Crime in the Choir Read online

  ‘Go on, love.’ Markham sensed that there was something else.

  ‘A floodlight must have gone on in the grottoes, because one of the crosses was suddenly illuminated. I thought…’ She stuttered slightly. ‘I thought I saw a face just behind it. Well, a pair of eyes really. They were hate-filled, absolutely burning with loathing and contempt. It was just for an instant, and then they were gone. But I felt them, Gil. Like a brand scorching my skin.’

  Markham’s thoughts travelled uneasily to the report of suspicious activity in the cathedral graveyard. Desecration of a tomb, wasn’t it? Could there be any connection with whoever had been lurking in the cemetery at St Mary’s?

  He reached across and took Olivia’s hand in his.

  ‘Don’t let this prey on your mind, dearest. Easy enough for me to say, I know, but I promise I take everything you say very seriously. You concentrate on preparing for next week while Noakes and I pay St Mary’s a visit. Is there a lepers’ door for the likes of heathen like us?’

  A tremulous smile greeted this sally.

  ‘Oh, I think you can risk the front entrance! It’ll all be thrilling for the boys.’

  Markham’s face was sombre.

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Liv. St Mary’s has thrown up too many mysteries for my liking. A report from Children’s Services should be landing on my desk first thing tomorrow. We’ll shine a searchlight into every nook and cranny, never fear.’ He added softly, ‘I know those two boys tugged at your heartstrings. Somehow St Mary’s slipped under the radar, but we’ll be keeping a close watch from now on. If some evil does threaten Nat and Julian, or any of those young lads, then believe me, we will root it out.’

  A huge lump came to Olivia’s throat and tears shimmered in her eyes. ‘Thanks, Gil,’ she whispered. ‘I was afraid that you might think I was losing my marbles.’

  ‘Never,’ came the emphatic reply.

  Much later, nestled against Markham, Olivia did her best to banish the memory of that malevolent spectator. But, like a Hobyah from her childhood fairy tales, he came creeping through her dreams so that she tossed and turned restlessly through the night. Not until dawn streaked the sky did she finally fall into an uneasy slumber.

  ‘Well, what do you make of it all?’ asked Markham briskly the next morning as he and Noakes sat taking stock over coffee in the visitors’ parlour.

  ‘Glad we’ve got all the Songs of Praise malarkey out of the way, Guv,’ replied his DS.

  ‘That Cynthia’s a bit nervy but nice enough,’ he added, gesturing expansively at the tea trolley generously laden with elevenses. ‘Mind, all the talk about a pile of old tat fair killed me. I mean, getting all misty-eyed over some old cups, I ask you!’

  Markham sighed. ‘Those old cups, as you call them, were a collection of priceless communion vessels, Noakes. Cynthia was giving us a glimpse of St Mary’s ancient past. God, man, don’t you have any sense of mystery and romance?’

  ‘Can’t really get excited ’bout stuff from before my time,’ Noakes replied stolidly.

  There we go, that’s centuries of Judaeo-Christian culture consigned to the dustbin, thought Markham.

  Noting that the DS’s mouth was set in the stubborn line with which he was all too familiar, Markham moved on to safer ground. Notwithstanding his obdurate resistance to ‘arty-farty nonsense’, Noakes was sensitive to his surroundings and swift to detect subtle changes in atmosphere.

  ‘What about the vibes then? Good or bad?’ Markham abandoned his antiquarian by-ways for a more prosaic route.

  ‘Kind of secretive,’ was the unexpected reply.

  ‘Secretive?’ Markham stared at his subordinate.

  ‘Yeah, it’s chocolate box perfect from the outside, but…’ Noakes groped for the right words. ‘…creepy and twisty-turny the further back you go, what with all those corners and cupboards and cubbyholes. An’ those plaster saints all over the shop – there’s no getting away from them.’

  Markham smothered a smile. Noakes’s anti-pietistic fervour was, as anticipated, at full flood.

  ‘Like in that painting over there, Guv.’ Noakes gestured at ‘The Forty Martyrs’, warming to his theme. ‘They all look proper buttoned up and smug … like they’ve pulled a clever stroke or summat.’

