Markham and Noakes exchanged a long wordless look.
‘Gabriel became moody and withdrawn,’ Sinnott continued. ‘Thirteen’s a difficult age, of course, hormones running riot and all the rest of it. But there was something not right. Then when I picked him up one evening from a JHC meeting, I noticed Woodcourt watching him when he didn’t realize I was looking. Something about the expression on his face gave me the creeps. Like a fox in a chicken coop. And then it was gone so quickly that I could almost believe I’d imagined it. But I felt an overwhelming urge to get Gabriel away from the man…’
Some colour washed back into Sinnott’s cheeks.
‘I was a coward, Inspector. I never voiced my suspicions. Just found something else for Gabriel to do on JHC nights. Gradually prised him away from Woodcourt and decided to let sleeping dogs lie. I didn’t want to upset my wife by making a fuss – especially since Gabe hadn’t mentioned anything untoward. Also, I didn’t want to screw my career by offending Woodcourt. He had a fair amount of clout in those days.’ He grimaced. ‘And I could have got it wrong. Some parishes can be a right nest of vipers – you wouldn’t believe the bigotry and petty-minded hypocrisy – so I felt I just had to give Woodcourt the benefit of the doubt, whatever my own personal misgivings about the man.’
Markham felt a headache coming. There was something hovering just at the outer reaches of his peripheral vision. Whatever the phantom was, he could not pin it down.
With an effort, the DI recalled himself to the present.
‘Who was pulling strings to protect Woodcourt, then?’ Noakes returned to the attack. ‘C’mon Steve, we need names. Who else was involved in this freaky theosophical mumbo jumbo? College types, hippie priests, those whatchamacallits … gurus – the wacky baccy crowd – or what?’
‘Heavens no, it was all quite scholarly really. Just a bit far-out for the more conservative congregations, which led to misunderstanding. I mean, Woodcourt had some perfectly respectable backers…’ Sinnott’s eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Let me see. There was Sir Philip Soames for one and Colonel McIn –’
‘Say that again!’
Noakes sprang to his feet, his eyes locking onto Markham’s.
Startled, Sinnott looked from one to the other.
‘Sir Philip Soames,’ he repeated falteringly. ‘He’s quite well known in Bromgrove, isn’t he? Local philanthropist and all that… Look here, Inspector, are you all right?’
Markham had turned very pale, but brushed aside the enquiry in a hoarse voice. ‘I’m fine, Mr Sinnott. Please go on.’
‘I’m not sure I can add much more,’ Sinnott replied reminiscently. ‘Woodcourt and Soames both read Greats at Balliol. Then Woodcourt went on to Besant Theological College while Soames dabbled in antiquities – he’s an amateur archaeologist and orientalist… Of course, the family fortune helped. But he’s been a generous patron of the church – sponsored restoration work at the cathedral and St Mary’s and helped any number of struggling clergymen … stuck to Woodcourt through thick and thin, otherwise he’d have been out on his ear … swung him the canonry too, I shouldn’t wonder. Got some sort of terminal illness now, but still turns out for diocesan youth pilgrimages. Amazing willpower. They don’t make them like that anymore.’
Sinnott paused, alarmed by Markham’s lowering taciturnity. He turned anxiously to Noakes who looked equally grim.
‘Surely you can’t imagine…’ he stammered. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Sir Philip… My god.’
Markham’s face was like a carved mask. Ignoring Sinnott, he addressed Noakes.
‘So that’s the connection.’
Noakes nodded slowly.
The DI gave an almost imperceptible jerk of the head towards the door. It was the signal for his subordinate to conclude the interview. Within a matter of minutes, the Reverend Sinnott was on his way.
‘Can’t tell you more at this stage, mate,’ Noakes said as they shook hands on the station steps.
‘I understand. Good luck, Noakesy.’
The interview had stirred up unwelcome memories for Sinnott who stared unseeing at the downy snowflakes dancing past in chilly drifts, softening Bromgrove’s stark architecture with their crystalline monogram.
Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a gust of wind whipped up bearing the sound of gleeful childish shrieks.
