by Kate Charles
In another minute Sophie had finished her dinner, and was curled up on his lap.
CHAPTER 23
The sorrows of death compassed me: and the overflowings of ungodliness made me afraid.
Psalm 18.3
There were two glasses and a bottle of whisky on the table, awaiting his return; Daphne looked up from her book as David came in just after eleven. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’
‘Do you want anything to eat?’
David groaned. ‘I don’t think I shall want to eat for a week. I’ve been eating practically non-stop all day.’
‘Anything good?’
‘Oh, yes. All of it. And I’ve just had a marvellous supper.’
‘Well, have a drink, then. Or would you rather have tea or coffee?’
‘This looks good to me.’ He poured himself a generous whisky. ‘What have you done today?’
‘Not much. I read the papers, had a sandwich, started reading this Ruth Rendell novel.’
He imagined Daphne eating her solitary sandwich while he was indulging in culinary delights, and had a brief pang of guilt. ‘Anything exciting in the papers?’
‘There was just a paragraph in the Independent about . . . Mavis.’
Mavis. It was time to start thinking about Mavis. He sighed as the foreboding, the feeling of vague fear, descended on him again.
‘What did it say?’
She leafed through the paper and found it for him. ‘The body of Mrs Mavis Conwell, aged forty-eight, was discovered in St Anne’s Church, Kensington Gardens, London, late Saturday afternoon. The police are making inquiries,’ she read.
‘That’s the Independent for you,’ he said dryly. ‘To the point.’
‘Yes, I can imagine what the News of the World had to say about it. “Lonely Widow Slain in Church Bloodbath” or something like that.’
‘You know,’ he said suddenly, ‘it just occurred to me. If she died in the sacristy – wouldn’t it have to be reconsecrated before Mass could be celebrated?’
Daphne laughed. ‘Full marks to you on that one. I found out this afternoon what happened: Gabriel had to bring the Bishop in last night to do it, after the police had finished in the sacristy. The Bishop was at a dinner party, and was none too happy about being called away, or so Emily says! I must admit, I had never even thought about reconsecration.’
‘So,’ David said, taking a fortifying gulp of his drink, ‘what do you make of this business?’
‘Mavis, you mean?’
‘Yes. You must have your ideas about it. After all, you read all those crime novels.’
‘So you’re assuming it’s murder.’
‘Yes, of course,’ David asserted with a nod. ‘It certainly wasn’t an accident, and Mavis didn’t seem the type to kill herself. Too self-satisfied by half. She wouldn’t hesitate to suggest that entire . . . groups of people . . . should go out and kill themselves en masse, but not her.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Daphne admitted.
‘Then who killed her?’ he posed bluntly.
‘Ah, that’s the real question, isn’t it?’
‘Well, what do you think?’ he demanded.
‘Of course, you have to think about the two big questions: motive and opportunity. Opportunity is easier to deal with,’ Daphne said in a detached, mystery-fan way, making herself more comfortable on the sofa.
‘I should think that’s a pretty wide-open field,’ David commented.
‘Yes, in this particular case, anyway. All sorts of people were around, and any of them could have nipped in and done it.’
‘The sacristy door wasn’t locked when I left.’
‘And neither was the side door, was it?’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘And anyway, even if the sacristy door were locked,’ Daphne added, ‘half the people in the church have a key, and the other half know where to find one. So that wouldn’t eliminate anyone.’
‘Are you assuming it was someone from the church?’ As he said it, he realised that it echoed his question to Gabriel about the blackmailer. He wished he could tell Daphne about the blackmail letter.
‘Most likely. A stranger probably would have been noticed by someone, and a stranger wouldn’t have known that they’d find her in the sacristy.’
‘Unless it was a simple robbery?’ he suggested. ‘And she just happened to be the one there when someone went in to steal the takings from the fête?’
