by Jo Carnegie
‘Sabrin-a!’ they chorused in unison. Air-kisses all round.
‘Darling, I’d like you to meet Edgar Fortune. He is, like, this amazing photographer who can always get rid of all my wrinkles.’
‘Oh, like you’ve got any!’ simpered the slightly taller of the two men, playing perfectly to her cue.
Sabrina fluttered her eyes coquettishly. ‘You are too much! And darling, this is Edgar’s assistant, Columbo. Isn’t he adorable?’
‘Delighted,’ said Sebastian, clearly anything but. He hated Sabrina’s fashion friends; so OTT and vulgar. He looked pointedly at the menu. ‘Anyway, shall we?’
‘We’ll leave you to it, darling!’ cried Edgar. ‘I’m shooting you next week aren’t I? Ciao for now!’ He and Columbo scampered off to greet another flurry of friends across the room.
Sabrina looked like she wanted to shoot Sebastian instead. ‘You could try being a bit nicer to my friends.’
‘They’re not your friends,’ said Sebastian dismissively, without looking up from the menu. ‘They’re a pair of ghastly nancy boys who throw themselves all over you because they know what a shit-hot model you are, and they know you’re their next pay packet. And you entertain them because, my darling, you’re a vain little madam who likes the way Edgar shoots you.’
Sabrina stuck her tongue out at him in a not entirely unfriendly manner. ‘Sebastian, sometimes you are such a shit.’
‘And you can’t get enough of it,’ he answered, reaching for the wine list. ‘Now, what year are we drinking from tonight?’
Back in Churchminster, Caro had turned off the upstairs landing light and was peeking out through the window. Benedict Towey’s Porsche was parked outside. Caro glanced at the Cartier watch Sebastian had bought her for her thirtieth: 10.32 p.m. Towey had only just got there, so was he moving in?
Suddenly his front door slammed shut and she watched as his broad, lean back strode down the path. Then Benedict stopped and turned, looking back at her house as if he suddenly sensed she was there. Caro shrank behind the curtains until she heard the Porsche rev up and disappear down the road. Looks weren’t everything. She’d had such hopes of a nice family moving in, and instead she’d ended up living next to the most unpleasant man in south west England.
At one in the morning, over in the rectory, the Revd Goody in his warm bed happily dreamt of becoming the next Archbishop of Canterbury, while down the road an exhausted Caro was roused from sleep again by a crying Milo. At Gate Cottage, Harriet put down her romance novel, decided to start a new diet the very next day, and turned the light off. In Camilla’s bedroom at No. 5, Angus sighed contentedly as she gave him a hand-job in the darkness, her wrist aching, and body full of pent-up sexual frustration; while in the room next door Calypso and Sam, their bare legs entwined on the bed, shared a final joint. Archie was also glassily dragging on a joint at the Maltings, probably not his last of the day, while a rerun of The Simpsons played on the TV in the corner of his bedroom. Over at Fairoaks, Errol Flynn cocked his head momentarily before settling back to sleep in the basket at the end of his mistress’s bed.
Outside, the leaves in the trees ruffled slightly as a breeze blew across the green. The night was dark, the moon obscured by dense cloud, so that even if anyone had looked out of their window, they wouldn’t have seen the tall, hooded figure in black, gliding silently across the dewy grass.
An unwelcome presence had unleashed itself on the village.
Chapter 18
THE REVD GOODY was on one of his walkabouts in the village. He’d dropped in on Eunice and Dora to see how they were, and had only managed to extricate himself two hours later. Full of fruit cake and over-sugared tea, he made his way across the green towards Bramble Lane. A vehicle screeched to a halt behind him.
‘Morning, Reverend!’
He turned to see Lucinda Reinard smiling out of the open driver’s window of her Range Rover, which was parked up on the grassy verge. As he got closer, the Reverend could see Lucinda was wearing a lime-green headband and what looked like a rather shiny pink, tight vest which showed off a large, wobbly bosom. The Reverend didn’t know where to look.
‘Just been for my first session with my personal trainer,’ she trilled. ‘You know, at that new Fit 4 U place off the market square in Bedlington.’
