“Love,” he greeted and took his wife’s hand.
“Full house tonight,” Berdie commented.
“Edsel was kept busy setting up extra chairs again.” Hugh smiled.
“You know, one of the things I so enjoyed this evening was the amber glow of the candles,” Berdie said.
“Yes,” her husband agreed.
“And the lighted Advent wreath.”
“‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks’ will never be quite the same after Lucy Butz’s clarinet solo.” Hugh grinned. “Quite sweet really.”
Berdie chuckled. “Oh, but wasn’t the newly come Dr. Avery’s performance brilliant?” Berdie’s smile widened. “To sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and dedicate it to Miss Livingston, rather Miri Avent, was so very touching. And the doctor’s grand voice moved everyone deeply, I thought for a moment I was in the Albert Hall.”
“Indeed,” Hugh agreed.
“Too bad about the sheep, however.” Berdie broke into great laughter.
Hugh joined her. “From where I was up front, I heard a crash then saw a large white creature skid into the front pews. What exactly happened?”
Berdie caught her breath. “Oh, the primary youth choir, you know, dressed as angels.”
“Yes.”
“Just as they gathered at the nativity tableau to sing ‘Away in a Manger,’ Milton Butz tripped on his costume only to go headlong into the sheep.” Berdie couldn’t help but laugh.
Hugh finished, “sending the creature skidding into the front pew. Yes, I get the picture.”
“You know Loren Meredith was right.” Hugh sighed. “Closure, misdeeds behind us, it all bodes well for a peaceful Christmas.”
Berdie placed her head on her husband’s shoulder. She thought through the events of the past week. “You saved my life, you know.”
“Me? I’d rather say that was Edsel.”
“If you hadn’t fussed with that old machine—”
Hugh interrupted, “And made it worse.”
“I wouldn’t have called Edsel to make the repair. You see?”
Hugh chuckled. “My dear and lovely wife.” He placed a tender kiss upon her cheek.
When they reached the vicarage, it was abuzz. Lillie, Ivy, and Barbara Braunhoff had arrived immediately after the service to act as hostesses. Many of the villagers attended the post-service Christmas Eve celebration at Oak Leaf Cottage.
Once inside, Berdie joined in hosting. “Can I top off your tea?” Berdie asked Preston Graystone, who stood alone in the crowded sitting room.
“Quite,” the father of the bride replied.
Berdie poured cinnamon tea, spiced with oranges and cloves, into the holiday cup held in the thin angular hand of the solicitor.
“It was a genuinely lovely wedding, Preston,” Berdie said as Ivy approached with a canapé tray.
“Dead common.” The man didn’t smile. “Even the cake was made slapdash.”
Ivy Butz smiled. “Oh, I thought it beautiful.” She put her chubby hand on Graystone’s arm. “We give our hinnies roots so they can grow their own wings,” she said robustly. “You gave your daughter wonderful roots, Mr. Graystone, wonderful. You can be proud of that.” She gave his arm a pat. “Now how about a canapé?” She pointed to a little morsel. “These have little cheesy bits, very moor-ish.”
“Moor-ish?” Preston asked.
“Moor-ish—you want to eat more and more.” Ivy giggled.
To Berdie’s surprise, the gentleman took one. He made the smallest nibble.
“Indeed.” He seemed quite sincere. “Thank you, Mrs. Butz.”
“Of course.” Ivy smiled, making her round cheeks even fuller, and set off to find another taker.
Berdie was pleased to see both congregants and those with unfamiliar faces chat, sip, and enjoy being together.
The children delighted in the nativity set on the mantel and relished the grand Christmas tree erected just for the occasion. Oddly enough, the hanging candy canes scattered about the tree were slowly disappearing while little mouths became sticky.
Berdie became suddenly aware that someone called to her from across the room.
“Mrs. Elliott.” It was David Exton, the young aspiring newspaper editor, teacup in hand. He stood. “I was wondering if you could tell me...tell us just how you went about solving the Livingston case?”
The entire room came to a hush. It was the question the whole village wanted to ask but hadn’t for fear of appearing impolite.
“I mean, really, we’re all quite impressed.”
