Murdering Ministers (7 page)

“What about Nigel Tapster, then?”

“What about him?”

“On the surface, he seems to be the very model of the simple, fervent spirituality you're seeking for yourself. But none of your deacons seem to trust him, there are rumors of a murky past, and he's clearly not your favorite person.”

Piltdown thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and glared at his shoes. Oliver wished his old friend were a poker player.

“I said before,” Piltdown answered eventually, “Nigel and Heather are good people. The youngsters love them. And whatever passed between Nigel and me this evening is a private matter.”

There was still a trace of bitterness in his voice.

“From what I heard this evening, he might well be a saint,” Oliver conceded. “But he could also be the Pied Piper of Plumley, enchanting the children away from the church. Aren't you afraid that you might have the beginnings of some weird kind of cult on your hands?”

“Nigel Tapster is hardly a Jim Jones or a David Koresh or any brand of Bhagwan.”

“Not yet, but they all had to start somewhere. And if Nigel is just starting out on that path, isn't this the best time to fight him?”

Again, Piltdown seemed to think for several seconds before attempting an answer. “Nigel can't take the children away from the church if he's part of the church. That's why I encouraged him to run in tomorrow night's election.”

“Bring him into the fold. He may be the devil, but at least he's our devil.”

“Something like that,” said Piltdown with a humorless laugh. “Not all the church members think he's bad news, you know.”

“But there are only four diaconal positions. If Nigel gets in, one of the current deacons will have to stand down.”

“Afraid so,” said Piltdown, as he turned off the kitchen light and ushered Oliver through the door.

Which would it be? Oliver wondered. The first face to loom from his memory was Dougie Dock, and he immediately resented the dedication of so many neurons to the process. He had pegged Dock as one of the “clowns of private life” that W.S. Gilbert so wisely condemned to a beheading on Koko's list. Just the kind of man who would strike up a conversation with a stranger in an elevator, and then continue to make announcements as if he were in a department store—“Third floor, leather goods and ladies' underwear”—long after it had stopped being funny, if it ever started, punctuated with little puffs of self-congratulatory laughter. Then there was Sam Quarterboy, the last Victorian father. And scripture-spouting Cedric Potiphar, whose peculiar wife seemed to put the “mental” into his fundamentalism. But who was the fourth deacon? Was it the epicene young man Ben had been talking to? What was his name? Barry…Poison? Foison, that was it. No, he wasn't a deacon. The fourth man was a woman, Patience Coppersmith. She had seemed blessedly normal, but Oliver could easily believe she might be concealing considerable uneasiness about her son's attachment to Tapster.

“Does your encouragement of Tapster run to voting for him?” he asked Piltdown.

“It's a private ballot,” said the minister uneasily, standing in the dark for a moment. “That's the beauty of democracy.”

***

The telephone in the hallway was ringing as Oliver let himself into the Edwardes Square townhouse.

“Yes?”

“Oliver Swithin, this is the police.”

“What are you wearing?” he asked huskily. Effie Strongitharm giggled, which signaled that for once she had some privacy at her Scotland Yard desk.

“Just the usual plus fours and gas mask. Listen, where was that church you went to on Sunday?”

Should he make a joke about sudden elopements? Better not; their relationship wasn't that well established. And that reminded him, he still hadn't bought her a Christmas present.

“Plumley,” he told her. “I just got back from a follow-up visit, as it happens.”

“I thought you said Plumley. It's my new manor, starting tomorrow. Did Tim tell you he was taking leave until the end of the year? So rather than leave me kicking around the Yard with no guvnor to bother, I've been temporarily assigned to the CID in Area North West. They're a bit short-staffed, apparently, for the pre-Christmas crime wave. It's a bit of a slog to get there from Richmond, but it'll make a change from murder, and it's only for a couple of weeks. Do you remember Detective Sergeant Welkin?”

“Face like a week of wet Fridays?”

“No, that's DS Moldwarp. He's still here at the Yard. Welkin's a heavyset character, face like a boxer. Very strong Cockney accent. Breeds Burmese cats.”

“Yes, of course. He always reminds me of my great-uncle Henry.”

