Free The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) by Martha Ockley Page B

Faith said. Bible class was always held on a Monday night.
    “How about you come and see me tomorrow morning. We can have a chat?”
    “I’d love to, but I’ve got to pack. It’s over two hours’ drive back, and I’m expected in Little Worthy.”
    “You come and say Matins with me – 7 a.m.,” Jonathan said in his rector’s voice. Faith heard Meg’s voice indistinct in the background.
    “Meg says she can come over and help you pack after that. She’s offering breakfast.” The warmth of their kindness steadied her.
    “Thank you. By the way, the Little Worthy investigation, it is still ongoing. I’m not sure the details are supposed to be public knowledge.”
    “Don’t worry. We shan’t be repeating anything.”
    “Thanks.”
    “See you tomorrow, then. You go have a bath and get some sleep.”
     

    She did just that. But after her bath, she checked her emails and felt a fresh flush of annoyance at the stuffy form of words George Casey had sent her. That man! She hovered the mouse over delete, but thought better of it. Instead, she switched off the computer and took out her Book of Common Prayer . She liked the idea of it – that all across the church over the hours of that evening, thousands upon thousands would repeat the same words; pray the same prayers. She read the Collect of the day to herself – taking care with the words. She was reading the psalm when a couplet sprang out at her.
    Stand in awe, and sin not:
    Commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still .
    She went to bed comforted. Good fellowship and good people, she thought, as she drifted off, and in her imagination she felt God smile.

CHAPTER
7
    F AITH PARKED HER CAR ON THE GREEN across from the church. Down the lane she could see the corner of Trevor Shoesmith’s farmhouse through the trees. It was barely 11:10 a.m. She’d made Little Worthy in record time.
    She wound down her window. There was a chill in the air today. Stratocumulus clouds, low and clumpy, were gathering across the sky. The green was as pretty as a print; a smooth, pastoral expanse bordered with white and timber-framed cottages, some with low-pitched roofs of dense thatch, standing back behind colourful gardens. It was a people-less idyll. Everyone seemed to be at work. It took money to own a house on the green.
    She was in uniform today – a soft ivory clerical shirt and dog collar matched with a russet tweed skirt and boots in concession to the cooler weather. She felt the breeze on her skin. She was faintly embarrassed about her weak moment of the day before. She’d set the alarm for 5:30, but woken full of energy when it was still dark at ten past. She mused for a moment on the mysteries of the internal body clock. Whenever she set her alarm on an important day she always seemed to wake up by herself twenty minutes before it was due to go off.
    Matins with Canon Jonathan had felt like a farewell. It was odd. For all its familiarity, the echoing Victorian church of St Michael’s had seemed distanced, as if she had already peeled herself off from her previous life. Perhaps the pain and confusion she’d experienced last night had been the moment of severance. She had woken with a clearer head, her mind focused on the challenge ahead. Jonathan and Meg had waved her off on the road soon after eight. Filled with friendship and Meg’s home-made muesli, she drove away from the parish that had been her home for more than two years without a backward glance.
    She caught sight of her suitcase in the mirror. It loomed behind her on the back seat. Ruth wouldn’t get home from work until five. Faith had no fixed appointments until her meeting with the rural dean at four. She felt untethered. Fred had given her a set of keys to St James’s at their meeting yesterday afternoon. Perhaps she should go in and familiarize herself with her new church.
    The image of Alistair Ingram’s crumpled body behind the altar sprang up, and she shied away from the idea.
    Dear