She closed her eyes fast against the memory of Adam at his table. Marjorie Davis thought well of Adam Bagshaw, she repeated to herself; and Marjorie is a shrewd woman.
But then there was his admission of a blackout. She really ought to tell Ben about that. She saw herself standing in the kitchen at The Hollies with the vodka bottle in her hands. Bagshaw’s drink problem was just the kind of weakness that brought out the self-righteous avenger in Ben. In the scene in her mind, the photographs on the whatnot were over her shoulder. Pictures of a loving family and Trisha holding them all together. The woman in those photographs had a good face. She wished she could have met Trisha. If she had lived, they might well have been friends. Regret blossomed in Faith’s chest, filling her throat and stinging her eyes.
What could you have done?
The question came out of the ether quite kindly. It wasn’t an accusation.
I should have liked to have been there to care when it mattered, she whispered back, knowing full well she was speaking of hypotheticals.
She got up off her knees. No. She couldn’t unleash Ben on Trisha’s mourning little brother. Adam had confided in her because she wore a dog collar, and she wouldn’t betray that trust. She looked at her watch. If she loaded up the car now, with luck she could get away and be back before noon when she was due to meet with Pat and Fred.
Fetching Fred’s wheelbarrow from the shed by the yew tree, Faith piled the multicoloured gifts into it, thinking about the children in the battered women’s refuge. She hoped her congregation had chosen well. From what she could feel, they had majored in cuddly toys. At least there was no evidence of anything like the half-crushed tin of baked beans she had once found in a similar collection in a previous parish.
She wheeled the barrow to her car and piled the gifts into the back seat. She patted her coat pocket. Check. She had remembered the list of volunteers attending the Salvation Army Christmas lunch. She slipped into the driver’s seat feeling more cheerful. She was catching up with life. She turned the ignition, and her faithful Yaris purred into life.
She sensed rather than heard her name being called. In her mirror, across the Green, she saw Pat coming out of her house in a bright puce coat. The puce arm lifted in a wave and Pat mouthed, “Vicar!” Guilt rushing in her ears, Faith floored the accelerator and drove off.
But when she returned to Little Worthy just after midday, Pat was there just inside the doorway. Faith had the strange notion that she had been waiting for several hours, but told herself that couldn’t possibly be the case, could it?
“Pat!” she said, with as much bonhomie as she could manage.
“A word, vicar,” Pat hissed.
The churchwarden’s court shoes matched almost precisely the main heather shade of her plaid skirt. Pat would never wear outdoor shoes in the house of God. She always brought her indoor shoes in her bag when she came to the church, leaving her boots with their easy grip soles aligned dead centre against the wall beneath her coat, hanging on the vestry coat rack. Faith’s eyes wandered over the purple cardigan buttoned up on top of the freshly laundered blouse with its Peter Pan collar. The well-concealed bosom heaved beneath the cashmere as Pat advanced toward her. Clearly she was not happy. Hovering beyond her in the chancel stood a substantial-looking young woman with a ponytail and a firm smile, making a meal of checking through paperwork on a clipboard.
“If you could spare a moment…” The churchwarden was standing so close, Faith had to incline her head down to make eye contact.
“The…” Pat cast a disparaging look over her shoulder, “young woman they’ve sent from the council offices says you’ve agreed to decorate the church.”
“She does?” Faith frowned, trying to recall her intermittent email correspondence with the council.
“She says that the little ones and their parents will be expecting it. The Green Lane Primary have been making Santa Claus lanterns.” Pat’s disgust was almost palpable. She drew herself up. “I have informed the young person that she must have misunderstood.” Pat pinned Faith with her steeliest of gazes. “In the Christian church we do not decorate in Advent.”
Ah! She should have seen this coming. A manifestation of the crunch point between the Christian calendar and public expectations at this time of year. Pat was quite right. Advent was about death and judgment, heaven and hell, and moving from darkness toward light. Santa Claus lanterns and glittery baubles were inappropriate, liturgically speaking. (Though – come to think of it – on occasion, being trapped in an overcrowded, over-decorated mall in the last shopping days before Christmas could seem like a vision of hell.) She pulled her attention back to Pat. The churchwarden was almost rigid with her intensity of feeling.
