by Hazel Holt
Freddy dined yesterday and we sat on the terrace looking out over the Baie des Anges at the lights of the boats on the water, perfectly idyllic. He goes back to England tomorrow and I will miss his conversation. I was somewhat disconcerted, though, when he consulted me about his religious doubts, a subject on which I can scarcely consider myself an expert. He appears to be considering an approach to Rome, and I was reminded of hours spent with Hugh Benson listening to many of the arguments – as tedious now as they were then. However, mellowed by an excellent dinner (did I tell you that I have a new cook? an Algerian, whose way with lamb is utter genius) I listened with exemplary patience and even gave him some excellent advice, which he will doubtless not take. I see Freddy as the chaplain of a Cambridge college, where his eccentricities and extravagances will be considered refreshing and where he will be cherished as part of an imperishable tradition. Actually, he has been offered a church just off Pont Street, which might be equally suitable and quite agreeable, if he doesn’t mind drinking interminable cups of Earl Grey with doting old ladies. Indeed, it might be the very thing to provide a cloak, as it were, for his less conventional activities. The law is an ass, as we all know, but if one is circumspect there is no reason one should not have an enjoyable life, even in England.
That seemed to be all. I couldn’t find any other references. In a kind of daze I pushed the letters back into their folders and went into the kitchen. I stood for a moment with my hands resting on the worktop, not really knowing what I was doing. I was used to the occasional mention of Father Freddy in the biographies of his contemporaries, after all he had known many famous people in his long life. But there had never been any hint of a real scandal. He was an old man now and all this had happened a long time ago. I had no way of telling how such revelations would affect him. Except – I had the knowledge of my own reaction, which was one of revulsion. The priest and the glamorous acolyte, stuff of a short story or a more sensational newspaper report, as a fiction perfectly acceptable – but in reality, somehow not. Especially with the squalid overtones of blackmail. I didn’t feel that I could ever look at Freddy Drummond in quite the same light again and I had no doubt that most of his friends and parishioners would feel the same. Could he bear, could he, indeed, afford to let Adrian Palgrave make public events which he must have expected to be buried long since?
Foss was weaving round my ankles, butting his head against my leg.
Automatically, I reached into the fridge, got out a dish, and began to cut up some raw liver. Looking down at the red smears on my hand I suddenly smelt again Adrian’s blood and remembered the red congealed to black. I dropped the scissors I was using, went over to the sink and held my hands under the tap for a long time, as if I could also wash away the memory of that horrible discovery.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t go to St James, which is the parish church of Taviscombe. The vicar is a very nice man, but his ways are not mine. Series 3 and the New English Bible were bad enough and singing familiar hymns to new, banal tunes, but what with the Kiddies’ Services and guitars instead of the organ and soul music instead of the Psalms, I felt that I would be happier elsewhere. So now, like many of my generation brought up to two services every Sunday, I am no longer a regular communicant, as they say. When I do go to church I drive over to Bracken, our nearest village, where Canon Hobbes still ministers to his little flock with the help of the King James’ Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. Perhaps it is wrong to want great literature as well as great spiritual teaching, but what religious faith I have is somehow inextricably bound up with the beauty of the language in which it is expressed.
St Mary’s is a fine old church, built in the thirteenth century and mercifully free from Victorian restoration. As I ran my hand along the old, carved wood of the pew and looked up at the cold, pale stone I felt, as I always do, that I had somehow come home. The congregation was small and I experienced my usual pang of guilt at not coming every Sunday. On this occasion the numbers were swelled by a few holiday-makers, habitual church-goers, perhaps, or casual visitors lured in by the beauty and antiquity of the building. It was a brilliantly sunny day and light streamed in through the stained glass of the windows, making red and blue stains on the white lilies by the font. In the pew in front of me Mrs Mortimer, the churchwarden’s wife, turned sharply to the east and crossed herself as she declared her affirmation of the Holy Catholic Church; one of the holiday-makers (a sandy-haired young man in jeans and a yellow short-sleeved shirt sitting across the aisle) embarked on a solitary ‘for thine is the kingdom’ in the second repetition of the Lord’s Prayer, blushed, and fell silent; behind me, Mrs Latham in a bold contralto was declaring that ‘who sweeps a room as for Thy laws makes that and th’action fine’.
I was still thinking of Herbert’s splendid hymn as I sat only half listening to Canon Hobbes’ sermon (‘If we consider the words of the prophet Ezekiel in the context of our lives today...’). Certainly the ladies of St Mary’s had swept and garnished their church, a very practical form of devotion, easier to give, perhaps, than a purely spiritual commitment, something I understood very well, since my sympathies will always lie with Martha rather than Mary. I looked about me. The flowers were beautifully arranged, paeans of praise to a glorious summer, and the brasses shone like gold as the sun glinted on them. The hymn was still in my head:
‘The man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye,
Or if he pleaseth through it pass
And then the Heavens espy.’
