by Rachel Green
Meinwen grinned. “You’re probably right. I’m used to simple food. We wouldn’t have chilies where I come from.”
“Whereabouts in Wales is that?” Tom took another bite, crumbs from the bread catching in his stubble. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, a wedding ring flashing in the weak sunlight.
“You could tell I’m Welsh, then?” Meinwen exaggerated her accent and laughed. “I grew up in Aberdovey, on the coast.”
“What made you come here? Laverstone is about as far away from the sea as you can get.” Tom finished his sandwich and spoke through the bread in his mouth. “I bet it was a man, a lovely woman like you must be following her heart.”
Meinwen laughed. “In a way, though it’s more of a coincidence. Did you know that this church sits on top of two distinct ley lines?”
Tom nodded. “And another that goes through the manor, yes. Ley lines were a buzzword around here in the nineties. We had all sorts of people investigating them.” He pointed. “This one runs from here to Avebury and the other to Stonehenge. Clever folk, these ancients. There used to be a stone circle in Laverstone, they say, but it’s long gone now.”
“Is there any of it left?” Meinwen watched as he took a long draught from a bottle of mineral water.
“Just Long Mab at the far end of the churchyard and a couple of stones in the woods. The others have either been buried or walked off.” Tom offered her the bottle but she shook her head. “Is that what you’re here for?”
“Why not?” Meinwen dropped to her feet. “Where is it again?”
“I’ll show you.” Tom carried his rubbish to a bin. “It’s over this way.”
Meinwen caught up. “Have you worked here long? I heard you were called ‘Old Tom’ but you’re actually younger than I am. You can’t be more than twenty.”
Tom grinned. “Twenty-three. There’s been an Old Tom digging the graves for decades. I sort of inherited the name along with the job, not that there’s that much to do these days. Most people are cremated because of the cost of a plot.”
“That’s a shame.” Meinwen gestured toward the graves. “They give people an ear when they’re in the ground. It’s not the same when you talk to a pile of ash.”
Tom paused and looked at her. “That sounds like experience. You’ve lost someone close?”
Meinwen nodded. “My mother, when I was twelve.”
Tom nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It taught me a lot about life.” They walked on, Tom pointing out interesting gargoyles on the side of the church.
“There used to be a Sheela-na-gig, but they removed it just before Father Brande took over the parish. That was a shame.”
“Where is it now?”
“Up at the manor. Technically it’s still public property and you can ask to view it anytime.”
“I don’t think I’ll bother.” She gave an upward nod and snorted. “They seem a bit of a funny lot.”
Tom laughed. “Mr. Waterman’s all right. I’ve known him for years. He used to run a second-hand shop and would buy our old toys off us.”
“Really? He didn’t strike me as the altruistic type.”
“He was all right. Sharp.”
“How so?”
“He used to give us half the money from the toys and put the rest in a savings account. At Christmas we could go to him with our savings books and he'd give it back with better interest than the post office.” Tom led them toward the northern boundary of the churchyard, where a pair of ancient yew trees guarded the lich-gate. “Here she is.” He gestured to a flint megalith. “This is Mab. Legends say she stood here and cursed the church and God turned her into stone.” He patted the mossy surface.
Meinwen traced her hand across the pitted surface. The stone towered over her, standing twelve feet above the surface of the earth and probably at least half again below it. There was a hole through it about a third of the way down like an eye staring at the church.
“It’s aligned with the ley line,” she said.
Tom nodded. “The sun shines through it on the spring and autumn equinoxes. Do you feel her?”
Meinwen placed her hand on the stone. It seemed to vibrate through her skin and she stepped back again. “I do. She hums.”
“She does that.” Tom looked up at the church steeple. “She’ll stop chanting when the church falls.”
“Local legend?”
He grinned. “Aye. That an’ she’s resting on the same piece of rock the church is.”
