The Man Who Was Death, page 1
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
THE MAN WHO WAS DEATH
A Reverend Paltoquet Novel
by
Pat Herbert
OTHER NOVELS IN THE
REVEREND PALTOQUET SERIES:
The Bockhampton Road Murders
Haunted Christmas
The Possession of November Jones
The Witches of Wandsworth
So Long at the Fair
Spring 1968
“He’s right gorgeous!”
“Them blue eyes! Cor!”
“Hmm. Looks just like that bloke off the telly ...”
“My Daisy says ’e smiled at ’er the other day and she ’asn’t got over it yet...”
“Pity ’e’s married – all the best ones are...”
“Always looks sad, though...”
“What d’you mean Ethel? He’s as ’appy as a sand boy when he’s doing my garden.”
The lady named Ethel looked too frail and old to be standing in a queue, or so thought the Reverend Bernard Paltoquet of the parish of St Stephen’s in the borough of Wandsworth, who was standing in the queue just behind her. Being only in his mid-forties, he couldn’t be described as being too old to be standing there, but it went against his grain all the same.
Good old Mrs Harper, his faithful housekeeper, had gone down with a nasty bout of the flu and she had, despite a great deal of protesting, been confined to her bed by Dr Robbie MacTavish. This meant that Bernard was having to do a few chores himself, including going to the local grocery store for a pound of butter. He hoped, without not a small tinge of selfishness, that Mrs Aitch would be on her feet again soon.
Mrs Nancy Harper had been Bernard’s housekeeper ever since he took up his incumbency at St Stephen’s in 1948. She had served him faithfully for twenty-odd years and cooked him more meals than she cared to remember, all of them works of art in themselves. Bernard loved his food, and he could never have enough of Mrs Harper’s cooking. But now he had to fend for himself and, being a bachelor, cooking wasn’t one of his strong points. His close friend, Robbie MacTavish, had invited him to take his meals with him after he had confined Mrs Aitch to bed, but Robbie’s housekeeper Lucy Carter’s culinary skills weren’t anywhere near as good as Mrs Aitch’s.
Now, here he was, standing in the corner shop, waiting his turn to be served and listening to the conversation being carried on by the ladies in front of him. He idly began to wonder who this ‘gorgeous’ man was whom they were discussing so eagerly. He coughed politely and addressed the lady called Ethel.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said politely, “who is this you’re all talking about?”
Ethel peered round at him through her pince-nez. “Oh, hello, vicar. It’s you. We don’t often see you doing your own shopping. Where’s Nancy? Is she all right?”
I thought I was asking the questions, thought Bernard unkindly. “Er, Nancy?”
He never could remember his housekeeper’s first name.
“Your housekeeper?” elucidated Ethel.
“Oh, of course. She’s got flu,” he informed her monosyllabically.
“Oh dear, I had that last week,” replied Ethel, continuing to peer at the vicar. “It’s this rotten weather, much too cold for the time of year. I hope she’ll be better soon.”
So do I, said Bernard under his breath. “Thank you, madam,” he said politely. The queue shifted slightly. He and Ethel were near the front now. “Who is the gentleman you’re all discussing?” he asked again. Bernard had a curious mind; some unkind people might describe him as nosy.
“Oh, he’s my handyman,” said Ethel, fishing out a shopping list from her purse. “Must remember the baking soda,” she muttered.
“Your handyman? I see. He seems to be causing quite a stir among you ladies,” he said affably. “What work does he do, then?”
“Oh this and that...”
“Does he do gardening?”
“Oh yes, he got my roses coming up a treat last year.”
“Oh good. You see, our gardener’s retiring. He still does the odd day, but the churchyard is getting too much for him now. Overgrown with weeds ...”
“Oh right,” said Ethel. “Well, I’ll ask him for you. But I think he’s got more work on than he can handle at the moment. He comes to me twice a week as it is, and he does for Mrs Crotchet at number forty-two, not to mention old Mrs Harrison in Bentinck Street. He’s mending her roof at the moment...”