The brash inquiry reminded Berdie of a young woman who, when first starting out in investigative journalism, may have done the very same sort of thing.
“Martha,” Berdie addressed the Butz twin, “do you fancy taking the children to the library and reading them a Christmas story?”
Martha jumped to her feet. “Love to, Mrs. Elliott.” Like babes following the little drummer boy, the young ones scrambled to the library behind Miss Butz.
“Come on, Berdie,” Lillie said. She sat down as if preparing for an oration. “She really is quite brilliant,” her friend chirped.
“Indeed,” Dr. Meredith stood expectantly next to Lillie.
“Well, really, all of you helped me solve the mystery.”
The room buzzed then quieted.
“Of course we’re keenly aware of Edsel’s heroics in recent days, and Mr. Raheem as well.”
“Here, here,” from the crowd brought blood to Edsel’s cheeks, while Mr. Raheem’s shy demeanor only allowed him to smile at his wife.
Berdie went on. “The whole plan for Miriam’s demise was prompted by the photo of her and her prize-winning lavender. She detested having snaps taken of her for the very reason that they could give away her identity and whereabouts. Remember, though we knew her as a simple villager, she was really in hiding. By way of her clandestine past, Miss Livingston—Miri Avent—was the sworn enemy of Gerhard Luedke, also known as Gerald Lewis. I daresay a copy of the London newspaper running the picture fell into his hands.”
“So Gerald Lewis—Luedke—came to our village to seek his prey.” Preston Graystone flared.
“And in what better guise than a vicar? He took us in,” Mr. Raheem asserted.
“Yes, he took us all in,” Hugh spoke as people throughout agreed. “He was churlish, many times odd, but then churchmen are mortals, too. I thought our community might do him well.”
“We all gave him the benefit of the doubt.” Mrs. Braunhoff put her hand on her sturdy hip.
“As did Miss Livingston,” Berdie kept on. “We saw her and Natty leave the Advent party with Mr. Raheem, but Luedke intercepted them. The pretender took the women home knowing the darkness there, which he created by nipped wires, would make them needy. He assisted Miriam and induced her to take sleep tablets while getting the lay of the land.” Berdie crossed her arms. “When he left, he failed to lock the door. So at his return in the wee hours, he let himself in, and, well, we know what he did then.”
Now Mr. Graystone had a questioning appearance. “My Cara was bequeathed all Livingston’s goods, save an Advent wreath. It was willed to some Frenchman.” He sniffed. “Never came forward. Why single out a wreath? How could it be of import?”
“Ah,” Berdie replied, “never underestimate the power of simple evidence. The wreath was key to burrowing out Miss Livingston’s identity, to unlocking treasured evidence, and it even pointed to the murderer.”
Graystone knit his brow. “How can a wreath do all that?”
“To start with,” Berdie enumerated, “the candles were aged, not used, but for one. This drew my attention. And then there was the placement of the candles in the wreath along with odd symbols carved into the wax, but then it was Lila Butz who solved that.”
Lila sat on a sofa, stretching her still-bandaged leg. She blinked her magnified eyes. Her face wore both the fright of being singled out in a crowd and the pleasure of being recognized as quite bright.
Berdi
e beamed toward the girl. “Her knowledge of the movements of heavenly bodies identified the symbols on the Advent candles: phases of the moon. Also, her simple observation of human nature, ‘more a mystic if you ask me’, urged me to discover the true identity of who we know now was Miri Avent.”
Ivy Butz patted her daughter’s shoulder.
Berdie persisted. “Of course when you clear out one’s goods, you learn about even the most discreet effects. Most of her books were in French. All but a few music selections were by French composers.”
“And not one German composer,” Lillie added.
“Add to that the prize-winning French Lavender that filled her back garden. Yes, what we read, our music, our passions, all speak to who we really are.”
“I can see this puzzle coming together, but how did Northumbria figure in?” A lovely young woman sitting beside Mathew Reese spoke up.
“That’s where Lillie’s love for Elgar aided us dramatically.” Berdie smiled at her friend. “She discovered the snap of Miriam with her Northumberland English family inside Miriam’s Elgar album.”