“We might have discussed this yesterday, had you been able to come,” she began, ominously. “I understood – although perhaps I was mistaken – I had thought you said you were coming by to help with the Christingle oranges?”
Faith winced internally. Had she promised that? In the past few days, she had been so preoccupied with donkeys and incarcerated Josephs, she might have said something on autopilot.
“I thought Lucy Taylor and Alice Peabody were going to help you?” she said feebly.
“Mrs Taylor pushed a note through my door – I can’t tell you when,” Pat snapped. “It must have been the middle of the night; I found her note on my mat in the morning. She was very sorry, of course, but something had come up – and, as for Alice Peabody… I’ve told you before, that girl never keeps her promises. I was left facing two crates of oranges all on my own!”
“Pat, I am so sorry, I was diverted… a pastoral visit – to Adam Bagshaw. The uncle of the murdered boy. It seemed important that someone visit him. I am sure you understand priorities?” Pat sniffed. Faith pressed her advantage. “The only two family members Adam Bagshaw had have been brutally taken from him within the space of a year. The man is devastated. He needs – he deserves – compassion and support; our compassion and support.” Pat blinked. “The gospel of love is for all our neighbours,” Faith said gently.
Pat pressed her lips together in a tight line, as if she regarded Faith’s sophistry as a little suspect. “Well, as it happened, Fred came by.” Her voice strengthened. “And as for Alice Peabody, she turned up eventually – forty minutes late. She had that young man of hers in tow; the one in the army. All excited because he’s come home from leave. Of course, we all support our brave boys. A bit on the rough side, but very willing.” Pat gave her the brave smile of a Woman Who Copes. “Anyhow, the Christingles are all done. We got through them.”
The council co-ordinator put her head through the door.
“Hello, vicar! Mrs Montesque, just to say, I’m off for a bit of lunch. See you back here at one?” she said brightly. Pat gave her a frosty nod.
“Well – that gives us a breather anyway,” she said, as the woman departed.
“Sue and Clarisse will be here soon,” Faith said. “We can discuss together what’s to be done. Don’t you want to pop back home and have some lunch?” she asked, hoping for a brief reprieve herself.
“I had a late breakfast,” Pat answered, firmly. “I’ve brought a Thermos of coffee and some of my strawberry shortbread. Would you care to join me?”
They sat in a rear pew. Pat spread a large handkerchief between them and fetched a Thermos and a tin printed with transfers of Princess Diana and Prince Charles from her tartan shopping bag.
“Did you hear that it was Oliver Markham who found the Bagshaw boy on his land?”
Faith hadn’t been expecting that. Had Pat finally realized that the pageant was missing its Joseph? And what had Mavis told her about seeing Faith at the scene? She quickly stuffed a piece of strawberry shortbread in her mouth and chewed to buy herself time. She widened her eyes enquiringly, but Pat wasn’t looking at her as she poured out the coffee.
“The family’s been away, of course – for the weekend. Mrs Markham took the girls shopping in London.” Pat’s tone was faint
ly envious. “They spoil those girls. Mind you, couples often do, when they have problems.” Faith looked at her, startled. Pat tilted her head knowingly. “Money problems. Oliver’s business is not doing well and she’s keeping them going with that high-powered job of hers. If you ask me, that marriage is in trouble…” Holding her plastic cup delicately, she took a sip of coffee.
Faith wondered where this was going. She didn’t approve of gossip – although she remained grateful Pat wasn’t homing in on the pageant.
“Pat, we don’t know anything about the Markhams as a family,” she said, selecting another piece of shortbread. It was really rather good.
“Well, of course, they are new to the parish,” said Pat, “but how often have you seen the pair of them together with their girls? She’s always working away – Julie? Is that her name? A mother should be at home. Children need guidance, particularly girls, and the Markham girls are that age.”
