The Man Who Was Death, page 22
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
Anyway, the deed was done. Tomorrow he would pay another visit to his lady love, soon to be his wife if he had anything to do with it. She would get the old goat’s money and they would be living in clover. There was no way the police could prove it wasn’t an accident, except ...
As he fled down the front drive to the street, he thought about Dave Allison. He knew, even when he had only just set eyes on him for the first time, that this man was going to be his nemesis. That’s why, he realised, he had felt so antagonistic towards him, added to the fact that he was better looking than himself. He was sure that Forsythia must have been tempted by him, but Paul wasn’t going to let that deter him. He had the prior claim, and had carried out Lord Mountjoy’s murder for the sole purpose of getting his hands on his money. Forsythia was a side issue, but he was prepared to marry her; in fact he had little choice if he wanted to live a life of luxury in the way he had been used to.
As he sauntered along the street, hands in pockets, thinking these thoughts, an ambulance flew past him, ringing its bell.
Summer, 1968
It was after four o’clock when Robbie and Bernard boarded a train for Maidstone on their way to the village of Barming and Mountjoy Court. Both men were curious to see the evidently palatial surroundings in which lived the glamorous and wealthy Lady Forsythia.
“We’re about to witness at first hand, Bernie, how the other half lives,” said Robbie, sitting down in the small smoking compartment opposite his friend. He immediately withdrew his pipe from his inside coat pocket and lit up. Bernard did the same.
“Do you think I should be coming with you, Robbie?” he said, sucking contentedly on his pipe. “Isn’t it better that you see her alone? I mean, she won’t particularly want the world and his wife to know her sad story.”
“You’re not exactly the ‘world and his wife’, old boy,” said Robbie, amused at the analogy. “And, besides, you are a vicar, or had you forgotten? She might be in need of spiritual succour after what I tell her.”
“From what I’ve seen of Lady Mountjoy, I shouldn’t think she’d have any truck with such things,” said Bernard. “She strikes me as a very earthy woman...”
“Doesn’t she though?” said Robbie, almost lasciviously. Then his face fell, remembering that she wasn’t likely to be ‘earthy’ much longer.
Bernard put out his hand towards Robbie’s knee and gave it a gentle pat. “I’m sorry, Robbie. I didn’t mean to criticise her. She must have her good points...” He was stuck for enumerating what they might be, but he didn’t mention this to his friend.
“She’s much maligned, old boy,” said Robbie, staring out of the train window as it sped them towards their destination. “Just because she’s beautiful and rich, people are envious and try to make her out to be some sort of wicked witch...”
Bernard was suitably chastened, realising that he could be numbered among the people that would automatically think this of someone like Lady Mountjoy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate...”
“Say no more,” Robbie interrupted him. “I know what you think. It makes no difference to me. And let’s not forget that just because she’s rich and glamorous doesn’t make her immune to illness – as we know...”
“Of course, and I’m very sorry for her – and you. I wish there was something I could do or say to help...”
Robbie arched an eyebrow at him. “Never mind, old boy. You being here is all the comfort I need.”
Bernard was deeply touched and gulped as a lump formed in his throat. He couldn’t speak; he was too moved.
Lady Mountjoy was amazed to see Robbie and Bernard being shown into the lounge by her housekeeper. It had been a long search for a suitable replacement for Sybilla Dragon, but finally she had found Richenda Crosby, who had served her faithfully now for almost three years. She wasn’t the most prepossessing woman in the world, having a face that could only be described as resembling a hatchet, a rasping voice that could shatter glass and brittle hair that refused to lay flat on her head. But she was kind under her forbidding exterior and Forsythia had come to rely on her more and more over the years.
“Two gentlemen to see you, madam,” said Richenda stiffly. She had eyed them warily at the front door and they had not found favour in her eyes. Even the sight of Bernard’s dog collar hadn’t created a good impression.
“Er, oh hello,” said Forsythia, looking up from her novel. Reading was all she felt like doing these days; she was always so tired. “Thank you, Richenda,” she said. “Would you bring us some tea?”
