The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Read online

  As they completed the decorations and returned the ladder to the store room, Faith examined Sue’s face. She didn’t seem to be her usual bubbly self.

  “What’s up?” she asked. Sue glanced over to the main entrance where a straggle of early birds had just come through the door.

  “Can we have a word later?”

  After that, it got so busy, the lunch passed in a blur. Faith helped at the serving table with Adam and Pat. She saw the MP arrive with reporters and a group of local business people. The Right Honourable Philippa Fawcett had done well. She had brought some of Winchester’s most successful and wealthiest entrepreneurs – Neil and Mavis Granger among them. Camera bulbs flashed as Mrs Fawcett made a short speech and took interviews. The VIPs spent fifteen minutes perched next to suitably deserving-looking lunchers having their photographs taken. The guests were remarkably gracious about it. Another flurry of photographs followed when the visitors handed over a cheque to Gerry, the centre manager.

  As the group of VIPs prepared to leave, their good deed accomplished, Faith noticed that Adam, standing beside her in the line, had stopped serving. He stood quite still, staring across the room with an odd, distant intensity. She followed his eyeline to the dispersing group of entrepreneurs. The red of the paper tablecloths made her think of the red amaryllis at the heart of that bouquet on the bridge. Lucas’s mystery father must be wealthy, and Ben and she had agreed he was probably local… She glanced back to Adam, piling roast potatoes on to plates again, his head down.

  Faith finally caught up with Sue over the washing-up. The Salvation Army building had two sinks, and they were assigned to the one in the cramped janitor’s closet. It was quite private there.

  “So what’s up?” Faith asked, plunging her rubber-gloved hands into the near-boiling water. Sue sighed. She looked really worried.

  “Did you see the Grangers?” she asked.

  “Yes. Good photo-op, huh?”

  Sue took a deep breath. “It’s about the murder. Well – I am hoping it isn’t, but it might be.” Sue’s dear, kind face was sad. Faith had never seen her this troubled before.

  “Come on. Spit it out.”

  “It’s about Vernon Granger. His mother made a point of telling – she made it quite clear – that he was at home with her that awful Saturday when Lucas died?”

  Faith recalled Mavis saying the same thing to her. “Yes?”

  “It just didn’t register with me; I didn’t know the details but… Em reminded me – she’s talked quite a lot about Lucas. He didn’t often make it into school, but they got on well when he showed up. She liked him. Anyway, Em and I, we went into town shopping that Saturday afternoon and we saw him.”

  “Lucas?”

  “No,” said Sue softly, “Vernon Granger. On a bus, coming out of Winchester.”

  “What time?”

  “Five o’clock – or maybe just before.” So Vernon didn’t have an alibi for the murder after all.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. We’ve known Vernon for years.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “I spoke to Peter before I came here. He’s asked me to come in to the station to make a statement this afternoon. Will you come with me?” Sue pleaded.

  “Of course I will.”

  So Faith found herself back in Room 315. Peter and Sue had gone off with a WPC to an exam room to take down Sue’s statement. Ben was shuffling paper at a desk in his shirtsleeves. He barely looked up at Faith. She recognized the focus from when they were together. Little else mattered to him at the moment.

  “What will this mean?” she asked him. He kept writing.

  “We’ve found CCTV to support what your friend says – it wasn’t hard after we knew where to look. I’ve sent a team to pick the kid up.”

  Faith recalled her last memory of Vernon with his arm around Anna, their affection for one another so plain on their faces. “Do you really think this is right?” Ben ran a hand through his thick dark hair. She caught a mere flash of his intense blue eyes.

  “Gotta go where the evidence takes you.”

  “His parents have just been at the Salvation Army lunch. They only called in for a short time. They’re probably back home by now.”

  He grunted. She tried again. “Did you ever track down the travelling barman?”

  “We did.”

  “And…?” Ben tilted his head fractionally. His eyes remained focused on his papers, checking through them at speed. She persisted. “You might not have known about him if I hadn’t put you on his track,” she wheedled. At last, he looked up at her. She’d expected hostility after the way they’d parted last time, but to her surprise his expression was wary, if anything.

