The Man Who Was Death, page 6
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
“Last time I looked.” Sybilla blinked at her through her long lashes. “I just don’t have an opinion, Lady Mountjoy. I mean, he hasn’t even started work yet.”
“Did you know that my husband has asked him to move in? He lives over twenty miles away apparently, and as he has no family, it seemed sensible to have him on the premises full time.”
Sybilla felt suddenly uneasy, but wasn’t quite sure why. “Living in? I see. What room shall I get ready for him?”
“I thought the one next to yours,” said Forsythia, watching her housekeeper blush to the roots of her hair. “You have a key, if you think he might try and enter your room in the middle of the night...”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want to do that...”
“No,” smirked Forsythia, “I’m damned sure he wouldn’t.”
So saying, she turned and walked swiftly down the stairs, leaving Sybilla on the landing, staring after her. Rude cow, she said under her breath.
Lady Forsythia smirked again as she thought that, if anyone’s bedroom was unsafe from a wandering gardener, it was sure to be hers and not her housekeeper’s. After all, he wasn’t Popeye, so he was hardly likely to be drawn towards a woman that bore a striking resemblance to Olive Oyl.
Spring, 1968
Dave had reluctantly told Bernard about seeing coloured auras and what they represented, but also stressed that he didn’t want anyone else to know; the fewer people that knew the better, as far as he was concerned. Bernard hadn’t thought him mad, which was a blessing, but there weren’t many people who would accept him as normal once they found out. Bernard said at once that he wanted to tell Robbie, assuring him that his doctor friend was psychic too. Dave had been adamant he didn’t want the canny Scotsman to know his secret, but Bernard finally managed to persuade him, saying that Robbie would be even more likely to believe him than himself.
So, later that week, sitting on their favourite park bench, Bernard told Robbie what Dave had confided to him. The weather had turned distinctly more balmy and the sun was even peeking from behind a cloud as they sat and chatted by the duck pond.
“That explains his way of not looking at you when he first meets you,” said Robbie thoughtfully, when Bernard explained about Dave’s gift, and especially about his fear of seeing a black aura around anyone’s head. “That must be a real worry for him. Can you imagine what it must be like – meeting someone for the first time and seeing they had a black aura? Knowing it means that person will die... I’d hate to have a gift like that... ”
“Dave regards it as more of a curse...”
“Aye, I can see how he would, so would I.” Robbie was thoughtful as he stared up at the sun which, as he did so, hid behind the cloud again.
“He seemed to want my help in some way,” continued Bernard, “but, as I said to him, that would be more your province than mine.”
“Ironic, really, considering you’re the priest,” laughed Robbie, “and I’m the doctor. It’s you should be looking after people’s spiritual needs, while I should be looking after their bodily ones.”
Bernard saw the point he was making. He stretched out his tweed-covered legs in the hope of getting some warmth on them from the fitful sun. “I don’t think my jurisdiction should stretch to psychic phenomena though, Robbie.”
“No, maybe not. Have you thought about consulting Dorothy?”
Bernard felt himself blush at the mention of her name. “There’s two things against doing that...”
“They are?”
“One, Dave was adamant that I could only tell you; and two, she’s in Bradford at a mass séance at the moment.”
Robbie hesitated for a moment. “I think Dave would agree to tell Dorothy because she’s a professional medium and ...”
Bernard noticed that Robbie was squirming awkwardly on the bench beside him.
“Have you got ants in your pants?” he grinned.
“Er... no. Bernie, Dorothy’s not in Bradford – she’s back home – here, in Wandsworth.”
Bernard brightened visibly. “Really? That’s good news. I must go and see her. But how do you know? Did you bump into her? I’m surprised she hasn’t come to see me...”
Robbie was obviously wrestling with some inner demon, for he continued to squirm as he thought furiously. It would be much easier just to blurt it out, he decided. As Bernard’s closest friend, he couldn’t possibly have any secrets from him.