Daphne considered the possibility. ‘Now we’re on to motive, aren’t we? That’s not impossible, in theory. There was a lot of money there, and that wouldn’t be too difficult for a lot of people to have figured out. But in that case, the modus operandi –’ she laughed self-deprecatingly at the phrase – ‘just doesn’t fit. A casual thief might shoot someone who stood in his way, or even stab them, but hanging – no. Hanging implies that it was someone who knew her well enough that she wouldn’t be suspicious. Someone who could get behind her with a noose . . .’
David shuddered at her detached tone. She’d read too many crime novels.
‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘the money wasn’t taken, was it? Didn’t the police tell you that it was all accounted for?’
‘Well, what about other motives then?’
Daphne laughed dryly. ‘You know yourself in your short acquaintance with her that Mavis wasn’t the best loved person at St Anne’s. There were plenty of people with reason to dislike her.’ David looked at her pointedly; she merely raised her eyebrows and went on. ‘But murder? That requires more than just dislike.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, if you remove money from the list . . . you’re left with things like jealousy, revenge, thwarted love, blackmail, the thirst for power. Power – now there’s an idea. Who do we know who desperately wants to be churchwarden?’ she asked humorously. ‘Roger Dawson, maybe?’
He smiled, but another word in her list had inevitably caught his attention. ‘Blackmail,’ he said slowly. ‘What do you mean? How could that be a motive?’
‘Oh, blackmailers very often get themselves murdered – in books that I’ve read, anyway. Blackmail is a very dangerous business. If the victim finds out who his blackmailer is, he can kill the blackmailer to protect himself. Self-preservation is a powerful motive for murder.’ Daphne talked on at great lengths about the other possible motives, but David was no longer listening. As soon as he could, he made his excuses and went to bed.
But not to sleep. He lay awake for hours as the enormity of the situation dawned on him. Mavis Conwell had been murdered. She’d been murdered by someone she knew, someone at St Anne’s. Someone she’d blackmailed. Gabriel. After his first visceral acknowledgement and simultaneous denial of the possibility, David thought about it logically. Gabriel could not have killed Mavis. He’d been at the vicarage when she was killed. He, David, had taken Mavis the last bag of money that had been delivered. Thank God for that, he thought. Thank God Gabe was out of it. Emily would be able to give him an alibi for the whole period. He’d been helping with the teas, with the clearing up. Any number of people would have seen him.
He had no difficulty in accepting instantly his instinctive feeling that Mavis had been Gabriel’s blackmailer. She had the essential self-righteous mind-set, he knew. That was all the motive necessary for the letter she’d sent – ridding St Anne’s of an impure, unworthy priest. She wouldn’t care that it was ancient history, that Gabriel was now a respectable and respected married man. If she’d found out . . . But how had she found out? Something nagged at his brain. It would come to him. She must have found out.
If she were blackmailing Gabriel, would she stop there? Or would she be blackmailing other people too? That must be the answer. She’d blackmailed someone else, and they’d killed her. He could imagine Mavis Conwell sitting over her typewriter, pouring out poisonous suggestions and self-righteous demands to those who had somehow offended her moral code. Someone else with a secret . . .
He�
��d almost made a fool of himself, he’d been so ready to accuse Miles Taylor of being the blackmailer, just because Peter Maitland had been a chorister at Selby. Clearly he had been wrong – it was a coincidence, nothing more than that. Mavis Conwell had been the blackmailer, and now she was dead.
Tomorrow. He must talk to Gabriel tomorrow. In the dark, he peered at the clock. Today.
CHAPTER 24
He shall deliver me from my strongest enemy, and from them which hate me: for they are too mighty for me.
Psalm 18.17
David looked out of his window at an overcast sky and decided not to go to early Mass. Instead he walked to the vicarage, arriving just after eight. Emily, dressed already in jeans and a striped shirt, answered the door. ‘Good morning, David. Is Mass over? Have you come for breakfast?’
‘I haven’t been to Mass,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve come to have a word with Gabriel. But I wouldn’t say no to breakfast.’