  Intriguing, thought Markham, that Noakes too had detected the gleam of mysterious exultation.

  ‘I suppose in a sense they have,’ he replied slowly.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That painting depicts men and women who were cast out and turned into outlaws in their own land, just because they were true to the religion of their forefathers. All ignominiously executed as traitors, though they were loyal to the sovereign who persecuted them with their dying breath. Everything seemed lost. But look at them now – triumphant over thrones and dominations, raised to the altars, their relics reverenced and cherished. It’s a powerful moral, Noakes. “Look on His works, ye Mighty, and despair!” ’

  ‘Well put,’ said a voice behind them.

  A lean man of medium height had slipped into the room just in time to hear Markham’s tribute to a bygone age. Silver haired, of dignified bearing, he was immaculately dressed in a well-cut clerical suit and collar with discreet crucifix lapel pin. Behind spectacles, keen grey eyes regarded the police officers kindly.

  Markham hastened to make the introductions. ‘Good of you to see us, sir. I’m Inspector Gilbert Markham and this is DS George Noakes.’

  ‘Glad to be of help, Inspector,’ replied Canon Dick Woodcourt cordially. He gestured at ‘The Forty Martyrs’. ‘I like to think of that painting as St Mary’s genius loci,’ continued the gentle, cultured tones. ‘It has a picturesque feel, doesn’t it, and there’s something very nostalgic about that vision of a lost Catholic England. I often think—’

  ‘Who’s the bloke at the front?’ Noakes interrupted belligerently.

  The newcomer did not appear at all put out. Motioning them closer to the painting, he looked enquiringly at the DS. ‘Which figure do you mean?’

  ‘The one kneeling on the ground with his back to us,’ muttered Noakes gruffly. ‘There’s a little knife in his belt, and it looks like he’s holding a chisel or some such. The rest of ’em look as if they’re at a picnic, but he’s got his wits about him, that one.’

  ‘How astute of you, Officer! That’s Saint Nicholas Owen. He was the master carpenter – master illusionist, really – who constructed priest holes where the gentry concealed their Catholic chaplains from Queen Elizabeth’s priest-catchers. He was so good at his craft, that many of his secret rooms and hidey holes are probably still undiscovered. Rumour has it there may even be one here at St Mary’s. The cathedral and choir school date from 1861, but parts of the site go back to Elizabethan times, you know.’

  ‘What happened to this Owen then?’

  The interlocutor’s courtesy and benign warmth were working their magic on Noakes.

  Markham was amused to observe that the bulldog had stopped baring his teeth and was practically wagging his tail.

  ‘Oh, he eventually died a gruesome death in the Tower of London. They tortured him with fiendish ingenuity, but couldn’t get him to talk.’ Noakes nodded approvingly as though he would have expected nothing else from a working man. The other smiled warmly at him. ‘They don’t breed them like that anymore.’

  Markham reluctantly cut short the history lesson.

  ‘Cathedrals and choir schools aren’t our usual beat, so please excuse any outspokenness.’

  ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea,’ was the mild acknowledgement. ‘Certainly, our cabinet of relics and the more florid touches aren’t much to my taste. But it’s what Dean Buckmaster wants, so we must all suffer in silence.’

  There was no attempt to winkle out their religious or churchgoing credentials. Markham’s respect for the man increased tenfold.

  Turning away from ‘The Forty Martyrs’, they shook hands and sat down.

  Canon Woodcourt waved away Markham’s apologie
s for the intrusion and canvassed the subject of the police investigation in a manner which reinforced the DI’s impression of his intelligence and good sense.

  Finally, he looked at his watch and declared, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to shed any light, Inspector, but I can’t imagine how those two poor souls ended up buried beneath the grottoes.’ His face was sombre. ‘Slung there like refuse on a dung-heap’ – it was an echo of Olivia’s words. ‘Such wicked profanation!’

  Woodcourt remained silent and reflective for some moments before rousing himself.

  ‘I believe it’s an away day for most of the lads, Inspector – some school trip or other – but there are one or two still rattling around the place who I’m sure would be glad to give you the guided tour, ghost stories and all.’ He rolled his eyes melodramatically. ‘That’s assuming they can be enticed away from the enthralling spectacle of your forensic teams combing the grottoes!’

