The Man Who Was Death, page 11
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
Bernard was all ears now. What was his friend about to tell him? That he’d made another date with her just to make him jealous?
“I met Dorothy and she was with someone...”
“With someone? Who?” Bernard’s heart started to thump violently in his chest.
“A very handsome man, as it happens.” Robbie was almost enjoying his friend’s obvious dismay at this news.
Bernard was indeed very much dismayed. Although he had forfeited his chances with the lady himself, anyone showing an interest in her or, more importantly, any interest she showed in another man was anathema to him. He knew, as a vicar, he should not be a dog in the manger; in fact the only occupant of his manger should be the baby Jesus. But there it was: he resented any other man the opportunity with Dorothy he had denied himself.
“Wh-who was it?” he asked quietly. There was no point, he said to himself, in getting in a panic. The man might be her brother... But then he knew she had no brother, only a married sister. Perhaps it was her brother-in-law.
“She introduced me to him. His name’s Jonathan – I can’t remember his surname although she did tell me – and he was one of her clients.”
Bernard permitted himself to feel a slight relief at the word ‘clients’. Perhaps it was a business meeting in the park. Perhaps she was holding séances in the open air now.
“She looked very happy, Bernie...”
“I – I see. Is she – is she going out with him?”
“So I was given to understand. There’s no point in you being upset, old boy. You had your chance – umpteen chances – so now she’s moved on. So should you.” He swigged the last of his beer and got up to go to the bar.
“I’ll get you a refill, Bernie,” he said gently. “You look like you could do with one.”
Bernard had to admit that he could.
Late Summer, 1963
“Well, that’s what I call a short break!”
Lady Mountjoy was overjoyed in her heart to see Dave Allison back at his spade just three days after he and Sybilla had departed for the Lake District. Something was definitely not right between them, and she was glad, oh so glad.
Dave looked up from his digging and pushed his cap back on his head. The day was overcast, heralding the end of the summer. A few droplets of rain were beginning to fall onto the hard earth. The darkness of the sky matched his mood.
“It wasn’t meant to be a long holiday,” he muttered, trying to keep his temper in check. “The weather’s broken now anyway.” And as he said this, the heavens opened.
“You’d better go in, Lady Mountjoy,” he said, “or you’ll catch your death.”
“Come with me, then, and we’ll have a cup of tea,” she said, anxious to find out the real reason for her employees’ early return. They must have had some sort of row, judging by Dave’s dour demeanour and the dark circles under Sybilla’s eyes; she’d obviously been crying as well.
The last thing Dave wanted was to chew the fat over tea with his employer. He wasn’t fooled by her friendly manner; she was dying to know what had happened between himself and Sybilla. What was he going to tell her? Nevertheless he needed that tea and his shirt was already soaked from the rain. The first rumbles of thunder could be heard as he followed Lady Mountjoy into the house.
Forsythia was delighted to instruct her housekeeper to provide tea for Dave and herself; that’ll twist the knife in the wound, she thought unkindly. Sybilla, however, showed no emotion as she moved to obey. They could drown in tea for all she cared. Nothing mattered anymore.
Seated in the front parlour with the silver tea service set out on a small table beside her, Forsythia Mountjoy proceeded to pour out the tea; an excellent blend from Assam, her favourite.
“Now, Dave,” she smiled, handing him a china cup that looked much too small and delicate for his man-sized hands, “what’s the trouble? Now don’t try fobbing me off. You said you’d be away for a whole week, but you both came back after three days. Lovers’ tiff, was it?” She smirked as she asked this question.
Dave Allison felt like punching her lights out. How dare she? But he just sat, sipping the tea, which he realised was very good.
“We just decided to come back, that’s all,” he said lamely. “The weather’s changed and ...”
“It was lovely up until yesterday,” Forsythia pointed out. “Are you gifted with second sight or something?”
Dave could almost have laughed at her flippant remark; she didn’t know just how right she was, although his gift didn’t extend to foretelling the weather. He left that to the meteorologists.
“It – it was getting cooler,” he lied. The weather had been solid sunshine right up until they got on the train to come home. “So we decided to – er come back, that’s all. I thought you weren’t happy about us both being away, so we – came back,” he said with even less conviction that he felt.