“The only English composer in her music collection.” Lillie lifted her chin and looked round then did a slight bow. Gentle laughter filtered through. “Love of Elgar always leads to something good.” She looked to the gentleman who stood next to her.
Berdie smiled. “We eventually made contact with the family, and the hidden past of our villager came into a clearer focus.”
Berdie nodded toward the handsome man standing next to Lillie. “Our fine doctor of pathology, Loren Meredith, did his work with the utmost attention to detail. His examination of scar tissue brought insight concerning our Miss Livingston’s concentration camp internment.”
“And he’s jolly good fun on an adventure,” Lillie added.
“Sporting fellow indeed.” Berdie grinned.
Loren’s smile dazzled as he lifted his teacup high in salute to the generous comments.
“So you see, the wreath was the first whisper of truth pointing to the identity of Mrs. Miri Avent.”
“Whatever her past, we’ll remember the dear old thing as Miss Livingston,” Edsel eulogized.
“Won’t we though,” Graystone muttered.
“It would suit her to do so.” Hugh’s voice was commanding.
All nodded in agreement.
“But to squeeze all that from a holiday wreath!” Mrs. Braunhoff displayed amazement.
“Oh yes, and motive as well,” Berdie confirmed.
David Exton, who had pulled out his small writing tablet and scribbled madly, tapped his pen. “You said something about”—he paused to check the tablet—“the wreath unlocked ‘treasured evidence.’ Can you explain?”
“Of course.” Berdie sensed the anticipation in the room. “The wreath literally unlocked the motive in this case.”
“As well as identity?” Mathew queried.
“Yes.” Berdie looked to her husband. “And I daresay, it was my husband and his trusty comrade at arms, Andrew Busby, who unearthed the true line of motive. And this is strictly off the record, David Exton,” Berdie cautioned.
The editor clicked his pen closed.
“They discreetly discovered that Gerhard Luedke, who we knew as Lewis, was actually the son of a World War II prison camp commander, and Luedke now lived underground right here in England.”
“You don’t say,” Edsel piped.
Hugh took up the account. “Miss Livingston had been interned as a Roma at the senior Luedke’s camp. Hustled off to a safe haven in Northumbria after an escape near war’s end, Miss Livingston was the last person standing who could indict the old fellow and cast dispersions upon the entire family line. The Luedkes, who were living under the name Lewis, stood to lose their multimillion business empire.”
There was a collective gasp.
Berdie tipped her head. “But we now know it wasn’t just Miss Livingston who Luedke wanted. He was after recorded incriminating evidence that she possessed.”
Mrs. Raheem was getting the picture. “That’s why the house was turned bottom end up.”
“Right,” Berdie affirmed. “She had stolen camp files that implicated Helman Luedke, Gerhard Luedke’s father, in the most heinous of atrocities.”
“That’s what Luedke wanted,” Hugh proclaimed. “And nothing was too great of cost to get it. Not the life of our friend, not the life of her elderly Roma cousin, nor the attempt on Berdie and Lillie’s lives.”
Berdie nodded and went on. “The evidence was hidden in a small metal box. But not at Lavender Cottage. The box was with the cousin in France.”
“The box was brought to Aidan Kirkwood only after Miriam’s death, at the time of the funeral. It was kept in a safe place. I’m not at liberty to say exactly where.” Hugh pulled his shoulders back.
Berdie and Lillie exchanged a quick glance and coyly smiled.
Hugh, still maintaining his code of honor, went on. “No one, not even those who were unknowingly safeguarding it were aware of what it held. They were simply doing a quiet favor.”
“Until, that is,” Berdie continued, “the box was opened using numbers that were carved into the candleholders of Miss Livingston’s Advent wreath. The phases-of-the-moon candles gave the order: waxing, full, waning, new.”
“Why put all that important stuff on a silly wreath? Seems kinda’ naff.” Lucy Butz asked.
“Not for Miss Livingston,” Berdie retorted. “Remember her real name was Miri Avent. Lillie?”
“Avent is the French word for advent,” Lillie informed.
“Oh.” Dawn broke across Lucy’s face.
“Quite clever perhaps?” Berdie told more than asked.
Preston Graystone knitted his brow. “Clever? Why didn’t the old woman hand the evidence over to legal long ago?”
