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

by Debbie Young

  I was glad to be going to work for the first couple of hours of the morning so I didn’t build myself up into a high state of emotion before crossing the church threshold. I hoped an emergency at the bookshop might detain me at the last minute.

  “I don’t have to go if you can’t spare me.” The place was empty apart from Hector as I cleared the cups and plates after the morning school run. “It’s not like it’s her funeral. I’m sure there’ll be another All Souls’ service next year and every year after that.”

  “Yes, and you could visit May’s grave any day you wanted to in the meantime.”

  He’d caught me there. I was starting to find Hector’s knowledge of me unnerving. I’d only once visited May’s grave in the churchyard since my arrival when I’d been shocked to discover it was just a rough mound of dirt, marked by a small wooden cross. It hadn’t occurred to me that a neat gravestone and flower bed wouldn’t already be in place. The experience had made May’s loss seem raw and new.

  When I’d phoned my parents in tears afterwards, my dad explained that you can’t install a gravestone for at least six months after a burial, because the ground must settle first, otherwise the stone will just keel over. He’d ordered a suitable headstone to be installed in the new year. I took that as permission to postpone further visits till then.

  I seized the dishcloth from the sink and wiped the tearoom tables for longer than necessary. “You think I should go, don’t you?”

  Hector put down the last of the new novels he’d been arranging on the display table and came over to the tearoom. He pulled out a chair and beckoned me to it, then seated himself opposite.

  “To be honest, yes, I do. I think it would help you. You’ve got a bit of unresolved grief going on, and it’s one constructive thing you can do to help that’s easily within your reach.”

  I stretched my arms across the table as if in surrender, forgetting it would still be damp. My grey shirt sleeves turned black with the moisture.

  “But how can you say that when you’re not a churchgoer either? It’s not as if you’re the vicar’s number one fan.”

  Hector took my hands and held them gently. “No, I’m just thinking of you. And besides, it would make Joshua happy. Poor old soul, he’s rooting for two down there, both Edith and May, and could doubtless do with your moral support.”

  I pulled one hand free to jab him in the chest. “You are right, of course. I feel like I owe it to Joshua. He’s been a good friend to me. But if I go, I won’t be responsible for my state of mind on my return to the shop.”

  Hector winked. “I didn’t know you ever were.”

  Even though I had now resolved to go to the service, I left it till the very last minute to head to the church. Through the shop window, I watched several likely candidates for the congregation walk past, heads bowed in contemplation. When I saw Joshua, I expected him to turn and raise his hat to me, as he usually did. But he appeared lost in his memories of the two great loves of his life. He must also have been thinking of his parents, and all his other relations and friends who had been laid to rest in St Bride’s churchyard. This was not all about me.

  Slipping into my dark winter coat a couple of minutes before eleven, I gave Hector a little wave as I left, and he gave me an encouraging thumbs-up sign. As I dawdled towards the church, I found myself reliving precious memories with Auntie May as if I’d been given permission not to grieve but to celebrate. As I turned into the church porch, I realised I was smiling.

  The heavy oak door was closed. I glanced at my watch to discover it was a few minutes after the hour already, so I heaved the door ajar as slowly and as quietly as I could, just wide enough for me to squeeze through before pulling it shut behind me. I was committed now.

  Tiptoeing into the nearest pew, right at the back of the church, I picked up a service sheet from the seat, opened it and held it up in front of me, peering from behind it like a spy with a newspaper to see who else was there.

  Scattered at random on the shiny dark pews were a couple of dozen people, many of whom I recognised from around the village, such as Joshua, Donald and his wife, and Trevor and Tilly. I hoped Carol hadn’t just come for an opportunity to get closer to Mr Neep, then I admonished myself for such an unworthy thought. Of course, she’d come for her late parents.

  Joshua’s advice to give Mr Neep a chance returned to me. I had come to realise over the last few months how wise and dignified my neighbour was. Although my generation might have all the facts (and fictions) of the internet at our fingertips, we don’t trump the accumulated life experience of an intelligent and considerate old soul in his ninth decade who has never read an email in his life.