  ‘An excellent suggestion, sir.’

  Markham had scarcely dared hope that securing access to Nat and Julian would be so straightforward, but this eminently sensible and civilized clergyman clearly did not propose to put any obstacles in their way.

  ‘Cynthia Gibson’s on hand if you need her, Inspector. She’s housemother as well as teacher – absolutely devoted to the boys – so feel free to give her a shout. Now I must be getting back to the cathedral.’ He rose and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket. ‘The widow of one of our vergers needs placating!’

  ‘Of course. Canon, just before you go … there was a matron here, wasn’t there, who went missing? Something to do with a couple of pupils absconding?’

  A sudden stillness came over Woodcourt. His expression was unreadable but, in the shaft of sunlight which fell from the mullioned windows, Markham noticed that there were deep grooves on either side of the clergyman’s decisive mouth while his face was laboured by myriad tiny fissures – like crackle glaze on porcelain. It made him wonder about the clergyman’s age; early seventies, he guessed.

  ‘Irene Hummles, Inspector.’ The canon’s voice was sad. ‘One of my pastoral failures, I’m afraid. I didn’t realize she was coming adrift and taking refuge in the bottle. She’d been very good at her job, but fell apart when two of our lads went over the side… I mean absconded… You must forgive me, Inspector. I have this habit of referring to the boys as though they were naval ratings!’

  Markham found it more endearing than otherwise.

  ‘I’m sorry to open old wounds, sir. You never had the impression there might be more to Ms Hummles’s disappearance than that?’ He paused, choosing his words with care. ‘Something of a sinister nature perhaps?’

  ‘Child abuse?’

  Markham gave Woodcourt credit for the quiet, matter-of-fact nature of his response. No simulated indignation. No synthetic outrage.

  ‘I don’t see it, Inspector. Irene was just one of those women who poured everything into her job. Totally bound up with the boys to the exclusion of her own needs.’ He paused. ‘Unhealthily so, in hindsight.’

  ‘Was there any sign that something was troubling her?’

  Woodcourt’s gaze dropped to his highly-polished shoes. It was obvious that an internal struggle was taking place.

  ‘Forgive me, sir.’ Markham’s voice was gentle. ‘I can see you don’t want to speak ill of Ms Hummles and I respect your loyalty, but anything you can tell us may help solve her disappearance.’

  The canon’s head jerked up and he looked searchingly at Markham.

  ‘You believe there may be a connection to the discovery in the grottoes, Inspector?’

  Markham was circumspect. ‘It’s one possibility.’

  Woodcourt looked troubled. ‘I’d just assumed she didn’t want to be found. She beat herself up endlessly over the runaways – couldn’t accept that all of us had failed them…’

  ‘Did she give any reason why she felt so guilty about them?’

  ‘I believe Cynthia came across her a few times in tears saying she was having a very bad day and couldn’t forgive herself.’

  ‘Couldn’t forgive herself.’ Noakes sounded mystified. ‘Wasn’t that going over the top?’

  ‘Absolutely, Detective. She was clearly on a hair-trigger, very unstable. Being treated for depression too, as it emerged. Looking back, we should have insisted on a sabbatical.’

  ‘If you’d done that, she’d likely have thought you were kicking her out,’ Noakes offered.

  Woodcourt looked at him gratefully. ‘Yes, that’s true. Such a suggestion might have tipped her over the edge even sooner.’ He sighed. ‘It was difficult to know what to do for the best.’

  At that moment, the door opened and the new principal appeared, trailed by Nat and Julian who hung back shyly while further introductions were made. Despite a certain self-deprecating Woosterishness, Dr O’Keefe exuded a quiet authority which suggested to Markham that he could be formidable. Certainly, Nat and Julian appeared somewhat intimidated, the former gazing up at his new headmaster with reverential awe.

  Markham understood immediately why Olivia had yearned towards the two boys. Nat was clearly a doughty little character, with an expression of ingrained wariness, as though life had already dealt him a harsh hand and he was watchful for further blows. Julian was more difficult to read, but Markham sensed the lonely vulnerability lurking beneath a surface nonchalance. Evidently a unit, there was something infinitely touching about the boys’ rapport – as though each had found in the other a whole family that had been lost.

