The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) Read Online Free Page B

laugh.
    “I’ll have none of your cheek, young man. Remember, I’m ordained,” she mimicked the way Ben had emphasized the word. “You’re supposed to respect the likes of me.”
    “I already do, Faith,” he answered.
    They walked on in silence, at ease in each other’s company. They were almost back at the church gate. She could see the sky-blue bonnet of her car hemmed in and incongruous among the various police vehicles. Thankfully the police personnel all seemed occupied in the church.
    Peter’s phone rang.
    “Excuse me,” he said, and stopped to answer it.
    Faith walked off a few paces to give him privacy. She wondered if she should just get into her car and leave. It would take twenty minutes to get to the bishop’s house. She looked at her watch. Amazingly she might actually get there soon after one, not much later than originally intended.
    Just as she was making up her mind to pantomime her goodbyes, he rang off.
    “That was the boss,” Peter said, deadpan. “He told me not to forget to collect your contact details. He may need to talk to you again.”

CHAPTER
3
    “I T IS VERY BEAUTIFUL, OF COURSE , but we need rain,” said the bishop. The new leaves of the stately elm standing across the lawn below looked dusty. “The seasons seem increasingly off balance of late. Consequences. It is time our society faced the consequences of our self-indulgence.” He sighed and turned away from the high window where he had been showing Faith the charming view of old Winchester.
    Bishop Anthony Beech was a tall man in his mid-sixties with a healthy tan and a slight stoop. His almost tawny eyes were round and bright.
    “I am so glad you felt up to coming to see us.” He bobbed his head twice to emphasize his sincerity. “So glad.”
    They stood in a well-proportioned space flooded with light from three tall windows. The middle of the room was dominated by a vast, antique mahogany table surrounded by a set of ten chairs with high, carved backs. One end of the table’s rich dark surface was set out with an assortment of plates; battered old favourites that might have been bought at a charity shop. Bishop Anthony steered Faith towards a chair with a hand on her shoulder blade.
    “I am shocked. For Alistair Ingram to go so suddenly, during the very rite itself…And then the police investigation…” Words failed him.
    Faith felt sorry for him and even a little guilty. She had been the one to sound the alarm.
    “I am afraid the police had to be called.”
    The bishop gave her a sober, direct look.
    “You are sure?”
    “I’m afraid I am.”
    They contemplated the implication lying between them.
    Alison Beech, a small woman with a colourless complexion and nondescript pale hair secured flat against her neat skull, came into the room carrying a basket of baked potatoes. Through the open door came the sound of a man’s voice holding forth in the next room.
    “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you – without a secure commitment of some kind, the whole enterprise…” To Faith’s ears, the voice had a note of desperation to it.
    The bishop’s wife closed the door softly.
    “Our son, Simon,” she said. “Such an unexpected treat. He’s just turned up from Africa.”
    “He runs an irrigation project in Tanzania,” explained the bishop.
    His wife placed the basket on the table. “We don’t get to see him and Celia that much.”
    “Celia?” asked Faith. Her hostess’s eyes were sad.
    “His wife – she stayed back this trip. No children, but they’re such a good team. I’d introduce you, but he’s a bit fraught,” Mrs Beech said, with an apologetic grimace.
    “Funding difficulties,” explained her husband. “His project may have to fold.”
    “Oh dear,” said Faith sympathetically. She could feel their parental concern.
    “Yes,” the bishop’s wife agreed quickly. “Simon does work so very hard. But enough of that. What about this horrid business?” Mrs Beech put out a hand