Evil Intent (36 page)

‘I know she’s better off,’ he repeated, convincing himself. ‘But I’m going to miss her so. Oh, girl. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.’ He drew another deep breath, then started to sob.

‘But why…why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you leave a message?’

He spoke through gulping sobs. ‘I asked Father Brian to tell you. Yesterday, when she was took to hospital. She asked for you, Elsie did.’

‘He didn’t tell me.’

‘And again this morning. When they said…when we knew she didn’t have long. Father Brian told his wife to let you know.’

Callie didn’t understand. It made no sense. ‘I would have come,’ she
said. ‘You know I would have come. I didn’t know.’

‘Father Brian said as it was your day off. He said you might not want to come on your day off.’

‘Where are you now? I’ll come now.’

‘It’s too late for my Elsie.’

Tears stung Callie’s eyes. ‘I’d like to see you, though, Dennis. Where are you?’

‘The doctor’s just given me one of them sedatives. To make me sleep, he says. So now’s not a good time.’

‘I’ll come in the morning,’ she promised. ‘First thing, or whenever you like. Ring me when you want me to come.’

The old man wheezed out another gusty sob. ‘I just wanted to let you know something else, girl. My Elsie – before she went, she said it was her wish that you should do her funeral.’

‘Me?’

‘Father Brian tried to talk her out of it. Said you were only new, you’d never done a funeral before. But she had her heart set on it.’ He gained some control of his voice and went on, ‘You told us as a deacon, that you couldn’t do the Mass, but you could do weddings and funerals. And my Elsie remembered that. She wanted you to do it, and that’s that. Father Brian had to agree in the end.’

Callie gulped, and her voice came out as a croak. ‘I would be very
honoured
.’

Bella was at her side, sensing that her mistress was unhappy. Whimpering, she tried to climb into her lap as Callie put the phone down.

Callie scooped her up and buried her face in the soft fur. ‘Oh, Bella,’ she wailed, the tears spilling over. ‘Oh, my Bella, it’s just too much to bear!’ 

Marigold made an effort to keep her face composed, for the benefit of the taxi driver. If he had been looking at her in the mirror, he would have seen an attractive woman, no longer young but retaining more than a vestige of good looks, dressed in understated yet elegant clothes. Her hands would not have been visible to him, so he could not have seen that they plucked at each other nervously, picking at the edges of her nail polish. She was not at all conscious of it, either; her mind was too occupied.

What, she wondered, was Vincent up to?

The sum of money involved was not small.

One of the many ways her father had looked after her interests had been to make sure that everything was in Marigold’s name. His solicitors had drawn up the papers with great care; when he died, everything of her father’s had passed over to her absolutely – the house and contents, the investments, the money. Even before his death, the marriage settlement had been on her, tied up so that Vincent couldn’t touch it. Thanks to her father and his solicitors, they’d had an ironclad prenuptial agreement long before it became the vogue in Hollywood.

Vincent, for all of the years of their marriage, had been a kept man. If he needed money, Marigold reasoned, he had his clerical stipend. He could spend that as he liked. Apart from that, she provided the roof over his head and the food on his table. When they took a holiday, it was her money – her father’s money – that paid for it.

Her father had clearly known what he was doing. It wasn’t that he
didn’t
like Vincent, though he’d never felt that a mere clergyman, even one who was tipped to be a bishop one day, was a worthy husband for his only child – a beautiful child, who might have married a prince. But he had been the first to spot Vincent’s weakness. When that unpleasantness had cropped up, Marigold had been shocked to the core; her father, though, had not been unprepared. A tower of strength he’d proved to be; he’d moved swiftly to minimise the damage. He had promised Marigold that no one would know, and he’d kept his promise. Thanks to his intervention, it had never made it to court, never reached the newspapers.

As far as Marigold was aware, Vincent had held to his word that it would never happen again. Maybe it was because she had told him that if it did, she would not hesitate to divorce him without a penny.

What if he had once again strayed from the path? It didn’t bear
thinking
about.

But she could no longer bury her head in the sand; she had to think about it. Because if it were true, this time her father was not there to pick up the pieces. And people would surely find out.

Tonight she would confront him about it. She would ask him about the money.

The rain was beginning to slack off at last. By the time taxi had reached the house, it was barely misting; Marigold didn’t even need to put up her umbrella. She paid the driver and climbed the steps to the front door.

The daily was in the hall, donning her plastic mac in preparation for leaving. ‘I’ve just started a fire for you in the drawing room,’ she said. ‘I’ve drawn all the curtains. And I’ve made a fresh pot of tea.’

‘Is Father Vincent in?’ Marigold asked.

The daily shook her head. ‘He went out after lunch. He didn’t say where he was going. But he did say that he would be in this evening.’

‘Thank you.’ Marigold went through into the drawing room. The fire had barely caught hold, so she gave the coals a stir with the poker, then poured herself a cup of tea.

Marigold sat in her favourite chair by the fire, the tea going cold as she retreated into her thoughts, waiting for her husband.

