlude. But, quiet as he was, the canon heard him.

  ‘Nat, my dear boy! Come and join me,’ he called softly.

  Nat was embarrassed. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you, sir, or be a nuisance.’

  ‘You could never be a nuisance!’ Woodcourt declared firmly and was rewarded by a shy smile.

  ‘I’m going to confide in you, Nat, because I know you to be loyal and true. Indeed, wise beyond your years.’

  ‘I’ll never let you down, sir,’ came the earnest reply.

  ‘If I am sure of anything, I am sure of that.’

  The canon hesitated as if uncertain where to begin. Finally, as though each word was a red-hot brand, he said, ‘I have uncovered some evidence of a most serious nature—’

  ‘Is it about the Night Watchman, sir?’ interrupted Nat eagerly.

  For an infinitesimal instant Woodcourt’s face appeared so altered – parchment-white, with the skin stretched taut over the temples – that Nat failed to recognize his friend. What, he wondered fearfully, could have caused such a transformation?

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled. The man who had always been so good to him had obviously come upon something which wounded him to the core. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Woodcourt sighed. It sounded to Nat as though wrenched from the depths of his being by some almost unbearable pain.

  ‘You are not the cause of my distress, Nat. But there is someone who has abused my trust and blackened the honour of our school. Those papers you saw me burn showed me what has been going on.’ He stared down at the remains of the fire as though in the grip of some profound emotion. ‘Now,’ he said slowly, ‘I must decide what to do.’

  Nat’s heart beat very fast. It must be the Night Watchman, he thought. Mr Woodcourt knows who it is. His thoughts were tripping over themselves. Or maybe he’s found out what happened to Miss Hummles and those people in the grottoes.

  Whatever the nature of the canon’s discovery, Nat could see it had come upon him like a thunderbolt, so that he appeared to have aged a hundred years in the space of just a few seconds. Patiently, he waited for the clergyman to recover, confident that the man who had looked out for him from the moment of his arrival at St Mary’s would know what to do.

  Eventually, Woodcourt roused himself. ‘But you’re freezing out here! Let’s go back inside. No, not that way,’ as Nat headed for the little wicket which connected the cloister garth to the school quads, ‘why don’t we take a turn around the cathedral while we’ve got it to ourselves.’ Correctly reading Nat’s anxious expression, he added, ‘Don’t worry, you won’t get into trouble. I’ll clear it with whoever’s taking Prep tonight.’

  Back in the cathedral, it felt warm and safe.

  They turned into The Forty Martyrs Chapel adjacent to the vestry.

  Visitors to the chapel, expecting to see images of venerable saints in classical poses, were generally taken aback by the startling impact of its avant-garde design.

  Nat, however, loved the sunburst fresco with abstract geometric shapes in white and grey which hung above a simple granite altar. He wondered what the artist meant by it and why he hadn’t painted holy men and women with haloes around their heads. Perhaps he thought that was too boring. Perhaps he wanted people to imagine the martyrs’ souls in glory, leaving the world of finite time on their journey out of darkness to the bright light at the end of the tunnel.

  Under the fresco was a rectangular Perspex box with brightly coloured wood-block chalice, sword, pillar and whip vivid against swirling concentric patterns in blue, red and green. The canon had told Nat that these items represented Arma Christi, the instruments of Christ’s Passion and the symbols of His victory over the Devil. They seemed to burn and pulse with a mysterious triumphant fire of their own, so that he could not look away.

  ‘Come on,’ murmured Woodcourt, smiling at Nat’s rapt expression. ‘Let’s go up to the balcony, there’s a good view of the baldachin from there.’

  Together they mounted the spiral stone steps to the upper level with its tiered pine benches bounded by a low steel rail. Nat’s favourite vantage point at the front afforded a bird’s eye view of the aluminium crown of thorns, composed of multiple interlocking rods, suspended above the main altar. Like the implements in the chapel below, it seemed to defy time and space, beckoning him to come closer, making him feel almost light-headed…

  The boy’s head swam and his world seemed to tilt.

  ‘Woah, Nat!’

  Strong hands grasped him roughly round the waist and yanked him back.

