by Gill Mather
“Quite possibly. But the orangerie is going to be Victorian if not more recent. And I sincerely doubt if Elizabethan material would have survived into the twenty-first century clothing a dead body.”
“What do you mean?”
Roz was scathing. “Look at it,” she said. “The material round this body has to be man-made. Polyester, nylon or similar. It’s not quite as fresh as the day this person met their maker. But well-preserved all the same. I’m not aware that polyester was in common use in Elizabethan times.”
There were a few titters around the room. A violent shudder overtook Roz as the cold ate further into her.
“And you know so much about dead bodies because?” asked Jack.
But Guy was edging Roz towards the door.
“I’ll have to take her out of here before she freezes to death and we have another corpse on our hands.”
At that moment, Amelia came into the orangerie. She took in the scene at once. Pushing through the crowd, she stood before the fireplace and gasped, a rough rasping sound, almost like a death rattle.
“Oh. I was afraid this would happen. It’s the returned spirit in human form of The Black Monk Sebastian departed. I knew something was terribly wrong. We were meditating together and our karma was suddenly shattered. It has to be him.”
“Oh my God,” said Jack, closing his eyes and theatrically slapping his hand to his forehead. “Not that old chestnut again.”
GUY LED ROZ back to the main dining hall where fires were burning at both ends and sat her in front of one of them. At length Roz thawed out and realised that they were alone in the hall.
“What are the others doing?” she fretted to Guy. “Are they moving the body? We have to try to stop them.”
“Roz love, I don't think we can if that’s what they decide to do.”
“But….but….the body’ll start….changing if they bring it into the main building. It might be another week or so before communications start up again. It’s already well decomposed but it should be preserved in the condition in which it was found as near as possible.”
“Roz. Darling, can't we just leave it. Leave it to them. We’re on holiday remember?”
“But….but what if….you know, someone’s a murderer here?”
“I really doubt it.”
“Well someone put that person up a chimney. Or worse, more immediately, took it from where it was and put it in the orangerie just last night.”
“Well if they did, as you say, put it there last night, then they presumably wouldn't have been the murderer. To draw attention to it like that. But Roz we can't do anything about it. Can we?”
“Yes, but the police could. But only if the scene is preserved.”
“Look, in the unlikely event that someone is a murderer, then I would have said that our best bet was to keep our heads down. By the look of the poor creature, it wasn't a very recent death. So unless they’re bumping people off at regular intervals, I’d hazard that any murderer is long gone. Let’s just get on with our holiday and not make a lot of fuss.”
“But Adam only disappeared recently.”
“Yes but….OK….but he was a young man. He could have gone off anywhere.”
“So who’s to say the corpse in the orangerie wasn’t a young man too? He ended up dead didn't he.”
“I don't think this is helping. We’ve got no idea what if anything at all is going on here. I’d like to think it’s not our business anyway and just get on with our holiday,” Guy said. “But, just in case, I’d suggest we’d better stick together from now on. You’d better skip your dressmaking course today and come and watch the rehearsals with me.”
“No. I want to learn to make this T coat. Why don't you come and watch that instead.”
“Oh well. It looks like one of us is either going to die of boredom or take the other risk that someone around here is a homicidal maniac,” said Guy.
“Well, you take care,” said Roz. “Remember, I’m used to murderers. And trained to deal with them.”
“I DIDN’T SEE you in the orangerie earlier,” Roz queried.
“Oh. There’s always something or other kicking off around here. I’m rather inured to it,” said Fairymead. “Don’t forget this is a commune. It’s not your average suburban situation. That’s why people come to live here.”
So, Roz assumed, the communal bush telegraph had spread the news already.
“Yes but…. A dead body. That’s fairly extreme isn’t it?”
“I suppose so, if it was a recent death. But by all accounts, the body’s several decades old at least. Nothing to do with anyone who lives here now.”
