Candle for a Corpse

by Marilyn Leach

  Not more than a few meters away Berdie saw Reverend Lewis speaking into a small handheld digital recorder. Both women stopped.

  “Ah, Mrs. Elliott, would you say this area could hold a standard size marquee tent?” he called and came near.

  “I would think.” Berdie knitted her brow.

  Mrs. Braunhoff assessed the vicar in one glance. “He criticized my kulich.”

  “We would need it for our final banquet, if this venue is my congregation’s choice.” The man smiled awkwardly. He nodded toward Berdie’s cargo. “Quite pale, that one.” He snickered. “Looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

  “I daresay we would as well had we given birth on a cold porch,” Berdie spouted.

  Mrs. Braunhoff smothered a chuckle and made off with her Joseph in tow.

  “In good holiday cheer, are we?” Reverend Lewis sniffed and put his hands on his hips.

  “Did my husband suggest you come here today?” Berdie squeezed the baby Jesus in her arm a bit tighter.

  “Do I need permission to be in a church garden?” The man narrowed his blue eyes that were just visible below the rim of his dark hat.

  “Perhaps not, but I should say you have taken liberties.” Berdie was politely direct.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Berdie took a breath. “Visiting Jamie Donovan in jail, for one.”

  “Visiting?” The man paused. “Oh, no. You’re not going to disparage me for doing a good turn.”

  “Very well. I’ll just say thank you and ask you to keep your distance from him. Jamie is Hugh’s parishioner; it’s not your job to attend to our church body.” Berdie discreetly tipped her head to the man and took a step toward the terrace.

  “Mrs. Elliott, your husband left that poor lad sitting in the clink whilst you and he puttered about on holiday.”

  Berdie turned on her heel. “What?”

  “I was there for the boy in his hour of need.” Reverend Lewis stepped closer to Berdie. “And what has your dear husband done to help his case?”

  Berdie pulled the baby Jesus to her heart. “My husband has soothed and nourished the people of this village.” Berdie felt her face go red despite the cool weather. “Furthermore, it was a working holiday, and at this moment Hugh has his fingers in the pie of sensitive intelligence concerning the victim’s background and shadowed history, which could go a long way on Jamie’s behalf.” Berdie’s voice almost became a trumpet. “So I suggest you let Hugh tend to things.”

  Reverend Lewis lunged toward her, his eyes flared and his back stiff. She stepped backward, almost tripping over the holy mother’s hem.

  The angry man drew a shallow breath. “You tell me what I can and cannot do? You stick your nose in where it’s not wanted and call it charity because your husband is in the church. It’s just an excuse to be a meddlesome busybody.”

  As if in a moment of inspiration, the three men sitting in The Daily Grind together popped into Berdie’s head while Jamie’s voice rang in her ears. He has some scheme to hire a private solicitor. Her eyes flickered. “You’re trying to get Graystone to represent Jamie Donovan.”

  The man’s face flushed. “Whatever business it is of yours? Graystone would move heaven and earth to keep his— to keep Jamie out of jail. He has a vested interest to defend him.”

  “Does he really? From what I can see of the situation, that’s like saying King Herod has a vested interest to defend the crèche.”

  “Why, you silly cow!” Reverend Lewis thrust his forefinger toward her and hurled his voice at her like a winter gale. “From now on stay out of my way. I’ll talk to the organ grinder, not his monkey.”

  “My dear sir!” Mrs. Braunhoff stepped her sturdy body next to Berdie.

  Reverend Gerald Lewis raised his chin and took a deep breath. As if having done battle, the reverend marched off from the garden.

  Barbara Braunhoff put her hands to her hips. “If ever a man were ill-suited for the cloth, it would be that one.” She took the virgin mother from Berdie’s grasp. “Let’s get on with the scrub-up then.”

  Berdie transferred her dislike for Reverend Lewis’s comments into scrubbing power. That, plus Mrs. Braunhoff’s skillful scouring, and it took no longer than an hour to get the figures prepared for their upcoming fix-ups and command performance. Not two minutes after sudsing the last sheep, the laden clouds let go their cascade. Dashing madly, Berdie and Barbara tucked the holy family and friends safely inside the church. Berdie and Barbara offered cordial farewells and scooped up their umbrellas.

