The Man Who Was Death, page 9
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
Spring, 1968
Dorothy Plunkett had always had a soft spot for Bernard’s housekeeper, even though her spot was even softer for the vicar himself. But, when the problems with the latter seemed to her insurmountable, she could always rely on Mrs Harper to ameliorate the situation with a cup of tea and a plate of homemade cakes, not to mention a wise homily. So it was that Dorothy decided to visit her two days after her disastrous meeting with Bernard when he had told her to go ahead and marry a totally fictitious man. For, in fact, Dorothy had made him up in an attempt to get the vicar to commit himself. She had, she realised unhappily, shot herself in the foot. She had also lied to Robbie about her marriage proposal, and she could see no way out of the situation now.
“So, Dorothy,” said Mrs Harper, pouring out the tea, “you told the vic you ’ad an offer of marriage from a rich, older man, then? And it weren’t true – is that what you’re saying?”
Put bluntly like that by the no-nonsense Mrs Aitch, Dorothy felt a complete fool. “That’s about the size of it,” she sighed, helping herself from the plate of chocolate muffins in front of her. “I know it was stupid, but I thought it might make Bernie jealous and galvanise him into ...”
“... Proposing to you ’imself, like,” finished the housekeeper grimly. “You forget you turned ’im down once before, my girl.”
Mrs Harper was turning out to be a Job’s comforter. This wasn’t what Dorothy wanted to hear. But then, what did she want to hear exactly? After all, Mrs Harper was right, she had turned Bernard down when he finally got up the courage to propose six years ago. Both women knew him inside out; having once plucked up the courage to ask Dorothy to marry him, he wasn’t likely to rush into it again, even allowing for a gap of six years.
“Beats me why you bother, Dorothy,” said Mrs Harper, sitting down at the kitchen table, pouring out her own tea and taking the weight off her aching feet. She had been polishing the banisters all morning and they now shone brightly and smelt of lavender. But the hard work hadn’t done her bunions any good at all.
Dorothy was almost crying; she felt like a lovesick teenager. “I – I – well, you know how I feel about him, Mrs Aitch,” she said lamely.
“I do, and ’e don’t deserve it,” sniffed Mrs Aitch. “’E wants a bomb under ’im, that’s what he wants. ‘’E don’t know a good thing when it comes up and slaps ’im in the face.”
Dorothy had to laugh. She couldn’t quite see herself slapping Bernard in the face; well, certainly not when he was wearing his surplice. But, she thought, that was maybe what he needed.
“I – I guess not. I really should give it up as a bad job, shouldn’t I?”
Mrs Harper thought for a moment. She stirred her tea several more times than was absolutely necessary, pondering the question seriously.
“D’you want my honest opinion?” she asked at length.
“Of course, Nancy, that’s why I’m here. You know how I always value your opinion. You’re the only one that talks any sense around here.”
“Yes, well, that goes without saying. But I thought you bent the doc’s ear the other day too...”
“I did,” said Dorothy, “but how did you know?”
“I’ve got my bush telegraph, love,” said Mrs Harper, meaning chats over tea with Lucy Carter, Robbie’s housekeeper. The relationship between the doctor and Lucy was one that allowed for exchanged confidences, particularly as Lucy still saw Dorothy as a rival for the affections of Robbie, even though he had given up all hopes in that direction long ago. He and Lucy had an ‘understanding’ although nothing was definitely known about just exactly what Lucy’s status was in Robbie’s household. Bernard was secretly of the opinion that his friend should marry the woman.
“Ah, you mean Lucy ...”
“Yep. Lucy got it from the ’orse’s mouth. Now you know that if Lucy thinks you’ve got another man she would’ve communicated that to ’er coffee morning cronies. It’s gonna be embarrassing for you when you ’ave to tell everyone that this man of yours don’t actually exist.”
“Don’t rub it in, Nancy,” smiled Dorothy ruefully. “It’s bad enough without that.”
“’Ave another chocolate muffin, ducks,” was all she said in reply. “Least said, soonest mended, eh?”
