The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) Read online

  Alistair Ingram was no longer standing before them. Clutching at his chest and tearing at his vestments, he sat heavily on the steps. The mother caught her son up in her arms. She turned his head into her shoulder, covering his face. Alistair slumped sideways. Faith realized that she was standing in the aisle, then she began to run towards the chancel steps.

  CHAPTER

  2

  IT STRUCK FAITH HOW DEATH is always startling, facing us with the greatest mystery: how the particular and the individual can vanish from this world so completely in a moment.

  The body behind the altar was almost definitely dead. Faith knew that instinctively. The servers were standing around him as if frozen.

  “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “I have some first aid training.”

  The blonde woman with the long hair was in the way. She was sitting on the floor beside the crumpled heap of robes, holding the fallen man’s hand and rocking slightly. Her hair covered her face. “It’s his heart. It must be his heart!” she repeated in a small, breathy voice. “Someone call an ambulance.”

  “Tim’s doing it,” mumbled Fred Partridge. His kindly face wore the fragmented look of shock as he stared helplessly to the rear of the nave, where the black father was using his mobile to phone for an ambulance, his small daughter clinging to his coat. He was stroking her glossy hair with his free hand.

  “We should try CPR. But I’ve never done it myself…” Fred trailed off.

  “I have.” Faith’s voice was firm and reassuring. No time to waste; there might still be a chance. She looked at the blonde woman clutching the dead man’s hand. “I need some space,” she said gently.

  Fred put a coaxing hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Jessica…Jessica, my dear – we need to give this lady room.”

  Faith swayed as she knelt down. She put her hand out to catch her balance. Her fingers sank into the sodden purple cloth. She felt for a pulse. There was none. Alistair Ingram was gone. A bitter memory surged up of the last time she had struggled to resuscitate a human life. It was never pleasant. Alistair Ingram was staring at something a long way beyond her. She lowered her face to the strangely plastic skin. She registered a peculiar smell. Cleaning fluid? No. That wasn’t quite right. There was something odd about his lips. She looked closer – the soft tissue was swollen, irritated. His eyelids and nostrils were red-rimmed too. The smell filled her own nostrils, undeniable and acrid. It was present in the dark spreading stain dripping down the purple cloth. She was overwhelmed by a primitive intuition that she should not try oral resuscitation. Instead, she positioned herself over Ingram’s solar plexus, one hand on top of the other. She began the rhythmic compressions.

  “This isn’t right,” she heard herself say. She met Fred’s worried gaze. “I think someone should call the police.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pat Montesque’s voice intruded from beyond the barrier of stained cloth. Her upper half came into view over the plane of the altar.

  “The police? It was his heart. He had trouble with his heart. He needs a doctor, not the police.”

  Faith was distracted as she continued to compress Ingram’s chest. Her eyes searched out the glass cruet set standing on the side table. She wanted to go over and examine it, but it wouldn’t do to draw attention just yet. That wasn’t her role any more.

  “I am afraid he is gone, Pat,” Faith said, standing up. “And I really must insist we call the police.”

  A siren was heard in the distance. The ambulance came. The paramedics went through the motions of trying to revive Alistair Ingram. They too noted the irritation in his mouth, and used a plastic respirator. But it was no use and they knew it. The team leader, a solid man with cautious eyes, nodded when Faith said that the police were on their way.

  A uniformed policeman arrived and asked everyone to stay until they had given their names and addresses. Winchester CID was sending a detective inspector out; if everybody would please wait in the body of the church.

  Winchester CID. It wouldn’t be; it couldn’t be…

  Fred and Elsie were organizing tea and biscuits at the back of the church.

  “Sugar. That’s the thing for shock,” said Elsie. “And tea’s always a comfort.”

  Through the open door, they saw an unmarked car draw up outside. Faith followed Fred out towards the gate. She didn’t think she would be, but perhaps she was in shock. Each step seemed delayed before it registered in her brain. The car windows were tinted so she couldn’t see the driver clearly. She held her breath.