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Dave,” she then said. “I’ll be asking Sybilla, so I’ll get at the truth one way or another...”
“Then I think you’d better ask her,” he said, seeing a chance to get off the hook. After all, it would be better coming from Sybilla; he wasn’t going to be the one to tell Lady Mountjoy the real reason for them cutting their holiday short.
Lady Mountjoy was disappointed, there was no denying it. But if he wouldn’t tell her, then she couldn’t make him. Anyway she was sure to get to the bottom of it when she spoke to Sybilla. She secretly suspected that Sybilla had made a fool of herself over him, and Dave had been too much of a gentleman to split on her.
“Very well, I will do that. Now, if you’ve finished your tea...” She stood up. She saw no point in prolonging the interview. Dave was doing a very good imitation of a clam and it was driving her mad. Most men she could twist round her little finger, but not this one.
Dave took the hint and rose to go. It was still pouring heavily, so he said he would do some work in the greenhouse.
“Fine, you do that,” said Forsythia coldly. She left the room, with Dave on her heels. As he went out to the grounds, she watched him for a moment, deep in thought. What was the problem, she wondered. Surely nothing that happened between that cold fish of a housekeeper and him could be that bad. He looked like he’d lost the love of his life. Unbeknownst to her, of course, that’s exactly what he had done.
Sybilla was next to get the third degree from Lady Mountjoy. She was even more clam-like than Dave and Forsythia was at the end of her tether.
“So you both refuse to tell me what went on,” she said at last. Unlike Dave, she hadn’t offered Sybilla a cup of tea, just a formal interview in her study.
“It really is none of your business,” said Sybilla hotly, although she knew, in one way at least, it was. But she wasn’t ready to tell Lady Mountjoy about her pregnancy. Time enough for that. First she had to compose herself, get her life back to normal, and push all thoughts of a future with Dave to the back of her mind. Easier said than done, of course.
Lady Mountjoy bridled. “Don’t be impertinent,” she said imperiously. “I think it is my business to know what is making my staff so sullen and unresponsive. I won’t have insubordination under my roof.”
Try telling that to your husband, thought Sybilla bitterly. However, she drew herself up to her full height which matched Forsythia’s inch for inch and said, “I understand your position, but it is a private matter, Lady Mountjoy. Can we please leave it at that? If you have cause to criticise my work, then by all means, tell me. I am not at my best, I admit it, but I will not let my personal feelings interfere with my work.”
Lady Mountjoy knew she was beaten, for the time being at least. She sent her about her business and went to the window. She stared out at the rain, watching a small sparrow trying to keep upright as the cold wet drops fell on his tiny feathered head. She felt just like that sparrow at that moment. What was going on, she wondered.
Early Summer, 1968
The last week of May saw a happy Dorothy Plunkett walk up the vicarage garden path to the back door, arm in arm with Jonathan Muirhead. They had been going out together for several weeks and things were looking up for both of them. Dorothy thought she had at last got the dithering vicar out of her system, and Jon had a new interest in his life since the death of his parents and his acrimonious divorce. Mrs Harper was at the kitchen window, up to her elbows in the washing up when she saw the couple approach.
“Hmm,” she said to herself. “This looks interesting.” She dried her hands on a tea towel and went to open the back door. “Using the tradesmen’s entrance, eh?” she said with a wink. “Don’t want the vic to see you?”
Dorothy laughed. “Something like that,” she said, giving the old housekeeper a friendly hug. “I don’t think he’s ready to meet my man yet, but I think you are. After bending your ear about my feelings for Bernie for so long, you deserve to be the first to know – I’m engaged – and this is the unlucky man. Nancy, meet Jonathan Muirhead.” She gently pushed Jon forward and he held out his hand.
“How d’you do?” said that man, as Mrs Harper tentatively held her hand out to him. “I’ve heard a lot about you and I told Dorothy that I wanted to meet you. She said you’ve been a tower of strength to her over the years... a real treasure.”