  “We found him; contacted him via his Facebook page. He had moved on to Australia. The Brisbane police got him on Skype for us. He says he saw Lucas at the Lion’s Heart that Saturday afternoon around 4 p.m.”

  “Did they speak?”

  “Briefly. According to him, Lucas was looking for someone. He had the impression – but only the impression; he had nothing concrete to back it up – that Lucas was meeting a woman, a girlfriend.”

  “And you think that was Anna? Because of the text from her phone?”

  Ben gave her his I’m-not-going-to-answer-that look. She examined his familiar face; his stubborn chin with its five o’clock shadow, his imposing nose and bright eyes; eyes that were narrowing fractionally…

  She blinked. “I can’t help thinking that the burglary at the Granger house this June figures in all this somehow,” she said hurriedly.

  “Really?” Ben stretched across his desk and selected a file. He flipped it open, tilting it so she could see. It was the Granger burglary file. She moved in to perch on the edge of his desk.

  “So what have we got?” she asked.

  Ben flicked up the edge of a page to remind himself, but he seemed to have the pertinent details in his head.

  “According to her statement, Mrs Mavis Granger returned home from a walk with her dogs to find the French windows leading to her husband’s study broken. The study sticks out in a sort of extension,” he explained. “It’s a private corner in relation to the rest of the house, not overlooked.”

  “Mavis Granger called it a crime of opportunity – she said the thief was an amateur who took his chance. Did he get into the rest of the house?”

  “No. Just the study. The inner door was locked. Superficial damage, apart from the desk drawers being forced.” Ben drew out a photograph of the scene. Papers were scattered on the floor. “Whoever it was didn’t take a high-end laptop computer. And there were a couple of expensive pictures on the walls – also untouched.”

  “Fingerprints?” asked Faith.

  “Only household, but most people know to wear gloves.”

  “Surely not if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  Ben shrugged, and she saw a flicker of irritation.

  “So, what was taken?” she asked. He handed her a list. Much as Mavis had said; small portable items in silver and gold; a gold Rolex watch; a few heirlooms.

  “Did anything ever turn up?”

  “No. Apparently Robbery checked the usual pawn and resale sites – but you know that’s all just a shot in the dark.”

  Faith leaned over and picked up the sheaf of crime scene photos. She shuffled through them and stopped at a wider shot of the study showing the floor running up to the French doors.

  “What’s that on the floor – a silver cup?” She looked more closely. “It’s been crushed.” She checked the list. There was notation at the bottom. “But it wasn’t before. Looks like the thief stamped on it. Why do that?”

  “Maybe he got scared and did it in the hurry to get out.”

  “Makes you wonder.”

  Ben bent over the pictures on her lap. She could smell the shampoo he used.

  “‘Chased silver christening cup,’” she read to distract herself, “‘circa 1765; engraved to Neil Edward Granger.�
�� The insurance value was £1,000. Looks expensive too – it’s the first thing I’d take.”

  “Good point,” said Ben.

  From her perch she was looking down on him. He leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face. She looked down at the papers.

  “Where was Neil Granger at this time?”

  “On a business trip in Norway and Denmark.”

  “Confirmed?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “The neighbours are too far away to hear anything. The domestic help had left for the day. The son, Vernon, was up in his room at the opposite end of the house and didn’t hear anything.”

  “Is that feasible?”

  Ben nodded. “You should see the house. Mansions of the rich and famous… What?”

  Faith stared at the picture in her hands. It showed Neil Granger’s trashed desk and behind it, a section of bookshelf. On the shelf, just to the left of where Neil Granger’s head would be, were he sitting at that desk, sat a small white sculpture maybe six inches high, a stylized mother and child in flowing lines.

  “I’ve seen this piece before.”

  “Where?”

  She looked into his bright, intelligent eyes, frowning as she tried to make sense of it.

