Evil Intent (11 page)

‘I need to explain a few things.’ Leo took a gulp of coffee, then leaned
forward.
‘Jonah wasn’t an easy man to get on with. He was opinionated, to say the very least. One of the things he hated – and I say one of the things, because there were many – was women priests. He couldn’t accept them, not at all. And last night I had asked a woman to assist me with the service. He and another priest, his boss, walked out – they didn’t stay for the service at all.’

‘Why did you ask a woman to assist you if you knew he would hate it?’ Neville asked, believing he already knew the answer; Leo’s dislike of the other priest came through loud and clear.

A smile twitched at the corner of Leo’s mouth. ‘Partly to get up his nose, if I’m being honest. But also because it was
right.
I don’t think you should stop doing what’s right, just because it might upset people.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Anyway, at the end of the meeting I opened a few bottles of wine. Jonah picked a fight with the woman. Frances Cherry, she’s called – she’s a hospital chaplain. He was unspeakably rude to her. Deliberately rude. So she…well, Frannie threw a glass of wine over him.’

‘Ah.’ Neville had scarcely begun to come to terms with the idea that
priests might dislike each other, and now he was being told that things could go even beyond that. Suddenly this case was looking very interesting indeed.

‘I don’t blame her,’ Leo added. ‘She was provoked.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I sent Jonah off to the vestry to clean up. And I took Frannie outside for some fresh air, to calm her down.’

‘Did you go back to the meeting after that?’

Leo shook his head. ‘No. It took a good while to calm Frannie down. We walked a long way. I ended up walking her home. By the time I got back to the church…well, everyone had gone, or at least I assumed so. The lights were all off, the place was deserted. I locked up and came home.’

‘Did you lock the vestry?’

‘No.’ Again he shook his head. ‘I didn’t even go near it. It wasn’t
usually
kept locked. All of the valuables – the silver and so on – are in the
sacristy.
And that’s always locked. But nothing is stored in the vestry except for vestments.’

‘So anyone could gain access to it.’

‘Theoretically, yes. As long as the church was open.’

The church
had
been open, which meant that anyone at the meeting, or anyone off the streets for that matter, could have got into the room where the priest was murdered. ‘What time, exactly, did you get back? What time did you lock up?’ Neville didn’t yet know – possibly might never know – at what time the murder occurred, but this could be important.

‘I think it was gone eleven,’ said Leo. ‘Ten past, quarter past. Something like that.’

‘And after that?’

‘I came home, as I said. Went to bed.’

Neville dreaded asking his next question; it was always a difficult one, implying as it did that the person was under suspicion. ‘You understand that I have to ask you this,’ he began. ‘Apart from this Frances Cherry, is there anyone who can vouch for your actions, your whereabouts?’

‘An alibi, you mean,’ said Leo flatly.

‘I have to ask,’ Neville repeated.

Was there a flicker of hesitation, a heartbeat in which the man across
from him decided what to say?

‘I am a bachelor,’ stated Leo. ‘I live alone.’

Neville sensed that he would not progress any further by pressurising Leo, by putting him on the defensive, so he moved on to a more neutral question. ‘This Father Jonah,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me anything about his personal life? Where he lived, anything about his family?’

Leo put down his coffee mug, leaned back in his chair and tented his
fingers.
‘About his family, no. I don’t think he had one, at least not in London. He lived in the clergy house at St Mary the Virgin, Marble Arch. The
person
to ask about his personal life would be Vincent Underwood, his vicar.’

‘You’ll give me his address?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the other people who were there last night for the meeting?’

Leo went to his desk and pulled a directory from under a stack of papers. He sat behind the desk and wrote out a list, consulting the
directory
for addresses and telephone numbers. Neville waited in silence, glancing at his sergeant, who hadn’t said a word but who was taking assiduous notes. ‘Here you are,’ said Leo, handing over the list. ‘That’s everyone. I’ve put Vincent Underwood at the top.’

Neville glanced at the list and passed it on to DS Cowley. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.’ He rose to go, then did something which he’d deliberately borrowed from the old American television
detective
Columbo. ‘Just one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you ever seen a white stole with blue names painted on it? Names of women in the Bible?’

