“I believe so, although it’s not in Romsey itself. I forget the name of the parish, although I could find that out for you.”
“Thank you, that would be most helpful.” Jonty knew the answer, of course, assuming it was the same place that Simon Priestland had been buried.
“Don’t go before I’ve written it down for you. Strange story about the Priestlands. Interesting, though. Mysteries seem to run in that family. I suppose he wanted to be near his twin brother, Simon.” Mitchell smiled.
“Nice choice of names for them.” Jonty returned the smile. “Any fishermen in the family?”
“Several who’ve taken a fly to catch a trout on the river Test, but none who set out on small seas in smaller boats.”
“And none who’ve fished for men, either, I suppose?” Jonty warmed to his theme; Orlando didn’t really appreciate this sort of Biblical wit. “I take your point about the twin brother, as I understand they were very close, but what you said about mysteries intrigues me.”
“How much of the family history do you know? And how much time have you available to spend hearing about it?” Mitchell seemed intelligent and was certainly appealing to talk to. It was easy to imagine what a consolation he’d have been to Rosalind Priestland, who didn’t seem the sort of woman to suffer boring company. Jonty wondered how interesting Peter had been, particularly as he’d grown older. He also wondered whether a man as handsome as Mitchell would have raised any romantic feelings in Rosalind’s breast, either pre- or post-becoming a widow.
“I know there were triplets, not twins. When Simon and Peter were born.” It was a safe enough thing to say, proving that he wasn’t a total stranger to the Priestlands but not even hinting he knew about the more unsavoury things the family might have to hide.
“That’s right. The firstborn who didn’t survive more than a few days, then Peter, and then Simon. Their mother was terribly ill afterwards. It seems to have cast a blight on the whole family.” Mitchell sighed. “A horribly cruel process, I always feel, childbirth. All too often, I’ve seen the brutal side of it. Mothers and children in the same grave.” He shuddered.
Bresnan’s notes flitted through Jonty’s brain. “This may sound very unimportant, but is that the order in which they were born? I always understood Simon was the eldest. His birthday was the day before his brothers’.”
“Was it?” Mitchell ran his hand through his hair, appearing momentarily flustered. “Perhaps I’m the one who has the details wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t at the moment, certainly, although Jonty made a mental note to see if they could confirm what Bresnan had told them. It was just possible he hadn’t got his facts right.
“At least we can be certain that Andrew was born first. He was terribly sickly, I understand. The old man used to say it was a blessing he hadn’t survived, so the estate wouldn’t have been in the hands of a weakling.” Mitchell shook his head.
“What a horrible thing to say of your own child.”
“From what Peter told me, old Andrew Priestland was a horrible man.”
Jonty wondered what secrets had been poured out over postprandial port and whether he could subtly dig up any about Rosalind. “Is the order of birth the mystery you alluded to?”
“Not that I was aware of until now, although what happened to the mother is. The story the sons had been told since childhood was that she’d been unwell, but survived almost until the boys were toddling. She then sickened and died, the effects of the birth still preying on her. Peter believed that until after his father passed away in 1873.”
“Ah. And at that point he heard another variation on the tale?” The inflection in Mitchell’s tone had been unmistakable; even rusty as he was at investigating, Jonty couldn’t have missed it.
“Indeed. Some well-meaning person or other—so well-meaning and virtuous that they didn’t bother to sign the letters—wrote to both him and Simon to say their mother had been alive and well up until the previous year. Allegedly she’d died at sea, when a pleasure yacht went aground off the Scilly Isles.” Mitchell leaned forwards, elbows on knees and chin resting on steepled hands. “The yacht was said to belong to her paramour.”
“So who’s buried in the family plot? I mean, Mrs. Priestland the elder must have had a grave.” Jonty stopped. He was losing his touch, being as thick as the proverbial two short planks. “Or are there two graves? Assuming the body wasn’t lost at sea?”
“It appears it was, just to add another macabre twist to the story. So only one grave—the one where, for years, they’d believed she’d rested.”
