An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  ‘I see. Now, going back to the beginning of the conference. Can you tell me anything about Celia Gordon that you might think relevant? Did you see her having any arguments with anyone? Did she say anything to you that struck you as odd, or did you overhear her say something to anyone else that you didn’t understand? Anything of that nature.’

  Jessica looked at the handsome blond man in front of her for several long seconds, then sighed. ‘Well, when we arrived, Celia Gordon was just ahead of me. I saw Sir Andrew, the owner of the Manor, greet her. That was rather odd.’

  Jason leaned slightly forward. ‘How so?’

  Jessica sighed a little helplessly. ‘I’m not sure. I think they recognized each other. Or perhaps it was just that there was an instant antagonism between them. I’m not really sure. Dr Carew was there, he might be able to tell you better what went on. But it seemed to me, to those of us who were in the foyer at the time I mean, that … well, something unpleasant passed between them.’

  ‘They argued?’

  ‘Oh no. No, nothing like that,’ Jessica assured him quickly. ‘It was much more … subtle than that. And perhaps I imagined it.’ But she frowned.

  Jason didn’t think she was the type to ‘imagine’ things. The slender redhead came across to him as a down-to-earth, sensible, natural observer. ‘I see. And you got no clear impression about its cause?’ he pressed

  ‘No,’ Jessica said firmly. ‘I didn’t.’ She wasn’t about to allow herself to be pushed into speculation.

  Jason nodded. ‘All right,’ he sensed her mood and backed off instantly. ‘What happened next? When did you next see the deceased?’

  ‘Friday dinner. And I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the Reverend Gordon’s run-in with Archdeacon Pierrepont?’

  Jason smiled. ‘Yes. We’ve had several versions of that. Perhaps you could give us yours?’

  Jessica’s tale was very similar to that of Chloe Bryce’s. Jason was rather miffed that no report had yet come in on Archdeacon Pierrepont’s past indiscretions. Whatever it was he’d done, his bishop had certainly kept it very quiet.

  ‘I see. And during that Friday night – nothing else happened?’ he continued.

  Jessica hesitated then shook her head. ‘No. Not that I’m aware of.’ Nothing relevant, anyway, she amended silently to herself.

  ‘I see. And then comes breakfast on Saturday morning. Were you there when the Reverend Gordon made it clear that she loved oranges?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jessica said with a wry smile. ‘Our table was right next to hers. She had the sort of voice that carried.’

  ‘So all of those sitting at your table would have known of her preferences?’

  ‘Oh yes, the whole room did. As well as the fact that she was allergic to nuts.’

  The room went suddenly and strangely still. Jessica, aware of it, flicked a quick, nervous glance from Jason to Flora and back to Jason.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ It was Jason who eventually spoke, his voice ominously quiet and neutral. ‘What did you just say?’

  Jessica frowned. ‘Well, Celia ordered the cornflakes for breakfast, and when they arrived, she demanded to know from the waiter whether or not they were the ones that have nuts and honey on them. The waiter told her they weren’t, she said she was very allergic to nuts, and preferred not to risk it, and so she ordered a different breakfast instead.’ Jessica looked down at her hands. She worried at her lower lip nervously, then asked in a subdued tone. ‘Is it true that that’s what killed her? That there were peanuts in the dinner she ate?’

  Jason said nothing for a long, silent moment. Then he nodded. ‘It seems so,’ he said flatly. ‘Tell me, who was present when she said this? About her allergy to peanuts?’

  Jessica looked at him oddly. ‘Well, nearly everyone. We were all at breakfast. The dining hall was full. Oh, wait a minute. I think Chloe Bryce had left to go to the powder room. And Graham Noble wasn’t here either, of course, since he’s not a resident.’

  ‘And was Sir Andrew there?’

  ‘No I don’t think so,’ Jessica said, frowning in thought. ‘He had been going around the tables before, you know, chatting, the way they do. But I think he’d gone by the time the cornflakes incident took place. And, come to think of it, Celia’s table was the only table he didn’t stop at to chat. They seemed to me to be avoiding each other – the Reverend Gordon made no effort to talk to him, either.’

  Jason nodded. And you would have expected her to, he thought cannily. The type of woman that Celia Gordon appeared to be certainly wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to cultivate her host. Not under normal circumstances, anyway.

