Smile and be a Villain

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Mph,’ he said with his mouth full.

  I found I was hungry, after all, and we made respectable inroads on our peculiar supper, and finished the wine. I helped Alan tidy away and opened the window wide to help dispel the strong smell of garlic.

  As Alan turned out the light, ready to crawl into bed, I said, ‘Don’t make any phone calls. We’re staying to see this through.’

  He ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek, and we were both asleep in minutes.

  SIXTEEN

  Sunday dawned clear and cool, another beautiful day. I woke early. Alan was still snoring away, so I made a cup of tea as quietly as I could, left Alan a note and went down to the garden.

  The chairs were wet with dew, but I had put on heavy jeans, so it didn’t matter. By the time they soaked through, I’d be ready to come in anyway.

  There is a special feeling about Sunday morning. It isn’t just the absence of the usual bustle and noise of everyday life. There’s a sense of peace, a hush as if the ordinary has been banished for a brief moment. At home, where the Cathedral’s bells peal out before every service, the hush is somehow enhanced by their clamour, rather than disturbed.

  Here in the garden, with the dew-diamonds sparkling from every leaf, every petal, it might have been the morning of the world, Eden before the serpent.

  I had not forgotten the shadow that lay over us. How could I? The stories of the anguish caused by one wicked man would haunt me for the rest of my life. Here in this peace, though, it was possible to believe that there was justice, if not in this world, then in the next, and that in the end all manner of thing would be well.

  I closed my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun and the serenity of my thoughts, when Alan spoke.

  ‘Sleeping in the sun?’

  ‘No, actually just thinking about Julian of Norwich.’

  ‘“And all shall be well, and all shall be well …” Not a bad antidote to yesterday’s angst.’

  ‘In this place, on a Sunday morning, I can believe it. Later, of course …’

  ‘Yes. So let’s enjoy it while we can.’

  He had brought a fresh pot of tea and his own cup. We sat in amiable silence and drank our tea.

  We began to hear activity from the kitchen. Voices, the clatter of pans. Alan looked at his watch. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to go to church at eight or ten thirty, but the question is now moot.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight forty-two.’

  ‘Well, then, I’d better get out of these sopping wet jeans and into Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes.’

  ‘You can take the woman out of America, but you can’t take the Yank out—’

  ‘Yank, indeed! That’s pure southern lingo, I’ll have you know. My mama was from a tiny little town near the Indiana/Kentucky/Illinois border, and she talked southern all her life. She’d’ve been mighty insulted to be called a Yank.’ I had tried to put on my best Hoosier accent, but it didn’t come off. I’ve spent too long in England to remember how folks talk back home. The thought made me sad for a moment, but only for a moment. The Sunday peace was still upon me.

  When we went down to breakfast I was sure I couldn’t eat anything much after last night’s late, wildly assorted supper, but the smells were irresistible. ‘The works, please!’ I said to the waitress. ‘Except no beans.’

  She laughed. ‘Americans never want beans. I can’t think why.’

  The English have this very odd habit of eating beans with breakfast, to go along with the bacon and sausages and eggs and mushrooms and all. I guess it’s an acquired taste. I don’t plan to acquire it.

  We had finished eating and I was on my second cup of coffee when the bells began to ring. St Anne’s, I had read, had a very fine ring of twelve bells, and twenty ringers to do them justice. I didn’t know enough about change ringing to know what ‘method’ they were using, hearing only a delightful cacophony, what Dorothy L. Sayers called ‘the one loud noise that is made to the glory of God.’

  ‘Let’s go a bit early,’ I said to Alan. ‘I’d like to have some quiet time before the service begins.’

  ‘Quiet?’ replied Alan, cocking his head, the better to catch the strident tones of the bells.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  The bells grew louder the closer we got to the church, but inside the sound was somewhat muted. The congregation, however, was buzzing a bit. At home, worshippers entered in silence and conversed, if at all, in hushed whispers before the service began. Here, people greeted each other and inquired after family and other concerns. It was quite a lot like a family reunion. Here and there signs of sorrow were evident, but I realized that what Phil had said was very true. Most people didn’t care much about what had happened to William Abercrombie.

