The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) (4 page)

“I’m not a social worker. If they join my choir, they do so as individuals, not children. I don’t need them to account for their lives or their families. It’s the secret of my success,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “So long as they show commitment to the choir – that’s good enough for me.” He apparently read the doubt in her face. A pulse of energy bent him toward her, his forearms on his knees. “Some of these kids – they don’t have good relationships with adults.” She liked the conviction in the way he spoke. “If I want their trust, I don’t pry. They talk to me about non-choir stuff only if and when they want to.”

“But you care about them.”

He sat back in his chair. “What I do is about building their confidence. But I can’t pretend to take responsibility for them,” he stated with unexpected emphasis, as if he held a long-running argument with himself. “That would be a lie. They’ve had enough people letting them down.”

Faith looked down at the flyer lying on the table between them. She remembered this feeling from the interrogation rooms, back in the old days – the feigned ignorance, playing the innocent. She shouldn’t be using the ploy now, but she couldn’t help it. She told herself it was wrong to tell Jim until she could confirm her suspicions. She pointed to the black-haired boy.

“This boy, he looks familiar – Lucas, you said? Is he local? I wondered if I’d seen him somewhere…”

“Lucas Bagshaw. You might have seen him about town. He’s a Winchester lad.”

“He’s not sleeping rough?” Her question caught Jim mid-swallow. He gulped down his tea and shook his head.

“No. Lucas has a home. I think someone said his parents are dead. He lives with a relative. He joined the choir with a couple of friends.”

If Lucas had a home and friends
, Faith thought to herself,
why would no one report him missing; especially when he failed to turn up for a performance over the weekend?

“Is there some trouble with Lucas?” Jim’s steady gaze challenged her. She took a deep breath.

“No,” she said, guilt sitting heavily in her gut. “Just curious.”

Faith tried to maintain her concentration on the Midnight Mass, but in truth the boy’s face on the flyer was distracting. She gulped her tea too fast and left in something of a hurry. As she reached her car her phone trilled, shrill and urgent from its nest in the top of her open bag.

Perhaps it was Ben with confirmation.

“Faith Morgan?” A familiar voice, and unwelcome. George Casey, the bishop’s press officer. Not one of her favourite people. “Thank goodness I’ve found you!” The exclamation had an accusatory edge. “What is this about another body you’ve turned up? After the mess last time, you could have had the decency to ring me to warn me. I’ve had the police on to me. Apparently the victim was a member of the wretched youth choir.”

The wretched youth choir! Faith struggled to find suitable words. George Casey hardly paused to draw breath.

“It
would
be connected to the youth choir,” he lamented. “I always thought it a risk bringing in urban youth. And in the run-up to Christmas! The time of the year when we are most in the public eye.”

Faith wondered if there might be steam coming out of her ears.

“I realize that tragedy is inconvenient…” she began icily. She heard an intake of breath at the other end of the line and then a brief pause.

“Of course, of course, it is a tragedy,” Casey fussed impatiently in her ear. “But a death of a boy like this – well, sudden death, press-wise, takes a lot of handling, as you well know,” he ended, resentfully.

Faith bristled at the injustice. It wasn’t her fault that her arrival in the diocese had coincided with the notorious case of the murdered vicar. She’d grown increasingly sure that George Casey blamed her personally for those weeks of lurid headlines in the papers.

“I am not sure what I can do for you, apart from sympathize,” she said, keeping her voice level.

“That is why I am ringing. Apparently the police need to interview the youth choir. They are calling people in tomorrow morning at the cathedral.”

Faith frowned. What did this have to do with her? “As it happens, I was just with Mr Postlethwaite, the choir director – you should let him know.”

“Oh!” At least she’d startled him. “Yes. Of course. But as I was saying. The dean asks if you can be present at the interviews tomorrow.”

“Me?” Her first thought – an uncharitable one, she quickly acknowledged – was that she simply didn’t have the time. “I’m not sure how I can—”

“10:30 start in the Lady Chapel,’ interrupted George. “We think there should be a female on hand, as chaperone, you know. Underaged girls, and all that.”

“Really?” Faith could feel her sixth sense tingling.
“This was the dean’s idea?”

“Well, not entirely. The police suggested it.”

“They did?”

“Yes. The fellow in charge – Detective Inspector Shorter,” said Casey, pompously. “An old friend of yours, isn’t he?”

It was a clear, icy night. In a bundle of winter clothing, warmed in the middle by the glow of the microwaved pasta bake she had just consumed, Faith crunched down the path to the church hall. Someone had gritted it, bless them! The phone in her pocket beeped. On time to the very minute. Not bad.

Between Ben and George Casey, she had felt powerless to refuse tomorrow’s appointment at the cathedral.

