“Ah.” Edward tipped his head. “I see that investigative nose of yours rising to the scent. Church work hasn’t put you off the game, then?”
“Put her off?” Lillie cut in. “It’s enhanced it. She can suss out the pea of truth beneath miles and miles of rubbish.”
“Slightly overstated but thank you, Lillie. Still Edward, surely, I can’t be the first person to ask the question of historical accuracy.”
“You’re not, and that’s the problem. There really was a Brother Trustyn, and there’s record of him being dispatched to this area. But as for being martyred? No record of that. He simply disappeared.”
“And that leaves room for bags of invented stories.” Berdie plunked her cup down. And this story wasn’t sitting well with her. “What courtier was this brother supposed to have served?”
Lillie’s lips formed a smile. “Yes, I believe that gifted nose is twitching, eager to dig around a bit.”
“It’s just a question,” Berdie defended.
Gus appeared making way to the table with her food and a plastic carrier bag.
“I don’t have time to faff about in local gossip. The lion’s share of my time is spent here because I can do much of my London business from home. But I certainly don’t follow village buzz. All I know is that it has cost me much more to hire a work team from Alnwick than if some local villagers would have taken on the church refurbishment.” Edward seemed slightly snappish. “Keith Wells, our verger, can fill you in on all the details of local folklore.”
Gus arrived and sat the bag by Edward. “Here you are, guv.”
Edward was up out of his seat before Gus could place Berdie’s fry up on the table.
“Grand, Gus. Thank you.” Edward grabbed the bag. “I’ve got lots on in London. So, Berdie, if you leave for home before I return: I’m glad to have seen you and to have met you, Lillie. I hope you all enjoy your stay in Criswell.”
“Thank you, Edward,” Berdie replied. “We appreciate…” All Berdie could see was the back of her friend as he dashed away, hand raised in a wave. “God go with you,” Berdie called after him.
“Goodbye,” Lillie added.
“Goodbye,” sprang from the parrot’s direction.
Gus placed the plated fry up, and cutlery, in front of Berdie. “Not the same as creamed pheasant up at the big house, but still great food.”
Lillie frowned.
“My. Word travels fast in this village.” Berdie picked up the fork.
“The estate owns the Watergate, you know.” Gus smiled. “You and Mr. Cavendish good friends, then?”
“Former university chums and work colleagues,” Berdie reported. “My husband enjoys Mr. Cavendish’s friendship as well,” she added to make a point.
“Oh, we all like Edward Cavendish.” Gus grinned. “He’s a good man. Hard working, fair, mucks in like the rest of us.”
“And the rest of the family?” Lillie asked.
Gus shifted his weight. “You’ve met them. I’ll let you make that call.” His grin widened and his cheeks flushed with amusement. “Need more toast?”
“Actually, it’s quite good.” Lillie wiped a crumb from her lip. “Yes, more please, and a top up of tea.”
Gus picked up the empty plate. “I’ll have Aggie bring you a full pot and fresh toast.” The fellow turned his attention back to Berdie. “You tuck in, and tell me if it’s good as Cook’s.”
“Tuck in,” the bird squawked.
“That bird’s quite the talker,” Berdie commented to Gus, and dug her fork into her tomatoes.
“Oh, you’ve not heard the half of it. Wait until he starts singing. He can clear the place in no time if there are more genteel types present.”
“A bit bawdy, then?”
Gus leaned a bit closer. “Sailor’s made some men blush.”
“His name’s Sailor?”
He nodded. “Did you know African greys can have a vocabulary of up to two thousand words? Mind you, some of Sailor’s vocabulary isn’t found in polite conversation. Still, what can you expect for a rescued bird?”
“Gus,” a man in a work apron called out across the room and lifted his hand.
“Gus,” the bird repeated. “Put a sock in it.”
“That’s old Sailor telling me then,” Gus said with zest.
The host rushed off, and Berdie continued eating. The food was very good, the venison sausage exceptional.
