The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery)
Page 7
She realized there was silence upstairs. How long ago had the shower stopped running? She went to the bottom of the stairs and stood still, listening, her hand gripping the painted balustrade. Could he have fallen asleep? Done something stupid? Should she have left him so long? She’d reached halfway up the stairs when a high, mechanical whine came from behind the door. He was brushing his teeth. Faith felt her shoulders drop as she let out her breath.
From her vantage point, a couple of steps from the top of the stairs, Trisha Bagshaw’s home had an air of the Marie Celeste about it. The short upstairs hall was neat and blank, a runner of matting over boards and eggshell painted walls. Three doors, in addition to the bathroom, led off it. Two were closed. The one door still ajar was across from the bathroom. Beyond Faith saw an anonymous room – coconut matting on boards and the corner of a metal-framed bed illuminated in the natural light of a window. Someone had made the bed neatly and a laptop lay on a low table beside it. A single-width wardrobe with a mirrored front seemed to be the only other piece of furniture. Reflected in the glass, she could see a man’s suit in drycleaner’s plastic hanging on the back of the door. Adam Bagshaw might be a drinker, but it looked as if he hadn’t lost the neatness of a soldier where his own quarters were concerned. At the head of the corridor, the master bedroom was sealed up against the absence of its occupant. On the final door, next to the bathroom, hung a gothic plaque, “By Invitation Only” painted in blood-red lettering on it. Obviously Lucas’s room.
Her eyes fixed on the plaque. “By Invitation Only”. Pat’s dark hints that Lucas had been stealing itched at her. Of course, the police would have searched it already – or would soon do so. That thought pulled her up short. It would be awkward if some of Ben’s team arrived and found her there. Would they accept the excuse of a pastoral visit? Ben Shorter surely wouldn’t.
Faith heard the bathroom door being unlocked and retreated down the stairs on tiptoe, her cheeks hot like a naughty child’s. She hurried over to the microwave and pushed the button to reheat.
The microwave pinged as Adam Bagshaw came down the stairs wearing slacks and a striped shirt. He looked surprisingly presentable. He wasn’t a bad-looking man; just oddly anonymous. The impression of togetherness dissolved as he came nearer. He hesitated in the middle of the room as she put the reheated food on the table for him. She smiled at him warmly.
“It’s all I could find, but I think you could do with it.”
His answer was a tentative smile. He sat and stared at the noodles for a moment, then picked up his fork and, mechanically, began to eat. His acceptance of her intrusion into his home was surreal. At any moment Faith expected him to wake up from his torpor and demand to know what she was doing there. She kept her concerns out of her voice and ploughed on.
“Your nephew was found in my parish,” she said. “I heard that you were alone. I wanted to come and offer my condolences and see if there was anything I could do for you in this terrible time.”
On her last words, Adam’s muscles contracted, pulling his head forward. He strained to contain another spasm of misery. She put her warm hand over his knotted one. “I am so very sorry.”
He nodded jerkily and drew a ragged breath. “You knew Luke?” he asked.
“We never met, but Jim Postlethwaite, who runs the choir Lucas sang in, speaks highly of him.”
Adam stared across at the photographs on the whatnot.
“You could see her in him sometimes. Trish was real proud of…” He squeezed his eyes shut, his face working.
“Where did you serve?” Faith asked in a calm voice, hoping to distract him onto firmer ground.
“Dubai. Hong Kong.”
“That must have been interesting.” She was running out of inspiration. “What did you do when you left the army?”
“Retrained. IT – did quite a bit of it in the corps.”
So she’d been right after all. “There’s plenty of call for IT wizards these days.”
He lifted his forearms and slammed his hands down on the table, slopping the water out of the glasses and making Faith jump. “I let her down,” he said, through gritted teeth. Faith rubbed the forearm nearest to her, feeling the locked muscles, making soothing noises. Everything in him was balled up tight. She felt the muscles relax a fraction.
“So you and Lucas have been living here alone since your sister died?” Adam nodded. “It must have been tough.” He tucked in his chin and pushed out his lips like a little boy trying not to cry. She indicated the photograph of the small giggling Lucas, with the teenage Adam grinning down at him.
“You were close – you and Lucas? Looks like you had good times.”
Adam’s mouth twisted into a bashful smile. “Used to take him fishing.” Looking closer, she noticed the fishing creel hanging from a military green strap over that younger Adam’s shoulder. She hadn’t seen any fishing gear in the house. Could that have brought Lucas down to the river?
“Did Lucas like to fish often?”
“Not for years.” Adam Bagshaw’s mood was slipping back; she sensed him approaching tears.
“What else did you do together, more recently, then?” she asked.
His answer was mumbled, almost as if he resented her lack of sympathy. “Have a pint on a weekend.”
“Did you have a favourite pub?”
He shrugged, impatiently. “Lion’s Heart.” He rubbed his hands rapidly over his face, pressing down as if he wanted to rub his skin off. “Listen, what is this? You’re asking a lot of questions for a vicar.”
“I’m sorry,” said Faith. “I suppose I just want to know what happened. I should think you do, too.”
His eyes narrowed. “I guess so.”
