Natty didn’t appear to be very happy about the arrangement.
Hugh stood, and the women sat in chairs that Berdie would have bet a ten-pound note came from the jumble sale. Goodnight appeared stuffed in his seat at a littered desk that was inadequate to accommodate a man of his size. A plate was parked on the corner of the desk, holding a meat pie and the remains of green pea mash.
The guard narrowed his eyes and looked squarely at Berdie. “Remember I’m the one asking the questions here.” The constable stuck a fork into the meat pie and shoved a large piece in his mouth. “Miriam Livingston was dead when you found the body?”
Berdie tried to be tactful and responsive despite being appalled. “Perhaps we should go and return when you’ve finished your meal.”
Goodnight chewed. “Answer the question, please.”
“I checked for a pulse; there was none.” She paused. “By the state of the victim, I would say—”
“I have the coroner’s report, Mrs. Elliott.” A piece of piecrust was caught on Goodnight’s mustache.
“As the party who found the body I have an interest in seeing that report.” Berdie spoke carefully.
“And do you?” The piece of crust bounced with each word. “Is that so you and your busybody friend here can have a good chin wag?”
“Mr. Goodnight, my wife and Miss Foxworth are not given to idle gossip.” Hugh’s voice was crisp. “Mrs. Elliott has the best of intents.”
The policeman shoved another forkful of food in his mouth. “Did you see any money?”
“Yes, hundred-pound notes in the bedroom.”
“See a murder weapon?”
Berdie tilted her chin. “I saw something that could have possibly been the murder weapon beneath the hem of the deceased’s gown.”
“A screwdriver?” Goodnight barked.
“Yes.”
“Gotcha.” Goodnight smiled. “You were snoopin’, weren’t ya?” He scribbled something on a paper.
Hugh cleared his throat.
Harriet Goodnight popped into the room holding Miss Bell by the elbow. “The batty one wants to come in to be with Mrs. Elliott. She’s givin’ us the fits out here.” She deposited Natty in the room and left with a loud slam of the door before her husband could object.
“Who’s in the garden?” Natty squeaked when she saw the constable. “Someone’s in the garden.”
“Constable Goodnight...” Berdie couldn’t help herself. “I think Natty may have valuable information to the investigation.”
Albert pointed his fork at Natty. “What, this one?” He then scooped up some pea mash from the plate. “She’s daft as Balaam’s donkey.”
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Goodnight plummeted through again. “Cara Graystone says she needs to see you.”
“Harriet,” the policeman bawled, “I’ve told you at least ten times. Don’t interrupt when I have people in the room.”
Cara squeezed past the guard’s wife and stood her ground directly in front of the desk. “I have something that’s relevant to Miss Livingston’s murder.”
Goodnight frowned, but Cara rattled on, and Mrs. Goodnight banged the door closed.
“This morning I saw a man in the woods when I was out jogging. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but he looked, um, furtive. He was coming from the direction of Lavender Cottage.”
“Description?” Goodnight stuck the last bit of pea mash in his mouth.
Cara pushed her long hair back with a flip. “He was tall, very tall, light hair, a white blond color. It wasn’t anyone from the village. I hadn’t ever seen him before. Dressed in black.”
Natty started. “Yes.” She began to tremble. “I saw him, too.”
Cara gasped. She turned to the old woman. “You saw him, too?”
“Right.” Goodnight put the fork down. “Ladies, was the man running?”
At the exact same moment Cara said, “Yes,” Natty said, “No.”
“Blinkers!” Batty Natty shouted, just like a child who speaks at the same time as another child. “Blinkers on you, Cara.” She grinned; the trembling ceased.
Goodnight rolled his eyes. “Saints preserve us. Was the man carrying any bags or wearing a large overcoat?”
Berdie’s ears perked up.
Again, at the same moment, Cara said, “No,” Natty said, “Yes.”
“Blinkers again.” Natty was downright cheerful. “I got blinkers on Cara twice.”
Cara leaned close to the constable. “With all due respect, does she have to be in the room?”
