The Man Who Was Death, page 29
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
Lady Mountjoy put down the receiver with a shaky hand. She had gained her object and been invited to spend Christmas day at the vicarage, along with the delightful Robbie MacTavish. But the news of Dave’s horrible death prayed on her mind. Why had he done it, she kept asking herself.
She looked at the clock. It was a quarter past six. Richenda came into the room, carrying a small suitcase. “I just managed to get the last seat on the last flight tonight,” she said. “Thank you again, For- sythia. I – I’m very grateful. I hope you won’t be lonely while I’m gone...”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Forsythia airily. “I’m spending Christmas with friends in Wandsworth.”
“Oh, I’m glad. I’d hate to think of you and Martin here alone on Christmas day.”
It was about an hour later when Forsythia looked up from her book to see a flashing blue light through the closed curtains. Shortly afterwards her doorbell rang. In the absence of her housekeeper. she went to answer it herself.
Christmas Day, 1968
“She should be here by now. What time did she say she would come?”
Robbie MacTavish, all eyebrows and anxiety, was staring out of the vicarage window for a sign of Lady Mountjoy’s chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. It had just started to snow and Christmas morning was in full swing. Delicious smells of roasting turkey were pervading the room, courtesy of Mrs Harper and his own housekeeper, Lucy Carter. Bernard, who had just returned from the morning service, was still in his outdoor clothes watching his friend with concern.
“Don’t worry, old chap,” he said, removing his scarf and hat. “She’ll be here. The snow must be holding up the traffic.” He was like a lovesick teenager, Bernard thought sadly. “I’ll ask Mrs Aitch to bring us some coffee and muffins.”
“All you ever think about is your stomach!” said Robbie crossly.
“Well, it is Christmas,” said Bernard sulkily. “Everyone overeats at Christmas.”
“Sorry, old boy,” said Robbie, realising that he had hurt his feelings. “I’m just worried she won’t come after all.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” queried Bernard. “It won’t be the end of the world.”
Robbie was inclined to disagree. Now that he knew that Lady Mountjoy was well again, he held out great hopes of her. She did like him, he could sense it the last time they met. Maybe, with Dave out of the running, he thought unkindly, there was a chance for him.
“And what about Lucy? She will sitting down to the meal with us too, remember.”
“Oh, she knows the score. She’s always known that my feelings for her are – well – you know. I like her a lot, and all that, but –“
“There’s no spark there, is that it?”
“Exactly. She’s what I’d call ‘comfortable’ to be around. We get on very well, but we’re not in love.”
“You might not be, but have you thought about her feelings in the matter?”
Robbie looked suitably abashed. “Well, I always thought they were the same as mine – convenient, comfortable, familiar.”
“I think you take advantage of her too much, Robbie,” said Bernard seriously. He knew that Lucy shared his bed whenever he wanted her to and, although he didn’t really approve, he had always turned a blind eye to that. But he was sure that Lucy wanted to make the arrangement legal. After all, she looked after his home, cooked for him and slept with him; all the things a wife was supposed to do. The only things missing were the ring and the marriage licence.
Robbie didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking and decided to change the subject. “Anyway, what about those muffins?” He knew, of course, that would divert him straightaway.
As if by magic, off went the vicar to speak to Mrs Harper. Robbie turned back to the window. It was snowing harder now and there was no sign of any moving vehicle or human being in the street.
Bernard was back a minute later. “She’s not best pleased. Told me that they were too busy to warm the muffins. She said she’d bring the coffee and some mince pies in about half an hour.”
Robbie wasn’t in the least bit interested in the provision of elevenses, but was pleased for his friend’s sake. The man looked half-starved, not having had anything since his bacon and eggs at eight o’clock that morning.
“How was the service?” he asked, still straining out of the window.
“It was lovely. The children were good as gold, for a change. Only one little boy was naughty. Tore the head off the chief sheep.” Bernard paused. “You should have been there,” he added meaningfully.
“Where is she?” said Robbie, not listening.
“Oh, do stop gawping out of the window, Robbie. She’ll come in her own good time ...” As he said this, his eye caught the corner of the previous evening’s newspaper. He picked it up, read quickly and then looked at Robbie. He cleared his throat.
“Have you seen last night’s stop press?” Of course he hadn’t. Silly question.
Robbie took the paper and read the article in question.
“WOMAN ARRESTED FOR DOUBLE MURDER
The police have arrested a woman in connection with two murders that took place four years ago. Lady Forsythia Mountjoy, 48, of Mountjoy Court in Barming, Kent was taken to Maidstone police station early this morning to answer charges on two counts. She is likely to be charged some time tomorrow morning and bail is likely to be opposed. The police are giving no further details at present.”
Robbie gaped at his friend. Bernard took the paper from him and led him to the sofa. “I’ll get the brandy,” he said quietly.
“You need to leave those potatoes for another ten minutes, love,” Mrs Harper told Lucy authoritatively. “They need to be just that little bit crisper. ’Ere, stir the gravy while I check the sprouts.”
Lucy Carter did as she was bid. She knew she couldn’t hold a candle to Nancy Harper’s culinary skills, and was content to be Johnny to the older woman’s Fanny Craddock.
“Do you know anything about this Lady Mountjoy, Nance?” she asked, absently stirring the gravy on the hob.