Sinnott grasped Noakes’s arm. ‘Those poor kids…’
The other didn’t trust himself to speak, but he wrung his friend’s hand once more. As much as to say, we’ll nail the bastards!
Back at the threshold of CID, Noakes pulled up short at the sound of stentorian bellowing.
Chuffing hell. DCI Sidney! That’s all we bloody need!
He put one ear to the door. Best not to burst in while the DCI was giving it to the guvnor with both barrels.
‘The very idea is simply preposterous, Markham!’
Slimy Sid’s fury was off the Richter Scale.
‘Do you have the slightest idea of the implications for the Local Authority Policing Partnerships? Investigating a distinguished clergyman based on malicious gossip and innuendo – it’s clutching at bloody straws and I won’t have it, Inspector. You’ll make us a laughing stock.’
Markham’s response was inaudible but it clearly didn’t mollify the DCI.
‘Total supposition!’ Sidney was withering. ‘You’ve got nothing except coincidence and…’ There was the sound of outraged spluttering. ‘…that Father Brown misfit you’ve just smuggled into the station.’
A wave of heat travelled up the back of Noakes’s neck. Father Brown! Still, he stayed where he was. Sidney was bound to run out of steam sooner or later.
But it sounded as though the DCI was merely getting his second wind.
‘I’ve also received a serious complaint from Sir Philip Soames…’
The decibel level dropped somewhat, but snatches of indignant accusation floated into the corridor.
‘…gratuitous harassment … needless distress ... besmirching reputations … years of service to the community … appalling ingratitude to a benefactor…’
On and on it went, with allegations that Markham was looking for a scapegoat to cover his own deficiencies as Senior Investigating Officer.
From the way Sidney was wheeling out the rack, Noakes figured that the cathedral clique had got the wind up. But how far did the conspiracy go, he wondered. Who could they trust at St Mary’s?
‘You will drop this ridiculous vendetta, Markham. That’s an order.’ Sidney was inexorable. ‘You can forget Mike Bamber and his half-baked theories.’ A further twist of the thumbscrews. ‘The man’s a crank and leading you up a blind alley with his obsession about the Warr case. Obviously, there’s a maniac out there with some sort of deranged religious fixation – possibly something to do with the shrine and its relics. Make local mental hospitals your focus. And leave Sir Philip Soames alone.’
Silence.
Clearly the guvnor was resorting to his usual strategy for dealing with the DCI. Polite compliance masking a determination to go his own way regardless.
Tetchy harrumphing heralded Sidney’s imminent exit from CID. Thinking quickly, Noakes reversed down the corridor and slid into the stationery cupboard, his usual hiding place on such occasions.
A soft whoosh of the lift indicated the DCI’s departure to the upper regions.
‘You can come out now, Noakes.’ Markham’s voice was sardonic. ‘Thanks for your support back there.’
‘Figured you had it covered, boss.’
Noakes looked anxiously at Markham.
The inspector’s voice was devoid of emotion but his eyes blazed with determination.
‘Right, Noakes,’ he said, ‘this is what we’re going to do.’
14
No Comfortable Star
Their unmarked police car sped through streets blanketed with snow. The winter night seemed particularly tense, as though holding its breath in anticipation of some frightful revelation.
> ‘I’ve checked with St Mary’s.’ Noakes’s voice was level, with an undercurrent of suppressed vehemence. ‘Apparently Woodcourt’s at a meeting in the cathedral.’ He frowned down at his notebook. ‘Dr O’Keefe said something about him having to see the suffragan or summat like that.’
Markham’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
‘That’s the assistant bishop, Noakes. Sounds as though the church authorities are gearing up for a spot of damage limitation.’ He added in a bitter aside, almost as though speaking to himself, ‘God, it’s enough to make you puke.’
Realizing Noakes was scrutinizing him with unusual intensity, Markham shook his head as though to slough off his sleepy befuddlement.
‘Sir Philip’s a sick man. As things stand, we’ve got nothing on him. But this connection with Woodcourt, which he took good care not to disclose to us, puts him in the frame for those cold cases in Bromgrove—’
‘Jonny Warr, David Belcher and Adam Waring,’ Noakes interrupted eagerly.
‘Yes. And perhaps for other unsolveds as well.’
