“Yes, I’m going. Say, might you—”
The library door flung open. In haste, Reverend Lewis reentered the study. “Must go. Please excuse me...a timely opportunity.”
Hugh arose from his chair. “I’ll see you to the...”
Reverend Lewis was gone before Hugh could finish his sentence.
Elgar’s “Nimrod” burst forth from inside the doctor’s suit coat. “Breathtaking.” He smiled at Lillie and pulled the mobile from an inside pocket. He pursed his lips. “Yes, yes, now?” he spoke into the phone then hung up. “Work emergency. I’m afraid I must go as well.” The physician laid his tea and goods aside and stood. “Sorry, please excuse. Thank you for your hospitality.” He took in Lillie’s fallen visage. “Truly enjoyable.”
“Oh.” The lilt was gone from her voice as a corner of her mouth drooped. Lillie wore disappointment poorly. “It was a delight.”
“You must come again,” Berdie invited.
The gentleman tipped his head toward the women. “I gladly accept your invitation.”
With that, Hugh escorted Loren Meredith to the door.
“Well...” Berdie sat without cheer and a half-eaten ginger biscuit in her hand, steam still rolling from her holiday cup.
“Yes, well,” Lillie agreed and gazed at the last red embers in the library fireplace.
6
Berdie stared at herself in the undulating mirror of her antique dressing table. Her holiday sleeping gown, a now washed-out red, had a holly-strewn goose strolling across her chest with a Christmas pudding and broad-brimmed hat. A gift several years ago from her Aunt Clara, it was made from gentle fleece and ever-so-comfy soft, but certainly not one of Hugh’s favorites. She ran the brush through her red brown hair and observed Hugh’s distorted reflection.
Her busy husband had arrived home from congregational house calls just an hour earlier, tired and unusually quiet. Now he stoked the flames in the hearth of the Cotswold stone fireplace, adding warmth to the bedroom from the sizable oak beams across the lime-washed ceiling to the polished wooden floors laden with Scottish wool rugs.
“Ready to retire, my dear husband?” Berdie spoke to the image in the mirror.
“I should almost consider it after the events of today.” Hugh exhaled.
“I mean, are you ready to go to bed?”
“Oh, of course that’s what you meant.” Her exhausted husband emitted gentle laughter.
Berdie turned in her petite dressing chair and faced her robe-wrapped husband.
“What happened today, Hugh, I mean with that odd visitor who turned our world topsy-turvy?”
“I’m all in, love. Can we discuss this later?”
“What did he say to you, Hugh?”
Hugh punched the flames with the poker. He withdrew it and, standing the tool erect, pushed the handle against the stone fireplace. “I’m going to bed.”
“You’ve put me off all day. This isn’t like you.” Berdie watched him toss his robe on the end of the large sleigh bed and ease his way under the snow white eiderdown that lay across the place of rest.
“I gave my word as a man of the cloth. What transpired in the sacristy stays there.”
Berdie was impertinent. “But I’m your wife.”
“And I’m a man of my word.” Hugh patted the pillow next to him, a familiar beckoning gesture to her.
Berdie spun back to face the looking glass and stayed fastened to the dressing chair, brushing her hair with rapid sweeps. This reminded her of the many times he couldn’t speak of his intelligence work when in the military.
Hugh raised himself up on an elbow. “Thank you for handling things well today, Berdie, including the impromptu tea.”
“For what it was worth.” Berdie felt sure her hairbrush would soon catch fire. “Reverend Lewis was certainly unappreciative, and exactly why has he decided to visit Aidan Kirkwood?”
“He saw the advert about rental of the church grounds for special events that our parish counsel put on the Net. His church is searching for a spring retreat site and heaven knows our counsel needs funds.”
“He’s hiding something, Hugh.” Berdie spit it out.
“Yes. It seems most clergymen are keeping something under wraps.” Her tired husband patted the vacant pillow again.
“Well, we know what you’re keeping mum on.” Berdie twirled in the chair and vigorously pointed her hairbrush in her husband’s direction. “You’ll go round the houses all you want, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this murder—mystery man and all.”
