Smile and be a Villain

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘You can only try. And there’s one other thing. She’s going to need home care once they release her.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. It can be arranged. I don’t know the resources here very well, but one of the ladies at the church has the information at her fingertips. I don’t know if you’ve seen the charity shop in Victoria Street?’

  ‘Yes, and we plan to check it out soon. I love charity shops.’

  ‘The woman who runs that also runs a good many programs for the aged and infirm, including a home care service. I’ve learned that she’s an amazing woman, full of energy and compassion. She’ll work it out.’

  I was once again full of admiration for the way the good people of Alderney stepped up to meet the present need, whatever it was.

  He sketched a salute and moved on, and Alan and I left the hospital. ‘I love islands,’ I said.

  ‘The spirit of fierce independence, allied with fierce benevolence – if that isn’t a contradiction of terms.’

  ‘It is,’ I said with a nod, ‘but it fits, all the same. They take care of their own.’

  ‘One more reason why Abercrombie didn’t fit in.’

  ‘And never would have. Alan, I’m convinced that the only benevolence Abercrombie ever exercised was directed toward Abercrombie. Whatever possessed the man to become a priest?’

  Alan shrugged. ‘You have to keep on remembering, Dorothy, that we’re dealing with hearsay, and there is as much evidence on the positive as on the negative side. None of it would stand up for a moment in court.’

  ‘Alice’s evidence would. She knows for certain what he did to her sister.’

  ‘She knows what her sister told her. I say again, it wouldn’t hold on the witness stand.’

  ‘Well, I believe it!”

  ‘So do I. Simmer down, love. What I’m trying to say, badly, I’m sure, is that we can know almost nothing about this man. What we choose to believe is our own business, but I’m trying to remember that everyone is a mixture of good and bad. Isn’t it possible that Abercrombie entered holy orders for honourable motives and then became corrupted by the power he found he could wield? He was a handsome man, we’re told. He was apparently unmarried, since no family has yet been traced. He had great charm. Is it any wonder that the ladies in his congregations fell under his spell? Is it any wonder that he was unable to resist the temptation to use his popularity to cover his actions?’

  ‘Priests are supposed to fight temptation,’ I said stubbornly.

  ‘My dear, we’re all supposed to fight temptation. Perhaps you can always do that. I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you should have become a priest!’

  ‘I chose another way to try to fight the evils of the world.’ He said it lightly, but I realized he meant it, and was suddenly ashamed of myself. What had I ever done to deserve this wonderful man in my life?

  ‘All right. You win. I’ll try hard not to paint Abercrombie in unrelieved black. And you’ve reminded me – we set out to learn all we could about the man and decide whether his death really was an accident. We keep getting side-tracked. What should we do next?’

  Alan looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly lunch time. Why don’t we try Jack’s? We might be able to join a conversation, or eavesdrop on one.’

  ‘That sounds good. I’d rather eavesdrop, if it works that way. Maybe we can sit near some people who don’t know who we are.’

  ‘On Alderney?’ Alan grinned. ‘Best of British luck.’

  We got lucky. Jack’s was crowded, as usual, but there was a small table for two tucked away in a corner, where we were in a good position to hear what was going on without being seen. And a group of ladies from the church was seated quite close to us, talking nineteen to the dozen.

  ‘Well, you may say what you like,’ said one, ‘but he hasn’t been seen in church since it happened, and if that isn’t guilty conscience showing, I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Now, Nora,’ said another (we didn’t recognize any of them), ‘we don’t know that he’s guilty of anything.’

  ‘We know you always think the best of everyone,’ chimed in a third, ‘but in this case Nora may be right. He always comes to the Friday Eucharist, always—’

  ‘Except that week when he had the flu.’

  ‘—and that was only because he didn’t want to pass it along to anyone else,’ said the voice I recognized as Nora’s. ‘He’s been absolutely faithful. And he didn’t come to choir practice, either. Rebecca was very upset! That’s why I say something is very wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s ill,’ said the peacemaker. ‘Has anyone called on him?’