‘Come on in, then. Gabriel’s not back yet.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He might be delayed by the police. But I hope he won’t be too long – we’re going to St Albans later.’
‘Yes, of course. The children.’
‘I can’t wait to see them,’ she confided. ‘Come into the breakfast room, David. Would you like some cereal?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ He discovered, improbably, that he was very hungry.
‘And how about a boiled egg?’
‘That sounds delicious.’
‘We won’t wait for Gabriel. He can have his when he comes,’ Emily said, joining him.
When Gabriel arrived, nearly half an hour later, he was looking relaxed and happy; all the tension of the past day, of the past weeks, was dissipated. He greeted Emily with a kiss, and David with an open, friendly smile, then ate his breakfast heartily.
‘Are you coming with us to St Albans, David? We could take you to the Cathedral, if you’ve never been,’ he offered.
‘Oh, do come, David!’ Emily urged. ‘That would be great fun.’
‘I couldn’t possibly intrude on your family reunion,’ he protested, embarrassed.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Emily said fondly. ‘You’re practically one of the family.’
‘No, really. I couldn’t.’
‘Well, what can I do for you, then?’ Gabriel asked with good humour. ‘We want to leave by mid-morning, don’t we, darling?’
Emily nodded.
‘I’d like to speak to you,’ David replied awkwardly. ‘It’s . . . well, could we talk in your study?’
Gabriel looked puzzled, but not annoyed. ‘Of course. If you don’t mind, darling?’
‘Go right ahead, you two. Have your secret chat. But just don’t be too long about it!’ she said with a smile.
They went into the study and sat down. ‘Now, David, what’s this all about?’ Gabriel inquired genially.
David felt acutely uncomfortable. A woman was dead – why was Gabriel so cheerful? ‘About Mavis’s . . . death,’ he began.
Gabriel frowned. ‘What about it?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it. Has anything . . . struck you, Gabriel?’
Folding his hands on his desk, Gabriel looked at him and said formally, ‘I have just finished speaking to the police about Mrs Conwell’s death. It is their conclusion, based on the post-mortem examination and other evidence, that her death was . . . self-inflicted. That is to say, she hanged herself.’
David stared at him. ‘Hanged herself? But you don’t believe that, do you?’
‘What reason would I have to disbelieve the police?’
‘But surely . . . she was murdered? I mean, why on earth would Mavis kill herself?’
Gabriel spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘The police spent the day in the church yesterday. A great deal of evidence has come to light. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It would appear that Mrs Conwell had been . . . appropriating church funds for her own use . . . for some months. There have been some discrepancies that various people have noted, and a page has been removed from the current ledger book. Mrs Conwell’s fingerprints were found on the book.’
‘Mavis stealing money! But if it’s been going on all this time, why should she kill herself now?’
‘The Quinquennial Inspection is due to begin within the next few days. The police believe that she panicked and tried to cover her tracks, and when she realised that it wouldn’t work, and she was bound to be discovered, she couldn’t face the shame.’
‘Is that all the evidence they’ve got?’
‘Not at all. The sacristy door was locked, and the key was in Mrs Conwell’s pocket.’
‘But you know very well that doesn’t mean anything! The door can be locked from the outside as well as the inside, and according to Daphne, half the people at St Anne’s have got a key.’
Gabriel looked pained. ‘David, I do think you should let the police do their job. They have found no evidence at all to point to . . . murder. The position of the body, the lack of signs of a struggle – all perfectly consistent with suicide.’
David took a deep breath. ‘But you know better, don’t you?’ he said softly. ‘You know that she was . . . the blackmailer.’
Gabriel recoiled. ‘Are you suggesting that I killed her?’
‘No, of course not. I know that you were at the vicarage when she was . . . killed.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘That you weren’t the only one she was blackmailing. That she was playing a dangerous game, and it backfired on her. It all fits, Gabriel. And you believe it too.’ As he said it, David realised that there was no other explanation for Gabriel’s ebullient mood and behaviour: he believed that he was no longer in any danger.