  ****

  After freshening up, it was a sloshy walk to Mr. Raheem’s store. Berdie prayed as she went and it calmed her considerably. Umbrellas bounced and weaved all along the High Street, and at last, Lillie’s came into view.

  “Are you OK?” was Lillie’s greeting as she took in her friend’s visage.

  “I’m much better now, but I had a considerable head butt with Gerald Lewis.”

  “That man and fish...” Lillie quoted her late father. “Both go off after three days.”

  Berdie nodded. “And he’s been here for weeks. I’ll tell you what happened later. Right now I need some Jerusalem artichokes, red potatoes, and a boatload of answers.”

  Three people exited the store as Berdie and Lillie entered. The jolly bells danced and the threesome admired their little fruit baskets while trying to manage full produce bags and popped umbrellas.

  “Ah, my dear women,” Mr. Raheem greeted from across the shop and quickly made his way past Mrs. Horn, who was fingering the cranberries. “Welcome! And how was your holiday?”

  “Delightful,” Berdie responded. “Thank you for asking. It looks like your wee baskets are quite popular.”

  “Even as you say,” the man replied, grinning. “It was my dear wife’s idea, a celebration gift of sorts.”

  “And what is it exactly that you’re celebrating?” Lillie asked.

  “Your well-being, for one.”

  “Very kind, Mr. Raheem, thank you. And there’s another reason?” Berdie quizzed.

  The man espied Villette Horn at the checkout. “Let me tend to my customer, and then I can tell you.” The grocer went to the counter.

  “Very wise man—get the town crier out the door before you say anything you don’t want marched up and down the High Street.” Lillie smiled as she spoke.

  While Mr. Raheem calculated the merchandise, Villette turned toward the two women. “Isn’t it wonderful? The three of you reunited after that dramatic rescue. You must be so grateful.”

  Berdie just bobbed her head while Lillie kept her pasted smile.

  “Keep the story growing, and Mr. Raheem will have rescued hundreds from a blazing inferno while single-handedly putting the fire out himself.” Lillie spoke through her teeth.

  With business settled and Villette out the door, the happy man returned to Berdie’s side.

  “Mrs. Raheem and I have a praise to God to celebrate.” He leaned his head closer and whispered as if Mrs. Horn was listening from outside. “My brother in London bought out my half of the business our father left us. I have put the money into the business here. It’s all ours—Sharday and Hardeep Raheem, greengrocers. A dream come true.” Mr. Raheem’s face was lit like a Christmas candle. “All goodness from God.”

  “Congratulations! Would you like Hugh to come do a shop blessing of sorts?” Berdie offered.

  “Oh, for now we want to keep the good news mum. If the village knew, well, perhaps they wouldn’t be so eager to buy. But I would be delighted with a private blessing—a grand idea.”

  “It’s your recognition as a hero, it would seem, that keeps the people of Aidan Kirkwood eager to buy.” Berdie made the point clearly.

  “I only did what any Christian would do. It is others who, how you say, toot the horn.” The gentleman pointed to a bin. “Look.”

  Berdie spied the almost empty structure.

  “You’re running low on red potatoes.” Lillie spoke her observation.

&nb
sp; “Exactly!” Mr. Raheem beamed.

  “Ah.” Berdie smiled.

  “I don’t say I am pleased a home caught on fire, or that you were in danger, God forbid! But I am pleased that I had an opportunity to do something good, and the community took note. Now, is there something I can get you?”

  “Some Jerusalem artichokes,” Berdie answered.

  Mr. Raheem directed the women to the bin holding the delectable vegetable. “Just unearthed this week.” The grocer held one up. “Decidedly fresh. How many do you wish?”

  “Let’s start with four of them.” Berdie moved seamlessly on to her question while Mr. Raheem inspected the artichokes. “You know we never discussed how it was you were at Lavender Cottage the day of the blaze.”

  The man held up a lovely green plant for Berdie’s approval. She nodded.

  “I wasn’t actually at the cottage. I was looking in on Mrs. Bell’s home.”