Hugh settled on his back, hands resting under his head on the goose down pillow. “I wish you would,” he spoke almost a whisper.
Berdie put the hairbrush down. “You what?” She stepped lightly over to the bed where Hugh stared at the large wooden ceiling beam above him. Placing herself carefully on the mattress edge, she saw clearly Hugh’s knitted brow, the weary droop to his otherwise sure lips. “You really do?” Berdie threw back the eiderdown and nestled herself beneath it. She laid her hand upon her husband’s chest. She felt it rise and fall as Hugh drew a heavy breath.
“Constable Goodnight has asked the church to clean Lavender Cottage on Saturday. The crime investigation complete, he said the church would likely be less inclined to rob the place blind in a cleanup. Berdie’s pulse tripped. “And I’m the person for the job.”
“Mind you, you must promise—”
“To fulfill my church duties,” she finished.
“And,” Hugh went on, “you must promise not to take any unnecessary chances and to keep Goodnight in the loop.”
Everything within Berdie wanted to protest. Goodnight! His investigative line of reason was better suited at the end of a fishing rod. And she never, well rarely, took unnecessary chances. But she didn’t fuss. Instead, she reached, turned the bedside lamp off, and laid her head on the sturdy shoulder that was a devoted part of her life. “On my honor as the wife who irons the cloth of the churchman.”
****
Saturday morning, Berdie arose, exercised, did morning devotion prayers, wrote three thank-you notes for holiday treats, cooked Hugh a full English breakfast, and cleaned up after a leaking dishwasher, all before half eight. By eight thirty-five, she was at Lavender Cottage, Lillie in tow, where she met Constable Goodnight at the front doorstep. He held two electric lanterns, and the yellow crime tape still draped the door. The policeman unlatched the door and lifted the ribbon.
“House is officially cleared, but I don’t want any dolts nosing round,” he grunted.
Oh, I’m up a rung on Goodnight’s respect ladder.
The constable lit the lanterns and handed them over to the women. “Edsel Butz will be by later to fix the electric.” The man stepped toward the garden gate. “I’ll leave you to it then.” He patted his rotund stomach. “I’ll be taking sustenance at the Upland Arms.”
Before Berdie could inform him that they would ring up when finished, he was out the gate.
Berdie entered the front hall with Lillie at her side. Though full of tumbled goods, the cottage held a profound emptiness. Berdie shivered and shut the door against the cold, but the moist English morning permeated throughout.
“Where do we start?” Lillie was bewildered.
“Sitting room,” Berdie determined. Several large boxes were stacked high in the hall. The two carefully pulled a couple of them out. Berdie deposited one at the sitting room door. “Rubbish in this one,” she directed, “and undamaged goods in the other one, to start.”
“Maybe things of distinct value we can place on the dining table,” Lillie offered and placed the goods box near the fireplace.
Though Lillie was just helping a friend, Berdie saw every mite as an opportunity to unravel the truths hidden amidst the rubble.
“Go carefully,” Berdie urged. “If you come upon anything that strikes you odd, give a word.”
Lillie set to and gathered upholstery stuffing strewn across the floor while Berdie went straight to the Advent wreath. C
arefully picking up the large pillar Christ candle, it felt almost wooden. She examined its sides, top, and bottom then quizzed Lillie.
“If you saw this candle, say, sitting on a dining table, would you identify it as a Christ candle for an Advent wreath?”
Lillie glanced at the candle. “No.”
“Because?”
“Obviously, it’s yellow, and Christ candles are snow white.”
“Quite right.” Berdie nodded and placed it in the undamaged goods box. “Does the word Bridgestones mean anything to you?”
“No.” Lillie stopped. “Maybe. We had a Bridgestones Department Store in Timsley, but it went out of business.” She continued to pick up the stuffing. “I think in the late seventies.”
Berdie removed the three weekly Advent candles from the holders. She laid them down across the hearth, bottoms facing her. She nosed closer to them and squinted. “These candles have designs carved on the bottom.”
