by Carola Dunn
“As you heard, my dear Miss Dalrymple,” said Mrs. Lomax, almost breathless with indignation, “she has the impudence to imagine she knows better than we do what speakers will appeal to our members.”
“But isn’t that why … ?” Daisy stopped as the vicar came into the drawing room.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with a smile.
“You remember Miss Dalrymple, Osbert.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“We renewed our acquaintance yesterday,” said Daisy. Catching his look of dismay, she swallowed the story of the gate rescue.
As his wife poured him a cup of tea, Miss Prothero remarked, “We were just talking about Mrs. Gresham, Vicar.”
“A charming woman,” Mr. Osborne observed, helping himself to two watercress sandwiches and a slice of gingerbread.
“I’m afraid you are far too charitable,” said Miss Prothero firmly.
“A trouble-maker,” said Mrs. Osborne with a decided nod.
“They say,” Mrs. Lomax half whispered the shocking revelation, “that her husband is an atheist!”
The vicar’s defence of his friend was ambiguous: “Amos Gresham is a highly intelligent fellow.” He sat down next to Daisy.
“I’m sure you exaggerate his intelligence, Osbert,” said Mrs. Osborne, unwontedly perturbed. “And I’m sure you exaggerate his lack of faith, Mrs. Lomax. Not all the world belongs to the Anglican communion, alas.” She displayed her horsey teeth in an an unconvincing laugh.
“No smoke without a fire,” Miss Prothero reminded her. “Which reminds me, Mrs. Lomax, I heard the dear brigadier firing away earlier, quite wildly.”
“Maurice knows what he’s doing with a gun,” said Mrs. Lomax defensively—and slightly uncertainly? “He was a soldier, after all, and he spends hours in his gun-room. He’s just after rabbits, and rooks and pigeons. They eat the crops, you know.”
“It’s a pity he doesn’t go after that young wastrel who’s renting your cottage. Do you know what I just heard?”
Mrs. Osborne and Mrs. Lomax leaned forward eagerly. Daisy hoped she was going to learn something useful. The vicar said in gentle admonishment, “My dear Miss Prothero, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness …’”
“I assure you, Vicar,” Miss Prothero interrupted, affronted, “I have every reason to believe this story is true, or naturally I should not repeat it.”
“‘Uncharitableness,’” Mr. Osborne muttered feebly.
Miss Prothero started, and gave him an oddly searching look.
“Osbert, it’s your duty to know what your parishioners are up to. What did you hear, Miss Prothero?” Mrs. Osborne demanded.
Dismissing whatever momentary qualms she may have felt, the elderly cherub announced, “London friends of Mr. Catterick have come to visit him. He has no room to put them up, of course, so they are staying at the Hop-Picker. Sharing a room—and one is a young woman!” she ended triumphantly.
“Good gracious!” Mrs. Lomax exclaimed.
“Disgraceful,” said Mrs. Osborne. “Of course, it’s only what one might have expected, considering the kind of books Piers Catterick writes. We can’t have him importing that sort of thing into the village. A shocking example! Osbert, you must have a word with Jellaby.”
“As to that,” Miss Prothero said, “I don’t suppose the landlord can do anything about it. The precious pair claim to be man and wife.”
“Perhaps they are,” suggested Daisy.
The three ladies stared at her, identically incredulous.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Osborne in a soothing voice, “you are too young to realize the full wickedness of the world. The young do tend to think the best of people, and very proper, too, though I’m afraid you are in for a sad disillusionment. Osbert, you had better confront them …”
“No!” cried the vicar. “Two visitors from London cannot possibly be construed as any responsibility of mine. I do my poor best to guide my parishioners. I’m even willing to make an attempt to persuade Piers Catterick of the error of his ways, but his friends are beyond my purview. Excuse me, my dear; excuse me, please, ladies. I have one or two things to see to before evensong.”
As he stood up, Daisy also rose. “I must be getting along, too,” she said.