  ‘Twice!’ said Nora triumphantly. ‘He wouldn’t answer the door. And Catherine, don’t say he wasn’t home. I saw the curtain twitch.’

  Tell us his name, I urged silently.

  ‘I still think we should give him the benefit of the doubt.’ Catherine wasn’t giving up without a struggle.

  ‘Of course. But no matter what you think, it’s odd, isn’t it? He made no secret of his dislike for poor Mr Abercrombie, wouldn’t even speak to him. Now the dear man’s dead, and Harold’s disappeared from church. I call it peculiar, to say the least.’

  Harold. Harold. Last name, please?

  But there our luck failed us. The waitress bringing an order to the table next to ours somehow managed to drop a large glass of beer, which shattered, spewing froth everywhere, and making a good deal of noise. All conversation stopped for an instant, all heads turned toward the commotion, and in the sudden quiet I heard a shushing sound from the St Anne’s table.

  ‘Over there … asking a lot of questions … accident …’

  I made a rueful face, gave Alan a shrug and sat back to wait for my hamburger.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Harold,’ I said when we had eaten and were on our way back to our room for a nap. ‘How many Harolds will there be on the parish rolls?’

  ‘Could be several. It’s a popular name.’

  ‘How are we going to find out?’

  ‘Ask someone.’

  Alan can sometimes point out the obvious in a most irritating way. ‘No kidding. But who? Not Mr Lewison. He could give us a list of Harolds, if there really are several, but he won’t know the parishioners well enough to identity this particular Harold. And I doubt if any of the pro-Abercrombie crowd will talk to us anymore. I heard a distinct clank of closing ranks back there at Jack’s, and I thought it was strange. I would have thought they’d want to bring his murderer to book, if there is a murderer out there somewhere.’

  ‘Ah, but to do that they’d have to admit that their paragon had done something to make someone want to murder him. And that would force them to admit that their own attitudes about the man might be wrong. No, you’re right. They won’t talk. But we know two people who might.’

  ‘Phil!’ I said.

  ‘And Robin.’

  ‘Robin wouldn’t talk to us before. He dried up like the desert in summer.’

  ‘That was before Alice was injured. That may change things.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s in love with her, too?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I think he’s a man who will guard his tongue until he finds it necessary and productive to speak. A suicide attempt might meet those conditions. Let’s sleep on it, shall we?’

  We slept longer than we usually did in the afternoon. Last night had been short, and the past few days stressful. The room was almost too warm when I finally opened my eyes to see the afternoon sun streaming in. I looked at the bedside clock.

  ‘Good grief, Alan, it’s after four. We’ve slept the day away.’

  ‘We needed the rest. I do hate to remind you, but we’re not—’

  ‘Getting any younger. I know, I know. I think we need to go see Phil.’

  ‘I have another idea. It’s tea time. Let’s pop over to the Georgian House and see if perchance Robin is there. If not, we can have a quick cup of tea ourselves and then search out Phil.’

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sp; ‘I’m not in the least hungry. But I am thirsty, and they do good tea. And Robin likes the place. He might just be there. You’re on.’

  There was no one in the bar when we walked in, but the barman, seeing us look around, said, ‘You might want to have your pint, or your tea, in the garden. Fine afternoon.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Alan. ‘Through here?’

  There were several people eating and drinking in the garden, and sure enough, there at a table by himself, was Robin with what was left of a pint in front of him.

  I was uncertain about barging in on him, but he looked up, gave us his sardonic smile and gestured. We obediently came and sat down.

  ‘The game is afoot?’ he asked by way of greeting.

  ‘Yes, if you’re willing to assist, Watson,’ said Alan. ‘Tea and scones, please,’ he said to the waitress. ‘For three?’ he asked Robin, who nodded.

  ‘In what way do you want me to assist?’ he asked quietly when the waitress was out of hearing. ‘You’ll have learned that I’m not, shall we say, heartbroken at the man’s death.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Nor are we, as you may have surmised. We’ve heard conflicting stories about him, wildly conflicting, I may say, but I’m afraid we’re inclined to believe the negative ones.’