Richenda eyed the visitors with suspicion. Just who were they? What did they want? She had had experience of Lady Mountjoy’s unwanted gentleman callers in the past and was ready to do whatever it took to protect her mistress.
“Tea, madam?”
“Yes, please. Tea. These gentlemen are friends – er, acquaintances of mine,” she added as way of explanation. “They are not about to rape me or anything.”
“I didn’t think for one minute they were,” said Richenda, staring at them with a baleful eye. They didn’t look the type, she had to admit. In fact the pair of them would be hard put to it to knock the skin off a rice pudding in her opinion.
“So, tea please?”
“Very good, madam.”
“So, to what do I owe the honour?” said Forsythia, when her housekeeper had left to do her bidding. She was indeed puzzled by what seemed to her a deputation. “Please, do sit down. Forgive me for not getting up. I’m not feeling very well...”
Robbie and Bernard exchanged glances as they took their seats. There was a fire burning in the grate despite the warm weather, and they felt decidedly hot and uncomfortable.
“I hope you don’t mind us calling on you,” said Robbie, clearing his throat. “I thought – we thought it would be a good idea...”
“A good idea? You’re very welcome, of course. Were you curious about where I lived?”
They had to admit they were, but hastened to assure her that wasn’t the real reason for their visit. “We – er, that is, we have something to tell you, Lady Mountjoy...” continued Robbie uncertainly. He felt unequal to the situation now that he was face to face with her.
“Yes?” Forsythia began to feel nervous as she realised, by the look on both their faces, that this was something she didn’t want to hear.
“There is no easy way to say this... er, I’ve sent your results to your own doctor...”
“I see. I haven’t heard from him,” she said, hopeful that this was a good sign.
“No, you wouldn’t have. I only posted them this morning,” said Robbie. “But I thought it was only right to come and tell you in person...”
“It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
At this point in the conversation, Richenda returned with the tea tray. Placing the cups and plates down with a clatter, everyone remained silent as she did so. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife.
“Will that be all, madam?” said hatchet-face, glaring at the two men with accusation in her eyes; they had obviously been upsetting her mistress.
“Yes, thank you, Richenda. Now please, will you get on with your duties? I don’t wish to be disturbed for a while...”
“Very good,” said Richenda, not moving an inch. “Is everything all right, madam?”
“Yes, yes. Please leave us.”
There was nothing for it, but to obey. Taking up the empty tray, Richenda wiped the table surface with a cloth, taking as long as possible over it.
“Richenda – thank you. You can do that later...”
Finally the housekeeper got the message and reluctantly left the room. Forsythia turned to the men, tears starting in her eyes. “It is bad, isn’t it? I’ve been feeling it all week. I know I’m not well and I feel I’m getting weaker as each day passes...”
Robbie knew that there was no easy way of breaking the news that she was dying, and so he took a deep breath and began.
“You’re right, dear lady,” he said. “The news isn’t good. You have leukaemia, I’m afraid...”
“Leukaemia? Oh my God. Does that mean I’m dying?”
Robbie looked at Bernard for support. Bernard decided to interrupt at this point. “What my friend is saying is that your disease is at an advanced stage...”
Robbie glared at him; so did Forsythia. “Since when are you a doctor?” she said angrily. “Stick to your bells and smells, if you don’t mind...”
“Er – that’s not me...”
“Not you? What do you mean?”
“I’m not high... I’m Church of England...”
“Oh for goodness sake, Bernie,” said Robbie impatiently. “The good lady was merely using a figure of speech. You didn’t have to take her so literally.”
“Oh, no – er, quite. Sorry.”
“Nevertheless, Lady Mountjoy, what my friend just said is quite true. The disease is at an advanced stage, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean? Am I dying? I need to know the truth. Don’t try to soft soap me...”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of trying to bamboozle you,” Robbie replied. He didn’t, however, confirm her imminent demise. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her so baldly.