“I – er had supper with her last evening,” he said finally and waited for the bomb to drop.
Bernard stared at his friend, speechless. Robbie knew he would be jealous; Dorothy had always preferred the vicar and, as far as he could tell, still did. Last night’s supper had mainly consisted of her talking endlessly about Bernard.
“Why – why wasn’t I invited?” Bernard managed to ask eventually. “What are you two cooking up between you?”
“Nothing, old boy. She just wanted an ear, that’s all. You know how you’ve been prevaricating all these years with her; she’s near the end of her tether with it all. And you’ve no need to feel jealous as all she did was talk about you – so there!”
“But you never told me you were seeing her!” Bernard wasn’t happy at all. So what if they talked about him all night? They were probably cursing him for being such a spineless lover. He guessed this, because that was how he felt about himself.
“Oh, Bernie, you know I would never keep a secret from you – well, not for long. But I thought you might be upset if I told you she had asked me and not you. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon.”
Bernard said nothing as the sun came out from behind the cloud once more.
Summer, 1963
Dave Allison mopped his brow and leaned on his rake. The work at the manor was hard but rewarding and he was enjoying himself immensely. As he shielded his eyes against the burning sun, he saw Sybilla coming towards him bearing a welcome cup of tea.
“Thought you might like a break,” she said with a diffident smile.
He took the tea gratefully. She had a nice smile, he thought, as he sipped the hot tea. He would have preferred lemonade on such a warm day, but he didn’t feel he should mention it. He made a mental note to buy some cold drinks from the village shop when he finished later that day.
As if reading his mind, she suddenly looked dismayed. “Oh dear,” she said, “you’d probably prefer a cold beer or something...”
“No, miss, this is just fine...”
“I’ll bring you a beer after lunch,” she said as if she had never heard him.
As she turned to go, he called after her. “Er – miss ...”
She looked around and gave him another little smile. “Yes?”
“Can – can I call you Sybilla?”
“Of course,” she said, secretly pleased. Was it her imagination or did this young man find her attractive? No, it wasn’t very likely, not with Lady Mountjoy sniffing after him.
“Thanks for the tea, Sybilla,” he said, giving her a friendly wink.
“What were you doing chatting to the gardener?”
As Sybilla returned to the kitchen, her mistress blocked her progress. “I – I just took him a cup of tea, madam,” she replied, attempting to get past her. “He looked thirsty...”
“You seemed to be talking to him for a long time. You shouldn’t interrupt his work...”
“I was only out there for a minute...”
Lady Forsythia Mountjoy was jealous of her housekeeper of all things. She had never in her wildest dreams expected to be in such a position, but Dave Allison had been under her roof for just over a week now and he hadn’t once made an overture towards her. It seemed, incredible as it was to her, that he preferred her stick of a housekeeper. She hadn’t failed to notice the way he looked at Sybilla when he was in close proximity to her. He certainly hadn’t looked at herself in that way. He had been deferential and polite, but that was all. She had made the excuse for him that he was overawed by her title, and the fact that she was a married woman. He probably had some moral scruples about that, silly boy. But there was no getting away from the fact that she felt in her bones that he wasn’t in the least attracted to her.
“Well, just make sure you don’t stop him from working, that’s all.” Lady Mountjoy turned on her heel, leaving Sybilla standing in the hallway smirking after her. Could it be true that Dave Allison preferred her to the beautiful lady of the manor? She pulled herself together. No, she said to herself, just a pipe dream. Anyway, she had Lord Mountjoy to think about, remembering his drunken attempt to seduce her again last night. She reran the incident in her mind as she began preparing the midday meal.
He had come to her bedroom a little after eleven o’clock the night before, the worse for drink. She could smell the fumes as he stumbled towards her. She was in the process of putting night cream on her face when she heard his knock at the door, and she hastily wiped it off. Then she saw with dismay the state he was in.
“Now, Lord Mountjoy ...” she began.