  ‘With a grain of salt,’ Alan added.

  ‘No one,’ said Robin, ‘is wholly evil. Hitler, they say, truly loved his dog.’

  The implication shocked me. ‘You’re saying … you’re comparing—’

  ‘Let me tell you a story. It is hearsay; I was not there. Accept it or not as you wish. An American man, a widower who attended the church where Abercrombie was rector, has a daughter, only the one. A couple of years ago she was expecting her first child, the man’s first grandchild. She developed serious complications and was airlifted to a hospital in a much bigger city some distance away. The man phoned his rector in the middle of the night to ask if he would come to the hospital with him and pray for his daughter, who was at grave risk, and administer what is sometimes, erroneously, called the Last Rites.

  ‘Abercrombie had turned on his answering machine. The man left an urgent message. He did not receive a return call. He went to the hospital alone. His daughter survived, barely. The baby did not. She will never be able to have another, and her husband, who badly wanted children, has left her.’

  Robin cleared his throat. ‘That man is the dearest friend of a member of the Parish Church here. They met at a conference in London, some years ago, something to do with computers – well, that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that they are like brothers. The parishioner here sings in the choir. We have become good friends, close enough that he told me the story.’

  Our tea arrived. I poured out with a shaking hand, too upset to speak.

  ‘You may be interested to know,’ Robin added when we had sipped some scalding tea, ‘that Abercrombie never sent condolences, never referred to the matter at all until the man accosted him about it. He said he never listened to his phone messages; he got so many crank calls he’d begun to ignore them all. He apparently told the woman’s father that he couldn’t have done anything anyway, he wasn’t a doctor, the baby would have died with or without his presence, so what was the fuss all about?’

  I was hard put not to cry. A childless woman myself, I could not listen to such a story without a visceral reaction to the heartbreak of it all. Alan, who has children and grandchildren, recovered his equanimity before I did – but he had to clear his throat before he could speak.

  ‘Why did you decide to tell us this story?’ he asked. ‘You were unwilling earlier to explain, or even admit, your dislike of the man.’

  ‘Alice Small could have died. It’s quite possible she meant to die. That man – whom, incidentally, I did not dislike, but hated to the core of my being – has caused enough tragedy. If I can prevent more, I believe it my duty to do so.’

  ‘Then are you willing to give us the name of the man at St Anne’s?’

  ‘I will give it to you with the understanding that, if you discover that he was responsible for Abercrombie’s death, I will deny everything I told you and will, if he is arrested for murder, use all of my resources – and they are not inconsiderable – to set him free.’

  ‘Robin,’ I said, around the lump in my throat, ‘do you know Alice’s story?’

  ‘The bones of it, yes. She did not tell me, but my friend had heard it from his friend, who had known Alice’s sister from his church. Alice told you?’

  ‘Yes. I think because we’re strangers, foreigners. We’ll leave soon and she’ll never see us again. And because she had to tell somebody. The poison was eating at her like acid.’

  ‘Yes. Hatred does that. My friend’s name is Harold Guillot.’ He pronounced it the French way, ghi-yo. ‘One of the old Alderney families; French background. Mr Lewison may be able to tell you where he lives. I will not. A foolish scruple, perhaps, but there you are.’

  ‘Would you tell us where he works?’

  ‘He is retired.’ Robin stood. ‘I won’t wish you well in your quest, but I think I’m relieved to have told you. It washes my hands of any responsibility in the matter. Just call me Pilate.’

  We had gone back to the room. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the play of light as the evening slowly, slowly faded toward night. Alan sat in the chair pretending to read.

  ‘I want to go home,’ I said after an eternity of silence. ‘Now. Tomorrow. As soon as we can get a flight.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to know what happened to Mr William Bloody Abercrombie. I hope someone did push him down that hill.’

  ‘You’ve said that before. You know you don’t really hope that, not in your heart and soul.’

  ‘He was a monster! A murderer himself, if there’s any meaning to the word. Murderers are put to death.’