“We need to have dinner here with Loren and Hugh,” Lillie mused whilst she glanced about the place. “Quite friendly.”
“And the food’s good,” Berdie added. “And close to our digs.”
“Criswell is a picture-postcard village. And the abbey grounds, the old ruins, add so much to that atmosphere.”
“That’s it then,” Berdie said between bites. “We’ll take Hugh and Loren for a stroll around the abbey grounds and show them St. Baldred’s, if it’s not still bucketing out. When they’re done with today’s classes, we’ll all have tea here.”
“Smashing.”
****
Berdie walked in stride with Hugh. “Well, the rain’s stopped.”
“Watch your step. There are still a few puddles.”
Berdie admired the asters that danced along the edges of Bell Tower Close, the pedestrian walkway that was home to the inn where they were staying.
The Bell Tower Inn was actually two Victorian cottages knocked into one home and done up for guests. Whilst she and Hugh nestled into a suite, Loren and Lillie each had their own. Altogether, they took up half of the six guest rooms. As the hotel was situated on a terraced hill, a commanding view of the St. Baldred’s bell tower was visible from almost every window. There was no restaurant, but management would make up sandwiches or light snacks most hours. The reception was an entry hall beside the sitting room with a serve-yourself kettle always on the go. The whole building was full of old world charm and just right for their time away from Aidan Kirkwood. The sweet tucked-away inn was only a few minutes walk from Criswell’s High Street, and, despite Hugh attending a church conference, it felt like a holiday.
Berdie took Hugh’s hand and delighted in his clasp. It was forever sturdy, lined with the years, assuring, and tender. Lillie and Loren strolled just ahead.
“Let’s give those two a little time to themselves this afternoon,” Hugh suggested.
“Sounds a grand idea.” Berdie leaned her head on Hugh’s shoulder. She cherished any opportunity to spend time alone with her husband.
“Let Loren have the lion’s share of Lillie’s time.”
“He usually does.” Berdie thought about how Loren and Lillie had their first date here in Northumbria at Nethpool Hall years ago now. “I do wish those two would finally pledge themselves, officially, to one another, marry, and get on with it.”
“Well, yes,” Hugh said with a smile, “yes.”
Berdie eyed him. “You’re grinning like the Cheshire cat.”
“Am I? Surely not.”
It was unlike Hugh to be this coy.
“What is it, Hugh? You know something?”
His smile expanded.
“You do. You know something, and you’re not telling me.”
Berdie turned her attention to Loren who took Lillie’s hand as the two laughed together.
Berdie gasped. “Loren’s going to propose. This is their first time back in Northumbria together since they met, and he’s going to propose marriage.”
“Now, did I say that, Berdie?”
Berdie felt a sense of incredible excitement and relief all at the same moment. “And about time, too. But, Lillie has no idea. I hope she says yes, but you know how Lillie can be.”
Hugh stopped dead, making Berdie nearly stumble. He turned to face her, his alluring blue eyes penetrating Berdie’s own.
That gaze still gave such a tingle to her whole being. Yes, just as it always had.
“Berdie, whatever is between them is between them. Do you hear me clearly?”
“But Hugh, she
may need a gentle nudge in the right direction.”
“No,” Hugh emphasized. “Let them work this out on their own. It’s none of our affair. Understand?”
Berdie smiled.
“Now, I’ll ask again. Do you hear me clearly?”
How could she offer any resistance when completely dazzled by those amazing blue eyes? “I hear you, Hugh, and clearly.”
Hugh squeezed her hand. “Good.”
“Hey, you two,” Lillie called to Berdie and Hugh. “Step lively, we’re at the High Street.” With that, she and Loren turned onto the main road.
Say yes, you silly woman and don’t drag your feet, is what Berdie wanted to respond, but instead a simple, “We’re coming,” was all she allowed herself.
Once on the High Street, all thoughts about the lovebirds waned. Berdie noticed that the usual hum of a village’s primary road was absent. In fact, it was almost dead still. Her stomach skewed. What was going on?