  How terribly sad.

  We found a place near the back, hoping we weren’t taking someone else’s usual pew, and knelt a moment to try to pray, though the conversation around us made it a little difficult. The choir lined up, Mr Lewison said a prayer, and the service began.

  With slight variations, it was the service we enjoyed every Sunday at Sherebury Cathedral. Some of the responses were slightly different. The choir, which I noticed was led by Rebecca Smith, was a good one for a small church, but of course it wasn’t the fine cathedral choir we were used to. But we were comforted by the familiar words, the familiar hymns, the deeply satisfying mystery of the Eucharist.

  I thought for a moment about some friends who came to church with me, back in Indiana, years ago. They were Baptists, unfamiliar with a liturgical service. I couldn’t remember now what special occasion had led me to invite them to my church, but they came, and were, I think, mystified by the way we did things. ‘All that kneeling and standing and all,’ they said afterwards. ‘And such a measly little sermon. Do you really do that same thing every single Sunday?’

  ‘Well, the Bible readings change every week, and some of the prayers. But yes, it’s basically the same thing every Sunday.’

  They were too polite to say that they found it boring beyond belief, but I could see it in their eyes. I couldn’t find the words to tell them how soothing and reassuring I found the liturgy, how I looked forward to those same beloved words and actions every Sunday. To each his own.

  The final hymn was one I particularly loved, ‘I heard the voice of Jesus say,’ set to a lovely tune by the great English composer of church music, Thomas Tallis. In its quotation of Jesus’ invitation to rest in Him, I found comfort not only for me, but, I hoped, for the soul of William Abercrombie. If even he could find rest, surely I could.

  Leaving the church in that exalted frame of mind, I was in no way prepared for what Mr Lewison told us after the service.

  We had partaken of the refreshments after the service, had chatted briefly with a few of the parishioners and had stopped to shake hands with the priest on our way out. He asked us to stay behind for a moment, so we tarried in the churchyard, reading some of the interesting names on the stones. ‘A lot of French influence,’ I commented.

  ‘As one would expect,’ said Alan. ‘We’re a mere eight miles from France, and of course the whole island was Norman property for centuries.’

  I’m not good about the intricacies of property traded back and forth between England and France at the whim of various monarchs over the millennia. I kept still.

  Mr Lewison hurried out of the church as soon as his duties were completed and he could get away from the last lingering churchgoer. ‘I have something rather disturbing to tell you,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could find a private place to talk. I’m staying at the vicarage, but it’s a bit of a walk, and I didn’t bring my car.’

  ‘We’re at the Belle Isle, just across the street,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we go there? No one will be in the lounge at this hour.’

  So we settled down in the lounge and looked at the priest inquiringly.

  He seemed ill at ease. ‘This is embarrassing. I hardly know how to begin.’

  ‘
I’m sorry we have no sherry or anything to offer you. We can make tea, though. Would you care for some?’ I hoped he would say no. I’d had enough caffeine to keep me flying for hours. Three cups of tea, two of coffee … I was also needing the bathroom soon.

  ‘No, thank you. I must say this and get it over.’

  Now I was ill at ease. What on earth?

  ‘I had a conversation last night with Constable Partridge.’ He took a deep breath. ‘He plans to talk to you, also, but he thought I should know first. He has had word from America about Mr Abercrombie.’

  My nerves tightened. Alan reached across the couch and touched my hand.

  ‘Partridge was able to speak with Abercrombie’s diocesan bishop in Ohio. He learned that the man had no living family at all, so we could do as we wished with funeral arrangements. He also learned … this is distressing. I’m sorry.’

  Beads of perspiration appeared on the priest’s forehead, though it was not warm in the room.