“Peter wasn’t daft.” Jonty hoped he wasn’t making one assumption too many in front of someone who’d actually known the man. “Nor was Simon.” At least he knew that for a fact. Everything they’d encountered in the case had shown the signs of an active mind, something that his nephew Bresnan also had. “They’d have wanted to know the truth.”
Funny how this case was going, so quickly, the way that all their previous ones had. Tendrils of storylines reaching out, twisting and grabbing to attach themselves to all sorts of things, only some of which would be relevant to the vine as a whole.
“There is a headstone for Alice Priestland at the same plot where old Mr. Priestland is buried. As I said, he died before all the rumours came out, so they never got the chance to question him.” Mitchell rubbed his chin. “One day I was brave enough to ask Peter whether they’d ever tried to verify any of the story.”
“To have the grave opened, do you mean?” Jonty narrowed his eyes. “It would have been opened when the father was buried, of course. Did no one notice anything amiss then?”
“Not at all, apparently. That’s one of the odd things. When he prepared the grave, the verger uncovered the first coffin and even made a point about saying he remembered the funeral.” Mitchell rubbed his chin again. “His father had been verger before him, and he’d assisted at Alice Priestland’s interment. He gave no impression that anything had been wrong with it or that he’d entertained any suspicions.”
“And was there no further move to find out if that first coffin had been empty? Or if not empty, who it contained?” This was more like it. Now he was thinking more incisively, getting into his investigational stride again. Dear God, Orlando hadn’t been the only one who’d missed the thrill of the chase.
“It’s funny you say that, because it’s exactly what Peter wanted to do, but Simon wouldn’t let him. Desecration, he called it, although I can see both sides of the argument. The potential violation of their parents’ grave versus the need to establish whether they’d been lied to all these years.” Mitchell spread his hands, as if appealing to a judge and jury. “Alas, there are too many cases in life where there is no absolute right or wrong, despite what some of my more traditional colleagues might say.”
“Amen to that.” Jonty could think of plenty of his own examples of the grey shades of morality, but kept his counsel. He had another bright idea. “Did the brothers fall out over it?”
“Not to the extent that they severed all relations, if that’s what you mean. I know these family feuds can start over relatively trivial things and escalate beyond all imagining, but in this case, they still remained good friends. Never stopped arguing over it, though, right until the end.” Mitchell considered his teacup, clearly weighing his words. “Literally, I think.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“Simon was here to visit his brother when he had the flu. Neither of them were in their first flush of youth—Simon’s words, not mine—and there was always the risk that any meeting might be a last one.”
“You said they were Simon’s words. Were they used at the time? Did you see him when he visited?” He wished he’d got his trusty old notebook on his knee so he could keep an accurate record and not rely on memory. Sometimes the exact words that people used, rather than the impression they created, and vice versa, were the key to a case.
“I did. I’d met him on occa
sions before, over dinner at the Priestlands’ house. He seemed very concerned that this time he might not see his brother again. Terrible business, this Spanish flu. It took a number of my parishioners.” Mitchell rested his chin on his hands.
Jonty wondered whether the gesture was one he habitually used when talking of mortality. Men of the cloth were often good actors; did Mitchell have a repertoire of such actions that he employed to impress and comfort his flock? Still, the mere mention of the flu was enough to make Jonty shudder.
“I don’t suppose he was actually here when his brother died?” He just stopped himself from adding that Simon couldn’t have been in the actual room, given that the papers he’d left for his nephew had bewailed that fact. If he’d been present, he might have had the evidence he needed to incriminate his sister-in-law.
“Now, that’s a peculiar thing. I understood that he’d left for home the day before, only returning after Mrs. Priestland informed him that Peter had died.” Mitchell leaned forward; witnesses often seemed to do that before imparting some crucial piece of information. Jonty was convinced the more somebody leaned, the less likely they were to be telling the truth. What did Orlando call it? Negative correlation or some such mathematical nonsense. “But I was sure I saw him here in Downlea that very morning.”
