Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

  Gullible.

  Olivia looked around her new classroom with pleasure.

  Not bad. Not bad at all.

  It had been a good idea to come into St Mary’s and take the measure of her new kingdom, she decided. With it being a Saturday, the boys were all out doing sports, so everywhere was quiet.

  The room was in a corner of the first quadrangle: fifteen desks were arranged in a horseshoe, so smaller than average class sizes. A world away from Hope Academy.

  Yes, all perfectly satisfactory. Computer, interactive whiteboard, flipchart easel, and gunmetal filing cabinets. There was also a book case, tucked away behind the door, for her own personal collection. Happily, she began arranging her treasured classics and anthologies.

  Suddenly, Olivia heard voices. Raised voices. She froze behind the open door, feeling like a voyeur but reluctant to obtrude herself into what sounded like an intimate conversation.

  She recognized Cynthia’s voice. Who was the other? Ah yes, the delectable architect. From the flutter in her friend’s manner when she had introduced Edward Preston, Olivia guessed she was smitten. She could understand why. Early forties, handsome as a dream, humorous and good with children. Diplomatic too, given the invidious tightrope he had to walk at St Mary’s, caught between the local authority on the one hand and Sir Philips’s myrmidons on the other.

  On this occasion, however, he sounded uncharacteristically harsh, if not angry.

  ‘For God’s sake, Cyn, what the hell did you want to do that for? I thought you understood … got to be careful…’

  The soft reply was inaudible, but it appeared to mollify Preston.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I thought we trusted each other. You could have ruined everything ... don’t need outsiders…’

  Cynthia’s voice was breathy, needy, insinuating. Olivia only caught muffled snatches of speech.

  ‘...thought you’d like it … didn’t know she was with him…’

  There was a fade out, as though the speaker had momentarily moved just out of earshot, then Olivia heard Preston again, his voice fading in and out.

  ‘We need to keep it between ourselves. Remember what the Master said…’

  ‘I’ve been so worried, Ed … that horrible business with Irene...’ Cynthia was shrill now.

  Olivia craned forward as far as she dared. It would be incredibly embarrassing if they caught her eavesdropping like this.

  Preston’s voice was soothing. It sounded as though he was embracing Cynthia, speaking into her hair.

  ‘Nothing to do with us… Some maniac, sweetheart… Most likely, she hooked up with someone she shouldn’t have. Let’s face it, the poor woman wasn’t the full shilling, was she? I mean she was incredibly emotionally vulnerable ... unstable … the Master really put himself on the line persuading the governors to give her a second chance…’

  Their voices died away, and Olivia heard footsteps receding down the corridor.

  She remained stock still for a few minutes before slowly emerging from behind the door.

  What to make of that conversation, she wondered. What had Cynthia done to upset her boyfriend? Was she, Olivia, the outsider?

  And who was the Master? Was it the same person who’d persuaded the governors to give Irene Hummles a second chance?

  She sat down at the nearest desk, her earlier bright optimism giving way to a creeping unease. There had been something clandestine and unwholesome about Preston and Cynthia. As though whatever they were negotiating was far darker than a lovers’ tiff.

  ‘Miss Mullen! Miss Mullen!’

  Nat and Julian peered round the door, fresh from their exploits at rugby.

  ‘My team won!’ crowed Nat, hopping from one foot to another in his excitement. ‘Against the under fourteens! And I scored the winning try cos Julian fumbled a catch!’

  Julian grinned wryly at Olivia. ‘He’s never going to let me live this down, Miss Mullen.’

  Despite the weight on her mind, Olivia could not help but be amused by Nat’s braggadocio, his narrow chest puffed up with pride at having triumphed over the big boys. Julian’s eyes were fond as he watched his friend strut. Olivia suspected he might deliberately have muffed it to give Nat his moment in the sun.

  ‘P’raps you can come and watch us tomorrow,’ Nat said to Olivia with studied casualness.

  ‘I’d like that, Nat, though I don’t know much about rugby.’

  Nat was giving the new member of staff no wriggle-room. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll teach you,’ he said before adding kindly, ‘you look like a quick learner.’

  ‘What have you been up to since I last saw you?’ Olivia adroitly turned the subject before she could be commandeered for other touch-line assignments.