  ‘I see. So it’s your opinion that all your colleagues must have heard her make this statement?’ he wanted to get that quite clear.

  Jessica began to look distinctly uncomfortable, but nodded her head firmly. ‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’

  Jason nodded. ‘I see. And later, at the village shop, you met the Nobles?’

  Jessica’s face brightened. ‘That’s right. A lovely couple. Monica took me back to their place for morning coffee. She’s thinking of setting up a mother-and-baby group here in the village.’

  ‘Were you aware that Reverend Noble had bought a packet of peanuts at the shop?’ he asked calmly.

  Jessica tensed. ‘I don’t think so, no,’ she said. For the first time there was a trace of belligerence in her voice, but whether it was on her own behalf, or that of the Noble’s, he couldn’t tell. Obviously she didn’t like the idea of any of them being a murder suspect, and who could blame her?

  ‘I see. And is there anything else you can tell me that might be useful?’

  Again Jessica hesitated a split second. Then, ‘No, I don’t think so. She wasn’t … well, she wasn’t the kind of cleric who was particularly well-liked, which sounds awful, but … I’m sure no one wanted to harm her deliberately. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be some kind of a nasty accident.’

  Jason nodded and smiled. ‘Of course,’ he murmured noncommittally. She rose and Flora politely ushered her out. When she was gone he sat down slowly. Flora returned to her chair, her face tense and excited.

  ‘Well, that blows it all wide open,’ she said, with something suspiciously close to satisfaction in her voice.

  ‘Doesn’t it just,’ Jason agreed dryly. ‘And why are we only hearing about it now? There was nothing in the interview reports you read earlier about her talking about her peanut allergy, was there?’

  Flora shook her head. ‘No, sir. People mentioned the oranges, but not the peanuts.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ Jason said. Then shook his head. ‘No I don’t. I know why. They were all being ostriches, sticking their heads in the sand.’

  ‘A kind of mass self-denial, you mean?’ Flora said.

  Jason grunted. ‘It happens. Believe me. Ask Harrison to go over the interview reports so far. I want to know if anyone admitted to overhearing that nut allergy remark of hers.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Whilst she was gone, Jason tried to organize his thoughts, recalling all those people that he’d interviewed that day. Dr Simon Grade had not been at breakfast, so he wouldn’t have known about it. But that couldn’t be said of Chloe and Arthur Bryce – although, according to Jessica Taylor, Chloe might have been absent at the crucial time. Which left Arthur – the three-wise monkeys man. Of course, he would have heard no evil. And then there was Sir Andrew. Again, according to Jessica, he hadn’t been present at the time, but might easily have heard about the incident later from the waiter concerned. Surely it would have been human nature for him to grumble about the extra hassle caused by Celia Gordon? To be fair, Jason knew that the squire might not have been in the kitchens at the time, and might still be ignorant about it. And he knew for a fact that the staff were deliberately shielding him from any unpleasantness. So Sir Andrew might be in the clear.

  And yet, according to Jessica, he and Celia had had a clash of some sort the day of her arrival. What was that all about? He’
d have to have another word with Sir Andrew. Like it or not. Who else? Archdeacon Pierrepont. No guesses why he wouldn’t have mentioned Celia’s loud statement about her allergy to peanuts. He would be as unhelpful and as obstructive as possible just on principle.

  No, on the whole, it was perhaps not quite so surprising that this was the first he’d heard of it.

  ‘Sir,’ Flora came back a little grim-faced. ‘We’ve found three reports of the incident. A verger, a canon and one other vicar admitted hearing her say that she was allergic.’

  ‘Three out of nearly fifty odd.’ Jason grimaced. ‘They certainly know how to protect their own, don’t they?’ he added bitterly. Which puts everone at the conference firmly in the frame.

  ‘Oh hell!’ Jason snarled. Rather inappropriately, considering the circumstances.

  The killer prowled the grounds, looking for inspiration, and was brought up short by the sight of a lovely old yew tree. And it’s oddly shaped, hollow conical red berries.

  Yew berries were poisonous, everyone knew that.

