Peril in the Parish, page 14
‘I think Doris is a pretty name. Has Cousin Agnes grown very fond of …?’ Sophie caught herself in time. Marmalade might be hurt by the question. He certainly looked capable of understanding every word said. Perhaps it was best this conversation was cut short by Mrs Chester coming through the door with a tea tray, which she deposited on a chest of drawers.
‘I left you two to get to know each other,’ she said, before joining them at the bedside and taking the patient’s pulse. ‘My husband is downstairs talking to Mr Fielding, but he’ll be up shortly.’
‘How interesting it is, that no one speaks of him as Reverend Fielding as was the case with Pimcrisp. I imagine he would’ve insisted on your being cast in hell if you addressed or referred to him as a mere mister. Of course he and I never spoke at all, he would look right through me if we passed. No running after lost sheep for him.’
‘Miss Gillybud is an atheist,’ Mrs Chester said as matter of factly as if letting Sophie know that she was a poet or a tennis player.
‘So was the uncle who brought me up. I’m not sure whether I believe in God, or if I wish I could.’
‘That’s what church should be for, to help you to decide, not frighten people with the idea of a bogey man up in the sky eager to scare you out of your wits. This dear woman’ – Mrs Chester smoothed the pillow – ‘told me she refused to let Pimcrisp send her scrambling out of church for fear of hitting him over the head with her stick and sending him to whichever was God’s intended place for him.’
She straightened up. ‘Miss Dawson, we will leave you to help yourself to the tea and sandwiches.’
Taking Miss Gillybud’s elbow, she propelled her to the doorway. ‘Come Doris, dear, you can tell me about that extremely long book you are reading that I feel I should be interested in, though I know I could never wade through, but if you give me enough of an idea of what it’s about I can pretend I have. And look and sound reasonably intelligent when others are discussing its brilliance.’
Their voices faded as they descended the stairs. Sophie poured herself a cup of tea and put some of the sandwiches on a plate. There were cheese and mustard and cress ones, along with salmon and cucumber. She doubted she would be able to taste them. Fatigue, the effects of the day, had taken hold and she wasn’t hungry. But she must keep herself going. She was determined to stay awake as long as she could through the night. She had finished the sandwiches and a second cup of tea and was adjusting Marmalade on her lap when Cousin Agnes opened her eyes.
‘You’re still here?’
‘And I’m not going anywhere.’
Marmalade leaped on to the foot of the bed, his emerald eyes fixed on his mistress.
‘There are some of the letters your mother wrote to me in the drawer of that bureau under the window. Would you mind reading them to me?’
‘I’d like to.’ She fetched them, a dozen or so, still in their envelopes. She sat back down and opened the one on the top, saw that forgotten handwriting, with both a pang and a lightening of heart.
My dear Agnes,
I thought of you this morning when I was making plum jam, and remembered how your mother taught us how to get it to set one summer, the one when we spent the entire holidays at Orchard House. My parents had gone out to visit my paternal grandfather who was due to retire from the Indian Civil Service. I’d expected to miss them dreadfully, but being with you made that impossible …
‘It all comes back, those lovely golden days. We had a swing … it may still be there. Lost amongst the trees.’
‘We can look for it.’
‘When spring comes.’
‘And the bluebells are out.’
‘Read me some more.’
Sophie did so, even after Cousin Agnes fell asleep. She had returned five of the letters – windows opening on to her mother’s life – and returned them to their envelopes, when Cousin Agnes spoke again.
‘Have you come to the one when she’d fallen in love with your father, but wasn’t sure he returned her feelings?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I told her not to be afraid of revealing her heart.’
‘That would take courage.’
‘Read the one she wrote when you were born.’
Her eyes closed. Marmalade moved further up the bed to nestle against the outline of her feet and Dr Chester entered the bedroom, acknowledged Sophie, and bent over Cousin Agnes. On lifting his head he beckoned her out on to the landing.
