Sleeping With the Dead, page 1
part #8 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
SLEEPING WITH THE DEAD
Book 8 in The Reverend Bernard Paltoquet Mystery Series
(A Reverend Paltoquet novel)
by
Pat Herbert
OTHER NOVELS IN THE
REVEREND PALTOQUET MYSTERY SERIES:
The Bockhampton Road Murders
Haunted Christmas
The Possession of November Jones
The Witches of Wandsworth
So Long at the Fair
The Man Who Was Death
The Dark Side of the Mirror
August 1919: Blackpool
That glorious summer of 1919 felt like a reprieve. For four years death had stalked every street and every household in Britain, and now, as if to celebrate the ending of the war, the sun shone on the golden Blackpool sands as holidaymakers began to enjoy themselves once more. It had been a long time coming.
The sun smiled down on the promenade, on the seagulls whose wings soaked up its rays and on the trams making their way to and from the seafront. The people too, were included in the benefit of so much-needed vitamin C, young and old alike.
Among those taking in the ozone that summer day was handsome Captain Matthew Forwood. He strode proudly along the promenade, arm in arm with his young bride, a woman of exceptional loveliness. People passing them smiled indulgently, and some even doffed their hats. It was good to see such a nice young couple daring to be happy again. Here was one young soldier who had returned from the battle front with the full complement of limbs and, it would seem, intact in mind as well. The young couple were in love and their life together was just beginning. They represented the hope for the future, and everyone was glad.
Matthew had married Meriel the very day before and they had arrived at the guest house just hours ago. But they hadn’t bothered to unpack as the sun beckoned and they were reluctant to lose a minute of the wonderful day that stretched before them. It was almost a miracle that he had returned to his fiancée after the war, when so many men had come back broken both physically and mentally, if they had come back at all. Meriel Forwood knew she was lucky. In fact, she was the only woman among her friends and family who had a healthy young man in her life. She thought about this, and clung to his solid, muscular arm as if she would never let it go. He patted the hand that was gripping him so tightly. There was a lump in his throat, he was so happy.
Neither of them had need of words; looks, lovingly given and received, were all that were necessary that morning. In fact, they couldn’t put into words what they felt. When the armistice came it was like a black cloak being lifted from the whole earth. It had rolled back to reveal a sun no one had ever thought to see again. But, at last, here it was – shining on them now.
They entered a small café further along the front and sat at a table by a window that looked out over the sea. The gulls were crying and swooping down on the gentle waves, and their wings sparkled in the bright glare of mid-day.
It was all so perfect.
Ivy Conway wasn’t your typical seaside landlady, being slim, almost svelte in shape, softly blonde, beguilingly pretty and under twenty-five years of age. At least she had been all of those things only a matter of six months ago. That was before the ‘accident’ with the acid. She was still slender, blonde and young, but her face would never be smiled upon again.
Her husband, Lennie, had returned from the battle front a shell-shocked victim like many others and, as such, pronounced medically unfit in both mind and body. He couldn’t be held responsible for the accident, of course, but it had penetrated the skin down one side of her face, disfiguring her for life. Ivy Conway was now a frightful sight if you were looking at her full face or at her left profile; if you came upon her from the right side, then she was as beautiful as she had always been.
When the Forwoods turned up at the small bed-and-breakfast on the first day of their honeymoon, they were appalled when they saw her. Ivy, now somewhat used to the reaction of strangers to her disfigurement, smiled at them in welcome, which made her look even more hideous. Meriel turned to her husband as they followed Mrs Conway upstairs to their room and raised her delicate eyebrows at him. Matthew ignored her however, feeling very sorry for the unfortunate woman who was obviously reduced to taking in lodgers, as there appeared to be no man on the scene. Not even a porter to carry their bags it would seem. But then, he thought, who would marry a woman as ugly as that?
“We can’t stay here, darling, we really can’t,” protested Meriel. Matthew opened the window and looked down on the small patio beneath. He gazed at the unprepossessing sight of overflowing dustbins, surrounded by buzzing flies in the heat of the day. He sighed and turned to face her.
“And why not, darling?” he said, strolling over to the bed, and testing it for springiness.
“You ask me that? The woman’s a freak! She’ll probably murder us all in our beds!”
“But why would she do that? Just because she has a scar down the side of her face doesn’t make her a murderer, sweetheart. Be reasonable. Besides this is a nice little place, and it’s all I could afford. The bed’s nice and soft. I don’t like the view much, but you can’t have everything and we’re only a stone’s throw from the beach.”
“But she scares me, Matthew, I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink knowing she was prowling around.”
Matthew, who thought his young wife was certainly destined to be kept awake but not by Mrs Conway, thought better than to say this to her. Instead, he took her hand gently and kissed it. Pressing it close to his heart, he smiled at her.
“You must try to be tolerant, my dear,” he said. “Just think how many young men have been disfigured in the war. Would you call them freaks and turn your back on them too?”
“That’s different and you know it.”
“Not so different,” said Matthew. “The war has affected everyone in one way or another. I myself am not the same man I was before it, you know.”
“You are perfect, my darling,” she said sweetly. “You are whole in body and soul, thank God.”