This time there was no hesitation. ‘Of course,’ Leo affirmed. ‘It belongs to Frannie. Frances Cherry. She wore it for the Mass last night.’

‘Does anyone else you know have a stole like that?’

Leo shook his head. ‘No. It’s a complete one-off. It was an ordination gift, made specially for her.’

‘Did she have it with her when you walked her home last night?’

‘No. I told you, we went off in a hurry. I suppose she must have left it in the vestry.’ It was at that point that Neville reckoned the penny dropped.
He had never seen a black man go pale before, but Leo Jackson suddenly went ashen grey, as though the blood had drained from his face. ‘You’re not saying…’

The stole was an important clue, Neville realised, and now that its
ownership
had been confirmed, he was no longer prepared to give away his advantage. ‘I’m not saying anything. It might be relevant to our enquiries, that’s all.’

So the redhead in the photo was Frances Cherry. Neville considered the implications of that fact. She and Leo Jackson were friends; he had been at her ordination; he had been responsible for her involvement at the service last night; he was the one who had looked after her following the debacle with Father Jonah, and had walked her home.

Or had he?

Neville spoke reflectively to DS Cowley as they got in the car. ‘Do you suppose he’s been shagging her, then?’

‘Who?’

‘Him. Leo. Shagging that woman Frances Cherry.’

Cowley, in the process of lighting a cigarette, turned a shocked face to him. ‘But they’re both vicars!’

Neville smiled humourlessly. ‘Don’t you read the tabloids, sunshine? Vicars are the worst.’

‘But…’

He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘First, he’s known her for years. He said so. And they were in that photo together, looking pretty chummy. Second, he calls her “Frannie”. Like a term of endearment.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything.’

Neville ignored the interruption. ‘Third, he’s hiding something.’

‘Is he?’

‘Didn’t you see the way he hesitated, when I asked him about where he was later last night? I’ll bet you a pint of Guinness that Leo Jackson wasn’t alone in his bed.’ He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And who more logical to have shared it with him than Frances Cherry? We only have his word for it that he walked her home.’

‘Maybe he knows that she killed that Father Jonah, and is covering for
her,’ said Cowley, his imagination finally engaged. ‘Or maybe they did it together – maybe they went back and killed him.’

Neville was still nodding. ‘Maybe they did.’

Inevitably, their first call was the address supplied to them for Frances Cherry. It was rather farther than Neville expected, in Notting Hill, to the west of Lancaster Gate beyond the point where the Bayswater Road becomes Notting Hill Gate.

The person who answered the door was not Frances Cherry: it was a bespectacled middle-aged man in a grey clerical shirt and dog collar, who looked startled when they proffered their identification.

‘We’d like to speak to Frances Cherry,’ Neville said.

‘I’m afraid she’s not at home. She’s at work.’ He hesitated. ‘Is there
anything
I can help you with? I’m Graham Cherry. Her husband.’

Somehow Neville hadn’t anticipated that she would have a husband. ‘You’re a vicar, as well?’

Graham Cherry nodded in the affirmative. ‘Yes. This is my parish.’

‘But you weren’t at the meeting last night with your wife?’

‘No. It was a deanery meeting, and I’m in a different deanery.’ Graham hesitated, his brow furrowed, then blurted, ‘Look, I know Frances lost her temper. But surely it isn’t a criminal matter? Surely he’s not pressing charges?’

So he knew about the wine incident. That, thought Neville, was
interesting.
How much did he know about Leo Jackson, and his wife’s
relationship
with him?

He glanced at his watch. They needed to be getting on with other urgent matters, and those were questions which could wait.

‘It’s just not like her to lose her temper like that,’ Graham insisted. ‘I’m sure it won’t happen again.’

‘We’ll need to speak to her nonetheless. What time do you expect her home?’

DS Cowley spoke for the first time. ‘Or do you have a number where we can reach her?’

‘She’s usually home by half six. I’m afraid it’s difficult to reach her when she’s at the hospital, as she has to switch off her mobile.’

‘We’ll be back,’ Neville promised, adding ‘and I’d appreciate it, sir, if
you didn’t tell her about our visit.’