The Revd Goody had no idea what she was talking about, but smiled weakly: ‘Oh?’ Lucinda seemed in rather a good mood, and he wondered if she’d been in the Jolly Boot.
She was obviously in the mood to talk.
‘Yah,’ she said. ‘My stress levels have been through the roof recently and Nico threatened to divorce me if I didn’t do something about it!’ She laughed raucously. ‘To be quite honest I was simply dreading it, but I have to say that Henry, my personal trainer, is really something.’ A dreamy expression clouded her eyes. ‘He owns the place and I was expecting some ghastly bull-necked type, but my goodness! He’s ex-Horse Guards, you know, and an absolute dead ringer for that gorgeous black showjumper, Oliver Skeete. I’ve signed up for three sessions a week, and Henry says he’s going to make a new woman of me.’ She glanced up the street before tilting her head conspiratorially. ‘He wears these extremely tight cycling shorts, and between us, Reverend, his packet makes Linford Christie’s lunch box look like a carrot stick and a couple of mini scotch eggs.’
The Revd Goody visibly blanched at this revelation, stepping back from the car. Lucinda stared at him aghast, as if she’d only just realized who she was talking to. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
‘Oh, Reverend! Do excuse me. I don’t know what came over me.’ She leaned towards him again, anxiously. ‘You’re not going to ban me from attending Sunday services are you? I’d never live it down!’
The Revd Goody opened and shut his mouth a few times like a goldfish. ‘It’s fine, really,’ he managed.
Lucinda sighed with relief, and flashed a gappy smile. ‘Thank heavens! Mind you, I suppose you must have people confiding in you all the time. Must be off!’ She cranked the car into first gear, turned up the stereo and screeched off, ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun’ blasting from the windows.
The Revd Goody sighed and continued on his travels. Next stop was Fairoaks House and Clementine. He’d been dreading this visit, but after that last encounter the Spanish Inquisition on the church’s affairs would be a walk in the park.
‘So you’ve put the new advertisement for the church cleaner in the shop? I do hope we don’t get someone as flighty as the last one,’ said Clementine. They were sitting in her drawing room, facing each other in overstuffed straight-backed chairs. Clementine was expertly pouring Earl Grey from a Wedgwood teapot. The Reverend had just tried one of Brenda Briggs’s homemade fruit scones and nearly broken a tooth.
‘Yes, that’s all done,’ he said hastily. ‘And the new pews are being delivered next week.’
‘Excellent,’ responded Clementine crisply. ‘Now, there is something else I wanted to discuss with you. I suppose you’ve heard about this Devon Cornwall character moving into Byron Heights?’
The Revd Goody murmured his assent. Clementine continued, ‘I can’t say I’ve ever listened to any of his songs, but apparently he was rather big in his day, and still has quite a following round here. Well, quite a few of the villagers have approached me about putting on some kind of welcome bash. He was born in the area, as I am sure you are aware.’
‘Er, it sounds like a marvellous idea,’ replied the Revd Goody, wondering what part he was going to play in this.
‘I think it should be a drinks party and we should hold it at the rectory,’ said Clementine.
The Reverend spluttered into his tea cup. ‘But, but . . .’ He thought of the year-old cobwebs he still hadn’t got round to dusting.
‘I think it will send the right message,’ continued Clementine. ‘I haven’t seen Mr Cornwall at any services yet, and I think it would be a wonderful way to get him involved in the village community. Think of the donation to the church fund!’ Clement
ine appeared to go dreamy for a moment.
That convinced the Revd Goody. Fundraising had been quiet of late and St Bartholomew’s was looking a bit tatty around the edges. ‘Do you want me to pay him a visit? I was planning to go round, anyway.’
‘Leave it with me,’ she replied. ‘I can be extremely persuasive when I want to.’
The Revd Goody felt a fleeting flash of sympathy for Devon Cornwall.
Chapter 19
DEVON WAS AT home practising his yoga. He had been doing a thirty-minute routine every morning for the last fifteen years of his life. These days Devon was also strictly vegetarian, practically teetotal and, oddly enough for someone who had once got through sixty Marlboro Reds a day, hated smoking so much that no one was allowed to spark up within fifteen feet of him.