‘She seems much the same, but something – call it experience or instinct – tells me the end is drawing very near. I think you should rest while you have the opportunity.’
‘If you don’t mind I’d rather stay with her.’
‘I understand, but you need to husband your strength. I’ll send my wife up to show you where you can sleep and then she’ll make Miss Younger comfortable without disturbing her. She’s a woman I admire and like’ – he smiled – ‘not always possible to do both. I believe she held on until you got here and now is free to go in peace.’
‘The vicar?’
‘Is here and intends to stay throughout the night. And so is Miss Gillybud whom I understand you’ve met. Delightful person – a bit of a willow the wisp, as is often the case with brilliant women, but a better neighbour or truer friend isn’t to be found.’
Sophie still had her mother’s letters to Cousin Agnes in her hand when Mrs Chester showed her into a bedroom at the other end of the landing where her suitcases had been placed on the window seat. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to even doze, and meant to read the ones she hadn’t opened. But having found the toilet, taken her sponge bag along to the bathroom and removed her shoes and suit jacket, not willing to risk getting further undressed, she got under the eiderdown. Realized someone, presumably Mrs Chester, had put a hot water bottle into the bed and did not waken until a tap sounded at the door. A glance at her watch as she went to open it showed it was four in the morning.
Mrs Chester was outside. ‘I’m sorry, dear, my husband said it was time to wake you. Better put on your jacket, or you’ll be frozen even with the fire going well.’
Sophie did as advised, but did not bother with her shoes. She asked no questions, stood silent on entering Cousin Agnes’s bedroom. It seemed to her blurred gaze full of people, but other than herself and Mrs Chester, there was only Dr Chester on one side of the bed, Mr Fielding on the other and Miss Gillybud at the foot with Marmalade in her arms. Sophie thought, I’m a stranger in their midst, a stranger to Cousin Agnes.
Mr Fielding looked up and smiled at her and beckoned for her to join him. When she had done so, he began the Lord’s Prayer. Sophie added hers to the other voices, including Miss Gillybud’s sweet treble. Mr Fielding added a blessing and at its ending, Dr Chester held up a hand.
‘She’s gone.’
Sophie slipped out on to the landing and made her way down to the sitting room; hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to face Mr Fielding.
‘You need a good cry, Miss Dawson.’ His expression was unreadable.
‘I can’t; I haven’t really since I was a child.’
‘All the more reason. Would holding a handkerchief’ – he held out a snowy white one – ‘help bring them on?’
She took it, but shook her head.
‘What you also need’ – his voice deepened – ‘are a pair of arms around you, but for obvious reasons they can’t be mine.’
‘Against church policy.’
‘Utterly precluded, but this isn’t.’ He took her hands in his, handkerchief included.
It was enough. More than enough. She knew his urge to hold her sprang from the wish to provide comfort as a relative would have done. And he knew she had none left. She loved him which meant she could not remain in Dovecote Hatch. To be near him would be too hard. But he was giving her the memory of his touch to take with her when she left, as soon as possible after the funeral. It would be a secret happiness taken into whatever the future offered.
FOURTEEN
For the first time in weeks there was little talk of Una Smith during the early morning kitchen bustle at Mullings. Winnie, one of the kitchen maids, did mention hearing the poor lady had fallen off her bicycle yesterday on that spiteful bit of road at the top of the hill. She was immediately reproved by Mrs MacDonald.
‘Happens to people every day of the week. Why you should be bothering me and Mrs Norris with it, that kettle knows better than I do! You know, Miss Big Ears, that what Mrs Norris and I have on our minds ever since the newspaper boy brought word of it, is Miss Younger at Orchard House dying in.’
‘And very sad, but wasn’t like it come as a shock. My gran’s got her best ’at all brushed and ready. Bought herself a new hanky at Hobbs’. She don’t get out much and bin looking forward to the funeral.’
‘I’m sure she has,’ said Florence, before Mrs MacDonald could open her mouth. ‘A lot of older people prefer funerals to weddings, they get to imagine their own send-off and all the nice things that’ll be said about them.’
