Read Online The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) by Martha Ockley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martha Ockley
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suspicions.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Faith. “Tragedy like this – it… confuses things.”
He acknowledged the moment with his lopsided smile.
“Do you mind if I drop by at some point,” he said, “to see your church? These kids aren’t professionals; I find it useful to check the layout. You know, scope out any potential problems so all goes well on the night.”
“That seems very sensible.” No need for the “very”, she edited herself crossly in her head. “Of course. You’d be very welcome.” (Not again!) “Just let me know when – so I can be there to let you in.” He turned his body to go, his eyes still on her face.
“So you’ll let me know?” she said, by way of a farewell. His expression shifted into an “idiot me!” look, and he pulled something out of his pocket.
“I’ve got this for you.” He held it out to her. It was a scrap of music paper with a name and address written on it in blue ink from a fountain pen. “One of the girls works at an animal sanctuary… The owner’s a bit of an eccentric – an older lady; Ms Whittle. The Ms is important – don’t ‘Miss’ her, or you’ll rub her up the wrong way,” he added with his sly twinkle. “Anyway, the animals are sort of her family, but apparently there’s a donkey…”
“Thank you so much!” Faith felt herself blush pink with pleasure. She slipped the paper into her glove.
His smile lingered on her face as he walked away and she went out into the bright winter light, the paper crackling between her skin and glove.
C HAPTER
6
The Bagshaw house was number 5 in a cul-de-sac of modern brick houses with uPVC windows, single-width garages and pocket-handkerchief lawns. At lunchtime, it was a quiet place. These were family houses – the adults at work, the children at school. No. 5 had a stripped down, anonymous look. There were no signs of the Christmas lights and decorations of its neighbours. The snow in the driveway lay undisturbed. At the margins of the white covering, Faith could see that the garage door had old leaves and debris blown up against it, as if it hadn’t been opened for a long time.
The front door had a panel of frosted glass in its upper half. A light was on in the hall behind. Faith stood under the fanciful little vestige of a porch and pressed the doorbell. She listened to the chimes die away. No answer. No other footprints than her own disturbed today’s fresh fall of snow. The phone directory listed this address for Trisha Bagshaw. She pressed the bell again. She thought she saw something come between the door and the light in the hall. Silence. She stepped off the path and took a couple of steps around the front of the house. The curtains to the front room weredrawn back. She glanced behind her. The black holes of her footprints spoiled the pristine snow and reproached her. What right had she to pester the poor man? So what if he didn’t want to answer the door? She retraced her steps.
She had almost made up her mind to leave when she caught a strangled noise from inside. There was definitely someone in the hall behind the door. She knocked on the frosted glass.
“Mr Bagshaw? My name is Faith Morgan,” she called. “I am vicar at St James’s – I just wanted to see if you are all right.” This time she heard a distinct sob. She crouched down and looked through the letterbox. A man was sitting on the stairs in his shirt, socks and blue gingham boxer shorts, head in hands. He was crying.
“Mr Bagshaw – Adam – please open the door.” She couldn’t just leave him. She could feel the misery radiating out toward her. He was alone in that house; floundering under the weight of such tragedy, his sister dead and now his nephew. From what she gathered, his whole family had gone. All at once he was left to cope alone. So what if he was a stranger to her?
“You shouldn’t be alone like this – please let me in,” she repeated. To her astonishment the figure on the
“That’s quite all right,” said Faith. “Tragedy like this – it… confuses things.”
He acknowledged the moment with his lopsided smile.
“Do you mind if I drop by at some point,” he said, “to see your church? These kids aren’t professionals; I find it useful to check the layout. You know, scope out any potential problems so all goes well on the night.”
“That seems very sensible.” No need for the “very”, she edited herself crossly in her head. “Of course. You’d be very welcome.” (Not again!) “Just let me know when – so I can be there to let you in.” He turned his body to go, his eyes still on her face.
“So you’ll let me know?” she said, by way of a farewell. His expression shifted into an “idiot me!” look, and he pulled something out of his pocket.
“I’ve got this for you.” He held it out to her. It was a scrap of music paper with a name and address written on it in blue ink from a fountain pen. “One of the girls works at an animal sanctuary… The owner’s a bit of an eccentric – an older lady; Ms Whittle. The Ms is important – don’t ‘Miss’ her, or you’ll rub her up the wrong way,” he added with his sly twinkle. “Anyway, the animals are sort of her family, but apparently there’s a donkey…”
“Thank you so much!” Faith felt herself blush pink with pleasure. She slipped the paper into her glove.
His smile lingered on her face as he walked away and she went out into the bright winter light, the paper crackling between her skin and glove.
C HAPTER
6
The Bagshaw house was number 5 in a cul-de-sac of modern brick houses with uPVC windows, single-width garages and pocket-handkerchief lawns. At lunchtime, it was a quiet place. These were family houses – the adults at work, the children at school. No. 5 had a stripped down, anonymous look. There were no signs of the Christmas lights and decorations of its neighbours. The snow in the driveway lay undisturbed. At the margins of the white covering, Faith could see that the garage door had old leaves and debris blown up against it, as if it hadn’t been opened for a long time.
The front door had a panel of frosted glass in its upper half. A light was on in the hall behind. Faith stood under the fanciful little vestige of a porch and pressed the doorbell. She listened to the chimes die away. No answer. No other footprints than her own disturbed today’s fresh fall of snow. The phone directory listed this address for Trisha Bagshaw. She pressed the bell again. She thought she saw something come between the door and the light in the hall. Silence. She stepped off the path and took a couple of steps around the front of the house. The curtains to the front room weredrawn back. She glanced behind her. The black holes of her footprints spoiled the pristine snow and reproached her. What right had she to pester the poor man? So what if he didn’t want to answer the door? She retraced her steps.
She had almost made up her mind to leave when she caught a strangled noise from inside. There was definitely someone in the hall behind the door. She knocked on the frosted glass.
“Mr Bagshaw? My name is Faith Morgan,” she called. “I am vicar at St James’s – I just wanted to see if you are all right.” This time she heard a distinct sob. She crouched down and looked through the letterbox. A man was sitting on the stairs in his shirt, socks and blue gingham boxer shorts, head in hands. He was crying.
“Mr Bagshaw – Adam – please open the door.” She couldn’t just leave him. She could feel the misery radiating out toward her. He was alone in that house; floundering under the weight of such tragedy, his sister dead and now his nephew. From what she gathered, his whole family had gone. All at once he was left to cope alone. So what if he was a stranger to her?
“You shouldn’t be alone like this – please let me in,” she repeated. To her astonishment the figure on the
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