“There’s a wide group of supporters and some volunteers, but the management team comes down to three: Sandy and George – they’re a couple – and their partner, Bill.”
They both seemed to be ignoring Ben, who marched on the far side of the agent, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
“And are they about?”
“Not this afternoon – they’re attending a farmers’ market meeting in Andover – so you’re stuck with me, sad to say.”
He smiled broadly at her, and she grinned back.
“You were going to show me the stores…” Ben cut in impatiently.
“Of course! This way.” Luke McIvor twinkled at Faith. He didn’t seem in awe of Ben at all. She liked him immediately.
“The inspector’s checking me out as a purveyor of poisons,” he said. “That’ll teach me to buy pesticides.”
Faith was puzzled. “You buy them on ACORN’s behalf?” she asked.
“Not exactly. As I was explaining to the inspector, this is an organic farm, as is the neighbouring farm, but we’ve been having a bit of a pest problem of late. The neighbouring farmer says it’s lax control by ACORN, and has insisted on a treated buffer zone between his land and ACORN’s. As agent for their diocesan landlords, I’m playing mediator.”
“But ACORN aren’t keen?” Faith suggested.
Luke McIvor gave the laugh of a man who bore no grudges. “They stockpile the stuff I give them and tell me they’ll get on to it. They never have yet. I understand why; the other farmer’s got fifty times as much land – they want him to sacrifice some of that for the buffer.”
He stopped before a padlocked shed. He brought out a key and unlocked it. “There.” He pointed to a pile of cans bearing the brand logo of a leading chemical company. “That’s all I’ve purchased from Partridge’s Feed and Supply.”
Ben went over and picked up one can, and then another. He shook it. Liquid sloshed audibly inside.
“This one’s been used,” he said.
“Couple of weeks back, I siphoned off a pint for Mrs Beech, the bishop’s wife,” Luke explained. “She was telling me of an aphid problem with her roses. I told her a bit of that, fifty-fifty diluted with water, sprayed on them of an evening, that’ll put paid to them.”
Now, what was Ben going to make of that? Faith shot a look at him, and saw his eyebrows lift a fraction. Even he couldn’t suspect the bishop’s wife did it.
They filed out of the shed. Ben waited for Faith to go first, half blocking the doorway.
“Who has keys?” Ben’s voice splashed like a stone into their easy conversation.
Luke pulled the door closed and threaded the padlock through the hasp.
“To this place? I’ve got this one,” he patted his pocket, “and then there’s George’s – he carries a big bunch of keys around with him at all times.” He relocked the padlock and gave it a tug. “I think he sleeps with the darned things. And I believe there’s a spare in the office safe.”
Ben looked unconvinced.
“We keep a careful check on these stocks,” Luke said defensively. He seemed to think Ben was impugning his professionalism. “George and Sandy don’t even like to have the stuff on the property. They don’t want it getting about that they use it. All I bought is still there – minus that pint; I can show you the invoices if you’d like.”
Ben grunted.
Luke led them up to a vantage point looking down on the farm buildings, with the river meandering peacefully beyond.
“There are some fine watercress beds down there,” he said, pointing towards the riverbank. “Very popular at the farm shop. Clover-rich, these meadows. Grand for beef cattle.”
Even under grey skies it was a charming place. Faith watched a pair of lambs gambolling as if they were posing for a child’s picture book.
“Where are the cattle?” she asked. “I don’t see them.”
Luke grinned at her. “Oh, Sandy takes too good care of them. The spring’s been so wet, she’s still feeding them inside. I’ll take you round that way. They’re fine beasts. South Devons, a good old native British breed. Grand meat – very sweet.” He gazed about. “I love the land here,” he said.
“I presume, then, that the offer you made for the Shoesmith farm was on your own behalf?”
Faith stared at Ben. She only just managed to keep her mouth shut. Where had that come from? He lifted an eyebrow at her.
