Trick or Murder?: A Sophie Sayers Village Mystery (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Debbie Young

  “Halloween is an ungodly festival which promotes Satanism. As a man of the church, I will not patronise premises that lionise the work of the devil. Good day to you.”

  He rose to his feet, stalked out of the shop, and slammed the door behind him, leaving Hector calmly sipping the rest of his tea.

  Billy broke the ensuing silence. “He ain’t no proper vicar, if you ask me. Why did old Reverend Murray have to go and retire? He was what I’d call a real man of the cloth. Someone with a bit of common courtesy and respect for his fellow parishioners. Used to buy me a bottle of Scotch every autumn, in return for clearing up his dead leaves.”

  Crossing over to the window, Billy picked out from our Halloween props box the ugliest, most misshapen fluffy spider he could find, and tied a black cotton thread around its middle. Then he pulled a black rubber band out of his sagging jacket pocket. Roughly he slipped the rubber band around the spider’s neck. Taking a bottle of correction fluid from the shop counter, he dabbed a patch of white on the rubber band just beneath the spider’s mouth, creating a passable impression of a clerical dog collar. Shakily, he clambered up the stepladder to suspend the spider from the hook in the centre of the shop window’s ceiling.

  “Let him put that in his organ pipe and smoke it,” said Billy tersely, batting the spider to send it spinning in wild circles.

  I expected Hector, always respectful of his customers, to leap up, remove the spider and rip off its makeshift clerical collar. Instead, he raised his teacup to Billy in a toast.

  “Amen to that.”

  I had a feeling the new vicar’s tenure would not end well.

  3 The Wisdom of Joshua

  Having never met the previous vicar, I was unsure how different Mr Neep was from the norm. The only evidence I had to go on so far was that the Reverend Murray had liked to ply Billy with Scotch and read books about criminals.

  Not confident of objective information on the subject from either Billy or Hector, I decided to wait until after work to ask my next-door neighbour, Joshua. As the longest standing resident in the village, he, of all people, would be able to give me the low-down. He had never lived anywhere other than the cottage next to mine, where he’d been born eighty-six years before.

  When I got home, I went through my small front room to the kitchen, dumped my coat and my handbag on the table as usual, filled the electric kettle and turned it on. As I did so, I spotted Joshua in his back garden, picking the last few runner beans from his immaculate vegetable plot. I unlocked the back door and strolled down the path to greet him, wrapping my arms about me for warmth. I wasn’t sure he should have been out gardening in this weather.

  He set down a wicker basket of impressively long, straight beans and put one hand to his back.

  “Good evening, my dear,” he said, although it was only just gone five. I’ve noticed mornings and evenings start earlier when you’re old. “What can I do for you this fine autumn night?”

  “I need to pick your brains,” I began.

  “Beans? I’ve just picked more than I can eat. I want to get them in before Jack Frost touches the vine. You’re welcome to some if you like. My teeth can’t take them this big and tough. I’m not sure why I still grow them. Force of habit, I suppose. Hard to change your ways after seventy years of doing something.”

  I admired the contents of his basket.

  “Brains, not beans. I wanted to ask your advice about something.”

  “Over a pot of tea?” he said hopefully. Picking up his walking stick and the basket of beans, he followed me through the low wooden gate that he and Great Auntie May had installed between their gardens after his wife Edith had died. Joshua and May had been sweethearts until she had gone abroad to pursue her career as a travel writer, only resuming their relationship decades later, after he had been widowed.

  Once indoors, he set the basket on my kitchen table and settled himself in his usual wheelback chair, leaning his stick against its arm. I’d only once taken tea in his house, which was when I’d spotted that he missed bits when washing up. After that, I’d engineered it so that he always came to mine, an arrangement he seemed to appreciate.

  Although Joshua’s mind was still razor sharp, it could sometimes wander off a bit. It seemed today it was still in the garden.

  “Of course, the coming of the frost is not all bad. Although it takes the beans, it brings out the full flavour of the sloes for sloe gin. Take my advice, Sophie, never pick your sloes until after the first frost.”