She did not feel she was gaining any helpful information. Either Miss Prothero or Mrs. Lomax could be the Poison Pen, or even Mrs. Osborne, though surely a clergyman’s wife, like Caesar’s, ought to be above suspicion. At any rate, between running the village and interfering in her husband’s pastoral duties, Mrs. Osborne had plenty of public outlets for censure, without resorting to anonymous letters.
Daisy thanked her hostess for the tea and promised to be at the Parish Hall by three next day. She and Mr. Osborne left the room together.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a moment,” said the vicar diffidently, “I’ll walk a short way with you. I could do with some fresh air.”
“Of course.”
He ducked into a cloakroom and reemerged Panama in hand. When he opened the front door, however, they discovered that the sky had clouded over and a few drops of rain were spitting down. “You must borrow an umbrella,” he said, reaching to take one from the stand just inside the door.
“Thank you.” Daisy opened the brolly, a newish black one. “It looks as if it may pour any minute. You won’t want to come out, after all.”
“I do.” The vicar hung a second umbrella over his arm and absently put on his summery hat, now thoroughly inappropriate. “I want to ask you,” he said anxiously as she preceded him down the path to the front gate, “not to judge Mrs. Gresham too harshly.”
“I shouldn’t dream of it. She didn’t stay long after I arrived, but I liked what I saw of her. I’d like to know her better.”
“Her husband, as I believe I mentioned yesterday, is a good friend of mine, and she has been kind to me. I’m afraid country-bred ladies tend to be rather too … quick to judge. Also, my wife has a good deal on her mind at present.”
“Oh?” Daisy said encouragingly. Perhaps Mrs. Osborne had received, not written, anonymous letters. There must be lots of people who resented her managing ways—Mrs. Lomax for one.
They crossed the lane and started up the avenue before the vicar responded. “You see, I’ve been offered a position as a canon at the Cathedral. At Canterbury, that is. Adelaide is having some difficulty making up her mind whether she wants to go or not.”
Big fish in a small pond or small fish in a big pond, Daisy thought. Mrs. Osborne would find more scope for her organizing talents in a cathedral city, but also more competition. “What about you?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I can’t possibly accept!” Mr. Osborne’s voice trembled with agitation. “I can’t! It’s hard enough here. I could never keep it secret in a Cathedral precinct, constantly surrounded by clergymen and Church officials. As it is, since Ozzy—my brother—came to stay, Adelaide has begun to suspect. All these years I’ve kept it from her, from everyone, but I can’t go on much longer!”
Surely Mr. Osborne couldn’t have been getting poison-pen letters from his brother! The professor’s visit must be coincidental. But who would write horrible accusations to the inof fensive, kindly vicar? And accusing him of what?
“What, exactly, does Mrs. Osborne suspect?” Daisy asked cautiously.
“She’s afraid Ozzy and Gresham between them are subverting my faith. Sooner or later she’ll realize I’ve none to be threatened. I lost it in the trenches.”
“You’re an atheist?” Daisy breathed, stunned, yet feeling she ought to have guessed. “An unbelieving vicar?”
Stopping short, he looked at her, his round face wild. The rain was beginning to fall in earnest now, damping the absurd Panama and the shoulders of his black jacket. He was oblivious. Daisy took the umbrella from his arm, managed to open it while holding on to her own, and put it in his hand.
“I can’t go on.” He swung round and started up the hill again, his tread heavy,
effortful. “I don’t know why I’m telling you, except that I must tell someone and you look sympathetic. Ozzy doesn’t understand. Even Gresham … They’ve both rejected religion on logical grounds. They feel no conflict. My revolt is emotional, I know it. I don’t want to believe in a God who permits young, hale, well-meaning men to be tortured, crippled, slaughtered by the hundred thousand!”
“I know what you mean,” Daisy said soberly. “I wasn’t there, of course, but I lost my brother and my fiancé.”
The vicar seemed not to hear her. His bitter, passionate words flowed on: “Nearly five years since the War ended, yet it seems like yesterday. The stench of blood … but the Church was founded in blood. How can I bear to hold services of praise and thanksgiving for a God who demanded a human sacrifice before he’d grant forgiveness for our petty sins? I’ve tried. I’ve preached countless sermons, hoping at least to alter people’s behaviour for the better though I can’t sincerely offer them rewards in Heaven. No one changes. And they call themselves Christians! I can’t go on, I can’t go on.”
