Wendy nodded. She knew that Laura was actually talking about the churchwarden, Monty Howard. During the interregnum following the retirement of Reverend Pierce, Monty had been the big power in church affairs and would have been offended not to be given a significant role in Claresby Fair. Laura was now looking around for Rupert, reluctant to proceed without him. Luckily at that moment she saw his head bobbing through the crowd, head and shoulders above most of those around him. Laura sighed with relief and mounted a small podium to a gentle ripple of applause. The awards went well, with general good humoured appreciation, a few clever words from Conran, and a surprisingly gracious announcement from Samantha admiring the lovely flowers. They had just reached Monty Howard, a bulky, bullish man with an oddly high pitched voice which was at odds with his stature, when a bellow from the back of the crowd made them all turn around. Sebastian had reappeared; very flushed in the face and gloriously drunk. The cameraman nudged his companion; things had become exciting at last.
Laura was sitting beside a gently weeping Sebastian in her study. It was a comfortable, chintzy room with a warm feel to it despite the stone doorway with fifteenth century mouldings and the high ceiling with its ornate plasterwork. Sebastian was drinking the black coffee which Rupert had brought him and was hiccupping gently.
“Floyd came to me last night – he was very superstitious and started asking me whether I thought the Egyptian ring was cursed - he’d picked up one of your old university books, Rupert, something on Egyptology, and was filling his head with nonsense. He was mumbling on about Lord Caernarvon and Tutankhamun and I told him he was a silly fool and that it was all balderdash. Then he got a bit argumentative and told me that just because I was insensitive and prosaic, it didn’t mean that there weren’t strange things at work in the world. You know: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” After he had finished quoting Shakespeare at me he started casting aspersions on Plate of Meat. We ended up having a bit of a bicker – the usual thing. As a matter of fact we are old friends; but you know that.”
“Of course we do,” Laura reassured him with all sincerity. The two artists may have squabbled their way through forty years, but the friendship had been a steady one.
“Well,” continued Sebastian, “he can’t have been too troubled in his mind, because once his head touched his pillow all I could hear from his room were colossal snores. It was driving me crazy and I hardly slept a wink. Then, at about six-ish, I heard him make his way to the bathroom. I suppose I was filled with mischief and a desire to get my revenge on him, because I had a sudden urge to give him a bit of a scare. I meant it as a joke. Well, I know very well that Floyd takes an age in the bathroom – I don’t even want to contemplate why – but even so I took a bit of a chance. I took a brush and a dab of gold paint on my palette and went to scrawl a spooky message on the wall. Then I had a bit of a scare myself as I heard his footsteps returning. As luck would have it, he actually carried on past his room and went downstairs, perhaps to have a quick drink in the kitchen – the water from the upstairs cold tap comes out an interesting yellow shade that even Floyd could not miss. Then I had an idea. Seeing the Egyptology book beside his bed I picked it up and copied out a few hieroglyphs at random. In the dim light the paint seem to glow: it was very effective. Anyway, I hot-footed it back to my own room and waited for his response. As it was I heard nothing and I must have dozed off for half an hour after that.”
“So what you mean,” said Laura with dawning understanding, “is that when you found out that Floyd was dead, you thought that you had frightened him to death?”
“I was painting Claresby Hall,” explained Sebastian. “At least, I meant to, but all I could see in my mind’s eye was that painting of The Sphinx that Floyd showed us from the suitcase, so I painted that. I don’t know why I did that; it was almost as if Floyd’s superstition had rubbed off on me. And then Rupert came up and mentioned that Floyd hadn’t showed up and I became worried about the old reprobate. I carried on with the picture until I had got the main thing in place, and then I went to look for Floyd. Of course I found him stone dead, staring at the ceiling. My writing was still on the wall glowing with such an eerie light that it half frightened me. I went to my room and put some turpentine on a cloth and tried to rub it off the wall. Sorry, Laura, it stuck in the flock of the wallpaper, but I got most of it out. And then I went to The Claresby Arms and drank a toast to Floyd.”
“Ah,” said Rupert, “that explains why Keith could smell turps when he went to examine Floyd – and I thought that the hieroglyphs had faded. But really, Sebastian, you can’t blame yourself. Floyd has been drinking himself to death for years. Even Jinny was unsurprised.”
“I do feel some responsibility for Floyd’s death,” said the remorseful Sebastian. “I shall have to make a tribute to him. What about my commissioning and designing some new stained glass for Claresby church? I was going to donate the money from the sale of the Plate of Meat replicas anyway. That would be a fitting tribute to Floyd.”
Laura wondered what Floyd would have had to say about this; but as for the generous gift for Claresby church, she was ready to accept.
Later that night Rupert and Laura lay side by side in the four-poster in the scarlet bedroom. There seemed to be a lot in the day that they had needed to talk over and digest, but now they were silent, Laura absentmindedly stroking her husband’s arm as it embraced her.
“Did you really believe that there could be a mummy curse at Claresby?”Laura asked eventually, just at the point when Rupert was dozing off.