“Really? He reminds me of my dry cleaner. Anyway, Welkin was promoted to detective inspector a couple of months ago and transferred to Area North West, so I'll be working for him. He requested me, apparently.”

“Uncle Tim hasn't said anything about a vacation,” said Oliver thoughtfully.

“Perhaps he wants to concentrate on his stage career. Which reminds me, can you get out to Theydon Bois under your own steam tomorrow night? Since I'll be in Plumley anyway, it'll be easier for me to drive straight there. I'll bring you home afterwards.”

Their conversation continued with further brief expressions of affection and mild lust, and then Effie was interrupted by the arrival of DS Moldwarp, who was covering her duties until she returned to the Yard. Oliver hung up the telephone regretfully, and was about to go to his bedroom when he caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror. His left ear was black.

Chapter Three

To Human View Displayed

Friday, December 19

Not her dry cleaner, Effie speculated, looking curiously at the policeman's harsh features. Perhaps it was the man who ran the pet shop on the street where she grew up? No, it had to be that actor who'd been in the movie she'd watched last week on Channel Four.

Detective Inspector Lenny “Spiv” Welkin finished his phone conversation, and Effie momentarily gave up wondering who he reminded her of. They were sitting in his office, a tiny, glass-walled room that completely failed to separate him, visually or acoustically, from the criminal investigation area in the small Plumley subdivisional police station. It was her first morning on her temporary assignment, and her unannounced appearance at the station had clearly provoked some curiosity among her new colleagues. From her seat, she could see several of the younger detectives appraising her frankly while pretending to take phone calls or check for data on computer screens. (Her hair, particularly, seemed to feature in their sign language.) Let them look, she thought. If they cross the line, she had her defenses.

“Congratulations again on your promotion, Spiv,” she said. Although Welkin had worked only briefly for Mallard, she had known him for several years and respected him. Despite the tough visage and the unrelenting Cockney accent, she knew him to be a fair man, devoted to a house full of pedigree Burmese cats.

“Ta, Eff. I think I'm going to like it here, although it's been nothing but paperwork since I arrived a couple of weeks ago. Still, that suits a man in my condition.”

He gestured at a walking stick propped behind the door. Their one assignment together had resulted in a rather energetic arrest for Effie, but a shattered tibia for Welkin, and while his leg was out of its cast, it was clearly not fully functional. “That's partly why I asked for you to come 'ere. It's only a small station—most of the big stuff goes on over at the main Thripstone cop shop. But we're a bit short-staffed, even for us. Two detective constables are out on the panel and my usual sergeant's gone off on honeymoon.”

“You asked for me personally?” Effie said with surprise.

“Oh, yeah. I was talking to Assistant Commissioner Weed, and 'e let slip that Tim Mallard might be taking some time off, leaving you at a loose end until the New Year. So I made a grab for you. Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added hastily, although he wasn't sure the qualification was an improvement. Welkin tensed, knowing only too well what Effie could do to him if she sensed anything untoward.

“In that case, I'm flattered,” she answered, to his visible relief. “But are you expecting any bloodbaths in Plumley High Street between now and Boxing Day?”

Welkin laughed. “If the worst thing that happens is a double-parked sleigh and an unlicensed reindeer, that would suit me down to the ground. No, Sergeant, while your talents as a homicide detective are only to be envied, I was hoping you could help me with something else.” He nodded in the direction of the large room outside. “You may have noticed that you've already attracted some admirers.”

Effie did not alter her gaze. “You mean the prematurely balding stick insect playing pocket billiards, the pint-sized Casanova with the scrubby moustache and acne who keeps moving his chair so he can see up my skirt, or the chicken wearing glasses who keeps making odd hand gestures, as if he's shaking up an invisible bottle of medicine? A rather small bottle, I might add.”

“I see you need no introduction to your colleagues on the shift,” said Welkin wryly. “Don't worry, I'm working on their reeducation, and a splendid time is guaranteed for all. This morning, you're merely serving as a distraction from their normal victim, Detective Constable Tish Belfry. That's her in the corner.”