The reaction of Vincent Underwood, when he was told by DI Stewart that his curate was dead, was suitably dramatic: he staggered backwards, clutched at his heart, and burst into tears.

A few minutes later he had recovered sufficiently to speak, and led them into his study, dabbing at his eyes with an immaculate linen handkerchief. ‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I just can’t believe that Jonah is dead. But how? When? Was it a traffic accident of some kind?’

‘No, sir,’ said Neville impassively. ‘He was murdered.’

‘But…but that’s not possible!’

‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

Father Vincent sat down heavily on the nearest chair and pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘When? How?’

‘We’re still waiting for details from the post-mortem,’ Neville hedged. ‘He was found in the vestry of St John’s, Lancaster Gate this morning.’

‘Then she did it,’ Father Vincent said at once in a ringing voice, raising his head to stare at the policemen. ‘That woman. She killed him.’

‘And which woman would that be?’

‘That dreadful woman, that hospital chaplain. Frances Cherry. It must have been her.’

Neville waited for more, and it came. Father Vincent imparted his
version
of the row. According to him, Jonah had been minding his own
business,
drinking his wine, and Frances Cherry had accosted him, spoiling for a fight. She had attacked him verbally, then she had thrown her wine over him. ‘I was shocked. Shocked! I’d never seen such disgraceful behaviour in someone who calls herself a priest.’

‘Surely she
is
a priest,’ Neville pointed out.

Father Vincent shook his head, briefly distracted into a lecture. ‘Oh, no. Not at all. She just
thinks
she is. Like all of those women. They’re deluded. They think that because they went through an ordination ceremony, it makes them a priest. But God knows better. It’s just not possible for women to be priests, whatever they may think. And this,’ he added pompously, ‘shows us exactly why. They’re not stable, are they? Women, that is. Their
hormones make it impossible for them to act rationally. Menopausal, I wouldn’t doubt. Not that it’s any excuse for her appalling behaviour.’

Neville tried to digest this, and finding it impossible, encouraged him back onto track. ‘So what happened after she threw the wine over him?’

‘Leo Jackson – he’s the vicar of the church – suggested that I should take him to the vestry. There’s a wash hand basin there, so we were able to repair the worst of the damage. Most of the wine had gone onto Jonah’s face, though some had dripped onto his cassock. I helped him to clean up.’

‘And how long were you in the vestry together?’

The priest considered the question for a moment. ‘Oh, I suppose it was ten minutes, quarter of an hour – something like that.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘We left,’ Father Vincent said promptly. ‘We went out together. Jonah had walked to the meeting, and I’d come in my motor. I offered him a lift home, but as he was getting in the car, he remembered something and said he needed to go back into the church. He said not to wait for him. And that,’ he added, his voice trembling, ‘was the last time I saw him.’

‘And you, Father? What did you do then?’ Neville slipped the necessary question in.

‘I came home,’ the priest stated. ‘I was still quite upset by what had
happened.
I had a drink, then decided to have an early night.’

‘So you didn’t see anyone, or talk to anyone.’

‘My wife was out last night. At the opera, I believe.’

This was the first that Neville had heard of a wife, and the reference to her surprised him. He knew, of course, that Anglican clergy were free to marry, and many of them did, but he somehow expected that one who called himself ‘Father’ would not have done so. It seemed to him rather like having one’s cake and eating it.

This led him onto another train of thought, and another line of
questions.
‘Did Father Jonah have a wife?’

‘Oh, no,’ the priest said. ‘He was a true celibate. He lived on his own, in the clergy house.’

‘No girlfriends, then?’ Neville probed.

‘No.’

‘Or boyfriends?’

Father Vincent bristled. ‘I take that as an insult to his memory, Inspector. There may be some in the Church who think that sort of thing is acceptable, but I can assure you that Father Jonah did not. He was adamantly opposed to it. As I am myself, of course,’ he added. ‘Sodomy is a sin, abhorrent and repugnant, incompatible with true Christian faith. Jonah and I agreed about that. We are… were… as one on most things.’

Neville meekly accepted the rebuke, then went on to his next question. ‘Did he have any family at all, then?’