“Very well. Will your friend the vicar tell me then?” She turned to Bernard, who was sitting back in his chair, teacup in hand, trying to appear negligible to the naked eye. He had incurred the lady’s wrath once; he didn’t feel up to incurring it a second time.
Robbie intervened. “I have to tell you, dear lady, that the outlook isn’t good...”
“I’m dying, then? Come on. Say it!”
Just at that moment the door opened and a small, blond-haired little boy ran into the room, broken toy truck in hand, tears streaming down his cherry-red cheeks.
“Mummy! Mummy! Steve’s broke my truck!”
“Not now, Martin,” said the distraught Forsythia. “Go and see Richenda...”
The little boy stamped his foot and began to scream. “No! I want you to tell him off,” he yelled. Martin had been playing happily with his friend Steve in the nursery until Steve had accidentally trod on his favourite toy. Now all hell was breaking loose and Forsythia was unable to cope.
Bernard stood up and went over to the unhappy child. “Come, little chap,” he said soothingly. “Why don’t I take you to see your friend and see what I can do to help? Maybe I can mend your toy?”
The child was so astonished that the funny man in the back-to-front collar should have the temerity to speak to him, let alone offer to resolve the situation. It was his mother he wanted to do this, not some strange man dressed all wrong. “No! Mummy must come!”
“Mummy is busy at the moment,” said Bernard firmly, taking the child by the hand and leading him to the door. Forsythia was looking at the vicar of St Stephen’s through different eyes now. He wasn’t such a useless article, after all. “Let’s go and talk to Steve, shall we?”
Martin was about to protest, but Forsythia interrupted him. “Now, Martin, do as the kind man says. He will be able to help. I’ll come and see you later.”
That did the trick and Martin allowed himself to be led meekly from the room.
Forsythia was now alone with Robbie. “So, I am dying,” she said, stating the fact without the benefit of a question mark. “How long?”
Robbie did what Bernard did best: prevaricated. “It is always difficult to predict in such cases,” he said.
“Years? Months? Weeks?”
Robbie nodded on the third word.
Forsythia remained calm on the surface, hiding the boiling cauldron of feelings bursting within her. “What will happen to my son?” Selfish all her life, motherhood had changed her perspective drastically. Now, at this very moment, all she cared about was her son. Even her feminine wiles she had so recently employed in an attempt to trap Dave Allison didn’t matter now; in fact Dave Allison didn’t matter to her now. Not one bit. Martin was her only concern.
Robbie took her hand in his. He looked into her pale, drawn face. The yellowish whites of her eyes proclaimed her illness to him more firmly than any written prognosis. “Dear lady, you needn’t worry about him,” he said with a quiet smile.
“Needn’t worry! It’s obvious you’re not a mother,” she said grimly.
Robbie agreed that his lack of motherhood status was very obvious, but didn’t comment. “You have the solution already.”
“I do?”
“Dave Allison, of course. The boy’s natural father.”
Forsythia smiled sadly. “There is one objection to that, I’m afraid,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“He’s not Martin’s father.”
Autumn, 1968
Bernard was sitting at his study desk, deep in thought. He had half-heartedly been tinkering with the wording for the following Sunday’s sermon but, as usual, he was stumped for suitable words and phrases. The writing of his sermons was the one chore he truly hated; he loved being a vicar, but was no great shakes at being an author. But then, why should he be? If he’d wanted to write, he’d have become a Dick Francis or an Agatha Christie. Why did he have to wrack his brains every week to think of things to say on Sundays? His congregation, what there was of it, probably weren’t listening anyway. He’d even tried once or twice just ad-libbing, without notes of any kind; his congregation had watched him flabbergasted as he struggled to snatch words out of the air. If he’d wanted to be a stand-up comedian he’d probably have been a success because most of his audience that day were falling about laughing by the time he’d reached the end of his sermon.