“Thanks, Nancy. No I won’t, if you don’t mind. They’re delicious but I’m having to watch my weight these days..”
“Go on with you – you’ve got a lovely figure.”
“Nice of you to say so; I only wish Bernie thought so.”
Nancy Harper gave another one of her infamous sniffs; they had been known to stop a man dead in his tracks at twenty paces. “’E’s blind to women’s charms, that one. Thinks more of ’is blessid cat...”
“I fear you’re probably right...”
“’Ere, I know what’ll cheer you up...” Mrs Harper suddenly thought of handsome Dave, at that very moment digging up the vicarage garden.
Dorothy was standing up, ready to go. She had a one-to-one séance booked in an hour and she needed to get home to prepare. “What’s that?” she asked, putting on her coat. Although it was late spring, it was still quite cold.
“We’ve got a new ’andyman – well, gardener, actually...”
“Oh? What’s happened to old Alf?”
“Oh, ’e’s still pestering the life out of me. The vic ’asn’t the ’eart to pension ’im off. Dave – that’s the new gardener – is also too bleedin’ soft with ’im. Anyways, I feed ’im and give ’im cups of tea and, in return, ’e gives poor Dave the ‘benefit’ of ’is expert knowledge. Haha!”
“Oh, don’t! I like old Alf...”
“Bet you’ll like Dave more,” said Mrs Harper with a wink.
And, of course, she was right. Nancy introduced her to Dave, who was sweating profusely with the effort of digging the hard earth. This, in both women’s opinion, only added to his manly charm. Dorothy thought she’d never seen such a good looking man, although she was slightly put out that he wasn’t looking her straight in the eye. His line of vision was somewhere above her head, but at least he wasn’t staring at her breasts. He soon lowered his gaze, however, and, as he visibly relaxed, gave her one of his most charming smiles. She felt cheered up immediately as they chatted pleasantly together for a few minutes until she remembered her appointment.
Nancy Harper, meanwhile, returned to her kitchen, smiling smugly to herself. Bernard had better watch out, that’s all, she thought.
Summer, 1963
“My wife tells me you want some time off, Dave.”
Lord Mountjoy was sitting in his study, ostensibly tackling a pile of bills. However, under his desk he was clutching a half-empty bottle of whisky. Dave Allison, who had been summoned to his presence, could see his manoeuvre quite clearly; he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Er, yes, Lord Mountjoy,” said Dave politely. “I know I’ve only been here a couple of months, but I haven’t had any time off yet and I wanted to get away before the summer is quite over...”
“Yes, I see,” said Florian, still clutching his whisky bottle surreptitiously. Dave had come upon him suddenly, having knocked and entered his study without waiting for permission. He therefore hadn’t had time to put it away in his drawer. “Er, my wife tells me you plan to go off for a few days to the Lake District ...”
Dave could smell the whisky on his employer’s breath. It was only ten-thirty in the morning; he must have started early, he surmised. He felt sorry for him. The man was obviously well on the way to becoming an alcoholic, if he wasn’t one already. Living with Forsythia Mountjoy must make his life intolerable.
“Yes, sir,” said Dave, “We – er, I’ve never been and – well – I was hoping you could spare me for a few days ...”
Lord Mountjoy coughed nervously, spreading the whisky fumes further in Dave’s direction. “Well, if it were – up to me, Dave...”
“I know what you’re going to say,” interrupted Dave impatiently, “you can’t spare both me and Sybilla at the same time...”
“Well, the fact that you are both going to be away at the same time makes life a bit awkward, certainly,” hedged the lord of the manor.
“I see. So is that a definite ‘no’ then?”
“Well, I can’t quite – er – see my way clear to letting you both go at the same time...”
Dave had been expecting this objection and was ready for it. “In that case, Lord Mountjoy, I have no alternative but to hand you my resignation.” And with that, he handed him an envelope which he had kept hidden behind his back during the interview.
“Come, come,” said Lord Mountjoy, in a panic, “there’s no need for that. I only meant that – well – it’s awkward, that’s all. I don’t want you to leave, nor, I’m sure, does my wife. You’re the best gardener we’ve ever had...”