Mrs Harper gave him what passed for a smile. She rarely cracked her face, but when she did it was worth waiting for. The grin began in the middle of her lips and gradually eased itself to the edges of her mouth, causing dimples to appear in the ample flesh of her cheeks. She smiled because she could see Dorothy was the happiest she’d seen her in years, and also because the man beside her was as handsome as a Hollywood movie star. The vicar’s nose would be well and truly put out of joint when he learned Dorothy’s news.
“How d’you do?” said Mrs Harper, almost curtseying. “Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
When they were all seated at the kitchen table, Dorothy asked: “Where is the great man, by the way?”
Mrs Harper sniffed. “In ’is study trying to write ’is sermon,” she said, pouring the tea. “Been at it all morning. When I took ’im ’is elevenses there was loads of screwed up balls of paper at ’is feet. Not going too well, as usual. I don’t know why ’e don’t just use an old one again. After all, no one’d be any the wiser as they don’t listen to ’em in the first place.”
Dorothy laughed. “You better not suggest that to Bernie. He thinks his tracts are inspiring and elevating to his parishioners. I wouldn’t want to disillusion him.” She smiled at Jon as she said this, realising she was probably talking too fondly of the man she had been obsessed with for years. Jon Muirhead wasn’t perturbed however. This lovely lady had accepted his proposal of marriage; they were going to be so happy. No vacillating vicar was going to spoil it. He sounded a right drip, anyway. Fancy turning down the opportunity to marry her?
Just then, the back door to the kitchen opened and Dave Allison’s head appeared round it.
“Hello, Mrs Aitch, any chance of a cuppa? I’m spitting feath – “ Dave stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Jonathan Muirhead.
“Jon? What on earth are you doing here?”
“Dave? I might say the same of you.” Jon stood up and went over to shake his cousin’s hand, for that was indeed who he was. Dave Allison had been brought up by Jon’s parents since he was four years old.
Dorothy and Mrs Harper stared at the two men in astonishment. Finally, Dorothy spoke. “It’s a small world and no mistake,” she said, rather unoriginally. “You know each other?”
“We’re cousins,” said Jon. He looked seriously at Dorothy. “Do you remember our first meeting and what I told you?”
Dorothy suddenly understood. Bernard’s gardener was the very man that Jon had told her had predicted his parents’ deaths. She looked at Dave and saw a kindred spirit. This man, whom she had met only once, had a gift, she was convinced. Anyone looking at him could see that he was incapable of anything cruel or underhand. If he told his cousin that his parents were about to die, it was because he could somehow see into the future. Then another thought struck her; Dave would be her relative by marriage and, she found herself thinking, that would be very nice too.
Mrs Harper finally took charge of the situation. “Sit down, Dave, ’ere’s your tea.”
Dave’s face wasn’t a sunny one. He was staring at his cousin, but there was no friendliness etched there. Only worry and concern.
He absent-mindedly sipped the tea Mrs Harper had given him but didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He had seen it, as clear as day. The black aura around his cousin’s head.
“I’m getting married, Dave,” said Jon, ignoring his cousin’s doleful expression. “To this lovely lady here.” He smiled radiantly at him. What was the matter with him, he wondered. He certainly wouldn’t ask him to be his best man if he didn’t lighten up.
Dave looked startled at this news. “Getting married?” he murmured, slurping his tea as his hand shook holding the mug.
“Yes. Any objections?” Jon was quite annoyed now. Why was his cousin such a killjoy? He’d never been a happy child and he certainly hadn’t been close to him throughout their formative years. Dave was five years younger than him anyway, so their schooldays never coincided.
“N-no. Y-you deserve to be happy,” Dave stuttered, as he spilt his tea on Mrs Harper’s pristinely white tablecloth.
He stood up, as she grabbed a cloth to wipe up the mess. “I- I’m sorry, Mrs Aitch. I’m all fingers and thumbs today. I- I’d better get on. Nice to see you Jon. C-congratulations to you both.”
He left the kitchen quickly, leaving three puzzled people to stare after him.
“What on earth was that all about?” said Mrs Harper, tutting as the tea stain spread the more she rubbed. “Better take it off and put it in the wash,” she said crossly. “That man’s got ants in ’is pants today and no mistake.”