3
Hugh rambled on whilst Berdie looked about.
“Criswell Abbey, though there are certainly parts intact of course, didn’t fare well when Henry the Eighth ordered abbeys destroyed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Great dissention sprang up. It truly was a forced dissolving of the landed monasteries and the power they wielded then. The lands went into the hands of the crown to do with as they wished, sending so many abbeys into ruins”
Berdie noticed three people huddled closely together by a small art gallery. Concern etched their faces. “Quite,” she absently replied to Hugh.
“Most of the monastic lands were confiscated. Some of it was handed over to relatives or political supporters of the King. That included Criswell.”
Several other people chatted in front of a car repair workshop, two of them shaking their heads, all glum at best.
“Then there was Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth with their opposing religious preferences,” Hugh continued.
“Hugh,” Berdie barged in, “does something seem odd?”
“No, it was all officially recorded…”
“I don’t mean history, I mean here and now. Something’s wrong.” She noted the single car that passed on the street, a police vehicle. The eyes of every person watched it move up the road.
“What do you mean, love?”
Before Berdie could answer Hugh’s question, Lillie called to Berdie. “Look down there.” She pointed to the abbey grounds visible down the road. “St. Baldred’s Church.”
Berdie took in the sight and felt a shiver. “Police vehicles and crime scene tape,” she breathed.
“Oh, dear.” Hugh’s tone went solemn.
Berdie strained forward to make out what was going on at the ancient church, but the one thing she knew for sure, it spelled trouble.
“Berdie, please remember, whatever’s going on is obviously something for law enforcement,” Hugh cautioned.
“That’s Edward’s estate. What if it’s family? I can’t possibly turn my back on it. What if he needs our help?”
Hugh sighed. “We can stay around the church grounds just long enough to get a sense of things, and then we go unless otherwise invited.”
“Fair enough,” Berdie agreed. “Loren, Lillie,” she summoned, “straight on to the church, no dallying.”
Berdie’s push down the High Street was rapid. Still, she overheard some villagers’ comments.
“It’s that monk, Trustyn, and no one can tell me different,” an elderly man commented to another.
“It’s a sad day and a dark blight, indeed,” a shop keeper, who washed his store windows, said to anyone who would listen.
This did not bode well. Those statements told her to be prepared for the worst.
When they arrived at St. Baldred’s, they took the garden path to where a young man in the most recently updated police uniform stood by the tape that surrounded the outside of the tall yew hedge protecting the church entrance.
“You can’t come in here,” he barked. “No tourists.”
“We’re not tourists,” Lillie retorted. She paused. “Well, I s’pose we are, technically.”
Berdie straightened. “We’re friends of the Cavendish family. Can you tell us, are they all right?”
“They’re up at the big house, but no visitors allowed.”
“Can you tell us what’s happened?” Berdie felt an unexpected nudge as a young woman pushed past. Her long red hair was tied back, her black trousers, and forest green fleece gave no indication of law enforcement. But, an identification badge hung round her neck. Without hesitation she dove under the tape in a single swoop.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” the constable warned.
She fingered her ID. “Wilson, Newcastle Evening News.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Duchess of Dewberry. Move back behind the tape.”
A man emerged from the church, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a single finger holding a suit coat flung over his shoulder, perspiration at the edges of his stylish hair. He spied the woman.
“Kasandra,” he greeted. “It’s OK Constable.”
“Yes, Detective Chief Inspector,” the lad acknowledged.
“Detective Chief Inspector,” Berdie noted. “This could be informative,” she whispered to Hugh and friends. They lingered at the tape.
“So, I hear someone’s dead.” The woman spared no tenderness.
“We’re still working on family notification, so none of this is official.”
“They must trust each other,” Lillie whispered.
“Not likely. I’ll put my money on something less altruistic.” Berdie had spent too many years in the journalistic world.
The inspector and reporter stood facing one another just behind the constable.