Just as Devon was a disciple of detox living now, he had spent most of his rock star years doing exactly the opposite. Countless doctors had told him he should be dead. Breakfast back then had often been a giant spliff and a bottle of Jack Daniels, lunch a couple of acid tabs, and dinner enough cocaine to make an elephant high. Large parts of the seventies and eighties were a complete blank to Devon, as were the women he’d slept with and married along the way. None of them had been capable of saving him – only rehab had done that – and Devon had emerged a new, if slightly neurotic, man.
He was just getting into his ‘downward dog’ when there was a knock on the gym door. He exhaled irritably; Nigel knew never to disturb him during his yoga. He ignored the knock, but it was simply followed by a louder one and Nigel sticking his head round the door.
‘What?’ barked Devon crossly.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ said Nigel apologetically. ‘Someone from the village.’
‘Can’t they come back?’ asked Devon, his red face looking up from in-between his legs.
‘I don’t think this is the kind of person who is used to being kept waiting. I’ll see you in the front reception room.’
Five minutes later, Devon wandered moodily down the corridor, a towel around his shoulders, and his hair slicked back with water from the water-cooler fountain. In a large reception room at the front of the house, with huge windows and twenty foot velvet burgundy curtains to match, Nigel was sitting on a velvet chaise longue pouring tea. An older, smartly dressed woman was sitting upright on a wing-backed chair facing him. Must have been quite a looker in her day, thought Devon, as she looked pointedly at her watch.
‘Devon, this is . . .’ began Nigel, but the woman interrupted.
‘Clementine Standington-Fulthrope,’ she said crisply, in a cut-glass accent, holding her hand out imperiously for Devon to shake. He took it, feeling slightly uncomfortable in his own home, in the presence of this well-mannered stranger.
‘Er, pleased to meet ya,’ said Devon, flinging himself down on the chaise longue so that Nigel almost spilled the tea. He ignored the disapproving looks Nigel and the visitor flung him.
‘Mr Cornwall,’ said Clementine.
‘Devon, please,’ responded Devon.
Clementine nodded her head slightly. ‘Devon, on behalf of the residents of Churchminster, I would like to welcome you to our splendid village. You have settled in?’
It was a question that required only one answer. ‘Er yeah,’ said Devon weakly.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Clementine. ‘Churchminster is a wonderful place to live: it has a warm community spirit, beautiful countryside, one of the finest parish churches in the district . . .’ At this she let her eye linger on Devon for a second longer. He wondered what the old bat was here for; he wasn’t going to open some bloody church fete or something.
‘Are you available next Friday?’ asked Clementine, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Because I have been speaking with the Reverend Arthur Goody, the vicar of St Bartholomew’s, and I, we, think it would be an excellent idea to put on a little drinks soirée at the rectory. It will be a wonderful chance for you to meet your new neighbours, get acquainted with the village.’
‘That sounds super, thank you,’ said Nigel, before Devon had the chance to turn Clementine down.
She rose out of her seat. ‘Excellent! Well, I shall see you both then. You know where the rectory is? Good, good. Seven o’clock sharp, please.’
‘What the hell did you say that for?’ Devon rounded on Nigel as soon as Mrs Nutkins, the housekeeper, had shown Clementine out.
‘It will do you good,’ said Nigel firmly. His boss had become increasingly reclusive over the years and Nigel didn’t approve; Devon’s social skills were appalling. If he’d had any in the first place.
‘That woman did my bleedin’ head in after five minutes. How am I going to hack a whole evening with her?’ complained Devon.
‘I am sure there will be lots of nice people to talk to, don’t be silly,’ said Nigel. Besides, he was dying for a night out. Devon was normally in bed by nine o’clock these days.
Over at the rectory, a frantic spring clean got under way. Although she hadn’t said anything when she had last visited the Reverend, Clementine had been horrified by the state of the place. It clearly hadn’t been cleaned for years. When the sun shone in the window, dust particles had hung in the air. Piles of newspapers, cuttings and books had been heaped up in every room, even the downstairs loo. The whole place had stunk of neglect. When Clementine had left, she had felt she needed a bath. No wonder the Reverend always smelt so musty.