A few minutes later, armed with his pound of butter, Bernard made his way back to the vicarage, deep in thought. He was quite worried about poor old Alf these days. His gardener’s back was playing him up and he could hardly unbend sometimes after a bout of weed digging. Bernard, on more than one occasion, had to put his knee in his back in order to straighten the poor old man out. He must be a hundred, if he’s a day, he thought. This bloke that all the women fancy might be the answer. What did that Ethel say his name was? Oh, yes, Dave. Good old Dave. Sounds solid enough. You could always trust men with names like Dave, or so it was Bernard’s belief.
Robbie smiled kindly at his patient. She was being even more difficult today; it was all he could do to keep her pinned to the bed.
“’Is vicarship needs ’is elevenses, doc,” whined Mrs Aitch. “I can’t just lie ’ere waiting for the daisies to grow now, can I?”
“Come on, please be sensible, Mrs Aitch. You’re not well. You’ve got a nasty bout of flu and, let’s face it old love, you’re no spring chicken ...”
Mrs Harper sniffed as she flopped back against the pillows. She had to admit that she wasn’t feeling quite the ticket today. But Bernard needed feeding, and the housework wouldn’t do itself. These modern vacuums were all very well in their way, but they hadn’t learnt how to plug themselves into the electric socket and go around the house on their own yet.
“Bernie’ll have to manage without you for a change. It won’t kill him. And Lucy’s giving him his evening meals, so don’t you worry. And I’m sure he’s quite capable of putting a piece of bread in the toaster and frying an egg ...”
“Frying an egg!” Mrs Harper was horrified. “’E’ll burn the place down. ’E ’asn’t got a clue ’ow to switch the oven on, let alone crack an egg in the pan ...”
Robbie could quite well believe it, but he wasn’t going to allow the old woman to get out of bed on that account. “You must rest, Mrs Aitch, you’re getting yourself all worked up and that won’t help. Now, lay back quietly and take this medicine.”
“Not that brown stuff, doc,” she protested. But Robbie wasn’t having any arguments and she had swallowed the thick, unpleasant liquid before she could say another word.
“I know it’s not nice, Mrs Aitch, but it will have you on your feet in no time. Now, I shall leave you to rest. Do you want anything to read? This ‘Woman’s Realm’?” Robbie picked up the well-thumbed magazine on the bedside table and started to leaf through it.
“I’ve read it from cover to cover,” moaned Mrs Aitch. “I wish the vicar would take my library books back and get me some more. A nice Barbara Cartland would do me a treat...”
Robbie smiled as he pocketed the magazine. “I tell you what, Mrs Aitch. I’ll give this magazine to Lucy in exchange for her taking your books back and choosing something she’d think you’d like. After all, she’s a woman and will probably know the kind of thing... If Bernard changes them, he’ll probably come back with ‘Biggles Pulls It Off’ or something like that ...”
“Thanks, doc. I’d appreciate that. You can give Lucy those other magazines as well. I’ve finished with all of them.”
Robbie picked up the pile indicated and quietly left the room. Making his way up to Bernard’s sanctuary, otherwise known as his study, he looked forward to having a quick look at the problem pages. They were always good for a laugh.
“This one’s good, Bernie,” said Robbie, folding back the page of the ‘Woman’s Realm’ just donated by Mrs Aitch. “’Worried of Wolverhampton’ it says. I’d love to know what he’s not got one of that’s causing him trouble in the bed department...”
Bernard giggled. “I can only think it’s one of two things...”
Robbie grinned. “Suppose so. But surely he wouldn’t write about something so personal.... And I’m surprised that a man’s writing to a woman’s magazine anyway.”
“Well, they don’t give their names, do they? So I suppose the anonymity makes them feel safe in doing so. Anyway, someone once told me that these letters were all made up – you know, to give chaps like us a laugh...”
“They certainly do that, all right.”
