Candle for a Corpse

by Marilyn Leach

  “Yes, well.” Berdie laid the part on the floor.

  “It is odd for Romas to marry outside their culture.” Hugh started to wrestle with another part. “Please hand me the large screwdriver.”

  Berdie delivered the item. “What do you mean ‘outside their culture’?”

  “What? Didn’t I say? Miss Livingston—Miri—was a registered Roma, a Gypsy.”

  Berdie nodded. “Roma, yes, I thought as much. Yes, but what do you mean by registered?”

  “She was in a German concentration camp in France, registered as a Roma.” Hugh stuck his hand out. “Give the part back please.”

  Berdie laid it in his hand, and Hugh continued. “You know there were hundreds of Romas interned during World War II. That’s what happened to those who were seen as different in that regime.”

  Berdie stared at the floor. “It’s all coming together,” she said almost to herself.

  “Yes, just a bit more with the screwdriver,” Hugh called.

  Her eyes gave a quick sparkle. “No, I mean Miss Livingston. Giving a child their head to run barefoot through the village, a peculiar Advent wreath, theatrical clothing, mystery men who come and go, phases of the moon, a peddler of lavender, a removed tattoo.”

  “What are you going on about?” Hugh paused. “Ah,” he said with assurance. “Hand me the rest of the parts and the small screwdriver, dear.”

  Berdie moved in response but her mind was putting facts in ragged order.

  “You see,” Hugh mumbled while working, “the dishwasher’s timer has gone off. It’s not really trying to start up so much as it’s trying to finish the job.”

  “Yes, finish the job,” Berdie said absently. “Now what became of her husband?”

  “Say again,” Hugh charged.

  “What became of Mr. Avent?”

  “Things start to get a bit less clear there.” Hugh gave a light murmur as he made twisting motions. “He was in the same camp for a short while, was eventually tried, and executed.”

  “How tragic.”

  “You know some of those in high rank, camp administrators and such, actually crossed the water in the end, went deep.”

  “What? You mean they took up here in England?” Berdie was sharp.

  “Now dear, they’re all gone now, either found out, moved on, or dead.”

  Hugh arose and wore the look of one who had faced the mountain and won. He wiped his hands back and forth together. “Jolly good.”

  “There’s more to this report of course,” Berdie prodded.

  Hugh draped his arm around her shoulders. “Of course there is, love. There always is with military intelligence. But if I told you, using today’s vernacular,” he placed a grease-smudged kiss on her cheek, “I’d have to neutralize you.”

  “Well, tell your Sergeant Major Busby I’ll supply the shovel if he’ll keep digging.” She always treated Hugh’s uncouth military right-hand man with courtesy, but just.

  “Do you remember our agreement we made concerning your working on this case?”

  She nodded. “Don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

  “And?” Hugh tipped his head.

  “Keep Goodnight in the loop.” Berdie spoke in a small voice.

  “Well, have you? Kept Goodnight informed, that is?” Hugh looked into her eyes.

  Berdie sighed heavily. “Will do, first thing in the morning, promise.”

  Hugh peeked at Berdie’s other hand, checking that no fingers were crossed. “There’s a dear. Now how’s ‘bout some tea?”

  ****

  Berdie was up and about, getting her morning exercises of spiritual and physical well-being behind her before she walked to Goodnight’s residence. She hoped to return promptly in light of today’s church events.

  Along the way, Berdie observed the gray sky that allotted just enough sun to peek out and make the frosted rooftops sparkle like holiday tinsel. Her cheeks felt the whip of quick winds that danced around the gardens. She smelled the damp December air and felt her feet couldn’t move her quickly enough to Constable Goodnight’s residence. When she arrived, she found the policeman bundled in a police-issue overcoat, rushed, and just about to enter his car.

  “I’ve got a call,” Goodnight grumbled through his sadly neglected mustache. “Must push on.”