Lillie looked at them. “Odd.”
“They’re trying to tell us something.” Berdie spoke her thoughts.
“I wonder where the fourth candle is.” Lillie looked across the floor.
“Ah yes, the fourth candle.” Berdie nodded. “I daresay it’s in the bedroom.”
The helper looked perplexed. “What’s it doing in the bedroom?”
“When we answer that, my dear, we shall have the key to unlock this mystery.”
Both women stared at the sticks of wax.
“Do you think the murderer made these marks?” Lillie asked.
“Hardly likely. No. They would have to inscribe them and put them back perfectly to hide them. And why do that?” Berdie tipped her head. “Yes, and why do that?”
She lifted the decorative lavender and evergreen wreath with silver berries that beautifully disguised the circular wire containing the candleholders underneath. She eased the florals carefully into the box.
“So many people have been taken with Miss Livingston’s idea to weave lavender into the evergreen for the Advent wreath.”
“The White Window Box can’t keep up with the demand for them, and with Miriam the sole supplier,” Lillie informed, “they’re quite dear. Close to forty pounds each.”
Berdie examined the golden wreath ring. “She must have been making a small fortune.”
“And she was sleeping on it,” Lillie added.
Berdie brought the Advent ring near the lantern. “Usually there’s a fair bit of wax in the candleholders, but these have none.” She caught her breath. “There’s something etched on the inside bottom of the metal.”
Lillie stepped lively to Berdie. “Something incriminating?” she almost cooed.
“It looks like single numbers.”
“Oh.” Lillie sounded a bit letdown. “Like one, two, three, four, for each candle?”
“No.” Berdie wiped the lenses of her glasses with the sleeve of her coat. “Seven.” She turned the ring. “Four.” She turned the ring again. “Three.” She peered so closely to find the next number that she bumped her glasses on the candle ring. Taken by surprise, she reared back and the glasses slid clear of her nose. What started as a yip of surprise became a howl of laughter as the two women scrambled to retrieve the errant pair of tortoiseshell glasses. “I think the last number’s a three.” Berdie chortled while her best friend found the escapee.
Lillie replaced the glasses on Berdie’s nose. “There. And in the case of this wreath wire,”—Lillie took it from Berdie’s hands—“in the box it goes.” Lillie tucked it away safely.
“Remember those numbers Lillie; they could lead us to something.” Berdie mulled. “Hiding indeed.”
“Seven, four, three, three,” the friend recited.
“A pin number?” Berdie puzzled. “The last four letters of an account? A birth date?”
“The phone number of a long-lost lover,” Lillie dreamed.
“A long-lost love,” Berdie whispered. Then she set to on the task at hand, that of cleaning. “Maybe there’s something else here that can shed some light.” She picked up a sea of old LP record albums and covers littering the rug. “You don’t see many of these anymore.” She scooped them up two and three at a time, matching record to jacket.
“They can be valuable, at least to collectors.” Lillie placed a torn cushion in the rubbish box.
“Miss Livingston was a true classical fan.” Berdie read the covers aloud. “Claude Debussy, Sans-Saens, Bizet, Puccini, several are Ravel.”
“Oh yes.” Lillie paused, cotton batting in her hand. “Ravel was her favorite. She would often hum when working amongst her lavender, that haunting rhythm from Boléro you know, that starts out humbly then ends up exploding. Dum de de de de dum.” She lifted the volume of the syncopated beats. “Dum de de de de dum.”
“Not one Bach,” Berdie interrupted.
“What?” Lillie still hummed her dum de des.
“Don’t all classical fans fancy Bach? And where’s Beethoven?”
“Maybe the perp took it,” Lillie chided. “Perhaps he favors Beethoven’s Ninth.” The choirmaster thundered into song. “Da da da d–a–a–a–a.”
“Everyone has an accounting of taste I suppose.” Berdie shuffled the albums. “See here, intact, an Elgar.” Berdie held it up for her friend to view, one of the few unmolested items.
Instantly, Lillie snatched the album from Berdie’s hand. “That goes on the dining table.” She placed it there like a sacred relic on the otherwise empty surface. “That’s a treasure.”
