seemed upset. Everything seemed calm and businesslike. Faith felt rather redundant. She slipped into a pew a few rows back to be on hand if needed.
Her mind drifted to Oliver Markham. Ben had seemed pretty interested in him, and Ben’s instincts were usually good. She couldn’t see Inspector Shorter from where she sat. She wondered whether he was elsewhere, interviewing Markham and building up a case against him.
Of course, Lucas’s death could have been an accident. Or it could have been suicide. She turned the speculation around in her mind. An accident was terrible, but not as bad as murder. The barrier of her rational thought gave way to a wave of sadness. Lucas’s life had been marked by such awful tragedy; not knowing his father and losing his mother so suddenly like that. At the meeting last night, Pat had referred to Lucas dropping out of school after his mother’s death. Maybe he had given up hope and decided to end his misery. A verdict of suicide would be awful enough, butmarginally better than having to accept Oliver Markham as a murderer… She wished she knew how the investigation was going.
Her eyes searched out the familiar profile and gingery hair of Peter Gray. She would rather pass what she’d learned to him than Ben. She had a feeling that Peter would hear her out rather than barking questions. But Ben’s sergeant was collecting up another subject for interview. A young man wearing a long black coat and a woolly hat pulled down over curly brown hair stood up. He had been sitting by a girl with an abundance of golden hair. Her hand reached out toward him. He turned away and followed Peter over to a pair of chairs overlooked by a life-sized recumbent figure, carved in marble, of some ancient patron of the cathedral.
Something struck the panelled back of her pew, jolting her. She smelt soap and turned to find herself facing the freshly shaven cheek of George Casey, the press officer. She caught him leaning in to address her; their foreheads almost collided. They both recoiled.
George Casey blinked his pale blue eyes rapidly behind the round lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. He pushed the frame more firmly onto his nose.
“Ah yes! Ms Morgan – Faith. Glad to see you could make it. I’ve just stopped by to say hello. Can’t stay, I fear – very busy time.”
“Yes. Advent is rather a busy time for all of us in the church,” she agreed, solemnly.
Casey looked at her blankly. He went on, “Bishop Rodney, our suffragan, he’s recording the Christmas message with the local BBC chaps in ten minutes. He’s got a real way with him. You’ll have heard him on Thought for Today on Radio 4?” He hardly gave her a chance to murmur aresponse. “Of course; a natural communicator.” He agreed with himself. Then he ran out of words and goggled at her.
Faith felt sorry for him. He could be a bit obtuse, but the only time they’d had much to do with each other was over the business that led to the diocesan bishop, Anthony Beech – the bishop who brought her to Winchester – taking early retirement. The press officer had avoided Faith as much as possible after that. Her presence forced him to struggle with the correct way of referring to his previous employer. Not that Bishop Anthony had been anything other than a good man, but George Casey seemed to find the murder connection unspeakable. It was one of the reasons Faith didn’t entirely approve of him.
“Do you think Bishop Rodney might be promoted?” she asked, trying to fill the silence and turn her train of thought into something less controversial. They were still waiting for Anthony Beech’s successor to be appointed to the bishopric. George Casey grimaced, relieved to be on safer ground.
“Not here, I think,” he said regretfully. “They rarely promote suffragans in their own diocese; it’s just not the way things are done.”
Faith thought it would be kind to keep the thread going. “Have you heard anything?” she asked
Her mind drifted to Oliver Markham. Ben had seemed pretty interested in him, and Ben’s instincts were usually good. She couldn’t see Inspector Shorter from where she sat. She wondered whether he was elsewhere, interviewing Markham and building up a case against him.
Of course, Lucas’s death could have been an accident. Or it could have been suicide. She turned the speculation around in her mind. An accident was terrible, but not as bad as murder. The barrier of her rational thought gave way to a wave of sadness. Lucas’s life had been marked by such awful tragedy; not knowing his father and losing his mother so suddenly like that. At the meeting last night, Pat had referred to Lucas dropping out of school after his mother’s death. Maybe he had given up hope and decided to end his misery. A verdict of suicide would be awful enough, butmarginally better than having to accept Oliver Markham as a murderer… She wished she knew how the investigation was going.
Her eyes searched out the familiar profile and gingery hair of Peter Gray. She would rather pass what she’d learned to him than Ben. She had a feeling that Peter would hear her out rather than barking questions. But Ben’s sergeant was collecting up another subject for interview. A young man wearing a long black coat and a woolly hat pulled down over curly brown hair stood up. He had been sitting by a girl with an abundance of golden hair. Her hand reached out toward him. He turned away and followed Peter over to a pair of chairs overlooked by a life-sized recumbent figure, carved in marble, of some ancient patron of the cathedral.
Something struck the panelled back of her pew, jolting her. She smelt soap and turned to find herself facing the freshly shaven cheek of George Casey, the press officer. She caught him leaning in to address her; their foreheads almost collided. They both recoiled.
George Casey blinked his pale blue eyes rapidly behind the round lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. He pushed the frame more firmly onto his nose.
“Ah yes! Ms Morgan – Faith. Glad to see you could make it. I’ve just stopped by to say hello. Can’t stay, I fear – very busy time.”
“Yes. Advent is rather a busy time for all of us in the church,” she agreed, solemnly.
Casey looked at her blankly. He went on, “Bishop Rodney, our suffragan, he’s recording the Christmas message with the local BBC chaps in ten minutes. He’s got a real way with him. You’ll have heard him on Thought for Today on Radio 4?” He hardly gave her a chance to murmur aresponse. “Of course; a natural communicator.” He agreed with himself. Then he ran out of words and goggled at her.
Faith felt sorry for him. He could be a bit obtuse, but the only time they’d had much to do with each other was over the business that led to the diocesan bishop, Anthony Beech – the bishop who brought her to Winchester – taking early retirement. The press officer had avoided Faith as much as possible after that. Her presence forced him to struggle with the correct way of referring to his previous employer. Not that Bishop Anthony had been anything other than a good man, but George Casey seemed to find the murder connection unspeakable. It was one of the reasons Faith didn’t entirely approve of him.
“Do you think Bishop Rodney might be promoted?” she asked, trying to fill the silence and turn her train of thought into something less controversial. They were still waiting for Anthony Beech’s successor to be appointed to the bishopric. George Casey grimaced, relieved to be on safer ground.
“Not here, I think,” he said regretfully. “They rarely promote suffragans in their own diocese; it’s just not the way things are done.”
Faith thought it would be kind to keep the thread going. “Have you heard anything?” she asked
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