  ‘Canon!’ It was Alex Sharpe, his voice rough with concern. ‘Nat was very nearly over the rail! It’s dangerous for him with his vertigo. Remember, we nearly lost him last Christmas from the organ loft!’

  ‘I had forgotten, Alex. It was most remiss of me.’ Woodcourt sounded dazed, as though he shared something of Nat’s dislocation from time and space.

  Nat noticed that Mr Sharpe was looking closely at them. He pulled himself together. The last thing the poor canon needed right now was a lot of fuss and bother just because he’d had one of his turns. If he’d toppled out of the balcony, it would have served him jolly well right.

  ‘I’m all right sir, honestly,’ he reassured the Director of Music. ‘I lost track of time after Evensong. Mr Woodcourt knows I like it up here and was going to bring me back.’ No need to mention what he had seen in the cloister garth.

  ‘C’mon then.’ Sharpe spoke gruffly but his expression was kind. ‘You can walk back with me. Prep’s over but you’ll be in time for tea. Assuming the others haven’t wolfed the lot.’ He turned to Woodcourt. ‘I’ll see you later this evening at the committee meeting then?’ The canon nodded absent-mindedly, as if his thoughts were far away.

  Nat felt a pang as he looked at his friend. He had always thought of him as indestructible – a giant-slayer – but, slumped there in the shadowy cathedral, Woodcourt suddenly looked infinitely sad and spent, as though all his strength had leached away. Gently, Nat touched his sleeve. ‘Thanks for looking after me, Mr Woodcourt. I’ll be all right now. After Prep I’m going to read your book about King Arthur. I’ve got up to where the knights expel Sir Mordred.’

  He was pleased to see a gleam of animation pass across the other’s face. ‘Ah yes, Nat. Sir Mordred, destroyer of Camelot. A traitor indeed.’ Woodcourt chuckled. ‘Right, off you go now.’

  Alex Sharpe led Nat carefully down the stone spiral and they disappeared around the corner of the vestry.

  Woodcourt sat on in the cathedral, motionless as one of the figures in the stations of the cross below, his head bowed. The evening wore on and still he remained, preserving his lonely vigil.

  A short time afterwards, a trim upright figure passed through the cloister garth. Georgina Hamilton was feeling unusually buoyant. Tea had, of course, been excellent as ever. Such a wonderfully light hand as Joan had with scones. And so generous to give her the recipe. That should guarantee victory at the next Women’s Guild Bake Off!

  Even better than the tea had been Joan’s tear
ful relief when Georgina told her about the meeting with Inspector Markham and Constable Noakes.

  ‘I’d almost convinced myself I must have imagined the whole thing, Georgina,’ she confided, ‘but I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. I wanted to tell someone, but it sounded so far-fetched, like something only a madwoman would dream up. Do the police really think there could be something in it?’

  Georgina had replied in the affirmative before impressing upon her friend the need for absolute discretion. Giddy with gratitude, Joan clutched her hand.

  ‘I can sleep easy now I know the police are taking care of things. I was just,’ the plump face creased with worry, ‘afraid in case it had something to do with what they found in the grottoes or, God forbid, poor Miss Hummles … though I can’t for the life of me see how.’

  Suddenly, as she found herself doing increasingly often, Georgina thought of her dead husband. ‘Be you ever so high, the law is above you’, Geoffrey was fond of quoting as he went about his civic duties. Was it possible, she wondered, that what she had told the police might bring down a murderer who thought to have evaded the inexorable reach of justice?

  Deep in her own thoughts, Georgina skidded on something lying in her path, almost turning her ankle.

  Hold on a moment, it looked like she had trodden in some ashes mixed with fragments of paper scattered amongst the smoking remnants of a fire.

  Gingerly, she bent down and picked up a few shreds which appeared to have survived the conflagration. It meant the end of her brand new gloves, but that couldn’t be helped. Far more important to retrieve what looked like pages from a diary.

  The moonlight was Georgina’s ally as she hastily skimmed their contents.

  It was the work of minutes.

  ‘My god!’ she whispered, her arms falling heavily to her sides. ‘I know that handwriting! But surely he could not be involved in anything so evil!’

  What was that?