“Take it,” Berdie offered.
“Do you think?” Lillie picked it back up.
“I’ll bet Miriam would have wanted you to have it. Besides, it’s just going into a jumble shop. If it’s special to you, ‘the labourer is worthy of her hire.’”
“I believe you’re right, my dear vicar’s wife.”
Berdie picked up an overturned basket only to discover a sachet pocket clinging to the weave. She opened the scented fabric.
“Lavender, of course.” Berdie sniffed. “What are these?” She pulled several index cards from the envelope-shaped pocket. She read a card. “One part water, one part lemon juice, a squeeze of honey.” She waved the card toward Lillie. “Odd recipe holder.”
Lillie, busy arranging a box, offered barely a glance. “Not recipes, really...well, not for dishes. Miss Livingston swore by her home remedies. Believed modern medicine had run amok. She had one for skin care that worked quite well—kept her looking fairly youthful. The one you just read was her prescriptive for a clear singing voice.”
“There are enough remedies here to render the whole village a perfect bill of health,” Berdie observed. “I’ll put the pouch in the box with the wreath.”
Thirty minutes into the cleanup, and the chaos of the sitting room gave way to a more orderly, though gaunt, appearance.
Lillie gathered books from the floor, some flung open, and others just toppled. “Le Petit Prince.” She admired a small book. “One of my favorites as a child. My parents insisted I learn French, but I’m afraid it was a bit of a disappointment for them.” She continued collecting the stray hardbacks. “I never quite got the grammar, although I loved that story.”
Berdie added three books to the pile in Lillie’s arms. “Two of three novels I’ve picked up have French titles,” she noted to Lillie. “Did Miriam speak French?”
“A bit or bob. My parents, rest their souls, said she didn’t speak at all the first five years she lived in Aidan Kirkwood. She just stayed in her cottage and worked in her garden, never spoke to anyone.”
Berdie placed more books on the stack Lillie held. “The human soul can tolerate isolation only a limited time.”
“Batty Natty moved in next door.” Lillie blew a puff of air and tried to balance the volumes in her arms. “They started attending Evensong at church.” The choirmaster looked wistful. “She won’t be caroling with us tomorrow evening, will she?”
“No,” Berdie replied, “if indeed any of us will.”
The space where they stood suddenly felt utterly vacant.
Bong. The chime of the sitting room clock abruptly filled the place. Lillie shuddered and hurled the books into the air, rivaling Christmas fireworks. Bong.
“Wretched clock!” Berdie roared.
Bong.
“What did you say?” Lillie all but screamed. The musician placed her hands over her ears.
The bongs continued until it finished declaring the arrival of the nine o’clock hour.
“Miss Livingston must have wanted to know when tea time arrived whilst working in the back garden,” Lillie declared.
“I forgot about that fiendish thing.” Berdie thought back to the first time she heard the bell in the dark, disheveled sitting room. She regathered the books.
Lillie had just placed a handful of reading materials in a box when there was a decisive knock on the front door. She peered out the window. “Edsel,” she announced.
Berdie was in the hall, door opened wide to let the workman inside. He fumbled about with a worn toolbox.
“Mornin’,” he greeted.
“Edsel.” Berdie smiled.
Entering, his toolbox caught the edge of the half-moon table pressed against the hallway wall. The whole affair went up over end, spilling the drawer out with its entire contents of candles rolling across the floor. “Silly place for a table.” Edsel scowled. “There’re enough candles here to light the entire village.” The candles rolled everywhere.
Lillie was jolly on the spot.
Edsel bent down to pick up a few, clanging his toolbox against the fallen table. “Old dears sometimes keep these ‘practical candles’ they called them, in droves, a leave over from the war blackouts and all.” He grunted as he dipped lower.
“It’s all right Edsel. Lillie and I can get them. You go about your work—we can use the light.”
“If you’re sure.” The man stood upright and took a breath.
“We’ll have this cleaned up in no time,” Lillie chimed in while gathering.
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