Clementine had known Brenda wasn’t up to the task, so with a little diplomacy – ‘Brenda, I simply can’t spare you from Fairoaks’ – Clementine had enlisted the help of Pearl Potts, Brenda’s next-door neighbour. At the age of seventy-four, Pearl was tiny, wiry and sprightly. A demon with a duster, she always stood in for the church cleaners when they were away. Pearl had jumped at the chance to clean the rectory. ‘Those windows give me the shivers every time I pass them Mrs S-F!’ she had said, spending the two days before the party cleaning every inch of the house. Or rather, every inch downstairs; the Reverend had banned her from going upstairs. ‘Pearl, a man must keep his privacy and dignity.’ She’d been disappointed. She’d been looking forward to rummaging through his drawers; and especially to getting her hands on those greying underpants she often saw hanging on his clothes line, so she could bleach them. Pearl’s husband, Wilf, had died several years earlier, and she missed having a man to look after.
It was like a different house after she’d finished: the windows sparkled, the wooden floors had been polished, and the curtains and rugs beaten to within an inch of their lives. Even the Reverend had to admit the place looked better. ‘Pearl, you’ve done a marvellous job. I’ll have to start entertaining more,’ he chortled.
The Jolly Boot was donating several cases of wine. (‘Not too many, thank you, Jack,’ Clementine had said. ‘We don’t want Mr Cornwall to think we are all drunken degenerates.’) And the Revd Goody had found several dusty bottles of sherry left over from a Christmas do several years ago. Jack had also kindly volunteered his daughter to serve drinks; he was still punishing Stacey after finding her bra hanging off the pub sign one evening three weeks ago. The more time she spent working the better, as far as he was concerned.
Chapter 20
AT HALF PAST six on Friday evening Clementine walked briskly over to the rectory. It was just getting dark; the dusky sky casting a bewitching light over the luscious curves and swells of the Cotswolds countryside. She breathed in the fresh, pure air, and sighed contentedly. She had always loved this time of day: it reminded her of the first glass of bubbly at all the parties she used to go to, when a night of fun and debauched company had stretched ahead. Those days were long gone, but Clementine still liked to keep up with a nightly glass of champagne.
She turned into the rectory gate. The house was lit up welcomingly and snatches of classical music filtered gently through one of the open windows. Clementine had to knock a few times before the Revd Goody answered, looking slightly flustered and red-faced. ‘I do apologize! I’ve been having a bit of a
last minute tidy-up. Please, come in.’
Clementine stepped in, pulled off her leather gloves and cast an appraising eye around. ‘It looks wonderful. Pearl really has done a splendid job.’ She sighed. ‘I only wish Brenda shared her enthusiasm for household cleaning.’
Stacey Turner bustled over with a tray of sherry. She was clad in an extremely short black skirt and tight white shirt, which was opened one button too many to reveal a lacy push-up bra. Clementine had been about to say something, when she remembered the spandex cat suit Calypso had been wearing when she had come round that morning.
Fifteen minutes later, Clementine and the Reverend were standing in the drawing room. Clementine was sipping a glass of the Reverend’s ancient sherry, which tasted horrific. She’d already made a discreet emergency phone call to Brenda to ask if her husband would be so kind as to pop round to Fairoaks and collect a case of Laurent-Perrier from the wine cellar.
At 6.55 p.m., the doorbell chimed. It was the Reverend Brian Bellows, the vicar of All Saints Church in Bedlington. Clementine knew him from various religious functions and clasped his hand. ‘Vicar, how nice to see you!’
‘P-p-pleased to see you too, Mrs Standington-F-f-fulthrope,’ said the vicar. He was a tall, gangly man in his late thirties. Sermons at All Saints had been known to take all morning, thanks to his unfortunate stutter.
Shortly afterwards, Brenda and her friend Sandra arrived, giggling and red-faced. They were both clutching autograph books, and Sandra was wearing a bedraggled scarf with the slogan ‘Devon is Heaven’ printed on it.
‘Is he here, yet?’ asked Sandra breathlessly.
Clementine frowned. ‘I hope you two aren’t going to pester Mr Cornwall all night,’ she said severely. ‘I’ve invited the poor man to a civilized drinks party, so please don’t follow him around all night like a pair of love-sick puppies.’