  “I’ve still got some of Auntie May’s sloe gin.” I brandished a small bottle that I’d left on the windowsill to admire its luscious colour in the autumn sunshine. “There’s quite a stock of it in the larder beside her home-made raspberry jam.”

  He raised his eyebrows in anticipation. “There won’t be for long once the cold winter nights set in. May and I have had some very pleasant evenings over a glass of sloe gin.”

  I feared he might be about to tell me more than I needed to know, so I pressed on with my burning reason for inviting him in.

  “It’s about the new vicar, Mr Neep.” I filled the teapot from the freshly-boiled kettle. “We had a visit from him today at Hector’s House.”

  “He’s here already? That’s good news. I’m looking forward to becoming acquainted with him. The only member of the parish who has met him so far is Katherine Blake, chair of the PCC, the Parochial Church Council. That was just before she departed for her extended holiday in Australia five months ago, a day or two before you arrived in the village, Sophie. She told me she was very taken with him, and that’s good enough for me. Besides, we’ve been without a vicar far too long – since just after Easter, when we lost dear May.”

  I filled the milk jug from the carton in the fridge and set out May’s best bone china cups and saucers for us. Joshua preferred cups to mugs, as had Auntie May.

  “Well, I’m not sure it is good news, Joshua. He struck me as the opposite of everything a vicar ought to be. Cold, bossy, humourless. I found him a bit scary, to be honest. And he had no sense of fun.”

  Joshua watched me pour his tea. “I don’t believe a vicar’s job description includes a sense of fun. It’s a serious job, being a parish priest. Very responsible, and not for the faint-hearted.”

  I took the lid off the biscuit tin and offered him one of his favourite shortbread biscuits. “Even so, surely he shouldn’t be interfering with local businesses? He just told us to take down our Halloween decorations and not to stock any Halloween books. That’s not very kind, is it?”

  Joshua looked unperturbed. “My dear, you can hardly expect a Church of England vicar to embrace Halloween. Plenty of good Christians would agree with him on that score, myself included. His focus will be on the church calendar. All Saints’ Day on the first of November and All Souls’ Day on the second.” He glanced up at the calendar hanging from a nail above the kitchen table, displaying Japanese flower paintings, hung by my late great aunt before she died. “All Souls’ Day is for remembering departed loved ones, not for dressing up as witches and wizards and playing tricks on each other. Besides, Halloween did start out as a religious festival. Hallow, as in ‘hallowed be thy name’.”

  I frowned. I knew the Lord’s Prayer off by heart, but I’d never noticed the hallowed connection before.

  “Hector said the Reverend Murray never minded. Apparently he even went to the PTA Halloween Disco in fancy dress.”

  “Yes, as the Pope,” said Joshua tersely. “Highly inappropriate. His wife went as Mother Teresa.”

  I suppressed a laugh. “Still, it’s hardly the best way for Mr Neep to win over his new flock. If I had just arrived in the village, I’d be falling over myself to make new friends. I’d presume the best of people until I had proof to the contrary.” I thought it better not to let on that when I’d moved here the previous June, I’d suspected Joshua of being a serial killer who had bumped off his late wife Edith and Great Auntie May and of having murderous intent towards me.

 
Joshua drained his cup, set it back neatly on its saucer and looked hopefully at the teapot. “I agree that he ought to get to know us properly before he criticises or tries to change our ways.”

  “Exactly. Especially in a nice, friendly place like Wendlebury Barrow.”

  He watched me splash the right amount of milk into his cup before I poured in more tea. I knew he subscribed to the ‘milk in first’ theory.

  “My advice cuts both ways, my dear. Villagers should get to know the newcomer better before passing judgment.”

  Feeling like Sherlock Holmes slipping urchins a sixpence in return for streetwise intelligence (Hector had just given me The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes to read), I offered Joshua another biscuit.