“Florian! You called me Florian before...” he slurred as he slumped onto her bed.
“Pl-please, er – Florian... You’re drunk. What if Lady Mountjoy catches you – us. I don’t want to lose my job...”
Lord Mountjoy waved his arms at her and laughed. “She doesn’t care what we get up to. She’s besotted with the gardener... Told me to my face, the bitch! Well two can play at that game ...” And, so saying, he made a lunge for Sybilla who dodged him easily. He stumbled to the floor.
“Come on, love,” he said coaxingly. “You liked it the other day ...”
Sybilla blushed as she remembered what had happened. How could she have given in to him, she wondered. Looking at him now, red in the face, dribbling at the mouth and giving the saying ‘drunk as a lord’ true meaning, she wondered how she could ever have wanted him in that way. Had it been just to get one over on her supercilious cow of a mistress? No, she told herself, she had felt genuine affection for him – then. But not anymore. He looked so unappealing grovelling at her feet.
“Please leave, Lord Mountjoy,” she said sternly. “I won’t say anything to Lady Mountjoy about this – and neither will you. Let’s forget this ever happened – as well as the other day... It was a moment of madness ...”
“I – I thought you cared for me...” said Florian, suddenly sobering up. “I – I love you, you know.”
No man had ever said that to her before and it pulled her up short. “You – you love me?” she said, sitting down beside him on the bed and tentatively touching his unkempt hair. She quickly retracted her hand as he sensed her closeness. No, this would never do. “You’re drunk, that’s all. Now, go back to bed like a good boy...”
“You’re a bitch, d’you know that?” he said under his breath as he rose unsteadily to his feet.
Sybilla stood up and pushed him out of the door, locking it after him. She heard him mutter ‘bitch’ again as the sound of his footsteps retreated down the landing.
That was that then. In one breath he had told her he loved her and in the next called her a bitch. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Dave Allison calling her that. She sat down in front of her dressing table mirror and began reapplying her night cream. No, she thought, Dave Allison definitely wouldn’t call her a bitch.
Spring, 1968
“Hello, Bernie”.
“Hello, Dorothy. Robbie told me you were back. Can I come in?”
Dorothy Plunkett was dismayed at the coolness in his tone; it was as if he was a complete stranger. But then she knew his feelings would have been hurt if he had found out that she had invited Robbie to dinner and not himself. And it was obvious that Robbie had told him, even though she had expressly told him not to. She could understand it, however; Bernard and Robbie were very close friends and she knew it would have been a test of the latter’s loyalty not to tell Bernard about their meeting.
It had all been innocent of course; she had wanted to pick Robbie’s brains about Bernard’s feelings for her. There was a reason for this, and she now had the answers she needed. They weren’t the answers she wanted, however.
“Of course. Don’t stand on ceremony, Bernie dear,” she said, giving him one of her most bewitching smiles.
Bernard couldn’t help but melt at the sight of her standing there, welcoming him so warmly. Since her father died some years ago, she had come into her own. When she had returned from Exeter after his death she had looked pale, ill and much older than her years. But since she had got her life back following many years of looking after the crotchety old man, she had blossomed once more into the Dorothy he had fallen for two decades ago. Her success as a clairvoyant had helped to bring about this metamorphosis; she was independent and strong-willed: very much her own woman. The only fly in her particular ointment was the vicar of St Stephen’s. She still had strong feelings for him but, according to Robbie, they were not reciprocated to the same degree. It was time, she had vowed after Robbie had left the night before, to move on.
Then Bernard had smiled back at her and her heart gave a lurch that reached almost to her throat; back to square one, she sighed.
“So you and Robbie had a nice tête-à-tête last night?” he said pointedly, as she ushered him to a chair in her cosy front room.
“It’s not like that, Bernie. Don’t be bitter – it doesn’t become you.”
“How d’you expect me to feel, Dorothy? You’re supposed to be my dear friend, yet you didn’t even tell me you were back and made secret arrangements with Robbie behind my back. I was very hurt when he told me ...”
