Robert Jones had been left
alone with Jessica at the cottage. Gary gave Dorothy and Cleo, who wanted to
help Dorothy explain to Edith what had happened, a lift to the vicarage. Gary
hoped to get a little time with Cleo when Dorothy had been welcomed.
At the vicarage there was no
central heating because the powers that be refused to pay for it and a vicar's
salary did not run to it. You would have thought it in the interests of the
diocese to look after the health of its incumbents, but St. Peter's was one of
those old churches in such disrepair that it was under discussion to close it
down altogether. The previous bishop, who had turned out to be rascal and an
imposter, would probably have succeeded in selling the land it was built on to
a property holding had not Cleo been investigating the case and been largely
responsible for averting that catastrophe.
So St. Peter's had survived.
Frederick Parsnip, a vicar with suppressed evangelical talents and no other
discernible talent, still had a job and the village souls had been saved, if
only temporarily. Fortunately, the new bishop had proved to be sympathetic with
the idea of preserving rather than obliterating congregations and reviving old
traditions, so Mr Parsnip's desired revival of campanology had not fallen on
deaf ears.
***
While Dorothy had always had
misgivings about Laura Finch, who had normally been thick-skinned and tactless,
causing people to take a dislike to her, she herself was an upright kind of
person who had tried to see the good in Laura and ignore the bad. She had very
mixed feelings about Laura's untimely and violent death. There was no way of
ignoring the bad about that, and Dorothy could not think of anything good about
it. The rivalry between them had been a kind of one-upmanship and entirely
Laura’s invention. It had exasperated Dorothy, but anything is better than
silence, and Laura Finch's voice, though the frequent bearer of petulant and
resentful comments, had regrettably been silenced for all time.
Now Dorothy was bracing
herself for a deep discussion with her friend the vicar, some genuine lamenting
by Edith, and a night trying to sleep in a room with two lively youngsters in
their bunk beds trying to be good (but failing) or next door in Edith’s utility
room, which was just as noisy.
"This is so kind of you
at such short notice, Edith," she said.
"You're welcome,
Dorothy. Come in and tell us what's happened."
“Go home, Cleo. I can
manage.”
“Are you sure?” said Cleo.
“I expect Gary wants to get
to bed, too,” said Dorothy.
Gary was waiting in the car
and listening to a sport report.
Edith was fascinated by
Cleo's American accent, so she turned to her and said "Hi, Cleo," in
the drawl she found fascinating. "So nice to see you again."
Cleo had experienced Edith's
mimicry a number of times and fortunately found it cute rather than annoying.
"Sorry to bother you,
Edith," she drawled now, pleasing Edith's ear with much more drawl than
normal.
"Not at all! Not at
all! Why, it's no bother at all," said Edith, slurring as many of the
words into one another as she could manage.
Dorothy listened to this
banter with raised eyebrows. Cleo turned to her and bit on her lower lip so as
not to laugh.
Edith led the way into the
living room. Although it was mid-July, a fire was blazing in the grate. The
room was almost welcoming.
"I'll get coffee and
call Frederick," Edith proposed.
“I can’t stay long,” said
Cleo.
“But he’d hate to miss you.
Cleo,” drawled Edith.
Cleo and Dorothy sat down
next to one another on the sofa. The vicarage cat, Priscilla, came and wound
herself round their legs. Do cats have presentiments?
Edith popped her head round the
door of her the vicar’s office and drawled "Sorry to bother you,
Frederick, but we need you in the living-room."
Frederick was as usual
suffering from mid-weekly sermon-writer's block and grateful for the
interruption, if somewhat irritated by Edith's sudden Americanization.
"Why are you talking
with that funny accent, Edith?" he wanted to know.
Edith left his question
unanswered. She dashed into the kitchen to get refreshments. A mild expletive
escaped under her breath. Edith got carried away by the lilt in Cleo's voice,
but she did not usually regale the vicar with her imitation of what she thought
was a genuine American accent.
Frederick left off
sharpening pencils, a pacifier he turned to whenever he could not think of
anything to think, write or do, and hurried into the living-room. Cleo and
Dorothy jumped up and went towards him.
"Well, well,
well," he exclaimed. "What have we here? Isn’t it a bit late for
afternoon tea?"
"This isn't a social
visit. We haven’t come to tea," said Cleo.
“We are here on important
business, Frederick,” Dorothy added.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh
dear, dear ladies," the vicar chanted. "What's the matter? Dorothy,
you look peaky! Dearie me, oh dearie me! Miss Hartley, you look peaky,
too!"
Mr Parsnip's repetition of
phrases and words was standard rhetorical practice he generally carried over
into his sermons, making them up to twice as long as they otherwise would have
been.
"Sit down! Sit
down!" he commanded. "No need to stand on ceremony. No need…"
Edith reappeared with a tray
of coffee mugs.