* * * *
Meinwen walked back home, making a point of looking at all the gravestones as she passed and saying the names aloud. When she got to the litter bin she stopped. Since Tom was still on the other side of the church she reached in and took the water bottle, careful to only hold it by the base. She took the paper sandwich wrapper, too.
At the tombstone where she had sat talking to him, she pulled out a tissue and wiped the wet area, folding it and tucking it into the sandwich bag.
She left the church and headed into town, her step a little lighter than before.
Chapter 21
Jean Markhew paused at the entrance to the church. Somewhere, Mozart’s Requiem reached the Sanctus, the drawn-out violins prompting tears to fall down her cheeks. She followed the music to the vestry, where Father Brande was hunched over some papers, his pen moving rapidly across the page in loops of minute lettering. He looked up when she knocked, the sound barely louder than the music.
“Jean!” He closed the folder of papers and covered it with a half-finished crossword. Standing, he took her hand in both of his own. “What a pleasure it is to see you. Is there something I can help you with?”
“That’s lovely music, Father Brande.” She held her head cocked to one side, her eyes closed and her right hand lightly beating time. “Where is it coming from?”
Simon gestured toward the desk “There, on the computer. I put some classical music files on it. It’s a clunky old thing but it does what I need it to.” He lowered his voice. “I’m supposed to be writing my sermon but I was just having a little break and wrestling with the crossword. One of my few vices, you know, but I’m sure the Lord will forgive me.”
“The things they think of.” Jean stared at the computer screen. “No wonder musicians are busking for breadcrumbs.” She rubbed her eyes, guessing how red they must be. “Robert’s been murdered.”
Simon frowned but took her arm and guided her to the seat in front of his desk. “He was murdered several days ago. You seemed to be taking it well up until now.”
“I know, Father, but today is the day that Robert always cooked us a meal. He did it once a week as a sort of appreciation for all the work the staff does in looking after him. They all got Saturday afternoon off and Robert would cook them dinner and treat them as if they were the masters of the house. I woke up this morning wondering what he was going to make–he always made something special–and it hit me he wouldn’t be cooking ever again.”
“So it’s sunk in that your brother-in-law is dead? I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m sure he’s gone to a better place.”
“Thank you Father.” Jean dabbed her eyes with a white silk handkerchief. “What are we going to do without him? He was the lynchpin of the house. Everything revolved around Robert.”
Simon patted her arm. “It takes a bit of getting used to but you’ll cope. It’s perfectly understandable to be upset after a death, and even more so when it’s unexpected like Robert’s was.”
Jean dabbed her eyes again. “How do other people cope with it?”
Simon made a steeple of his fingers, resting them against his top lip. “People just carry on. They trust in God to keep their loved ones safe and hope to meet them again in Heaven. Some people put on a stiff upper lip and others ask for help from a grief counselor. I have the number for the local group if you’d like it.” He looked out of the tiny leaded window at the churchyard. “Sometimes it helps to have a special place to speak to them, somewhere you feel
particularly close.”
“Like a grave, you mean? He hasn’t been buried yet.”
“I know, but it’s scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Perhaps it will begin to get easier after that.”
“I hope so. I wish they’d do away with this investigation, though. I can’t settle with everything in the air like this.”
“It won’t be long now, Jean.” Simon stood and crossed to the tiny sink. “Inspector White will have the case all wrapped up soon enough. Would you like some tea? I could do with one.”
“That would be kind of you. “Not too strong and with one sugar. Make sure you take the tea bag out before you put the milk in.”
“Er…right.” Simon filled the kettle and switched it on.
“You don’t think that they’ll arrest me, do you?” Jean sniffed.
“Arrest you?” Simon stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her. “Why would they want to do that?”
Jean paused, gathering her thoughts. “Do you remember that girl saying we all had secrets?”
Simon nodded. “Meinwen, her name is. I remember.”
“Yes, I knew it was foreign. Well, she was right in us all having little secrets but what use is knowing them to anyone else?”