‘And be glad it’s not them, least till next time.’
‘That could be so.’
‘There’s more I knows about, an’ it do be about Miss Younger.’
‘And that is?’ Winnie needed squelching, but Florence gave Mrs MacDonald a warning glance. The time might come, and soon, when information gathered by way of the staff might be useful.
‘Seems a young lady come yesterday, vicar brung her from train station. She’s a niece or whatever. Wouldn’t wonder if she was hoping to get something for her trouble. A nice little parting present to remember the old girl by.’
‘That’s enough, Winnie. I happen to know Miss Younger sent for her. Now go and do what Mrs Grumidge needs done in the scullery and please put your back into it; she’s a bit off colour this morning.’
‘She’ll be round the corner sticking her tongue out,’ Mrs MacDonald grumbled when Winnie had left with something close to a flounce. ‘I don’t know what girls are coming to these days. Really I don’t, Florence. They don’t know to keep their thoughts to themselves and, better yet, not have any when it comes to their betters. She’ll have got her information from her follower, one of the undergardeners, no doubt.’
‘Probably. She’s only fifteen.’
‘You were younger when you came here and you knew on walking through the door not to open it unless someone did it for you.’
‘We can’t turn back the clock. Sally Barton is looking for work.’
‘The one with all those brothers?’
‘That’s her. And she has to be twenty. George says they’re a good family. She was with Mr and Mrs Quigley, but there’s been a parting of the ways.’
‘Well, that doesn’t speak ill of her.’
Florence poured their tea. ‘My thinking.’
‘Difficult to put up with on any level.’ Mrs MacDonald added two spoonfuls of sugar to her cup and stirred vigorously. ‘A funny couple if ever there was one. Her shutting herself away like Miss Havisham and him creeping into the church at dead of night, or so is said and when it comes to tittle tattle there’s usually more than a few grains of truth.’
‘I’ll go and see Sally this morning. I think I could start her out as a chamber maid and see where to go from there, if she does well.’
‘Not all that much of a rush, is there?’
‘Actually there is, I need to talk to her about something else.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me what it is.’
‘You’ll soon find out.’ Florence suppressed a smile. When that time came Mrs MacDonald would have experienced a feeling of foreboding, a sense of brooding horror that would increase in particulars, when acquainted with the facts as established in the real world. She’d already claimed to have woken with a shiver and a prickling of the spine informing her, well ahead of the paperboy, that Agnes Younger was gone. That had covered a good deal of the subsequent conversation, causing Winnie to interrupt out of boredom. Florence was dearly fond of Mrs MacDonald, but she’d been eager to say after fifteen minutes, that it was all very interesting, but she needed to telephone George.
She said it now.
‘Of course you do, after the disappointment of not getting to talk to the vicar about fixing the wedding date, and all because Una Newsome, as was, fell off her bicycle. I tell you, Florence, I’m getting rather tired of her and all this business of her supposed troubles. Needs to forget that sorry husband of hers and give a thought to her poor, overworked mother. Good thing Mrs Chester took over for her last night.’ The paperboy had been a fount of information.
George answered at the first ring. ‘I’ve already tried to reach LeCrane,’ he said after little preamble. ‘Unfortunately he’s on holiday and not due back until Wednesday. I left word for him to contact us as soon as he gets in. How soon can you be ready for me to fetch you, so we can pick up last evening’s conversation where we left off?’
‘I only have to put on my coat and hat.’
‘I’m out the door.’
Ten minutes later they were in his office at the Dog and Whistle. On the way he’d asked if she’d eaten breakfast. She hadn’t, but wasn’t hungry; there was too much to think about. To this he’d answered that today of all days she needed at least a boiled egg and toast and was to sit down while he got them for her.
‘And,’ he said now, ‘no talking till they’re inside you. I’ll let Dick Saunders know I need him to open up for me again at eleven thirty.’