  A plain clothes policeman got out of the car. He was in his late twenties, tall and sandy-haired with hazel eyes. He walked up the path towards Fred and Faith.

  “I hear there’s been an accident,” he said calmly, flipping out his warrant card. He shook hands with Fred. He looked a little rumpled, and his nose and cheeks had a blush of sunburn. He had a grass stain on his cuff. He caught Faith’s look, and pulled his jacket sleeve down.

  “Playing cricket with the kids,” he explained. “It being Sunday and all…” he paused, flushing. Faith couldn’t help smiling at him.

  “Sergeant Peter Gray, ma’am.”

  “Faith Morgan. But I’m just a weekend visitor – Mr Partridge here is one of the churchwardens.” They walked towards the church. “Sergeant, you say?”

  “Yes. The boss is just behind me.”

  She swivelled round. And there he was, striding up the path towards her – Ben. He hadn’t changed. Six foot something, dark-haired and determined with those gem-blue eyes.

  “This is Detective Inspector Shorter,” introduced Sergeant Gray. “Mr Partridge and – is it Ms or Mrs? – Morgan.”

  “Faith!” Both Sergeant Gray and Fred Partridge registered the recognition in the voice. “I don’t suppose Faith Morgan answers to either, sergeant,” Ben said. Leaving the startled pair standing, he grasped Faith’s elbow and steered her off the path, out of earshot.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. No preamble. Abrupt as ever. It was so typical, it was almost comforting – although being alone with him was the last thing she needed. “Just had to see me, eh?” He dropped his voice, suddenly teasing, intimate.

  To her irritation, her hand rose of its own accord to brush back her hair. “I was invited to look at the parish. Nothing serious – I may be thinking of moving.”

  Too much information. She was babbling. She waved her hand towards the church. “And then this happened.”

  Ben reached out and caught her wrist. She stared at her hand. His large thumb lay alongside her palm. She could feel the warmth and strength of his encircling fingers. Ben reached in his pocket and brought out a paper handkerchief. She realized that her skin was stained with blood-red wine. It must have happened when she’d steadied herself by the altar. He spat on the paper and rubbed the stain away.

  “Couldn’t resist touching the body, eh?”

  “I had to check for a pulse.”

  He raised a single eyebrow and released her.

  “You’ll be wanting to get inside and investigate,” she said.

  He looked at her as though they were suddenly strangers.

  “Right you are.” Turning on his heel, he strode back over to where Sergeant Gray and Fred were standing.

  “So, sergeant, where’s the body?”

  Ben straightened up from his inspection of the remains of Alistair Ingram. His eyes scanned the stained altar cloth and the floor scattered with the debris of tape and torn packaging left by the paramedics. Faith couldn’t justify to herself why, but she had been pulled along in his wake. Watching him, she could almost see the filing system at work in his head. Ben had a photographic memory for these things.

  “A heart attack, is it?” he said to no one in particular.

  The chalice was back on the altar. A half-moon stain flared out from its pedestal.

  “That’s what he’d just drunk from when he was taken ill?” He leaned down to sniff at it.

  “There’s an odd smel
l to it,” said Faith.

  Ben looked at her without expression. She almost flinched.

  “Isn’t there, though? What…”

  Faith crossed over to the side table.

  “…do they fill it from?”

  Faith gestured to the glass decanter like a magician’s assistant without touching it.

  He half-smiled. “Right.”

  Ben walked up and bent over the table with his hands behind his back. He was wearing latex gloves. Faith focused on the wine in the decanter but the light was too dim; it just looked like wine. Ben leaned in and sniffed the stopper. The position showed off his long legs and strong torso. It reminded her of other times. He tilted his head to look at her quizzically, and straightened up.

  “Where have SOCO got to?”

  “Scene of crime are on their way, boss,” Sergeant Gray answered. “Been held up on another job.”

  “There’s a surprise.”

  “Don’t look at me, boss. Just one of those days. And the PC says he has all the names and addresses.”