“Why should you? I should think you’d better leave the Church. Couldn’t you teach or something?”
“What I’d like to do is join one of the secular groups working to educate the poor, in the East End slums of London, or Birmingham, Manchester … anywhere.” Mr. Osborne sounded quite enthusiastic, but then he groaned. “Can you imagine my wife leading such a life? Even a school, if any respectable school was willing to hire an atheist, she would regard as a bitter pill after …” He turned and waved his free hand at the red tile roofs of the village, straggling across the hillside below.
“After being monarch of all she surveys?” Daisy suggested.
He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m being grandiloquent, am I not? But all the same, my dear Miss Dalrymple, I can’t do it to her. I have a duty to her. I married Adelaide for better or worse, and though I no longer believe in the God before whom I plighted my troth, still, I promised to comfort, honour, and keep her.”
“And your children.”
“Yes, the children, too, with their future ahead of them. So I struggle on, mired in hypocrisy, no better than those I … rebuke. I must be off,” the vicar added hastily, suddenly in a hurry to get away, as if he regretted his confession. “Forgive me for burdening you with my troubles.”
“I shan’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, but half of me wishes you would. Then the decision would be out of my hands. Good-bye, Miss Dalrymple.” He set off down the hill at a near trot.
Frowning, Daisy watched him go. Whatever his mixed feelings, of course she would not give away his secret. It ought to be safe with his brother and his friends, the Greshams—but either one of them was the Poison Pen, or someone else had discovered or guessed the vicar’s loss of faith.
That was assuming he had received one or more anonymous letters. Continuing up the hill, Daisy wished she had asked him outright. He might turn out to be an ally in her investigation. As it was, she had not even got around to finding out how long Professor Osborne had been staying at the Vicarage.
This evening she’d ask Johnnie when the first letter had been delivered. Tomorrow, chatting over “urn tea,” it shouldn’t be difficult to inveigle Mrs. Osborne into putting a date on her brother-in-law’s arrival in Rotherden. Come to that, any of the village busybodies at the WI meeting would probably remember not only the date but which train the professor had come down on from town.
Oh gosh, the WI meeting! What the dickens was she going to talk about?
Daisy had no opportunity that evening for a private word with Johnnie. He had telephoned to say he was bringing one of his colleagues on the Bench home for dinner as they had business to discuss. After dinner, they disappeared into the library.
Vi professed herself perfectly happy to listen to a concert on the wireless. Daisy still had no brilliant ideas of what to say to the WI, so she fetched her London Museum notes from her room and settled down to put them in order, to the pastoral strains of Beethoven’s Sixth.
When the last notes of the “Shepherds’ Thanksgiving after the Storm” had died away, Violet stretched and said, “I’m for bed. Are you coming up? Shall I turn the wireless off?”
“In a few minutes, and yes, please. Oh, Vi, what am I going to talk to those women about?”
“Why not explain what you’re doing now? It’s a sort of magic, reducing chaos to order. I mean, I wouldn’t know where to begin turning a sheaf of notes into an interesting article. Maybe you’ll get them all started writing ‘A Day in the Life of a Farmer’s Wife.’”
“Heaven forbid!” Daisy laughed. “That’s a starting point, though. I’ll see what I can come up with. Thanks, darling, and good night.”
After her active day, Daisy slept soundly. She only half roused when a maid brought her early-morning tea. A few minutes later, a tap on the door brought her the rest of the way to wakefulness. “Come in.”
Belinda was already dressed—in her shorts, although her first, tragic words were, “It’s still raining, Aunt Daisy.”
“I’m sure you and Derek will find plenty to do indoors.”
“He wants to play with Meccano.”
“And you don’t?”
“It’s for boys.”
“Why?”
“Gran says … You mean I can build stuff, too?” Bel asked in wonder.
“Of course, silly.” Another source of strife with Mrs. Fletcher, Daisy groaned silently. Having been coerced in the past into assisting her nephew, she added, “I bet your fingers are better at those beastly little nuts and bolts than Derek’s.”