“Probably,” Roz replied, thinking of Guy’s warning to keep their heads down.
“You need to keep those two sections of material exactly in line with one another,” said Fairymead.
“What?” said Roz, temporarily thrown off course. She followed Fairymead’s gaze down to the table before her where all the pieces had already been cut out according to the pattern and were waiting to be tacked together.
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I was forgetting.”
She wanted to put to Fairymead the point about the polyester fabric but was conscious that she shouldn't be too analytical regarding the body. She thought it rather silly actually because everyone watched the dramas on TV and read novels about forensic teams and what they did. But still, Guy wanted them to appear to be innocuous. Therefore she grabbed the box of pins and started to attach the two layers together.
“I COULD GET HOOKED on this,” said Roz to Estelle, another keen sewer on the course. They were having their lunch up in the first floor room rather than in the dining room. Rather quaintly, as they were in the back of the house where the kitchens were, the food and also the drink had arrived via a dumb waiter. Roz wasn’t sure, but the beverage had a definite kick to it. It was the kick that had precipitated her last comment.
“Happy juice,” laughed Estelle. Roz wondered about that. She noticed that Fairymead was drinking water from her own flask. The potion, whatever it was, loosened her tongue.
“I was helping to look after a group of children yesterday. A little boy called Ralph said that Jack was his father. And I think he said his sister’s father too. And Jack’s also the father of Fairymead’s two girls. That’s….er….quite….er….cosy I suppose. In an enclosed situation like this.”
Estelle giggled. “Well this is a commune,” she said, as though that explained everything. Roz had to leave it there. More delving wouldn't do. And Fairymead was prowling around, seeing whether people were ready to start sewing again. Roz checked her machine, made sure the bobbin was still reasonably full of thread, tested the tension and commenced to sew the major seams of her T coat.
“DID YOU FIND out what they did with the body?” Roz asked Guy.
“Actually I think they put it in an out-building.” He was buttoning the clean shirt he’d chosen from one of the pegs where it had been hung on arrival.
He hurried on: “They’ve got on marvellously well with the orangerie today. I went and had a look after rehearsals. They’ve replaced the broken and missing panes and they’ve managed to sweep the chimney. There was a fire on the go when I went to look. They’ve even put up some makeshift blinds to try to keep some of the heat in at night. They’re talking about shifting furniture and plants in there tomorrow. Incredible. They’re such a creative bunch. It looks lovely. Great idea of yours.”
“Yes, except there would have to be a dead body up the chimney. Oh well. It must’ve been frozen solid already. I suppose it’ll keep OK in a cold barn or whatever. Pity about the crime scene, but never mind. Come on. Hurry up. I’m starving.”
She was already dressed for dinner, sporting her newly made T-coat.
“Oh. You don't mind that much then?”
“Not really. It’ll be great to be able to sit in the conservatory and read or something. So I suppose it had to be done. Perhaps people’ll say things at dinner about who they think it is.”
Or perhaps not, Guy muttered under his breath.
“You seem extra perky tonight,” he said “They didn't slip you something in your lunchtime bevvy did they?”
“I’m just loving it here so much. I’m glad we got snowed in. The atmosphere, the people, the food and communal eating. I don't care if it’s a little mysterious in various ways. In fact it adds to the intrigue and enjoyment. But since you ask, another lady on the course said we were drinking “happy juice”. Maybe that tells you something. I wouldn't say it was alcoholic but there could well have been something in it. Some endorphine-inducing ingredient. I feel great.”
“I do too actually. I reckon we got the same thing. It was a bit sweet for my taste though. I’m looking forward to the ale tonight. But the happy juice certainly got the creative juices flowing this afternoon in our group.”
“So when’s this astounding production going to be?”
“Day after tomorrow I should think.”
“I can't wait to hear you sing.”
“I advise you to bring your earplugs for that. But the play’ll be good. Very funny. Well it had us in fits anyway.”
“Come on. Dinner.”