Luke McIvor drew himself up. “Well, now, how did you know about that?” he asked Ben.
“His papers.”
“I made Shoesmith an offer to buy his farm, yes.” McIvor set off back down the path to the farm. “He clearly hadn’t been managing for months – years, even. You wouldn’t know it to look at it now, but that land’s good land. The state of it!” His voice betrayed a flash of disgust, then just as swiftly he resumed his easy charm, switching back into tour-guide mode.
“Conservation trails. Open to the public,” he said, gesturing to a wooden signpost at the junction of two paths leading into the woods. “ACORN’s keen on educating the young. In fact we’ve just had grand news; a lottery grant’s come through for the new education centre.”
“Funded by the proceeds of gambling?” Ben said cynically, with a sideways glance at Faith. “I thought the church would have a position on that?”
She ignored him.
“So you made Shoesmith a firm offer?” Ben resumed, slipping back into his track.
“It was no secret.”
Faith examined the land agent’s face. His expression was open and honest as far as she could judge.
“He wasn’t interested.” Luke addressed her as if she were an ally. “I think he still had hopes he would have children of his own one day.”
Faith thought of Jessica. “Really?”
“Gave me the hint he had the lady all picked out. Hoping to be fruitful and multiply. It was quite a change in him.”
“When was this?”
Luke grimaced thoughtfully. “Oh, just around Christmas.” He shrugged. “And now he’s dead. I guess she turned him down.”
They were approaching a long barn with solar panels on the roof. The sound of cattle lowing came through the open door. Faith glimpsed a large reddish bull with a ring in its nose standing in a stall gazing peacefully at nothing.
“That’s Arthur – isn’t he a fine fellow?” said Luke automatically. He checked his watch.
Faith saw a neat pile of manure by the door.
“Do you remember an incident when Alistair Ingram found manure dumped in the vicarage drive?” she asked suddenly.
Luke paused. “Indeed I do,” he replied. “Back in January, I think.”
Faith contemplated the mound. It was bulky stuff. It looked heavy, too – and messy.
“How much was there? Just a bag-full, or…”
“Oh, more than that. As I remember, it took my man more than an hour to shift it away – or at least, that’s what he billed me for.”
That suggested someone with access to farm equipment.
“So whoever dumped it had a trailer or some such?” she pondered out loud. Ben watched her with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Do you think Trevor Shoesmith did it?” she asked Luke. “I understand he had a dispute with the vicar of St James’s over some land issue?”
“The Shoesmith family have been in dispute with St James’s over a covenanted field for generations,” Luke agreed. “Yes. I did think Trevor might have been responsible – although I wouldn’t have said it was his sort of behaviour. But Ingram certainly blamed Shoesmith at first – then he changed his mind. Quite odd.”
“What happened?” asked Ben.
“I honestly don’t know.” Luke shrugged. “The morning he found the stuff, Alistair was straight on the phone to me, all fired up and complaining. Then a couple of hours later, he sends me an email saying he’d rethought his position and decided it would be best to ignore the whole thing. Didn’t want me to say any more about it. I phoned ba
ck, but he was adamant. So I sent a man over; he shovelled it all up and Ingram’s garden got a good feed. His bulbs were looking grand this spring.”
Why should Ingram suddenly change his mind? Christian charity? Did he find something out in those two hours? Faith realized that she was looking at Ben and he at her. She was almost certain they had the same thoughts: Blackmail? Or maybe a warning?
But by whom, and what was at stake?
CHAPTER
14
A BRISK BREEZE MOVED THE FLOWERS in the gardens around Little Worthy green. With luck, the weather might hold for the funeral tomorrow. As she opened the vestry door, Faith braced herself. Why should she have assumed that anyone would be free to turn out at such short notice for a church cleansing at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning? She couldn’t have been thinking straight. Never mind. If just Fred turned up, they would make a go of it together.
She heard voices from the body of the church beyond the vestry. A well-rounded lady in a 1950s-style pinafore apron came into view, mopping the tiles. She turned and smiled.