“I’ll make a house. He’s got loads.” She dashed off, full of enthusiasm.
Sipping her cooling tea, Daisy wished she could summon up equal enthusiasm for this afternoon’s lecture. At least the rain made it easier to devote the morning to preparation. This she did, with a break in the middle to start typing her London Museum article, a boring task which was positive bliss in comparison. She had frightful visions of droning on while her audience fell asleep one by one—Mrs. Osborne would never let them abscond.
By lunchtime the rainclouds were blowing over, and by the time Daisy had to leave for the Parish Hall, the sun shone on a refreshed, sparkling world.
Violet told her bracingly that she looked very smart in her dark blue costume and a pale blue blouse, with silk stockings, hat, and gloves.
“Well, at least I shan’t look like a chump, even if I sound like one,” Daisy said glumly. “Why did I ever let myself in for this?”
Afraid that, left to her own devices, she would turn tail and flee in panic, she invited Belinda and Derek to walk down the drive with her. Gumbooted, at Nanny’s command, they skipped and hopped on either side of her, telling her about the lion’s cage they had constructed around Peter while he lay on the floor drawing.
“It had a real gate, with hinges and everything,” Belinda reported.
“When it was all built, we made Tinker go inside with Peter, only she jumped out,” Derek said admiringly. “I didn’t know she could jump so high.”
Tinker Bell apparently bore no resentment. Naturally she had come along. She dashed hither and thither, exploring smells enhanced by the rain.
“She spoiled Peter’s picture,” Bel said, “so I helped him do another one. I drew a lion in a cage, but he coloured it green and it just looked like a bush behind a fence. He’s never seen a real lion, Aunt Daisy. Can we take him to the zoo, one day?”
“Me too,” Derek begged. “I’ve only been once.”
“I’ve been lots of times, ’cause I live very near. Sometimes I can hear the lions roaring in the night.”
“Lucky thing!”
“We’ll all go, Daddy too, if he can. We’ll see the sea-lions getting fed, and go for a ride on an elephant, and watch them having their baths …” Belinda was still enumerating the wonders of the zoo when they reached the gates.
“I’ll see you later,” said Daisy.
“Can’t
we come and listen to you?” Belinda asked, disappointed.
“No, it’s a talk for grown-ups. You wouldn’t find it interesting.” And nor will my audience, Daisy thought despairingly, crossing the lane to the lych-gate. Why had she ever agreed to make a fool of herself, like a monkey in a cage, with everyone staring and wishing she would do something entertaining.
At least she looked professional, she hoped. Peering over her shoulder, she poised first on one leg, then the other, to check that her stocking seams were straight.
She turned down the path to the gate which led to the Parish Hall, her steps lagging as she felt in her handbag for her notes. Had she time to glance over them? She must! She couldn’t remember a word. Just for a minute she’d sit down on a tombstone. There must be a sittable one nearby.
Glancing around, she saw that the granite angel had fallen flat on its face. Beside it on the grass lay a shabby Panama with a faded tartan band.
And between its head and the top of its wing, a round face with a startled expression stared blindly at the sky.
8
The vicar couldn’t possibly be alive, with his head at that angle, and the glassy look of his eyes, and his body pinned by the ironic—avenging?—angel.
Nonetheless, Daisy had to make sure. Feeling sick, she approached the horrible spot. His arms were hidden by the angel’s wings, so she couldn’t try for a pulse. What else was hidden by the granite mass, she didn’t care to think. She knelt on the wet grass, dug her vanity mirror out of her handbag, and held it to the vicar’s mouth and nose.
No sign of condensation. Daisy pulled off her gloves and steeled herself to lay her hand on his cheek. Still warm. Of course, the accident must be very recent or the women going to the Parish Hall would have seen him lying there.
Accident? The angel had stood stable on its cinerarium pedestal for decades. Yesterday’s gusty wind had died hours ago, and in any case it had not been particularly strong. Certainly not strong enough to shift a granite monument which must weigh several hundredweight. Yet would the angel be any more easily pushed over than blown over?
