The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 19

  She pressed herself back in her chair to get away from him. She wanted to close her eyes, shut him and what he was saying out. But she kept her eyes open. Jim had risked the life of his child for his addiction. The worst crime in Ben Shorter’s book. Of course, neither Ben nor she had ever experienced the grip of an addiction. They didn’t really know what it might be like, but in Ben’s world that wasn’t the point. A proper man protected his family. She swallowed.

  “That’s terrible. But it was eight years ago. Jim Postlethwaite served his time. He’s worked hard to get his life back together. He was doing a good job with those kids in the choir.”

  Ben stood up. The energy of his movement and the chair legs scraping against the floor made her start. He strode away from her and leaned against the wall, his arms folded around his chest as if to contain his irritation.

  “You know the statistics. Once a user…”

  “And you don’t believe in redemption,” she commented sadly, more to herself than him. He answered her anyway.

  “No. I live in the real world.” And there they were, on opposite sides of the room again.

  “You didn’t have to make that call,” she said.

  He stared at her, unflinching. “You were the one who brought in Sebastian Keep. That’s how it came up. Mr Postlethwaite and he were cellmates. So you could say it was your fault. Consequences, Fay. You can’t control them.”

  Faith blinked. He wasn’t just talking about this situation, right now.

  “Unlike you, I don’t buy the redeemed sinner act,” Ben went on. “Your Jim endangered his family and betrayed them for his drug of choice. Being an addict is part of a person’s character; you don’t change that. You say eight years is enough to change a man? He owes a lot more than that.”

  She stood up to face him on more equal terms.

  “Your job is to be an investigator, not an avenger, Ben. Tell me this. Are you seriously considering Jim Postlethwaite as Lucas Bagshaw’s murderer?”

  “He says he was running a music workshop at the cathedral from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. that Saturday, followed by a rehearsal in the chapter house,” Ben said glibly.

  “So there will be witnesses to that.”

  “A number of God-fearing types say they saw him there, but then they broke up into groups for some sessions. We haven’t finished tracking him through those.”

  “In other words, you know he didn’t do it, but you’re still going to hound him?”

  “I’m an investigator. I investigate.”

  They glared at one another across that hideous, lightless little room.

  “Shame on you, Ben Shorter,” she said.

  Banjo had silky soft ears covered with the most delightful silver-grey fur, blending to charcoal tips.

  “He likes his ears rubbed. He’s a lovely boy.” Ms Whittle, Banjo’s fond owner, was maybe in her early seventies, all sinew and leathery skin contrasting with clear, innocent eyes. Her hair was cut in a wispy grey bob, held back from her face with grips like a child from the 1930s. Somehow, from their first phone call and introduction, Faith had imagined the animal sanctuary as a place of ramshackle charm barely held together by an eccentric enthusiast. The reality was much more shipshape. Ms Whittle’s various charges were housed in a large nineteenth-century barn that had been fitted with pens and stables. Ms Whittle must have a substantial private income. She evidently expended a good deal of it on the care of her animals.

  Ms Whittle’s reddened hands with their prominent knuckles ran over the donkey’s flank. Banjo sighed and gave Faith a look of pure lordly contentment.

  “So can Banjo take part in our pageant?” she asked.

  “He won’t want to do it alone,” Joy Whittle said anxiously. “He’ll want a friendly face beside him. I’ll need to be there too.”

  “But of course!”

  Ms Whittle gave Banjo’s neck a couple of slaps. “He’ll enjoy it, won’t you? He’s a very smart boy. Banjo likes an outing.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  They discussed fees (surprisingly moderate) and transport and timings. In half an hour, Faith’s donkey doom had been vanquished. She had the final principal of the pageant in place – or at least, she would have had, if Mary hadn’t decided to drop out in favour of a trip to Wales to celebrate her engagement. Faith pushed that problem aside for the time being, permitting herself to enjoy her brief moment of triumph. Ms Whittle offered a mug of tea to celebrate and went off to the tack room to brew it.

