Sleeping With the Dead, page 12
part #8 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
Dorothy picked up her book again. It was a salacious murder mystery but, somehow, she had no appetite for it.
September 1956: Exeter
He was beginning to tire of the city these days. When he first arrived he had thought it a very pleasant place indeed, a far cry from his own hometown. A place, he thought, where he could settle down, find a job and lead a quiet, blameless life. But that had been many moons ago.
Not that he was unhappy; on the contrary. He had been very happy for many years, with only the odd little hiccup. And those hiccups could hardly be described as his fault. He would be blithely going about his business when there they would be: in front of him, flaunting it. They wanted him to want them, then they would laugh at him and run away. And then the headaches would begin again.
When he had left his wife, he had nothing but the clothes he stood up in and a cheque in his pocket. It wasn’t a small cheque by any means, and it had been worth even more then. It had been more than enough to buy a little tobacconist’s shop just off the high street. He had soon built up a regular clientele, and the pennies had turned themselves into pounds without too much persuasion. A regular little goldmine, in fact. Before he knew it, he was considered a force to be reckoned with amongst the local tradesmen. He could hold his head up with the best of them.
But he often felt lonely. Although he had proved himself a successful businessman, he had found it hard to make any real friends. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t feel less than adequate in the company of men. Standing at a bar, sinking a pint or two, was all very fine, but they usually wanted to chat about inconsequential things. He had no time for small talk. His headaches always returned if someone asked him how he thought a particular football team would do on Saturday, or what did he think of a film or wireless programme. He held no opinions on subjects like these, and would-be companions soon drifted off to talk to someone else when they received no response.
Then there were the women. They were even more of an ordeal. He only had to see a woman looking his way for the headaches to start. However, there had been one woman who had almost managed to break down his reserve. Coral was rotund, rosy-cheeked, in her mid-thirties and seemed always to be content with her lot. She treated him with quiet kindness and sympathy. Somehow she had seen the despair behind his expressionless eyes, and understood his frustration with the world in general. It was a view she shared.
She had been widowed many years ago, along with so many women who had lost their loved ones. The First World War had decimated England of its fine, upstanding men and left in its wake empty places at hearth and board. He had been considered fortunate because he had returned from the battle front, but he sometimes wondered what had happened to his soul, his humanity. Left behind on the Somme, probably.
Coral had persevered with him. She empathised with him. Whenever he snubbed her advances, instead of taking offence and walking away, she cajoled and wheedled him into a lighter mood. She could make him laugh too, and he didn’t feel he had to make polite conversation with her. But when he didn’t want to talk, she was content to just sit with him and enjoy their silent companionship.
Inevitably, however, she had left him in the end. It had been too good to last. She was a forbearing woman, but her patience had been bound to run out sooner or later. There was no getting over that hole he had where his heart should have been.
She had started walking out with the man who had fixed her boiler instead. He didn’t resent this defection; being a tobacconist, and as Coral didn’t smoke, he had felt at a disadvantage straight away. A boiler engineer was, he concluded, a much more useful member of society than a purveyor of nicotine. Besides, he already had one wife, and that was enough for any man. There hadn’t really been much future in their relationship when all was said and done.
He sighed and stared out of the shop window. Business was slack today. In fact, it was slack every day now, and becoming slacker. Since the opening of the smart new W H Smith in the high street, his trade had fallen off sharply. Most people who came into his shop now were newcomers to the area, wanting a friendly chat with their ounce of tobacco. Receiving only the ounce of tobacco, they had soon changed their allegiance to Smith’s.
It didn’t bother him. He’d had enough of Exeter now, anyway. He’d had enough of the people who lived there too. He’d certainly had enough of the young girls, flaunting themselves in front of him. He recalled his wife. How beautiful she had been, but she couldn’t keep her beauty just for him. There were all the men that came to stay. She had known how her good looks affected them, and she had gone out of her way to ensure they were aware of them. She lapped up their compliments and sly innuendoes until it had driven him mad. His headaches had been unbearable in those days.
He hadn’t ever been a jealous man, not before that awful war. But when he came back home to see his wife pandering to all the men with her wiles and batting eyelids, he had seen red.
She hadn’t been the only one, of course. Those women, it was always the beautiful ones that got to him every time. He only had to see them preening themselves for a headache to start. He had to put a stop to them and a stop to the life he was leading.
Exeter was tainted for him these days. He would move on. Soon. He wondered what his wife was doing, whether she was still alive, even. A condition of that cheque had been that he would have no contact with her whatsoever. If he ever dared to return, she had said, then she wouldn’t answer for the consequences. But so many years had passed since then. So much water under the bridge.
It was time. Time to return. They had parted on reasonable terms, after all. She hadn’t turned her back on him completely. She had helped him. Given him the money to start over. There must still be some love there. He had hurt her, he knew that. Very deeply. He couldn’t take the hurt back or heal the scar. It wasn’t just a physical thing, either. It went much deeper than that.
If only the headaches would stop, then everything would be all right again.