  If I were to gather some of the berries and crush them down into a juice and add them to a strong-tasting, already bitter drink – say black coffee, or strong spirits, would the taste of the poison be disguised enough for someone to drink it?

  Then the killer gave a mental head shake. No, that was no good. For a start, how could you manage it? It was all very well on television and in books, when pills or potions were ‘casually slipped’ into another person’s glass, but you’d need to be very discreet to do that, and even then you’d be lucky not to be spotted.

  No. It was too risky. All the delegates seemed to congregate around the bar come evening time, and there were bound to be eyes everywhere. Besides, everyone was hyper-alert now when it came to what they ate and drank – the appalling nature of Celia Gordon’s death, indelibly and freshly imprinted on everyone’s mind, had seen to that.

  No, another poisoning simply would not do.

  I have to think of something else!

  Monica pushed the salad bowl across the table towards Carole Anne, who helped herself lavishly. Her husband’s plate, she noticed, was barely touched. ‘Have some potato salad, Graham,’ she murmured, and watched him absently spoon some onto his plate.

  Carole Anne looked at them curiously. ‘What’s up with you two?’ she complained. ‘You’re like a pair of zombies.’

  ‘That’s because we’re murder suspects,’ Monica said, unable to resist scoring off her fast-tongued daughter for once.

  Carole Anne’s big baby blue’s widened appreciatively. ‘Yeah! Neat! Oh, is it Jason again?’ she gushed, leaning her elbows on the table and fixing her mother with a particularly beautiful smile. ‘He’s lush. Old, of course, but lush. Besides, Harrison Ford is really old, but he’s still fanciable.’

  Monica grinned. ‘That’s our daughter. We tell her we might just be hauled off to the cells at any moment, and she goes gaga over the man who’d be putting us there.’

  Carole Anne snorted. ‘Huh. No one with a brain cell would ever think that either of you two would kill anyone. Besides, Mom, you always solve murders. You gonna solve this one?’

  ‘No,’ Graham said shortly. At the same time, Monica said, ‘Yes,’ just as firmly.

  They stared at each other in confusion.

  Carole Anne said, ‘Uh-Oh,’ in a long, drawn-out way, rife with meaning, and grabbed her plate. ‘I’m gonna eat outside,’ she said wisely, and promptly skedaddled.

  ‘Monica,’ Graham began warningly, but his wife quickly held up her hand.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she said quickly. ‘Keep out of it.’

  Graham’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. ‘I was. I take it that you don’t agree?’

  ‘I don’t, no.’ Monica said. ‘Look, I know it’s not as if it happened in our house and to one of our neighbours, as it did the first time. And I know it’s not a friend of ours who was killed, like the last time. But this time we’re on the suspect list.’

  ‘As we were on the last two occasions, as I remember,’ Graham pointed out with annoying logic.

  Monica sighed. ‘Oh yes, I know. Technically we were. But this time … Well, this time, sweetheart, we really are up there with the others.’

  Graham’s eyes flickered. ‘You mean because of the way Celia behaved towards me? And the peanuts,’ he added flatly. It was clear that he thought the blame for their predicament rested entirely on his shoulders. Monica quickly got up and walked around the table. She wriggled her way onto his lap and looped her hands around his neck. She hadn’t missed the guilt and strain in his voice.

  ‘This isn’t your fault,’ she said, softly, but firmly. She ran a hand through the dark hair at his temple and tenderly kissed the tiny blue vein that her action revealed. ‘You didn’t know she was going to be there or the fuss she’d make. Or that she’d die as she did. I know that, and so do you, so let’s not have any recriminations, hmm?’ she said firmly, but with just a trace of real fear in her voice.

  Graham was her rock, he always had been. And she needed him now. She felt his arms squeeze around her tightly, once, then twice, then he tipped his head back to look her in the eye. Monica sighed. ‘I love you,’ she whispered and kissed him gently on the lips.

  ‘I love you, too,’ he said, when she lifted her head at last. ‘And you’re right. No recriminations. So, Sherlock, what’s your plan?’

  Monica smiled. ‘Well, we’ve got to find out what really happened of course,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Nothing like stating the obvious.’

  Graham sighed as she got off his lap, and watched her return to her place at the table. But, since he was due in church soon for evening services, perhaps it was as well she’d moved when she had.