Goodnight ran his tongue across his top teeth, sweeping little green bits away. “Listen, Cara, what you saw was someone, probably one of our holiday blow-ins, who had a row with his wife or was suffering a bout of indigestion from eating breakfast at the Upland Arms. Now go on home and try to have a good night’s rest.”
Cara folded her arms across her dark leather jacket. “Fine, I’m going to give this information to my father. As the village solicitor, he’ll do something about it.”
“Tell him anything you want, love, this one’s already on the hook.”
Berdie tried to be polite. “Excuse me, Constable Goodnight. Did you say this one’s on the hook? Already?”
“Well done, Albert.” Hugh wasn’t helping at all.
With defiant gray eyes, Cara steamed out of the room.
“Don’t you want to ask me something?” Lillie chimed in.
“No.” The policeman leaned back and folded his hands over his large stomach. “And as for your person with information that is invaluable to the case, Mrs. Elliott, observe.” He turned his smug face to Batty Natty.
“Miss Bell, did you see, at Lavender Cottage this morning, a short man with dark hair wearing a plaid shirt?”
Her eyes grew large. “Yes, I did,” she said with a nod of the head.
Goodnight leaned forward across the desk. “And did you not also see the little green men with orange hair, dressed in nappies?”
Natty’s chin quivered. “They were there, too?”
“All right, Constable, you’ve made your point.” Hugh was sharp.
“I rest my case.” Goodnight grinned like the Cheshire cat. “You can all go home now.”
Back out in the sitting room, Hugh walked to the front door, followed by Berdie and Lillie. “I’ll get the car. You wait here.” Hugh stepped out.
Lillie came close to Berdie. She was almost breathless. “Who do you think the suspect is?”
“I don’t know. But as sure as Christmas holly pricks the thumb, I’m going to find out. We’ll see if this case is already on the hook.”
4
After leaving the Goodnight residence, it took only five minutes to deposit Lillie and Natty at their abodes. Since Berdie and Hugh passed the Upland Arms on the way home, they decided to stop for some takeaway.
“I’ll go in and get it. What do you want?” Hugh asked.
“Anything but meat pie.”
Hugh chuckled, then stepped to the pub.
Berdie could hear her stomach growl whilst she sat in the quiet people carrier. It was cold but clear, the moon was waxing—or was it waning? She wasn’t really sure. Smoke rose from the stone chimney of the Upland Arms. It curled into the dark sky and disappeared among the stars.
This pub, established in 1680, was the true locale of Aidan Kirkwood. The lively public house not only served up the standard drink and pub grub, but rounds of conversation and scuttlebutt. It often had the latest news before the Kirkwood Times, the weekly homegrown newspaper, even knew anything occurred. And just this past Sunday night, the Upland Arms sponsored a darts tournament where several teams from nearby village pubs participated. That made Berdie wonder just who it was that Hugh had to help home in the middle of the night.
The arched wooden door of the establishment opened, and light spilled across the car park accompanied by the usual pub banter and jolly music. It broke Berdie’s moment of reverie. Edsel Butz stepped out, bags of carryout dinners
in his arms. For a man who was often jovial, who cherished both family and the dinner hour, he looked quite low. Berdie wasn’t sure what to expect if she conversed with Edsel. After all, when he departed the party last night he was angry and humiliated. Then today she had left his wife, Ivy, literally out in the cold. She opened the van window with a wing and a prayer.
“Hello, Edsel.”
He set his eyes upon her, but it was as if he didn’t really see her. His large frame sagged, work coveralls sticking out from under his plaid woolen over shirt. Berdie imagined he had worn his straight dark hair parted on the side like that, with a close cut around his ears, since school days.
He finally acknowledged her. “Mrs. Elliott.”
“Edsel, I’m very sorry about—” Berdie started.
The man shook his head. “You haven’t done anything to me you need to apologize for.”
“Yes, well, there’s Ivy.”
“She’s barely speaking to me at the moment. You can take that up with Ivy. I’ve got other things on my mind right now.”