The gleam of the sun on the brasses. Things began to connect in my mind.
The brasses in St Decumen’s, cleaned by an unknown hand, according to Mrs Darby. The candlesticks on the altar – two pairs, one large and unwieldy, but one pair smaller – one of those candlesticks might possibly have killed a man, been cleaned and put back again in a place where no one would ever think of looking for a murder weapon.
The congregation had risen and was singing again:
‘Brief life is here our portion;
Brief sorrow, short-lived care.’
As I left the church I replied mechanically to Canon Hobbes’ salutation and sidestepped Mrs Mortimer, who showed signs of wanting to engage me in conversation. I got quickly into my car and drove home, turning over in my mind the thought that had come to me and its possible implications. St Decumen’s was kept open during the day, anyone could have slipped in and taken the candlestick. If it was taken after Father Freddy had said his office for the day and replaced before the next morning, then no one would notice it was missing. Especially (it suddenly occurred to me) if both the smaller candlesticks were removed so that there was no obvious imbalance on the altar to strike the casual visitor.
I was eager to put my theory to Roger, but irrationally I felt I couldn’t ring the police station on a Sunday, so I spent a restless day unable to settle to anything. First thing the next morning I telephoned and, to my relief, I was connected with Roger straight away.
‘Roger? It’s Sheila, I’ve had a thought. It might be absolutely ridiculous, but I thought I’d better tell you.’
‘Sounds intriguing. What is it?’
‘It’s about the weapon. Do you think it might be a good idea to test the candlesticks on the altar at St Decumen’s?’
‘What?’
I explained about Mrs Darby and the unknown cleaner.
‘It may have been some busybody in the village,’ I said, ‘but somehow I can’t see anyone daring to offend Mrs Darby like that. And it would be, more or less, the one place no one would think of looking for a murder weapon, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, yes.’
There was a pause then Roger said suddenly, ‘Why not! We’ve nothing to lose and we’ve drawn a blank everywhere else.’
There was another silence, then he continued, ‘Sheila, is there any other reason why you thought of this?’
I was silent in my turn and Roger said urgently, ‘Sheila, I know you hate to feel
that you’re informing on people you know, but this is a very serious matter.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know.’
‘So if you’ve any idea, any idea at all, you really must tell me. I hope you know me well enough by now to be sure that I’ll be discreet about the source of my information.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s not that, really. It’s just that what I’ve been thinking is so – oh, I don’t know – so unbelievable!’
‘So there is something else?’
‘Sort of.’
And I told him what I had discovered in the Meredith papers.
‘Freddy Drummond!’ he exclaimed.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘You see what I mean about unbelievable.’
‘But he’s an old man!’
‘But tall, and heavily built. And strong,’ I added, remembering how easily he had moved the heavy pot in the church.
‘Ye-es.’ Roger was obviously having the same difficulty as I had in coming to terms with my theory.
‘I think he could have done it,’ I said. ‘If you think about it, Adrian would be totally relaxed in his company, no problem there about sitting down with his back to his assailant! If you can’t trust a clergyman!’
‘True,’ Roger agreed. ‘Drummond could have asked Palgrave to meet him before the concert to talk about the papers. They both knew Kinsford well, so that they’d have known that they could talk privately in the old dairy – though why they couldn’t have discussed it at the rectory or at Palgrave’s...’
‘They probably had,’ I broke in. ‘I imagine that Adrian had told Father Freddy about the letters (there may have been others among those that were burnt) and said that he was going to use them in the biography. I bet he was quite firm about that. No amount of pleading would have made Adrian change his mind if he thought it would spice up the biography and increase sales. Can’t you just see all those juicy extracts, pre-publication, in the Sunday Times!’
‘So this would have been a final attempt to make Palgrave change his mind?’ Roger said.
‘Yes.’
‘And Drummond took along a heavy candlestick as a weapon, just in case he couldn’t reason with him?’
‘Oh dear, when you put it like that it does sound unlikely.’
‘I’m not so sure. It all depends on how strongly Drummond felt about being exposed like that.’
‘It was a pretty nasty episode,’ I said slowly, ‘and if it was going to be sensationalized
‘Well, leave that to one side,’ Roger said. ‘What about Enid? Surely you can’t think Drummond would deliberately try to burn her to death?’
‘No, I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ I said quickly. ‘But, you see, I don’t expect he knew she was there. I’m sure he thought she was still staying with Geraldine. He just wanted to destroy the papers.’
‘Possibly. Did you see him coming in to the concert?’
‘Yes. Yes; I said. ‘He came in quite late, almost as it was about to start.’
I remembered the tall figure flinging off his cloak with a grand gesture.
‘Goodness, yes,’ I cried. ‘He was wearing a cloak over his cassock – you know, the one with the lion’s head clasp. He could easily have concealed one of the candlesticks under that when he met Adrian.’