  ‘First we’ll have to try and gather as much information as the police have by now,’ she said seriously. ‘Oh, not the scientific, technical stuff. But the rest.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘By talking to people,’ Monica said firmly. ‘Dr Carew wants us there, so we’ve got the perfect opportunity to circulate. I’ll tackle Jessica, you pump your boss. Then we’ll go on to the others. Someone, somewhere, must have seen something.’

  Graham continued to look sceptical. ‘If you say so,’ he muttered. But then remembered that, twice before, his wife had come up trumps. ‘Monica,’ he said slowly, picking up a lettuce leaf on his fork and letting it drop again. ‘Did Jason ask you about the state of our marriage?’

  Monica felt her stomach drop to her feet. She blinked. ‘No. Why?’

  Graham shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that he wondered how upset you were about Celia, and how vulnerable I was to gossip: about accusations of infidelity.’ He looked across the table at her. ‘I told him we were as solid as granite. That you knew I’d never cheat on you. You do know that, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

  Monica left the table at a run. She was back in his lap in a flash, the worried, afraid look in his eyes promptly sending tears to her own. ‘Of course I know that, Graham,’ she said thickly. ‘I’d never, ever, think anything else.’

  Graham’s hands tightened on her waist. ‘Good,’ he said simply. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

  Monica lay her cheek against the top of his head.

  Carole Anne, coming back with her empty plate, eyed them with disgust. ‘Oooh, yuck,’ she said. ‘Can’t you do that somewhere else?’

  CHAPTER 12

  Monday dawned with a change in the weather; the trees dripped the previous night’s rain onto Monica’s shoulders as she walked underneath them to the village square, then crossed towards the shop.

  ‘Morning, Phyllis,’ Monica called gaily as she went through the door. ‘Do you have any bacon left?’

  She and Graham only allowed themselves bacon and eggs for breakfast once a week, usually on a Sunday. Yesterday, of course, they’d missed it, and Monica was feeling guilty.

  ‘Course I have,’ Phyllis called from
her place at the till, and watched the vicar’s wife add eggs, a white loaf and a pound of apples to her basket. As Monica opened her purse and counted out the change, Phyllis stacked the purchases carefully in a second-hand plastic carrier bag.

  ‘Bit of a shock up at the Manor, then,’ Phyllis said casually.

  ‘Yes,’ Monica said dryly. She didn’t need to be told to be careful about what she said around Phyllis. It was a lesson she’d soon learned.

  ‘Poor Sir Andrew isn’t looking well,’ Phyllis was not about to be put off by monosyllabic answers. ‘This is the last thing the poor duck needs.’

  ‘I know,’ Monica said, thawing in spite of herself.

  ‘Fancy that woman who gave the village mums something to think about dying like that. Sudden and nasty it was, they say.’

  Monica blinked, feeling confused, then quickly shook her head. ‘Oh no, it wasn’t Jessica who died. It was another woman cleric altogether. I don’t think she’d been in the shop, had she? A blonde, rather business-executive type woman in her late forties?’

  Phyllis sniffed. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But we had some queer sorts in, for all that,’ the shopkeeper mused. ‘One chap would keep wittering on about wagtails. And one miserable strip of wind tried to tell me my husband should be serving behind the counter, not me. Hah, I told him I booted out my old man back in seventy-eight and good riddance. Lor! You should have heard him go on. I thought he was gonna take a swing at me with his walking stick at one point. If he ‘ad a done, I’d have decked him,’ Phyllis said flatly.

  She was a grey-haired, lean woman, but looked at that moment perfectly capable of ‘decking’ anyone.

  ‘Sounds like Archdeacon Pierrepont,’ Monica murmured. ‘He’s a bit of a misogynist.’

  ‘I don’t care what religion he is,’ Phyllis huffed. ‘I’m surprised they don’t lock him up.’ She rang up the till, then hesitated, looking uncharacteristically shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry about having to tell that flat-footed young constable about your husband buying some peanuts, Mrs Noble.’ Phyllis, going a little red, launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed speech. ‘I had no idea they’d make such a fuss about it.’ Then, rather ruining it, added avidly, ‘Is it true that the lady died because she was allergic to them?’