Putting down his pen with a sigh, he glanced at the clock and noted that it was still half-an-hour before Mrs Harper would be bringing him his afternoon tea. There were other reasons for his distraction at the moment; it wasn’t just down to his lack of writing skills. First there was poor Robbie, heartbroken at the fate of Lady Mountjoy; and then there was Dorothy, now without a fiancé and, once again, available. Whether she was available to him now, that was another matter. He had messed her about so much, he wouldn’t be surprised if she never spoke to him again.
Suddenly, Beelzebub jumped up on the desk and rubbed his face against the pen in his hand. “You don’t want me to write either, do you, puss?” said Bernard, tickling his beloved pet under its furry chin. Beelzebub purred in reply and rolled over onto the sheet of paper, smudging the few words he had managed to write, and obscuring them in the process. That was all he needed, he thought. That paragraph had taken him the best part of two hours to write and now he couldn’t read it! Beelzebub seemed unperturbed, however, by this disaster and continued to purr and stretch sinuously all over the desk.
Bernard decided to give up trying to write anymore. He put the cat gently on the floor and cleared away the paper and ink he had been using, screwed up the sheet that his cat had ruined and threw it in the waste basket. He was thinking of Dorothy now, thinking very hard. If he didn’t do it now, he knew he never would. He would ask her to marry him – that very afternoon.
Tripping down the stairs, he headed for the telephone in the hall and, before he could change his mind, dialled her number. She answered at the second ring.
“Hello?”
Bernard smiled into the receiver, as if she could see him. “Hello, Dorothy, it’s me, Bernard. Are you busy at the moment?”
“Er, no, not especially. Why?”
“Just wondered if you wanted to come to tea...”
Dorothy was curious. It was unusual for Bernard to initiate a meeting with her, any sort of meeting, let alone an invitation to tea. She was soon ensconced with her friend, lavishly supplied with homemade cakes, courtesy of Mr Harper, who was equally curious as to the vicar’s invitation.
When Bernard told her that he was expecting Dorothy any minute, his redoubtable housekeeper set about producing all sorts of delicious treats from various kitchen cupboards and tins. She particularly liked Dorothy Plunkett, and had always secretly hoped that Bernard would finally settle down with her. Another woman about the place would be welcome, she often thought, although she refused to let the work get on top of her, and never admitted that sometimes it was just a bit too much. If ever Dorothy became Mrs Vicar, thought Mrs Harper, she’d have the run of the house but the kitchen would always be her domain. She would have to be dead to let another woman in her kitchen; even then, she vowed to come back and haunt whoever had the temerity to cook in it.
When Dorothy arrived, she lost no time in fetching the tea things to the vicar’s study, and spent an inordinately long time in setting them out, much to Dorothy’s amusement and Bernard’s annoyance.
“Thank you, Mrs Aitch,” he said eventually, “we can take it from here.” So saying, he grabbed the teapot and started to pour, leaving his housekeeper to fiddle with the paper doilies and resemble a spare part. She took the hint, not without reluctance, and slowly made her way to the door. Turning, she said, “Just give me a shout if you need anything else,” and with a sniff left the room.
“I think you’ve hurt her feelings,” said Dorothy, smiling, as she accepted the proffered cup of tea.
“Serve her right, the nosy old – er – so-and-so,” said Bernard crossly. “She’s always trying to find out what I’m up to...”
“But you love her dearly,” laughed Dorothy, accepting a cake under the watchful eye of her companion. Bernard hoped she would leave the coffee and walnut cake to him, but her hand moved dangerously near to that comestible. He breathed again as she obviously changed her mind and plumped for a less fattening fairy cake.
“Now, Bernie, what’s the occasion? You seemed very keen to see me this afternoon...”
“Oh, I just thought it would be nice to catch up. We haven’t had a proper chat for ages, not since – well, not since your fiancé – er...”
“Died?” prompted Dorothy helpfully.
“Yes, well. I was really sorry about that,” said Bernard, hoping he sounded more sincere than he felt. “How are you coping, Dorothy, dear?”