“Yes, I do thank God – every day, and so should you – for being so beautiful. You should be kind and considerate to those less fortunate than yourself.”
“I don’t like it when you’re cross with me, Matthew,” she said, beginning to sulk.
“I don’t mean to upset you – but please be a bit kinder to Mrs Conway. Hmm?”
She sighed and moved to the window to admire the view of the dustbins. “I find it hard even just to look at her. How can one ignore such ugliness?”
“You must try, dear. You really must. There but for the grace of God and all that …”
“All right, I will. But I don’t know if I shall succeed.”
Mrs Ivy Conway set six places for her guests. This included two for her latest visitors, the charming and handsome Captain Matthew Forwood and his evil bitch of a bride. She had watched them as they walked out into the sunshine, eager to enjoy the day. She knew she herself would never be on the arm of a man again, certainly not one as handsome as the brave captain. She spat on Meriel’s spoon as she thought this. Ivy had been just as beautiful once. This time last year she would have given her a run for her money. She spat on Meriel’s knife and fork as well.
It was on the third day of the Forwoods’ honeymoon that the telegram arrived. It was from Matthew’s sister. She had just been informed that her husband had been killed on the battlefield. It was the news she had been dreading, preferring to think of him as just ‘missing’. While there had been no definite news, there had been hope. Now there was none.
Captain Forwood screwed up the telegram and put it in his pocket. He was needed back home immediately; she was beside herself with grief.
“Oh my dear,” said Meriel, her eyes brimful. “My heart goes out to her.”
“I must return to London at once,” said Matthew, deep in thought.
“Oh? But why, darling?” Meriel had tried all her life not to be selfish, but had rarely succeeded. This time she was finding it extra hard. The sun was shining, they were spending two lovely weeks together before returning to normal life, whatever that was going to be now. And then this bombshell had come along, threatening to spoil their idyll.
“How can you ask me that? Of course I must go.”
“Er, y-yes, I suppose you must. But I don’t see what good you can do her.”
“She needs me there. I’m her only brother.”
Hermione Porter was very much attached to her elder brother. Probably too attached, Meriel thought. She sometimes wondered just how deep that attachment went. Matthew professed to love her devotedly, but whenever his sister beckoned, he dropped everything to do her bidding. Of course, it was distressing to lose one’s husband but, after all, she wasn’t the only one. She would just have to get on with it, what else could she do? Breaking up their honeymoon wouldn’t help anybody, least of all Meriel Forwood.
“But we’re on our honeymoon,” she whined, pointing out the obvious. They were in their room in the Sunnyside Guest House preparing to go for a leisurely walk along the Blackpool sea front before finding a nice little place to take some refreshment. But with the arrival of the telegram this prospect had vanished. The Golden Mile would have to wait now.
“Look, darling,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her. She looked so fetching in her new pink dress with the daringly raised hemline, and matching parasol. Her hat completed the ensemble; she looked good enough to eat. Like Turkish delight. “There’s no need for you to come back with
“What?” she cried. Her lace gloved hand was raised to her mouth in horror.
“Well, you know, you can still enjoy yourself here. The weather is so good, it seems a pity to spoil both our holidays. Why not stay on? I’ll come back as soon as I can, and I’m sure Mrs Conway will look after you while I’m gone.”
“But I don’t like her, Matthew,” she said. “And I’m sure she doesn’t like me. She’s jealous because I’m so beautiful and she’s so ugly. I don’t want her looking after me.”
“You mustn’t be cruel, darling. You are beautiful – too beautiful – but not everyone is so blessed. Have a little kindness.”
Meriel couldn’t imagine being kind to a woman like Ivy Conway. Someone as ugly as her should be put on show in a waxwork museum, along with the most wicked people who had ever lived. Or in a circus freak show; yes, that was the ideal place for someone like her.
“I – I’d rather come home with you, Matthew,” she pouted, “if we must go, that is.”
“Very well,” said Matthew resignedly. “If you would prefer it, dear. It would be best for me, of course, to have you with me. And I’m sure Hermione would be comforted too. Maybe Mrs Conway will keep our rooms for us until we can return.”
Ivy Conway wasn’t at all perturbed that Meriel was leaving; she hated looking at her, reminding her how ill-starred she was. Good riddance, was her first reaction. It was just a pity that the handsome soldier had to go too.
“Of course, I’m happy to keep your room for the full fortnight,” she said to Matthew, as he paid his bill. “I’m sorry you have to leave under such sad circumstances.”
“Thank you, Mrs Conway. I’m sorry too,” said Matthew, writing out a cheque for the full fortnight’s stay. As he was in the act of screwing back the cap on his fountain pen, a young man came up to the reception desk. He handed over his key to Ivy and, turning, he saw Meriel standing there. He gave her a smile.
Meriel watched him as he walked out of the door.
“Thank you, Mr Penrose,” Ivy called after him. “See you at six. I’ll keep your usual table.”
“Thanks, Ivy, love,” he called back. Then he was gone. Meriel was looking thoughtful as her husband turned to escort her out of the door.