There was another pause and then Roger said, ‘Have you seen him since the murder?’
‘Yes, that day in the church, when Mrs Darby told me about the brasses.’
‘Was he there when she told you?’
‘No, he’d left by then, to talk to the Bishop.’
‘Good. How did he seem?’
‘Just as usual, really. But, you know, I do feel sometimes that he doesn’t really inhabit our world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hard to explain. I suppose it’s just that he’s so very much not of this day and age. Well, you’ve met him, you must know what I mean. I think he doesn’t really relate to everyday life. And he seems curiously devoid of any real feeling. He’s kind and sympathetic, of course, if people come to him with their troubles, I’m sure, but I always get the impression that he’s never been actually touched by any emotion himself.’
‘If that’s the case, why would he bother to kill Palgrave for threatening to reveal a scandal of so long ago?’
‘Vanity, perhaps? An old man’s final sin. He’s very proud of being a local character and a famous figure. I think if everyone down here shunned him – and they probably would – he’d be quite lost. It sounds a bit odd, I know, but I think he’s finally found a place for himself down here and I honestly think it would kill him to lose it.’
‘You may be right,’ Roger said. ‘Okay, then, I’ll get those candlesticks checked. Obviously, don’t tell anyone what you’ve just told me. Oh, and hang on to those Meredith papers. I’d like to have a look at the relevant passages.’
When I had put the phone down I went into my study, put the package tied up with pink tape into the top drawer of my desk, locked it, and (feeling rather melodramatic) hid the key in a vase on the mantelpiece. Then I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. There was nothing anyone could do now until Roger had the results of the tests on the candlesticks.
‘Edward’s given me the day off on Friday,’ Michael said that evening as he crawled over the floor of the sitting room in search of an errant piece of feather that he was using to tie a fishing fly.
‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, Ma, really! It’s Dunster Show!’
‘Good Heavens,’ I exclaimed. ‘Has it come round already?’
‘Surely you’re going?’
Michael moistened his forefinger and manipulated the feather into position.
‘Oh, I don’t know, darling,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been since I went with your father, the year before he died.’
‘Well, I do think you ought to come this year. Go on, you’ll enjoy it, it’ll be fun. Anyway, we ought to have some sort of celebration.’
Michael had passed his Law Society Finals with flying colours, thank goodness, and a feeling of mild euphoria now hung over the household.
‘I think I deserve a bit of a knees-up.’
‘Well, I might,’ I replied, ‘if the weather forecast’s OK. Do you remember that terrible year when it absolutely poured and all the cars sank in the mud and had to be dragged out with tractors? Old Jim Teal must have made a fortune.’
But the day of the Show dawned bright and dry, though there was quite a nippy wind.
‘I’ll put up a few sandwiches,’ I said to Michael at breakfast. ‘You know how awful it is trying to get anything to eat in the Refreshment Tent, dreadful queues! What would you like, cheese or ham?’
‘Both, please,’ Michael was deep in the local paper. ‘Good Heavens! The drama society’s going to do Adrian Palgrave’s play Sea-change:
‘Good God!’
‘Your friend Geraldine’s producing it.’ Michael found the relevant paragraph. ‘She says here that it’s to be “in the nature of a tribute to a distinguished local author”.’
‘It’ll be absolutely dire!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s a very pretentious play, all about Caliban and Ariel left behind on the island after the end of The Tempest. A lot of confused stuff about Good and Evil and higher and lower selves.’
‘Crumbs.’
‘Plus,’ I added with relish, ‘lots of overtones and undercurrents about Freed Nations after Colonial Rule.’
‘Sounds like a real dog’s breakfast!’
‘It is.’ I said. ‘They did it on the Third Programme, and even with a marvellous cast it was quite awful. What Geraldine will make of it, I can’t imagine.’
‘Well, you needn’t see it,’ Michael said reasonably.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said, as I cut up bits of ham to fit the bread. ‘My conscience will force me to go. I must just be careful not to go with Will Maxwell, else I shall certainly disgrace myself by laughing.’
‘How is Will?’ Michael asked. ‘Have yo
u seen him lately?’
‘No.’ I concentrated on fitting some little cakes carefully into a plastic box. ‘He asked me to dinner last week, but I was busy.’
This was not strictly true. But ever since I had thought of Will as a possible murderer, I hadn’t really felt able to face him. I was quite sure he couldn’t have killed Enid in that horrible way. But, unlike Freddy Drummond, he had no other reason for wanting to burn down the Old Schoolhouse. Perhaps, I thought, the two deaths weren’t connected at all. Perhaps someone (Will?) had murdered Adrian, and then someone else (Freddy Drummond)) had started the fire to destroy the papers. I was now thoroughly confused and uncertain and it seemed better to avoid everyone connected with the case for the time being. I should have realized, from past experience, that Dunster Show was not the best place to do this.
Chapter Fourteen