Berdie tried to console him. “The whole village is trying to deal with Miss Livingston’s death.”
Edsel moved closer to the open window. “You invited Jamie Donovan, my apprentice, to your party, didn’t you? You must think he’s a good chap.”
Berdie smelled the oily aroma of chips and cheese toasties. “I have no reason to think otherwise.”
“You know, those things he said to Miss Livingston at the party, calling her a stupid cow and all, it was just a snap reaction to her rude behavior.”
“Yes, I think we all know he didn’t mean anything by it.” Berdie wondered why they were talking about Jamie.
“You pound a ground stake into that belief, Mrs. Elliott.” The man looked down then straightened. “Jamie’s going to need it.”
The pub door opened wide again, and Hugh approached with two brown paper bags. “Evening, Edsel.”
“Vicar.”
Hugh handed the bags to Berdie through the window then turned back to Mr. Butz.
“Sorry about all this mess.” Hugh sounded concerned.
“Not your fault, Vicar.” Edsel tried to sound chipper.
“I just heard some of the scuttlebutt inside. If there’s anything I can do, please, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” Edsel tipped his head to Hugh and Berdie then trudged to his work lorry laden with ladders and electrical gear. He started the engine.
“He was going on about Jamie,” Berdie informed when Hugh got in the people carrier.
He inserted and turned the key, then sat back and paused. “The suspect in the Livingston murder case has done a runner. There’s a manhunt being conducted. Apparently, Jamie Donovan killed Miriam Livingston.”
****
The large kitchen in the vicarage was quite cozy for its size. The table for two by the back garden window was just big enough for Berdie and Hugh to sit comfortably. Two baskets of hot fish and chips were ready to be devoured. Berdie doused her food liberally with the malt vinegar that always accompanied a fish dinner.
“I just can’t believe it’s Jamie.” Berdie started to put a chip in her mouth.
Hugh took her empty hand.
“Oh, yes.” Berdie bowed her head.
“Thank You, Father, for the bounty of this, Your earth; bless it to our bodies. Amen.” Hugh blew on a hot chip. “This whole thing with Jamie has you in a real stew.”
“Well why wouldn’t it? Why Jamie? I know he’s new to the village, and he made some inappropriate comments to Miriam Livingston, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Or doesn’t appear to be,” Hugh countered.
Berdie took a bite of fish and chewed for a moment, almost ignoring what her husband had just said. She swallowed. “What ties him to the murder? Electricity off and he’s a repairman, a tool, a witness, what?”
Hugh put his fork down. Berdie saw him raise his left eyebrow, a sure sign that she probably would not be pleased with whatever came from his mouth next.
“Berdie, leave this investigation alone.” Hugh was in his military mode.
“But, Hugh, Albert Goodnight is less than brilliant at investigating something like this. He’s doing a terrible job.”
“Bernadine, that’s the point. It’s his job. I admit, had I run an investigation as a naval intelligence officer in such a manner, I’d have lost my career. I’m less than impressed with his work as well. But we have our own work to do.”
Berdie popped a chip in her mouth and chomped as if it were shoe leather.
“Love, we are caretakers of this parish. First, we have a funeral to arrange.” Hugh enumerated. “Next, we have the Butz family, Mr. Raheem, even Reverend Lewis who suffered from the biting tongue of Miss Livingston. Now there’s no possible reconciliation. How are they coping? Cara Graystone has suffered great personal loss. And what of Jamie Donovan? We have a community in mourning, and they’re looking to me”—he stopped and wagged his head—“they’re looking to both of us for pastoral care at a critical moment in time.”
Berdie was now paying attention to what Hugh said, and of course, as was almost always the case when her husband was making a point, it made good sense.
Hugh bit a chip in half. “Here it is Christmas, the season of goodwill, and someone’s been murdered. Many in our congregation are wondering if this is a lost holiday.”
Berdie looked her husband keenly in the eye. “And it is not.”
