“And not 'you two.' I shouldn't have said that. As you know, my wife seems to have developed an unaccountable affinity for murder—investigations, that is—since we've been married. I like to think it's chance and not boredom.'
“Probably both,' Faith retorted, a bit put out at being discussed in absentia while sitting there.
John Dunne was looking slightly embarrassed. 'Actually, Tom, one of the things r came to discusswith you and Faith was 'us two.' You see, Faith is in a position to hear a great deal. I am absolutely convinced she is in no danger, otherwise I would never suggest this. You know that. And we'll give her a wire if she likes. Everything to keep her safe and sound. But we'd like her to go back on Monday and keep her ears and eyes open. Nothing else.' He looked pointedly at Faith. 'We don't have much of a handle on this one, and though I hate to admit it, we need her help.' The last words were dragged from him.
Tom looked incredulous—at the proposal, Dunne's admission, or both.
Faith looked thrilled.
She was going undercover.
Seven
Faith sat staring into the flame of the fourth Advent candle on the wreath. Next Sunday would be Christmas. She turned to look at the rear of the church as the choir started to sing 'O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.' Cyle was absent, and she didn't think it was her imagination that the faces in the loft were a bit more beatific than usual. Tom's was. He'd been in a good mood ever since Cyle had called early that morning to announce a slight cold, nothing serious. She looked back at the candles. The Alliance had embroidered a special Christmas altar cloth many years ago, and the gold threads glowed against the rose silk in the soft light. Ropes of pine twined around large pots of white cyclamen on either side of the altar. Christmas was indeed coming.
But first there was work to do. And she didn't mean last-minute shopping. After Dunne's invitation, she'd been delighted. They'd be a team. Then his next words had quickly dispelled any thoughts of Tommy and Tuppence or Nick and Nora. Watson was what he had in mind.
“Only for a day or two and only what comes your way. We'll handle the rest. We don't want you going around asking questions or opening up people's private file cabinets in the middle of the night.”
They'd talked some more. Tom was resigned and Faith felt like a woman with a mission. She'd dug out a notebook, sharpened a pencil, and gone over to Pix's, but learned nothing more than she had on Thursday. Pix was full of questions, though, not having heard about the murder. It was while talking to Pix that Faith first felt sorry for Eddie. She'd been so busy speculating, she hadn't given much thought to the victim. He'd been a lecherous creep, maybe worse, but he'd been young, full of life. She pictured him stretched out on the bed, waiting. She knew what it was he anticipated and it certainly wasn't death.
As though in answer to her inward musings, Robert Moore, today's lector, began to read the epistle from I Corinthians. Faith listened carefully and, when he got to the section about judgment, took special notice. It was a lesson she had been trying to learn for most of her life.
One of the Sunday-school children read the second lesson from Mark remarkably well, and the service moved on to Tom's sermon. Faith gave him almost her full attention, wiping all thoughts of Hubbard House from her mind but occasionally straying to her gift and food shopping lists. Tom had wanted to give Ben trains—electric trains. Real trains. Faith had persuaded him to consider Brio wooden ones as more age-appropriate—for Ben, that is. She still had to pick them up. And order her goose from Savenor's market. She was startled as everyone stood for the final hymn and quickly joined the singing: 'Veiled in darkness Judah lay, Waiting for the promised day....”
Back at the parsonage they ate a hasty lunch and Tom left to pay some calls. He was concerned about some of the elderly parishioners who hadn't been able to get to church because of the weather. Faith draped Benjamin in an apron, and the two set about making gingerbread dough. They were soon covered with flour despite the precautions, and Faith was enjoining Ben to stop eating the dough—'immediately!' He laughed mischievously and prepared to dip his finger in again. The room smelled like cinnamon and ginger. Yuletide smells. They were making the cookies to hang on the tree with bright red ribbons. If Ben keptsnatching at the bowl, the branches were going to look a little sparse.
“Oh no you don't. There won't be enough for the cookies, sweetie.' She lifted him off the stool and went to the counter for an apple. She put it in his hand firmly, well aware that it was not the substitute he'd had in mind. He'd heard the magic word, and an apple was definitely not a cookie. But apple it was, and he was soon munching away at it and contentedly opening cupboard doors, dragging out the pots and pans.
Faith had started to roll the dough when there was a knock at the back door. It was Cyle. If you're sick, you're supposed to stay at home, she thought grumpily. He was the last person she wanted to see.
“Hello Cyle. How are you feeling?' She tried in vain to inject some genuine caring into her voice. 'Tom's not home right now. May I take a message?' That should be clear enough.
It wasn't.
Cyle walked into the kitchen uninvited and sat down at the table. He looked terrible, although he didn't seem to exhibit any of the traditional cold symptoms—red, drippy nose, watery eyes, balled-up Kleenex in the palm. No, he looked rather as if he hadn't slept in several weeks. His face was pale and pinched with deep circles under his eyes.
“I'll wait,' he said morosely.
“He could be quite a while. I can have him call you the moment he returns.' Was this apparition going to encamp in her kitchen all afternoon?
“Still, I'll wait. I really need to talk to him.' He lifted his eyes pathetically. Faith wasn't affected. She had the feeling that even if Cyle was terminally ill, she'd have trouble wrenching some good old-fashioned charity from her soul. He was that bad. Or she was.
“Ben and I are making cookies. You're welcome to just sit there if you want.' She returned to her dough. Oh all right, she said to herself, and the better Faith asked him if he'd like a cup of coffee or tea.
“Tea. Earl Grey if you have it.”
He'd want lemon too.
She brewed him a cup of tea and went about her business. Ben tried to interest Cyle in some parallel play by dumping a bag of Duplos at his feet, but Cyle wasn't interested. Ben began to make a little car with the blocks by himself, and Faith was beginning to think they'd stay fixed in their various attitudes until Tom came when Cyle said bitterly, 'Women. It's hard to believe someone you've loved so much could do this.”
An unhappy love affair, which was no surprise. Even though her curiosity was piqued, Faith had no desire to act as Cyle's confidante, so she said in what she hoped was a noncommittal way, 'Problems, Cyle?'
“Problems! That's putting it mildly,' he said angrily, and sat up straighter.
Well, I haven't done anything, you fool, Faith thought. No need to take it out on me, though this was without question the norm for this young man. Whoever happened to be nearest would get it full blast.
“You found him, didn't you? You were there Friday night.'
“Eddie Russell? You mean what happened at Hubbard House?' Faith was surprised.
“Yes, Eddie—Edsel.' He sneered. 'What have the police been saying about it? Who do they think did it?'
“I don't think they have any idea at this point,' Faith replied. This was getting interesting. 'Why do you ask? Was he a friend of yours?'
“Friend! Oh yes, my friendly neighborhood blackmailer.' The words poured out before he had a chance to stop them, and he looked around the kitchen quickly. Seeing only Ben, he seemed to be reassured. 'What I said is in absolute confidence, Mrs. Fairchild. It's why I came to see Tom.”
Faith didn't think the confidentiality of the confessional extended to ministers' wives and Cyle knew that, but she agreed it would go no further. No further than Tom, since Cyle had been planning to tell him anyway.
“Why was Eddie blackmailing you?' she asked. One never knew. He might tell.
“It was Mother.'
“Your mother!' Bootsie, the iron-willed Madame Alexander doll!
“I'm afraid mother was, well, indiscreet with Eddie when he first arrived to work at Hubbard House. Oh, he