Simon returned to the tea. “It depends upon the secret, I suppose. Most secrets are quite harmless. I, for example, have the habit of making sure that my socks are on the right feet. It makes no difference to anyone but I wouldn’t like it to be widely known for it smacks of vanity.”
Jean chuckled. “Oh Father, you are a treasure. I never thought I’d laugh again.”
Simon smiled and passed her a mug of tea. Just for a moment her face creased with displeasure as she had to close her hand around the hot mug to manipulate the handle to her side.
“I can’t believe you’d have any secrets worse than that,” he said.
“I’m afraid I have.” Jean put the mug down on the desk, careful to rest it on top of an old hymn book awaiting repair rather than the bare wood of the desk. “I looked for the will, you know, the day he died.”
“Really?” Simon sat again and stirred his tea. “May I ask why?”
“I was worried about what provision Robert would make for Mary and me. He never treated us very well, you know. He was always penny-pinching. We were reduced to buying secondhand clothes a lot of the time. Imagine that!”
“Imagine!”
“Robert would give the staff whatever they asked for. Three hundred a week went just on housekeeping, but would he give us a reasonable allowance? No he wouldn’t. Fifty pounds a week for me and twenty for Mary. That’s all. We felt like paupers.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“It was.” Jean took a sip of the tea and dabbed her lips with the handkerchief. “He didn’t understand a lady’s needs at all.”
“Did you find the will?”
“Not at the time, no.” Jean sniffed again. “I was poking about in his study, looking for it when that Catherine came in.”
“Catherine? The upstairs maid?”
“Pfft.” Jean was dismissive. “She was a better cook than a maid. She wasn’t very good at it. She never cleaned my suite properly. There was always dust on top of my wardrobe. I really don’t know what she did all day, and she certainly doesn’t do anything now.”
“I was under the impression she’d given her notice.”
“Notice yes. She’s still supposed to work it, though. And why has she given her notice in? That’s what I’d like to know. She was up to no good.”
“When she came into the study?”
“That’s right.” Jean leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I expect she was looking for something to steal, but was foiled when she saw me. Robert came in behind her and was surprised to find us there.”
“I bet he was.” Simon glanced at his cell phone. “What did you do?”
Jean shrugged. “I said I was looking for the latest copy of The Lady then went back upstairs to my suite.”
“Did you hear anything as you left?”
“She wanted to talk to him about something. She was in a bit of a state. Everyone’s talking about her, you know. She must have had something to do with it.”
“A little girl like that? Surely not.”
Jean scowled. “She scuttles about the place. She startles me with her creeping about.”
“Was the glass-topped case usually left unlocked?”
“It might have been.” Jean waved the question away. “I’d been watching Antiques Roadshow and he had a few pieces that were similar to the ones they’d shown. I was having a look at them to see if they were worth more than he thought. I was going to surprise Robert with the good news. He’s got a snuff box in there that’s worth six hundred pounds, you know.”
“Were you interrupted?”
“Yes. I heard running footsteps in the hall and hurried back to my room. I think that you arrived shortly after that.” She took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag. “Do you mind?”
The vicar looked annoyed but nodded. “That would have been Susan Pargeter. We nearly ran into her as we came into the drive. She did seem to be in a hurry.”
“Yes. That Inspector White should look at her as well. Perhaps she did it.” Jean lit her cigarette, blowing a smoke ring up into the vaulted ceiling. As an afterthought she offered the packet to the priest and he took one, borrowing her lighter.
“I doubt it if she was in a hurry to leave before the murder.” He sat back with a smirk as if this were the funniest thing in the world.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Jean tapped the ash off her cigarette. “Thank you for the talk, Father. It has been helpful to get it all out of my system.” She stood and gathered her gloves and handbag but paused at the vestry door. “You won’t let them arrest me, will you? I didn’t do poor Robert in, even if he was mean to us.”