“Well,” replied Rupert sleepily, “Let’s just say that I am glad the ring has gone back to join its owner. I interpreted the little hieroglyph of walking legs which Sebastian had put on the wall as meaning “return” – and assumed that Nesperennub wanted his ring back. Frankly I’m glad it’s gone: perhaps we are all a little superstitious at heart, or perhaps there was more going on in Claresby today than we like to admit.
The Black Widow of Claresby
It was a rather dismal Sunday in February, the rain having lifted at dawn to reveal a cold, misty landscape and iron grey skies. Fortunately the interior of Claresby Manor provided a cheerful haven with log fires burning in the Great Hall and the red drawing room and the aroma of roast lamb wafting out from the kitchen. Laura Latimer, the Lady of Claresby Manor, was in the process of cooking the Sunday lunch herself. There were to be only six for lunch, including the new vicar whom she barely knew. Nonetheless, Laura had decided to keep things informal and to serve dinner in the kitchen rather than the Great Hall, which was always inclined to be draughty and gloomy, even with the fire alight. Eating in the Claresby kitchen was no hardship; it was a fine, stone medieval structure with a large scrubbed oak table at the centre and tall-backed, carved walnut chairs with green silk damask upholstery. The dinner had reached a stage where it could look after itself for a short while, so Laura made her way to the drawing room where Rupert was already entertaining two of their guests with sherry and gossip. In fact when Laura entered it was Wendy Lloyd, an old friend, who was providing the gossip whilst her husband and Rupert stretched out long limbs from the comfort of a fat, red leather settee which was amongst the new acquisitions at the manor.
“I’ve actually quite taken to Veronica, although she is a pragmatic rather than a warm personality. She is organized and looks like doing her job thoroughly – which is more than Henry did, bless him!”
Laura, who understood Wendy to be referring to both the new Vicar of Claresby and the old, took the glass of sherry which Rupert was proffering her and said, “Yes, I thought she seemed practical and capable when I met her. I don’t think we want touchy-feely in our vicar, do we?”
“Not really. On the down side, it is a pity that she is quite so attractive and that she is a widow; not that the poor woman can be blamed for either of these facts. But the practical upshot is that half the men in the congregation have a crush on her and the res
t disapprove of her, as if beauty is somehow inappropriate in a member of the clergy.”
“Yes, well physical beauty wasn’t an issue with Henry,” observed Laura, “although I’m sure that problems with young, handsome curates must have been an issue for centuries before the coming of women vicars. I don’t see why the fact that the vicar is an attractive woman should cause controversy.”
“Well, she doesn’t do herself any favours,” said Wendy. “There are rumours. Allowing Strider to come into the vicarage for food and the occasional shower doesn’t help.”
“I think that reflects well on her,” commented Rupert. “It is part of the vicar’s job to help the needy.”
“Strider was certainly in need of a shower,” guffawed Wendy’s husband, Phil. “He came into The Claresby Arms and stood next to me at the bar, so I was left in no doubt!”
“There isn’t any water or electricity in that caravan of his, and they won’t have him in the farmhouse with the children. Not that I think there is any harm in him, but he is odd,” Wendy replied.
“Yes,” mused Laura, “and he turned up about a week after the Reverend Dahl, which made it look like there was some connection.”
“Also, the Bishop is set against her, which isn’t going to make for a peaceful parish.”
They all nodded in agreement with Wendy, understanding that by the Bishop, she meant the churchwarden, Monty Howard, so called because he acted with such highhanded authority.
“To be honest, though, Monty did need bringing down a peg or two,” said Phil. “He is only the churchwarden. I’m not saying it isn’t a vital job and he does work very hard, but as Henry got older Monty was taking one in three of the morning services and nearly all those in the evening. During the interregnum he was virtually omniscient – and would have been if he could have presided at Holy Communion.”
“He was pretty impossible to work with on the PCC,” agreed Wendy, who was both a longstanding member of the church choir and currently a member of the parochial church council. “What I don’t understand is why he finally agreed to recommend the appointment of a woman vicar to Bishop John. He seemed implacably opposed to the idea, but when we interviewed candidates, Veronica was by far the most impressive.”
“It struck me,” said Phil, “that he agreed to it with the air of someone who foresaw that the appointment would be a disaster and relished the future opportunity of saying “I told you so!” when everything went wrong.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” sighed Wendy. “Veronica has had a bad enough time over the last year or so, let’s hope that that she settles in and is happy.”
Laura had left the little group whilst she basted potatoes and put the vegetables on to steam and by the time she returned to the red room the Reverend Dahl had joined them as had Dr Keith Lowe, the village GP and a handsome man in his early forties. As a bachelor he was always happy to dine at the manor house and, to Laura’s knowledge, he had not had a girlfriend in the six years he had lived in Claresby. The story told was that his fiancée had run off with his best friend weeks before their wedding and he was broken-hearted. He certainly never gave the impression of romantic melancholy, being a cheerful, humorous man with twinkling blue eyes. Laura could not imagine what the best friend could have had to offer that this man did not. Discussions had turned to the painting, The Sphinx by Sebastian Fullmarks, which looked very striking over the fireplace.