  ‘We had an adventure last night,’ said Nat with an air of importance.

  In the silence that followed, the world seemed entirely still. Julian, who had turned very pale, stiffened like a soldier preparing for battle.

  Nat glanced uncertainly from his friend to Olivia and back again.

  Olivia got up and closed her classroom door. ‘You can trust me not to blab to the other teachers, cross my heart and hope to die,’ she said.

  Perching on a desk, Nat launched into a garbled story about how they had got up in the middle of the night to look for the Night Watchman. Olivia’s heart sank like a stone when she heard this, but she forced herself to laugh. ‘And did you track him down to his lair?’

  Nat said with some hauteur, ‘Well not him ’xactly. But we saw something weird down at the little cemetery by the—’

  ‘We shouldn’t have been there, Miss Mullen,’ Julian cut in, correctly intuiting Olivia’s concern, ‘but we were curious.’

  Nat was annoyed with Julian for stealing his thunder. ‘Don’t interrupt, Julian! Anyway, it was Mr Woodcourt. He was doing a funeral, he said.’

  Olivia leaned forward. ‘Oh, you spoke to him?’

  ‘Well, not right then cos he was busy. But we asked about it today.’

  Olivia waited. Don’t rush him, she told herself.

  Nat beamed. ‘He had to take care of some ancient remains for Mr Preston.’

  Observing Olivia’s look of mystification, Julian explained. ‘The dig turned up some human fossils from the Middle Ages, Miss Mullen. Mr Woodcourt was giving them Christian burial – you know, saying prayers and stuff—’

  ‘—an’ sprinkling holy water.’ Nat was not to be outdone.

  ‘He should really have given the fossils to the archaeology people,’ Julian continued, ‘but Mr Preston agreed to let him have a prayer service – like a blessing…’

  It appeared to cross Nat’s mind that the canon’s actions might be negatively construed because he piped up defensively, ‘It wasn’t stealing, Miss Mullen. The bones didn’t belong to anyone and Mr Woodcourt didn’t think it was respectful to put them in a glass case in a museum so people could come and gawp at them. He said that way their souls wouldn’t rest in peace.’

  Olivia nodded solemnly.

  ‘They’d wander the earth for ever and ever, jus’ like vampires,’ Nat added with evident relish.

  Julian’s voice was emotionless. ‘Mr Woodcourt wouldn’t be able to do that for all the bones down there, but he said the service was sort of symbolic…’

  ‘Like an exorcism!’ exclaimed Nat.

  Julian rounded on the younger boy. ‘He did not say exorcism, Nat!’

  ‘But that’s what he meant!’ Nat was determined to have the last word.

  ‘Wow, lads!’ Olivia decided it was time to intervene. ‘An adventure indeed!’

  ‘You won’t say anything to the other teachers will you, Miss Mullen?’ Nat looked worried.

  ‘Mr Woodcourt wanted to keep this a secret. He and Mr Preston might get into trouble if anyone finds out.’

  ‘None of the teachers will hear about it from me,’ she replied and was relieved to see the narrow shoulders relax. ‘Now, you must be famished after all that exercise, and I’m feeling a bit peckish
myself.’

  It was an effective distraction. ‘Cook’s sure to get out the biscuits if you’re with us, Miss Mullen,’ whooped Nat joyously. ‘C’mon!’

  * * *

  A while later, having left Nat and Julian conducting a vigorous post mortem of the rugby over orange juice and snacks, Olivia walked slowly back to her classroom for a last check.

  She was just shutting the door when from behind her came the sound of a discreet cough.

  Whirling around, she found herself face to face with the principal.

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Miss Mullen. Can I walk you to the front door?’

  ‘Thank you, Dr O’Keefe.’ Olivia paused, somewhat unnerved by his cat-like stealth and unsure how to broach the subject which now held a burning interest for her.

  ‘You’re looking what Nat would call discombobulated, Miss Mullen,’ the principal observed. ‘It was the same for me at first. Mercifully, the canon was there to see me through.’

  Here was an opening.

  ‘Mr Woodcourt must be a tremendous asset to St Mary’s,’ she said carefully. ‘How long has he been here? Did he work in parishes first?’