“SO HOW ARE YOU feeling?” Roz asked Sally who was again sitting opposite, but the fancy business suit had gone in favour of a loose long dress and very stylish floppy jacket in a tapestry fabric. Wrenching her eyes from the jacket, Roz finished: “I mean after finding the body of that man.”
“Man? I assumed, I mean most of us did, that it was a woman. You know the flowery material.”
“Not necessarily,” said Roz. “The corpse looked to me as though it was a man. And in the nineteen seventies, Hawaiian shirts were quite popular. And did you notice the medallion around his neck?”
“No I didn't.”
“Were you there when they moved the body? I wonder if they left the medallion on. It could help to identify him.”
“Yes I was there but I couldn't look. But I think most of us think it was a woman.”
“I wouldn't say so. The shoulders were too broad and I reckon it was pretty tall. You’re probably too young to remember. The men used to unbutton their shirts and show off their hairy chests and sport these daft medallions. Although they show those old TV series on some of the freeview channels now. Very cheesy by today’s standards.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Sally.
Roz became aware that Guy was listening to the exchange. She was surprised not to have received a nudge or a kick under the table. But as Jack walked over, Guy said to Roz:
“Your jacket looks lovely. Very professional.”
“Do you think so? I really like it. I didn't have time to put the toggles on. I’ll have to do that soon. Tomorrow. I was just saying to….”
“Have some more wine,” said Guy. “What’ll you do tomorrow? Why don't you come and watch rehearsals, in the morning preferably when we’re doing the songs and sketches. We’re practising the play in the afternoon. We rather wanted to keep that under wraps until the performance.”
“OK. And I’ll spend some time reading and relaxing in the orangerie later when it’s all decked out. I noticed a well stocked library earlier on the way back from the course. Perhaps there’ll be some old books about the history of this place. I fancy a good read.”
Chapter 4 Never Judge A Book By Its Cover
THE VOLUME WAS thick, heavy and leather-bound. The nineteenth century English was quite easy to follow though rather tedious. Long-winded was another expression you might apply. Why use ten words when fifty would serve quite well to put the reader to sleep after a few pages. The superfluous detail and the heat of the fire in the orangerie started to dull Roz’s senses and her head fell more than once onto her shoulder.
A lunch with Guy in a small room off the main dining hall, helped down by a flagon of wine, served as a potent relaxant. A heavy meal had little effect on Guy apart from maybe to energize him, whereas Roz was overtaken by a wave of torpor. And, having to return to rehearsals, Guy drank only water.
Roz forced herself to remain conscious a little longer and read on about the local history of which the tome was a fruitful source. A detailed account of the Red Barn and the murder of Maria Marten was familiar being a famous story. The description of the hanging of Corder was graphic and kept her awake. Some accounts reported that he didn't die quickly, others that he did. Either way it was said the hangman pulled on his legs, though whether to humanely hasten the death or because he just wouldn't die, Roz couldn't make out.
She read of other murders and capital misdemeanours from Hadleigh, Polstead and Bildeston, and further afield in Bury St. Edmunds. She found a brief mention of Burning Souls Hall being a place of pilgrimage and retreat, though bizarrely also providing prison facilities for eighteenth century felons. Did that mean dungeons? This old building must have cellars. Perhaps the prisoners were kept underground. But there was nothing about the Black Monk Sebastian. No instructions how to find any priests’ holes or secret passages in the old building.
By and by, despite the gory nature of the accounts, lynchings, floggings, hangings, burnings alive, she started to drift off.
To avoid sleep for a time, Roz walked over to the only other occupant, Cornflower. These names were something else. Guy had mentioned her as she was connected with the play. Stage management or some such.
