A Simple Country Funeral

by Blythe Baker

  A Simple Country Funeral

  Blythe Baker

  Contents

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About the Author

  Death returns to the country ...

  A quite country life continues to elude Helen Lightholder, as she wrestles with her recent bereavement. When the grisly murder of a nameless vagabond shocks the local community, Helen sets out to unearth the truth behind the inexplicable killing.

  But Bookminster hides secrets almost as old as it’s 14th century market place, and the village’s inhabitants will do anything to thwart a prying outsider. Helen’s snooping at a convalescent home for wounded soldiers leads to an apparent dead end, even as other obstacles loom in her path. With Inspector Graves blocking her investigation at every turn and a mysterious, shadowy figure continuing to dog her steps, can Helen unmask the most dangerous killer she has ever faced?

  1

  “You’re very welcome. Have a splendid day,” I said, smiling at the elderly couple sitting at the table beside the window.

  I turned with a tray laden with empty teacups and bowls of sugar cubes, making my way through the mismatched tables and chairs of the tea shop. The happy hum of conversation filled my ears, and the spiced scent of freshly baked cinnamon bread filtered in from the kitchens.

  I leaned against the swinging door leading out of the shop, whistling as I stepped into the kitchen.

  The steam of the kitchen greeted me as soon as I entered. Kettles boiled merrily on the stove, and the oven glowed with a deep, rich red where I knew fresh, delicious treats were being baked for the guests.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Smith are leaving,” I said, setting the tray down on the countertop beside the sink. I reached into the front pocket of my apron, pulling out a few shillings. “They left a rather generous tip today, though.”

  “Oh, good heavens…” Irene said, brushing some of her thick, blonde hair from her eyesight with her arm; her hands were covered in frothy bubbles from the hot water bath she was soaking the cups and pots in as she washed them. “I told them they didn’t need to do that anymore. I’m worried they won’t have enough to get by themselves…”

  “He keeps saying that all he wants is for us to be able to have something nice,” I said. “Especially your son.”

  Irene shook her head. “Well…it is very kind of them, but I just wish they would listen to me.”

  “How long have they been customers here?” I asked, rolling up the sleeves of my blouse and dousing my hands in the hot, soapy water. I swept my hands around the bottom of the basin until I found a rag, and began to scrub at one of the cups I’d brought in with me before passing it over to Irene.

  “Since we opened,” she said, taking the cup from my dripping hand. “And they have been here almost every day since. All except the day that Mrs. Smith was so ill that they needed to take her all the way into London. The nearer hospital couldn’t help her.”

  “How awful,” I said.

  “She is a strong woman, and she recovered quickly,” Irene said with a smile. “You know, Helen, I really must thank you again for being willing to come in and help me on your day off. With Nathanial being away, I just needed the extra set of hands in here to ensure I could keep up with all the customers and their orders.”

  “It really is no trouble,” I said. “When I said that I was happy to help whenever you needed me, I meant it, you know.”

  Irene smiled appreciatively at me. “You really are too kind,” she said.

  We worked to quickly finish the rest of the dishes, making quick work of them together. I set the clean cups up on the shelf alongside all the others, ready for the next customers to arrive.

  “So…” Irene asked, turning her scrutinizing grey eyes on me. “How have you been feeling?”

  I wiped my hands dry on the apron tied around my waist, frowning at her. “Whatever do you mean? I feel perfectly fine.”

  Irene shook her head, folding her arms. “You know what I mean. How are you feeling about…well, everything, really.”

  I shifted my gaze to the floor, the sound of the steam rising from a teapot drawing my attention. I moved quickly to the stove to remove it before it boiled over.

  “You went through a very traumatic experience just a few short weeks ago,” Irene said in a very concerned tone. “Something that no one should ever have to experience…and so soon after losing Roger.”

  My heart clenched with hearing the name of my late husband being said so frankly by someone who had never known him. In many ways, however, my friendship with Irene felt as if it had lasted for years.

  “I know how difficult it is for you to talk about these things that have happened, but it is not something you should have to carry around all on your own,” she said, her brow creasing with concern. “Has talking about Roger like I suggested helped at all?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Surprisingly, it has. It certainly wasn’t easy the first few times, but it made me realize that I think I will be able to have a future…even if it is vastly different from the one I expected to have.”

  “That’s good,” Irene said. “Very good.”

  I poured the steaming water into a pale blue ceramic teapot, ready to be taken out to customers. “When it comes to what happened a few weeks ago…I am still not quite sure how to process it all. I have spent many nights trying to decide if there was a different way for everything to have happened, and I…I just cannot seem to find a solution that did not end in her attacking me.”

  Irene nodded, yet her expression seemed rather frightened.

  “I know for certain that if Sidney Mason had not been there, she would have killed me,” I said.

  The words hung in the air, suspended between us, heavy like clouds swelling with rain.

