The Man Who Was Death, page 5
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
“I looked it up in the gazetteer. It’s a village near Maidstone, apparently.”
“Ah, right. That would explain it. That’s almost foreign. Has she – er – gone back there, do you know?”
“No idea, but my guess would be not. She’s probably staying somewhere near here in a B&B awaiting his answer.”
“More likely a posh hotel like the Hilton, wouldn’t you say?” grinned Robbie. His tone became confidential. “Did you notice the way she looked at me outside the church, Bernie? I thought she seemed taken with me. Did you?”
“Did she? I noticed you certainly looked at her that way.” Bernard finished his sherry and relit his pipe. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up, if I were you,” he added, not unkindly.
Robbie had a touch of irritation in his voice now. “Well, you obviously didn’t see the way she looked at me...” Even though he was in agreement with his friend that he had no chance with such a woman, he wasn’t prepared to admit it out loud.
Bernard felt sorry for his friend. It looked as if Robbie was about to lose his heart to a woman who would break it without a moment’s hesitation if it suited her purposes. But he kept his own counsel as both men now sat silently, enjoying their smoke and drinks, listening to the easeful sound of the rain outside.
Spring, 1963
“Am I to understand, Florian, that you have hired this man without my approval?”
Lord Florian Mountjoy inwardly quaked. No one could do imperious like his wife, and when she felt aggrieved he always got the brunt of her displeasure.
“But you were at your sister’s, dear,” he said quietly, determined not to be bullied. “You have agreed that Reggie had to go – in fact it was your idea – and the agency sent the chap round the day you happened not to be here. Life’s like that...”
“Don’t ‘life’s like that’ me!” she bellowed at him. This time he decided to be cowed.
“But, dearest, if I hadn’t offered him the job we might have lost him, and we haven’t exactly been inundated with gardeners you know.”
Lady Forsythia was in no way placated by this reasoning. “I think one day wouldn’t have made much difference. Am I or am I not an equal partner in this marriage?”
Lord Mountjoy sighed. He knew that once his wife set eyes on Dave Allison she would be more than content, although he also knew that wouldn’t stop her from berating him at every opportunity for being so impetuous as to appoint an employee without her green light.
“My dear, we are married,” he said. That was all he said however, leaving her to pick the bones out of that statement and draw her own conclusions.
“I will ring the agency and ask them to send over this man for me to interview. Nothing is settled, do you understand me?”
Lord Mountjoy smiled wanly. “Yes, dear.” As she left the room, he reached inside his desk drawer and withdrew a small bottle of gin. He unscrewed the cap, noting sadly that it was already half empty.
So it was that Sybilla Dragon opened the door once again to the handsome gardener. It was the morning following his interview with Lord Mountjoy, but she knew that her mistress had been put out at not being party to his appointment. She knew this interview with the lady of the manor would only be a formality, as she was in no doubt how she would react to this man. Silly cow, thought Sybilla. She smiled to herself as she directed him to the parlour where the ‘silly cow’ was sitting in state.
“In there,” she said curtly. “Her majesty awaits your pleasure.”
Dave smiled. There was no love lost between housekeeper and mistress, that was for sure. He was beginning to dread meeting this woman, even though he knew he could charm the birds out of the trees where the fairer sex was concerned. But somehow, today, he didn’t feel like making the effort. Yesterday he had been offered a job and a place to live under this very roof, but apparently Lord Mountjoy shouldn’t have taken him on without his wife’s agreement. He didn’t know whether he was coming or going, and didn’t much like being kept in suspense. For two pins, he would tell her to stick her job where the sun didn’t shine.
Spring, 1968
Mrs Harper switched on the kettle and folded her arms. She stared out of the kitchen window at the drizzling rain and heaved a sigh. Spring should be a time of sunshine and flowers and birds singing, she thought, not this persistent greyness and wetness. She was snatching a few minutes from her daily routine to have a cup of tea and a smoke, something she rarely did, but today she felt in need of a little ‘me’ time.