  “On the Bagshaw’s mantelpiece in The Hollies.” She heard a noise in the corridor behind her and looked over her shoulder. Peter had returned with a subdued Sue in tow.

  “All done?” asked Faith.

  “Yes.” Sue wasn’t her usual self at all. “Do you mind if we go, Faith?”

  “No problem.” She got up from her corner of Ben’s desk. “I have to get back too. I am due at church.”

  “I know I am a coward,” Sue confessed, as they walked out of the station together. “But I don’t want to be here to see them bring Vernon in. He’s only a boy. I’ve known him most of his life.”

  Oliver Markham and Fred Partridge had put up the church Christmas tree, lacing it with lights. When they switched it on, it glowed and sparkled to magnificent effect. To one side, Pat and Faith spread straw and set out the great nativity figures around the manger, stringing the star on its web of fine wires.

  The others had gone to get their dinner: only Pat and Faith remained in the quiet dimness of the waiting church. Outside in the dusk, a few flakes of snow drifted through the orange glow of the street lamps. Inside the sanctuary breathed contentment and peace.

  Pat laid the baby Jesus gently in his crib.

  “To be honest, Christmas is not my favourite festival,” she admitted.

  Faith looked up from tweaking a Wise Man’s stiffened robes. “No?”

  “Well, it’s for families, isn’t it? And since Gordon passed…” Pat’s deft hands tidied the straw around the baby Jesus. Faith took a risk.

  “Pat – what happened with your sister?”

  The churchwarden closed her eyes. She swallowed and turned to lift Mary carefully out of the tissue paper packing in her box. “It happened a long time ago. She was… we were very different from one another. We were never close.” Pat met Faith’s eyes, her expression defensive and sad. “You have to remember, it was the fifties. We had different standards then.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Valerie broke up a perfectly good marriage and she ran off with a married man.” Pat’s words were bitter. “We never spoke again.”

  “How sad,” said Faith, reaching out to touch the older woman’s arm. “Did you ever try?”

  Pat saw the hand approaching and flinched. She sniffed, plonking Mary firmly into her spot by the crib, adjusting the figure’s position with a jerk. “Her so-called husband tried to get in touch when she fell ill.” Pat glanced over. Faith saw the tears in her eyes. “Cancer. Just like Gordon. I was nursing him at the time…”

  “So you didn’t have a chance to respond.”

  Pat shook her head. She got up and rummaged in the boxes. “I know there’s another shepherd in here somewhere.”

  “Pat. I am so sorry.”

  “Yes, well… We make our choices and we must live with the consequences.”

  “And I hear your sister’s son has been in touch?”

  Pat bent over one of the boxes. Faith couldn’t see her face. “He was going to come and see you?”

  Pat turned to her, clasping the shepherd tightly. She controlled her expression into complete composure, but her eyes – her eyes were pure sorrow. Faith felt the sadness rise in her own throat.

  “He didn’t come,” Pat said brusquely, “and I can’t blame him.” She looked down at the figure in her arms. “Here it is.” She knelt down and manoeuvred the figure into place.

  The display was complete. The holy family, the kings, the shepherds, the ox and the sheep and a few miscellaneous villagers gathered around the crib where the baby Jesus stretched out his arms to welcome them.

  “It is so very hard when the chance to say sorry has gone.” Faith spoke quietly. “But this Christmas story, it isn’t just about families; it’s about every kind of love – a thread of hope that joins us all together. Nothing that has happened – even the bad stuff – is lost or wasted. It all comes in handy in the end, because the chances to express love come again and again. The things we got wrong, things we missed – well, we can grieve about it shut away all alone, or we can keep on trying again; we can go out and put it right again by loving. And death shall have no dominion. There is always hope, Pat – there’s always another chance. There is. I’m certain of it.”

  It wasn’t a sight she would quickly forget: Pat on her knees, framed against the tableau of the manger, looking straight out at her without defences.

  The churchwarden sniffed. She rolled over onto all fours to push herself up. Faith leaned down to give her a hand.