“But we shouldn’t laugh at these people – if they are real,” Bernard pointed out sternly. “They deserve our sympathy not our ridicule.”
Robbie snorted and carried on reading about ‘Anxious of Aberdeen’s’ problem involving an unsightly rash and an embarrassing redness in a private area. “This one needs a doctor not an agony aunt,” he guffawed.
“Stop it, Robbie,” said Bernard, unable to keep from laughing himself. “Put it down and listen. I wanted to ask your advice...”
“Fire away, old boy,” said his friend, putting the magazine to one side and lighting his pipe. “Any whisky going, by the way?”
“It’s only a quarter past eleven!” said Bernard, horrified. “You don’t usually drink before lunchtime...”
Robbie shrugged. “Force of habit, I suppose ... here in your study, pipe going ... and it’s raining outside. Go on, just this once, eh?”
Bernard sh
“Oh, lighten up, old boy,” said Robbie carelessly. “We only live once.”
“Anyway, Robbie, listen. I think Alf’s one of your patients, isn’t he?”
“Alf? Alf who?”
“Alf – my gardener...”
“Last name? Any idea?” Robbie was always amazed how little Bernard knew about the people who worked for him, including things as basic as their names.
“Er, er ... I think it’s Bottomley or something like that...”
“Alf Bottomley... hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell. I’ve got an Alf Topsham on my panel, if that’s who you mean ...”
“Oh yes, Top – not Bottom...” Bernard laughed. “Anyway, he’s getting much too old to carry on. Have you any idea how old he is?”
Robbie scratched his head. “He’s certainly knocking on a bit. I think he’s somewhere in his eighties...”
“So time he retired then. Is he in reasonably good health, apart from the wear and tear of old age?”
“Last time he consulted me was back last year when he had a nasty bout of bronchitis. I think I told him then that he should give up smoking,” said Robbie, sucking fiercely on his pipe.
“Yes, well, I don’t think that will happen. He loves his Golden Virginia. I don’t know how he’ll take it though. Being retired, I mean. I think his work here is all he has since his wife died. I don’t want to upset him too much...”
“He only works for you one day a week, doesn’t he? Couldn’t you keep him on?”
“I don’t know. He’s not really up to the job. And the weeds are taking over the graveyard. I was in the grocers earlier today ...” Bernard ignored Robbie’s laugh.
“As I said, I was in the grocers today...”
“I’m surprised you knew where it was,” said Robbie sarcastically, staring sadly at his empty whisky glass.
Bernard, ignoring both his remark and his obvious unspoken request for a refill, continued. “The biddies in there were all talking about this handyman they know ...”
Robbie laughed. “Oh yes, I’ve heard all about ‘dishy Dave’ Allison ...”
“You have? He certainly seems to have made an impression on the ladies.”
“I’ve not met him myself, mind. He’s not one of my patients. I suppose he goes to Mallinger.” There was a hint of malice in his tone as he said this.
“I’ve asked if he can come and do the garden and the graveyard ... you know, once Alf’s retired. He sounds good. They all speak very highly of him...”
“Have you stopped to ask yourself if they’re doing that because he’s good at what he does or because he’s good looking?”
“Well, no... But it can’t do any harm to try him out. If he can fit me in, that is. Apparently he’s got more work than he can handle...”
“I bet he’d prefer to work for the ladies,” said Robbie, twirling his empty glass without much hope. “But you can ask him. Anyway, I’d like to meet this chap myself. You know, to see if he’s as good looking as they all say.”
Bernard looked thoughtful. As a personable, middle-aged vicar, looking younger than his forty-four years, the females in his congregation all had a soft spot for him. Could this Dave Allison be a rival for their affections? He didn’t like to think so; he would miss the attention he received from his adoring ladies. But he couldn’t think like that, he knew. He was a man of God, after all, and one of the seven deadly sins was pride, wasn’t it?