As the kettle boiled, she continued to stare out of the window into the back garden. Where was Dave today, she wondered. The rain didn’t usually put him off and he always liked a cup of tea around this time. Oh yes, she suddenly remembered. He’d told her yesterday he would be in the churchyard all day attacking some particularly intransigent weeds.
As she stood there, looking out of the rain soaked window, she spied the figure of a woman mooching around the rose beds at the end of the garden.
“Who the ’ell’s that?” she thought. Her first instinct was to call Bernard who was closeted in his study struggling with his latest sermon. But as she watched the woman, she saw who she was. “It’s that woman who came to the vicarage last Sunday,” she said to herself. “I wonder what she thinks she’s doing, coming here without so much as a by your leave.”
Nancy Harper rolled up her sleeves and opened the kitchen door. The rain was driving towards her, but she ignored it, stomping down the garden path towards Lady Mountjoy.
“’Ere!” she called out. “What d’you think you’re doing? This is private property!”
Lady Forsythia turned to face the rather bulky elderly woman beating a path towards her. What a fat cow, she thought unkindly.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, politely enough, as Nancy arrived in front of her, puffing and panting with the exertion. The housekeeper envied Lady Mountjoy her fur coat at this very moment, not because of its undoubted worth, but because of its rain combating properties. The woman looked warm and dry, while Mrs Harper was cold and soaked.
“Beggin’ my pardon don’t wash the potatoes with me!” declared Mrs Harper. “You are on private property and I’ll thank you to leave at once or else I’ll send for the vicar.”
This was hardly a threat to Lady Mountjoy. That weedy little man would be hard put to knock the skin off a rice pudding. However, she drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable, and gave Mrs Harper one of her most Gorgon-like stares.
“Please don’t bother him,” she said, “I am not a trespasser. I came to speak to the gardener. Could you tell me where he is?”
Nancy Harper suddenly realised everything. This over-made up woman who had evidently been a stunner in her time causing men to fall helplessly at her feet, was pining after Dave, and she couldn’t really blame her for that.
“Look,” she said, not prepared to stand in the rain a moment longer. “Come inside for a cup of tea. I can’t stand ’ere arguing the toss with you in this dratted weather.”
Lady Mountjoy had a mind to refuse but there was something about the older woman that she rather liked, or at least intrigued her. Maybe there was mileage to be had in sucking up to the old trout, she thought, as she followed Nancy into the warm kitchen.
Moments later she was seated at the kitchen table supplied with tea and home-made biscuits.
“Now,” said Nancy, sitting down on the other side of the table, “get that down you. It’s no weather for man nor beast to be out in, and that’s all about it.”
Lady Forsythia bit into a biscuit, and found it delicious. “Did you make these yourself, Mrs – er? I’m sorry I don’t know your name....”
“That’s because I ’aven’t told you it,” said Nancy reasonably, giving her a wink over her teacup. “It’s Nancy ’Arper to you.”
“Lady Mountjoy,” responded that lady, “but you can call me Forsythia.”
Forsythia? What sort of a name was that to go to bed with, thought the housekeeper. “Thanks. And you can call me Mrs ’Arper.”
Lady Mountjoy burst out laughing. Yes, she thought, I like you, you silly old woman. “Touché,” she said. “I know Forsythia’s a bit of mouthful.”
Nancy smiled despite herself. She was beginning to warm to her visitor. “Yes,” she then said.
“Yes?”
“I did make them myself.”
“How about coming to work for me?” said Forsythia, not entirely in jest.
“I’d never leave ’is vicarship,” declared Mrs Harper hotly. “They’d ’ave to carry me out of ’ere feet first.”
“Point taken,” smiled Forsythia. “Now, can you tell me where Dave is, please?”
“You in love with ’im, then?” Mrs Harper could be very blunt at times, this being one of them. She saw no point in beating about the bush with Mrs High and Mighty.
Lady Mountjoy was obviously taken aback by the straight question, but began to see that this was no more than what she would expect from the woman whose hospitality she was accepting.
