By the time Violet left she had answered a hundred questions and had promised Darrell she would be back every Monday to hear him read.
I walked out with Violet and we stood by the school gate. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Tinkle,’ I said. ‘The children have loved your stories and I know Darrell will look forward to your next visit.’
‘No: thank you, Mr Sheffield. This has brightened up my life. Since my sister passed on it’s been a silent world, just shadows and dust … shadows and dust,’ she repeated softly.
It was the following Monday morning when I met Violet again. We were in the General Stores and, much to the surprise of Miss Golightly, she had just spent fifteen pence on a Roy of the Rovers comic.
‘Good morning, Mrs Tinkle,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield. This is for Darrell.’
I looked puzzled.
‘You may not be aware, Mr Sheffield, but Roy Race, the manager of Melchester Rovers, is having a difficult time at present,’ and with that she walked out.
It was an unlikely duo but Violet and Darrell were destined to remain friends in the coming years. In our next craft lesson, Darrell made a gift for his reading workshop partner. It was a teapot stand made out of off-cuts. Even though it had a distinct wobble, Violet was destined to keep it for the rest of her life.
The next time the children in my class flew their kites on the Ragley cricket pitch I stared into the distance. Beyond the high yew hedge and a Juliet balcony was a particular window and I smiled.
Something was different now.
The curtains were open; they always were.
Chapter Fifteen
Agatha Christie and the Missing Vicar
School closed today for the Easter holidays. End-of-term reports were sent out in the new North Yorkshire report books to be signed by parents. Mrs Pringle returned to school with her new baby to attend morning assembly.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 10 April 1981
‘DID YOU SAY Murder at the Vicarage?’ whispered Vera.
‘Yes. It’s terrific,’ said Sally softly.
‘Surely not!’ said Vera, picking up Sally’s paperback novel.
‘Did someone say murder?’ asked a bemused Joseph, looking up from his assembly notices.
‘Shush, Joseph!’ said Vera.
As usual, Joseph didn’t know what was going on around him. It was Friday, 10 April, the last day before the Easter holiday, and our bemused local vicar had agreed to lead our morning prayers. Meanwhile Sally had called in to introduce Grace, her beautiful two-month-old baby, to all the children during school assembly. It appeared she had been catching up with the novels of the world-famous crime writer Agatha Christie.
‘You read it, Vera,’ whispered Sally as she removed the baby’s mittens. ‘It’s a wonderful novel. Really. I finished it this week in between feeding Grace. You could read it on tomorrow’s coach trip to Harrogate.’
Vera nodded thoughtfully. Many of us were going on the Village Hall Committee’s annual trip to the Harrogate Flower Show. It was a long journey and a good book would pass the time. ‘But don’t you think Murder at the Vicarage is an unfortunate title?’ persisted Vera.
‘Perhaps,’ said Sally, ‘but she’s a wonderful writer and it’s the first appearance of Miss Jane Marple in one of her crime novels.’
The mild-mannered spinster sleuth had quickly emerged as one of the nation’s favourite detectives. In the sleepy quintessentially English village of St Mary Mead death and deception lurked, but, undeterred, Miss Marple, in her effortless and analytical style, assisted the plodding Inspector Slack to uncover the culprit.
‘It’s a real brain-teaser, Vera,’ said Sally. ‘You’d enjoy it.’
‘Hmmm, possibly,’ said Vera.
‘Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot are the most wonderful creations, Vera,’ said Valerie Flint.
‘And did you know that Hercule Poirot actually got an obituary in The Times in 1976?’ added Sally.
‘Really?’ said Vera. She was impressed. Perhaps this was upper-class detective literature.
‘Miss Marple’s just brilliant!’ said the animated Jo, picking up the novel and eagerly scanning the back cover. ‘She has such a sharp mind, Vera. In fact … she’s a bit like you.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Vera with slightly false modesty.
‘Jo’s got a point, Vera,’ said Sally, ‘so why not read it and see how she solves the murder?’