  There remained the disaster with the choir to be dealt with. Small mercy that Pat hadn’t answered her phone when Faith rang to deliver the bad news about Jim Postlethwaite. She avoided details of course, only mentioning unforeseen circumstances. With Fred she’d been a little more candid. He had said he would discuss with Pat the possibility of recorded music. Faith could just imagine the sour turn of her face at that suggestion.

  Faith heard a female voice murmuring from a pen down the far end of the barn. She couldn’t make out the words. She wandered over to investigate. She leaned on the chest-high wooden partition. Looking down, she saw familiar golden curls. There, crouched in the straw, was Anna Hope, crooning as she scratched the back of a pygmy pot-bellied pig.

  “Anna! What on earth are you doing here?” You had to give credit to the facial control of the average teenager. Anna’s expression didn’t flicker at the sight of Faith.

  “I’m always here Monday afternoons.”

  “I thought you worked at the florist shop?”

  “Monday’s my day off. Ms Whittle lets me volunteer here. I love the animals. This is Brandy. Sherry’s asleep over there.” She indicated a small dark mound curled up in a corner of straw. “So, have you got Banjo sorted out?”

  “It was you who gave Jim the contact?” Anna tossed her curls in acknowledgment. “Thank you so much. Banjo is going to be perfect for our pageant.”

  “He’s a smart boy,” Anna echoed her mentor. “He’ll enjoy it.”

  “I was at the police station earlier. Are you OK?”

  Anna shrugged. Brandy jerked up her head and trotted off on tiny trotters to the water trough. She dipped her pink snout and began to guzzle up water noisily. Anna stood and leaned on the partition a little further down, facing away from Faith.

  “The police say I sent a text to Lucas that Saturday, asking him to meet me at that bridge.”

  “The one down the path from the Lion’s Heart car park?”

  Anna nodded. “But I didn’t. I told them, I was shopping with a couple of friends; we were in town until seven. They back me up – and anyway, I didn’t have my phone.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I lost it – I couldn’t find it when I finished work Saturday lunchtime.”

  “So you’ve had to replace your phone, then?”

  Anna shook her head. “I got it back. The cleaner, she found it in the cuttings on the floor that Monday. It’s really busy at the shop at weekends. I must have knocked it off the counter – it’s only small.”

  A lost phone – that sounded a bit convenient.

  “So you got it back when you went to work on Monday, the day they found Lucas?” Faith was distracted by a passing wisp of thought, the hint of a broken connection. She couldn’t pin it down, but a more serious thought overwhelmed it.

  “No. Like I said. I don’t work at the shop on Mondays – that’s why I’m here,” Anna insisted. “V’s mum gave it to him, and he brought it back and gave it to me at choir that evening.”

  Who had the most obvious opportunity to lift Anna’s phone and return it without raising suspicion? The very person who gave it back to her: Vernon, the solicitous boyfriend. And Vernon’s alibi rested solely on the testimony of his mother. Faith could readily believe that Mavis would lie for her son.

  Was she back to her old speculation, that Lucas’s death was a consequence of a territorial dispute over Anna? She thought of Vernon’s emotion when she overheard him and his father outside the police station: “
Anna and Luke, they’re the nearest thing I ever had to family.”

  Unless Vernon had the lying skills of a psychopath, it just didn’t fit. Could there have been something else at stake between Vernon and Lucas?

  “Did Lucas ever talk to you about his father?” she asked. Anna dipped her head, her curls falling forward in a curtain over her face.

  “He didn’t know who he was.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Anna shrugged. She spun around and leaned on the partition facing out of the barn.

  “He had a secret – well, sort of. More like a project. He didn’t talk about it much. He was very loyal, Lucas.” Faith heard Adam’s voice, talking to her in her kitchen, in her head: “Sometime during the summer… He started asking more questions.”

  “Do you think Vernon knew what it was?” Anna shrugged again.

  “Could be. They were close, almost like brothers.” She slipped Faith an odd side-glance. Faith couldn’t quite interpret it. But there it was – that family thing again.