Spring 1968
Dave Allison stood before the vicar the very next day, cap in hand. Bernard was at once fiercely jealous of him. He was certainly the handsomest man he’d ever seen, and that included those he’d watched on the silver screen and on television. Sean Connery and his ilk couldn’t hold a candle to this man, or certainly not in Bernard’s opinion. But then he had never been a fan of James Bond.
However, there was one thing about Dave Allison that worried him: he wasn’t looking him straight in the eye. The man seemed to be particularly fascinated by the ceiling. Bernard wondered what was so interesting up there; it was hardly the Sistine Chapel, after all.
“Er, I’m down here...” said Bernard pointedly. He’s very rude, he thought. He may be God’s gift to women, but it didn’t give him the right to be rude.
“Oh, sorry, of course.” Dave finally focused on the vicar and at once visibly relaxed. He treated the vicar to one of his most charming smiles. “How do you do? Dave Allison at your service. I understand that you want some gardening done?”
Now that the man was looking at him and smiling, Bernard thought he was even more attractive than he had at first thought. He took in the vivid blue eyes, mop of light brown hair and stocky, muscular frame. He wasn’t much taller than Bernard, but he held himself well, and gave the impression of being taller than his actual height.
“Yes, that’s right. Please sit down, Mr Allison,” said Bernard politely.
“Dave, please...”
“Er, Dave. And you must call me Bernard.”
“Thank you. Bernard.” The man smiled again. Bernard couldn’t get over how nice his smile was. No wonder all the women were in a lather over him. He knew he couldn’t compete with that smile. “So, what is it you want me to do?”
“Well, I have a gardener at the moment, but he’s getting on and due to retire. He still does one day a week, but I think he’ll have to stop that soon. But, at the moment, I’m mainly concerned about the churchyard. The weeds are taking hold and a lot of the graves are getting hidden under nettles and bracken and what not. Do you think you could look after that, for me? On a regular basis – say, once or twice a fortnight should be enough.”
Dave nodded his head. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” He crossed his legs. “When do you want me to start?”
“As soon as possible. But I understand from – er, Ethel I think her name was ....”
Dave suddenly looked sad. He stared down at his boots. “Oh, yes. Lovely Mrs Babberstock.”
“Is that her name? Well, her anyway. She said you had a lot of other work on at the moment. I don’t want you to take on anything you can’t handle...”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve just finished mending Mrs Harrison’s roof and I’ve got some time to spare now. I’ll start this afternoon if you like. Once I’ve got to grips with the weeds, I’ll be able to tell you just how often I need to come to keep them under control and give a general tidy up.” He suddenly looked wistful. “We must look after those who have passed on, vicar, mustn’t we?”
Bernard smiled. He seemed to be a sensitive soul. “Indeed we must.”
“And then, when you need me for the vicarage garden, I’ll come and do that too,” Dave said, now more brightly. “I must say, I’ve often admired your roses in the front when I’ve been passing.”
Bernard smiled. “How long have you lived here, then? I’ve never seen you before...” He wouldn’t have forgotten someone like Dave. “You’re not a member of my congregation...?” he added, rather pointedly.
“Oh, I don’t actually live in Wandsworth, but I’m not that far, in Tooting actually. My wife knows Mrs Arnstruther – she lives round here. And she’s introduced me to other people here. So I’ve been working in and around the borough for nearly two years now.”
“Oh, I see. So you wouldn’t be a member of my congregation then.” Bernard was somewhat relieved to know that at least this Greek God wouldn’t be turning heads during his services. He had enough trouble keeping his parishioners interested in his sermons as it was.
Dave gave another of his devastating smiles. “No, vicar.” He didn’t add he wasn’t a member of any congregation, however. The things he had seen, and the curse that had followed him around since he was a small boy, precluded him from even entering the house of God.
“I met Dave Allison yesterday, Robbie...”
Robbie looked sideways at Bernard. They were having a quiet lunchtime drink in their favourite watering hole, the Feathers public house. “Ah, yes. ‘Dishy Dave’. Is he as good looking as they say then?”