“That age?” queried Faith, feigning ignorance.
“Boys,” said Pat, simply.
Without warning, the nursery rhyme sang in Faith’s head – “Snakes and snails and puppy-dog tails; that’s what little boys are made of.” She realized Pat was frowning at her. Faith swallowed.
“Well, it seems they were all in London together having fun as a family this weekend,” she commented. “It’s different nowadays, Pat. Often both parents have to work just to make ends meet.”
“Well, they’re back home now.”
That was news. Trust Pat to know the latest. If Oliver Markham had been released, perhaps his alibi had checked out. Perhaps he had been cleared? Pat watched her with a speculative look. The Joseph question! Faith stood up abruptly.
“Pat – I must make a call, if you’ll excuse me a moment. This shortbread is delicious.”
She hurried off to the church porch, phone in hand. She found the Markham home number and pressed call. The phone rang and rang. Then the anonymous phone lady clicked in: “The person you have called is not available at this time…”
That could mean all sorts of things. Faith wished she knew how the checks on Markham’s alibi were going. She left her name and a message that she’d try again later.
If only she could get hold of Peter Gray. What time was it? Lunchtime. She imagined Peter eating his lunch in the greasy spoon cafe by the police station where CID liked to hang out. Maybe he would tell her what was going on. Peter was a member of her congregation, after all, and the pageant was less than two weeks off. She needed to know if she should be looking for a replacement to play Joseph.
“Break out the tea! Reinforcements have arrived.” A familiar voice hailed her from the wicket gate. Moments later, Faith was swept into Sue’s warm embrace. Clarisse hugged Faith with more restraint, as befitted her elegance. They all beamed at one another. Faith felt her spirits lift.
“What do you need us to do?” Clarisse asked, her tawny eyes twinkling.
“We have a diplomatic situation,” Faith declared with deliberate exaggeration. “The civic centre co-ordinator – the one who has been liaising with the schools? – she’s expecting the church to be decorated. And as Pat has pointed out…”
“Ah!” They both appreciated the problem immediately. They followed Faith into the church. She could feel them close at her back. What a wonderful thing it was to have good friends. “The children from Green Lane Primary have made Santa Claus lanterns,” Faith added, plaintively.
“Oh dear!” Sue responded. The three of them paused, gazing at one another a moment.
“I know. The Spicer wedding!” Clarisse exclaimed.
Sue nodded approvingly.
“Good thought! The Spicer wedding.”
“The Spicer wedding?” echoed Faith, lost. They linked arms with her, one on each side, and marched her off toward the organ.
“Last year. Very posh. Loads of money,” Sue said, rolling her eyes.
“They didn’t want the decorations – they left them behind and we put them in the loft,” Clarisse explained. “The theme was purple.”
“Dark purple and cream. Very fitting,” Sue pulled a face of clownish approbation. Faith laughed out loud. They stopped at the ladder leading up to the roof space behind the organ. “Clari can show you. I don’t like ladders.” Sue looked up at the nineteenth-century turned rungs with distaste. They look sound enough, Faith told herself, a mite dubiously.
Clarisse shimmied up the ladder with surprising ease. Faith followed her with less grace. Her knee was protesting. She paused at the top of the ladder, looking about. She’d never been up here before. Fred had always fetched anything needed from the loft.
The loft space was a shelf of floor above the rear of the church, inconspicuous from the ground. Faith looked out, admiring the bird’s-eye view of her church. Clarisse pulled a cord and the yellowish light of a bare bulb revealed a space continuing much further back than she would have guessed. There wasn’t enough head room to stand up straight. Clarisse crawled ahead of her down the narrow space left between stacks of boxes.
“I am pretty sure the Spicer box isn’t very far back.” Her voice came back to Faith deadened by the overfilled space. “I remember helping Fred put it up here. By the way…” Her slim brown hand pointed to a tobacco-yellow canvas trunk under the eaves of a tilted board at the left-hand margin. “The principals’ pageant costumes are in there. We should get them out in the next day or so. Make sure they are OK.”
