‘So you started surfing. And I’m assuming you learned something interesting, or you wouldn’t be calling.’
‘Too right it’s interesting. Did you know that the man had a wealthy parishioner who just died and left him everything?’
‘Heavens, no. What’s “everything”?’
‘A cool couple of million. That’s in dollars, of course, not pounds. But still.’
‘But still, as my southern mama used to say, that ain’t hay. Wait a minute.’
I related the conversation to Alan and then switched to speaker mode. ‘Okay, got it. Anything else? Although that’s quite enough to think about.’
‘This is a little less certain. I mean, I couldn’t prove it, but I’m sure in my own mind. It looks as though, with that money and some other little bits and pieces he had lying about, he was planning to buy a big share of one of the computer gambling businesses in Alderney.’
Alan slapped his knee. ‘I was right!’
‘I don’t know if he could actually have done it,’ Nigel went on. ‘The laws are fairly complicated, and I’m just a lowly geek, not a lawyer. But it looks as though he was setting up a holding company or two, to hide the connections. I rather delved into it, because it seemed a strange sort of operation for a clergyman.’
‘He was a strange sort of clergyman,’ I said tartly. ‘Some of those other bits and pieces you mention came from money he embezzled from his parish. And that’s not rumour, but cold hard fact.’
Nigel’s whistle came clearly down the airwaves. ‘Well. I begin to see why you think he might have been murdered. I might’ve wanted to have a go myself.’
‘Oh, that’s far from the worst of it,’ said Alan. ‘About the only sin he hasn’t been accused of so far is paedophilia, and that may yet come.’
‘If he was murdered, I sincerely hope you don’t catch up with the – I hesitate to call him villain.’
‘We feel a little that way ourselves, but still … Anyway, how are Inga and the kids?’
‘All well. Inga’s glad to be back at work. Staying home with those two was much harder work than tending bar, but the Nipper’s settled down a good deal since going to school, and we’ve found a really reliable minder for them. Nigel Peter is spending most of his time this summer trying to read to Greta Jane, but he can’t read all that well yet, and she’s too young really to understand. I caught him the other day piling books on top of her so she wouldn’t try to crawl away.’
‘Oh, goodness, my sister and her best friend did that once to a cat, only it was bricks. They had dressed it up in doll clothes and were trying to take it for a ride in a doll carriage. The cat wasn’t best pleased, but it survived to an extremely old age. I imagine Greta Jane will too.’
‘To misquote one of your American authors, she will not merely survive, she will prevail. She picked up one of the books and shied it at him. Got him squarely on the jaw. He won’t try that trick again in a hurry!’
We rang off with laughter, and I turned to my triumphant husband. ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘Good hunch.’
‘I knew I smelled a rat. Back when I was a copper I learned to follow my nose. In this case it seemed there wasn’t enough money, but with over a million pounds, he could have done quite nicely.’
‘And don’t forget the “bits and pieces”. Unless he’d already spent that on travel and toys. Alan, I cannot grasp why a man with that kind of money would resort to nasty little penny-ante games like stealing from a church jumble sale.’
‘You don’t, thank God, understand the criminal mind as I came to do. There is a kind of sociopath, usually with a brilliant mind, who will commit crimes simply because he can. He’s pitting his superior wits against all the other poor fools out there, and derives great pleasure when he wins, as of course he nearly always does. It’s the victory itself that he loves, as much as the spoils, though of course he enjoys the spoils as well.’
I shuddered. ‘A person like that would have to be completely amoral.’
Alan looked surprised. ‘Of course, that goes without saying.’
‘And he became a priest! What kind of a twisted mind could do such a thing?’
‘The kind he had. Totally egocentric, totally without conscience. I’m not a psychologist, but I would say that such a man would be quite literally incapable of seeing anyone else’s point of view, or of understanding why it mattered if an action of his caused harm to someone else. That would be simply irrelevant to him. Witness his reaction to the death of the little American baby, which touched him not at all. He probably chose the church as a profession because he needed to be admired, and because of the opportunity for drama. The Mass is a great drama, and a really fine actor can get a powerful response from the congregation.’