Effie turned, and two of the male detectives outside suddenly became very interested in items on their desktops, although they did look up swiftly and grin at each other for no apparent reason. The third, the shorter man with the moustache, had now maneuvered his chair too far from his desk, so he pretended instead to be lost in thought in the middle of the room, tapping a pencil against his untidy teeth. Behind them, a dark-haired young woman in a severe navy suit was looking worriedly at a file. Her apparent obliviousness to the men's muttered conversation was so complete that Effie knew she hadn't missed a word.

“I don't have to spell it out, do I, Effie?” said Welkin. “Tish is a promising copper. I think she'd really benefit from a few days in your company. Come on, I'll introduce you.”

He eased himself to his feet and limped to the door, allowing Effie to hold it open for him as a matter of pragmatism, not affirmative action. Picking up the walking stick, he led her across the main room, ignoring his male subordinates who began practicing sly Long John Silver impressions behind his back, and tapped Belfry lightly on the shoulder.

The speed with which DC Tish Belfry spun around and the intense scowl she assumed were promising, Effie thought, but she had to lose the flicker of apprehension, a true tell for the experienced bully. Tish appeared relieved when she saw Welkin and even managed a smile when he introduced her to Effie. She had strong Indian or Pakistani coloring, with straight, glossy hair cut to the level of her chin. But there was also the suggestion of European genes that added a sallowness to her clear complexion and lightened her eyes from espresso to a strong cappuccino. Probably on her father's side, to judge from the family name, but the strong nose and angular chin that detracted only slightly from her general attractiveness could have come from either heritage. Tish's accent as she greeted Effie seemed local, and Effie found herself constructing a life story for the young woman (child of mixed race, probable disapproval of the parents' marriage from both sides of the family, only child or at least no brothers or she'd be better prepared for the indignities of life as the token female in a CID unit, most likely a single-sex school) before she reminded herself she wasn't dealing with a murder suspect. Mallard had trained her too well—Tish would probably answer personal questions without demanding legal representation.

“Effie's not too familiar with the manor,” Welkin was saying, “so I thought you might start with a quick tour, show her the sights.”

“Of course, Inspector.”

“I could show her a few sights without leaving the station,” muttered one of the men behind them. Welkin turned quickly, just as the stick insect began to limp across the room in another parody of the burly inspector's gait. He swiftly adjusted it to a scuttle.

“What are you doing?” Welkin asked, in long-suffering tones.

“Oh, just showing the lads my impression of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, Boss,” the stick insect replied, crossing the room with bent knees, one shoulder higher than the other.

“That's your Richard the Third,” sniggered the chicken.

“Nah, this is my Richard the Third,” the stick insect responded, dropping his shoulder and lifting the other one. The other men snorted with messy laughter. A telephone began to ring in Welkin's office, and he hobbled back to answer it.

“Aren't you going to introduce us to the new girl, Tish?” asked the undersized Casanova. He was still draped like a starfish over the office chair. “I'd offer to get up, love, but I'm up already, if you get my drift.”

His colleagues groaned and laughed again. Casanova assumed a poorly arranged expression of sincerity and looked up at Effie.

This was his mistake.

He had just moved on from admiring her copious, curly hair to gazing at her light blue eyes, when an odd sensation began. It wasn't that she changed her demeanor or even moved a muscle in her face, but suddenly he saw behind those appealing features the long-suffering, quizzical, slightly pained, but vaguely pitying countenance of every woman who had ever judged him in his life. He had the impression that a vast pair of scales was being created in his mind, and into one pan went all the instances of human decency and nobility that had moved him to tears since his childhood, from Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech to Neil Armstrong's voice declaring “The Eagle has landed,” while into the other pan went every example of his own unworthiness, freshly and vividly recalled (such as the time he had gone three stations past his stop on the Underground because the City secretary crammed in beside him had left one button of her blouse undone), every spiteful joke he had passed on, and every fierce suggestive remark he had ever whispered or shouted at a vulnerable woman whom he knew could not fight back. A great voice seemed to toll in his head “You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting!” This unfamiliar emotion that now coursed through every bodily canal—is this what shame, abject shame feels like? It made him want to shrink down below the floor and pull the linoleum over his head, so that he'd never have to face anyone or anything again. Especially Effie's ice-blue eyes. Instead, he slid off his chair.

The stick insect and the chicken guffawed as it rolled away on its castors, leaving him flat on his back.