  I’d missed the opening address, and the vicar was now instructing the congregation to rise for the first hymn. I stared at the lyrics on the service sheet, which were set to a tune I didn’t recognise, and mimed as convincingly as I could so as not to seem out of place. To my surprise, as everyone sang out, I found the hymn unexpectedly moving and comforting. Warmth emanated from the friends around me as together we raised our voices for our lost loved ones. By the third verse, I had mastered the tune and found myself singing with full voice and gusto, though tears spilled freely down my cheeks. I wondered how many times May had sung these words, taking part in this ceremony as she remembered those she too had lost in her long life. For a moment, I felt the soft touch of her hand upon mine.

  As the final chords from the organ reverberated around the church, I surreptitiously wiped my face dry and, taking my cue from what everyone else did, sat down again. Returning to the role of watcher rather than participant, I became transfixed by the vicar. It was the first time I’d seen him in his comfort zone, and I realised that much of his awkward manner had disappeared. It was as if he was on autopilot. It was also the first time I’d seen him in his full vicar’s regalia rather than a suit and dog collar. Now he wore a long violet robe over a black one which swung pleasingly as he turned. It would have been great for dancing. I tried to imagine what his dancing style might be like – dad dancing, presumably.

  I looked away, conscious that I was staring, and hoping Mr Neep wouldn’t notice me and catch my eye. Fortunately he had his head buried in the prayer book now, which surprised me. For a vicar of his age, I thought he would have known the service off by heart, the number of times he must have conducted it.

  Then, as he lowered the book and turned his back to the congregation to progress towards the altar, my attention was galvanised. I recognised that rangy walk; those long, loping strides; that slightly lopsided angle of the shoulders on a leftward lean; the swing of his thin, gangly arms.

  I clapped my hands over my mouth for fear of what I might shout out, then sidled as quietly as I could out of the pew. The congregation was too intent on the vicar’s words to notice my escape.

  I charged up the High Street and hurled myself back into the safety of Hector’s House and leant against the closed door behind me to catch enough breath to speak.

  “I’ve just seen the Grim Reaper in church.”

  Hector was on the phone, but fortunately the shop was free of customers. He quickly finished his call and replaced the handset.

  “Well, I suppose he would have a lot of people to mourn.”

  I slid out of my coat and hung it on the hook behind the counter. “You know what Sherlock Holmes says about backs? I recognised his back as he walked up the aisle in his long black dress. He may not have been wearing the hooded cape that he used on Saturday, but I’m certain.”

  I crossed the shop to slump onto one of the tearoom chairs, my heart still pounding, and not just from my sprint. “I would stake my life on Mr Neep being the Grim Reaper.”

  Hector’s smile disappeared. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Joining me in the tearoom, he flicked down the switch on the electric kettle and fetched the special cream for a spot of medicinal tea. “But why on earth would a vicar do something like that? He may not approve of Halloween, but that’s hardly
professional or orthodox behaviour.”

  I considered. “Perhaps he’s just deranged.”

  Hector pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. “No, or the diocese wouldn’t have appointed him. I know it’s not easy to find priests for rural parishes, but they’re not that desperate. And to be fair, you still don’t have any proof that it was him, nor much of a motive, beyond his disapproval of Halloween. That kind of reaction would be a bit over the top.”

  “There was Joshua’s scythe in his churchyard.”

  “Yes, but anyone could have borrowed Joshua’s scythe and left it in the churchyard. It’s a public place. It’s not as if you found it in the vicar’s study.” He drummed his fingers on the table top. “You know, I’m not sure this gets us much further unless he gets up to any more tricks. And I’m not sure what we’d be accusing him of, beyond a tasteless practical joke and wilful damage to an electrical cable. I’m sorry, Sophie, but I think it’s now just a question of ‘Watch and wait’, as medics like to say, to see what happens next.”

