Free The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) by Martha Ockley Page B

standing in a safe corner by the window beyond the table. Sundry ornaments vied for space with numerous framed photographs. Trisha Bagshaw evidently had eclectic taste. A pretty silver engine-turned 1920s bedside clock sat beside a cheap and cheerful painted 1950s model of a Neapolitan horse and cart. A fairyland lustre bowl took pride of place on the top shelf. Faith had seen something similar in a recent episode of Antiques Roadshow . As she remembered, the one on the television programme had been quite valuable. She picked up photographs from the level below, dusting them thoughtfully. Pictures of Lucas at various stages of growth: in his mother’s arms – one of those badly lit, amateur photographs that pull at the heart; the toddler with huge, long-lashed eyes, standing precariously in a romper suit printed with blue cars; a little boy giggling uncontrollably in the arms of his teenage uncle. And centre stage, the three of them together in a park somewhere – Trisha between her boys, hugging them fiercely; a small, strong woman between a man and a gangling youth. The pictures radiated love. Faith felt tears welling up.
    She realized there was silence upstairs. How long ago had the shower stopped running? She went to the bottom of the stairs and stood still, listening, her hand gripping the painted balustrade. Could he have fallen asleep? Done something stupid? Should she have left him so long? She’d reached halfway up the stairs when a high, mechanical whine came from behind the door. He was brushing his teeth. Faith felt her shoulders drop as she let out her breath.
    From her vantage point, a couple of steps from the top of the stairs, Trisha Bagshaw’s home had an air of the Marie Celeste about it. The short upstairs hall was neat and blank, a runner of matting over boards and eggshell painted walls. Three doors, in addition to the bathroom, led off it. Two were closed. The one door still ajar was across from the bathroom. Beyond Faith saw an anonymous room – coconut matting on boards and the corner of a metal-framed bed illuminated in the natural light of a window. Someone had made the bed neatly and a laptop lay on a low table beside it. A single-width wardrobe with a mirrored front seemed to be the only other piece of furniture. Reflected in the glass, she could see a man’s suit in drycleaner’s plastic hanging on the back of the door. Adam Bagshaw might be a drinker, but it looked as if he hadn’t lost the neatness of a soldier where his own quarters were concerned. At the head of the corridor, the master bedroom was sealed up against the absence of its occupant. On the final door, next to the bathroom, hung a gothic plaque, “By Invitation Only” painted in blood-red lettering on it. Obviously Lucas’s room.
    Her eyes fixed on the plaque. “By Invitation Only”. Pat’s dark hints that Lucas had been stealing itched at her. Of course, the police would have searched it already – or would soon do so. That thought pulled her up short. It would be awkward if some of Ben’s team arrived and found her there. Would they accept the excuse of a pastoral visit? Ben Shorter surely wouldn’t.
    Faith heard the bathroom door being unlocked and retreated down the stairs on tiptoe, her cheeks hot like a naughty child’s. She hurried over to the microwave and pushed the button to reheat.
    The microwave pinged as Adam Bagshaw came down the stairs wearing slacks and a striped shirt. He looked surprisingly presentable. He wasn’t a bad-looking man; just oddly anonymous. The impression of togetherness dissolved as he came nearer. He hesitated in the middle of the room as she put the reheated food on the table for him. She smiled at him warmly.
    “It’s all I could find, but I think you could do with it.”
    His answer was a tentative smile. He sat and stared at the noodles for a moment, then picked up his fork and, mechanically, began to eat. His acceptance of her intrusion into his home was surreal. At any