  “Joseph has a chip on his nose,” said Pat. “I should fetch a tea bag and touch him up.”

  “What are you doing for Christmas lunch, Pat?”

  Pat stiffened. “Mr Marchbanks and I will share a turkey breast. He’s very partial to white meat and we never miss the Queen.”

  Faith hesitated a second, wondering how the Beast might feel about Pat’s lordly Blue Persian, Mr Marchbanks. They would just have to manage.

  “Come to the vicarage instead. Mr Marchbanks is welcome too. He can have his white meat with us.”

  Pat looked offended and embarrassed all at once. “I had absolutely no intention of fishing for an invitation,” she bristled. “Mr Marchbanks is excellent company. We are both very fond of our routines.”

  “I know you are. But please come and join us. My sister Ruth is cooking and she’s very good at it. Christmas lunch isn’t Christmas lunch without loved ones to eat it with.”

  Pat averted her face. She clasped Faith’s arm and squeezed it hard. “Thank you,” she whispered, adding graciously as she recovered her equilibrium, “Mr Marchbanks and I accept with pleasure. I shall bring some of my brandy mince pies. They are very good. A family recipe from Gordon’s side.”

  Faith saw Pat safely home across the Green. The snow had stopped falling and the stars shone clear. She returned to the church for one last look before turning off the lights and locking up. The pine smell from the tree permeated the air, reviving that childish thrill of expectation. Faith straightened a prayer cushion or two, and stripped one of its cover when she saw an unsightly muddy stain. She wanted everything perfect for the Mass. On her way toward the vestry, she noticed some of the leaflets for the church book group scattered on the flags and felt a momentary pang of guilt as she stooped to gather them up. She really should read January’s novel properly – Marilynne Robinson, wasn’t it? – because she’d rather bluffed her way through November’s meeting.

  As she was stacking the leaflets, she realized that others were hopelessly out of date. The bakery fair was long past, and the Little Worthy Rural Show too.

  She scooped them up, then paused.

  It might be nothing, of course, but…

  The Little Worthy Rural Sh
ow.

  LWRS.

  She cast her mind back to the police station. She couldn’t remember exactly, but hadn’t that metal plaque, bagged up, battered and inconsequential, read “WRS, 987”?

  LWRS, 1987.

  She felt the thrill run from her neck down her arms to her fingertips. She fumbled for her phone and located Ben’s number.

  CHAPTER

  19

  The following evening, they gathered in the dusk at the bottom of the Green, people from Little Worthy and the surrounding villages, with their lanterns and scarves and excited children. Banjo the donkey was the star of the show. How fortunate that Oliver’s wife was small-boned. Ms Whittle gave her permission to ride and, after a wobbly start, Julie Markham looked perfect in Mary’s blue robes, sitting rather demurely side saddle with her belly padded and her Joseph hovering solicitously at her side. And how fitting, though surely few people knew, that she carried a new life inside her. Banjo paraded, his ears perked up, with Ms Whittle in a shepherd’s cloak following behind.

  The procession wound its way in stages around the Green toward the ancient Saxon church. Timothy, Clari’s barrister husband, did them proud as Wise Man and narrator, his height and presence and dark skin carrying off the purple and blue onion turban regally. The angels and shepherds, for the most part, remembered their cues, and Timothy’s sonorous voice held the crowd spellbound.

  It was all going so well, and yet Faith remained distracted. How was Ben getting on? Faith had spoken to him for almost an hour the evening before. His tough façade had vanished when he realized the significance of what she told him. The excitement in his voice, the thrill of the chase nearing its conclusion, had been unmistakeable. But had the search warrant come through? Had they found what they were looking for?

  She saw Mavis Granger cross from the church hall where Pat presided over assembling the traditional feast to be offered after the carol singing in the churchyard. The procession straggled through the wicket gate, leading the spectators with their bobbing lanterns. The musicians struck up “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”. Mavis was watching alone. Faith went over to stand beside her.