Jezebel, the heartless cat, sauntered into the room, jumped on her
mistress’s
lap, and not finding it congenial enough, promptly jumped down again and went off to pursue other interests.

Marigold looked down at her empty lap, at her hands, at the ruin of the expensive manicure. ‘Oh, no,’ she whispered. Silent tears slid down her cheeks.

‘I can’t bear it,’ Callie repeated into Bella’s furry neck.

The doorbell rang. ‘Now what?’ she moaned; she wasn’t expecting Mark until later.

‘I finished a bit early and thought I’d come straight here,’ he said as she opened the door. ‘I tried to get you on the phone but it was engaged. It’s stopped raining,’ he added, then caught sight of her face. ‘Callie! What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Everything.’ She put her hands over her face. ‘It’s all just too much, Marco.’

‘What? Tell me,’ he ordered.

‘My mother is impossible. Frances is locked up in a cell. And now…one of my parishioners has died. Someone I’d come to care about. I didn’t even know.’ It all came spilling out: how Elsie had gone into hospital and died, and Jane Stanford hadn’t passed on the messages. ‘It must have been
deliberate,’
Callie said. ‘But I just don’t understand it. Why would she do that? Why should she hate me?’

‘Has it occurred to you that she might be jealous?’ Mark said
perceptively.

‘Jealous? Of me?’ Callie’s eyes widened. ‘But why?’

‘Because you’re working with her husband. You’re seeing more of him than she is, probably.’

‘That’s ridiculous! She doesn’t need to worry about that!’ she
protested.
‘I don’t exactly fancy Brian Stanford.’

‘And because,’ Mark went on, ‘you’re younger than she is. And you’re so…’

‘Anyway, I don’t need it.’ Her voice caught on a half-sob. ‘Not on top of everything else. It’s just too much.’

Mark took a step forward and hugged her. She relaxed against him,
finding
comfort in his sympathy.

He stroked her hair. Callie’s heart thumped and her stomach gave a peculiar but not unpleasant lurch. Then his thumb caressed her cheek, and she stopped breathing for an instant. ‘Callie …’ he murmured.

The doorbell rang. They jumped apart guiltily, as though the person on the other side of the door possessed X-ray vision.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ Mark’s voice sounded strange.

‘No.’

She opened the door. Peter tumbled in, dropping carrier bags and
embracing his sister, trilling ‘
Buona sera
!’

The next thirty seconds were chaos. Bella proved herself utterly useless as a watchdog, throwing herself on the visitor with enthusiastic licks and tail-wags. Callie tried to perform introductions, even as Peter explained why he had arrived unannounced. ‘Food!’ he said, reclaiming the carrier bags from the floor and holding them up in triumph. ‘Italian food! I hope you don’t have other plans for dinner tonight.’

‘You’re cooking?’ she asked in amazement.

‘Well, no. You are,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘But I’ve brought all the ingredients.’

‘Let’s see what we have here.’ Mark took the bags from Peter and began delving into them. ‘Olive oil.’

‘Extra virgin,’ Peter pointed out.

‘
Bellissimo
,’ pronounced Mark. ‘And good balsamic vinegar.’

Peter rattled off a list, beaming happily. ‘Marinated artichoke hearts, olives, Parma ham, Milano salami. That’s all for the antipasto. Then there’s pecorino cheese, and some Parmesan. And lovely mushrooms. Fungi.’

‘Pasta,’ said Mark. ‘And some good passata. And ciabatta bread.’

‘Not to forget the wine,’ added Peter.

‘I take it,’ Callie put in, ‘that you’ve had a good time in Italy?’

‘Ah,
la bella Italia
,’ Peter sighed. ‘In a word, it was bliss.’

‘You speak Italian?’ asked Mark eagerly.

Peter gave a modest grin. ‘I picked up a bit. It’s the most beautiful
language.
And the most beautiful country. I just can’t believe it’s taken me so long to get there. Why would anyone go to France, when they could go to Italy?’

‘Peter’s always been good at languages,’ Callie said.

Mark examined the outside of the carrier bags. ‘You’ve been to Milano?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Next time you must go to Venice. Milano is all right, but
Venezia è
ottima.’

‘You’re Italian!’ Peter realised belatedly.

‘Sono nato a Londra, ma i miei genitori sono veneziani.’

Callie, feeling a bit dazed, carried the food through to the kitchen while
the men chatted. When she returned to the sitting room, Mark was putting his coat on.

‘You’re not going, are you?’ She could hear the dismay in her own voice.

‘Don’t go on my account,’ Peter added. ‘I’m the gatecrasher here. And there’s plenty of food for all of us.’

‘I just thought I’d take Bella out for a few minutes.’ Indeed, Bella was already at the door, wagging her tail vigorously. ‘It will give you two a bit of time to catch up.’

As soon as he’d gone, Peter turned to Callie with a wide-eyed,
mischievous
look. ‘Well, Sis. I must say. You haven’t exactly let the grass grow under your feet.’

‘It’s not…’ she tried to protest.