  “I meant to ask you – just this last Saturday, did you sell a bouquet at the florist shop – a combination of narcissus, pussy willow, heather sprigs, twisted willow…”

  “Maybe, yeah. It was a busy day, like I said.”

  “Do you remember who you sold it to?”

  “Nope, why would I?”

  Anna’s posture changed. Her head lifted. Faith thought she detected an anticipatory stillness. Anna wasn’t looking at her.

  “Hi,” she greeted someone. A soft voice spoke from behind Faith.

  “Vicar – what are you doing here?” Faith swung round. Vernon Granger was standing in the barn. Anna skipped around the partition and went over to him. He put his arm around her protectively. She smiled up at him.

  “I came to arrange for Banjo the donkey to take part in our church pageant,” Faith answered Vernon. “I hadn’t realized that Anna worked here.”

  “Yeah. Loves it; don’t you?” His wrapping arm squeezed the Dot gently, his expression loving. If a human could purr, Anna did then.

  Faith was nonplussed. Neither of them remotely looked as if they might be capable of murder.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Sometimes she wondered how she would ever make it through that week. There seemed to be fewer and fewer hours of blessed sleep in her bed at night as she struggled on from task to task: from writing service sheets to sermons, to rehearsal, to clearing up, to service, to meeting, to carol singing, to cleaning up and back again. The keys she cut for Ruth turned out to be a blessing. She and her sister hadn’t actually set eyes on one another since Faith’s Monday morning visit to the council offices, but a tree appeared in her front room at the vicarage.

  At five-thirty in the morning of Friday, 23 December, Faith stood in her dressing gown sipping her mug of tea, admiring it. The Christmas presents she finished wrapping at one o’clock that morning adorned the foot. The tree had lights and baubles and smelled like Christmas. The Beast, who had been taking an early breakfast in the kitchen, padded through to investigate. He reared up on his back paws, bracing himself on paper-wrapped parcels that crinkled beneath his feet, and sniffed the canopy.

  “Yes. I like the smell of pine needles too,” she said.

  The Beast took a quick bat at a low-hanging bauble. She went over and re-hung it out of his reach. Christmas was nearly here.

  The supermarket opened early to accommodate the rush of frantic shoppers. Faith was at the doors at 7:30 a.m, realizing that she had forgotten several items in the list she’d sent to her sister, including both chipolatas and turkey foil. She hurried up and down the aisles, claiming the last rather sad-looking packet of Christmas crackers as well.

  Her mind followed another path entirely – the pageant tomorrow. Everything was in place except for Mary, and Joseph’s robe. She hoped Sue might have the solution to the missing robe dilemma, and as for Mary – worse come to worst, one of them would have to fill in. They would be meeting up at the Salvation Army centre in town later to help with the Christmas lunch – they could figure it out then.

  Faith almost crashed into an oncoming cart.

  “Hi, Faith, you’re out early.” Oliver Markham beamed down at her. His wife, Julie, was beside him. They looked domesticated and relaxed. She felt her face light up in a responding smile.

  “It’s the only way to survive this time of year.”

  “I hear you,” Julie returned with feeling. “I love the actual celebrations, but isn’t it hard work until you get there?”

  “So, how are you both?”

  Julie threaded her arm through her husband’s. “We’re expecting again,” she announced. She looked happy.

  “How wonderful! Many congratulations,” Faith exclaimed. As she spoke, the obvious smacked her between the eyes. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? “Julie, I don’t suppose, by any chance… You know Oliver is playing Joseph in our pageant tomorrow? You couldn’t bear to dress up as Mary, could you? You don’t have any dialogue, and we have a charming donkey. He’s called Banjo…”

  “But why are we setting off so early?” Pat complained, as she settled herself into the passenger seat, her tartan shopping bag containing her apron and rubber gloves on her knees. “Surely we are not expected at the Salvation Army until eleven?”

  “I have a stop to make on the way,” Faith replied.

