Evil Intent (38 page)

‘Of course we did. It was routine – we ran through everyone
connected
with the enquiry. Cowley did it, early on in the investigation. I’m sure if anything at all had turned up, he would have mentioned it. To be honest, we didn’t expect to find anything, apart from maybe a parking ticket or
two. He’s a priest, for God’s sake.’

‘So is everyone else in this mess,’ Mark pointed out. ‘Frances Cherry, Leo Jackson, all those others. And one of them probably killed Jonah Adimola. Another priest, if I may state the obvious.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Well, the thing is, Nev, I’ve turned something up that just might
interest
you.’ Mark told him, succinctly.

‘Bloody hell.’ Neville whistled. ‘I’m going to go right now and check that computer myself. I’ll get back to you.’

Marigold was still for a moment, trying to make sense of Vincent’s
revelation
and her feelings about it. Her feelings about him…Had she really ever loved this man – this loathsome, pompous, cruel man? She supposed she must have done, once; she remembered it intellectually, but not with her heart. She had no recollection at all of how it had felt to love him. Most probably the love, if love it was, had died a death that day she’d found out about his proclivities. The day she learned that he wasn’t the man she thought he was, and never had been.

Now she wanted to wound him. ‘How did you find Oliver Pickett?’ she challenged, adding nastily, ‘Did you pick him up in a public lavatory, then?’

Vincent winced. ‘Don’t be crude, Marigold dear. It doesn’t become you.’

‘Well, then?’

‘I have…contacts.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do. Did you plan it all by yourself, then?’ she asked. ‘Did anyone else know about it?’

‘I didn’t need any help.’

She wasn’t sure what prompted her next words. ‘You didn’t tell Jonah, then?’

‘Jonah?’ Vincent sneered. ‘Jonah was a self-righteous little prig. Yes, I told him. And he didn’t approve.’

If the first intuitive realisation, about Oliver Pickett and the money, had struck Marigold like a bombshell, the next one shook her to the
foundations
of her being. She saw the scene her her mind’s eye so vividly it was as
if it were a film. Jonah – her beautiful Jonah, in the vestry at St John’s Church, a stole wrapped tightly round his throat. A stole. Not a garment – a stole. Lilith Noone’s coy story in the Globe had mentioned Frances Cherry’s ‘garment’, nothing more than that – as though it had been a pair of knickers, or a filmy silk scarf. But just that morning, Vincent had remarked that Jonah had been murdered with Frances Cherry’s stole.

‘You…killed … Jonah,’ she gasped, her chest so tight that she could scarcely breathe.

Mark had just dished up the pasta when Neville rang again. ‘I’m going to kill Cowley with my bare hands,’ he said.

‘Why? What?’

Peter and Callie were looking at him questioningly.

‘I suppose he didn’t think it was worth mentioning. It was a long time ago, and it never made it to court.’

‘What?’ Mark repeated.

‘Vincent Underwood was picked up by an undercover cop. Importuning in a public loo. Nearly twenty-five years ago. Somehow it was quashed before anything could come of it – how that happened, I’m not clear. Friends in high places, perhaps. But it’s still in the records.’

‘I think maybe you need to talk to Vincent Underwood again,’ Mark said.

‘Damn right I do. I’m leaving right now.’

‘Why?’ asked Marigold. She wanted to scream; somehow she managed to control her voice. ‘Why did you kill him?’

Vincent shrugged. ‘It was so unnecessary, really. My fault, I suppose. I misjudged him.’

‘Misjudged him?’

‘I thought it would cheer him up, after that unpleasant business with Frances Cherry and Leo Jackson. The wine, the insults. I told him that he needn’t worry about Leo Jackson much longer, that I’d seen to it that he would get what he deserved. Jonah got on his high horse – said that it was a sinful thing to do. That God would take care of Leo Jackson in His own
time and His own way. He said if I didn’t call it off, he was morally obliged to tell the Bishop.’

‘So you killed him,’ she whispered.

‘I had to do it. It was just a bonus that Frances Cherry had left her stole in the vestry.’ Vincent smiled. ‘Her stole! It was as though it were meant to be – I knew as soon as I saw it lying there what I had to do. I kept Jonah from talking, and got even with that dreadful Cherry woman at the same time.’

‘Oh, God.’ Marigold covered her face with her hands.

The pasta was delicious, the sauce redolent of juicy tomatoes and succulent mushrooms. But none of them was able to enjoy it properly. Mark had put his phone on the table beside his plate; they all jumped when it rang again.

‘I’m stuck in traffic,’ Neville groaned. ‘It’s Friday night, isn’t it? Every bloody person in the world trying to get out of town, or into town. It’s bloody gridlock. Where are you, mate?’

‘Bayswater.’

‘Then you’re nearer than I am. He lives in Mayfair.’

‘Would you like me to go and have a word with him?’

Neville gave a relieved sigh. ‘Would you? I have such a bad feeling about this. I don’t think we can afford to wait.’

‘Give me the address.’ He wrote it down on his serviette.

‘Don’t try to drive,’ Neville warned him. ‘Believe me, you’ll be able to make better time on foot. And thanks,’ he added. ‘I’ll owe you one.’

‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’ Vincent’s voice was soft, but Marigold’s eyes flew open in alarm at the note of warning in it.

‘I shall certainly tell the police,’ she said icily.