  ‘It seems that Mr Abercrombie would have been severely disciplined, probably excommunicated, even defrocked, had he stayed in his diocese. He was accused of having stolen more than one hundred thousand dollars from the coffers of his parish. If the crime was proven, he would of course have faced severe civil penalties as well.’

  ‘A hundred thousand dollars!’ I couldn’t keep my voice down. ‘We had no idea …’ Too late, I shut my mouth.

  ‘What my wife is saying, Mr Lewison, is that we had some inkling of this sort of thing, learned from various people. The scale of it, however, is staggering.’

  ‘You knew? But why did you not tell me? These parishioners are my flock only temporarily, but this news will be devastating to them. Further, I must make a decision now about his burial. If this is true, I would have scruples about burying him in consecrated ground. I should have known as soon as possible.’

  ‘We were told a story in confidence, Father.’ I used the title out of habit. ‘We didn’t feel at liberty to pass it on. Now I suppose it would be better to tell you the whole thing.’

  I told him Alice’s story as simply as I could, shorn of all but the essential facts. At some point in my narrative, Alan slipped out of the room.

  ‘And I’d better tell you what else we’ve heard. It doesn’t make good hearing, but it has a bearing on your burial decision, among other things.’ I looked around for Alan, but he hadn’t returned. ‘It concerns, indirectly, another of the parishioners, Harold Guillot.’

  ‘I don’t believe I know him. But tell me, please.’

  I tried to leave my emotions out of it, but I couldn’t. I was near tears by the time I finished the story. ‘If it were my decision, Father – which thank God it is not – I wouldn’t bury the man within ten miles of consecrated ground. But you have to remember that both stories are hearsay. It’s remotely possible that they’re not true.’

  ‘The report from his bishop is certainly true. There’s been an audit. The diocesan lawyers were preparing a case when he disappeared.’

  The man sounded near tears himself. Where, I thought desperately, was Alan? I need some support in this thing.

  He walked into the room at that moment, carrying a large paper bag. ‘I had a feeling we required sustenance,’ he said, taking a bottle, some glasses and a small box out of the bag. ‘Sherry. I hope you like Amontillado, Mr Lewison. And digestives. Sorry about the plastic glasses. At least they’re approximately the right size and shape.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The wine and biscuits helped restore a more normal atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the priest after downing half a glass. ‘I was distraught. I am still, for that matter, but your hospitality has helped. Mr Nesbitt, as a policeman, what do you think I should do? Should any of this appalling history go to the police?’

  ‘Since they know about the American charges, and since nothing can be done about the matter, with the accused lying dead, I see no reason to fill in any of the details. To the police, that is. You must decide for yourself what to tell the vicar of this parish, and the bishop.’

  ‘The bishop, yes. The decision about burial must be left to him. It’s a weighty matter, refusing Christian burial. And what I’m to tell the dear ladies of the parish I do not know. They adored the man! And I confess I was completely taken in by him myself. His manner was above reproach, and he was a genuine help in so many ways. I blame myself very much.’ He was actually wringing his hands.

  ‘But plainly the vicar thought the same, or he would not have allowed the man to continue in his activities,’ said Alan.

  ‘And at least,’ I added, ‘since he’d not yet passed the various screenings, he was not allowed to act as a priest. You can be grateful for that, at any rate. You don’t have to worry about any possibly invalid sacraments.’

  ‘No. You’re right. We must be grateful at least for that small blessing.’ He put his glass down. ‘I must go and offer what comfort I can to poor Mrs Small. I don’t know what I shall tell her, but I trust I will be guided.’

  ‘Let us know how she’s doing, will you?’

  ‘Certainly. Mr Nesbitt. Mrs Martin.’ He gave the slightest of bows and hurried off.

  ‘Well!’ I kicked my shoes off. ‘That was a stunner, all right. Even though we knew most of it. Having it confirmed officially …’

  ‘And the amount of money! That’s – what – sixty thousand pounds or so?’

  ‘More than that, at the present rate. The last time I looked, that would amount to about sixty-five thousand. Major money. How on earth did he manage to sift off that much from a parish budget?’