“The day that his brother died?” Was this Billy’s “man in the trees”? Jonty had suspected that man was no more real than the red kite he’d pretended to have seen in order to make friends with Billy. And to get Mrs. Hamilton’s goat, which was even better.
“The very same. Although that’s not the only thing I’ve wondered about that day. I thought—” Mitchell stopped abruptly. “Do you know, I put subtle messages into my sermons to warn my parishioners about the perils of idle gossip, and here I am chattering away like the worst sort of old maid. You’ll forgive me, please.”
“Of course.” Jonty forgave the gossiping, even if he was cross about it coming to an end just when it was getting interesting. Maybe it had been Mitchell’s stern injunctions from the pulpit that had inhibited the parish gossip about Rosalind Priestland. Most of the women and some of the men would have been highly susceptible to the vicar’s undoubted charms.
“If you want information rather than gossip, you could do worse than talk to Billy Waller, who delivers the groceries.” Mitchell sounded a touch too airy. “He was at Thorpe House that day, helping out with some fumigation.”
“Not flushing out red kites, I hope?” And why did people keep thrusting Billy at him?
“Ah, you’ve already met him. He’s rather obsessed with them, isn’t he?” The vicar produced an avuncular smile.
“I’ve assumed the things were extinct in England.” Indeed, the only one Jonty had ever seen had been stuffed and in a case.
“They are. But I had a parish assistant from Wales who regaled Billy and some of the other lads with gruesome tales of what these birds could do to a lamb. Now every harrier or buzzard is a kite, in Billy’s eyes.”
“He has a wild imagination?”
“No,” Mitchell said, maybe a bit too eager to protest. “He’s a touch gullible, and I suspect one of the other lads told him he’d seen one, so he wants to see them too. But he’s fundamentally honest, I believe.”
“I hope so.” Jonty wasn’t convinced. “I’ll talk to him again, though.”
“Splendid.” Mitchell rubbed his hands together. “Now, we have some very remarkable brasses in the church. Would you like to see them?”
Jonty paid for information received with ten minutes of admiring tombs in the church, only one of which fell into the “very remarkable” category because it contained a man and his three wives, whom everyone said he’d married sequentially but everyone suspected he’d wed concurrently. People in Downlea had always had fuel for gossip, it seemed.
They stopped for a moment at the door of the church, although Jonty was eager to be away as he was already running late. He was also fairly sure he wasn’t going to hear anything about Rosalind, no matter how much he’d hinted while they’d looked at the monuments. However, he’d underestimated his luck, or the interference from his guardian angel, whichever of the two was on duty.
“Might I ask you a favour?” Mitchell might have been asking, but he couldn’t look Jonty in the eye. “As you’re a friend of the family, I should warn you that you might hear stories about Rosalind Priestland’s past. Stories that might upset you.”
Jonty could barely get an answer out. Hear stories? Ones that might upset him? He couldn’t wait. “I’ve been lucky to avoid such things,” he said, immediately cursing himself for possibly having turned off the informational tap.
“I’m pleased to hear it. You see, when Rosalind was very young, she did something silly, taking some jewellery that didn’t belong to her. From a gentleman she was friendly with. The theft was discovered and brought to her door, but charges were never pressed, given the affection she was held in. She returned everything. She saw the error of her ways and made peace with God. Peter knew and he forgave her entirely.” Mitchell stopped looking at the ceiling and addressed Jonty directly, spreading his hands. “There but for the grace of God go any of us.”
“Indeed.” Jonty waited for more to be added. There was a look in Mitchell’s eye, as if some inner debate was being held between two opposing parts of his conscience.
“There are times when my profession is a delight, Dr. Stewart, and others when it is extremely difficult.” That was written plainly on his face. “One hears things one cannot repeat. You’ll surely understand that?”
“I do indeed.” Again, Jonty waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.
“Thank you,” Mitchell said, shaking Jonty’s hand and ushering them into saying their good-byes.