Gabriel struggled for control. ‘The police are satisfied. They are not pursuing the case any further.’
‘Did you tell them about the blackmail letter?’ David demanded.
‘There was no need. It has nothing to do with . . .’
‘Bloody hell, Gabriel! It has everything to do with it! Mavis Conwell attempted to blackmail you!’
‘How can you be sure of that?’ Gabriel challenged him. ‘What proof do you have?’
‘No proof,’ admitted David, more quietly. ‘But it all fits. She had the motive – she hated . . . queers, and especially queer priests.’
Gabriel winced at the description. ‘Perhaps. But how would she have known about . . . Peter?’
‘I’m not sure,’ David began, then the thing he’d been trying to remember during the night came to him in a flash of memory. ‘Wait. She’s been to Brighton – I saw a souvenir ashtray in her house. Obviously she met someone in Brighton, somebody who knew Peter. That’s got to be it.’
‘Even if that were true,’ Gabriel said, ‘and I’m not saying it is, why does that mean she was murdered? She could have been the blackmailer, and committed suicide.’
So that was what he wanted to believe, David reflected. Gabriel, too, had come to the conclusion that she had been his blackmailer, but had convinced himself that that fact was irrelevant to her death. He thought about it for a long moment. ‘But Gabriel, if she killed herself over money, why couldn’t she have just taken some of the proceeds from the fête, before the money was counted? No one but Mavis knew how much was coming in. It was all there, I assume? All the fête money? It tallied with the ledger sheet?’
Gabriel looked at him. ‘There was no ledger sheet,’ he said guardedly. There was just over eighteen hundred pounds on the table.’
‘No ledger sheet?’ David tried to assimilate the implications of that statement. ‘But that means . . . that means that someone was in the sacristy after I left! The person who murdered Mavis Conwell!’
‘The police are satisfied,’ Gabriel repeated stubbornly. ‘Leave it, David. You can only cause problems by stirring up all these questions.’
David’s legal training, his strong sense of justice, asserted itself. ‘How can you ask me to leave it?’ His voice neared hysteria. ‘A member of your c
ongregation is dead. Another member of your congregation murdered her. Someone else she was blackmailing. Someone else with a secret to hide. I intend to find out who it was! With or without your cooperation! With or without your permission!’
Gabriel raised his voice for the first time. ‘The police are satisfied! The investigation is closed!’
‘I don’t give a damn about the police!’
‘Why don’t you go home now, David? Forget about it all!’
‘All you care about is your bloody reputation! You don’t care about justice, about the truth!’
Gabriel had regained his self-control. ‘The police are satisfied,’ he repeated in a soft, steely voice. ‘And would you please lower your voice? My wife might hear you.’
‘The police can go to hell. And you can go to hell, Father Neville!’
Emily paused outside the study door, about to offer the men coffee. Though she couldn’t hear their words, something in the quality of their voices made her hesitate. This was no friendly discussion, she realised. In spite of herself, she remained for a moment. Their voices were now raised in real anger, and several words resonated through the door: murder, police, secret, blackmail. Troubled, she retreated to the kitchen to puzzle about what she’d heard. Gabriel and David rowing. What did it all mean? Gabriel had been so . . . cheerful this morning. What could David have said to make him so angry?
After a few minutes she heard the front door slam. When there was no other sound, she went to investigate. The door to the study was open, and Gabriel was sitting, rigid, at his desk. His face was white and set, and his hand was clenched around the paperweight as though he were ready to hurl it through the window.
‘Gabriel, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’ she asked with concern, entering the study hesitantly.
‘Nothing,’ he replied evenly, relaxing his body with a great effort and replacing the paperweight on the desk. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘But David – he was shouting at you.’
He laughed tightly. ‘David tends to – overreact sometimes, that’s all. He thinks that Mavis Conwell was murdered.’
‘And was she?’