  “Yes,” Berdie spoke sprightly. “And good morning to you as well. This will only take a moment.” She sprung toward the car and stood in front of the driver’s door. “I believe I have some information you may have an interest in concerning the Livingston case,” Berdie blurted and talked straight on. “Information that concerns Miss Livingston’s true identity. I know it sounds dubious, but it is from a good source.”

  The policeman gripped his car key and stood straight.

  “She’s a French Gypsy, you see, and a former prisoner of war. Now I believe it ties in with the murder.”

  Goodnight tried to smother a chuckle. “Oh yes, our Miss Livingston? And your source of information?”

  Berdie hesitated. Revealing Hugh’s source would create considerable trouble.

  “Batty Natty then?” The policeman knitted his thick brows and jerked his head sideways to indicate his desire to see Berdie step aside. “Now please.”

  Determined, Berdie pursed her lips and stepped away from the door. Goodnight wrenched it open.

  “Give me twenty seconds, that’s all, just twenty seconds.” Berdie was firm.

  “Ten seconds starting right now and not a second more.”

  “Think about it. The fire and murder are linked. Who started the fire and why? Whoever killed Miriam Livingston was looking for something, and it wasn’t money. When they couldn’t find it, they decided to burn the place down to destroy whatever it was. And of course, where was Jamie Donovan when the fire occurred? Squarely in jail.”

  Goodnight got into the vehicle.

  “The real killer may be tall and light-haired. And the Advent wreath is intrinsic to the situation.” Berdie drew a breath. “How much time do I have left?”

  “None!” The constable turned the key and started the car. His stomach just cleared the steering wheel. “Oh my, what’s that I see rolling round over there?”

  Berdie looked in the direction Goodnight pointed.

  “Oh, it’s one your marbles,” he taunted. “Ta, Mrs. Elliott.”

  The constable pulled his car away from the verge so quickly Berdie jumped.

  “Well.” Berdie looked after the speeding car that held the keeper of the law in Aidan Kirkwood. “My dear constable”—she called out after the retreating auto—“the loop has just snapped.” She turned her back to the vehicle and began the frosty walk back to the vicarage.

  12

  Berdie didn’t care about the now gray and dreary sky that signaled the probability of storms somewhere in the day, nor that Goodnight was unresponsive. She was too taken with admiration for the nosegays of holly and ivy tied with lovely gold ribbons that decorated the pew ends of the central aisle of the church. This central aisle of the nave had been built in the twelfth century, the side aisles added a bit later. And it was known throughout the area that the present church site was where a simple wooden structure had been established in the centuries earlier after a humble traveling monk, Aidan of Lindesfarne, brought the gospel to the people in the wooded hamlet. Berdie marveled at the thought that for over a thousand years the faithful had gathered in this place to hear God’s Word, to be in community together and pray. Marriages, births, baptisms, and memorials were etched into the very atmosphere of the sacred space. And today, in just under an hour, another christening would take place at the ancient carved stone font, Hugh’s first at Saint Aidan of the Wood Parish Church.

  Yes, the altar guild had done a fine job adorning the pews. Now Berdie was set to move on to her next duty. She entered the half-open sacristy door to ask her husband what tasks he still needed done in preparation. Hugh was just hanging up the church telephone.

  “Flowers are done, and they’re
really quite...” Berdie hushed. Hugh’s left eyebrow was not only arched, its next landing site was the moon. “Hugh, who is it?”

  “Mistcome Greene police.”

  “What then?”

  “There’s been a murder in a Traveller caravan site near the woods there.”

  Berdie knew a Traveller site was just a modern way of saying a Gypsy camp. “Hugh, this is no coincidence.” Berdie spoke what she could see in her husband’s face, and now the thought enwrapped her mind like a swathing cloth.

  “No, it’s not,” he stated flatly.

  “But why call you? Isn’t that Winston Wainwright’s parish?”

  “Indeed,” Hugh assured his wife. “But they found our church calling card on the body of the victim, and they want to speak with me immediately.”

  “What’s happening, Hugh?”

  “I have my suspicions.” Hugh stopped his statement at that defining point. He shook his head. “But clearly, my duty is here.”