“Vicar Faith!” The lady with the soft silver hair pinned up in a bun who she had seen with Pat on her first day bobbed up from behind a pew, a bright yellow duster in hand.
“Elsie Lively,” she said in a soft, breathy voice, “…seen me at church…”
“Indeed I do remember you,” Faith responded warmly. “And from before that. You used to have the post office. I remember your jars with those jewel-like boiled sweets; they were so pretty.”
Elsie looked pleased. “My sister, Grace…” She turned to the lady with the mop. Grace was her sister’s plumper copy – apart from the fact that she wore her hair short and permed.
Fred bustled up from the back of the church with three other members of the congregation. Faith recognized two of them from the Sunday before – the black man who had phoned for the ambulance, and his wife. Fred introduced them properly as Timothy and Clarisse Johnston. Timothy was a big, calm presence of a man. His wife came up to his shoulder. She was slim and elegant and wore a vivid African scarf bound round her head, turban-fashion. With them was their friend Sue, a buxom young mother with lively dark eyes and a rich chuckle.
“My fellow churchwarden sends her apologies,” said Fred cheerily. “There’s a Mothers’ Union committee meeting at the cathedral this morning and Pat never misses those.”
“I am so pleased to see you all,” said Faith.
“I think this is a lovely idea,” said Grace. “Very moving,” she murmured, and resumed mopping the tiles. Elsie sighed sympathetically and returned to polishing the pew.
“We’re working back from the chancel,” said Sue, holding out a cloth to Faith. “Duster?”
For the best part of half an hour, the small group polished and dusted in silence, cleaning the pews and the candlesticks, the window ledges, and the choir stalls. Faith gave the lectern a good polish and laid down a freshly laundered altar cloth. Fred went round with a brush, while Elsie and Grace wiped the glass of the noticeboards and restocked the leaflets, before making sure the prayer books were neatly aligned. Shafts of sunlight caught the rising swirls of dust.
“So tell me about Alistair Ingram,” said Faith, as she replaced a candle in its sconce.
“I liked him,” said Sue.
“He was a good man,” agreed Clarisse.
“We all liked him.” Timothy’s voice was a rich baritone. Faith almost fancied she could feel the air vibrate as he spoke. “He was a good pastor; his sermons had substance.”
Sue straightened up, holding an old-fashioned two-pronged hairpin between finger and thumb. “Elsie!” she called out. “I’ve found one of your pins!”
There was a muffled response from Elsie, who was occupied in the vestry.
“I’ll give it to her later,” said Sue, pocketing the pin.
Faith found the labour comforting, even though her knees suffered on the stone flags. Having completed the main body of the church, the seven of them stood in silence in front of the altar where Alistair died – a spot Faith realized they’d all been avoiding. Timothy picked up a bucket of steaming water that was standing by the steps.
“We are here to clean, are we not?” He walked calmly behind the altar. He folded his large frame to kneel down where Alistair Ingram had fallen, and began to wash the tiles. Faith picked up a cloth and joined him. Sue and Clarisse set to work on the altar rail, and Fred tackled the wooden panelling under the windows.
We are going to be all right, Faith thought.
Just after eleven o’clock, she stood up to stretch her back.
“A job well done,” she said. “Thank you, everyone. We should say a prayer.”
They all nodded, and Faith bowed her head before the altar – not the leader of a congregation today, but one of them. The ceremony tomorrow would bring with it the full solemnity of the church and its authority, and at least some of the words she spoke then would follow the practiced patterns of established grieving.
Now she spoke informally of farewells, and remembrance, and having strength as a community to overcome difficult times. When she finished, and the “Amens” echoed around the circle, she looked up to see all six were smiling at her. “Thank you,” Faith repeated.
As the group broke, Sue looked at her watch. “Dave will be opening the Hare and Hounds,” she said. “I could murder an orange and lemonade.”