“It wasn’t quite that simple, Preston.” Berdie clarified. “The information she possessed also indicted someone who was considered a great Resistance war hero. Someone very dear to her—Marquis Avent, her husband.”
A flutter of whispers rose and fell.
“Without putting too fine a point to the matter,” Hugh expounded, “it seems there were some unsavory alliances made by him that she believed were best kept silenced.”
“How extraordinary,” David Exton spoke. “Quite amazing. I have another inquiry. Can you tell us when you began to suspect Lewis—Luedke—wasn’t who he pretended to be?”
“I think it started with Ivy’s drawing room really,” Berdie answered.
Ivy yelped, nearly dropping her tray of goodies. “My drawing room? Why it just qualifies as a room at’al.” She chuckled. “How did it help?”
“That’s the thing, you see. It had most the trappings of a drawing room: lovely paint, furnishings, and window. It appeared as much for the most part. But it just didn’t feel like a drawing room. I should say it almost wished you away. No offense, dear. That’s what first tickled my thinking that perhaps Gerald Lewis wasn’t all he appeared.”
Lucy Butz, who sat admiringly next to Jamie Donovan’s seventeen-year-old brother, piped up again. “In your solving things, did I help at’al?”
“Ah, well, Lucy, you were the reason I was in the drawing room, if you remember.” Berdie was discreet.
“Oh.” The young woman bit her lip. “Quite.” She flushed and turned her attention back to the lad who was staying over from the wedding. Everyone agreed he was the image of Jamie.
Berdie proceeded. “Of course, there were other clues if we heeded them. His mobile ring, for one. When it sounded, we heard the tune for the hymn ‘Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken.’ He heard Germany’s national anthem, the same tune.”
Edsel reared his head. “What I want to know is how Lewis framed our Jamie.” His words had a bullish tone.
Rumbles of agreement swirled around the room.
“From conversations with Jamie in a feigned friendship, Luedke knew the lad was working at Lavender Cottage, trying to correct the problem Luedke had put in
place. He was also aware that Jamie had Livingston’s key due to a slip in the Upland Arms.”
“Aye, I remember that,” Dudley Horn injected. “The key tumbled to my shoe.”
“Jamie’s outburst at the caroling party fitted Luedke’s purposes perfectly. A lad fresh from a brush with the law, new to the area, certainly not wealthy, and with a one-of-a-kind screwdriver, all of it was a sure thing in the diabolical mind of the villain.”
“I hope he’s put away for a hundred years.” Jamie’s brother blew the words out.
“There was talk of some masterful plan you conspired, Mrs. Elliott, to catch the fake vicar. Well?” Villette Horn came right to it.
“Indeed. It’s true, Mrs. Horn, but it’s a moot point now. Just like Gideon and his small band of men, God won the victory His own way.”
“I must say.” Mrs. Plinkerton wore a bewildered look. “This all sounds like a Miss Marple novel. Quite frankly, it’s a bit too much to take in.” She ran her hand over the bodice of her winter white silk suit.
“All we really need to know, dear Mrs. Plinkerton,” Berdie explained, “is that the scoundrel responsible for the whole affair is safely locked up.”
“Here, here,” Dr. Meredith prompted.
“Here, here!” The vicarage sitting room resounded with the cheer. David Exton was even so bold as to clap.
Hugh came next to Berdie. “Now that my wife has brought this case to a close, she can give herself wholly to the tasks of the church,” he announced.
“I have to say,” Dudley Horn acknowledged, “I didn’t expect the wife of our parish priest to be so skilled in crime solving. Mrs. Elliott, you are full of surprises.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Edsel Butz trumpeted. He winked at his wife who immediately relieved herself of the serving tray and nestled comfortably against her husband’s side. He went on. “That is to say...” He paused. “Well, Ivy has something.”
“Yes.” She matched her husband in volume. “Our Duncan’s going to get a D!” Her face was alight with joy.
“What is this D?” Mrs. Raheem queried.
Edsel explained, “Lucy and Lila start with L, Milton and Martha with M.”
“Duncan’s going to get a D,” Ivy repeated.
Candle for a Corpse Page 20