  “The christening.” Berdie became conscious, once again, of the most important event that was to take place shortly. “It can’t go on without you.” She stepped closer to her husband.

  “That’s why I need you to go to Mistcome Greene for me, Berdie, and sort the situation.”

  As a former investigator, she reasoned she couldn’t help the thrust of energy she felt shoot through her being.

  Hugh put his hand on her shoulder. “The police are there. You’ll be safe, but nonetheless take Lillie with you. Things are in hand here.”

  “I should think Lillie could spare me a few hours from the ardent preparation for her dinner date with the good doctor this evening. And I can be out the door in three minutes.” Berdie felt her pulse quicken.

  “Be careful, Berdie.” Hugh’s vivid blue eyes sent his message keenly. “And get your instincts into top gear.”

  “Just as you say.”

  ****

  The time flew nearly as fast as the little Citroën down the narrow country lanes that led to Mistcome Greene. The car was not known to be fast, but with Berdie on a mission to ferret out truth, it became a Maserati. And Lillie was along for the joyride.

  They arrived at the edge of the Mistcome wood where the large green lea spread out like a velvet blanket. But the reverie of the rural scene was despoiled by police tape strewn across the area where several caravans were parked tightly together as if huddled against the cold. Police milled around searching the vegetated grounds with long poles, looking for evidence and clues.

  Berdie and Lillie got out of the car, and a young constable approached them.

  “There is a proper investigation being carried out here. I suggest you move along.” The young woman’s stern voice and appearance reiterated her words.

  “We’ve been summoned to speak to the officer in charge of this investigation,” Berdie asserted.

  “Who are you then?”

  “I’m Berdie Elliott. I’ve come in Hugh Elliott’s stead as he’s currently performing a christening. He’s my husband—I’m the vicar’s wife.”

  A crackled voice jumped into the conversation. “Now that’s one I’ve not heard you use before, Berdie Elliott. Creative I have to admit.”

  Berdie knew that oddly familiar voice. She blinked. “Chief Inspector Kent!”

  Jasper Kent, the forty-something agent for Scotland Yard, already stood with a slight stoop forward, his eyes set in a permanent droop. He sported his ever-present tan overcoat that hung on his medium frame like an oversized Father Christmas robe. “When was the last time I saw you? The Chilton art heist, I believe?”

  Berdie cleared her throat. “Good to see you, Chief Inspector.”

  “And what was it you told the investigating team that time? Ah yes, you were an art agent representing a duke or some such.”

  Berdie looked toward the female constable and back to the inspector. “That was a technical misunderstanding.”

  Lillie’s eyes widened. “She really is a vicar’s wife,” she asserted.

  “And who’s this?” The man looked in Lillie’s direction.

  “My assistant,” Berdie replied.

  “Lillie Foxworth,” Lillie said in a light, easy manner and stretched out her hand.

  Bypassing the hand, a quick once-over was all he offered Lillie before he turned his attention back to Berdie. “Now, Elliott, tell me why you’re really here.” The inspector sniffed.

  Lillie was indolent. “She’s already told you.”

  Berdie gave her friend a slight nudge with her elbow.

  “OK, Chief Inspector Kent, there’s been a murder in Aidan Kirkwood. I think it could be connected to this one here.”

  “Aidan Kirkwood?” The inspector grinned. “That’s Albert Goodnight’s patch.”

  The young female constable tried to smother a chuckle. “Sorry, sir—” she put her hands behind her back—“but Albert Goodnight couldn’t catch a cold in flu season.”

  “Ah, yes...well.” Inspector Kent tried to erase his half smile. “We don’t cast aspersions on a fellow officer of the law in the presence of the public, do we?”

  “No sir, certainly not.” The woman grinned and looked at the ground.

  A man attired in constable gear approached Kent with a plastic bag that held a barely used cigarette in it. “We found this, sir.”

  “Ah, well done,” the inspector acknowledged. “We’ll collect DNA samples from this gaggle of goers. See what we come up with.”

  “Yes, sir.” The constable tipped his head and moved along.

