THE ADVENT OF MURDER
THE ADVENT OF MURDER
A FAITH MORGAN MYSTERY
MARTHA OCKLEY
WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO REBECCA JENKINS
Text copyright © 2013 Working Partners Ltd.
This edition copyright © 2013 Lion Hudson
The right of Martha Ockley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson plc
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road,
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 178264 006 6
e-ISBN 978 178264 007 3
First edition 2013
Acknowledgments
Scripture quotations taken from International Standard Version, 2012
© 2012 The ISV Foundation.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover illustration by Carrie May
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
MARTHA OCKLEY’S
FAITH MORGAN MYSTERIES:
THE RELUCTANT DETECTIVE
THE ADVENT OF MURDER
CHAPTER
1
Faith wiped at the vomit stain on her skirt with a tissue, trying to keep her eyes on the road. It would need to be drycleaned – just one more job to do.
Despite the unfortunate incident with a three-year-old boy called Nathan, the visit to the nursery attached to Green Lane Primary had gone exactly to time. Monday task, no. 6: Check! And it was still only halfway through the morning.
Faith took a deep breath. Just two weeks to go before Christmas Day. Thanks to an operation of military precision (or so she told herself) involving well-maintained databases, computer labels and a printed circular, she finished feeding the Christmas cards into the postbox on the Green at 6:32 a.m. The Christmas pageant script was in the hands of Clarisse and Sue, the stalwarts in charge of rehearsals and marshalling the angels and shepherds, and she – Faith Morgan, vicar of St James’s, Little Worthy (it still gave her a thrill to think of her official designation) – was on her way to see Oliver Markham, aka her Joseph. She sang along to the haunting melody of her favourite carol on the Advent CD:
Tomorrow shall be my dancing day,
I would my true love did so chance
For to see the legend of my play,
To call my true love to my dance.
Oliver Markham and his wife were newcomers to St James’s. As a relative newcomer herself, having taken up the “cure of souls” – as they used to say – of St James’s parish just a few months previously, Faith found it particularly pleasing to be making someone else welcome to where she now belonged: her parish, her home.
The Markhams had arrived with their two daughters last summer, moving into a property down by the River Itchen. Julie Markham worked away quite a bit – as a lawyer or something high-powered in London. Oliver, a master carpenter, made bespoke furniture. Their teenage girls had taken to rural life immediately, but Faith sensed some tension between the couple. Perhaps their escape to the country might have seemed a little rushed – in one partner’s eyes at least?
To be honest, Markham’s ready agreement to play Joseph in the Christmas pageant surprised Faith, because she usually had a struggle to get the fathers involved in any sort of performance. She smiled as she pictured Oliver Markham, so exactly right for the part. Tall and steady-looking, good with animals too…
Task no. 1 flashed in red neon from the back of her mind. Oh dear! The blessed donkey!
Faith refocused on her driving. Council funds never stretched to gritting side roads, and last night’s plummeting temperatures had frozen surface water from a weekend’s heavy rainfall into a skin of ice. Sparkling frost this morning transformed the countryside into a magical scene, and the roads into a death-trap. Faith tasted spicy mincemeat and something else in the back of her throat. The nursery children had made their own mince pies and she hadn’t had the heart to refuse their festive treats, offered with such pride and jauntily trimmed with a holly sprig; besides, she’d missed breakfast. Baked with more enthusiasm than skill, the half-cooked pastry now lay like lead in her stomach. Evidently little Nathan had sampled one too many.
The car slid around a mild bend. She really didn’t like driving on ice. Not too much brake or accelerator. Find an optimum speed and try to ride the road, not confront it. That’s what Dad used to say. He had taught her to drive in just such a winter as this.
For an instant, missing him engulfed her, as raw and intense as the day she lost him. The sensation passed quickly. A full-grown, self-sufficient woman now, Faith had learned to find refuge from sadness in professional purpose and pressing responsibilities…
One of which was to book the donkey for her pageant. Pat Montesque would never forgive her if Little Worthy’s Joseph and Mary didn’t parade with a real-life donkey this year. She hadn’t meant to leave things so late. The task had sunk out of sight in the Advent rush. She’d managed to do some ringing round over the weekend, only to find the better-known local donkeys were all booked. She knew Pat suspected. The churchwarden had been mentioning with increasing frequency how Faith’s predecessor-but-one, Pat’s favourite vicar of all time (who had only left Little Worthy because he’d been called to higher office as an archdeacon in Wales) always made the Christmas pageant the highlight of the year. It was the moment when every inhabitant of Little Worthy, churchgoer or not, could watch Joseph and Mary make their way down the aisle of their ancient Saxon church and feel Christmas truly beginning.