Roz first gazed out at the winter scene though there was little to see since the wide path immediately outside the orangerie was bounded by a thick yew hedge cutting off most of the view. Roz understood that, with the regeneration of the orangerie, it was planned to not exactly eradicate the hedge altogether, but to dig up and transplant elsewhere some of the yews so as to create clipped pillars of yew at regular intervals whereby it would be possible to see the kitchen garden beyond. The kitchen garden was said to be very decorative in the summer months and based on a potager from the Elizabethan period.
But the hedge and the accumulated snow against the glass before it began to coalesce into a fuzz and swim before Roz’s eyes.
She therefore turned to Cornflower to ask what she was doing. Writing a programme apparently. She was composing it by hand initially, to save on electricity.
“Later this evening I’ll enter the information into a PC and we’ll print forty or so copies,” she told Roz. “People’ll have to share. I don't think we can manage any graphics so it’ll be purely descriptive with a cast list. Your Guy is pretty good. Great singing voice and very funny in his part.”
“I’ve no idea what it’s about,” said Roz. “Guy wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well it’s a farce, I can tell you that. You know, the usual thing. A bit daft. Mistaken identity. Lots of running about, slamming of the door one end of the stage as someone rushes off, with someone else coming on at the other end looking for the one that’s just exited. You know the sort of thing.”
“Maybe I could help set up the stage earlier on tomorrow,” said Roz, aware that the play was to be staged in the dining hall, meaning no communal dinner tomorrow night. They would have instead to go and pick over the dishes that would be spread out in the kitchen late afternoon.
“If you don't mind that would be a great help. The cast’ll be too busy getting ready.”
“Farces usually feature scantily clad women, sexual innuendo. That sort of thing. The children are coming to watch too aren’t they. Do you think it’s going to be suitable for them?”
“Oh. The kids here are very broad-minded. They have to be. But there’s no swearing to speak of and the humour is all rather obvious. Punch and Judyish in parts for the kids’ benefit. I don’t think most people would be offended at the thought of children seeing it.”
Presumably that meant, the reference to Punch and Judy, an element of violence.
“Well I’m really looking forward to it. And the dance the following day.”
“Oh yes. Lots of preparation going on in that department too. I’m putting a note about it in the
programme. There’s going to be a display of Tudor dancing, but mostly it’ll be barn-dance type music. They thought it would be more fun.”
“Great. Well I’d better leave you to it. See you later.”
Roz went back to the local history book and tried to concentrate. She didn’t hear Cornflower leave.
THE DREAM, AS are all dreams, was bizarre. The Dalai Lama, though his head was shaved, sported a bandito moustache and had his robe open to the navel showing off a large golden medallion on a thick chain.
The Pope was warning him to be sure to wear the medallion at all times to ward off danger. The Dalai Lama was laughing at this, showing gappy teeth. He was saying that he felt the Feng Shui around him slipping these days and the Pope was agreeing that it was difficult to maintain with age.
Roz was trying to tell them that she didn't think that Feng Shui featured much, if at all, in either Tibetan Buddhism or Roman Catholicism but they wouldn't listen. The Dalai Lama just carried on cackling away and the Pope made repeated blessings to some non-existent congregation smiling beatifically.
The rustle of leaves roused Roz from her slumbers. The final touches to the orangerie this morning had been to lay kilims and other ethnic rugs on the flag stones, introduce saggy sofas, on one of which Roz was currently reclining, and add some attractive vegetation. Since indoor potted plants were limited, outdoor plants had been brought in. Citrus plants including, fittingly, orange trees and a number of evergreens in attractive ceramic urns filled empty spaces and provided a degree of seclusion; yew, bay, castor oil plants and prunus lusitanica. At least Roz, having taken an interest in gardening since her largely forced retirement, thought that was its proper name. They had been gracefully pruned into small trees. A quantity of ivy decked a trellis newly screwed to the back wall.
The man staring down at her, leaning on her sofa, had brushed past a bay, its leaves producing a slight hissing sound as they touched and rubbed against each other. Roz jumped.
“Sorry ter startle you, Roz, Miss.”