"I've made milk coffee.
I hope that's all right," she said.
"Just fine," Cleo
drawled for Edith's benefit. "Purrrrfect!"
Frederick Parsnip poked
around in the embers of the coal fire then chucked a shovel full of the fuel
onto them, grunting as he did so, presumably to make sure that Edith noted his
gesture. Housework was the prerogative of housewives, but tending the fire was sometimes
his job. Replenishing the coal scuttle from the coal shed outside was not.
"Keep the home fires
burning," he exhorted as the flames roared up the chimney.
"We'll need more coal,
Edith," he said. Throwing it into the grate was his job. He was again glad
that fetching it from the coalhouse in all weathers was Edith's. He never pondered on how the custom had
arisen.
Edith smiled ever so
slightly and sat down at the dining table to drink her coffee. She wasn't sure
if what was coming would be any of her business, so she melted into the
background, just in case.
"It's like this,
Frederick," said Dorothy. "I don't know how you will take this,
but...."
Then she looked pleadingly
at Cleo, who picked up where she had tailed off.
"Laura Finch is dead,"
she said, without a trace of a drawl.
Silence fell on the room.
Then the vicar repeated Cleo's words.
"Laura Finch is dead.
Did you hear that, Edith? Laura Finch is dead. I think we should say a
prayer."
But before the vicar could
launch into his prayer, Cleo interrupted.
"She's not just dead.
She was murdered."
"Oh dear," said
Edith with a little sob.
"What's more, her body
was lifted through the window of my new office and left bleeding on my new
carpet.”
"How dreadful for you,"
Edith sympathized as if someone had spilt coffee on the tablecloth.
"How dreadful for Laura
Finch," the vicar said, visibly shocked. "How did she die?"
"She was stabbed in the
back three times, Vicar."
Edith let out a little cry.
Dorothy got up and went to
comfort her.
"I can't bear it,"
Edith moaned. "Who could have hated her so much?"
"That's the question we
are all trying to answer, “ said Cleo in her business-as-usual voice. “It was a
brutal killing, and no witnesses have yet been found."
Cleo's direct approach was
effective. Edith pulled herself together and tried to comfort Dorothy instead.
Dorothy told her not to fuss.
"I was shocked, and
still am," she explained, when Edith looked hurt as Dorothy shrugged her
off, "but we have to face the fact that there is someone who wanted her
dead. I just hope it wasn't one of her children."
"One of her children? One
of her children? One of her children?” intoned the vicar.
Cleo explained how they had found
Jessica at Laura’s bungalow.
“Who’s Jessica?” Edith
wanted to know.
Cleo explained.
"But she never
mentioned a daughter," said Edith "I wonder what else she didn't tell
us."
"Whatever the reason
was, we shall never find out now," said Mr Parsnip firmly, chipping into
the conversation and startling everyone by employing an authoritative tone.
"You sound as if you
know something, Frederick," Dorothy remarked.
The vicar merely shook his
head.
"I don’t know whether I
quite believe you," said Dorothy. "I don't like open endings to
stories, so I for one will be trying to find out more and if you know
something, you should tell us because not holding back evidence would help us
and get a load off your mind, wouldn’t it, Cleo?"
When Cleo did not answer, Dorothy
hurried to add “Of course, we would not want to interfere if it was a matter
for the police, Frederick.”
“I hope you are listening,
Frederick,” said Edith courageously.
"The thing is that they
just want to find the killer,” said Dorothy. “I want to know why."
***
The doorbell rang.
Mr Parsnip looked relieved.
He had had it on the tip of his tongue to say something about Laura Finch and
now he would not have to.
"That'll be
Robert," said Cleo.
“But we came with Gary,” said
Dorothy
“I expect Robert was getting
nervous, alone with a young woman,” drawled Cleo.
Edith fetched him in. She
had no time to commit they new drawl to memory.
“Where have you been,” asked
Robert in a masterful voice.
"Here, and we have to
go home immediately," said Cleo. “You should not have left Jessica to her
own devices, Robert.”
“What’s that cop’s car doing
in the drive, Cleo?” Robert asked, ignoring what Cleo had just said..
“Is he still thee I’ll tell
him to go home. He stayed in case there was a problem.”
“And was there?”
“No.”
Robert marched to the car
and told Gary he could go home.
“Where’s Jessica?” Gary
asked.
“In bed asleep and that’s
where you should be,” said Robert.
Gary knew when he was beaten
and drove off.
***
Robert marched back into the
house to say a belated hello to everyone.
Cleo was angry with herself
for contemplating joining Gary in his car and letting him wait for her.
“We’d better go home,
Robert,” she said. “Dorothy can do the rest of the explaining. Maybe you can
persuade Mr Parsnip to tell her what else he knows about Laura, Dorothy.”