  “Natty’s?” Lillie asked.

  The man plied the artichokes for the largest ones. “Mrs. Bell’s family hired me to care for her home while she’s away. That’s when I spotted the fire. I used to make produce deliveries to Miss Livingston, too, you know.”

  The vegetable connoisseur held up two more plump delights.

  Berdie nodded again. “Often?”

  “My best customer. Every week, sometimes twice a week. She would always pay with hundred-pound notes. I could seldom break them so she carried over the extra to the next purchase. An act of trust. She could be quite rude, but Miss Livingston possessed keen understanding...of being a stranger in a new place.”

  “Yes, I believe she would understand that clearly,” Berdie agreed.

  The man added one more artichoke to the stash in his arms. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “What’s left of your red potatoes, please, and an answer to another question.”

  The grocer put the artichokes in a plastic bag.

  “You saw Jamie Donovan at the train station the morning Miss Livingston left us.”

  “I will never forget that day, never.” The man went solemn. “A very sad day. Yes, I saw the young man run to catch the train to Holyhead, very distressed. I didn’t know he was suspect at the time, but as soon as I heard, I called Mr. Goodnight.”

  Mr. Raheem had the potatoes to the last one in a bag. He took a breath and his countenance brightened again. “It seemed all of Aidan Kirkwood was at the station that morning.”

  “Oh yes?” Berdie’s ears were finely tuned.

  “There was Mathew Reese, going back to school perhaps, Miss Graystone—she brought her fiancé to the station, I would think.”

  Berdie and Lillie’s eyes locked momentarily.

  “And Reverend Lewis, who was going to inspect a property for his church’s retreat. I saw Mr. Graystone’s auto in the car park, but I didn’t see him.”

  “My, it was a busy morning for several people,” Lillie commented.

  “The holiday season can bring more than usual dashing about it seems. A time perhaps that should better suit peace and gratitude.” Mr. Raheem handed the bag of potatoes to Berdie.

  “You must not forget a little container of dried fruit.” He pointed to a display that held several of the merry baskets.

  “Thank you, Mr. Raheem.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Lillie reiterated.

  “And the vegetables are on the home,” he added.

  “House?” Lillie corrected.

  “How very kind, Mr. Raheem.” Berdie held the goods in her arms. “You and your wife must come for dinner before the holiday passes.”

  “We would be delighted.” The man tipped his head and the two women were back out in the rain, laden with bags and opened umbrellas.

  “Our Mr. Raheem is either a most sincere and genuine Christian as ever could be,” Berdie announced, “or a complete and utter fake of the worst kind. And I believe the former rather than latter.”

  “Here, here,” Lillie agreed.

  “Any play we’ve given to Mr. Raheem being the perpetrator of any horrid crime can be laid to rest, I should think. Wolves in sheep’s clothing I’ve seen time and again, but Mr. Raheem is definitely one of the sheepfold. Yes...definitely.”

  The two women parted. Berdie felt most confident about the visit to the kind greengrocer who, in a week’s time and one strategic divine appointment, moved from dog-paddler in the Aidan Kirkwood goldfish bowl to strident freestyle swimmer.

  Soggy but keen, Berdie was home fixing tea for herself and her husband. She prepared one of the artichokes with dipping sauce and poached some fresh salmon with herbs. It was a light meal, but she looked to the evening for a sturdy repast. When she and her husband finished eating, Berdie arranged her thoughts to break the news of the standoff with Reverend Lewis.

  “By the way,” she began while removing the plates from the small table, “you are looking at a cowky.”

  “What are you on about?” Hugh asked in between gathering the used tableware.

  “I came upon Reverend Lewis in the church back garden today, measuring something. And when I asked him to leave off and let you do your parish care, first he called me a cow, then the organ grinder’s monkey. You see, a cowky.”

  The generously patient Hugh clattered the forks and knives into the ample kitchen sink, making Berdie blink. “That is the last straw.” Hugh turned the tap on to rinse the silverware. “He has name called, bullied, and overstepped once too often. And never, under any circumstances, call your host vicar’s wife names. Not ever.” Hugh leaned against the sink and let out a long, slow breath.