The porch light illuminated the iron-banded door. Her mittened hands gripped the ring. It gave way, protesting. Fresh muddy traces on the tiled floor inside told her the others had already arrived. The lobby still felt cold and a bit dank, but they had got rid of the unfortunate pea-green colour that had covered the walls when she first arrived. It had been replaced by a delicate lilac in a flurry of communal hard work that summer – a cold shade for winter, but it made the space lighter. A chilly draught touched her face. The door ahead stood open, the hall in darkness beyond. The stars offered distant radiance through the high windows. Beyond, the door leading to the back room spilled warm light.

“Rice Krispie stars…” It was Sue’s voice, loaded with humour as she exaggerated her tale. “I had to use so much sugar to keep their shape, I tell you – they set like iron. The edges were sharp enough to put someone’s eye out.”

“Did you spray them with gold paint? Then you could
keep them as tree ornaments,” Clarisse’s calm voice responded.

“I found Benji trying to use them as martial arts throwing stars; they ended up in the bin.”

Faith entered the room. Four familiar faces were laughing at Sue who was holding up her thumb and finger an inch apart, her dark eyes full of life. “Honest! He missed the neighbour’s cat by so much…”

Clarisse Johnston, Sue’s best friend, was by the tea tray handing round mugs. She wore a simple roll-neck over a mid-length skirt and still managed to look like an off-duty model. Delicate, grey-haired Elsie Lively sat at the table with her sister, Grace, and their friend Marjorie Davis.

“We’ve been discussing Christmas crafts,” said Clarisse, handing Faith a steaming mug.

“Hello, vicar,” Sue greeted Faith with a twinkle. “Have one of Elsie’s festive lemon curd tarts – they’re fab.” She loaded a piece into her wide mouth.

“Please do,” Elsie contributed in her breathy voice; she pushed the plate toward Faith. “Grace and I have never got on with mince pies.” Faith helped herself.

“Fred sends his apologies,” Sue said. “The Hare and Hounds’ darts team needed him tonight, but you’ll notice he gritted the paths before he left.”

“Dear Fred.” The tart spread lemony gorgeousness in her mouth. Faith reflected just how lucky she’d been with her churchwarden; Fred Partridge was one in a million. She realized the other churchwarden, Pat Montesque, was missing. And it was Pat who had called the meeting. Clarisse saw her look at the clock.

“Pat’s not here yet,” she said, with an impish look in her dark eyes.

“I think it is a poo
rr
show,” said Sue in a fair imitation of
Pat, “when she called the meeting herself. After all, we are but here at her command.”

“The Christmas pageant and carol service is very dear to Pat’s heart,” Faith said diplomatically.

“Then why isn’t she on time? She always makes a frightful fuss when one of us is late,” Sue complained.

“Pat rang me to say she would be a few minutes late,” Elsie said quickly. “I believe she is bringing someone else to join us.” Elsie hated dissent. Sue was immediately contrite at the old lady’s concern.

“Don’t worry, Elsie, I was only joking.”

“How are things on the pageant front?” Faith asked. Sue and Clarisse were managing that part of the grand Christmas event. Sue had been directing the local amateur dramatics for years.

“All on schedule,” replied Sue.

“Fingers crossed…” said Clarisse, with a fond look at her optimistic friend. “Amanda Knight got into a stew because her boys told her they were cast as a camel and she doesn’t sew; she thought she had to produce the costume, poor girl. She was too shy to say anything. We only worked out what was up when she cut Sue dead in the supermarket.”

“Silly sausage! Believing those boys of hers,” Sue said, reaching for another tart. “She’s the only one they take in. They’re a handful, those Knight boys. I told her – never mind how Lucy Taylor goes on about the magical life-sized puppets in
The Lion King
, the only animals in the Little Worthy Christmas pageant are real ones. By the way, you do have the donkey booked, Faith, don’t you?”

Businesslike heels clicked across the wooden floor of the hall. The door swung open. Pat stood there, holding an old leather zipped folder to her chest, her eyes like bright buttons.
There was another woman standing in her wake.

“Ladies, vicar! Thank you all for waiting,” she greeted them as she swept into the room. “We are very fortunate that Mrs Neil Granger has agreed to join us. Some of you will know Mavis already as chair of our Women’s Institute.” Pat surveyed the older ladies present with a benign look. Clarisse looked a little uncomfortable. She and Sue had avoided joining the WI. Sue licked lemon curd off her forefinger, immune to Pat’s hints. Pat continued: “She’s most kindly agreed to help us out with the carol service catering and flower arrangements – welcome to our little group, Mavis.”

Mavis Granger had changed her clothes. Without her dogs, her walking stick and tweed she was less conspicuous, but she still carried herself with an air of authority. Faith was so startled to see her standing there on her own home ground, she didn’t know quite what to say. How do you bring a boy’s dead body into this homely circle?

Mavis Granger met her eyes, and Faith fancied she saw acknowledgment of the predicament.

“Mavis – have you met our vicar, Faith Morgan?” Pat made her introduction. Faith waited to see how their visitor would play it.