  Ben glanced at the congregation sitting in a bunch halfway up the nave, watching him.

  “Send them home. We’ll find them later if need be.”

  Sergeant Gray loped off. Faith turned to follow him.

  She could feel Ben’s eyes on her. Without meaning to, she glanced back, turning from the waist. He was looking at the line of her back. He used to say he loved those two dimples either side of her spine just where the…

  “What are the chances, eh?” he said, glancing at the altar. “The tabloids are going to love this one. Right during the Eucharist. Makes you wonder what the vicar did to annoy the big boss,”

  “Now’s not the time for jokes,” Faith said. He met her frown with a cynical look. She knew he was trying to rile her.

  “What? He’s going to strike me down?”

  “I should be so lucky,” she murmured, keeping her voice low. Sergeant Gray was walking back up the aisle towards them. He glanced back and forth between them, obviously curious.

  “Someone mentioned there’s a son, sir. Don Ingram – a student at Southampton University; he may be up for the vac,” he said. “Pat Montesque, she’s a churchwarden, she said she’d tell him, but I wondered if you’d prefer one of us to do it?”

  Ben nodded. “You do it. But clear the rest of the civilians out of here first. There’s no chance of uncontaminated evidence, but we’d better go through the motions.”

  “Oh, and I’ve spoken to the bishop, sir. He’s sending the rural dean down, but he can’t get here for another hour.”

  Ben looked amused.

  “And the bishop asked me to tell you, ma’am,” continued the sergeant, “that if you are up to it, he and his wife would still like you to come to lunch. When you’re ready.”

  Lunch with the bishop! It had completely slipped her mind. The plans made up to that morning seemed unsubstantial and unreal. She was going to slip into the service at Little Worthy on a little side-trip of nostalgia; go on to the bishop’s house, eat lunch, exchange a bit of church gossip and tell him politely that she didn’t think she’d suit a rural parish. That had been the plan, hadn’t it? The safest choice…

  “Thank you, sergeant. I’d better give the bishop a ring.”

  Where was her mobile? In her bag. Her bag; she must have left it under the pew.

  She’d have to go, of course. For one thing, the bishop would need briefing on what had happened as soon as possible, and since the rural dean was held up…

  Faith’s head was buzzing. At least that was over. She had met Ben again and survived. She had the perfect excuse to leave gracefully. He had said he wanted all civilians out. That had been aimed at her, of course.

  “How about you accompany my sergeant?” Ben’s voice stopped her as she picked up her bag from beneath the pew where she had been sitting.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I would be grateful, ma’am, if you would accompany my sergeant to inform Don Ingram of his father’s demise,” he said, with exaggerated formality. “It’s only just gone noon. Since the bishop says he can wait for lunch, I’m sure the victim’s son would appreciate the support of someone from the God Squad,” he added crudely, walking her towards the door. She focused her fury through her eyes; if only she could singe him, just a little! He was wearing his blandest expression.

  Sergeant Gray frowned at his superior, looking perplexed.

  “Hasn’t she mentioned, sergeant? Ms Morgan is a vicar. One of the ordained,” Ben emphasized the word. “She’s a card-carrying professional at the touchy-feely stuff.’

  Sergeant Gray shrugged and walked out ahead of them. Ben stood back to let Faith pass through the door before him. She felt his breath on her ear as she walked out into the sunshine.

  “Must be embarrassing for you.” His voice was low. “Have a man check out while you’re busy eyeing up his job. Tut-tut, Fay…”

  His use of his pet name for her made her stomach flip. It caught her by surprise. His eyes were twinkling. She froze him with a look and left him barking orders at the scene of crime officers lugging their equipment up the path. Pat Montesque was holding court among a small clutch of the congregation who’d been marshalled around her.

  Faith headed off down the gravel that led round the back of the church.

  “This way, sergeant,” she said over her shoulder. “This is the short cut to the vicarage.”

  They passed the grey wall with its mantle of clematis.

