Mavis Granger had changed her clothes. Without her dogs, her walking stick and tweed she was less conspicuous, but she still carried herself with an air of authority. Faith was so startled to see her standing there on her own home ground, she didn’t know quite what to say. How do you bring a boy’s dead body into this homely circle?
Mavis Granger met her eyes, and Faith fancied she saw acknowledgment of the predicament.
“Mavis – have you met our vicar, Faith Morgan?” Pat made her introduction. Faith waited to see how their visitor would play it.
“We’ve met,” Mrs Granger said simply, and shook Faith’s hand. Her fingers felt stick-thin in Faith’s palm. Her nails were perfectly manicured.
They arranged themselves around the table. Three small electric heaters, aimed under the table, blasted hot air at ankle height. Faith was glad of the protection of her winter boots. She manoeuvred the one closest to her into a slightly different angle with her foot so it blew between her and Sue. As she did so, she watched Pat surreptitiously. She’d surely heard about Markham, and would soon begin a wearing discourse on how she, Pat, had always warned against the dangers of giving an untried newcomer the vital role of Joseph, and how such things would never have happened in the Reverend Alistair’s time. And then conversation would surely come round to the donkey…
Pat was definitely simmering. The churchwarden’s little mouth had pursed up tight against the pressure of something she was determined to share. She barely waited until they were all settled.
“Mavis has had a terrible shock,” she declared. “She was walking her dogs this morning and came across the police. They have found a youth dead down by the river – and it’s Lucas Bagshaw.”
“Lucas Bagshaw – dead?” said Grace Lively.
“Oh no,” Marjorie exhaled as if the wind had been knocked out of her. The old lady turned quite white.
“Not poor Trish Bagshaw’s son!” Sue exclaimed. “That’s just too unfair. Another tragedy in that poor family.”
Faith looked from one to the other in confusion. First, how on earth did Pat know who the boy was? The forensic tent had been erected over the body when Mavis Granger came by; she was almost sure of it. And Faith’s conversation with Ben about the boy’s identity had taken place barely four hours ago. And then again – how did everyone in the room seem to know Lucas Bagshaw personally? Across the table from her, Elsie and her sister and their friend Marjorie all looked deeply upset. Faith turned to Sue, who sat next to her.
“Who is Trish Bagshaw?” she asked, quietly. “And – why another tragedy?”
“You remember – Trish…” Sue began.
“No, she won’t – Faith came after Trish died,” Clarisse interrupted.
“But it was only at the beginning of the year…” Sue stopped. “Of course, I forgot. You haven’t been here a year yet, have you?” She wrinkled her nose. “Weird. I feel as if we’ve known each other for ages.”
Faith was momentarily diverted by a warm rush of pleasure at the compliment. She pulled herself together sternly. This isn’t about me.
“Trish?” she prompted.
“Trisha Bagshaw – a lovely woman,” said Sue.
“Single mother,” Pat sniffed.
Elsie looked straight at the churchwarden, which was as near as she came to censure.
“Trisha was a hard-working, good-hearted woman,” said Grace Lively. “Her boy was always kept clean and tidy, and he never missed a day of school.”
“Not while she was alive,” Pat added, darkly.
“She died earlier this year – February, I think it was,” Clarisse explained, addressing Faith. “Poor soul. A brain aneurism or something similar. Very sudden.”
“How awful,” said Faith.
“She used to come and help Marjorie out, didn’t she, dear?” said Grace. “A lovely girl.” Marjorie had tears in her eyes. Grace patted her friend’s hand. “I know, I know. We were all very fond of Trisha.”
“Trisha earned her living as a carer,” Sue explained. “She had a real gift with people. I think she was your motherin-law’s carer for years, isn’t that right, Mavis? I remember Trish bringing old Mrs Granger to the Wednesday service sometimes.”
So that was the connection. Mrs Granger inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. She seemed to find Sue’s question too intimate – as if she did not appreciate strangers knowing her private family business.