“We’ve met,” Mrs Granger said simply, and shook Faith’s hand. Her fingers felt stick-thin in Faith’s palm. Her nails were perfectly manicured.

They arranged themselves around the table. Three small electric heaters, aimed under the table, blasted hot air at ankle height. Faith was glad of the protection of her winter boots. She manoeuvred the one closest to her into a slightly different angle with her foot so it blew between her and Sue. As she did so, she watched Pat surreptitiously. She’d surely heard about Markham, and would soon begin a wearing
discourse on how she, Pat, had always warned against the dangers of giving an untried newcomer the vital role of Joseph, and how such things would never have happened in the Reverend Alistair’s time. And then conversation would surely come round to the donkey…

Pat was definitely simmering. The churchwarden’s little mouth had pursed up tight against the pressure of something she was determined to share. She barely waited until they were all settled.

“Mavis has had a terrible shock,” she declared. “She was walking her dogs this morning and came across the police. They have found a youth dead down by the river – and it’s Lucas Bagshaw.”

“Lucas Bagshaw – dead?” said Grace Lively.

“Oh no,” Marjorie exhaled as if the wind had been knocked out of her. The old lady turned quite white.

“Not poor Trish Bagshaw’s son!” Sue exclaimed. “That’s just too unfair. Another tragedy in that poor family.”

Faith looked from one to the other in confusion. First, how on earth did Pat know who the boy was? The forensic tent had been erected over the body when Mavis Granger came by; she was almost sure of it. And Faith’s conversation with Ben about the boy’s identity had taken place barely four hours ago. And then again – how did everyone in the room seem to know Lucas Bagshaw personally? Across the table from her, Elsie and her sister and their friend Marjorie all looked deeply upset. Faith turned to Sue, who sat next to her.

“Who is Trish Bagshaw?” she asked, quietly. “And – why
another
tragedy?”

“You remember – Trish…” Sue began.

“No, she won’t – Faith came after Trish died,” Clarisse interrupted.

“But it was only at the beginning of the year…” Sue stopped. “Of course, I forgot. You haven’t been here a year yet, have you?” She wrinkled her nose. “Weird. I feel as if we’ve known each other for ages.”

Faith was momentarily diverted by a warm rush of pleasure at the compliment. She pulled herself together sternly.
This isn’t about me.

“Trish?” she prompted.

“Trisha Bagshaw – a lovely woman,” said Sue.

“Single mother,” Pat sniffed.

Elsie looked straight at the churchwarden, which was as near as she came to censure.

“Trisha was a hard-working, good-hearted woman,” said Grace Lively. “Her boy was always kept clean and tidy, and he never missed a day of school.”

“Not while she was alive,” Pat added, darkly.

“She died earlier this year – February, I think it was,” Clarisse explained, addressing Faith. “Poor soul. A brain aneurism or something similar. Very sudden.”

“How awful,” said Faith.

“She used to come and help Marjorie out, didn’t she, dear?” said Grace. “A lovely girl.” Marjorie had tears in her eyes. Grace patted her friend’s hand. “I know, I know. We were all very fond of Trisha.”

“Trisha earned her living as a carer,” Sue explained. “She had a real gift with people. I think she was your motherin-law’s carer for years, isn’t that right, Mavis? I remember Trish bringing old Mrs Granger to the Wednesday service sometimes.”

So that was the connection. Mrs Granger inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. She seemed to find Sue’s question too intimate – as if she did not appreciate strangers knowing her private family business.

“Mother did like her ten o’clock Eucharist,” she responded stiffly. “She found it more manageable than the Sunday service.”

“Is the elder Mrs Granger no longer with us?” Faith asked, arranging her face sympathetically. Mavis had disconcerting eyes, like flat pieces of sky. They looked at her distantly.

“No,” Mavis answered, after a beat. “She lives at the Mount now.”

“The nursing home,” Grace supplied.

“The very best in the area,” added Pat effusively, her eyes on Mrs Granger. Faith wondered what she was up to. Pat hardly welcomed strangers with open arms normally. Mavis Granger’s eyes flicked toward the churchwarden momentarily, as if she felt Pat’s eager support superfluous.

“She became too immobile to manage at home,” she said.

“And was Lucas Trisha’s only child?” Faith asked, aiming to change the subject. “What happened to him after his mother’s death?”

“His uncle – Trisha’s younger brother – he’s lived with them for years, so at least Lucas could stay in his own home,” Sue said. “After Trisha died, it was just the two of them.”

Pat looked over her spectacles. “That
man
!” she pronounced.

Grace Lively leaned toward Faith. “Drink,” she confided.

“Come, come, Mrs Montesque,” Marjorie Davis challenged Pat. “Trisha was very fond of her brother, Adam. They were a close family.”

“Came to live with them when Lucas was growing up,” Grace added. “He came to help out, seeing Trisha had no man about.”

“You’ve met him – Lucas’s uncle?” Faith asked.