Jon Muirhead took Dorothy’s hand. “I must apologise for my cousin. He’s not usually that strange. I never knew he resented my happiness that much...”
Dorothy interrupted him. “No, dear, I don’t think it’s that. He’s a troubled soul. I’m psychic, remember? And I’m pretty sure he is too.”
“Well, I never knew that,” said Jon, not particularly pleased at his fiancée’s defence of his cousin. “I just think he’s a miserable sod myself ...”
“No, he’s not, Jon. There’s something troubling him. He’s got a lot on his mind, you can tell...”
Mrs Harper agreed. “That young man ’as certainly got a lot on ’is plate, that’s for sure. ’E’s not a bad lad, just worried. You shouldn’t take it personally, Mr Muirhead...”
Jon was getting really fed up now. Both women were defending his rude cousin, and the only reason was that he was so attractive, of that he was convinced. They wouldn’t be so quick to take his part if he wasn’t so nice to look at. Women could be so shallow at times.
“Come on, Dorothy, I think we’d better go. We’ve taken up too much of this good lady’s time as it is.” He took her arm as he said this, and they moved towards the back door.
Dorothy turned to Mrs Harper and gave her a knowing wink. “I’ll be back later – you know, to see Bernie. Break the news gently – about getting married. See you later.”
Jon looked cross at this. “Let him find out for himself, Dorothy,” he said, as they made their way up the garden path to the back gate. “After all, he’s nothing to you now...”
Dorothy stopped in her tracks. This was a side of him she had never seen before. “He’s still a very close friend, Jon,” she said severely. “It would be wrong not to tell him to his face.”
He relaxed slightly. “Of course, love,” he said, “I – I’m sorry. It’s Dave. He’s really upset me.”
“I think you two need to sit down and thrash things out, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Don’t see what good it would do. We’ve never really seen eye to eye.”
Meanwhile, Bernard had appeared in the kitchen, just in time to see Dorothy and Jon disappear down the garden path.
“Who was that with Dorothy, Mrs Aitch?”
Mrs Harper busied herself at the kitchen sink and coughed. “Er, a friend, vic,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves and plunging her arms into the water. Please don’t ask me, she said under her breath. It was up to Dorothy to tell him, not her.
“A – friend?”
“That’s right. Now get from under my feet as I’ve got the dinner to get and I’m already be’ind’and.”
“What friend, Mrs Aitch?” Bernard moved slightly to one side as his housekeeper stretched out a soapy hand for a dirty saucepan at his elbow.
“Just a friend. She’s coming back later to see you.”
“Oh, er, right...”
“Now get out of my way,” she said rudely. “I can’t do the washing up with you ’indering me all the time.”
“I- I’m going, Mrs Aitch. Robbie’s waiting at the pub. Just the one, Mrs Aitch,” he added, seeing the look of disapproval on her face.
“Well get along,” she said. “Be back at one o’clock, mind.”
“Yes, Mrs Aitch. I will.”
“And get your cat from under my feet as well,” she called after him, as she felt a furry body wrap around her legs. “’E’s ’ad two meals this morning already. The blasted thing’s got ’ollow legs.”
Pausing to scoop up his precious pet, Bernard left the kitchen deep in thought. “What goes on, eh Beelzebub? Who’s Dorothy’s friend, d’you think?”
The cat, unsurprisingly, didn’t give an opinion on the subject, but then Bernard had made up his own mind about that. It was obviously true what Robbie had told him a while back. Dorothy had got herself another man and he didn’t like it one bit.
Autumn, 1963
Lord Florian Mountjoy was sitting in his study, staring out of the window at the gentle rain as it spattered against the panes. In his hand was a hospital letter addressed to himself containing very bad news indeed. Of course, he wasn’t surprised. He had abused his body too often: his alcohol intake was well over the danger level and his smoking had increased dramatically over the last few years. It seemed he had cancer of the larynx, but it had been diagnosed at a reasonably early stage and there was a good chance he would recover, given the course of treatment recommended in the letter. He took a long swig from his whisky bottle as he reread the relevant paragraph. The treatment itself seemed worse than the disease, but he supposed that if there was a chance of not dying quite so soon, then probably he should submit to it. He took another long swig of whisky.