Dorothy sighed. He was like a spoiled child. “Look, Bernie, I’m a free agent and can invite who I like to my flat, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
Bernard was taken aback by the ferocity of her reproach. “Er – well, of course you can, Dorothy – I – I didn’t mean ...”
Dorothy sat down in the chair opposite and leaned towards him. “I had a special reason for wanting to see Robbie on his own, Bernie. I wanted to find out how you really felt about me. I knew I’d never get a straight answer from you, so I thought Robbie might help.”
“I see,” said Bernard, not seeing at all. “My feelings haven’t changed – you should know that. What makes you think I don’t care for you anymore?”
“I’m not saying you don’t care for me, Bernie,” sighed Dorothy. It was like pulling teeth. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
Bernard, who wasn’t as stupid as he appeared to be just then, knew deep down what she was trying to say to him. She would have been his wife at the drop of a hat, but Bernard didn’t even own a hat for him to drop. Bernard was, as ever, prevaricating. He loved her in his own way, but not enough to commit himself to her for life. And he just didn’t really know why, except for the lingering doubts he had about all women since his college sweetheart walked out on him twenty-four years ago. He just didn’t want to get hurt again.
“I – I do understand, Dorothy, but ...” He tailed off as he looked into her deep brown eyes. Was he being a complete fool, he wondered.
“You see, Bernie, I have a particular reason for wanting to know the true state of your feelings.”
“You said that. Just what is your ‘particular reason’?”
“Well, you can’t expect me to wait forever, can you?”
“No – I suppose not.” Bernard would have quite liked to have Dorothy at his beck and call anytime he felt like it. The timescale was immaterial to him. The state of their friendship, for it could hardly be termed a romance anymore, if it ever was, was something that he could see unaltered by the passage of time. But Dorothy obviously had other ideas.
“Robbie told me that you’ve not made up your mind about me...”
Then Bernard got angry. “I did ask you to marry me once, remember?”
Dorothy blushed. That had been a big mistake on her part; turning him down just when he had screwed up his courage, or whatever passed for it, to ask her to be his wife. She had just met someone else and thought herself in love, mistakenly as it had turned out. She had met Paul Stocker at one of her séances, and it had been an instant mutual attraction. However, she had soon found out that he already had a wife and family. Bernard had known nothing of this, of course. She had been too mortified to tell him. That had probably been another mistake on her part; stupid pride had a lot to answer for. But would Bernard have asked her again after she had turned him down? Not likely, she had thought at the time.
“I know, Bernie love. I know. And I wish with all my heart that I had accepted you then.”
Bernard, somewhere deep within his heart, didn’t feel as upset as he had professed to be. He had been let off the hook, in all honesty. He had to admit that he preferred to keep Dorothy as a dear friend, but very much at arm’s length.
Knowing this, Bernard just shrugged. “What’s done is done. It’s probably for the best. What happened to the man – you know, the one you turned me down for?”
Dorothy smiled weakly. “He was married ...”
“Oh, that’s really rotten ...” Bernard genuinely felt sorry for her. “But – but why didn’t you tell me?”
“Stupid pride, I suppose. Anyway, that’s water under the bridge. I’ve now met someone else and I wanted to – well, see how you felt about it before I ...”
“It’s nothing to do with me, Dorothy. As you pointed out to me just now you’re a free agent.”
“I know I am. Free to love whomever I choose. The plain fact is I choose to love you, you bloody fool.”
Summer, 1963
“You’d better take this quick,” said Sybilla, handing the hard-working gardener a cold beer. “She watches us like a hawk.”
Dave took the beer and gave her a warm smile. “You’re a star, Sybilla. I can’t understand why some lucky man hasn’t snapped you up.”
Sybilla flushed with sheer pleasure. “Stop it, Dave. You’ll get me the sack. You know she doesn’t like you chatting me up.”