  27 Old Tricks for New Vicar

  Having got the service out of the way, the vicar reverted to his favourite hobby of seeking out sin in the village. Tommy Crowe was the current focus of his wrath.

  Ella called me after work to report on Mr Neep’s visit to the school that afternoon. “Apparently a gang of older kids turned up at the vicarage late on Monday night in fancy dress to try their luck trick-or-treating. They were old enough to be out on their own, rather than with their parents, and some of them were as tall as the vicar himself.”

  I settled myself down on the sofa. “Why did he complain to you about them? Surely he must have realised they were too old to be your pupils?”

  “He claims it’s our fault for not shaping their moral fortitude when they were with us in their formative years.”

  “On that basis, he could blame you for almost everything that goes wrong in the village,” I said, swinging my feet up onto the coffee table.

  “Honestly, Sophie, what’s the vicar’s problem? If he didn’t want trick-or-treaters, all he had to do was turn them away empty-handed. But instead he gave them such an earful that after he’d gone back inside, they decided to resort to tricks and let his car tyres down.”

  I knew I shouldn’t laugh, but I couldn’t help it. “So how did you resolve his complaint?”

  “I told him there was nothing I could do about it. But the stupid thing is, I felt guilty, even though it had nothing to do with the school. He has a real knack for making people feel bad about themselves. I’m just glad he didn’t seem to know about the disco.”

  I decided not to tell her I thought the vicar had been at the disco in disguise. As Ella’s friend, I wanted to soothe her rather than add to her stress. I was glad to hear she had been assertive in the face of his accusations.

  “After he’d gone, I put a call in to Tommy’s mum. As you can imagine, I got to know her quite well in the school office before he went up to secondary school. We called her in to see the Head whenever he was particularly badly behaved. She always said she’d talk to him about his pranks, but she never did.”

  I heard Ella pause to swig from a drink which I suspected was a post-school glass of wine. “So this time I decided to be a bit more creative, and suggested that he might make it up to the vicar by doing something to support his Bonfire Night party, such as making a decent guy or collecting firewood for the bonfire.” I heard the sound of liquid pouring as she topped up her glass. “Even if it wasn’t him who let the vicar’s tyres down, he’s less trouble when he has a project on the go. He’d make a good job of it, too. He never does anything by halves. He’s either going to end up in prison or become Prime Minister, or possibly both.”

  “Well done, Ella, it sounds like you were the perfect diplomat. I don’t see what more you could have done. I think Neep’s lucky you heard him out. Maybe talking about it will have made him feel better. So did you part with him on good terms or is he still blaming the school?”

  “He was surprisingly conciliatory, pressing me as to whether I’d be going to his wretched Guy Fawkes party. Before the end of the day, he’d brought me in a flyer to photocopy for the kids’ book bags, encouraging them to enter the guy competition and come along to burn them at his party. If that doesn’t lead to an outbreak of pyromania in the village, I don’t know what will.”

  “It’s a good thing Carol keeps the matches well out of the reach of kids,” I said.

  “But Tommy’s in the Scouts,” said Ella. “If he wants to set light to the vicarage, he’ll know how to rub two sticks together. But don’t tell anyone I said that. I don’t want to give Tommy ideas.”

  Nor anyone else, I thought.

  28 Penance by Proxy

  I’d hardly put the phone down when there was an insistent rapping at the door. Not expecting anyone, I peered through the small window. I didn’t think it’d be a call from the Grim Reaper, but nor did I recognise the face staring back at me, nose pressed against the glass. It was a tall boy in his early teens, the odd bristle of facial hair erupting from an otherwise girlish complexion. Narrow cat-like grey eyes met mine, with the self-assurance of one who felt he had a right to peer uninvited into other people’s homes. But he looked harmless enough, and hardly more than a child, despite his height, so I opened the door, my curiosity aroused.