  “Any instructions on how you want to handle this, sergeant?”

  “Call me Peter.” His expression was boyishly engaging. Faith couldn’t help smiling back.

  “If you’ll call me Faith. So – Peter – no one mentioned a wife; is there one?”

  “Mr Ingram was a widower. Wife died a few years back. There’s just the one son.”

  “I think I may have seen him just before the service,” said Faith slowly, visualizing the dark-haired youth in the striped shirt. She almost added “…and I suspect they may have been quarrelling,” but she stopped herself. Time enough for that later, if need be.

  “You’ve known the boss long?” Peter asked.

  She looked hard at the chestnut pony still chewing away in the field of weeds.

  “Some time.”

  Peter nodded to himself.

  The overgrown path turned in front of the side door and wound through some lime trees. They came to the back door of the vicarage. Don Ingram was at the kitchen window drinking from a mug. He saw them and looked irritated. He called out through the open window.

  “If you’re looking for the vicar, he’s at church. It is Sunday, you know.”

  Faith sighed. This sort of thing was never easy – however much you trained for it.

  “Mr Donald Ingram?”

  He nodded impatiently; a posturing boy. Peter looked to Faith.

  “There’s been an accident at the church,” she said gently. “This is Sergeant Peter Gray and my name is Faith Morgan. Can we come in?”

  Don opened the door. There was a flight of three steps down to the garden. He stood in the doorway and looked down on them.

  “What accident?”

  Hadn’t he heard the sirens? Faith wondered.

  “I am afraid your father was taken ill during the service,” she said. “I was there. It looked like a heart attack…”

  Peter took over. “I am sorry to have to inform you, sir, but your father has passed away.” He handed Don his card.

  Don’s face didn’t change. They were only words after all.

  “I am very sorry for your loss,” Faith said.

  Don stepped aside. “I suppose you’d better come in, then.”

  As she followed Peter in, Faith noticed a pretty Georgian salt box with satinwood banding hanging behind the door. The lid was open. It had been converted into a key store. That’s a shame, she thought. But then, who needs that much salt these days?

  It was a large kitchen. The country-style fitted
cabinets stood well back from a massive scrubbed pine table.

  “Should I offer you coffee or something?” Don said, looking at Peter’s card.

  “Shall I make some?” offered Faith. What was it about making tea and coffee in a crisis?

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” Peter said, producing a form from the document case he carried. “There are just a few details…”

  Date of birth, place of birth, the leaflet on Sudden Death – Faith knew the routine too well. The tramlines officialdom imposed to cross the unknowable mystery of death.

  “Where is he?” Don asked, staring out of the window once more, his back to them.

  “He’s being taken to the Winchester Royal.” Peter’s tone was professionally inoffensive. “The churchwarden, Mr Partridge, is with him – and another church member. A Mrs Jessica Rose.”

  “Of course!” Don snorted, then paused. “Was…Were they there with him when he…”

  “We all were,” Faith responded, her heart going out to him. “Well, not Sergeant Gray. Your father was taken ill very suddenly during the service. It was very quick.”

  Don took a deep breath. He looked particularly young for a moment.

  “I’d better get to the hospital, then.”

  “We can get someone to take you. Would you like us to fetch someone? Someone to be with you?” Faith asked.

  “One of those old church biddies you mean? No!” He paused again, and turned to them. “No. I’ll call a friend…” The words dried up and his mouth twisted. “We can make our own way to the hospital. I have a car.”

  He swung about abruptly. Faith watched him silhouetted against the window, his mobile to his ear.

  “Hi. It’s me. Look. Something’s happened. Can you come over? Bad? Yeah. You could say that.” A long pause. “Dad’s dead…OK.”

  He put the phone down and leaned with both hands on the counter, arms rigid from the shoulder. His head dropped down.

  Faith was overwhelmed with compassion. It propelled her across the room. She put a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t crying. She felt as much as heard his shallow breathing. He didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then he shook her off.