  Fifteen minutes later she drew up in the drive at 5, Benson’s Close, The Hollies. Pat peered out at the anonymous semi, a frown on her face.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Calling on a friend. Won’t you come in? I’ll introduce you. It may take a moment, and it is going to be cold sitting in the car out here.” Grumbling under her breath, Pat hauled herself out of the car and inched her way carefully up the icy drive.

  Faith mentally crossed her fingers as she rang the doorbell. To her relief, Adam answered the door both dressed and quite sober. They had only ever met when he was drunk or suffering from a hangover. She wondered briefly if he would remember who she was. She needn’t have worried.

  “Faith!” He actually seemed pleased to see her.

  “I’ve come for a visit,” she said with a smile. “This is my friend, Pat Montesque. We were passing and I thought we’d drop by to see how you are doing.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pat stiffen with suspicion. “Pat, this is Adam Bagshaw. I don’t think you have ever met?” For a moment she wondered if Pat was going to resist. So she didn’t look back as Adam invited them in. Pat followed. Faith heard her mutter something about “Sorry for your loss.”

  The carpet had been vacuumed since Faith’s last visit. The cardboard box of debris had been cleared away. Pat was looking about the room. She spotted the whatnot in the corner with Trisha’s treasures and photographs on it.

  “I remember that Neapolitan cart,” she said. She cast a glance at Faith. “That belonged to Marjorie Davis.”

  A pleased smile blossomed on Adam’s face.

  “I remember Marjorie – what a lovely lady! Is she well? Trish was so fond of her. She gave Trish that as a memento, a thank-you for nursing Mrs Davis after her accident. All these are gifts from Trisha’s ladies.” He waved a hand at the little silver clock, the fairyland bowl and the rest. Pat stared belligerently at him a moment.

  “Marjorie is very well, thank you,” she said at last. “She mentioned you the other day,” she added. Her attention shifted to the ironing board set up by the kitchen counter.

  “You iron your own shirts?” Pat demanded.

  “Army training,” he explained.

  “You’re an army man?”

  “I was. Served in the Signal Corps.” Pat gave a brisk little nod. She composed her limbs neatly and sat down in the leather chair, watching the pair of them attentively.

  “So how are you doing? Are you eating all right?” Faith enquired. Adam nodded.

  “I’ve been to the Citizens’ Advice, like you suggested,” he answered. “They’ve given me an adviser. He say
s he can help me apply for benefits; I might even be able to stay on here.”

  “That is good news.”

  “Aren’t you looking for a job, young man?” interjected Pat severely.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Adam responded. Pat contemplated him with pursed lips for a moment.

  “You can call me Pat.”

  Faith smiled privately to herself. Maybe this could work.

  “We’re on our way to help at the Salvation Army Christmas lunch,” she explained.

  “Why don’t you come along with us?” Pat piped up unexpectedly. “Come and help someone more unfortunate than yourself. It’ll do you a lot more good than sitting alone brooding.”

  What had she done? Faith thought, amused. Adam Bagshaw didn’t stand a chance.

  The Salvation Army centre was little more than a large shed with a catering kitchen, an office, and bathrooms attached. Sue had arrived before them. Together with the other volunteers, they set up folding tables covered with red paper tablecloths, laid cutlery and Christmas crackers, prepared food and decorations. The atmosphere was convivial. Adam proved a dab hand at peeling potatoes. Faith watched Pat in her apron, supervising as she chopped carrots beside him.

  “Hello, Faith!” Sue stood nearby with her arms full of bunting. She jerked her head at a ladder alongside her. “Do you mind? You know I have no head for heights.”

  Sue held the ladder as they moved around the room, Faith clambering up to fix the decorations as they went.

  “I meant to tell you, Faith, the Joseph costume isn’t in the trunk with the others.”

  “You know where it is?” Faith asked eagerly, glancing down from the top of her ladder.

  “My Em borrowed it for her school’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar, earlier in the term. She’s bringing it back this afternoon. We’ll have it ready for tomorrow, don’t worry.” Faith executed a victory wiggle on the top rung.