“Male, in his forties, married, two kids,” the DCI spoke as if firing off a grocery list.
The reporter nodded and scribbled notes.
The detective pushed a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and made several chomps.
“Is he local?” the reporter asked.
The man frowned. “Lives in Alnwick.” With a grand puff of his cheeks, the investigator spat out the gum onto the gravel path leading to the church doorway. “That’s supposed to stop your nicotine craving?”
The reporter smirked, but Berdie frowned.
The DCI screwed his face, pulled an opened cigarette pack from his trouser pocket, bumped it against the palm of his hand, placed a cigarette straight on his lips, and returned the rest to his pocket. With some agility, he produced a lighter, lit the tobacco, took a draw, and returned to reporting, smoke emanating from his nose and lips.
“He’s a contractor, working a refurbishing project here. He was straight out electrocuted. Had an assistant working with him, but they weren’t present at the time of the accident. A passer-by tried to revive him, it was obviously too little too late.”
“Anything suspicious?”
The fellow raised his hand, the burning stick of tobacco between his fingers, and waved it side to side. “Look at the decrepit place. Is it any surprise the electrics were dodgy? And rain’s been bucketing down. The only thing suspicious is why he took the flaming job in the first place.”
The DCI stretched his hand toward the reporter, palm up. “So then.”
Grudgingly, she fished in her trouser pocket, pulled out some notes, possibly over twenty pounds by the look of it, and shoved it in his hand.
He forced it in his trouser pocket.
Berdie scowled.
“Another man died here a few years back,” the reporter pushed.
The policeman leaned in toward her. “He was three sheets to the wind when he went and on a ladder.”
“They say there’s a ghost visits here.”
“Yeah?” He baulked. “Nothing more than mold and dry rot visits here. But, if it helps your ratings, use it. ‘There’s a ghost here.’ There, I’ve confirmed it.” He sucked on the cigarette and blew out more smoke. “That’s me done, then, Kasandra.”
>
Loren sighed. “Isn’t the man a gem amongst our civil servants?”
Lillie smiled, but Berdie was not amused.
The DCI stepped toward the tape.
Berdie couldn’t help herself. She pointed to the half-chewed gum. “Aren’t you going to pick up that wad of goo there on the pathway before someone steps on it, sir?”
“Who are you?” He took another draw.
“We’re friends of the family,” Hugh answered with a stiff note, “and my wife is simply being considerate, as we would hope everyone would be.”
The inspector snickered. “Then she can pick it up.”
Berdie narrowed her eyes. She was ready to put a flea in this ignorant beast’s ear, when Hugh’s gentle squeeze on her shoulder reminded her it was probably best to let the insult drop.
“Constable,” the detective chief inspector addressed the uniformed officer, “please clear the area. No one gawking about.” With that he ducked under the tape and strode away.
“You heard the inspector,” the constable reinforced. “Please, move on.”
Berdie looked after the departing policeman. “Well, I never.” It took all the reserve she possessed not to pursue and give him what for.
“Let it go, Berdie,” Hugh reminded. “I doubt anything you say will improve the situation or the man.”
Hugh was right. Berdie let a long sigh out and with it the bulk of her displeasure toward the DCI.
“Please folks, move on. I’ll see to the gum,” the constable urged.
“Yes, Constable, we’re going, and thank you for that,” Hugh responded. “Come along, love.” He took Berdie’s elbow.
She, Hugh, Loren, and Lillie, turned and moved down the path that lead out of the garden.
“This is despicable.” Berdie shook her head. “An officer of the law who takes money for information and doesn’t even remotely pursue any other avenue than accidental death?”
“Do you have reason to think it’s something more?” Loren asked.
“Two renovations started, years apart, and someone’s died each time. Once is understandable, but twice?”
“Two for two?” Loren raised his brows.
“You see? Something’s off. It has to be.”
All Hallows Dead (Berdie Elliott Mysteries) Page 4