  Kent looked at Berdie. “The murderer always makes a mistake, right, Mrs. Elliott?”

  “Usually several,” Berdie offered then went right into it. “Tell me now, inspector...I should say the cause of death was one precisely landed fatal wound, the home of the deceased was on its head, nook, and cranny, and”—Berdie took a deep whiff of air— “judging by the smell of things the caravan was set ablaze. How am I doing so far?”

  The man shifted his weight. He addressed the policewoman. “Constable, get on the horn and call our friend, Goodnight, and find out about the case over there.”

  The constable nodded and moved toward a police vehicle.

  Jasper Kent peered steadily at Berdie. “There’s never been any doubt about your professionalism or your ability to sniff out trouble, but this case is strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

  “This has got to be sorted before anyone else gets hurt,” Berdie asserted.

  “Oh, is someone else going to get hurt?”

  “Could be.” Berdie hesitated.

  “In respect to your concern, Mrs. Elliott, I’ll pass the information I feel is pertinent on to Goodnight.”

  Berdie frowned. “That’s tantamount to saying you’ll stir up the Christmas pudding but never put it in the oven.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Berdie knew if Kent was on the case there would be a concerted effort made to get to the truth, and she had to settle with that for now. She reluctantly nodded.

  A group of Travellers exited the caravan closest to the inspector and stood watching the law enforcement workers prod the ground. The Roma women’s long skirts displayed colorful ribbons and the men wore dark hats. Motionless, they huddled together like their small caravans.

  “Can I at least speak to the families?” Berdie asked.

  “Would to God you could.” The man clucked. “These are not our usual crowd; this lot’s from France. Can’t understand nor speak a single word of English.”

  Berdie scanned the faces. Her eyes locked upon a gentleman who took a quick step backward. His eyes were just visible beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

  I know those eyes. Yes, indeed I do!

  “Can’t speak a word of English, you say?” Berdie spoke to Kent but looked directly at the smoky-eyed Gypsy male.

  “Oh perhaps I can help, as I speak...” Lillie began until Berdie gave another careful nudge to her assistant.

  “Yes?” Inspector Kent crackled.

  “
She speaks English quite slowly and clearly,” Berdie finished the sentence.

  Lillie looked at Berdie then at the inspector. “Yes…I…do.”

  The inspector squinted at Lillie as if she were a roll short of a dozen. “Right.” He then turned back to Berdie. “We’re getting a translator in from the home office. But have a go if you want.” The lawman looked at the silent Romas. “It’s a waste of time and energy.”

  “Sir, you may want to come take a look at this,” a young man in plainclothes called out.

  Jasper Kent ran his tongue across his upper teeth, making a whisking sound. “Ladies.” He tipped his head and moved across the lea.

  Berdie and Lillie edged closer to the bohemian group.

  “All right then,” Berdie spoke to the man she recognized. “I didn’t divulge your English capabilities and now you can return the favor by giving me the truth.”

  Lillie stood straight. “Maintenant, je ne...”

  Berdie interrupted, “Needn’t do, Lillie. There’s at least one who speaks English, and I should think others as well.”

  “Oh,” Lillie said in surprise.

  “This gentleman”—Berdie looked at Lillie and flashed her eyes in the direction of the hesitant Roma man—“is the fellow who called on Hugh at the church, and minutes thereafter Miss Livingston’s funeral was canceled.”

  “Is he now?” Lillie eyed him carefully.

  “And I daresay my husband gave him our church calling card which he then passed on to the person against whom the crime has been committed.”

  The Travellers turned to the fellow in their midst, a sense of foreboding written in their eyes.

  “I need some answers,” Berdie stated firmly but calmly. The group stood utterly silent.

  “Here now.” She stood her full height. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, and I trust you would agree. I may be able to help find whoever perpetrated this crime.”

  The dark man of interest opened the door of the caravan and jerked his head in its direction. All but the man filed back into the tiny space as if they were hiding themselves far away from the world.

  “You should not speak to us.” He closed the door then uttered in shadowed tones. “And we should not speak to you.”