Dave Allison had expected this reaction; he knew that Forsythia would raise the roof if her husband accepted his resignation. It hadn’t been much of a risk. “Well, then,” said Dave, smiling, “can I take it that you will let me have a week’s leave starting from next Monday?”
Lord Mountjoy sighed. “I – I suppose so.” He didn’t relish telling his wife that he had capitulated, but then, what was the alternative? He put the whisky bottle on top of the desk in full view of his gardener. His tone changed.
“Join me in a snifter?” he asked.
“Not while I’m working, thank you,” said Dave, disapproval etched into his voice. “I don’t want to dead head the wrong flowers or put the rake through my foot ...”
“No, well, I can see that,” said Florian, laughing nervously. “Very responsible of you. The garden looks wonderful, by the way...” He opened the bottle and poured out a generous measure into his empty glass. Swigging it down, he continued:
“I – er understand that Miss Dragon is unwell?”
“Yes, sir. Not quite the ticket, as you might say. Her doctor recommended a complete change of air and Lady Mountjoy kindly agreed to let her have some time off. But Sybilla said she wouldn’t go as she had no one to go with – so, well, that’s when I suggested that I accompany her.”
“Yes, quite, quite. Are you – are you fond of the lady?” His glass was already empty and he stared morosely into its depths. He couldn’t possibly pour out another measure under the eyes of his obviously disapproving gardener.
Dave blushed a little; it really wasn’t any of his business. However, he answered readily enough: “I think she’s a grand girl.” After all, what was the harm in telling his employer the way he felt about Sybilla? They were both single and if they chose to form a relationship, then it was a free country, wasn’t it?
“Yes – she is,” agreed Lord Mountjoy gloomily.
Dave suddenly realised the true state of the man’s feelings for his housekeeper; it was obvious, really. With a wife like Forsythia, wouldn’t any man look elsewhere for comfort?
“Well,” he said, giving a polite cough. “If that’s all, Lord Mountjoy, I should be getting back to work. Thank you for giving me the time off.”
He turned to go. Lord Mountjoy swung round in his chair and called after him: “Make sure you look after her, Dave, won’t you?”
“Of course, Lord Mountjoy. I have every intention of doing so.” With that he left the room and made his way out to the grounds. The man was drinking himself to death, he thought sadly, but there was nothing to be done now. The colour of his aura was unmistakable.
Lord Mountjoy sighed, unscrewed the whisky bottle and raised it to his lips.
Spring, 1968
Dorothy’s client that afternoon was a clean-cut, handsome individual somewhere in his early to mid-forties. She smiled as she admitted him and showed him into her consulting room. The curtains were drawn closed and a shaded lamp cast pleasant shadows around the room. The ambience was ideal for a séance, noted Jonathan Muirhead with approval. He was a little nervous, however, never having been to a clairvoyant before, and he wasn’t even sure he believed in life after death; the idea of the dead returning to earth to communicate with the living had always seemed to him laughable.
“Hello, Mr – er Muirhead, isn’t it?” said Dorothy quietly, ushering him to a seat.
“Yes, that’s right, but please call me Jon.”
“Thank you, Jon, and you must call me Dorothy. I can see you’re nervous – there’s no need to be. Have you ever consulted a medium before?”
“N-no,” said Jon, taking the seat indicated. “I – I’m not even sure I should be here...”
“Tell me, Jon, what made you decide to consult me?” Dorothy sat down in the opposite chair and smiled at him. This was the second new man she had met today, and he was almost as handsome as the first. Her mind was still full of Bernard’s gardener, but this new man was equally interesting to her; perhaps more so as some tragedy had brought him to her door, she had no doubt, and she very much hoped she would be able to help him.
“I saw your ad in the local paper,” he explained, “and – well, I thought it was worth a shot.”
“You live around here, then?” asked Dorothy, doing her best to set the man at his ease as he still looked nervous.
“Not exactly – I live in Surrey, but I get a paper that covers South London.”