  ‘In America, perhaps. Not here, not anymore. Two wrongs don’t make a right, if you’ll excuse the cliché.’ He came over and lay down on the bed beside me. ‘You’re tired, love, exhausted with other people’s troubles. They’re terrible troubles, and you’ve never learned to pass by on the other side. You try to shoulder everyone’s woes. You’re not Atlas. It’s not your job.’

  The tears were beginning to come. ‘Somebody has to care. I can’t just ignore somebody’s pain.’

  ‘No. But when it eats you alive, leaves you with no resources, leaves you wanting to give up, your compassion doesn’t help you or anyone else.’

  ‘I … it’s too much, Alan! If I hear one more story about what that man did to someone, I’ll … fall apart, I think. I want to go home and forget I ever heard of this island.’

  ‘The trouble is, you would never forget.’

  I lay letting the tears flow, holding Alan’s hand.

  After a while I felt the discomfort of wet hair, dampened by tears flowing unchecked. My pillow was wet, too, and my nose … I sat up. ‘I need a tissue.’

  Alan was ready with a handful.

  ‘I must look awful.’

  ‘I’ve seen you looking better, for a fact.’

  That pulled me together as no sympathy would have. I muttered something and got up to splash cold water on my face. I didn’t look in the mirror. Puffy red eyes and a red nose aren’t a pretty sight.

  ‘You think we ought to stay,’ I said, coming back and collapsing onto the bed again.

  ‘I’m not going to make that decision. If you want to go, I’ll call Aurigny tonight and book a flight.’

  ‘Who’s Aurigny?’ I blew my nose again.

  ‘The airline that flies here. Also the old French name of the island.’

  ‘Oh. I forgot.’

  He patted my hand, got up and rummaged in the drawer where we kept our food supplies. He held aloft a bottle of wine. ‘I’m not usually in favour of curing one’s troubles with alcohol, but in this case, I think a little wine might be a comfort. Yes?’

  ‘All right. I don’t care.’
>
  ‘Dorothy.’

  I looked up listlessly.

  ‘I love you and I think you’re a marvellous person, no matter what you decide to do. Now have some wine and snap out of it.’

  The room was growing dim. It was really late. I’d had nothing to eat since lunch, having lost my appetite with Robin’s horror story. I wasn’t hungry, but if I was going to drink wine, I’d better have something to eat. ‘Do we still have any cheese or anything?’

  ‘Not a crumb. There’s a pizza place in the High Street, just at the top of Victoria Street, or we could have Chinese takeaway, or Indian, or Thai. Anything sound appealing?’

  ‘Not really. You choose. I suppose we have to eat something.’

  ‘All right.’ He took out his phone. ‘How about some nice vindaloo?’

  ‘No! You know I can’t stand that hot stuff. I changed my mind about you choosing. Get Chinese. You know what I like.’

  He phoned in an order and then took off to pick up the food. It would probably be ready by the time he walked up the street. I used the time while he was gone to shower and change into night things. I wanted to look a little less forlorn when he came back.

  It’s amazing what a shower can do for one’s spirits. Somehow, along with the grime of the day, some of the day’s worries washed away. I came out feeling much better, cleansed in mind as well as body. I dried my hair and brushed it into some sort of order, put on my nightgown and poured wine just as Alan came in.

  ‘I got a pizza, too, and stopped in at Nellie Gray’s, as well.’

  ‘Heavens! We’ll never be able to eat all that.’

  ‘They’re good about letting us keep stuff in the fridge downstairs. I thought comfort food was in order.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was such a wimp. I don’t usually fall apart like that.’

  ‘I know you don’t. No apology needed. Now would you rather start with Mongolian beef, lamb korma or pepperoni pizza?’

  ‘I’ll have a little of each. I’m going to have the most awful heartburn.’

  He put a loaded plate in front of me on the bed and handed me a glass of wine, and sat down on the other side with his own meal, dangerously rocking mine. ‘If we manage to eat this without getting cheese and soy sauce all over the bedding, it’ll be a miracle,’ I said.