Jonty, intrigued at the last little scene, scurried off to meet Orlando at the pub, likely to be forgiven any tardiness if it had occurred in the cause of investigating. Being late because he’d been pontificating about The Merchant of Venice would never be viewed with so much tolerance, even if he’d been discussing the true nature of Antonio and Bassanio’s relationship. But arriving bearing a headful of interesting stuff would win him lots of merit points.
It was all very exciting to have stumbled over an array of leads so easily. Were the family stories some of the blind alleys Bresnan had spoken of? It would explain why he’d kept quiet about them, not wanting to rake up scandal, anchoring the case firmly in the present day. Jonty was becoming sure some part of the solution to this mystery lay in what had occurred eighty years ago and how it still resonated now.
Best of all was the titbit from Mitchell about Rosalind Priestland, although something about it continued to nag. If there were stories about her that might relate to the case, why hadn’t Bresnan heard them? Or had he heard them and for some reason not bothered to repeat them? And why had Mitchell evidently gone out of his way to give Jonty chapter and verse about not repeating things he’d been told, when he’d done just that with the story of the theft?
More importantly, what else was it that Mitchell knew and couldn’t possibly tell?
“Got the beer in?” Jonty appeared at Orlando’s side, making him almost spill his pint over the bar.
“Where did you spring from? Have you taken to sneaking up on me?” Orlando could imagine how much Jonty would enjoy the subterfuge involved in making a silent entrance to the pub and moving noiselessly across the floor.
“Hardly sneaking up. Didn’t you hear me nearly go arse over tip crossing the front door step? You must be getting deaf.”
“I am not deaf,” Orlando said, in slightly too loud a voice, giving the lie to his protestations. He lowered the volume. “I was listening to what the landlord was saying over the other side of the bar. Or I was trying to, before a bull in a china shop appeared.”
“Sorry,” Jonty whispered. “Anything of interest?”
“I’ve no idea, seeing as some flaming idiot came in and interrupted my concentration. I thought I heard—”
Whatever he’d heard, or tried to hear, got interrupted in the telling as the landlord came over to see what Jonty wanted. He settled for beer too, alongside a plate of cheese and ham rolls to serve the pair for lunch. After they’d found a table by a bow window, Orlando resumed the discussion. “I thought he was talking about Simon and Peter.”
“Our Simon and Peter?”
“As I said, I haven’t the foggiest. Pest.” Orlando spoke the last word affectionately. It was one of his favourite pet names for the love of his life and one he could legitimately use in public without arousing anyone’s suspicions.
“You know, you might have imagined the ‘and’ and been simply overhearing part of some deeply religious conversation about the rock upon which the church was founded.” Jonty pulled out his notepad, then took a long draught of ale and smiled with contentment. “Lovely. I’ve masses to write up. Thought I’d do it as I updated you. Unless you want to go first?”
Orlando appreciated the offer of precedence. “I will, thank you, although I’ve not a lot to report.” He related the tale of frustrated ambition at the post office. “You’ve met the brokenhearted wife, or I assume you have. Did Rosalind Priestland strike you as someone whose ambitions had been thwarted?”
“She didn’t strike me as anything but a typical grieving widow, if there is such a thing.” Jonty shrugged. “No hint of lurking unease caused by frustrated desires, although I wasn’t looking for that, was I?”
“So nothing to report on that front, either?” Orlando felt just slightly smug. Jonty might be the all-consuming love of his life, but he wasn’t to be allowed to get the advantage of him in the investigative stakes.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say nothing. One fact worth following up, some lingering puzzles, and a bit of a feeling. Want the subjective or the objective first?” Jonty took another deep draught of beer.
“Art before science, I think.”
The arrival of the rolls displaced both art and science in favour of gastronomy, although not even the excellent cheddar, the soft, doughy bread, and a couple of late tomatoes could stop the flow of Jonty’s chatter.
Lessons for Survivors Page 8