Faith let the silence linger. “Was Lucas in trouble?”
He blinked and looked at her sideways.
“Trouble?”
“Did Lucas seemed to be worried about anything? Was he getting on with his friends?” Adam looked away. He shook himself as if shaking her off. “He never said anything.” His fork stabbed aimlessly at the remains of the Chinese. She wondered about the evasion.
“When did you last see Lucas?”
Adam hunched, and laid down the fork. “End of last week.”
“Did something happen, Adam?”
He jerked his face toward her with tearful eyes. That wet, puppy-dog look again. “I drink – sometimes it gets the better of me.”
Faith bristled, at least on the inside. She looked at the shell of the man opposite her. What was he saying? She hadn’t even suspected for a moment that he might have done something violent, and she found herself unprepared for it. If he admitted anything now, she had a duty to call Ben.
“Go on,” she said. She registered that she was marginally closer to the front door. A simple latch, unless he’d locked the deadbolt. She didn’t think he had.
His eyes were fixed on her dog collar, as if she could offer him absolution.
“Blacked out. Must have got home, though. The police found me here.”
“And you don’t remember anything?” He shook his head, clinging to her with his eyes. She sat back a little in her chair, anyway, widening the distance between them.
“They found Lucas in the river,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, “but it wasn’t where he went in. Do you know where he might have been that day?” Adam shook his head again. “Where would he go?” she pressed him.
“I don’t know what Lucas did!” He pushed back his chair and stood up quickly. Faith flinched. “I need a drink.” His gaze skittered over the floor to where she’d found the vodka. A slight frown creased his forehead; then he went over to the fridge and got out a can, popped it and stood gulping it down in the crook of the open door. He wiped his mouth. “I’d like you to leave now.”
Her visit to Adam Bagshaw had raised more questions than it answered. She left him with both her own phone number and the details of the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, and he took both with mild distrust in his face.
A noise woke her in the dark. For a moment the space of the high-ceilinged room seemed unfamiliar. Living as a single woman in an inner-city parish had toughened her up some, and Faith had never felt unsafe in Little Worthy; but in that moment she was conscious of being alone, vulnerable in her pyjamas in this large, isolated house. She sat up, listening hard. She recalled her conversation with Peter about the spate of break-ins around Winchester, and cursed herself for not speaking to the dean about her alarm. She’d had to disable it because of the cat. A big old house like this might look like rich pickings, and the contents would be all too easy to see, as she never drew the curtains. She peeled off the covers and crept to the window. Beyond the glass, the night was charcoal grey and matt. The heating had gone off and she could see her breath, a fleeting presence before her. The window faced over the garden, the piece of lawn circled by the mature trees standing within the rectory boundary wall.
An unearthly scream resonated through the night, and her vision snagged on a movement below against the subdued luminescence of the snow. A fox slipped into the trees. Faith waited a moment for the adrenalin rush to stop buffeting her heart, and went back to bed feeling disorientated and uncharitable about Mother Nature.
CHAPTER
7
She had overslept. There’d be heavy lifting later, so she dressed casually: jeans, her waisted white shirt and old woolly jumper the colour of dried sage. Faith sat drying her hair at the kitchen table, gazing at the scrap of manuscript paper Jim Postlethwaite had given her. His writing was spiky and slanted. She liked that he used a fountain pen with real ink. A proper musician’s hand. She clicked off the hairdryer and picked up the phone. Last chance on the donkey front.
Her call was picked up on the third ring.
“Joy Whittle.” Ms Whittle’s voice was gruff, her tone no-nonsense. Faith drew breath, gathering her confidence to take the leap – she had to secure this donkey!
“Hello, Ms Whittle? I am sorry to trouble you so early…”
“Not early. Been up for hours. Just on my way out to feed the ducks.” The voice at the other end was clipped, and what Mother would call “County”; the kind of woman once known as a “gel” in certain circles.
“My name’s Faith Morgan. I am vicar at…”
“St James’s,” Ms Whittle cut in. “Told you might call. Looking for a donkey.”
“Yes, for our Christmas pageant.” Faith hung on the edge of the silence, waiting. She deduced that Ms Whittle didn’t appreciate small talk.
“My Banjo is a precious old boy,” Ms Whittle stated, eventually.
Faith responded to the deep affection in her tone. “Of course he is!” she carolled down the phone, willing the woman to understand her respect for all living creatures, and most particularly donkeys called Banjo. “I should so like to meet him. I love donkeys.” The pause went on so long, she wondered if it was a lost cause. Perhaps Ms Whittle didn’t approve of the church or of animals performing in Christmas pageants. Perhaps, thought Faith, she’s waiting for an offer of remuneration.
“I’m busy this week,” the response came at last. “You can come over on Monday. Mid-afternoon’s best. We’ll discuss it.” Faith scrabbled for a pencil to write down the directions to Ms Whittle’s smallholding on the back of Jim’s scrap of music paper. It wasn’t far from the Markhams’ place, by the sound of it. Ms Whittle rang off before she had finished her thank-yous.