“Mother did like her ten o’clock Eucharist,” she responded stiffly. “She found it more manageable than the Sunday service.”
“Is the elder Mrs Granger no longer with us?” Faith asked, arranging her face sympathetically. Mavis had disconcerting eyes, like flat pieces of sky. They looked at her distantly.
“No,” Mavis answered, after a beat. “She lives at the Mount now.”
“The nursing home,” Grace supplied.
“The very best in the area,” added Pat effusively, her eyes on Mrs Granger. Faith wondered what she was up to. Pat hardly welcomed strangers with open arms normally. Mavis Granger’s eyes flicked toward the churchwarden momentarily, as if she felt Pat’s eager support superfluous.
“She became too immobile to manage at home,” she said.
“And was Lucas Trisha’s only child?” Faith asked, aiming to change the subject. “What happened to him after his mother’s death?”
“His uncle – Trisha’s younger brother – he’s lived with them for years, so at least Lucas could stay in his own home,” Sue said. “After Trisha died, it was just the two of them.”
Pat looked over her spectacles. “That man!” she pronounced.
Grace Lively leaned toward Faith. “Drink,” she confided.
“Come, come, Mrs Montesque,” Marjorie Davis challenged Pat. “Trisha was very fond of her brother, Adam. They were a close family.”
“Came to live with them when Lucas was growing up,” Grace added. “He came to help out, seeing Trisha had no man about.”
“You’ve met him – Lucas’s uncle?” Faith asked.
It was Marjorie who answered. “Trish would bring him round when I needed something fixing. He mended my kitchen cupboard door. It never closed properly for years. I was always catching myself on it. But Trish’s Adam, he fixed it, just like that.” Lucas’s uncle had clearly made an impression. The old lady wore a fond expression. “He was so very kind. He and Trisha were always cheerful and helpful,” she reminisced. “He fixed my bath leak, too.”
Pat’s eyes sharpened; she was no doubt about to say something cutting. Faith intervened to head her off.
“So – Lucas’s father is dead, too?” she asked, in a rush. The trio of old ladies opposite her greeted the question with comically similar looks of startled embarrassment.
“No one ever knew who Lucas’s father was,” Clarisse explained.
“Trisha never said,” Sue agreed. “He never seemed to figure in their lives.”
“Walked out before the baby was born,” Pat got her word in at last. “No wonder the boy strayed off the path so young.”
“Being dead can hardly be the boy’s fault,” Sue responded, sharply.
Pat wrinkled her neat nose. “It is a tragedy, of course – but young Lucas had gone off the rails since his mother died. He stopped going to school.” Pat shot a challenging look at Sue. “You know he did, Sue. Your Emily said so.”
“My Em attends the same school,” Sue clarified for Faith’s benefit. “She is a couple of years younger, of course.”
“What was he – sixteen?” Faith asked. “It must have been devastating to lose his mother like that.” A sliver of guilt twisted in her. What had Ben said earlier – “one of yours?” As it turned out, he could well have been. Why hadn’t she known about this tragic family? She felt the force of Ben’s disgust. She had given him up, and so much else – her career in the police, her “normal” life, for her belief in her vocation as a priest. She thought she had followed that vocation here to St James’s, Little Worthy, and its people. It h
urt that she had been found wanting. If she had been more aware, more in touch with the community around her as vicar, might she have been able to help this orphaned boy?
You and your saint complex! She heard Ben’s voice mocking her. Who made you responsible for everything? He had a point. Just because a person believed they might be called to a vocation, that didn’t give you superpowers. You did what you could.
The conversation had moved into argument and Pat showed signs of being under siege.
“Trisha did work hard. You have to give her that, Pat,” Sue said.
“And how did she afford some of those things she gave the boy on a carer’s salary?” Pat demanded.
“He never seemed short of money.” Mavis Granger spoke low.
Pat leaned forward to give her an approving look. “Those break-ins?” she lifted her sandy eyebrows.
“Pat!” said Sue. “Let’s not speculate.”