  “Well, we cannot allow ourselves to dwell on that,” Irene said. “It didn’t happen, and all we can do is be thankful for it.”

  “I know…” I said. “It’s just incredibly hard to believe that someone could be so wicked, so completely wrapped up in themselves that they would hurt someone else so thoughtlessly…it just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know,” Irene said. “The world is full of cruel people. But there are many people who are like you, Helen. Thoughtful. Caring. Compassionate. People like you would never be able to do that to others.”

  “No,” I said. “I never could. Taking another person’s life…”

  The death of Mrs. Sandra Martin had struck Brookminster rather hard. Everyone knew her, and while it was clear that many people were not all that fond of her, no one could find anything bad to say about her in the days following her passing.

  Sidney Mason, however, had become quite the hero around town. I had been worried that he would have been arrested for being the one to pull the trigger of the gun that had killed Sandra. It was clear, though, to everyone who had come to the shop that day that his actions had been taken in defense of both himself and of me.

  I still felt rather ashamed that I had ever thought that Sidney might have been mixed up in the nonsense going on with my aunt.

  “Well…there’s no need to dwell on it for too long, today,” Irene said. “Would you care to go out and check on our guests? See if anyone else has come in?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Shall I deliver the cinnamon bread to Mrs. Trent
?”

  “It should be done, yes,” Irene said, glancing over her shoulder at the oven behind her. “That’s quite fragrant now. Maybe give it just another minute more.”

  I wasn’t sure I would ever understand Irene’s innate ability to just know when anything in the oven was done baking, but I hoped to someday be able to learn even a fraction of her skills.

  I scooped the warm, heavenly bread from the oven, and carried it out into the dining area, still steaming.

  “I’m sorry for the wait, Mrs. Trent,” I said, smiling at the sweet faced old woman who was sitting in her usual corner beside the grandfather clock. I set the bread down on the table, picking up the knife from the opposite place setting. “The bread just finished.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Trent said, her expression kind and gentle. “There’s nothing to worry about. I was rather pleased to just sit here and enjoy my tea.”

  “Well, allow me to top you off, then,” said Irene, who had followed me out into the dining area. She lifted the teapot I had just filled in the kitchen, and tipped it over Mrs. Trent’s teacup.

  There weren’t many customers at this time, and the other two couples that were there were happily chatting, unaware of our presence.

  “Would you like one slice of bread? Or two?” I asked.

  “Just one for now,” Mrs. Trent said.

  “And sugar?” Irene asked.

  “A little, yes,” Mrs. Trent said.

  Irene took a step back, holding her tray against her chest. ‘So, Mrs. Trent. How is your husband doing? Is he feeling any better?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Trent said, pulling off a corner of the steaming bread, releasing its heady scent into the air. “He is home now, of course. Enjoying all the comforts afforded to him.”

  “Is Dr. Vaughn making house calls now?” Irene asked.

  Mrs. Trent nodded. “Indeed. And I am grateful for his care, as well, especially since he has been spending so many of his working hours over at the Evermore estate.”

  “Really?” Irene asked, her brow furrowing. “What has he been doing over there? Is Lord Evermore ill?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Mrs. Trent asked, her eyes widening. “Why, Evermore estate has been turned over to be used by the military. London’s hospitals are full up with wounded soldiers, and there has apparently been a serious need for beds for the wounded soldiers.”

  “My gracious…” Irene said.

  “They’ve given up their whole home for the wounded?” I asked, rather astonished.

  Mrs. Trent nodded. “Indeed. Lord Evermore is quite good friends with Dr. Vaughn, and thought nothing of giving him the chance to see patients close to home. There was no earthly way they could have brought more than a half a dozen to his little surgery here in town. There, though, they shall be comfortable, and their recovery will hopefully be rapid.”

  “Not only that, but I imagine it’s a much cleaner environment than some of those military hospitals…” Irene said, suppressing a shudder. “I have heard some terrible stories about how those poor soldiers are treated.”

  “As have I,” Mrs. Trent said. “I’ve heard tales of rats living in the same rooms as the patients, and all the sickness they bring along with them…”

  “That certainly won’t be a problem at a private estate,” Irene said. “That was very kind of the Evermores to open their home for the benefit of the wounded.”

  “It certainly was,” Mrs. Trent said. “I imagine those soldiers will be much more relaxed here than they ever would have been in London or Bath.”

  “Are there many patients there now?” I asked, cutting another slice of the cinnamon bread for Mrs. Trent, who had already consumed most of hers as she tore small chunks of it off.

  “Quite a few, yes,” Mrs. Trent said. “According to Dr. Vaughn, they have more than two dozen set up currently, and are expecting to receive even more in the coming weeks.”

  “This war is a terrible thing,” Irene said in a low, quiet voice. “I wish it would just end.”