  ‘By way of a special privilege, Inspector, I am allowing two of our more responsible students’ – Nat very solemn – ‘to show you and DS Noakes around St Mary’s.’ The principal turned to Woodcourt. ‘I wonder if I can walk over to the cathedral with you. Just a quick query.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the canon affably. He smiled kindly, albeit somewhat absent-mindedly, at Nat and Julian, obviously preoccupied with thoughts of his next appointment.

  Cynthia appeared at the door of the parlour with murmured injunctions as to lunch and tea. Their voices faded away down the corridor.

  Noakes addressed Nat and Julian. ‘It’ll be good to see the grottoes through your eyes – have an insider’s point of view.’ With a little awkward gesture, he added, ‘To be honest, I feel a bit out of my depth. More of a Church-at-Christmas-and-Easter kind of bloke, if you know what I mean.’

  It was remarkable, Markham thought, how his colleague – so often crass and clumsy in his dealings with the public – had such a sure touch with children.

  They visibly brightened at Noakes’s respectful, man-to-man tones, and flushed with pleasure when the DS declared, ‘Right, Guv. I’m off to have a recce with the lads. I’m in safe hands with these two.’

  ‘Yes, we know all the secrets!’ confirmed Nat.

  The little party left the parlour.

  There it was again. That word secrets!

  Markham stood alone in the deserted room. The sun had gone in and a gust of wind whistled mournfully round the casement windows.

  His eyes returned to ‘The Forty Martyrs’. What was it the canon had called the carpenter-saint?

  The master illusionist.

  Was St Mary’s shimmering golden radiance an illusion? And, if so, what lay beneath?

  At that moment, Markham thought he heard a light rustle from the corridor, as though fingers had softly swept the panelling outside the door. Then silence.

  Time to go.

  Markham gathered up his papers and left the parlour. A fanciful observer might have imagined that the martyrs’ eyes followed his departing form.

  5

  The Grottoes

  Like Olivia the previous day, Noakes was distinctly underwhelmed by his first sight of St Mary’s Grottoes. Nasty-looking place, he thought to himself, as he surveyed the caves. Like skulls they were, with all those gaps and hollows so many toothless bony gums.

  Aware that Nat and Julian were looking at him expectantly, he did his best
to look suitably impressed. And in fairness, he reflected, the place had been neglected over the years. Hardly a Time Team spectacular.

  Fluorescent-jacketed officers waved cheerfully as he picked his way with Nat and Julian across the uneven muddy terrain to a narrow, sheer-sided little gully with crumbling sandstone steps projecting at right angles from the foot of the largest cave. A verdigris-encrusted rail formed a rickety balustrade which appeared more ornamental than useful.

  ‘OK to go down, Mike?’ he asked the paper-suited SOCO officer who was painstakingly bagging soil samples at the head of the stairs.

  ‘Be my guest,’ replied the other. ‘The contractors were in earlier checking for earth-falls, shoring up and what have you. So it’s safe. Have you got a torch? It’s a bit murky down there.’

  Quick as a flash, Nat whipped out a traveller-set with Maglite torch and Swiss army knife.

  ‘Blimey, talk about coming prepared! Think we might have a candidate for the Cadet Corps here eh, Noakes!’

  Seeing how Nat swelled with pride, the DS forbore to produce his own police-issue flashlight. Gingerly, he led the way down the precipitous descent.

  Once underground, it was cold, musty and perfectly still, as though hermetically sealed off from the everyday world above.

  The three stood in a narrow passage at the bottom of the steps where the sandstone gave way to lime washed walls glistening with damp.

  ‘Yuck, it smells like our bogs!’ exclaimed Nat, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  Julian glanced apologetically at Noakes, visibly relaxing when the latter winked broadly and riposted, ‘Nah, more like Bromgrove CID’s!’

  ‘There used to be a large marsh somewhere round here, next to the meadow,’ Julian volunteered. ‘That’s most prob’ly why it smells so bad.’