For all his hirsute dishevelment, Noakes was alert as any bloodhound. ‘So, we’re going to have a crack at him then, Guv?’
‘I’ve logged us as attending St Mary’s,’ answered Markham, ‘but in fact,’ he smiled grimly, ‘we’ll be taking the scenic route via Thurston Lodge.’
‘What about Sli – I mean, DCI Sidney?’
‘What about him? He’s a good man, but he’ll cosy up to the establishment, because he sees himself as one of them. If there’s a meeting at the cathedral, I shouldn’t wonder if Sidney turns up there to give moral support, as it were. So, if he wants to know what I’m up to, let’s say I’m concerned for Sir Philip’s wellbeing. Alternatively, I have reason to believe that he could be in danger. Take your pick.’
It was clear from the quick rising light and fire on Markham’s face that he had determined to defy his senior officer and to hell with the consequences. Noakes felt an answering glow. Good on you, boss!
As they drew up in front of Thurston Lodge, Markham thought back to his visit with Olivia on that other cold still day, when Nature had denuded the dilapidated house down to the bare bones so that it seemed to have kicked off its clothes, defying the casual visitor to find it wanting. He recalled the curious gargoyles which had seemed to sprout from the building’s various corbels; little diamond-shaped faces, with the glazed blankness of death masks. Now, however, the place had quite a changed aspect, gilded as it was by a sort of faery fretwork. Stark angles and crumbling downspouts were softened and transformed by a gently gleaming coat of powdery snow, while the garden looked almost too delicate to be sullied by their rough feet.
For all the sugar-spun airiness and damply clinging flakes, which caressed his hot aching skin with their welcome chill, Markham found the place no less sinister than before. What secrets lay beyond the shroud-white physiognomy of this house? Whose voices were muffled in its depths?
‘Guv. You OK?’
Noakes’s voice recalled Markham to himself.
‘Fine,’ he replied curtly. ‘You lead the way, Noakes. I imagine the manservant will be screening visitors. We’ll just have to play it by ear.’
Noakes’s hand was raised to the brass bell pull when, to their surprise, the oak door was wrenched open.
Sir Philip’s factotum stood before them frantic and wild-eyed, his features glistening with sweat. The mysterious inscrutability and impenetrable calm that had struck Markham on his first visit were gone.
Noakes and Markham stared at the apparition as though trapped in some infernal hall of mirrors. For a moment, no-one spoke.
Then the vision broke into a flow of hysterical supplication.
‘Help me, please! He was fine when I left him, but now he’s gone!’
‘Easy, mate, easy.’ Noakes laid a kindly hand on the flailing arm. ‘What’s up? Is it Sir Philip?’
Clutching Markham as though fearful of losing him from sight, the manservant drew the two policemen through to the back of the house, his limp even more noticeable than on the DI’s first visit. Nothing had changed. They went along musty winding corridors papered in lurid sea-green, passing the same sombre paintings and tall cabinets towering like catafalques.
Finally, they reached a cubby-hole behind the kitchen which was evidently some personal sanctum. A faded picture of a dumpy little woman in a headscarf adorned one wall. The dresser beneath it held a cheap tea-light holder with a solitary burning candle. Markham recalled a similar stencilled image in the Friends of St Mary’s magazines. Presumably this was Madame Blavatskya, the enigmatic foundress of the theosophy movement. Was this man Sir Philip’s disciple? His partner in corruption? Or simply a devoted family retainer?
‘For God’s sake, do something! Anything could have happened!’ their guide pleaded brokenly, a deformed shadow against the wall repeating and parodying his overwrought gesticulation.
‘Gone where?’ enquired Noakes patiently. ‘What was he doing when you last saw him?’
‘Reading in his library. He’d had a restless night. I wanted to stay with him, but he told me to go and rest, otherwise the doctor would end up with two patients, not just one.’
The asperity behind those words was authentic Sir Philip, concluded Markham.
‘How long ago was this?’ asked Noakes.
‘Three, four hours... I only found out he was missing when I looked in the library just now. I was going to search the house when you arrived.’
‘Check upstairs, Noakes,’ instructed Markham. He turned a steady gaze on the manservant. ‘You have a cellar here, yes?’