“To answer your rather impertinent question,” she said, with a dangerous glint in her eye, “I simply wish to ascertain if he will return to where he belongs...”
“Return to where ’e belongs?” said Mrs Harper, quite undaunted by Forsythia’s tone, “That’s Tootin’ ain’t it? With ’is wife and kiddie. Goes ’ome every night to them. Loves ’em to bits, so ’e tells me and I believe ’im. That, Lady Mountjoy, is where ’e belongs.”
“You are quite wrong,” said Forsythia quietly. “You see, I have something that belongs to him. He left that something with me four years ago.”
“Well, if you want to give it back, you could leave it with me and I’ll see ’e gets it.” Mrs Harper wasn’t about to let this snobby bitch break up a happy family.
“I don’t have it with me,” said Forsythia, rising. “And it also belongs to me.”
“It either belongs to ’im or you... Make your mind up.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but a child can belong to two people, can’t it?”
Mrs Harper, who had just risen to show her out, sat back down again with a bump, the wind completely taken out of her sails. “Y-you mean - ?”
“I think you know what I mean, Mrs Harper. Now, are you going to tell me where he is?”
“The- the churchyard ...”
Lady Forsythia took this to mean, quite rightly of course, that Dave Allison was working there and not under one of the tombstones.
“Thank you,” was all she said, as she made her way out to the front door, followed by a much shaken Mrs Nancy Harper.
Spring, 1968
That same evening, a worried-looking Dave Allison appeared on the vicarage doorstep. Mrs Harper ushered him inside with concern.
“You look as if you’ve lost a pound note and found a tanner,” she observed. “’Ave you come to see the vicar or is it just tea and sympathy you want?”
Mrs Harper had a fresh pot of tea just brewed which she was preparing to take up to Bernard when Dave rang the bell. It was half past seven, the vicar’s usual time for his early evening tea after the service. Nancy deemed he could wait, if Dave’s need was the greater, and she presumed it was as he must know by now that he was the father of Lady Mountjoy’s child. What a turn up for the books, she thought.
Dave Allison gave her a weak smile, not his usual cheery, devastating one that had her weak at the knees. “You’re very kind, Nancy,” he said, “but I think it’s the vicar I need at the moment. Is he free for a word?”
“Of course,” said Mrs Harper, and if he wasn’t, she’d soon make sure he was. “You follow me.”
She knocked brusquely on Bernard’s study door and entered without being asked as was her usual practice. Woe betide if the vicar was dancing around his study in the nude at the time.
“Dave’s ’ere, vicar,” she said, “and ’e wants a word. ’E looks all done in and,” at this point she paused and tapped her nose knowingly, “I know the reason why...”
Bernard, who was sitting by the fire having a quiet smoke and read, looked up in some surprise. “I – I see, Mrs Aitch. Then you’d better show him up.”
“’E’s all ready ‘up’. Come in, Dave,” she said, and Dave obediently ‘came in’, cap in hand.
“I think it’s tea time, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard, ushering his guest to Robbie’s usual chair.
“It’s already mashed,” declared Mrs Harper. “I’ll bring it up.”
“Is anything wrong, Dave?” asked Bernard, as his housekeeper departed for the kitchen. “You do look upset, I must say. You don’t want to leave, do you?”
Dave Allison looked as if he was about to burst into tears, and was having trouble keeping a lid on his emotions.
“No, no, vicar, I – I’m very happy here. It’s just that – well, I need to talk to you. After our chat the other day – about – you know – my problem, something else has happened now, and I just don’t know what to do about it...”
Bernard recalled their earlier conversation a few days ago when, prompted by a remark by the vicar that he seemed somewhat troubled, Dave had told him about his visions, so called; a psychic gift he had had from a small child, although he described it as a curse to Bernard, and the vicar of St Stephen’s could quite understand why. It must be awful to see a black aura around someone’s head and know, sure as eggs is eggs, that that person would die within a few weeks or even days. He had been sworn to secrecy not to tell anyone, so Bernard hadn’t even been able to tell Robbie about it, even though he knew just how interested his friend would be. Robbie had a psychic gift himself, although not such an unpleasant one, and Bernard was bursting to tell him. He would take this opportunity to ask Dave if he could entrust his story to the doctor.