The suggestion brought mumbles of approval from the others, including Faith.
“I think we all deserve it,” she said. She looked at the light-flooded nave, her nose twitching at the lingering scent of disinfectant. They could never erase what had happened, but they could start afresh. For the first time since setting foot in St James’s, she felt a sense of belonging.
Having cleared away the cloths and emptied the buckets down the drain outside, they said goodbye to Grace and Elsie.
“We’ll be back to help Pat with the flowers after lunch,” said Grace, as she and Elsie put on their coats.
The remaining five trooped across the green to the pub. Faith treated her parishioners to a round of drinks, and they sat at a table outside. Despite the sunshine, the infrequent breeze brought Faith’s arms out in goose pimples.
“Has anyone seen Jessica?” she asked.
All four pairs of eyes turned to her as one.
“I don’t think she would have been able to handle it,” said Sue. An uncomfortable silence fell, until she added, “You knew, of course, about Alistair and Mrs Rose?”
Now everyone seemed to be looking into their drinks. Fred’s meaty fingers ran up and down his glass of bitter shandy.
“I did,” said Faith carefully, “though I had no idea it was common knowledge.”
“Oh, yes,” Clarisse said. “They were discreet, but I think it was obvious they cared for one another.”
Faith smiled. She should have known there couldn’t be secrets in a place like Little Worthy. “And no one objected?”
“Why should they? It was nobody’s business but their own.” Sue was emphatic.
“I thought they were well suited,” offered Timothy. “They both deserved a bit of loving companionship after what they’d been through.”
Faith pricked up her ears. “Jessica had suffered too?”
“A messy divorce.” Sue pulled a sympathetic face. “Poor Jessica. She married a rat. He walked out on her one Christmas Eve.”
“He’d been having an affair with a woman at work for over two years, and she had no idea,” explained Clarisse. “Jessica believes in the sanctity of marriage – she trusted him.”
“I heard he was a deacon in his church,” added Timothy.
“Not in a proper church,” responded Sue dismissively. “One of those Praise and Glory sects. Hypocrite.”
Faith thought Fred looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Gossip obviously wasn’t his thing, poor chap.
“How about Pat?” Faith asked. “Did she know about them – Alistair and Jessica, I mean?”
“I’m not sure about Pat,” said Clarisse slowly. “Did she know?” she asked Sue.
Sue wrinkled her nose. “Probably, but I don’t think she wanted to recognize publicly that she knew – if you know what I mean. Pat does so believe in keeping up appearances.” Sue leaned forward over her glass. “With Pat I think it’s more that she had to put up with her unsatisfactory husband, so why should anyone else get a break!”
Faith almost choked on her drink. “Pat has a husband?” She immediately wished she hadn’t sounded so surprised. Timothy was grinning now.
“Not any more,” said Sue. “Gordon – he was still alive when Jerry and I first moved here. You’d have been here a year or so, wouldn’t you, Clari?” Clarisse nodded.
“He wasn’t sociable like Pat,” said Sue briskly. “A bit of a grump.”
“He was an invalid,” Clarisse reminded her.
Sue shrugged. “Very Scottish – dour.”
“Pat always looked after him beautifully,” stated Clarisse.
“Her calling,” said Sue. Clarisse grimaced good-humouredly. “You’ve got to admit, she was glad to free be of him,” Sue insisted. “She blossomed when he died.”
“What did her husband do for a living?” Faith knew she was being nosey, but she wondered how Pat had ended up with her expensive house on the green.
Sue frowned thoughtfully. “I think he inherited a business from his family and sold it. Didn’t do anything when I knew him. As Clari says, he was an invalid,” she said, making air quotes around the word. Sue clearly didn’t think much of Pat’s dear departed. “He left Pat in a precarious situation after he died. Bad investments. She nearly lost the house.”
“Poor thing!” exclaimed Faith, and hoped she didn’t sound insincere. “When was that?”
The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) Page 14