The other’s face contracted with anxiety and hope. His breaths came as thick as sobs. Snatching up a torch from a rusty tool box, he cried, ‘This way!’
As he followed, impressions crowded in upon Markham like phantasmagoria. Slippery walls. Ceilings stained by streaks of smoke and dust that stretched out like crooked fingers. Funguses resembling monstrous misshapen caricatures.
And then, finally, they were underground.
Markham did not need the domestic’s shrill exclamation of horror to tell him that they had found Sir Philip Soames. There he sat, still clad in his dressing gown, propped up against the wall at right angles to the spiral stone stairs. Most ghastly of all, his glittering eyes were wide open, the sensual lips drawn up over his teeth in a grimace, and the brow contorted in an expression of agonized defiance. A livid weal round his neck betrayed the mark of a garrotte.
Feet thundered down the stairs. As Sir Philip’s man started towards the body, with eyes dilated, Noakes reached out and grabbed him.
‘No, fella,’ he said kindly but firmly. ‘You can’t do anything for him now. Leave it to us.’
The response was a series of high-pitched inward screams alternating with the deep moans. The servant’s face now ran with saliva and tears, as well as sweat. The spectacle filled Markham with a profound repugnance. Observing Noakes’s gentleness, he wondered at his subordinate’s compassion and felt ashamed of his own intolerance. In a matter of moments, the object of his disgust had been manoeuvred out of the cellar, his departing imprecation echoing round the desolate space: ‘Find the devil who did this! Find him!’
Markham turned back to the corpse. It was a sight to chill any beholder. Death had stared Sir Philip in the face, and the arrogance of his dynasty, bred in the bone, had dropped away in an instant of pure terror. It was the look of a soul on the brink of everlasting torment.
But who had hurried him on his way and why?
Markham’s eyes moved from the ghastly face, with its frenzied stare and clenched teeth, to Sir Philip’s hands. His gaze rested on the delicate fingers for some time as he wondered what they might have done. Revolted, he struggled against an impulse to vomit. What had happened in this strange shell of a house? Had children been abused within its walls? Had the school society Blavatskya been a cover for torture and worse? Where did Sir Philip fit in?
Markham stood
lost in thought for some time. Then he shivered. It felt as though the damp of the cellar was rising up from the earth like a disease. Taking one last look at the body, limp as a marionette but with traces of its former power, he mounted the stairs to rejoin Noakes.
Mercifully, there was no sign of the manservant.
‘What a bloody mess.’ Markham looked helplessly at his subordinate.
‘Well, you were right about one thing, boss,’ Noakes said phlegmatically. ‘Sir Philip was in danger.’
‘But why, Noakes, why?’ The DI sounded at his wits’ end.
‘P’raps he’d found something out… Yeah, an’ then he was killed so he couldn’t spill.’
Noakes was warming to his theme.
‘In which case, he could be innocent?’ Markham thought back to the body in the cellar. Somehow, all his instincts screamed otherwise.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ the DS said sententiously.
‘What’s that?’
‘That poor bastard of a servant had nothing to do with it. He was practically gibbering out there. Thought he would collapse on us.’ Noakes frowned at the memory then roused himself to ask, ‘What next, boss?’
Markham ran his hands through his hair in a characteristic gesture of frustration. Noakes was struck by the look of naked despair on the DI’s face. Something about this case was really getting to the boss. As if the investigation was somehow personal.
Markham jerked his head towards the front door. ‘Let’s get back to the cathedral.’ He couldn’t define the sudden uneasiness that had seized him. ‘I want Woodcourt where I can see him.’
‘He’s going nowhere for a while yet, boss. Won’t he still be tucked up in that meeting with the suffragan bloke?’
‘Woodcourt’s the answer to the riddle, Noakes. If he’s covered his tracks all these years, then we’re dealing with something uniquely evil here.’
The SOCOs had arrived. Time to go.
As they made their way outside towards the car, Markham heard a sound in his inner ear. Like a soft growl or chuckle. As though some animal slouched at his heels. He whirled around and looked back at the house, now a sepulchre.
Crime in the Choir Page 17
