Alan sneezed. ‘And extremely wet. Here’s the charity shop, and it does seem to be open. Let’s get in out of this.’
We were the only customers. The volunteers were busy folding and pricing, tidying and sorting, and of course chatting. I recognized Sylvia Whiting, looking efficient, and sweet little Martha Duckett. Oh, dear. We were in a nest of Abercrombie supporters.
Or at least they had been. Had the events of the weekend made any difference to them, or would we find ourselves more comfortable back out in the fog?
They looked up and saw us. Little Martha turned pink and went back, with trembling hands, to pairing socks. Sylvia was made of sterner stuff. She put down a fluffy child’s sweater that she was pricing and came up to us.
‘So you were right and we were wrong. I suppose you’re satisfied, now that you’ve made fools of us all.’
And then sweet, gentle little Martha came to our defence. ‘Oh, no, Sylvia, it wasn’t they who did that. They simply showed us what we had been too foolish to see. We mustn’t kill the messengers.’
If one of the socks on the counter had sprung up and bit her, Sylvia couldn’t have looked more surprised.
I had to bite back a nervous giggle. ‘Martha, we both feel very sorry about the people who are feeling betrayed right now, especially for you, because – I hope you don’t mind my saying so – you’re such a sweet person.’
She turned pink again. ‘Too trusting,’ she said sadly. ‘My dear sister always told me so. But it’s better to know the truth.’
‘So nothing would do but that it had to be blurted out in front of the whole island,’ said Sylvia, still belligerent, and I suddenly knew what her problem was.
‘I’m sure you could have thought of a much better way to do it, Sylvia. You’re so good at organizing. But there simply wasn’t time. We were leaving the island. We had meant to go by the first plane this morning, but …’ I gestured out the window. ‘I’m very glad we ran into you, though, because I lost your phone number and I wanted to talk to you. Do you think it would be a good idea for small groups of people, mostly parishioners I suppose, to meet and talk out the situation? I’m not sure whether it would work or not, and you know all these people so well …’ I let it trail off.
Actually, I thought it was a terrible idea. Much better to leave it alone, let time do its work and the hurts start to heal, but it had popped into my head as a way to make Sylvia feel important again. The only hurt she had sustained, I thought, was to her ego.
Alan, at the back of the shop pretending to look at a rack of shirts, seemed to be in some bronchial distress. He had to keep coughing into his handkerchief.
Sylvia cocked her head to one side. ‘It’s worth some thought. I think it would be better for the groups to have some other purpose, clothes and food for the refugees, perhaps. Yes. We could meet in people’s homes, and Barbara could donate anything we can’t use here, and many of the women sew … I’ll ask her about it right now.’
She bustled off, and I thought I could detect a hint of a smile on Martha’s face.
‘I think you are a very clever woman,’ she whispered.
After that we had to buy something, so Alan chose a shirt that wasn’t too bad and I found a book that would fit into my purse. We paid and left before Sylvia could come back.
The fog was no better, and there was no wind that might drive it away. ‘What are you going to do with that shirt?’
‘It’ll do nicely for when I paint the shed.’
‘It looks too big.’
‘It is. That’s why it’ll make a good painting smock. My dear, you might warn me the next time you plan an act like that. I thought I was going to do myself some serious harm, trying not to laugh.’
‘I didn’t plan it. It just came out. I was tired of being browbeaten.’ I looked around me. ‘What now? It doesn’t look as if this stuff is ever going to go away.’
‘Here. The general store is open. Let’s pop in, and I’ll see what sort of forecast I can pull up on the mobile.’
We were entering the shop as he spoke, and the man behind the counter heard him. ‘You’ll not find anything good, if you’re trying to fly. Where were you making for?’
‘Southampton.’
He shook his head. ‘Doubtful you’ll get there at all today. Even if it clears here, the whole south coast is fogged in.’
I sagged back against the door. ‘Alan, maybe you’d better call Aurigny.’