“With those words, Cleo
swept out of the vicarage with Robert in tow.
***
Meanwhile, the vicar was
looking so guilty that Edith and Dorothy stared at him expectantly. He muttered
something about finishing his sermon and sidled off into his study.
“I expect he’ll sharpen some
more pencils,” said Edith.
“He’s hiding something,
Edith.”
“The vicar isn’t capable of
hiding anything, Cleo,” said Edith in defence.
“Don’t underestimate him!” said
Dorothy. “I know that look. He’s guilty of something.”
***
Before they got into his
white delivery van, Robert felt the need to ask Cleo some searching questions,
especially about Gary’s continued presence at the vicarage when he could have
driven home.
“He was waiting to see if we
needed help.”
“And did you?”
“No, but I'm ravenous and we
must get back to Laura’s kid.”
***
"I didn't know she had
a daughter, let alone a cheeky hussy of a girl,” said Robert as he drove the short distance from the
vicarage to the cottage.
"None of us did."
"Don't you think that's
all a bit too much to swallow?"
"I want to find out why
Laura concealed the truth about her early life."
“Why is the girl staying
with us, Cleo. You haven’t actually explained.”
“Laura’s bungalow has to be
gone over by forensics, then Jessica can go back there. I don’t know the whole
story, Robert. There’s probably more to it.”
“More what?”
“I wonder if she killed
Laura or hired someone else to.”
”Do you mean that we are
harbouring a murderess?” said Robert.
“No. Those stabbings were a
man’s job.”
“So she would just be an
accessory, wouldn’t she?” said Robert.
“Put like that…”
“But if she just wanted
money from Laura, she’s hardly likely to have killed the golden goose,” Robert
argued. “Do you believe her story?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Cleo. I would be glad
if she left as soon as possible so that we can get on with our own lives,"
said Robert, seriously ruffled at the idea that someone who could conceivably have
committed a murder was staying the night.
"Let's assume that if
Gary let her stay with us, he has decided that she's harmless,” said Cleo.
"Look Cleo, quite apart
from Gary’s dubious judgment, we should not be providing hospitality to someone
who might even conceivably be a killer, however harmless she seems."
"Leave it to me,
Robert. She's simply not the type. She's just a slip of a girl. She would never
have had the strength to lift Laura Finch, let alone push her dead weight
through a window."
"So what is the type,
Cleo? Do they have ‘I'm a killer’ stamped on their foreheads, or are they
average people who would not stand out in a crowd?"
"You have a point,
Robert, but she had nowhere else to go."
"Couldn’t she have
stayed in Laura’s bungalow?"
"Cordoned off.
Forensics would not allow it."
***
Hardly were Cleo and Robert
back in the cottage than the phone rang. It was Gary.
"We've verified
Jessica's identity, Cleo. The authorities in Bermuda beamed me a photo of
her."
Within seconds, Cleo had the
photo on her phone. It could have passed for Jessica, but it was slightly
blurred and Robert remarked on that.
“OK. It looks like her,” Cleo
told Gary over the phone.
"We have no reason to
detain Miss Finch," Gary concluded.
“Then she can stay the night
and move out tomorrow,” said Cleo. “Good night.”
Robert followed Cleo into
the kitchen to make coffee and a sandwich..
***
Cleo wondered how Gary had
approached the Bermudan authority. She did not think that the information was
necessarily correct, and even if it was, it still wasn't an alibi, unless
someone could credibly confirm her whereabouts as being somewhere else during
the timespan of Laura’s murder.
Julie and her friends only
saw her once, three days before the murder. Where had she been after that and
before they discovered her in Laura's living-room? She could have been in Upper
Grumpsfield on the day of the murder, then gone away and come back again. But
she would have needed help to get Laura from where she had been killed to the
back of the office block and heave her through that sash window into the
office, and where would she find anyone willing to do such a horrible thing at short notice? Apart from that, if her
identity was authentic, that did not mean that everything else she had said was
true. Cleo thought Gary was being very naive about Jessica.
***
"I hope you've got over
your reservations about her staying the night, Robert. You could snap her in
two if you had a mind to."
"That's not likely, now
is it? I'm just cautious."
"Well, you needn't be.
Laura's bungalow will be examined for evidence and Jessica can go back there
tomorrow."
"I hope you're
right."
***
Robert said he was
tired and went to bed. Without proof
that Jessica did not kill Laura, Jessica was in his opinion a suspect. Cleo
wrapped herself in the sofa plaid, curled up on the two-seater sofa in front of
the fire, and slept there. Robert did not miss her and Jessica, who wandered
into the kitchen to get a drink sometime during the night, decided that her
suspicions about Cleo and the cop were justified. Why the hell did she stay
with a boring butcher when she could have that cop? Jessica knew which guy she
would choose.
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