  “I’m glad we didn’t have to wait any longer for him,” Joshua continued after chewing a bite of shortbread for a very long time. “As far as I remember, he was meant to leave his previous parish at the end of November, and join us just in time for Advent.” He brushed biscuit crumbs from his corduroy trousers. “I’m sure that’s what Katherine said. No doubt on her return there’ll be a letter from the Diocese on her doormat telling us of the change of plan. Or perhaps she has been sent one of those emailing messages that you young people like to use.”

  I swished the last drop of tea around my cup, wondering whether Mr Neep had been drummed out of his previous parish early so they could have a jolly good Halloween party in his absence. Not wanting Joshua to think me unkind, I didn’t say that aloud.

  Joshua smiled. “I’m just grateful that he’s here. It can be hard to fill a vacancy in a small rural parish such as ours. That’s why there’s been no-one in post since before May’s funeral. Poor May had to be buried by a stranger. We’re lucky to have a vicar at all.”

  As I had been living and working in Germany when May died, I’d been unable to attend her funeral myself, but I remembered my father saying that it had been led by a vicar from another parish who didn’t know her personally. I couldn’t help feeling glad that Mr Neep hadn’t arrived in time to officiate. I could imagine him burying people who weren’t quite dead.

  “Thank you, Joshua, that explains at lot,” I said. “But I can’t promise I’ll start going to St Bride’s while he’s in charge.”

  Joshua shook his head sadly. “That is the trouble with the shortage of vicars – not enough choice to match the priest to the parishioners. Put the wrong person in post, and a small congregation will wither further. But we must pull together as a village and make the best of it. As for me, I’m glad he’s here in time to conduct the All Souls’ Day service. I shall be there to say prayers for dear May as well as for my beloved Edith. Perhaps you might care to join me?”

  I left the question unanswered, not wanting to go, but not wanting to say no, either.

  “It’s a positive celebration, my dear, not funereal at all,” he added encouragingly, before pressing both hands down on the table in front of him to raise himself up from his chair. He picked up his walking stick. “And if you know of any youngsters planning to call at my door on Halloween, tell them from me that if they want free sweets, I’ll expect them to sing for their supper.”

  He chuckled. I believed him, though I was sure he’d be generous with the subsequent treats.

  Spookily, at that point there was a knock at my front door.

  “You’re popular this evening, young Sophie. I’ll bid you goodnight. I’ll leave you these beans in case you want to share them with your visitors. I shall lift the vine tomorrow as it’s about finished now. Just pop the basket back over the wall when you’re done with it.”

  Joshua moved slowly across the kitchen, catching hold of the sink as he passed it to steady himself. “Out with the old, in with the new!” He waved his stick in the air as he let himself out of the back door. I thought he’d make a great Old Father Time, come New Year’s Eve – although I wouldn’t want him to be mistaken for the Grim Reaper. After the events of the summer, when one of the Wendlebury Players had met her death during the Village Show, I hoped the village would be spared another visit from the Grim Reaper for a while.

  My doorbell rang again. I hoped it wasn’t the vicar making house calls.

  4 The Play’s the Thing

  Who should it be but Ian and Mary, two of the remaining Wendlebury Players? I felt like I’d summoned them up with my thoughts of the Grim Reaper. There were only six of the Players left now.

  Ian stepped forward. “Hello, Sophie, please may we come in?”

  Never one to refuse a request from an executioner (Ian’s role in the Players’ Tudor tableau at the Show), I stood back to admit them into my small front room. I liked Ian, a tall, broad, jovial chap who was also the village lollipop man and school caretaker, and Mary had always been kind to me.

  While Ian took the armchair, Mary sank down into the sagging couch, and I perched on the chair at May’s small writing bureau.

  “This is unexpected.” I looked at them in turn, searching for clues as to the reason for this delegation. Had I offended them? “What can I do for you?”

  “Don’t sound so worried, Sophie,” said Mary. “We’ve just come to tell you that we don’t need to take you up on your kind offer after all.”