Florence promised. It was lovely to be looked after, to have this little quiet time to sit and sift through what actions on their part to suggest to him. Twenty minutes later having consumed every morsel set before her, along with two cups of tea, strong the way she liked it, he spoke the words uppermost in her mind.
‘We can’t wait for LeCrane without making a move in the meantime, can we?’
‘No. It may result in his giving us a good ticking off, but we know this village in a way he doesn’t and never can. It’s actually a relief he’s unavailable for a few days. It gives us time to pave the way before the police descend in force. That means putting Constable Trout in the picture and letting the vicar know what awaits in his churchyard, well ahead of Fred Shilling sticking his spade unwittingly into that grave.’
‘Where to first?’
‘To the Bartons. I want to tell Sally she can come and work at Mullings if she wishes, but more importantly, I’m hoping her mother can help us with my guess as to the identity of the stranger’s sister. Let me know if I’m more likely to be right than wrong. Maybe’ – she squeezed his wrist – ‘it’s vanity – the idea of getting in ahead of Inspector LeCrane.’
‘I’d say that poor girl is tugging at your heartstrings and won’t let go until you feel she can finally rest in peace.’
‘Which can’t happen unless the identity of the anonymous writer is discovered. That, the wicked ugly part, is what’s going to be the hardest for the village to deal with. Some may find it rather thrilling having a long buried body – a skeleton found where it shouldn’t be; but the letters are different. They’re sly, creeping, cruel things. Making the mind behind them spine-chilling. A figure who, if still here, moved amongst them, perhaps known only by sight or casually, but what if it were someone respected, even admired, a trusted friend, or worse yet deeply loved?’
‘Who,’ said George, ‘after the lapse of time may get to carry on his or her life just as they are doing now. Hiding in plain sight. And it’ll be the never knowing that’ll likely sour attitudes one to another. Time to be off? It’s after ten, meaning that if Sally and her mother have gone to church they’ll be well back when we get there.’
The Bartons lived on a byway, at the bottom of the village street, about a five-minute walk from St Peter’s. A small house that must once have overflowed with children, but now only Sally lived there with her parents. Mrs Barton opened the door before they reached it.
‘Mr Bird and Mrs Norris. I saw you from the front room window and thought isn’t this nice, they’ve come to see how Sally’s got over that nastiness from Mrs Quigley. Come in do, and I’ll tell you what’s happened about that.’ She was an older version of her daughter, same dimples, same snub nose, and that suggestion of a giggle that came into Sally’s voice when she was enjoying herself. ‘Getting close to your wedding, lovely for you both. My husband will be sorry to’ve missed you. He’s gone off to his allotment.’ She continued talking as she took them into the front room with its inviting feel of organized muddle. ‘Loves his lotty. Has a nice little shed where he can sit down when he feels like a cup from his Thermos of tea. And a ginger nut. He always keeps a tin of them out there. Last vicar told him working of a Sunday was as wicked as you could get.’
‘He said the same to me.’ George laughed.
‘And a lot more I’d think, about your working hand in glove with the Demon of Drink.’ Mrs Barton giggled. ‘But back to our Sally and that nasty Mrs Quigley. It’s all come out right. Miss Gillybud had heard about it from Jane what does for her and she came round bout an hour ago and asked if she’d be willing to help out at Orchard House at least for a while, and stay over nights, so’s the young lady that’s staying there won’t be alone. Never nice with a coffin in the house. Seems vicar was also concerned. Course you’ll have heard all about Miss Younger being taken in the night.’
‘Yes,’ said Florence. She and George expressed how sorry they were and so on.
Then she got down to why they were there, before Mrs Barton could take off again. ‘One of the reasons we’re here is that I wanted to offer her work at Mullings and she can still come if she doesn’t want to stay on longer than needed at Orchard House.’
‘Oh, Mrs Norris, she’ll be ever so thrilled. Wait till I tell her …’
George nipped in. ‘But we also wanted to talk to you. About something else.’