‘What about sermons? How could he possibly preach the Gospel?’
‘Acting again, probably. Such people are usually pathological liars. That is, they don’t even know that they’re lying. So he could, with a straight face, have made powerful speeches from the pulpit, while not believing – or practicing – a single word he said.’
‘You’ve come around to anti-Abercrombie side, haven’t you? What was the tipping point?’
‘Nigel’s revelations. With that kind of money, he could have helped the poor in his community, set up a small foundation, done lots of good. Instead he chose to come to a remote island and get into big-money gambling. And I have to say I’m driven to wonder how that parishioner died, and whether the family suspected undue influence.’
‘Alan! Surely he wouldn’t have … but if he was really the way you’ve described him, he might have, mightn’t he?’
Alan looked at his watch. ‘I think I’m going to walk down and have a little talk with Derek Partridge. I think the American police might be interested in the chain of events we’ve uncovered.’
TWENTY-TWO
Wednesday did, as promised, dawn clear and lovely. It was perfect exploring weather, so Alan and I planned at breakfast what we might do that day.
He had not made a lot of headway with the Alderney police. While they conceded that there was a convincing case against Abercrombie, one that might have been pursued while he was living, there was little point now. ‘Yes,’ Derek had said, ‘the man sounds an out-and-out rotter. But he’s dead. You can’t prosecute the dead. And there are a fair number of people here who are already a bit unhappy about what we’ve found out about him. Think we’re “desecrating his memory”. Hah! Yes, I’ll pass along your suspicions to the authorities in Ohio, but I doubt, sir, that they’ll do much about it. With murders two a penny on that side of the pond, they’ve enough on their plates without casting doubts on the death of an elderly woman, a death that was never in question.’
‘From his point of view, he’s quite right,’ said Alan. ‘In this small community, it’s wise not to make too many waves. We’ve stirred up a bit of a hornet’s next, just looking into Abercrombie’s background.’
‘Yes, but … There’s always a “yes, but”, isn’t there. A man who was that evil dies in what might have been an accident. I think we have – I think everyone has, for that matter – an obligation to know for certain whether or not it was accidental. It comes back to the coincidence question, but in a slightly different sense. Was it just coincidence that a man so dearly hated, for such good reason, a man who was an experienced walker, tripped and fell? Is it just coincidence that a man with some of the best reasons to hate him has disappeared?’
‘I’m not any happier about the notion of coincidence than you are, love.’ Alan cut a neat piece off his egg, secured it on his fork with a bit of bacon, and propelled the whole to his mouth. ‘But they do happen. I saw a good many in police work through the years, some that beggared belief, but they were real.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Now, love, there comes a time in every difficult case when there are no apparent leads to pursue. One has come to what you Americans colourfully call a “dead end”. When that happens, often the best thing to do is nothing. Set i
t aside, try to put it out of one’s mind, deal with other matters. That is what I propose to do today. I’d like to do a lot of walking to work off some of the lovely food we’ve been putting away in such quantity. Then this afternoon I’d like to take the bus tour around the island. There are quite a few things we’ve missed, and we can see them in comfort from the minibus. How does that sound to you?’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘You lead the way. Whither thou goest …’
‘Right. Except when you prefer to goest somewhere else.’
Alan decided he wanted to see the old water mill, a ruin dating, originally, from the thirteenth century. ‘The present ruins are quite new, though; the mill was rebuilt in 1796.’
‘Good grief, that’s young enough to belong to my country.’ I grinned; he shook his head in mock disgust.
The water mill was a great success as an expedition for the simple reason that we were unable to find it. We went, map in hand, in what we were sure was the right direction. We chose forks as random when the map was no help, and when we ended up in someone’s garden we retraced our steps and took the other fork. After this had gone on for a couple of hours we had seen a good many pretty gardens and a fair sampling of the north-western part of the island. We had several times caught glimpses of a Victorian fort and its German reincarnation. We asked directions of a young couple we encountered in passing; they were French and couldn’t help.