‘They said they’d call me.’ His phone rang. ‘Right. Yes.’ He turned to me. ‘All flights to Southampton cancelled for the rest of the day. They’ll put us on the first flight in the morning, but they don’t know when that will be. Even with a small airline flying from a small airport, delays cause major problems. We’d better go back to Belle Isle and book one more night.’
‘And I’ll call Jane.’
‘I gather,’ came a voice from behind a shelf, ‘that you are stranded here for one more day.’
Robin.
It seemed we were to spend the day being haunted by people with whom we had crossed swords. At least Robin had been anti-Abercrombie. But also anti-us, at least with regard to our hunt for a possible murderer.
Alan recovered before I did. ‘Yes, so it seems. At least one more day. Apparently the pattern of fogs in these parts is rather unpredictable.’
‘Yes.’
There was an awkward pause. Robin cleared his throat. ‘Since the weather isn’t conducive to outdoor activities, I wonder if you’d care to come to tea this afternoon.’
I opened my mouth and closed it again, and finally managed to say, ‘Thank you, we’d enjoy that. Very much.’
‘Around four, then? You remember where I live?’
‘More or less, but you’d better give us directions.’
I almost volunteered to bring something, but I wasn’t sure how formal this man would be. Better not.
THIRTY-ONE
I bought a few magazines to while away a long day, and then we picked up some groceries, enough to last us through the day and into the morning, in case that proved necessary. When we had stowed everything in our room, we found they hadn’t changed the sheets and towels.
‘When there’s a fog like this, we know no one’s leaving, and no new guests are coming,’ the chambermaid explained. ‘Of course we’ll give you fresh linens if you wish.’
‘Of course not. They were changed just yesterday, or at most the day before. At home it’s once a week. No need to make extra work for yourselves.’
When we had unpacked what we needed for the day and phoned Jane, it was after ten. ‘Library or museum?’ asked Alan.
‘Library, I suppose. These magazines don’t look terribly interesting. There’s sure to be something better to read there. And you can surf the Net if you want.’
We walked. It wasn’t all that far, and now we’d unpacked all our wet-weather gear it wasn’t too unpleasant, though the cobblestones were slippery and a bit treacherous.
The town looked strange. In two weeks we’d learned our way around fairly well, with the help of familiar landmarks, but those landmarks appeared now only when we got very near, and all the colour was faded. It was slightly eerie.
‘I used to have the feeling, when I was a child, that things might disappear entirely in a fog. Or maybe that other things would be there, other houses and trees and even people.’
‘I expect you liked Brigadoon.’
‘I loved it.’ And for the rest of the way we hummed the theme song from the old musical, a haunting tune.
The library was warm, bright and quiet, a haven from the raw weather. There were several other patrons, but no one was using the public computer, so Alan settled down to see if he could find something interesting, while I searched the mystery shelves until I found one of my favourite Dorothy Sayers novels, The Nine Tailors. I’d read it many times, but it didn’t matter. I immersed myself in the wintry world of Fenchurch St Paul, a perfect escape from the foggy and slightly hostile world of A
lderney.
‘Excuse me.’ A whisper at my elbow brought me back. I had reached the story about the stolen emeralds and couldn’t, for a moment, remember where I was and who was speaking to me. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but might we go outside for just a moment, you and your husband?’
It was Mr Lewison. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted with us, but I was getting stiff with sitting, anyway. He had already spoken to Alan, and the three of us stepped outside the door to shiver in the forecourt, where the fog looked as though it might have settled in for all eternity.
‘As you see,’ Mr Lewison began, ‘I am also marooned here until the fog lifts. I had intended to go home yesterday, but there was a good deal I needed to discuss with Mr Venables. Now that none of us can go anywhere, I wondered if I could treat the two of you to morning coffee, and we could have a little chat. I brought my car,’ he added. ‘It’s a bit of a walk down to Jack’s in this weather.’
‘That,’ said Alan, ‘sounds utterly delightful. Let me get our coats.’
Hot coffee and a pastry were precisely what I wanted, along with the company of someone who wasn’t going to berate us for anything concerning the late unlamented William Abercrombie.