“I see. Now, just tell me in your own time how you think I may be able to help you.”
Jon Muirhead smiled for the first time since he entered Dorothy’s flat. She was rather nice, and extremely attractive. She must be about my age, he thought. “You’re not exactly what I expected ...” he said, not quite ready to state the real reason for his visit. After all, could he really trust her? She was probably a fake; most mediums were, but at least her appearance didn’t frighten the horses.
“You expected a sort of gypsy, I expect,” laughed Dorothy, “with big gold earrings and a crystal ball.”
Jon laughed too. “Yes, something like that.”
“Well, now you see I’m just an ordinary person, can’t you tell me what brought you here?”
“It’s quite difficult to explain, actually – it’s just that I’ve not been happy since my parents died.”
“That’s understandable. Did they pass over recently, Jon?”
“Yes, last year. My mother went first – an aneurysm, the doctors said. Then six months later my father died of a thrombosis.”
“Oh that’s so sad,” said Dorothy. She almost felt like quoting Oscar Wilde about losing one parent being a misfortune, but losing both looking like carelessness, but she refrained. She could sense that the man wouldn’t appreciate her flippancy. Death was always sad, but sometimes you just had to lighten the circumstances with a harmless joke; dealing with people’s tragedies for so long had made Dorothy almost hardened to the fact of death itself.
“Yes, but you see, I – I’m not exactly sure if – well, if their deaths could have been prevented. Of course I’m glad that they didn’t suffer long and that, hopefully, they’re now together. That’s partly what I wanted to find out – although I just wanted to make sure that they died completely natural deaths.”
Dorothy was puzzled. “But you just told me what they died of. Didn’t the doctors sign their death certificates? I mean, aneurysms and thromboses are natural enough causes of death.”
“Yes, yes. In the ordinary way I would have accepted that, it’s just that my cousin seemed to know about their deaths just before they actually happened.”
Dorothy was intrigued now. “How do you mean exactly?”
“He just told me a day or two before they died that I shouldn’t be surprised if they wouldn’t be around much longer.”
“Did he say it in a threatening tone? Perhaps you should have told the police?”
“No, it was nothing like that, Dorothy. It was more comforting. He was trying to console me even though I had no reason to suspect that they were going to die so soon.”
“It was as if your cousin had premonitions about their deaths, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. But how could he? It didn’t make any sense to me. Do you think I’m being stupid? I expect you’ll say I should leave well alone and let my parents rest in peace.”
Dorothy weighed up carefully what she was about to say; the man was obviously in deep mourning for his parents. The loss was too recent for him to be anything else, of course, but she was convinced that there had been no foul play.
“It’s different for me, Jon,” she began slowly. “I do believe in such things as premonitions; I have them myself sometimes – usually in dreams. Your cousin probably has some sort of gift. I don’t think your parents died anything but natural deaths. Why don’t you ask your cousin how he knew they were going to die?”
“I – I was too upset at the time, and anyway he could see I was angry with him. He didn’t hang around for me to talk to. He lives in Tooting with his family.”
“Tooting’s not a million miles from Surrey,” smiled Dorothy. “I think you should go and see him, rather than me.”
“I – I’ve never really got on with him,” said Jon, shrugging. “He was brought up my parents when his parents died. My mother was his aunt, you see. His parents died when he was four so they took him in. We got on all right at first, although he was five years younger than me, so I was quite protective of him. But then he seemed to take over; anything he wanted, they gave him. I could understand it, of course. The poor kid had lost his parents so young. But as he grew older, my mum seemed to prefer him to me. He could charm the birds off the trees, you see. I didn’t have nearly as much charm.”
He seemed bitter talking about his cousin. Dorothy thought his cousin must be very charming to out-charm Jon Muirhead, for whom she was fast acquiring a soft spot.
“So, what happened when he told you that your parents were dying?”
“He used to visit regularly after he was married; his wife came with him after he got married and then he brought his baby. God they made so much fuss of them all; I know it was wrong but I really began to resent him then. I watched my parents look forward to their visits with such eagerness.”