Simon walked her through the apse. “You’ve done nothing they would arrest you for, Jean, don’t worry. Get off home and try to relax. I’m sure all this will be sorted soon.”
Jean nodded and shook his hand. “I hope so, Father.” She paused in the porch to pull on her gloves then hurried along the path to her car, dropping the cigarette butt at the edge of the graveyard and treading it into the ground.
* * * *
“I wonder if you could do me a favor.” Meinwen stood at the door to the rectory feeling somewhat uncomfortable. It was how she imagined Daniel must have felt when visiting the lion’s den without a veterinarian’s license.
“Of course.” Jennifer swapped her oven gloves to her left hand. “Come in. I’m just in the middle of making some jam with the last of the fruit from the freezer.”
“My mother used to make jam.” Meinwen followed her into the kitchen, marveling at the orderly lines of jars ready to be heated in the oven.
“Really? I’ll save you a jar if you like.”
Meinwen smiled “Very much, thank you.”
Jennifer returned to stirring the jam. “What was the favor?”
“Could you tell me what cellphone Richard was using? I phoned The Larches to find out but no one there could remember. I know you have a lot of contacts you could ask.”
“Sure.” Jennifer grinned over her shoulder. “You could have messaged me that.”
“I wouldn’t have been offered any jam them.”
“True. Would you like a coffee? There’s some in the pot.”
“That’s kind of you to offer, thanks.” Meinwen sat and drummed her fingers on the table. “Who would I ask to find out about Tom?”
Jennifer laughed. “Simon, of course. As parish priest, he’s in charge of the curate.”
“Simon wouldn’t believe any ill of Tom, though. Who else might tell me about him?”
“Harold Waterman? I think Tom does some work up at the manor on occasion.”
Meinwen grimaced. “I’d rather not. His companion has a dark aura. He made me feel dirty just saying hello to him. I dread to think what this Har
old Waterman is like. ”
Jennifer looked up through half-closed eyelids. “Is that dirty in a good way? I write smut, remember?” She waved a hand at the room. “We couldn’t afford all these antiques on the stipend that Simon gets from the church. I pay for nearly all of it. He gets a little bit of income from a legacy someone left him and a bit more from his stocks but it’s just a drop in the ocean.”
“A legacy? I didn’t think priests were allowed to have private holdings.”
“Oh, he gives any surplus away to the poor,” Jennifer said. “It’s not like he makes a profit out of anything, more’s the pity.” She put the spoon on the counter. “Why are you asking about Old Tom? Do you think that he had something to do with Robert’s murder?”
Meinwen shrugged. “Not really. He just seems a little odd.”
Jennifer laughed. “He’s bound to be. He’s been the curate and gravedigger for as long as I can remember. You’ve got to be a bit strange to do that.”
“Really? I didn’t think he was that old. Quite attractive, I thought.”
“You should get out more!” Jennifer gave Meinwen a friendly punch on the arm. “He must be sixty if he’s a day.”
Meinwen raised an eyebrow. “Really?” she said. “He told me he was twenty-three.”
* * * *
Susan put the Jaguar into drive and pulled off. “Did it go well, ma’am?” she asked. “Your talk with the priest, I mean.”
“Well enough.” Jean Markhew relaxed into the soft leather and pulled off her gloves. “I gave him enough to think that I’m a batty old woman worried about going to prison for stealing trinkets.”
“Well done, ma’am.” Susan smiled and Jean caught her glance in the rearview mirror. “You didn’t murder Master Robert, so they should leave you alone now.”
“Exactly.” Jean pointed to a lay-by separated from the road by a band of trees and hedgerow. “Pull over in there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Susan indicated and pulled into the half-moon section of tarmac. On weekday rush hours there was a sandwich truck that parked here. She drew the car to a smooth halt, switched off the engine and sat with her hands resting palm upright in her lap, waiting for further instruction.