  Easy, don’t want to sound nosey.

  But the principal – clearly something of a fan – saw nothing amiss.

  ‘He’s a marvellous man,’ he said warmly. ‘Seventy-one, but roars round like a teenager with the boys … apparently quite a demon on the cricket pitch.’

  ‘Aren’t Anglican clergy normally retired by his age?’ Olivia blushed. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry…’

  ‘No need to apologize,’ answered O’Keefe smoothly. ‘No, Dick’s good for a few more years. Career-wise, he’s criss-crossed the country. Studied at Ridley Hall. Then started out as a curate in Gracechurch. Later on, let me see, I think he was vicar of St James’s, Cedar Hill and rector at Holy Trinity in Bude … or was it the other way around? Anyway, I know he did sterling service for the Diocesan Youth Service in various places – plus he co-ordinated the Crusader Gap Year Scheme – before being poached by the cathedral here and eventually ending up as Residentiary Canon. Does lots of outreach with schools and Bromgrove Education Team, as well as being part of the furniture for the last twenty years. Genuinely humble. He wouldn’t allow a full profile on the St Mary’s website, so, ironically, he has the shortest entry of any of the staff. Low Church, of course, so the Dean’s Anglo-Catholicism must sometimes raise his hackles, but he’s the soul of forbearance.’

  Olivia murmured some conventional words of admiration. The shadowy doubts that had been floating just below the surface of her mind were dispelled by O’Keefe’s enthusiastic recital. Woodcourt might have deviated from orthodox practice, but his service for the medieval dead, seen in a certain light, was arguably a poignant tribute to the indestructibility of the human spirit. She felt ashamed of her suspicions, which she now realized had been fanned by the partly overheard exchange between Cynthia and Preston.

  ‘You’re looking tired, Miss Mullen.’ The principal sounded concerned. ‘Be off home with you now,’ he added as they reached the front entrance, ‘and forget all about St Mary’s.’

  Olivia felt a change in air pressure – as though someone somewhere had opened a door or window and was listening intently. But then the impression vanished and she was bidding Dr O’Keefe goodbye.

  Forget about St Mary’s.

  The words hung in the stillness as the front door shut behind her.

  11

  On The Scent

  ‘I felt a bit of a fool, to be honest, Gil.’ Olivia grimaced as she concluded the account of her morning’s activities. ‘I was all ready to pin everything on Canon Woodcourt when, from what Dr O’Keefe says, the man’s next door but one to a saint!’

  A wave of compunction hit her as she contemplated Markham’s heavy eyes and white, tired face. ‘Oh Gil, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You wanted a night off and here I am blethering on about my half-baked theories!’

  Markham smiled across the table in their secluded corner of the tiny pizzeria. However busy it was, Giuseppe somehow always managed to conjure up a private nook for favoured customers. The swarthy, fierce-looking little major-domo had a soft spot for Markham ever since the latter rescued his underage daughter Maria from the clutches of James Foley, kingpin of the Hoxton estate and a thoroughly bad lot. The Italian had also capitulated to Olivia’s charms hook, line and sinker. Bellissima! was his invariable sigh of satisfaction whenever he saw her with Markham.

  At Olivia’s reference to Woodcourt, Markham was suddenly alert. It wouldn’t do to let her become fixated on the canon.

  ‘I’m not ruling anything out, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I agree, the canon sounds an unlikely suspect at this stage. But there is something seriously out of joint at St Mary’s… Oh, and by the by, that silver-tongued principal of yours was round at the station earlier to tell me about some school society which raised eyebrows.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Blavatskya.’ Olivia laughed. ‘All perfectly harmless. Papers on secret societies and occult symbolism, with the odd wonder-worker thrown in for good measure. The last one was all about some character called the Count de St Germain, if you please – Robin Hood crossed with the Scarlet Pimpernel! The kids love seeing Sir Philip’s knick-knacks and trinkets—’

  ‘The kids? What kids?’

  Olivia was startled by the sharpness of Markham’s tone.

  ‘Well, boys from the choir school. Nat and Julian told me all about it. The kids go to look at Sir Philip’s treasures, and he spins exotic tales for them – masters of ancient wisdom fighting for the poor and oppressed. Boys’ Own stuff. Cynthia says they really lap it up. There’s no harm in it surely.’