“Careful, you’re splashing the carrots ... I’ve met ’er.”
“What’s she like?”
“Oh, she’s what you’d expect. All fur coat and no knickers.”
“I think Robbie’s in love with her.”
“More fool ’im, then,” sniffed Mrs Harper. “’E don’t know a good thing when ’e’s got it, that one. You’re very fond of ’im, ain’t you, ducks?”
Lucy felt the tears welling up. “He takes me for granted.”
“I’m sure ’e does. You don’t want to be quite so willin’, if you get my meaning.”
“I know I shouldn’t. But I keep hoping that one day he’ll pop the question.”
“I shouldn’t bank on it,” said Mrs Harper, pouring out a glass of sherry for her.
“I’m a complete fool, I know, but I can’t help it.” Lucy sipped her sherry gratefully.
“Cheer up. It’s Christmas.” Mrs Harper, in contradiction to her golden rule, broke into a smile.
Dorothy was shocked to hear the news of Lady Mountjoy’s arrest when she arrived at the vicarage shortly before one o’clock.
“My goodness!” she said. “Who would have thought it?”
“You didn’t foresee that, did you?” said Robbie sarcastically. His mood had not improved since first learning the news. He was more concerned that Lady Mountjoy’s arrest had prevented her from coming than with the fact that she was a possible double killer.
“I don’t do fortune telling, Robbie,” said Dorothy, hurt. “I contact those that have passed over. It’s not the same.”
“Well, it’s all to with the occult, isn’t it?” he persisted.
“Put a sock in it, Robbie,” instructed Bernard firmly. “We are here to celebrate the birth of Christ and to enjoy ourselves. If you’re going to cast a damper over the proceedings, perhaps you should leave.”
Dorothy was rather proud of Bernard’s assertiveness. He was a good man, just not the one for her – apparently.
Robbie was suitably abashed. “Sorry, Bernie; sorry, Dorothy; sorry, everyone. Take no notice of me. Here’s to us all.” With that, he lifted his wine glass and everyone did the same.
“To us! Happy Christmas!” they said in unison.
Dorothy then brought up the sad demise of the vicar’s gardener. “Poor Dave,” she said sadly. “He had to die, of course,” she then added enigmatically.
“What on earth do you mean by that?” said Robbie, draining his wineglass.
“Yes, Dorothy, what do you mean?” echoed Bernard.
“Well, you see, I think he was not only cursed, his curse affected other people. If he saw a black aura around their heads, then they died. Right?”
“So it would seem,” said Robbie.
“But, you see, when he himself died the curse died with him, and they lived.”
“Pardon?” It was Mrs Harper’s turn to question Dorothy’s comments. She’d only had the one glass of wine so far, but she seemed to be talking rubbish already.
“Look, I’m not explaining it very well,” smiled Dorothy. She loved Mrs Harper dearly and the look on the woman’s face made her love her all the more. “He, in fact, was the one doing the cursing. He said he was cursed but, in fact, his curse was to cause people to die. Unwittingly, of course.”
Everyone around the table looked at Dorothy as if she was mad. What was she talking about?
Dorothy grinned. “Remember that his wife and son had been dangerously near death? He’d seen their black auras and they were going to die. He knew that. But then, he died himself and they recovered. Follow me?”
They began to. Then Robbie spoke up. “And that’s why Forsythia Mountjoy recovered! When Dave died, she could live.”
“Exactly.” Dorothy had got her message home at last.
“It didn’t do her any good though,” said Robbie gloomily.
“Well, if you will go around bumping people off, what do you expect?” said Bernard, sipping his wine and winking slyly at Dorothy.
“You don’t know that she’s guilty yet,” protested Robbie, ready to be sullen and un-Christmassy again.
Bernard stretched out his arm and pressed him gently on the shoulder. “She wasn’t worthy of you, Robbie. There’s someone closer to home who is.”
Robbie avoided eye contact with Lucy who was blushing furiously in the seat opposite.
Dorothy coughed and then laughed. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves shall we? And, while we’re at it, give our thanks to Mrs Aitch and Lucy for this excellent dinner.”
Glasses were raised once more, and gradually, as the snow fell outside, the warmth within the vicarage raised everyone’s spirits.
Pru Allison was determined to give little Joey the best Christmas she could, even though his daddy was no longer there. She had been able to buy him lots of expensive toys, courtesy of the generous bonus that the kind vicar had put in her husband’s final pay packet.
Joey, being only three, hadn’t been sad for long. Once he had recovered from his illness, he had become his cheerful little self again. Daddy had gone to be with the angels, and he was happy about that. Pru, on the other hand, although she had been feeling lately that Dave wasn’t all that a good husband should be, now that he was dead, missed him terribly. But she was cheered at seeing her little boy laugh and play with his new train set.
She was spending a quiet Christmas with her mother, and they both watched him, smiling, as he pushed the little engine along the tracks. Then he looked up and giggled.
“Granny, mummy, you are funny,” he said.
“Why’s that, my darling?” said Pru, tenderly ruffling his hair.
“You’re wearing hats. It’s not raining indoors.”
“Silly boy,” she laughed. “We’re not wearing hats!”
Pru gave her son an affectionate hug. “That would be really silly, wouldn’t it!”
END
Pat Herbert, The Man Who Was Death