‘Oh, I approve. He’s a great improvement on what’s-his-name.’ He added, ‘I never did think he was right for you. No sense of humour
whatsoever.
You’re well shot of him.’

She didn’t feel equal to replying.

‘And,’ Peter went on, grinning, ‘he’s really cute. I don’t suppose there’s any chance he’s gay?’

Callie turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her involuntary smile. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s not.’

‘Ah, well.’ He sighed philosophically. ‘My loss is your gain.’

‘But you have this new chap,’ she reminded him. ‘The fashion designer.’

‘Oh, him.’ Peter gave a dismissive shrug. ‘He’s history.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s over already! I thought he was meant to be the great love of your life!’

‘Well,’ said Peter. ‘You know me. I live in hope. But he was dreadful, Sis. A workaholic, and a control freak. A very bad combination, believe me.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was working the whole week, the whole time we were in Milan.’

‘It was a business trip,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, but all work and no play…The worst thing was, though, that he didn’t want me to play, either. He just wanted me to sit in the hotel room all day and wait for him.’

‘Obviously you didn’t agree.’

‘Blow that for a game of soldiers!’ Peter said with feeling. ‘I wanted to make the most of it. So I went out all day, every day, and crammed in as much as I could. Galleries, shopping, talking to people and picking up the local colour. Food,’ he added, sighing. ‘Oh, the food was just to die for!’ He gave a meaningful look towards the kitchen. ‘Which reminds me, Sis …’

‘Yes, I can take a hint.’

‘Are you prepared,’ asked Detective Chief Superintendent Evans, ‘to take it to the magistrate? I’m sure we could get an extension, if you really want to hold on to her.’

Neville shook his head, defeated. ‘There’s no point, sir. She’s not going to talk. She’s refused to say anything for the last twenty-four hours.’

‘So you’ve agreed that it’s best to let her go.’ Evans’s eyes moved between Neville and Cowley.

Cowley, his arms folded, looked disgusted but said nothing.

‘It’s not as if she’ll do a runner,’ Neville pointed out. ‘If we need to bring her in again, we know where to find her.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Evans. ‘What about Leo Jackson?’

‘We have another twenty-four hours.’

‘And we’re going to hold on to that black poofter till the very last minute,’ Cowley put in grimly.

Evans drew his brows together in a thunderous expression of
displeasure.
‘We won’t have any talk like that, Sergeant. Not on this force. One more remark like that and you’ll be back in uniform. If you’re lucky.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Cowley didn’t sound very repentant.

When Mark returned with Bella, he took over in the kitchen, promising Peter a pasta
con funghi
the likes of which he’d never tasted before.

‘Oh, what a treasure,’ sighed Peter, appropriating the most comfortable chair in the sitting room. ‘Cute, funny, and he cooks. What did you say he does for a living?’

Callie smiled from the sofa. ‘I didn’t say. He’s a policeman.’

‘Well, I suppose no one’s perfect,’ he grinned. ‘But he’s definitely a keeper. I hope you’re not going to let this one get away, Sis.’ Then he
caught sight of her face. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said contritely. ‘That was a dreadfully insensitive thing to say.’

‘Apology accepted.’

‘You’re not still pining for what’s-his-name, are you?’

‘No,’ said Callie, and as she said it she knew it was true. ‘No, I’m not.’

Peter hastily changed the subject. ‘So, Sis. I’m totally out of touch with the news. What’s been going on while I’ve been away? Have they solved that murder yet?’

She had almost managed to put her worries about Frances out of her mind; now they flooded back. ‘It’s been dreadful,’ she said with feeling. ‘They’ve arrested Frances. She hasn’t been charged, or at least she hadn’t when I saw her this afternoon, but they have her locked up in a cell. It’s horrible. And that awful Lilith Noone has been writing such rubbish,’ she added. ‘Stirring things up. Our Area Dean – she’s practically accused him of rape and paedophilia.’

‘Well, at least things haven’t been dull.’

Callie indicated a stack of newspapers beside his chair. ‘I’ve saved all the papers for you. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve even been buying the
Globe
, to find out what that terrible woman is writing about my friends.’

‘She hasn’t written anything about you, has she?’

‘No. She did try to talk to me once, but as soon as I realised who she was, I sent her packing. I suppose I had a lucky escape.’

Peter picked up the top tabloid from the pile: that morning’s
Globe
, with its ‘Bishop of Buggery’ headline. ‘Good Lord. What’s this all about, then?’

‘Leo. The Area Dean. He was going to be a bishop, and now he’s
withdrawn
because he supposedly molested a young man. I just can’t believe it’s true. But he did withdraw, so perhaps there’s something in it.’

‘Good Lord.’ Peter read the story, then found the previous issue to get the background. ‘I’ve never seen this bloke before,’ he said, examining Leo’s photo on the front page. ‘And I’d remember him if I had – he’s quite striking, isn’t he? He’s certainly not part of the regular gay scene.’ He scanned Lilith Noone’s story, turning to the inside continuation pages. He read for a bit, then stopped short. ‘Wait a minute.’