“I thought he was more modern than traditional,” the Reverend Dahl commented, looking closely and with admiration at the painting. “I’ve been reading up about him because he is helping with the design of our new stained glass – a tribute to the late Floyd Bailey.”
“Yes, well he does do a few traditional paintings as well as his more exotic and challenging works,” said Laura. “This was meant to be a view of Claresby Hall – but that’s another story. In fact Sebastian did go on to do a splendid painting of Claresby which is in the Great Hall; I’ll show you after dinner.”
“I’d like that.” The vicar turned and smiled at Laura.
“There used to be a handful of watercolours of old Claresby village on the walls in the vicarage,” began Keith Lowe. “Are they still there?”
Whilst he engaged Veronica in conversation Laura took the opportunity to look more closely at the woman. She was wearing black tailored trousers and a clerical style shirt with her dog collar. Rather than taking the edge off her femininity and beauty, these rather dour, masculine clothes had the effect of enhancing these attributes. Voluptuous was the word to describe Veronica Dahl. Of mid-height, she had an hourglass figure, her trim hips and slender waist enhanced by the cut of the trousers, whilst the sombre shirt failed to conceal the swell of her breasts. She had a wide, sensual mouth, green almond-shaped eyes, a nose a little sharp for absolute perfection and a heart-shaped face with well defined cheek-bones. Her hair was thick and lustrous and so dark a shade of brown as to look almost black. She did not appear to be wearing make-up other than the burgundy coloured lipstick that traced the full curve of her lips. Laura noticed, with the merest twinge of annoyance, that even Rupert seemed unable to take his eyes off her. She was speaking in a pleasant, low, slightly musical voice.
“The pictures and a few cumbersome pieces of old furniture were resident when I moved in. In fact the vicarage here at Claresby is so much bigger than my previous one that I am rattling around a bit. I moved just after Christmas, so everything was a bit chaotic and even after nearly two months I’ve still got things in boxes. I suspect a few of the inessentials will never see the light of day. I have a wall mounted bookshelf to reconstruct. The removal men took it apart for me, but I see no immediate likelihood of my developing the DIY knowhow to put it back together.”
“Oh, I could pop around to the vicarage and help you with that,” volunteered Keith Lowe.
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” The hint of a glow passed between them, but Laura interrupted the moment by suggesting that they went in to the kitchen as dinner would be ready to serve.
During the course of the meal the chat was casual and encompassed subjects such as the merits of nineteenth century literature and the popularity of the local allotments. After dessert had been eaten, Wendy asked Veronica how the services had gone that morning in church.
“Well enough,” replied Veronica, her cheeks becomingly flushed by wine and the warmth of the kitchen. “I was cheating a bit because I virtually recycled an old favourite sermon of mine. Just as well because of course I was a bit flustered and wasn’t up to the challenge of new territory.”
“Why flustered?” inquired Wendy, draining the last of her wine.
“Oh, I suppose none of you were there. I forgot - you’ve been out of the choir this week, Wendy, because you’ve only just got over that nasty bout of laryngitis. Well, some kind soul had daubed “HARLOT” across the wall in nice, red capitals. I suppose Monty will have to find a way of getting it removed. Anyway, by the time we noticed there was nothing we could do before everyone started to arrive for the family service. Goodness knows what they all made of it. Nobody said anything to me, but I could see them all looking. I had hoped that I had left that kind of thing behind.”
“That sounds rather unpleasant,” Laura commented. “But you make it sound as if this isn’t the first time that something of this nature has happened?”
Veronica sighed rather wearily. “Unfortunately this isn’t the first time. There was a certain amount of unpleasantness after Rory died, although I was too wrapped up in my own grief to really be bothered by it then. I’m surprised the whole story hasn’t preceded me here, but you may as well hear it from me. Rory, my husband, was quite a bit younger than me: twenty-six to my thirty-five. We had been married for just over a year and I think that people had just got over commenting about our age difference when Rory died. Well, when a young and apparently healthy man like Rory dies it is an outrage against nature and reason and I think people look for something or someone to blame,” Veronica rationalized. �
�Since I was the person closest to him they picked on me. It wasn’t a matter of common knowledge that he had a congenital heart defect, so they speculated on their own explanations for his death – very creative they were. And then there were his parents. Of course they did know about his heart, but they still blamed me. The fact that they refused to come to the funeral if I was there caused no end of gossip, as did the fact that I eventually stayed away – simply because I didn’t want to cause them any more distress.”
“Why on earth did his parents blame you?” exclaimed Wendy
“They had disapproved of our relationship from the start. Rory and I first met when he was only sixteen and I was briefly dating his older brother who had been at university with me. Rory and I had a bond from the start and stayed in touch. It wasn’t until he was in his twenties that we became romantically involved, but his parents still disapproved. Added to that, I encouraged Rory to live life to the full – which is what he wanted. His parents convinced themselves that his heart would have held out longer if he hadn’t had such an active life. The irony is that he died whilst quietly reading a book.”
The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries Page 7