  ‘Large, wealthy parish, would be my guess. And criminally inadequate oversight!’

  ‘Indeed. And Alice Small’s sister gets a sniff of it, and dies for her pains. I am reminded of something Lord Peter once said about an ingenious and diabolical criminal: “My religious beliefs are a little ill-defined, but I hope something really beastly happens to him in the next world.”’

  ‘Of course, if we were all to get our just deserts …’ said Alan.

  ‘Oh, you’re right, of course. And I’m not to judge. Take it as read. All the same, I really can’t work up a lot of enthusiasm for tracking down his murderer. If there is one.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I think we need to talk to Mr Guillot, if we can find him.’

  ‘Do we have to do it today, though? It’s Sunday, and somehow …’

  ‘I understand. No, I don’t imagine one day will make much difference. Why don’t we go and find ourselves a proper Sunday lunch, and then go down to the harbour and ride the train?’

  ‘Ride it to where?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular. That’s part of the fun. Come, let’s see who serves Sunday lunch.’

  We stopped and asked someone on the street and were told that Le Pesked, despite their French-sounding name, did an excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and as it was almost next door, we decided to try it. ‘I wonder what a “pesked” is?’ I mused. Alan didn’t know.

  We weren’t sorry about our choice. We discovered that our stomachs were set to somewhat different clocks than most of Alderney; we were the only customers in the place when we walked in. But the staff was friendly, the service was fast and the food delicious. It was indeed traditionally English, but with a subtle French flair.

  We never did find out what ‘pesked’ meant, though the sign implied that it was some sort of fish. Alderney French, perhaps.

  I was ready for a nap, but the train left at two thirty, and we had to get out of our church clothes and then get down to the harbour to catch it, so we ambled, full of food, down Braye Road to the station, and Alan told me about the train.

  ‘It was originally built to carry materials from the quarry down where they were building the breakwater. That was in the middle of the eighteenth century. Over the years its function and location have changed somewhat, but its main use for most of its career was hauling stone. Now it’s simply an excursion train for tourists, and runs on
ly in summer except for Easter and Christmas, when they have special runs, mostly for children, with eggs at Easter and presents at Christmas.’

  ‘Where do you get all this stuff?’

  ‘From the source of all wisdom, O best beloved. The Internet.’

  ‘You don’t have a computer here.’

  ‘I looked up a good deal before we left home. I like to plan ahead.’

  ‘But where does it go? The island isn’t that big.’

  He took his map out of his pocket, unfolded it and showed me the route that was laid out. ‘I’m told the lighthouse is well worth a visit, if we want to stick around and come back on the second run.’

  ‘Why not? We can pretend we’re on vacation.’

  The train was driven by Suzi, the hedgehog lady. I’d grown accustomed to the many roles played by Alderney people and was only mildly surprised. I was surprised, and amused, to see that the train cars (all two of them) were from the London Underground, complete with the maps above the windows. ‘Look,’ I said, pointing. ‘We’re headed for King’s Cross.’

  ‘Long journey,’ said Alan. ‘Especially since we’re leaving from Swiss Cottage, which isn’t on the same line.’

  He pointed out the sign posted above the door to the tiny station. I giggled. ‘I was wrong when I said we were in a Christmas village. No. We’ve gone Through the Looking Glass to the place where everything is backwards and upside down.’

  We started with much important blowing of whistles and clanging of bells, and headed out, past a few houses and then into open country. We crossed a road or two, again with whistles; at one crossing, a man and his dog waited patiently for us to pass, and waved as we went by. The wildflowers were spectacular.

  The quarry, when we came to it, was as ugly as most quarries. Long disused machinery sat rusting, a blot on the landscape. ‘Someone ought to clean that up,’ I whispered to Alan. ‘A disgrace to Alderney.’

  ‘Costs money, love. And it wouldn’t be easy, given the terrain and the remote location. Look in the other direction.’