  “My kind offer?” Then I remembered that in my early zeal to fit into village life, and to seek revenge on my actor ex-boyfriend who had never let me get involved with his travelling theatre group, I had offered to write a play tailor-made for the Players’ membership. I’d omitted to tell them that I’d never written a play before. Well, not one that had been performed, anyway. Damian had scorned all my scripts.

  “We hope you don’t mind,” said Mary.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong. The weight of responsibility fell from my shoulders as quickly as it had landed there.

  “No, not at all.” Replying a little too hastily, I added for the sake of politeness, “I’m a bit disappointed, of course, but I’m glad you’ve found an alternative solution.”

  Mary looked relieved. “It was always tricky finding plays with a suitable cast list even before we lost poor Linda.”

  “Of course, we had to abandon The Six Wives of Henry VIII when we went down to five wives,” said Ian.

  “Besides, none of us want to wear those Tudor costumes, not when being trapped inside one of them hastened poor Linda’s demise.” Mary shuddered. Linda’s body had been entirely concealed beneath her costume, which included a fake neck, as if post-execution, and she’d been wired into place on their show float to stop her falling off. No-one knew she was dead until the carnival parade was over. She’d been murdered in plain sight of all the crowds.

  Ian looked glum. “Such a shame because it was a perfect match for our previous line-up.”

  Mary held up her hands in despair. “We tried to think of other plays that would work for us, but we’ve drawn a blank after going through every show with Five in the title. Five Guys Named Mo is no good because we’re five girls, not five guys. Five Children and It would have been perfect, if only we were all just a little younger.”

  I was glad they’d learned their lesson from their last show, an ill-advised production of The Sound of Music, in which most of them featured as children.

  “I wasn’t confident the stage was strong enough to bear the weight of the Psammead’s sandpit,” said Ian, who is set designer, carpenter and engineer for each show. He’s nothing if not versatile. “Which is a shame, as I wouldn’t have minded being It. I’ve never had a title role before.”

  “For a while we thought the Famous Five might work,” said Mary. “Until we remembered the fifth one is a dog. Ian was happy to play the inevitable villain, the smuggler or kidnapper or whatever the baddie turns out to be in each story, but none of us girls wanted to be the dog.”

  “How about Five Brides for One Brother?” I suggested.

  Mary continued, “We’ve got the Village Hall booked for early December, three evening performances and a matinee, but we thought it would be unreasonable to expect you t
o write a play at such short notice. So we have been toying with the idea of a winter revue instead, with each of us doing a party piece of some sort.”

  That clearly got Ian’s vote. “I’m going to play the Joel Gray role from Cabaret. It’ll be ace.”

  “And I’m going to play Liza Minelli.” Mary patted her round tummy. “I’ve started the diet for it already.”

  I’d watched the DVD of Cabaret about ten times when I was in Germany, and I loved it, but remembered it was an adults-only film. “I’m not sure the new vicar would approve,” I said.

  Mary leaned forward. “We’ve got a new vicar already? Have you met him? What’s he like? The Reverend Murray and his wife loved our shows. They used to sing along to most of them. We always reserved seats in the front row for them so they could boost the chorus.”

  I nodded. “He’s here, large as life, and was in Hector’s House this morning, laying down the law about not leading the village children astray at Halloween.”

  Mary tutted. “Hector is very charming. You know all about that, don’t you, Sophie? But he’s hardly the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”

  I couldn’t help but blush. I didn’t think anyone else had noticed my crush on my boss. I was glad when Ian steered the conversation back on track.

  “Besides, we like our Halloween celebrations. They’re harmless enough.”

  “We don’t want to fall out with the new vicar,” said Mary. “But we’ve got to have a pre-Christmas show, or we’ll lose our momentum, and that’ll be the end of the Wendlebury Players.”

  Ian drew a finger across his throat. “So it looks like we’ll have to think again about our choices of song.”

  Mary sighed. “Honestly, it would just be so much easier if we had a decent script, as usual.”

  Before I knew what I was saying, I found myself volunteering again.

  “My offer to write a script for you is still on, if you’d like me to. Just tell me when you’d need the script by.”