But now there was something else troubling his gardener. Had he seen another black aura? Then Bernard panicked; what if he had seen a black aura around his head? Or Mrs Aitch’s? Did he really believe in Dave’s ability to see coloured auras? Yes, he thought, he jolly well did.
Just then Mrs Harper returned with the tea tray. Bernard saw the coffee and walnut cake that didn’t usually materialise at this time of the day. Must be in honour of Dave’s visit, he thought, and, if that was the case, he could come and see him every day, although, hopefully, not with such a woeful face.
When his housekeeper had retreated once more, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Now, Dave, tell me. What’s the matter now?”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry – I haven’t seen any more black auras since we last spoke, except ...”
“Except?”
“Er, nothing.” Dave had seen the murky-looking aura around Lady Forsythia’s head twice now. It had been distinctly darker when he had seen her for a second time earlier that day.
Bernard was worried himself now. Could it be that Dave could see something not quite right hovering around his head? But then he had told him he didn’t have to worry. Oh dear, thought Bernard, if only Robbie were here.
Dave suddenly realised what Bernard might be thinking. “No, no, you don’t have a black aura – you’re fine. Your aura’s a healthy orange. You’ll live till you’re ninety...”
“Heaven forefend,” laughed Bernard. “But what is it? What’s troubling you?” He watched as Dave chomped into a slice of Mrs Harper’s cake, fervently hoping he wouldn’t want another one. Greed was one of the seven deadly sins, but Bernard tried not to think about his love of his housekeeper’s food like that. It was more being appreciative of her culinary skills, that’s all.
“I – I’ve just been told that I’m the father of a child I’ve never seen ...”
Bernard smiled happily and clapped his hands. “But that’s good news, isn’t it?”
Dave grimaced. “The child is a boy and he’s four years old. His name is Martin. That’s all I know.”
“Are you sad because you’ve missed those four years of his life?”
“Not exactly. Look, I just want you to know the situation, in care there are any repercussions. I already told you that I’d worked for her a few years ago, and that I had to leave in the end because of ... well, that doesn’t matter now. I didn’t know she was pregnant, of course. I’m not such a bastard as that, pardon my French ...”
Dave sat thoughtfully for a minute and then looked Bernard full in the face. He seemed to make an effort to speak, but continued to stare at him as if struck dumb. “I came to tell you a few things today, but I don’t see the point of burdening you with all the gory details. But there is one thing I’d better tell you about if you’ve got the time ...”
Bernard nodded, cut his second slice of cake, sat back in his chair and prepared to listen.
Summer, 1963
“Well, Sybilla, what do you think of our new gardener?”
“In what way, Lady Mountjoy?” Sybilla Dragon felt herself blush slightly. She tried very hard not to admit to herself that Dave Allison was attractive, but ever since his second visit when he had given her that devastating smile, she had found it difficult to concentrate on her household duties. It wasn’t that she felt drawn towards him in any way, not at all. Just because he smiled at her; no, she wasn’t fooled into thinking that he was interested in her. Another long look in the mirror that same evening convinced her of that.
“Well, you can’t have failed to notice, Sybilla, that he’s rather good looking. I mean, even you, dry old stick that you are, must have clocked those eyes...”
“It’s really not my place,” said Sybilla coldly. ‘Dry old stick’ indeed. Lord Mountjoy hadn’t thought of her that way the other day. She blushed again as she remembered his visit to her room on the pretext of getting the phone number of the Handy Hands Agency. She held her secret close to her heart. Lady Mountjoy would never know the meaning of love, she knew. Her mistress was as cold hearted as a stone statue. All she cared about was the impression she made on men; there was nothing behind those heavily made-up eyes.
“Oh, for goodness sake, you are human, aren’t you?”