“How did that boy afford that brand new bike he’s been riding around?” Pat defended herself. “Where else would he get the money?”
“You think Lucas Bagshaw was stealing?” asked Faith.
“More often than not it is the youngsters these days. Stealing or something worse.”
“Drugs?” said Elsie, speaking up for the first time in ages.
“Well, I would hardly know about that!” Pat bridled.
Faith thought of standing by Peter down at the river’s edge that morning and the burglary Mavis Granger had referred to when they had met earlier. Mrs Granger’s face was hard to read. Caught in an unguarded moment, she was looking down at her hands. She appeared tired. A long day, Faith thought, sympathetically. She’d come to volunteer her charitable services and now she had to sit through this. Perhaps they should get on to business. But Pat wasn’t finished yet. She had the tenacity of a small Scottish terrier. She turned her glare on Mavis.
“What about your break-in this summer?”
Mrs Granger’s head lifted, startled. “In June, wasn’t it?” Pat said, for the rest of circle.
“It was more damage than anything,” Mavis Granger said vaguely, as if to brush the topic away.
Pat was never good at picking up hints. “Now Mavis – I remember how it upset you,” she said, touching her friend’s arm. “Some stranger coming in, trampling through your home and touching your private things.” The churchwarden’s cheeks were pink with sympathy. “It’s a violation.”
Mrs Granger looked acutely uncomfortable.
“Oh, look at the time!” Faith exclaimed. “Don’t you think we had better get on with our meeting, Pat? It’s a cold night, and I am sure everyone would like to get home.”
Pat widened her eyes at her, pursed her lips and unzipped her leather folder. The leather was a rubbed claret colour, with the initials GMM embossed in gold leaf in the top left-hand corner. No doubt a relic of her husband, Gordon Mackenzie Montesque, now deceased. Faith wondered what kind of man Pat’s husband had been. Another Scottish terrier, like her? He must have had some strength of character to have partnered Pat for forty years or more.
Pat took out a sheaf of paper typed on her old electric typewriter. You didn’t often see print like that these days; it reminded Faith of her childhood and the activity sheets Brown Owl would hand out at Brownies. Pat handed her sheets around the circle.
“I’ve broken down the assignments,” she was saying. “Based on last year, we are looking at attendance of a hundred and sixty or so. Elsie and Grace – a hundred and fifty of your little cakes, I think. Remember: finger food! And do think of the carpet runners – nothing with cream or jam, if you please. It’s bound to get trodden in, and we’ll have to hire the cleaner to get it out.”
Faith couldn’t see her own name listed. She wondered whether to be relieved or put out. She looked over the page. Pat had divided out each person’s task and responsibilities, down to the precise number of mince pies and fairy cakes they were to supply, along with times to the half hour when they were to be delivered to the church hall, and a detailed rota for setting up.
“Perhaps Pat was a quartermaster in another life,” Sue murmured.
“It’s certainly impressive,” Faith agreed.
“Marjorie – your cheese straws are always popular,” Pat was saying. Marjorie flushed with brief pleasure. “And Mavis has very kindly agreed to donate festive table arrangements,” Pat moved on. “We are lucky! I do think we should offer Mavis a round of applause for her generosity.” Pat raised her plump hands to chest height and patted one cupped palm brightly. After a startled moment, the rest of the company joined in.
“What is going on with Pat and Mrs Granger?” Faith whispered to Sue, under cover of the clapping.
“I heard that Pat wants to be the next chair of the Women’s Institute,” Sue whispered back. “The elections are coming up and the sitting president’s endorsement usually makes for a shoo-in.” Sue cleared her throat and said out loud, “Pat – are you sure about numbers? We wouldn’t want to seem stingy in our hospitality. And don’t forget the youth choir’s coming to sing at Midnight Mass. Some of them are coming quite a way; what are we going to give them?”
Pat looked a little put out. “A pan of soup and some bread should be sufficient, if you really think it necessary,” she said. “Myself, I never eat after 7 p.m. if I want to sleep at all.” Suddenly, she checked herself. She turned to Mavis. “Do we know how many of these young people there are likely to be?” she asked, in honeyed tones.