“Not” – and here Pat would look at Faith severely down her small nose, the rolling of her Rs betraying her Scottish origins and the depth of her emotion – “not an opporrrtunity to be squanderrrred lightly.”
The car swung sideways on a patch of black ice. Faith’s stomach lurched sickeningly in response. Thank goodness there was nothing coming the other way. A close call. She slowed her speed and the tyres settled to the road again. Not far now. The Markham farm was just around that bend. Her fingers felt stiff from gripping the steering wheel so hard, so Faith wiggled her shoulders, willing herself to relax.
Around the next bend she saw a red post van canted into the ditch. It must have slid on the ice. No obvious broken glass. She hoped the driver was all right. It didn’t look too bad – but why all the police cars?
Vehicles jammed the space in front of Markham’s farm. A couple of uniformed constables stood unrolling blue-and-white police tape. At the back of a van, scene-of-crime officers were pulling on white body suits. A green Vauxhall Astra had pulled off the road at an angle. A pair of plain clothes officers stood by it, both tall and very familiar – one with gingery hair and an open face, Sergeant Peter Gray; the other dark and saturnine.
<
br /> She hadn’t seen Ben for eight weeks or more. They’d last met in the aftermath of the terrible tragedy that had engulfed Bishop Anthony’s family. The scandal had disjointed everything and the bishop and his wife retired soon after, leaving the diocese still waiting for his successor’s appointment.
As Faith parked to one side of the lane, Detective Inspector Ben Shorter acknowledged her presence with a glance that lingered for barely a second. She pressed the switch and the sheet of glass between them slid down into the window casing, letting in the freezing air.
Faith glimpsed the figure in the back seat of the green car behind him. A man in the uniform of the Royal Mail; he looked pale and distressed.
“What’s happened?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder at the red van in the ditch. Then she caught sight of the forensic tent being carried across the field stretching down toward the river.
“What brings you here?” Ben asked.
“Are the family all right?” she said.
Ben’s expression gave nothing away. “I asked you a question first,” he said.
Faith could have told him that wasn’t quite the case, but nothing would be gained from arguing. “I’m on church business to visit Oliver Markham,” she said. “He’s a parishioner.”
“Of course he is!” Ben rolled his eyes. “Well, Mr Markham is not in a position to receive visitors at this time.”
Faith’s hand went to her mouth in an involuntary action she’d seen many times herself. “He’s not dead?”
Ben’s expression softened. “The family are all safe,” he said, “but…” He turned to one of his juniors, hovering nearby.
“What?” he asked.
“The pathologist is just wondering…”
“I am on my way.” The junior was dismissed. Ben walked over to the back of the van and began pulling on a pair of white overalls.
Sergeant Peter Gray smiled at Faith apologetically. He and his wife, Sandra, had become friends since Faith met them over that first case. They were regulars now at St James’s with their two boys.
“We’ve found a boy’s body by the river on Markham’s land.”
“A boy?”
“Well, a teenager.”
“Doesn’t anybody know who he is?”
“Not yet. We only got the call forty minutes ago.”
“Sergeant! When you’re ready.” Ben walked back over to them, fastening the tabs on his forensic suit.
“Sorry, boss,” Peter responded cheerfully. He must be getting Ben’s measure, Faith thought. There was a time when he would have jumped at Ben’s chivvying. Now he responded in his own time.
Ben leaned his hand on the car roof and bent his head toward hers. His bulk filled the window.
“Want to come take a peek?” His face wore his insufferable I-know-what-you’re-thinking expression. She struggled with her demon curiosity for a moment. He watched her lose the fight. He tapped the roof of the car. “Of course you do. Park up over there and join us. You’ll have to suit up.” He walked off without waiting for a reply.
CHAPTER
2
Ben crossed the field at a rapid stride. Peter followed with Faith at a more reasonable pace.
“Do you have an ID?” Faith asked.
“Not yet. I don’t recognize him. I somehow doubt he’s a churchgoer.” Peter blushed. “Sorry, that’s uncharitable of me. See what you think.”
Faith avoided a patch of mud with an ungainly skip. “You don’t think Markham’s involved?”
Peter’s flat tone as he reeled off his answer took her by surprise. He was in professional mode – it felt strange to see him like that. She found him so open and approachable as a friend.
“He’s got some explaining to do. He says he’s on his tractor clearing debris brought down the river by the rain at the weekend. The postman has an accident and ends up in the ditch. He sees Markham on his tractor; goes over to ask him if he’ll give him a pull out so he can get back on his rounds – Christmas rush and all that.”
“And?” Faith prompted. She couldn’t see anything so bad so far.