‘Was this your first visit to Alderney?’ the priest asked when we’d had our first sips of wonderful coffee.
We nodded.
‘What a pity it turned out the way it did! I’m sure you’ll be very glad to get away.’
‘Yes and no,’ I said, considering. ‘Yes, there was a good deal of unpleasantness. And to be honest, my refusal to stay out of it made things worse.’
‘For both of you, I’m sure it did. For the islanders, I think your intervention was a good and necessary thing. You opened a good many cupboards and let out a good many secrets, secrets of the kind that needed to be aired. Never blame yourselves for that.’
‘We made a lot of people unhappy.’
‘No, Mrs Martin. William Abercrombie made a lot of people unhappy, indeed miserable. You can’t take the troubles of the world on your shoulders, though I suspect you constantly try.’ His smile robbed his remark of most of its sting, but it was nevertheless a reprimand, and one I deserved. I shrugged, exchanged glances with Alan, and drank more coffee.
‘I wonder: did the two of you ever come to any conclusion about whether the “accident” was really that?’
‘Oh, dear, that’s the piece of unfinished business that makes us wish, in a way, that we weren’t leaving.’ I looked at Alan, who nodded. ‘There are so many indications that someone might have pushed him, or at least had reason to push him, but there’s no evidence. I had hoped that someone might come forward at the meeting, but that didn’t happen.’
‘There are people here,’ said Alan carefully, ‘who know or believe they know more about it. But they have been unwilling to talk to us, and quite honestly I’m not sure they’re wrong. I’m a policeman. You’re a priest. In my profession causing the death of a human being is not always a crime; in yours I believe it is not always a sin. There is always the question of motive, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, a complicated enough question in a court of law, and far more complicated when one considers the inmost workings of the heart. There are thoughts and motives that may be unknown even to the doer of the deed, let alone to anyone else. I don’t envy the police their job.’
‘Much of the time it’s simple enough. Most crime is thoughtless and committed by thoughtless, not very intelligent people. This sort of thing, however, when the victim is one who, most people would say, richly deserved whatever he got – well, I don’t envy you the task of sorting it out.’
‘Fortunately it’s not my job now, strictly speaking. I’ve dumped it in Mr Venables’ lap, poor man.’
‘He’ll handle it well, I’m sure. I wish we’d had a chance to get to know him better. He seems to be an excellent priest.’
‘He’s a saint,’ said Mr Lewison. ‘Not an easy man to fill in for, even temporarily.’
‘Oh, dear, it’s like replacing a dearly beloved rector who retires, isn’t it? I’ve often said that if Jesus himself came to take the position, many in the congregation would say it was all very well, but he wasn’t a patch on Father So-and-So.’
Mr Lewison laughed, but ruefully. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day? It’s a pity about the wretched fog.’
‘Of course, if it weren’t for the fog, we’d be home by now,’ said Alan. ‘As it is, we’ll do a lot of reading, probably take a nap, and we’ve been invited out for tea. I only hope the fog clears by tomorrow morning.’
‘As do I. We may find ourselves on the same plane, but if not …’ He stood. ‘I’ll say goodbye, and God speed.’
We walked – carefully – back to our room for another dreary few hours of doing nothing.
By three thirty I had nearly reached screaming point again. I don’t tolerate inaction well. When I’m frantically busy with the thousand chores of housekeeping, or volunteer work, or some problem I’ve become embroiled in, boredom seems desirable. When I’m actually mired in it, I long for something to do. Thus is my contrary nature. I often wonder how Alan puts up with me.
However, he was restless, too, mostly for lack of exercise. He’s an active man, and we’d walked only a few cautious steps today. ‘Love, let’s walk to Robin’s,’ he said, getting up from his chair in the lounge and stretching. ‘It isn’t cobbled all the way, and we can take it slowly.’
‘And there’s no place to park, anyway. But I’m going to put on my boots. They’re not going-to-tea wear, but they have a better grip.’
‘Robin won’t notice.’