The Vicarage
Sunday, 24th August, 1957
Hello Vicar,
Just a line to keep you posted. More news on Tiddles. Its doing all right and eating me out of house and home as usual. Don’t like Kittycat anymore tho. Turns its nose up everytime I put it in front of it. Had my haddock off the plate the other night. I think its pining for you, vic. Never had this trouble when you was here. Keeps scratching at your study door. I let it in there sometimes and it sleeps in your armchair. Id give it a good vacuum before you come home if only the vacuum worked like. You better make sure the cats hairs dont get on your trousers and thats all about it.
It got chased the other day by that horrible boy from number 63. Chased it with his catapult the little perisher. The cat ran up a tree and I couldnt get it down again. I had to send for the fire brigade. Nice chap. He was a cat lover so that was all right. Mr Stebbings is looking after him for the time being – the cat not the fireman. Even though he accused him of nicking his goldfish he seems to have taken quite a shine to it after all.
So don’t worry about it. Its all right which is more than can be said for the windows. That boy broke two of the downstairs ones with that catapult. If I catch hold of him Ill put that thing where the sun dont shine. Hell get the sharp end of my slipper before hes very much older you see if he dont. And I don’t care that his dad is an all in wrestler. He don’t frighten me.
I expect you home at the week end.
Yours truly
Nancy Harper
PS: Just got your second postcard. Thank you for the view of the Tower. You took me at my word about sending me a picture of Blackpool. Looks like a nice place. I see you want to stay on. Suppose you know what your doing.
August 1920: At Sea
Johnny Tapperstall was terrified as he stepped onto the gang plank. The ship was huge, so big he couldn’t see the top of it. The funnels were hidden from view in the clouds.
Elmer laughed and gave him a gentle push. “It’s okay, Johnny,” he said. “It’s solid, this tub. I came over on it so I should know. Got nice cabins too. I booked you one all to yourself.”
Johnny, who had never in all his life travelled further than Bootle, gave him a nervous smile. “I – I’m sure I’ll be all right, sir,” he said, not sure at all.
Once on board, they were directed to their cabins by a friendly steward. Elmer entered his first and Johnny, close on his heels, saw a bowl of flowers waiting for him. All his luggage was there, too, as if by magic.
“Golly,” said Johnny. It was the only word he could drum up at that moment.
Elmer laughed again. “Don’t worry, Johnny. You’ll soon get used to the good life. And that’s an order. Let’s go and take a look at your cabin.”
It was almost a mirror image of Elmer’s, apart from the luggage. Johnny’s two small bags paled into insignificance beside the huge portmanteau that the rich American possessed. Johnny wandered around what was to be his little home for the next few weeks in awe. It was bigger than the box he had occupied at the Sunnyside and better furnished. Here was everything a traveller could need. And the flowers wafted their scent all around him. So, apart from his fear of being seasick, he was the happiest he had ever been in his life.
Once he had decided to throw in his lot with Elmer, Johnny hadn’t looked back. It had only taken a few days for the arrangements for their voyage to New York to be made, and in the meantime, Elmer was busy keeping out of the way of Aubrey Elphinstone, and as low a profile as possible from everyone else, including Ivy. It wasn’t easy as he had to eat sometimes, and visit the bathroom. His red wig didn’t help him blend into the background either, but he insisted on wearing it. Luckily, it was only Aubrey who was really keeping a lookout for him, so it was a simple matter of avoiding any of the places that man was likely to be. Johnny was invaluable in alerting him if there was any danger of a confrontation.
Inspector Clive Drum had interviewed him twice more, asking the same questions over and over again. No matter how many times he told him, it didn’t seem to sink in. Elmer had left young Mary at her room that night, and returned to the lounge for some more coffee and a read of the paper. But somehow the good inspector didn’t seem, or perhaps didn’t want, to understand. As Elmer said to Johnny on the day before they left for Liverpool and the ship that was to take them away from the shores of England for many years, he didn’t know how many other ways there were of telling the inspector ‘the same goddam thing’.
Ivy had looked askance as Elmer handed in his key and paid the bill a week earlier than he had planned. She told him, in no uncertain terms, that she couldn’t refund his money for that week. Elmer couldn’t have cared less. As long as he was out of the clutches of Inspector Clive Drum and Aubrey Elphinstone, that was all that mattered to him.
“Keep it, ma’am,” he had said, signing his cheque with a flourish. He had even added on a few pounds extra.
Ivy had to admit she would miss his money, if not the man himself. It was only when she called for Johnny to run an errand, did she realise what those few extra pounds had been for. He had taken her porter with him.
The first evening on their voyage out, Johnny was sitting with his patron at a huge table piled high with food of all exotic varieties. There were two other couples at the same table: rich Americans in late middle age. Johnny didn’t take to any of them. The men were rude and sullen, their wives brash and loud, dripping with vulgar jewellery, and over made up.
Towards the end of the meal, Elmer came and sat beside Johnny. They were now alone.
“I’m glad they’ve gone,” said Elmer. “Didn’t feel much like socialising tonight, eh, Johnny?”