  Markham pulled a comical face. It was an attempt to reassure Olivia, but secretly he felt a growing disquiet. With assumed nonchalance, he forced a clumsy laugh.

  ‘I hadn’t figured Sir Philip for Jules Verne! Well, it’s certainly a little unconventional, so I can understand why O’Keefe covered his back by letting me know.’

  At that moment, they were interrupted by Giuseppe bearing two plates of cassata ‘on the house’. His face lit up as Olivia clapped her hands together like a child and exclaimed in delight over the layers of cake, ice cream and fruit.

  ‘That’s a work of art, Giuseppe. Almost too beautiful to eat … though I’m going to force myself!’

  In that instant, Markham decided not to tell Olivia about the three Bromgrove teenagers whose disappearance twenty years earlier he felt increasingly sure was somehow linked to St Mary’s. Far safer for her if he kept those details to himself for the time being.

  Looking at his girlfriend tucking happily into her pudding, her delicate features irradiated by the pool of candlelight, Markham’s mind roved uneasily over what Olivia had told him about Woodcourt’s peripatetic career. Mike Bamber’s question echoed relentlessly in his head like a hammer on an anvil. What if there’ve been other disappearances over the last twenty years – say from outside the area – but no-one’s joined the dots? The notion that an elderly and well-respected clergyman like the canon could be implicated in a ready-made paedophile ring – running undetected for years – was hard to swallow, particularly when he recalled Woodcourt’s gentle affability and unaffected kindness. And yet …where better for a serial abuser to conceal himself than within the stronghold of the Church of England, smack bang in the heart of the establishment? Due to the epidemic of historical sex abuse cases, men of the cloth could no longer count on slipping under the radar. But twenty years ago, it would have been a very different story.

  The syrupy juices of his cassata suddenly filled Markham with an overpowering nausea. In his mind’s eye, he was watching Woodcourt dig down into the spongy clay of the little cemetery. Sickened, he abruptly pushed his plate away.

  ‘Gil?’ Olivia’s voice was full of tender concern. ‘Are you OK?’

  Markham somehow summoned up a smile, though he felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He needed to keep his mo
unting suspicions of Woodcourt to himself at all costs. Any alteration in Olivia’s demeanour towards the canon could put her at risk.

  And there was no proof. It was all ‘rumour, painted full of tongues’. What if his suspicions of Woodcourt were nothing but an appalling, unspoken slander?

  ‘It’s been a long day, my love,’ he conceded, reaching across the table for her hand, ‘and the pressure to crack this one is well and truly on. I feel—’

  ‘—like Saint Sebastian shot with arrows!’

  Olivia’s anxious eyes belied her merry tone.

  Markham held her gaze. ‘You just concentrate on getting ready for next week. It’s been a while since you were up to your neck in lesson plans and curriculum targets, remember. Leave the detecting to CID!’

  ‘You don’t think Cynthia and Edward Preston have got themselves into some sort of trouble do you, Gil?’ Markham noticed that Olivia was nervously plucking at Giuseppe’s spotless napery, a sure sign that the conversation she had overheard was preying on her mind.

  ‘It was probably just personal stuff. Can’t be easy trying to have a relationship in a goldfish bowl like St Mary’s,’ he said firmly, ‘particularly with the likes of Sir Philip and that beady-eyed principal taking it all in. Preston probably has a tough time of it as piggy-in-the-middle between the two of them.’

  ‘I thought you liked Dr O’Keefe.’ Olivia was surprised.

  ‘I’m reserving judgement. That fellow’s almost too good to be true.’ Markham flashed Olivia one of his rare, impish grins. ‘Or maybe I’m just jealous that you’ve succumbed to his well-oiled charm.’

  Olivia giggled. ‘It is a bit practised, I suppose.’ Markham was pleased to note that the restless fingers were stilled and the cloud had lifted from her face.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said brightly. ‘Cyn and her beau were obviously completely in the dark about poor Irene Hummles. From the sound of it, the canon tried to save Irene’s job … had to have been him cos I can’t imagine Alex Sharpe playing the Good Samaritan…’