  The scrawny boy stepped forward as if I’d invited him in. I very much had not. Planting my feet firmly on the threshold, I held the door with one hand, in case of an urgent need to slam it against him, and braced myself with the other hand against the door jamb.

  “Hello, I’m Tommy Crowe,” he said brightly, as if that explained everything. “I know who you are.”

  After my conversation with Ella, I had a pretty good idea of what he’d come about. “Hello, Tommy Crowe. What can I do for you?” As I said it, I wondered at this boy’s power to make me immediately put myself at his disposal. I’ve always envied the type of person who can ask you to do something and make you feel that they’ve done you a favour.

  “I’m collecting firewood for the new vicar. Have you got any I could have, please?” He gestured to a huge empty wheelbarrow that he’d left blocking my front gate, then leaned forward to peer pointedly behind me at the wood-burner in the front room. I tensed my arm against the door jamb.

  “Yes, I have firewood, but I also have a wood-burning stove. Hence the firewood. I need it. It’s for me, not for you, and not for the vicar either.”

  Tommy creased his smooth young brow. “That’s what everybody’s saying. Honestly, I don’t see why you all have to be so selfish about it. The Bonfire Party’s for the whole village.”

  He looked so genuinely perplexed that I nearly weakened. “Well, it is November, Tommy, and that’s just the time of year when people start lighting their wood-burners of an evening. If you were to ask in midsummer, you might get a better response.”

  I didn’t like to confess that I hadn’t yet mastered the art of lighting my stove and keeping it going. I bet he could have given me a lesson in fire-lighting, had I asked him.

  Tommy looked disconsolately at the doorstep. “Yes, but I can’t wait till then, can I? The vicar needs it for Saturday. It’s no good telling everyone they’ll have to wait till summer for Guy Fawkes’ Night.”

  I couldn’t dispute his logic. Considering Tommy had just let Mr Neep’s tyres down, or maybe because of that, I felt more sympathetic to the boy than I should have done. I was also glad I didn’t have a car myself that might attract his attention if I sent him away empty-handed.

  Thinking of the vicar helped me harden my heart. “It’s down to the vicar to organise his own wood. It’s his party, after all.”

  Tommy pondered for a moment, then pointed to the hallstand behind me. “What about those walking sticks?” In the umbrella rack stood a few of my aunt’s souvenirs from her hiking trips, carved forest wood from various destinations in eastern Europe and North America. “You’re hardly going to fit those in
your wood-burner, are you? And you don’t need them, because you haven’t got a limp.” He looked appraisingly at my legs, taking rather longer than I felt comfortable with. Perhaps he wasn’t such a child after all. “Why don’t you donate those?”

  Clever phrasing, young Tommy, I noticed, using the word “donate” to imply I’d be helping a charity.

  “Well, for one thing, they’re valuable artefacts, and if I did decide to use them as firewood, I could easily cut them into small enough pieces to fit into my wood-burner.”

  I didn’t mention that I hadn’t yet mastered the axe in the woodshed either.

  “That’s two things, and I don’t know what farty acts are.”

  I bet you do, I thought.

  Then he brightened. “But if you need wood chopped, just ask me. I’m very handy with an axe. I chop all the wood for my mum.”

  Something told me I shouldn’t let this man-boy loose in my house with an axe. Then I saw my chance to get the upper hand at last.

  “So has your mum donated firewood for the vicar’s bonfire?”

  Tommy looked as if I’d asked him whether she could fly. “Oh God, no. She says he ought to make his own bonfire.” He narrowed his eyes even further. “She’s a lot like you, you know.”

  I wasn’t sure whether this was an insult or a compliment, but took heart from Ella’s tip-off that he was devoted to his mother.

  “My mum said if I wanted to help Mr Neep, I ought to make a guy to burn instead. I thought collecting wood would be easier. I guess I was wrong.”

  I made a mental note to ask Hector to point out Tommy’s mum to me if she ever came into the shop. I’d be interested in seeing what she was like.

  “So make a guy. Problem solved.”