  “Hugh.” Berdie moved to her husband and touched his shoulder. “You’ve shown only generosity of spirit toward a visiting clergyman.”

  “And when that clergyman brings dishonor to the collar, things have to change.” He crossed his arms. “You know, I’ve never been able to pin him down to what parish he serves.” Hugh shook his head. “Yes, I know what I need to do.” The vicar moved swiftly to the kitchen door.

  “Hugh?” Berdie knew her husband would do the wise thing.

  “I’m calling Canon Fraser. This situation will soon be sorted.”

  Berdie stacked the old dishwasher with the dirty dishes and made a wee prayer for both her husband and the archaic machine. “Please work.” She pushed the START button and had to admit the kitchen floor was shiny clean for wiping up after the leaking vessel. On it came, swishing like a lulling Christmas cradlesong.

  “Thank You, Lord.” Berdie smiled as she whipped her bright green holiday dishcloth over the oak wood counters. She hummed “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” as she worked. About half done with giving the fridge door a go, a definite clunk sounded from the dishwasher, which was followed by complete silence.

  “Really,” Berdie moaned and went to collect her husband, who had just finished his call in the library.

  Hugh spoke. “Canon Fraser is on it. He’ll telephone back soon.”

  “I’m sure it will all work out well.” Berdie exhaled. “However, Hugh, our dear old dishwasher is another story. It has finally run its course. I think we need to give it a decent burial and look for another.”

  “Oh.” Hugh had an eyebrow arched. He arose and walked with her back to the kitchen. The lovely swishing noise wafted through the warm room. Berdie stopped in her tracks. “It’s washing.”

  “Of course, love, that’s what washing machines do.”

  “No, I mean it had stopped, completely.”

  “Perhaps it was just between cycles,” Hugh suggested and left the room.

  Berdie crossed her arms and addressed the fickle electronic gadget. “You and I are going to go round.”

  Hugh popped his head through the doorway. “Oh, and I must let you know that...” Before he could finish his sentence, a rather loud clank made itself known, as happened before, then a sad whimper that faded to silence.

  “Aha,” Berdie proclaimed, “there you see.”

  Almost as if the appliance heard every word and was set on spi
te, a thunderous splashing noise throttled the silence. The loud sound settled into its sloshing lullaby rhythm once more. Then clunk.

  “You see? The thing’s gone daft!” Berdie declared.

  Hugh eyed the dishwasher as if a personal affront had been committed and lifted his left brow. His jaw set and the muscles of his upper body tensed as if suiting up to joust.

  “We’ll sort this then. Where’s my tool kit?”

  Only minutes into it, bits and bobs of the dishwasher were already prostrate on the floor.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Berdie swallowed. Hugh was masterful at many things, but fixing electrical appliances was not one of them.

  “Can you hand me the small screwdriver?” Hugh asked.

  Berdie looked through the maze of tools. “This one?” She held it out.

  A masculine hand reached forward from the backside of the machine and grabbed it.

  “You said earlier you had something to tell me?” Berdie queried.

  “Right. Andrew Busby called earlier.”

  Berdie remembered the coarse fellow from Hugh’s former career, but not with any degree of fondness. “And?”

  “He found some information about our Miss Livingston.”

  “Oh yes?” Berdie heard a smothered grunt.

  “Is there a smaller screwdriver, love?” Hugh rolled the unacceptable one toward Berdie as she fingered her way through the tools.

  “Miriam Livingston was actually Miri Avent.” Hugh spoke on. “Well, Avent was her married name.”

  Berdie handed the smallest screwdriver she could locate to Hugh. “Do we know who her husband was?”

  “Indeed.” Another grunt. “Marquis Avent, member of the French Resistance, by all accounts quite the hero.” The vicar let go a long exhale. “Got it,” he said. “Can you take this, love?”

  Berdie received the metal piece from Hugh and turned it over, ogling it. Oh my dear Hugh, whatever is this? Oh well, the old machine has served its purpose. It’s finished off anyway. “How did Miri and this man meet?”

  Hugh stuck his head out from around the ailing vessel. “It was a military report, Berdie, not a Barbara Carlton novel.”