Hardly a done deal, but she’d laid the groundwork. She had a prospect at last. Donkey doom loomed over her no longer! Then she saw the clock. No time to finish drying her hair. No time for breakfast. Her phone kept flashing at her. She couldn’t take being harassed by electronic beeps today. She turned off the reminders, experiencing a spike of mixed liberation and guilt. She would have to ring Ruth later.
She squared her shoulders to face the day to come. The community carol service was one of her new initiatives, so she longed for it to go well. In a shady corner of her mind she glimpsed Ben, his wry expression questioning her motives – she with her comfortable congregation with their tidy little lives in their picture-perfect village. She shook off the thought. Ben Shorter’s opinions were immaterial. She – personally – Faith Morgan, parish priest, thought it important for a Christian congregation to reach out and engage with the wider community around them.
Faith tugged on her wellington boots by the back door. Carol services were ideal for welcoming outsiders into the church. Everyone liked carol-singing at Christmas. Tonight’s guests had been carefully chosen – in addition to the MP and local councillors, staff and residents from the local old people’s home were coming, along with the co-ordinator at the women’s refuge, and Mandy and Gerry from the Salvation Army with some of their regular clients. Faith had choreographed the service to give each of them a place to speak. She hoped, amid the carols and pre-Christmas cheer, to prompt her congregation to think beyond their natural acquaintance to their neighbours at large.
Locking the kitchen door behind her, she set off down the trail that cut through the back of the garden to the vestry door. This sort of service hadn’t been done at Little Worthy before. Both her churchwardens had resisted the idea at first: Pat Montesque was plain outraged; even dear Fred Partridge had been wary.
When she had first floated the idea for this service, Faith had been very new to the parish – hardly two months confirmed in the post. She’d quickly discovered just how territorial churchwarden Pat could be about St James’s. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly tired, Faith fancied that the small Scotswoman mentally sat behind a desk vetting whoever dared to step across the threshold, as if “her” beloved church were some country club. It was a minor miracle this carol service was taking place tonight. At the time, Faith had been puzzled by Pat’s capitulation. But since the revelations on Monday night, she realized that the turning point must have been when the ladies of the regional WI, headed up by their current president, Mrs Mavis Granger, had declared their intention to parade to demonstrate their civic commitment.
Her toe hit an obstacle and she nearly went flying. Faith caught her balance awkwardly, wrenching her knee. The large aluminium watering can lay turned on its side across the path. It was a chunky thing; surely too big for an animal to knock over? She righted it, placing it back against the fence feeling off-balance and jittery. There were footprints – not made by a fox but by a substantial boot with a heavy tread. Someone had been here in the night. She shivered at the thought, and cast a glance around her.
Her detective brain took over, detaching her from the implications of a stranger sneaking about her home. She followed the trail, across the lawn, and looping back to the kitchen window. A frisson of fear battered its wings in her pulse as she imagined someone peering in.
Pull yourself together, woman!
It looked as if her visitor had returned the way they had come. She made a quick inspection. She couldn’t see any scratched wood or misshapen window frames; any sign that someone had tried to break in. There was nothing.
She must get on. Gerry, the Salvation Army co-ordinator, had been cheery but firm. If the gifts were to be sorted and distributed in the Christmas boxes, the Toy Service collection needed to be delivered to the centre in town by lunchtime today. Anyway, she had to get them out of the vestry before tonight. The trip would give her a chance to check details for next week when she and her volunteers were due to help at the Christmas lunch for the homeless.
She walked rapidly toward the squat presence of St James’s, gripping the heavy Victorian key tighter than before. She fumbled it into the great iron lock. The Gothic vestry door felt reassuringly solid as she closed it behind her. She picked her way between the two stacks of gifts in their brightly coloured wrapping, and entered the chancel.
The walls of the Saxon church were three feet thick, and the storage heaters meant the temperature hovered a few degrees above that of the air outside. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows touched the polished oak pews and made the brass fittings of the lectern glow. The calm soothed her jangled nerves in an instant. She pottered about, feeling at home.
She tried to ignore the twinge of guilt. This was God’s house and he welcomed everyone – but still, surely he didn’t begrudge her some breathing space before Pat and the others arrived. Faith bent down to pick up a kneeler left on the floor, and hung it back on its hook.
Fragments of the past few days slid about in her mind. Though it was hardly conclusive, the physical evidence reported by Peter suggested that Lucas had been killed by someone he knew. Facing one’s attacker and no defensive wounds tended to rule out stranger crime. Someone he hadn’t thought to guard himself against.
She knelt down at the altar rail and tried to clear her mind to pray.
You don’t know enough to get involved, she scolded herself. Leave it to the police – leave it to Ben and Peter – and Harriet Sims. Faith paused on the thought of the red-haired pathologist. Where had she come from, and what was she to Ben?
None of your business! Concentrate.
Adam Bagshaw in that hollowed-out home. His distress had seemed real to her. Ben had been right about the drinking, of course, and the combination of alcohol and shock was always unpredictable, but something about Adam Bagshaw told her he wasn’t responsible. Bagshaw felt guilty about something, she could see. Perhaps something more than just letting his dead sister down. But not murder. Even if he had lashed out under the influence and following an argument, he couldn’t have left his nephew to drown – could he?