Chapter 15
On Saturday morning, the Reverend Mark Fitzgerald was about to tuck into his breakfast, a hastily scrambled egg on singed toast, when he stopped, fork poised over his plate, and looked across the table at his wife.
Maritia was busy telling their son, Dominic, that eating his hard-boiled egg and soldiers would make him grow into a big strong boy.
She was a doctor, so she should know. The child looked sceptical and nibbled at one of the toast soldiers lined up on parade around his plate.
‘What do you think I should do about it?’ Mark sounded worried. It wasn’t every night he found a carrier bag containing two thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes lying in his church porch.
‘I’ll call my brother if you like.’
‘What do you think Wesley will say?’
‘He’ll probably tell you to hold onto it.
Chances are it’s an anonymous donation to the church restoration fund.
Let’s face it, with that work we had to do in the churchyard, it’s badly needed.
Maybe some kind person’s taken pity on us.
’ She sighed. ‘But I suppose we need to be absolutely certain, so put it in the vestry safe for the time being and see what happens. Did you see anybody about when you found it?’
‘I’m sure I heard a car drive off. And another vehicle, something bigger – a van maybe. But of course that might have had nothing to do with the money.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I should mention it at the service tomorrow.’
Before Maritia could offer her opinion, the doorbell rang, a common occurrence at Belsham vicarage.
Some people thought the vicar ought to be available at all hours of the day and night.
Mark jumped up to answer it, and a few moments later returned to the kitchen accompanied by a sprightly elderly woman with sensibly short grey hair and a worried expression.
‘I didn’t really know what to do, whether to call the police or . . .’
‘Sit down, Mrs Prothero. What’s the problem?’
Maritia gave the newcomer a smile. She liked Mrs Prothero, a Sunday-school teacher and one of the stalwarts of her husband’s congregation. The woman had welcomed her warmly when she’d first arrived in Belsham; unlike some others, who had treated her with distant caution.
‘How’s young Dominic?’ Mrs Prothero said, giving the child a benevolent smile. ‘Hasn’t he grown! And I hear there’s good news. You’re going to be blessed with another.’
Maritia’s hand travelled automatically to her abdomen. ‘I didn’t know it was common knowledge yet.’
‘You can’t keep secrets in a village like this,’ said Mrs Prothero with a satisfied nod. Her only fault, as far as Maritia could see, was an insatiable curiosity about the lives of her neighbours. Nosiness, many would call it.
‘You were saying . . . ?’ Mark knew he had to return to the matter in hand.
‘Oh yes. I live next door to Mrs Potter, as you know – that’s the lady who does the church flowers,’ she said as though she feared the vicar would have forgotten.
‘Anyway, this morning I found Gertrude, her cat, wandering about outside. It rained heavily in the early hours and she was wet, so it looks as though she’d been out all night.
Now, she’s Siamese – the cat, not Mrs Potter – and she’s not usually allowed out, so I was a bit worried.
Anyway, I knocked at the front door, but there was no answer.
Sue – Mrs Potter – mentioned that she was going to some sort of medieval festival today; she likes that sort of thing, dressing up and all that.
But there’s no way she’d have left that cat like that and just gone off somewhere.
And her car’s still outside. I went round the side of the house and tried the back door, and I found it unlocked, which isn’t like her at all. She’s usually such a careful person.’
‘Did you go inside the house?’ Mark asked.
Mrs Prothero looked horrified, as though the vicar had made an indecent suggestion. ‘Oh no. That would have been trespassing, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not if you thought something was wrong.’ Maritia tried not to make her words sound like a criticism.
‘Would you like me to take a look?’ said Mark.
‘You finish your breakfast first, Vicar.’
Mark was hungry, so he didn’t argue. He shovelled his scrambled egg in so fast he feared he’d give himself indigestion.
As soon as he’d finished, he followed Mrs Prothero out, marching quickly down the road until they reached Sue Potter’s cottage.
Sure enough, the Siamese cat was stationed outside like a sentry, looking sorry for herself and giving hungry shouts that sounded uncannily like a crying baby.
Mark made his way around the side of the cottage and took a deep breath as he pushed the back door open, calling Mrs Potter’s name. There was no answer, so he entered the house, calling out an unthreatening ‘hello’, with Mrs Prothero following closely behind.
What struck him most was the heavy silence, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
Nothing seemed to be out of place at first. Until he stepped further into the kitchen and saw the woman lying quite still on the floor by the table, her face contorted and her bulging eyes gazing up at the ceiling.
They hadn’t yet heard from any universities, in spite of leaving messages on various office answering machines.
Wesley knew the world of academe could sometimes be cut-throat.
But from everything they’d learned about Aleric Donnal, he didn’t seem the kind of person who made enemies.
Not the sort who’d kill him and hide his body inside a wall, anyway.
Wesley looked round. Trish was at her desk, gazing distractedly into space.
She’d left the office earlier when she’d received a phone call and had returned a few minutes later looking worried.
He could tell something was wrong and he was wondering whether to have a word with her when Ellie hurried up to his desk.
‘Sir, I’ve found something hidden deep in the website of a French university. ’
Wesley looked up, impressed by her thoroughness.
‘A Dr A. Donnal was listed as a researcher at the University of Rennes, in the medieval history department. This was between 2007 and 2010.’
‘That’s a long time ago, but at least it gives us somewhere to start,’ said Wesley. ‘We’ve had no luck getting through to local universities yet, and I assume Rennes will be the same. There’ll be nobody there over the weekend, so it’ll have to wait till Monday.’
Rachel, seated at the next desk, had been listening in to their conversation.
‘How’s your French?’ she asked with a grin.
Wesley shrugged modestly. ‘Schoolboy, I’m afraid. But I’m willing to have a go. Unless one of the team turns out to have hidden linguistic talents.’ He looked round the office. It was a scene of industry, with all his colleagues working away at their desks.
Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. He was surprised to hear his brother-in-law’s voice. Mark sounded shocked, shaken, and Wesley’s first thought was that something had happened to Maritia.
‘Wes, I’ve just found . . . I’ve just found the body of one of my parishioners. I think she’s been murdered.’
‘OK. Give me the address.’