‘All right,’ I said at last. ‘I’ll be the wimp and give up. I’m beginning to feel like poor old Charlie on the MTA.’
Fortunately my husband had also been a fan of the Kingston Trio back in the dear dead days beyond recall. ‘And did he ever return?’ he carolled.
‘No, he never returned,’ I responded. ‘And his fate is still unlur-r-rned,’ we chorused.
The French couple, returning from wherever they’d been, looked at us oddly.
‘Too young,’ I said, and got a fit of the giggles that lasted nearly back to town.
‘Time for a pint,’ said Alan. ‘I’m dry enough to drink the barrel.’
‘Me, too. Look, here’s the Marais Hall. Let’s do it.’
After a refreshing interval we ambled back to Victoria Street and walked toward our B & B. ‘You know, Alan, I can’t seem to walk as far as I could twenty years ago. Funniest thing.’
‘Talking of coincidence – neither can I. Look, here’s a bench. I know we’re close to our room, but we’ve never come in here before.’
‘In here’ was a little garden with soft green grass, roses and some small marble monuments. ‘It’s a collection of war memorials,’ I said, touched. ‘Even so small an island lost a lot of men in the two big wars. And oh, Alan!’
I pointed. There on the wall was a marble plaque: ‘Sapper George Onions, Royal Engineers, who gave his life on minefield clearing operations on Alderney 21 June 1945. In Grateful Remembrance.’
‘That’s what that little garden is about,’ I said softly, ‘the Sapper Onions Peace Garden. A living memorial to a poor man who died here after the war was over, when all the fighting was done and all the Germans had left. Died helping make the island safe again.’
I had to wipe my eyes, and we were silent the rest of the way back.
We decided to forgo our usual nap. We stopped at the Visitor Centre to book our bus tour, and then, after a leisurely and rather late lunch at Jack’s, we crossed the street to wait for the minibus. We were there only a moment or two when the bus pulled up. ‘You’re my only two passengers, so far,’ said the driver, an attractive woman who introduced herself as Annabel. ‘If you don’t mind, we’ll wait for a minute or two to see if anyone else turns up.’
But no one did, so the driver said, ‘Right, then. You can sit up front if you like, so I won’t have to shout!’
‘Suits me,’ I said, and climbed in.
We did indeed see many parts of the island we hadn’t visited before, some residential areas outside the ‘town’ area, some beaches we’d never noticed. We went to the structure called the Nunnery; the driver had no more idea than anyone else about why it was called that. Seen by daylight it was quite interesting. The most obvious remnant of the Roman site was a crumbling wall, but we were told that almost the whole outer structure is Roman, with a hodgepodge of eighteenth-, nineteenth-, and twentieth-century adaptations. Apparently a fortress for most of its long existence, it was now a residence, so we couldn’t go inside. But the thought of all those centuries of defensive use raised in me the usual shiver of awareness of the past, of the rich history of a place whose habitation went back to the dim ages of pre-history.
‘First the Romans against the rest of the world, then Alderney against the French, then the Germans against the rest of the world. What’s next, do you suppose?’ I asked rhetorically.
‘There were a good many centuries in there when nothing much was happening. That’s why the wall crumbled,’ Alan pointed out. ‘We seem to be in one of those periods now, touch wood.’
‘Yes, here on this island, perhaps. But even here, a serpent got in, only weeks ago.’
‘And has been vanquished. Annabel is beckoning us. Shall we go on?’
We saw nearly all the forts, of whatever era – and there were a lot of them. Some, like this one, had been turned into residences. We saw a house owned by Julie Andrews, one of my all-time favourite singers, and still used, from time to time, by her grandchildren. And we heard a story.
‘Was your family among the ones evacuated during the war?’ I asked Annabel.
‘No, but I live in the house of someone who was. My husband and I bought it from a man who, as a boy, was sent to Glasgow.’