‘Ah, so you did say murder,’ said the distracted Joseph.
‘Shush!’ said Vera. ‘You’ll wake the baby.’
Grace Pringle was sleeping peacefully in a Moses basket on the staff-room coffee-table and we had all gathered round to admire this little miracle of nature.
‘Sally’s right, Vera,’ said Valerie, lightly stroking little Grace’s velvet cheek. ‘Agatha Christie is the world’s greatest crime writer.’
Jo was reading the synopsis on the cover. ‘And it sounds a great plot,’ she said. ‘Colonel Lucius Protheroe has been murdered and everyone in St Mary Mead appears to be a suspect. So it has to be the unfaithful wife, her lover, the daughter who will inherit his fortune or the soppy vicar.’
‘Soppy vicar!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘Surely not.’
‘But it’s got to be one of them,’ replied Anne thoughtfully.
‘I agree,’ said Jo.
‘But a vicar would never do such a thing,’ said Vera.
Joseph looked up from his Easter assembly notices. ‘What have I done now?’
‘Shush, Joseph,’ said Vera.
‘Well, I’m afraid the vicar here did say that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a favour,’ insisted Sally.
‘Did I?’ said Joseph.
‘And he was waving a carving knife at the time,’ added Sally, for good measure.
‘Was I?’ said Joseph, looking horrified at the thought.
‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘what a strange vicar.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the perplexed Joseph.
‘Oh, do be quiet, Joseph,’ said Vera.
‘Definitely odd behaviour for a vicar,’ said Jo.
‘I agree … and talking about murder like that is not very Christian,’ said Vera, looking concerned.
Joseph looked up, horrified, a third custard cream held guiltily in his trembling hand. ‘So you did say murder?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.
Vera slapped the lid on the biscuit tin.
‘So do read it over the holidays, Vera,’ said Sally.
‘And I’ll read it after you,’ said Anne.
‘Then me,’ said Valerie.
‘And me too,’ added Jo.
Vera looked across the staff-room and shot a fierce glance at Joseph. ‘And no more custard creams, Joseph. You’ve had quite enough.’
Joseph, deeply offended, considered giving his older sister his if-looks-could-kill glance but, after fingering his clerical collar, wisely said nothing.
We all sauntered back to our classrooms, Vera took out her late dinner money register, baby Grace remained in a deep slumber and Sally opened her April issue of Cosmopolitan magazine and wondered how Jerry Hall had poured herself into an astonishing bronze lamé figure-moulded sheath dress. Meanwhile, Joseph stared at Vera’s Agatha Christie novel with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Then he picked it up rather guiltily and began to read. Finally, when the assembly bell rang he placed it reluctantly back on the coffee-table and walked into the hall with Sally and her sleeping baby.
The children loved meeting baby Grace, but at the end, when Joseph took over, the responses to his questions were predictably entertaining. ‘What’s the name of the first book of the Bible?’ he asked.
Darrell Topper’s hand shot up, which surprised me.
‘Guinness,’ he called out – which, of course, didn’t surprise me.
Joseph’s attempts to involve the smallest children in Anne’s reception c
lass, all seated cross-legged on the front row, met with similar confusion.
Five-year-old Benjamin Roberts had obviously formed his own view of the effort required in the act of creation. ‘My dad says work is tiring,’ he said, ‘so he has Sundays off just like God.’
That evening Beth and I went to the York ABC cinema to watch Christopher Reeve in Superman II. Three prisoners from the planet Krypton had arrived on Earth, each with the same powers as Superman. Even though Terence Stamp as the evil General Zod stole the show, somehow good prevailed and we walked back to my car relaxed and looking forward to the Easter holiday. Much to my relief, nothing more was said about a new headship.