Sue saw Faith’s surprise at the direction of Pat’s enquiry.
“Your boy’s in the choir, isn’t he?” she commented, helpfully. Mavis nodded.
“Yes.” She glanced over at Faith with a touch of defiance. “My son joined in the summer with some friends. Well – a girl. I employ her in my shop,” she ended curtly.
Faith couldn’t quite work out whether Mrs Granger thought the youth choir inappropriate for a young man from a good family such as her son, or whether her distaste stemmed from her son’s relationship with her employee. She was intrigued. Perhaps her son had been friendly with Lucas? That might account for some of her discomfort with the preceding conversation.
“I am a little concerned about welcoming this choir,” Pat said dubiously. “I hear some of these young people have been gathered up from who knows where.” Her face froze for one split second as she remembered her company. “Your son excepted, of course, Mavis. Beautiful manners; a lovely boy. You must be very proud of him.”
“And we are very grateful to him,” Faith interrupted, smoothly, “along with all the other young people who are giving their time and energy to come and sing for us at Midnight Mass. So – soup and bread for, let’s say, twenty-five, for the visiting choir. And an extra batch of chocolate chip cookies for those with a sweet tooth. I can organize that.” She made a note. “Now,” she smiled efficiently at Pat, “is there anything else you need? I don’t see my tasks on this list.” She hoped her offer sounded sincere.
Her churchwarden gave her a firm look.
“I thought it hardly fair to burden you, vicar,” she said, with a thin, sceptical smile. “I know how little time you have during this season.” It was patently clear Pat did not think much of her vicar’s organizational skills. “We can manage the practicalities.”
“Pat – that’s hardly fair,” Sue protested. “Faith is already doing her fair share and more. She’s written the pageant script and cast the leads, and that’s on top of all the extra sermons and services at this time of year…”
“Of course, of course.” Pat shuffled her papers. Here it comes, thought Faith. And what about the nativity? What about the donkey? “Although I have to say, I am concerned about that girl you’ve cast as Mary, vicar. The pageant is the highlight of our year at Little Worthy. Of course, being a newcomer, you are not to know, but Alice Peabody from the Hare and Hounds is flighty. She is bound to let you down at the last minute.”
Faith allowed herself a smile. Either Pat hadn’t appreciated the Joseph predi
cament, or she had chosen not to bring it up. For either, Faith was grateful.
They had all left with their chorus of goodbyes. Faith locked the door of the church hall. Poor Lucas Bagshaw and his broken life filled her thoughts. In this season of Advent, God called you to face up to the sin in the world. In the crumpled remains of that dead boy she felt faced with an acute and actual example.
And what are you going to do about it?
The voice came from both within her and without.
The snow glittered around her in the frozen silence. She pulled her scarf up against the icy wind and buried her nose in the soft wool. She hadn’t forgotten her superiors’ concern over her getting mixed up in the last police investigation. The outcome of that had been painful, of course. But looking back on it, she believed she had been of some use to everyone caught up in it. And George Casey might protest, but he had used her connection to Ben and the Winchester police more than once. She knew she wasn’t in the police force any more but, she protested silently, you didn’t confront sin by ignoring it. If indeed she had the care of souls in St James’s parish, she needed to understand how Lucas Bagshaw’s young life had come to its end in that muddy river.
“You can’t change who you are,” she sighed into her scarf. “And the truth is, you are a nosy parker by nature.”
CHAPTER
5
The little robin on the bird table was a picture postcard of winter cheer against the backdrop of her frozen garden, a flash of red and a charming chubby outline. It caught Faith’s attention as she sat at her desk struggling with the bones of her next sermon. Make ready for the coming of the Lord… And instead she was watching a bird pecking at the scatter of icy seeds she had put out the day before. The delicate Edwardian dial of the vicarage’s enamelled clock read thirty-five minutes after eight. She’d left her phone in the kitchen.
The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 4