“That put you in your place,” shouted the chicken. “I don't think you're her type, mate.”

“That'll do,” murmured Welkin, stepping out of his office.

“Hey, maybe she doesn't like men at all,” said the stick insect with exaggerated surprise, as if he had just discovered a pulsar in his bathroom.

Casanova had clambered to his feet. “Knock it off, lads,” he muttered nervously backing away from Effie without daring to look at her. The chicken and the stick insect paused and stared at their colleague.

“What's the matter with you?” the chicken asked suspiciously.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Casanova, risking a glance back at Effie, who had not moved since he had approached her that lifetime ago. “I'm just concerned that we're not creating a good first impression.”

“Do what?”

“We're not being very polite to our guest, that's all.”

“A guest who outranks you all, incidentally,” Welkin announced smugly. “You can call off the guided tour for now,” he continued quietly, after the three chastened men had absorbed the news and slunk away to their desks without speaking. “I have a real job for you both.”

“I'd love to know what happened back there,” Tish said, as she and Effie disappeared through the door. Welkin smiled again, knowing that what Tish was to learn privately was worth three months of classroom-based training. He had only once been on the receiving end of Effie's “Look,” for a mild infraction, but she had elicited one of the half-dozen memories that always provoked a physical shudder. He shouldered his walking stick as if it were a rifle, and limped slowly back to his office, pausing only to crook the handle around the stick insect's unsuspecting neck and pull him backwards.

“And if I see any more Hunchbacks of Notre Dame, Constable,” he hissed into the detective's ear, “I'll personally kick you in the bells.”

***

Oliver Swithin despised Finsbury the Ferret. He found it a constant effort to dream up despicable schemes for the evil beast to inflict on the hapless Railway Mice family, and he daily thanked Providence that the stories were published under his pen-name, O.C. Blithely, which—like Charles Lutwidge Dodgson before him—let him avoid responsibility for his character when it suited him.

Oliver couldn't even relieve his irritation by laughing all the way to the bank. The success of the Railway Mice books should have given him a decent income, but all of his earnings were currently sitting in an escrow account, managed by his publisher, Tadpole Tomes for Tiny Tots (although Oliver had wondered why this account was held in Switzerland). This was because the original illustrator of Finsbury—a callow art student on her first freelance assignment—was now suing the publisher for a sizeable share of the ferret's profits, past, present, and future. An interim judgment had recently allowed Tadpole Tomes to pay Oliver a stipend to cover his daily expenses, which freed him from the need to find a day job. Unfortunately, it also gave him more time to work on the Finsbury saga.

Not that he had any choice. Just before Finsbury's arrival in the Railway Mice books—an appearance that started out as a quick, private caprice, but accidentally found its way to the printed page—Oliver had signed a long-term contract with Tadpole Tomes, and the publisher was not going to back out of its only moneymaker, even if that money was currently a set of glowing numbers on a computer screen in Geneva. And the public appetite for the stories showed no sign of abating. Imitators had attempted to duplicate Finsbury, of course, but Willesden the Weasel and Slaithwaite the Slug, among many others, had failed to find an audience. For true depravity, there was still nothing like an original Finsbury the Ferret escapade, to Oliver's continued annoyance.

Tadpole Tomes had even hired a public relations firm, Hoo Watt & Eidenau, to think of new outlets for Finsbury, and Geoffrey Angelwine, who worked for this company, had exploited his long friendship with Oliver Swithin to finagle himself onto “the Blithely Account.” Since Geoffrey now saw Oliver's continued productivity as the key to his own professional advancement, he was constantly urging new Finsbury-related projects onto the author, including the assignment on religion for
Celestial City
. And because Geoffrey lived in the same house as Oliver, he would often materialize at odd times and berate Oliver for not writing enough. So with wealth and fame out of the picture—the former unrealized, the latter unwanted—the primary motivating force in Oliver's working day had become avoiding Geoffrey.

This was easy if the weather was fine. Oliver would grab his laptop computer, walk to Kensington Gardens, settle himself under a tree with a flask of tea and a croissant, and reluctantly devise vile plots for Finsbury, pausing only to smile at a passing nanny, or tourist, or dog, or if his surroundings failed to distract him, playing solitaire until his battery ran out.