“So what exactly are we looking for?” Faith asked.
“There were thirty or more pairs of dark plum satin bows for the pew ends, tied off with cream-coloured sprig arrangements. As I remember, it was quite effective. If we light lots of candles, it’ll look fine, you’ll see – and, best of all, we can put them up and take them down in half an hour.”
The front half of Clarisse was absorbed in shadows. Faith thought that even at this angle she looked as if she could be posing for a magazine cover.
“How’s Pat doing?” Clari’s question came to her out of the dark.
“Well, I suppose, as a vicar you learn to cope with the business of having to work ahead of where you are spiritually at this time of year,” Faith answered, thoughtfully. “But it is more difficult for laity, especially careful, faithful ones like Pat.” Clari craned her head around to stare at her.
“What? I meant about her nephew. Wasn’t he supposed to be coming to see her this morning?”
“What nephew? I didn’t know Pat had a nephew.” Faith was startled and then appalled. Not something else she had missed! Perhaps she hadn’t been spending enough time on her parish. That’s what happens when you go nosing into police investigations that don’t concern you any more…
“Her estranged sister’s boy,” Clari was saying. “There is some family split. Fred’s the one who knows the details. Pat’s sister did something unmentionable and they stopped talking to each other years ago. The boy grew up without knowing anything about Pat. Then, just recently, he sent her a letter. I think he was tracing his family tree or some-such. Said he wanted to meet her. Pat was excited about it.”
How shaming. For all her occasional quirks and annoying habits, Pat was a stalwart of the parish. As her vicar and pastor, how could Faith have missed something so important?
“You didn’t know?” Clari’s voice was kind. “Don’t worry. Pat isn’t a particularly confiding person. I just happened to hear her and Fred talking when we were clearing up together after pageant rehearsals.”
At least Clari was there at the pageant rehearsals to hear, Faith chastised herself.
“And this nephew, he was supposed to come today?”
Clari nodded. “It looks as if he has stood her up.”
“Poor Pat!” Faith suddenly saw the connection. In her way, Pat was as alone as Adam Bagshaw.
“Mmm.” Clari sounded distracted. “Sue and I need to catch up with you over the pageant. Do you think Oliver Markham is going to be able to play Joseph with this awful murder investigation?”
Faith deflated with relief. “I am so glad you’ve thought of that too,” she said. “I have been worrying and worrying about it. What should we do? I’ve tried ringing Oliver at home, but there’s no answer.”
Clari leaned further into the darkness, stretching out one slim leg for balance. Her voice was muffled. “It must be a dreadful time for them. It will hardly be a surprise if Oliver needs to drop out. But who can we get?”
Faith reviewed the possibles one more time. “Well, we need all the Wise Men. And Fred will be too busy marshalling everybody…”
“Besides, he hates making a spectacle of himself – as he puts it…”
“I did wonder about asking Peter Gray, but – being on the investigating team… well… murder enquiries are pretty intense. He most likely will say he doesn’t have the time, and if he does agree, he’ll probably get called away at the crucial moment and we will be Joseph-less anyway. You don’t suppose Alice Peabody’s soldier boyfriend might consider it? She is Mary and he’s back on leave, I hear.”
“Got it!” declared Clarisse, triumphantly. She edged backwards toward Faith, dragging a cardboard box. With a grimace of effort, she heaved it over between them, pulling back a flap. Faith glimpsed satin in a rich plum colour.
The box was unwieldy and dusty. Faith backed down the ladder, holding on with one hand, using the other to balance the cardboard box on her head. It was heavier than she’d first thought and her knee hurt. She wobbled uncertainly.
“Be careful!” Clarisse called anxiously from above.
Concentrating on holding her balance, Faith only dimly heard Fred shouting from across the church telling her to wait and let him do it. At last her lower foot struck reassuring tile and she turned, she hoped gracefully, to greet him with a triumphant, “Ta-da!”
The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 8