‘You want to bet?’
‘Is it maybe a little thinner?’ I asked when as we were picking our way up Victoria Street.
‘We’re just getting used to it.’
But the fog was thinner, I was sure. I could see things I hadn’t before, and there was just the slightest breeze, so the mist swirled and eddied a bit. Confusing, but promising.
Robin was waiting for us, a cheerful fire crackling in the sitting room. ‘A bit warm for a fire,’ he said, ‘but fog is nasty, depressing stuff. I see you wore sensible boots, Mrs Martin. Good for you. The cobbles are attractive, and of the right period, but they can be treacherous when they’re wet.’
I shot Alan a look that said, ‘Told you so!’
Robin had laid out an elaborate tea: scones, and assorted tiny sandwiches, and lemon drizzle cake. ‘All courtesy of someone who can cook,’ he said when I exclaimed over the bounty. ‘The scones and sandwiches are from St Anne’s Guest House down the street, and you know where I found the cake. I understand it’s one of your favourites.’
Of course he’d know that. The Alderney grapevine.
‘Robin, tell us about your house. We love old houses. We live in one, but it’s positively modern compared to this one. I can’t begin to guess its age.’
‘Fourteenth-century, parts of it. I won’t take you down to the cellar, but that’s where you can see the old foundations. Of course it’s been altered and added onto and generally mucked about over the centuries, so it’s sometimes hard to tell the date of any particular bit. I’ve thought about digging in the walls to get down to the original layers, but it’s a fearful expense.’
‘And a dreadful mess! Our house is only early seventeenth-century, not long after the Dissolution. Yesterday, in your terms. But just keeping it in proper repair has entailed pots of money and plaster dust everywhere. And of course planning permission, as it’s a listed building.’
We all groaned in mutual sympathy about the coils of the planning permission bureaucracy.
‘If you’d like to see over the house, I’d be happy to show you after tea,’ he said, somewhat diffidently.
‘We’d like that,’ said Alan. I’m sure we were both thinking the same thing. We would find no sign that Harold Guillot had ever been there, or Robin would not have made the offer.
Robin was a charming host. While we ate he chatted abou
t historic preservation, and that led to the history of Alderney, especially during the war years. ‘Some of it was horrific, of course,’ he said.
‘The labour camps,’ said Alan. ‘One can scarcely believe it, even of the Nazis.’
‘And it was all so unnecessary. England had far too much to worry about to expend time and money and men on retaking a small island of very little strategic importance.’
‘Hitler was paranoid, of course.’
‘Hitler was mad,’ said Robin flatly.
We moved on to the more congenial topic of his house, and when we had eaten virtually all there was to eat, and drunk all the tea, he stood. ‘If you’d like a tour, I’m at your disposal.’
The tour was a treat, of course. The house was amazing, not big, but with fascinating little details all over the place. Odd corners here, steps up and down there, niches that seemed to have no purpose until Robin pointed out that they had been created when walls had been moved or added. As one would expect, none of the floors were quite level and none of the doorways quite rectangular, and all of the doorways were quite low. Alan was told to mind his head. ‘People were smaller then,’ said Robin. ‘When I first moved in, my head was covered with scars until I learned to duck automatically.’
It was all very interesting, but we were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Robin hadn’t invited us here just to give us pleasure.
We repaired back to the sitting room, where the fire was burning low. Robin put on another log and poked expertly until it was burning properly, and then bade us sit.
‘I’d like to talk to you a little more about Abercrombie,’ he said, not to our surprise. ‘A pity to spoil an agreeable afternoon, but there are a few things I’ve decided you should know. There’s nothing you can do about them, even if you weren’t leaving tomorrow. I think, by the way, that you may count on that.’ He nodded at the front window. The fog was nearly gone, and here and there a faint shadow showed us that the sun was trying to peek through. ‘This has been a bad one, but it’s most unlikely to come back for a few days. You’ll be safe by your own fireside by this time tomorrow. Would you like a little sherry, by the way?’
Smile and be a Villain Page 22