“Can you ask the porter to put the bags into the carriage, please, Mrs Conway?” he said.
Mrs Conway pressed the bell and a spotty-faced youth appeared as if by magic. He snatched up the bags and ran with them to the waiting carriage.
“Come, my dear,” said Matthew, “we’d better hurry if we’re going to catch the ten-fifteen train.”
Meriel stayed his arm. “Matthew, dear,” she said sweetly. “Maybe I should stay on after all. As you said yourself, the weather is so good and I can’t do anything useful for Hermione. It would only upset her to see me so happy with you ...”
Her young husband was puzzled at this sudden change of heart. “But I thought you – I mean, you said...”
Meriel looked at him impatiently. A stubborn look had hardened her face. “Never mind what I said, dear, I wish to stay now. I have no need to sit in a stuffy train for hours when the sun is shining here. And you said that Mrs Conway will keep an eye on me.”
Matthew was resigned. He had become used to Meriel’s caprices of late. He usually found them endearing, but today he felt irritated by her. “Of course you can stay if you’d prefer to,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll just inform Mrs Conway.”
Mrs Conway was informed and didn’t like it. She glared at Meriel who was standing there, twirling her parasol, looking like a fashion plate. However, she found a smile for Matthew.
“I will be happy to look after the sweet young lady,” she said with as much sincerity as she could muster.
August 1957: Blackpool
The Reverend Nigel Soames could never be accused of hiding his light under a bushel. He could never be accused of hiding, full stop. Indeed, if it had been necessary for him to hide for any reason, he probably would have had great difficulty in doing so, being nearly six feet six inches tall and almost as wide in circumference. He certainly wouldn’t have fitted into a priest hole. His bulk tended to make most people wary of him. He couldn’t help it: he ‘loomed’. He loomed over his pulpit, casting a shadow over his congregation, and his fire and brimstone sermons were all the more frightening because of this. His parish church was St Barnabus in Tooting, but for now he was twiddling his gigantic toes in the Blackpool sands. Yes, the Reverend Nigel Soames was on holiday.
As he sat there, sunning his enormous torso, a man-sized shadow fell across a small part of it. That shadow belonged to the Reverend Bernard Paltoquet. Behind him stood his close friend, Dr Robbie MacTavish. Bernard was the incumbent of the parish of St Stephen’s in Wandsworth, and thus a near neighbour of Nigel’s. It is fair to say they didn’t really hit it off: Nigel was a pompous bore who thought he knew everything, to Bernard’s way of thinking at least. As for Bernard, Nigel, when he thought about him at all, considered him to be a rather insignificant little man whose one asset was his housekeeper, Mrs Nancy Harper, who was without question the best cook in South London if not the universe.
“Hello,” said Bernard politely. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
Nigel shielded his eyes as he looked up into Bernard’s face. “Probably the same as you, old man,” he said. “I’m on holiday.”
“Are you here on your own?” was Bernard’s next question.
“No, I’ve brought my curate with me. You probably haven’t met him, as he hasn’t been with me for very long. Oliver Johnson.”
“No, I haven’t had that pleasure,” said Bernard. “You know Robbie, of course?”
“Of course. Hello, old boy.”
Robbie inclined his handsome head and gave him a faint smile. His physician’s mind was calculating how much longer a man of Nigel’s size could function before succumbing to a heart attack. In his medical experience, he would reckon to the end of the week but no further.
“Where is your – er, companion?” said Bernard, looking around.
“Having a paddle,” illuminated the Reverend Soames.
Bernard scanned the water’s edge, but the beach was crowded and Oliver Johnson could have been any one of a number of young men paddling at that very moment, none of whom looked a likely curate. But you could never tell by appearances, especially if trousers were rolled up to knees and hankies were on heads, tied in a knot at each corner.
“Well, it’s a small world, isn’t it?” said Bernard, running out of things to say.
“Where are you staying, reverend?” said Robbie at this point.
“Oh, the big hotel a few yards down the road from here. The Imperial. Very nice. The food’s good too. And you? Where are you staying?”
“The Sunnyside Guest House,” said Bernard quietly. “Not quite as grand as the Imperial,” he added pointedly.
Bernard wondered how Nigel could afford such luxurious accommodation, especially if his stipend was as meagre as his own. Maybe he had a private income.
“Is – is your curate staying at the Imperial too?” he asked.
“Naturally,” said Nigel. He did not add that Oliver had been staying at the same guest house as themselves until he had been forced to find him a room at the Imperial. His curate had come to him only the day before, saying he could no longer stay at the Sunnyside as his room was haunted, of all things. Of all the lame-brained excuses; Nigel had laughed so loud, Oliver had to cover his ears. However, it was eventually clear to the Reverend Soames that the man was in deadly earnest, and that no power on earth would make him return to his room at the guest house. Nigel therefore, reluctantly, agreed to his demand, otherwise he was on the next train home. Nigel didn’t like the idea of staying on alone, so a bit of ecclesiastical string pulling managed to find a small annex for him at the Imperial.
“Well, we’d better be going, as it’s nearly dinnertime,” said Bernard, as the conversation seemed to have dried up. “Maybe we’ll see you later.”
