The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Read Free Page B

department.”
    The Markham house was a 1930s building with a modern extension. To one side stood the barn that Oliver Markham had converted into his joinery workshop. Ben had shed his white boiler suit and was waiting for them outside.
    “There hasn’t been a recent break-in here, has there?” Faith asked Peter, as they stood side by side, wrestling their way out of the nylon fabric.
    “None reported,” Peter replied, curtly. His attention was fixed on freeing his lower leg from the clinging forensic suit, but she could tell her question had hooked his attention. They joined Ben.
    “You took your time getting rid of her.”
    “Recognize who that was?” Peter asked. “Mrs Neil Granger.”
    “Ah…” Ben snorted.
    “Who is Mrs Granger?” queried Faith.
    “Mrs Neil Granger? Put herself up to be a magistrate not so long ago. Likes to speak out on behalf of her community.”
    “She told me her husband was very well known,” said Faith.
    “Even if he’s heard of more than seen,” Peter said, rather naughtily, Faith thought.
    “Piling up the dosh keeps him away from home,” Ben added. “Mr Neil Granger does a lot of business over in Scandinavia, so they say. I was thinking, sergeant, we should invite Mr Markham down to the station for a chat. He’s in the kitchen with young Eagles.” Peter nodded and went in.
    “You can’t be serious,” Faith said. “You can’t think Oliver Markham is responsible for that boy.”
    Ben looked down at her fondly – or maybe it was just condescension. “You know about the shotgun incident?”
    Faith sighed. “Peter told me. It’s a jump from that to murder, isn’t it?”
    “I thought you were keen on leaps of faith,” said Ben. He was definitely smiling now.
    Peter came out of the house with Markham, holding him loosely by the arm. She glanced at his profile and tried to see the carpenter objectively. He was a big man, with strong shoulders and forearms, and broad hands. Right now he had them clenched as if he might hit out. But did Oliver Markham really look like a man who had murdered on impulse and then been caught red-handed trying to dispose of the body? Faith hurried over.
    “Oliver! What a wretched business.” She pulled back her outstretched hand before it touched him, repelled by the electricity of his suppressed emotion. It took him a moment to recognize her.
    “Faith!” he greeted her jerkily. “I forgot. Sorry – can’t offer you coffee.”
    “Where are Julie and the girls? Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
    Oliver blinked. “Gone to London for a few days; Christmas shopping. No need to bother about them.” He lowered his head and gave Ben a bull-like stare. “Are we going, or what?”
     

    Faith sat in her car, waiting for the heaters to breathe life into her hands. Down the lane, the postman was chatting to the man from the AA. At least some Christmas cards would be delivered late that day. Her phone beeped officiously. She needed to leave for her next appointment at the cathedral. She watched Ben execute a neat three-point turn and drive off with Peter and Oliver not talking to one another in the back.
    Surely all this with Oliver Markham would sort itself out soon enough. She prayed that it would.
    As Faith attempted to turn in the lane (less successfully than Ben), an additional thought stole into her mind unbidden, though it seemed trivial in the circumstances. If Ben’s ridiculous suspicions had any foundation, Little Worthy’s Christmas pageant had just lost their Joseph. And they still had no donkey.

C HAPTER
3
    A light snow began to fall, and the road into Winchester soon clogged with slow-moving vehicles. After crawling in traffic for longer than seemed worth it, Faith finally found a space in a car park not too far from the cathedral. She felt glad of her padded winter boots. Whirling snowflakes filled the air, veiling everything in white as she made her way to the high street.
    She might have mailed her cards,