Vincent stirred the renascent fire, but didn’t replace the poker. ‘I don’t think you will,’ he said.

She hated him. It was no longer an absence of love; she now felt a much stronger and more powerful emotion. ‘My father should have let you go to prison,’ she shrieked at him, heedless of the fact that he had taken a step nearer to her.

‘Your father. Your father.’ Again that unpleasant laugh. ‘You’re so deluded
about your precious father, Marigold. When are you going to allow yourself to see the truth about him?’

‘The truth? The truth is that my father loved me. He took care of me.’

‘That’s what you want to believe.’

‘After my mother died,’ she said desperately, ‘we only had each other. He was everything to me. And I was his whole world. He loved me.’

‘But your father scarcely had time for you,’ Vincent said. ‘You were raised by a nanny. You never saw him, from one week to the next. That’s the truth.’

She had begun to weep, wracking sobs that started in her chest and tore at her throat. ‘No! You’re wrong! You’re lying!’

‘He told me so himself, before our wedding. He said he knew he’d always neglected you. He felt rather sorry about it, but said it couldn’t be helped. He was a busy man, and he didn’t know anything about raising
children
.’

‘He left me all his money! The house, everything! He made sure that I would have a secure future!’

Vincent shrugged. ‘Who else was he going to leave it to? A home for elderly cats? As you said, you were all he had. Of course he left his money to you. That doesn’t mean he loved you.’

Marigold howled with an agony such as she had never before
experienced
. And while Vincent stood there smirking at her, enjoying her pain, she made a lunge at him and seized the other end of the poker.

‘I don’t know Mayfair very well,’ Mark admitted. ‘Do you have an A-Z?’

‘Somewhere,’ Callie said. ‘I’m not sure where it’s ended up since the move.’

Peter looked at the scrawled address. ‘I know where that is,’ he said. ‘I’ll go with you and show you.’

That didn’t seem a very good idea to Mark, but he realised it would be the quickest way. He could waste a great deal of time getting lost, or trying to find a map. ‘All right, then. Let’s go. Callie, we’ll be back as soon as we can.’

‘I’m coming, too.’

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘You’re not going without me,’ she said, with a stubborn look on her face that he hadn’t seen before.

‘No.’ He could, he thought, be equally firm.

‘If you don’t take me with you, don’t bother coming back.’

Mark didn’t want to risk finding out whether she meant it. ‘All right. But the two of you are staying outside. Understand?’

Callie nodded.

‘We’re wasting time,’ Peter reminded him.

It seemed to take forever. The back streets were dark, misty, lit only by street lamps and the occasional crack of light shining out between drawn curtains. At least, thought Mark, it was no longer raining. But the wet leaves underfoot were treacherous, impeding their progress if they tried to go too fast.

Then they were in Oxford Street, at Marble Arch. The pavements were as full of pedestrians as the street was of traffic; they fought their way to the nearest crossing, then waited an interminable period while a flock of red buses inched along, blocking the road and giving no quarter to those impatient to get to the other side.

Mayfair, south of Oxford Street, was even quieter than Bayswater. ‘Hurry,’ Mark prompted, driven by the infectious sense of urgency he’d caught from Neville.

‘We’re almost there,’ said Peter, checking the numbers of the houses they passed. ‘It’s just down here, I reckon, across from the square.’

Then Callie slipped on a blanket of sodden leaves and tumbled headlong onto the pavement.

‘Callie!’ Mark stopped abruptly and crouched down beside her. ‘Are you all right?’

She grimaced. ‘I think I’ve turned my ankle.’

‘She’s always been clumsy,’ Peter said. ‘We should have left her behind to do the washing up.’

Mark realised he was teasing, but at this moment he didn’t find it very funny.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Callie groaned. ‘Just leave me here. I’ll be all right. Peter can stay with me. You’ll be able to find your way now, Marco.’

‘No. I’m not leaving you.’

She smiled at him, a rather bewitching smudge of leaf slime on her cheek, and held out her hand. ‘Then help me up. I can hobble a few more yards.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

As they argued, a car came round the corner into the road and pulled up at the kerb beside them. Neville rolled down the window. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Mark knew there was no point trying to explain; he merely shrugged.

‘I didn’t realise you were bringing the entire French Foreign Legion with you!’

Peter wrenched open the door of the back seat, and between them he and Mark got Callie inside.

Two minutes later, Neville and Mark rang the old-fashioned bell of the Underwoods’ home, and knocked on the door for good measure.

No one answered. The two policemen looked at each other.

Then the door was flung open, by a woman Neville had seen once before, the day when it all began. She looked terrible: her make-up ruined by tears, her dress spattered with blood, her face distorted into an
expression
of wild misery. In her hand was clutched a poker, and the matter on the other end of it was in no way related to coal. ‘He really loved me,’ she said to them in a pleading voice. ‘No matter what anyone says, he loved me.’ She turned and went back into the house.

As they followed her into her drawing room, and even after they saw what was there, Mark and Neville both thought that she was talking about her husband.

K
ATE
C
HARLES,
who was described by the
Oxford Times
as ‘a most English writer’, is an expatriate American, though an unashamedly Anglophilic one. She has a special interest and expertise in clerical mysteries, and lectures frequently on crime novels with church backgrounds. Kate lives in Ludlow with her husband, and is a former Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association and the Barbara Pym Society.

www.katecharles.com

Evil Intent

Secret Sins

Deep Waters