  “As do I,” Mrs. Trent said. “I’m worried about Mr. Trent; our nephew, Thomas, was sent overseas. I believe he is in Poland.”

  “Poland?” Irene asked. “I didn’t realize there were any soldiers still there. I was under the impression we had pulled out from there some time ago.”

  “We aren’t quite sure what Thomas is doing, but we know that he cannot discuss much of his work,” Mrs. Trent said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her slender nose. “He is not at liberty to divulge that information. Nevertheless, my poor husband is worried sick over the boy. Thinks he will receive that dreaded phone call from his sister any day now…”

  “That’s certainly not good for his health,” Irene said.

  “I’ve told him as much,” Mrs. Trent said. “The best we can do now is hope and pray for his safe return. Apart from that, it is entirely out of our control…”

  I swallowed hard, picking up the rest of the cinnamon bread from the table.

  Not knowing what he was up to, knowing he was not at liberty to discuss it, felt far too familiar.

  I was well aware of the fact that my late husband had not been the only one with a secret job, with secret goals. But it still hurt my heart to hear that these men were having to erect barriers between themselves and their families, their dearest loved ones, in order to further the war.

  It troubled me deeply, and as so many things had since the end of February, I was reminded of Roger and the life we had taken from us so soon.

  “Are you all right?” Irene asked, following me back into the kitchens. “A crestfallen expression came over you while we were talking with Mrs. Trent.”

  “I’m…” I said, catching myself as I realized I had very nearly said everything was just fine. I sighed, gathering my thoughts once again. “I was just thinking that Mrs. Trent’s nephew reminded me of Roger is all.”

  “Because of his rather vague job?” she asked.

  I nodded. “There is still a part of me that wishes I knew what he did, or what he had been doing, when he died. I know it was important work, whatever it was, but I still worry that there was a great deal about him that I didn’t know…that I will never know.”

  “Oh, sweetheart…” Irene said, coming over to me and wrapping her arms around me. “You knew him. Just because you didn’t know precisely everything he did, doesn’t mean that you didn’t know him. You knew his heart, and you knew his love for you. And from what you’ve told me about him, he never would have kept everything he did from you if he didn’t absolutely have to.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said.

  “Good,” Irene said. “Now, I believe you have helped me enough today. Why don’t you run along home, and get some rest?”

  “But what about the other customers? Won’t you need my help?” I asked.

  “With Mrs. Trent and the engrossed love birds? I think I can manage just fine,” she said with a smile and a wink. “Besides, didn’t you have some orders that you needed to fill for your own shop?”

  My face flushed, my heart skipping a beat. “Oh. Yes, you’re right. I suppose I should be on my way.”

  I hung up my apron on the back of the swinging kitchen door, a small, paper bag filled with some slices of Irene’s cinnamon bread tucked inside my purse.

  “Have a wonderful rest of your day,” Irene said from beside Mrs. Trent’s table, another fresh pot of tea in her hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  “You as well!” I said, smiling as I stepped out into the warm, summer air.

  June had greeted Brookminster with warmth and comfort. The rains seemed to have dissipated somewhat, leaving us with more sunny days than miserable, gloomy ones.

  As I stepped outside into the beautiful day, I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the freshly blooming flowers.

  “Mrs. Lightholder,” I heard behind me. “Wait up!”

  2

  I turned around at the familiar voice, which was both unexpected
, yet pleasing to hear.

  “Sidney Mason,” I said, smiling at the young man hurrying toward me up the road. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Sidney Mason was a fairly young man, no more than thirty, with fiery red hair and a face full of freckles. His eyes were wide and bright, and his smile as warm as the sunshine on my face.

  “I thought that might have been you,” he said in his Scots accent, coming to a stop beside me. He tore the hat from his head and gave me a rather quick bow. “You and Irene are becoming thick as thieves, aren’t you?”

  I smiled. “And what if we are?” I asked, starting back down the road toward home.

  “Well, I certainly can think of no other woman who would take care of you so well,” Sidney said. “You know, I was there helping her husband repair their washing machine last week, and she not only asked me to stay for dinner, but she sent me home with the leftovers, too.”

  I grinned. “That certainly sounds like Irene, yes.”

  “She is perhaps the most generous person I have ever known,” Sidney said. “Well, you are generous yourself, Miss Helen. I’m still quite taken with that biscuit recipe of yours.”

  “Did you like them?” I asked. “I thought to try oats ground up in the batter instead of using so much flour.”

  “And the chocolate?” he added, nodding his head. “It was excellent. I could have happily eaten those all day. I rationed myself, though, as we all must in these trying times.”

  “I’m surprised,” I said. “That chocolate was from a single bar I purchased at the sweets shop. I thought I might treat myself.”

  “And you shared it with me?” he asked. “I’m honored.”

  “Well, since you won’t accept any sort of money for the things I have asked you to take care of for me…” I said, smiling at him.