‘I’ve read stories about that time, when the Germans burned everything they could – furniture, floorboards, everything – just to keep from freezing to death. Was the boy’s house badly damaged?’
‘Yes, he said it was gutted. With one notable exception.’ She smiled a little. ‘Apparently the officer who lived there had tried at first to keep the house in good order. I suppose he thought he’d be living there for a long time. The Germans thought they’d win the war. So the officer had had the house painted, inside and out. For some reason, when the painters got to the kitchen, the officer ordered them not to paint over the children’s growth marks pencilled on the wall. And when the family returned at the end of the war, with everything else torn up and destroyed, that wall and those marks remained.’ She smiled again. ‘They’re still there. We’ve left them as a reminder that even an enemy can have a heart. There’s good in everyone.’
We pondered that remark as we sat in the garden of Belle Isle having our tea. ‘Good in everyone. I suppose she’s right, but … Abercrombie?’
‘He made a lot of people happy, don’t forget. All those ladies who thought, who still think, he was wonderful. He brightened their lives.’
‘But it was all a sham.’
‘We think it was. That doesn’t change the fact that those women loved him. Isn’t the ability to inspire love a positive quality, even if it’s pretence?’
‘I don’t know. He did it for his own purposes, as part of his con act.’
‘Yes, but that brings us to another point. Derek Partridge is not in favour of a full investigation of Abercrombie’s crimes, in part because it would hurt those devoted ladies to know they had been used.’
I sighed. ‘It would break their hearts. But they’ll know, sooner or later. Word will get around. Nothing stays hidden in a community this size. And Alan, they need to know. In this world of woe, it’s dangerous to be innocent and trusting.’
‘You have a point. But do you want to be the one to tell them?’
TWENTY-THREE
I got a call that evening from Mr Lewison. ‘I thought you’d want to know that Mrs Small has returned home. For a few days she’ll have a full-time caregiver, until she learns how to get about safely on her crutches. She’s in somewhat better spirits, and I think she’d enjoy a visit.’
‘That’s good news. I’m not sure I
still have her phone number.’ He gave it to me. ‘Thanks so much. We’ll go tomorrow, right after Morning Prayer.’
Alan looked at me inquiringly. ‘Alice is home and wants visitors. At least that’s what Mr Lewison says. Let’s take her some flowers.’
We went to church at the last possible minute in the morning, and left as soon as the service was over. I wanted to talk more to some of the ladies, but not yet, and not in church. There was a nice florist almost next door to Belle Isle, so we got a big bouquet. After we’d phoned Alice and were assured by her caregiver that this was a good time to visit, Alan retrieved our car and we drove to her house.
Phil was there, which was no surprise. If the man had a job, his hours were obviously flexible. He looked pleased to see us. ‘She’s told me about her sister,’ he said quietly as we came in. ‘I think she wants to talk about it.’
He showed us to a sitting room, where Alice was comfortably installed in a recliner, her bulky cast up on the footrest, a pair of crutches leaning handy on a bookcase, water and a vial of pills and a book within reach. She looked tired but more peaceful than we had yet seen her. She thanked us for the flowers, which we gave to her caregiver to put in a vase, and asked us to sit down.
‘You’re feeling better,’ I said with certainty.
‘I am. They found a painkiller that doesn’t make me sick, and it helps. You were so right, though, about getting around and doing everyday tasks. I can hardly even brush my hair without losing my balance. Grace is a lifesaver.’ She smiled at the woman as she brought the vase of flowers back into the room and put them on a table in front of the window.
‘I’m glad to hear you’re able to ease the pain of your ankle, but that wasn’t the pain I was talking about.’ I glanced at Grace.
‘It’s all right,’ said Alice. ‘We can talk about it. Grace is the soul of discretion. And I’ve wanted to talk about it. Mr Lewison has helped me put it all in perspective.’
She shifted a little in her chair, took a sip of water. ‘It’s hard to know where to begin.’
Smile and be a Villain Page 16