“The postman sees the body down there by the river just yards away from where Markham’s sitting high up on his tractor. It’s the postman who calls it in. Markham claims he never saw it.”
“Perhaps he didn’t,” said Faith.
“Hm,” said Peter. He sounds like Ben, she thought. “There’s the history too, though.”
“History?”
Peter stopped, and blew out his cheeks. “Seven weeks ago, we got a call that Markham threatened some kids with a shotgun. We investigated – he said he thought it was someone stealing his oil, but his wife had complained a few times about youngsters hanging around on their land. The kid who called didn’t want to take it any further. Still, there’s paperwork, y’know.”
“Oh!” said Faith. That didn’t sound so good, but she wasn’t surprised Oliver hadn’t mentioned it to her. She thought of Oliver Markham as she had seen him, a craftsman who could be absent in his own world among his beloved timbers; a man who cared about making beautiful things. She thought of the family at the village fete that August – Markham clowning around with his daughters and throwing beanbags at coconuts to win prizes for them. “Sounds like he lost his temper a bit,” she said.
“Doesn’t do him any favours in the boss’s eyes,” said Peter. He glanced down at her, less formal for a moment. “Do you know him well?”
Better than Ben, she was about to say. Thinking about it, though, how well did she really know Oliver Markham? She compromised. “The Markhams only moved here in the summer. But I’ve seen quite a bit of them – they seem a nice family.” Or at least, he seemed a fond father to his girls. Faith suddenly realized that his wife didn’t feature in any of her memories of the Markhams. The gossips said Mrs Markham didn’t spend more time at home than she had to.
The field dropped gently down to the river. The farm sat in a long bend of the waters’ course. The landscape here was quite flat. The river ran like a horizon along the margins of the frozen soil. The recent heavy rain that had caused the river to flood was receding, the water level dropping back to leave a blurred margin of mud and debris, now solidified and laced with frost only just beginning to thaw as the sun rose higher. A circle of white-suited figures grouped around a sodden mass near the river’s edge. Ben stood over a woman with red hair, vivid against the frosted grass and white forensic suits. She was crouching down by the body, but with her face lifted toward him, his concentration full on her as she talked. They broke off as Peter and Faith approached. The woman nodded to Peter and introduced herself to Faith: “Harriet Sims, pathologist.”
Faith glimpsed shrewd speculation in her eyes. “Ben tells me you’re the vicar – but you were in the force with him once? I’d better not shake hands.” She had pulled the forensic gloves on carefully; not a wrinkle to mar the elegant outline of the hands she held up in illustration. She readdressed them to their task of picking delicately through the victim’s clothes.
He was a teenager – maybe sixteen, seventeen, thought Faith. A stud decorated his left eyebrow. The metal protruded, a jarring addition on that half-childish face. His hair was dyed dead black and styled in a long fringe cut to cover his face to the chin, except that someone had pushed it back – leaving three-quarters of his vulnerable features bare to the bright winter light. A wave of compassion and sour sorrow washed through Faith, almost overwhelming her.
“So – is he one of yours?” Ben’s question carried an edge of anger. Faith recognized his disgust. Her congregation at Little Worthy was comfortably off, for the most part. He knew it wasn’t likely to contain a boy such as this. She felt acutely guilty. Ben always said that she was running away from reality, playing at being a vicar in such a picture-perfect place. To her own ears, at least, she managed to keep the emotion out of her voice as she answered.
“No. I’ve never seen him before – as far as I know.”
Ben ignored her words. �
�You’re formal for a Monday.” He jerked his chin, indicating the dog collar that could be glimpsed under her winter wrappings. “Where’ve you been?”
“Telling the Christmas story to five-year-olds,” Faith answered absently, her eyes still on the corpse.
The dead boy’s hair was fine. In life it must have obscured half his face all the time; irritating, you would have thought. Now river mud had mixed with oozing blood, tangling it into matted streaks around the lad’s temple.
The team junior finished his phone call and turned expectantly to his boss.
“Anything?” Ben asked him.
“Not local, sir. They’re running the national database to see if anything sparks.”
“No ID on him, just keys and maybe £15 in cash.’ Harriet held up an evidence bag containing a battered mobile phone. It oozed river water, puddling the sides of the plastic. “There’s this phone. It was in his hip pocket – but the case is cracked. It must have taken quite a knock.”
Peter took it from her – holding the bag up against the light to examine it. Faith could see that the casing had come away, exposing the inner workings of the phone.
“We might get something off it,” Peter said dubiously. Ben joined him for a closer look.
“After it’s been in the river? Waste of time – but we’ll process it anyway.”
The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 1