* * *
On Saturday morning in Ragley High Street, outside the village hall, April sunshine flashed on the shiny windows of William Featherstone’s ancient cream and green Reliance bus. Although from an earlier age of sedate travel, William’s bus was wonderfully maintained and perfectly reliable. ‘You can rely on Reliance’ had been painted in bright red letters under the rear window. As was the custom, William, in his neatly ironed brown bus driver’s jacket, white shirt and ex-regimental tie, doffed his peaked cap and, with old-fashioned charm, welcomed each passenger as they boarded.
‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield … and to you, Miss ’Enderson,’ he said as Beth and I clambered aboard. To my surprise, Laura was sitting at the front, immediately behind the driver’s seat. I knew she was intending to visit Beth during the Easter holiday but I hadn’t expected to see her on this trip.
‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Oh, hello, Laura. How are you?’
She looked just as I remembered her, slim and beautiful, her long brown hair tumbling over a black leather jacket with padded shoulders. For a moment her eyes were soft and vulnerable, but an instant later her gaze was cautious and guarded. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
I felt awkward, remembering our last meeting. There was still something special yet elusive about Laura. ‘So how’s London?’
‘It’s good, Jack – an exciting place to live.’
‘So you decided to come after all,’ said Beth.
Laura smiled at her sister. ‘Last-minute decision,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard so much about Harrogate in the spring, I thought I’d come along.’ Her green eyes flashed and she gave me that familiar mischievous look that brought back many memories. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Jack?’
‘Of course not,’ I said evenly. ‘Lovely to see you again.’ I leant over and gave her a peck on the cheek. Her perfume was just as I remembered it, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent, and for a moment I hesitated, recalling happier times.
We sat in the seat directly behind Laura and then Beth had a change of mind. ‘I’d better sit with my sister,’ she said apologetically and got up and settled down next to Laura.
Meanwhile, Joseph and Vera had climbed on board. Vera waved to Joyce Davenport and a few of her Women’s Institute friends on the back seat and walked down the aisle to join them. Joseph grinned at me. ‘May I?’ he said.
‘Of course, Joseph,’ I replied, and he sat next to me and took Vera’s Daily Telegraph from his pocket and settled into his seat. Soon he was frowning. Peter William Sutcliffe, a thirty-five-year-old Bradford lorry driver, known as the Yorkshire Ripper and accused of murdering thirteen women, was to be tried at the Old Bailey.
‘Are you all right, Joseph?’ I asked quietly.
‘To be perfectly honest, Jack, I didn’t really want to come. I would have preferred a quiet day at home with a glass of my peapod special and a good book, but you know what Vera’s like.’
‘Well, let’s hope you enjoy it,’ I said.
He gave me a resigned look and returned to his newspaper. All was not well with the world. Customs and immigration workers at ports and airports were threatening to disrupt the Easter holidays over their fifteen per cent pay claim and Joseph sighed, folded the newspaper and stared out of the window.
Soon the vast plain of York that stretched from the Pennines to the Hambleton Hills was left behind us and our coach rumbled along the A59 Skipton road. The landscape rushed by, hedgerows were bursting into life and tiny lambs took their first faltering steps in fields of new grass.
We wound our way down into the Nidd valley and before us the large, wealthy spa town of Harrogate filled the skyline. As we drove along the Stray, wide gracious lawns studded with a mosaic of crocuses spread out on either side of us. It was an oasis of calm and elegance. Spring had come to Yorkshire in all its glory, breathing new life into the winter trees and lifting our spirits.
William slowed down to park on Montpelier Hill. Tourists were everywhere and, as we pulled up, he had to brake fiercely when an elderly lady stepped off the kerb in front of him. Books, newspapers, bags and coats fell on to the floor of the coach.
‘Sorry, everybody,’ shouted William.
Laura’s handbag had burst open and keys, pens and assorted business cards scattered around her. There was a clatter as her lipstick fell into the aisle and rolled towards my size eleven Kickers shoes. I stretched down and picked it up just as Laura stooped to retrieve it. Our heads touched briefly and I stared into her soft green eyes. ‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘Thanks, Jack. I’m all fingers and thumbs today.’
