The Distant Dead by Lesley Thomson (most difficult books to read .txt) 📗

I liked your… organ playing. It was lovely.’ Stella cringed at the lame comment.

‘Ah, you attended our evensong.’ Joy gave a confirmatory nod.

‘Jack Harmon.’ Jack reached for Joy’s hand and shook it. Stella expected this to displease Joy but to her astonishment Joy smiled. Jack said, ‘I’m Stella’s… friend, I am so sorry about the tragic event here. How upsetting for you all.’ Lucie used to say Jack could charm birds out of the trees. He was working wonders with Joy.

‘Yes, it has shocked us all.’ Still smiling, Joy tipped her head up at the stained-glass window that depicted the life of Jesus, the image barely discernible now as it was dark outside. ‘Stabbed. Stone dead.’

Taken aback, Stella remembered Joy hated euphemisms for death. She was telling it as it was.

‘Not stone dead, Stella was with him as he died,’ Jack said. ‘She heard his last words.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The smile had gone. ‘It was you who came upon our Mr March?’ Joy was glaring at Stella. ‘I didn’t take to him, no, not one bit. I told that policewoman, March used our Death Café to flog his wares.’

Stella tried to change the subject: ‘Joy is the abbey organist.’

‘I adore the organ.’ Jack was gazing at the stained glass. ‘Especially ones with four keyboards! How do you guys do it?’

Guys. Joy would hate that. She obviously hadn’t heard because she said to Stella, ‘March was still alive when you found him?’ Joy feigned disinterest, but Stella was sure that, like anyone, she was keen to know.

‘Something about chamomile.’ Jolting in horror, Stella gave the chair in front a kick. She should not have told Joy. She should not have told Lucie. ‘He was in a lot of pain before he passed, I mean died.’

Roddy, oh Roddy, talk to me, what happened? Reliving her own words, Stella didn’t trust herself to speak.

‘Terrible way to go.’ Jack had seen this, he was helping.

‘From the way March swanned over to you last night I was convinced you two were old friends.’ Joy swung a leather dossier case.

‘How observant, I bet the police loved you,’ Jack crooned with unbridled admiration. ‘They’d never met before.’

‘Actually, we had—’

‘What I didn’t tell the police was that, with her fancy airs, Felicity is no better than she ought to be. Just because she conducts the choir, she thinks she can lord it over us. I ask you, where would she be without the organ? March was in league with Gladys Wren, anyone could see that.’

Anyone except Stella who, according to Janet, had the observational skills of a raptor.

‘Trust me, I know a few things about our Felicity that don’t bear repeating,’ Joy said.

‘Ooh, secrets. Exciting.’ Jack clapped his hands. ‘Do tell.’

‘I am not one to gossip in a House of God.’ Joy was prim. ‘However, I am concerned that dear Felicity’s conducting skills are not what they were. A soprano told me she was off beat last week, poor thing.’

‘Felicity runs the abbey choir,’ Stella told Jack.

‘On whose soul may God have pity,’ Joy said randomly.

‘How marvellous. I’ve always wanted to sing with a group,’ Jack rhapsodized.

Someone had dimmed the lights, the subtle illumination playing tricks on perspective so to Stella it seemed that the tall font on its stone plinth was a church spire on a horizon. The triforium walk and the vaulted ceiling were lost in gloom.

‘Do you have a theory about who murdered Roderick March?’ Jack turned serious.

‘Kids. A nasty gang is marauding through Tewkesbury. That female police officer agrees. I told her that we’d over a hundred pounds’ worth of goods stolen from the gift shop last month. Nothing is sacred.’ Joy hugged her music case.

‘Murder makes suspects of us all,’ Jack chirped. ‘That must have taken some lugging out, gifts in these shops are usually inexpensive.’

‘We only sell objects of quality.’ Joy’s smile had long gone.

‘I came for evensong.’ Stella changed the subject again.

‘Me too,’ agreed Jack. ‘Divine.’

‘There’s a recital here on Thursday evening. We contemplated cancelling after the nasty incident, but we’ve rehearsed so it would be a great shame. Bach – JS, not the other one – and some Dupré.’ Joy slipped a hand in her dossier.

‘Ah, Jacqueline,’ Jack brayed. ‘“The Swan” kills me every time.’ Stella silently urged Jack to stop while he was losing ground.

‘Marcel Dupre’s “Cortège et Litanie”,’ Joy corrected him.

‘Sublime.’ Jack glided over his misstep and, in that instant, Stella recalled exactly why they’d been a team.

They all walked out of the abbey and Joy locked the door. High up in the tower, the bells rang for six thirty. The chimes were muffled by the steady rain.

‘Straight out of Ngaio Marsh,’ Jack said as they watched Joy trot away down the yew path, her bag swinging. ‘Detective writer from the thirties.’

‘I know who Ngaio Marsh is,’ Stella said, although she did not.

‘Here, take your boy.’ Jack passed her Stanley’s lead. ‘Stella, I am sorry about the ambush, I forgot Lucie works with what might not be reality and I was happy to buy in to it. If you won’t come back, would you at least let me research the case? Gen up on this Professor Northcote. Don’t forget the National Archives is round the corner from my house. I could see if the case has legs.’

They had reached the abbey gates. What Lucie called Jack’s chiselled features were like carved stone in the lamplight. Tall, dark and handsome, Lucie and Jackie called him.

‘I’m a cleaner, not a detective,’ Stella snapped. ‘And it’s not up to me what you do. Janet is moving towards thinking it’s a gang, like Joy said. Roddy’s wallet was missing.’

‘You said.’ Hands plunged in his coat pockets, Jack hunched into his collar. His dripping fringe, in spikes, hung over his forehead. ‘Goodbye then, Stella.’

It was good to see you. She formed the words too late. In his long black coat Jack had merged into the darkness. The pavement was empty.

Rooted to the spot, Stella became aware of the distant thunder of the