“Er, no, sir,” said Johnny, finishing off the last of his ice cream. He had never had such a delicious meal, with so many courses. It was all so wonderful and new to him. And, wonder of wonders, he didn’t feel seasick at all.
“And before we go any further, Johnny,” said Elmer, slapping him on the shoulder, “you must call me Elmer from now on. None of this ‘sir’ nonsense – okay?”
“Yes, sir – I okay, Elmer.” Saying his name felt very strange to Johnny, but he supposed he would get used to it in time.
“There you go,” said Elmer, laughing. “You know, Johnny, this business with Mary has knocked me for six, I don’t mind admitting. I didn’t like running away, but I just couldn’t take no more of that inspector and his innuendoes. I’d have punched him on the nose and stuffed his notebook down his throat if he’d asked me one more damn question. Even if he’d only asked me the time.”
Johnny was only half listening. He was much more interested in the bowl of fruit sitting in the middle of the table. It was piled high with strange colours and shapes. One of his dinner companions had told him that there were mangoes and kiwi fruits there, and something called a cumquat, of all things. He desperately wanted to try each and every one of them.
“I didn’t want to leave without knowing what happened to her,” Elmer continued. “If it wasn’t for the police and Elphinstone breathing down my neck all the time, I’d have tried to find out for myself. But, as I was the number one suspect, what choice did I have?”
Johnny didn’t answer. He just couldn’t imagine what something called a ‘cumquat’ would actually taste like.
“Johnny? You listening to me?”
“Sorry, what?”
“What choice did I have?”
Johnny didn’t know what choice he had, if any, as he had no idea what he had been talking about. However, he thought it wiser to just go along with him. “Er, none?”
“You’re damn right, none. But, I tell you this, Johnny, I won’t rest until I find out what happened to that gal. You got that?”
Johnny nodded, only vaguely aware of his friend’s voice now.
“Hmm,” he said, taking his first bite of his first cumquat.
August 1957: Blackpool
John Tapperstall surveyed the lounge. The sun streamed in through the window to reveal just one man in the corner by the potted plant. Everyone else must be out enjoying the sunshine, he reckoned. He felt sorry for that potted plant which looked very dejected, situated as it was where the rays of the sun couldn’t get at it. It had once been a handsome specimen, he had no doubt, but years of neglect had taken their toll. He made a mental note to complain to Ivy.
He looked at the only guest in the lounge that morning. The old colonel looked thoroughly miserable, sipping his coffee and nibbling on a biscuit. His moustache, although well-trimmed was drooping into his coffee and he could see a stain spreading through his whiskers even as he watched. What kind of a man was it who must have spent his whole life pining for a woman that would never return? He must have been a young man when Meriel had disappeared; a couple of years, maybe, to mourn her loss, and then, surely, he should have married again? Found renewed happiness? John thought the poor man deserved that. But this continual return to the scene of her disappearance was positively ghoulish, in his opinion.
John wandered over to Matthew Forwood and shook his hand. “Care for some company?” he asked.
Matthew gestured to him to sit down, and June Smart appeared almost at once to take John’s coffee order.
“So,” said John, sitting down, “how are you feeling this morning?”
The Colonel sighed. “She was with me again last night,” he said.
John wished he wouldn’t keep harping on about the woman. She was long dead, why didn’t he try and get over it? Probably a bit too late now. Couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks, as the saying went. Then he thought of Elmer, and realised that his friend had more or less wasted his life pining for Mary. He wondered just what made those two unfortunate women so unforgettable. They had both been beautiful, of course. Meriel had been blonde and Mary dark. He had even been a little in love with Mary himself, but after all these years, what did it really matter? Life had to go on.
“Why do you think your wife’s still here, sir?” he said politely, sipping his coffee.
“Because she is,” said the colonel impatiently. “She has never left here.”
“Then why can’t she be found?” John wanted to say why couldn’t her body be found, but he decided that would be too upsetting. The old man was on the verge of tears as it was.
“I don’t know.” The colonel blew his nose hard.
“Have you ever – er, have you never thought of marrying again, sir?”
The colonel glared at him. “Marry again? How could I? I’m still married!”
There was no answer to that. He could have mentioned the thing about after seven years’ absence the courts can rule your spouse dead, but knew it wouldn’t wash with the colonel. It would probably just make him angry. Anger, he could see, was never far from the surface with Matthew Forwood.
“I – I’m sorry if I upset you – “
“No matter, no matter,” mumbled the old man, wiping his stained moustache with his handkerchief and blowing his nose again.
John gave him a sympathetic smile. “It must be so difficult for you. You must have loved her very much.”
At that moment, Bernard, Robbie, Oliver and Celia came into the lounge. They came over to join John and the colonel. They all looked purposeful and excited.
Several minutes later, June had brought them all coffee and biscuits with her customary efficiency, and they were all seated together with John and the Colonel. Five minutes later they were joined by an old woman and her knitting. In fact, it was difficult to tell whether she was bringing the knitting, or the knitting was bringing her, there was so much of it.