As she took the elegant metal tube from me our fingers touched briefly. Her hair brushed against my face and then she stood up and smoothed her skin-tight, stone-washed hipster jeans.
Beth picked up Laura’s bunch of keys and Vera walked down the aisle to help. ‘Here’s your wallet, she said.
‘Oh, thanks, Vera,’ said Laura, looking preoccupied.
‘And the rest,’ said Joseph, as he hastily gathered up her belongings and piled them on the seat.
When we got off the coach, everyone set off to join the crowds of tourists flocking to the annual Spring Flower Show. I stood with Laura, Vera and Joseph while Beth browsed through her Harrogate guidebook.
‘How about starting at the Pump Room, the site of the old sulphur well?’ she said. ‘It looks interesting.’
‘What about you, Joseph?’ asked Vera.
He was staring in the opposite direction, deep in thought. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I thought I might go and sit in the Montpelier Gardens and admire the lovely blooms and listen to the band, Vera,’ said Joseph.
Vera looked quizzically at her brother. ‘Very well, Joseph. We’ll collect you from there a little later.’ She fussed over his scarf for a moment and then stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There now, keep wrapped up and warm.’
He looked a little sheepish and, as he walked down the winding path of the gardens, he felt in his overcoat pocket, took out a book and smiled. ‘Peace at last,’ he murmured to himself and sat down on a secluded bench behind a high forsythia hedge. He settled back and began to read the next thrilling chapter.
As Beth had the guidebook, she became the impromptu guide and told us that the local springs possessed a sulphur and iron content that gave them a unique quality. ‘It says they have the power to reinvigorate the body and heal ills,’ she said.
‘Just what I need,’ said Laura.
When we came out we looked for Joseph but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where has he gone?’ asked Vera, scanning the crowds in the distant gardens. After a lifetime of looking after her absent-minded younger brother, she knew this was typical of him. ‘Oh well, never mind, it’s his loss … Where next, Beth?’
‘The Royal Baths Assembly Rooms,’ Beth announced, pointing to a photograph in her guidebook.
This was where Victorian health-conscious ladies and rheumatic gentlemen had bathed in the soothing waters. At the end of the nineteenth century, the opening of the Royal Baths Assembly Rooms with its mud baths and steam rooms was a masterstroke. Its pure spa waters became a veritable fountain of youth. By the early twentieth century, so many leading politicians sought the health-giving properties of the famous ‘treatments’ that it was almost possible to hold a Cabinet meeting in the opulent
Turkish baths. Harrogate had become a health farm for the rich and the local economy boomed.
Again, when we came out, we looked for Joseph, who, unknown to us, was completely enthralled by his novel and had forgotten the time.
Vera shook her head in frustration. ‘Silly man,’ she said.
‘How about a cup of tea in Bettys Café Tea Rooms?’ said Beth.
‘What a good idea,’ said Laura.
‘With fresh scones,’ I said enthusiastically.
‘And crumpets and curd tarts,’ said Vera with a faraway smile.
Opposite the tall Cenotaph, at the head of Parliament Street, we paused under the impressive wrought-iron canopy of Bettys Café Tea Rooms, noticeably without the expected apostrophe in Bettys on the large ornate sign. In the window was a display of mouth-watering cakes, pastries and hand-made chocolates, as well as every blend of tea and coffee we could possibly imagine. We selected a table surrounded by Art Deco mirrors and oak panelling and with a large picture window overlooking the Montpelier Gardens.
The waitress who served us wore a starched white apron and neat little cap and looked as if she had just stepped out of the pages of one of Agatha Christie’s novels. Vera ordered her favourite crumpets and curd tarts, while the rest of us tucked into a plateful of Yorkshire Fat Rascals – namely fruity scones filled with citrus peel, almonds and cherries. Vera poured the tea, which was served in a silver teapot with a matching sugar bowl, silver tongs and a delicate tea strainer. Everything looked superb. It was as if we had stepped back into a bygone era of white linen and impeccable silver service.
‘Isn’t this perfect?’ said Vera.
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