“Indeed.” The conviction of her husband’s sure and true beliefs stood at attention. “And as the protector and defender of the faith, it is fitting to care for the welfare of the flock. It’s crucial that we allow people to grieve, and at the same time restore a sense of normalcy. All this is my job, and it’s a fair expectation. But I can’t do it without your help.” Hugh gulped down the other half of the chip.
Now it was Berdie’s turn to put down her fork. “Cooking church casserole dishes when Lavender Cottage needs a good scour for evidence?”
“No time for chasing the bad guys, love. And you do far more than supply feedings.”
Hugh was such a wonderful husband and an outstanding pastor, but how could he observe Goodnight’s lack of ability and be satisfied with it? On the other hand, she knew every word he spoke was true. She had responsibilities that required her full attention here in the church ministry, and, as he said, they weren’t just cooking casseroles. She reached across the table and took Hugh’s hand. “By the grace of God, I’ll do my best, Hugh. I can’t promise more than that.”
Hugh smiled. “I can’t ask more than that.”
By the time they finished their meal and tended to the tidying up around the vicarage, it was bedtime. After saying their nightly Compline prayer together, Hugh was out with the light. But Berdie was restless. She kept thinking about Jamie Donovan.
****
The next morning, Berdie set about weaving her regular routine into the demands of the current calamity.
Her first errand this morning was to walk to the Kirkwood Times located on the High Street. It was a tradition, since 1869, for the vicar’s wife to submit a weekly recipe to be printed in the column, “Recipe Corner.” In general, as a former investigative reporter, Berdie found submitting recipes to the weekly rag a bit of a cheek. After all, she had worked on tough cases with some powerful newspapers. However, for the sake of tradition and good standing in the community, she continued the practice. Her submission today was Bread Sauce, a flavorsome favorite for the holiday table.
This morning, the walk was a delight to the senses: The air was brisk. Whiffs of smoke alerted the nose to hearth fires, doors wore lively Christmas wreaths, and boisterous woodland birds called to one another. It took only a slip of time to reach the newspaper office.
When she arrived, the small storefront office was stuffed firmer than a Christmas goose. Visiting newspaper personnel, two desks and multiple filing cabinets, plus a counter, shared a space that was large enoug
h to hold only one desk comfortably.
“Mrs. Elliott,” David Exton greeted. The lean young man, whose black frame glasses gave his baby face a note of authority, was the son of the former, now retired, editor. His journalism degree just finished, he was hungry to make his mark in the world of news.
Berdie squeezed through the crowd to enter the swing gate of the counter behind which David stood.
With rapid fire, the digital recorder crowd was launching a gaggle of questions toward the editor concerning the recent murder. He was doing his best to accommodate.
Berdie deposited her recipe at the appropriate in-box and moved back toward the counter swing door. Just the odor of the place pulled at her newspaper roots.
“Did you know the victim?” A reporter loudly inquired of David.
“Not well,” he responded, “but I can tell you she reacted churlishly toward my photographer. When he snapped her picture after winning first place amongst all our villagers here at Aidan Kirkwood’s August flower show, Miss Livingston tried to break his camera. Sold that picture to a London paper, by the way.”
“What can you tell us about the perp, Jamie Donovan?”
Berdie couldn’t help herself. She stopped by the swing gate to listen.
“All we can give you at the moment is”—David Exton read scribbles from an Upland Arms paper serviette—“according to our local police, the murder weapon was a workman’s screwdriver found at the crime scene that inextricably ties Jamie Donovan, age twenty-three, to the crime.”
Berdie blinked. How does a screwdriver do that?
The editor continued, “Witnesses say they heard him arrive on the scene near the time the crime was committed.”
Berdie knit her brow. Heard?
“His work lorry was found at his employer’s home, where he apparently bunked for parts unknown.”
“He’s from Ireland?” another newspaperman questioned.
“Originally. He lived in Aidan Kirkwood for the past three months.”
“A manhunt is being conducted?”
“All rail stations, airports, and water passage ports have been alerted. Several calls have come into the Aidan Kirkwood police station.”
Candle for a Corpse Page 5
