Reap the Whirlwind

by Mark Timlin

  We decided to take the Rover out for a spin and check out the gastro pub Edna had told us about.

  Which we did. And very good it was too, so replete, we headed back to yet another bottle of cold white. Not as cold as it was outside. ‘The old boy at the paper shop says it’s definitely snow tonight.’

  ‘Too cold for snow,’ said JB. ‘That’s what my mum would say.’

  Wrong.

  ‘So what now?’ she asked after a glass.

  ‘Why don’t we explore. I fancy taking a look at the old Manor House.’ Says me.

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘We don’t have to do anything. We’re on holiday. Just interested.’

  A sigh, then a smile. ‘Come on then.’ She said.

  We booted up again and as directed went past my truck to the end of the drive, then a short walk to an old fashioned lych gate, through the copse of trees and ended up in front of a high fence thick with evergreen. All we could see of the house was a black tiled roof and what seemed like a dozen chimney pots. No sign of dogs.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked JB.

  ‘Sorry.’

  She just shook her head. ‘There’s half a bottle of white wine waiting back there. And another full bottle in the fridge. Last one back is it.’

  ‘Lead on,’ I said.

  We went back the way we’d come and just as the cottage was in sight complete with bottle and a half of wine and who knew what delights to follow, we saw the character we’d scared when we arrived. He was standing by an open grave with a shovel in his hand, and at the sight of us he took off sharpish. ‘Looks like Bertram doesn’t want to make friends,’ said JB.

  ‘And us so sweet and gentle.’

  ‘Well, me anyway.’

  I didn’t argue, just grabbed her hand and made for our temporary home, when suddenly it all kicked off, and was never the same again.

  Just before we got to our door, the door to the vicarage crashed open and Edna appeared shouting. ‘Thank God you’re here. I think he’s dead.’ Jake was with her on his lead looking nonplussed as only dogs can.

  I bolted for the door. ‘Where?’ I yelled.

  ‘In the library.’

  ‘Where?’ I yelled again. I hardly knew the layout of the place.

  ‘Through that door.’ She pointed.

  I guessed where she meant and in a room piled with books I saw Douglas on his back by the fireplace, blood everywhere and a poker, covered in claret next to him. ‘Have you called an ambulance?’ I shouted.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do it Edna, and the police.’

  She vanished, I felt for a pulse, and it was there, but weak.

  ‘He’s alive,’ I yelled again. I was getting hoarse. ‘Be quick.’

  Next thing the churchyard was full of blue flashing lights as cops and ambulance arrived together. But it was too late. They knew, and the paramedics both looked grim as they carried him out, and one just shook his head at me.

  I took Edna back to the cottage, where she had the obligatory strong, sweet tea. By then CID had turned up, and a SOCO van was parked next to my truck. We left Edna to the ministrations of the Suffolk murder squad as it turned out to be. JB and I took a bottle to the bedroom. What else was there to do?

  When the cops had finished with Edna who fast resembling a wrung out rag, they turned to me.

  ‘Your name Sharman?’ said the lead. A lean beanpole who needed a haircut.

  I nodded.

  ‘Nicholas Sharman?’ The other one. A bit of a smoothy, who I bet went down well with the local housewives.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘The Nicholas Sharman?’ Haircut.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘You used to be Job?’ Him again.

  ‘Long ago and far away, or is that a song?’

  I don’t think he got it.

  ‘A little bell went ping when we put your name and address from the visitors’ book,’ said Haircut.

  ‘Little bells do have a habit of going ping when they’re rung,’ I said, thinking of the shop.

  ‘So. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m on holiday. Good food, good wine and a good time with my imorata who’s sitting over there.’

  He looked puzzled at that and JB interrupted. ‘He means his girlfriend, his bird. Or at least that was the idea until circumstances interrupted.’

  They asked me if we’d seen anything, and I told them about the bikers from the night before, and seeing Bertram by the grave before the alarm was raised, but nothing else suspicious. No fleeing murderers for example. They took notes. ‘Thank you Mr Sharman,’ said Smoothy. Next, he was going to say don’t leave town.

  ‘OK. Just one thing, don’t leave town.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Can Mrs Whitechurch stay with you tonight?’ asked Haircut. ‘Next door is still a crime scene.’

  ‘Of course,’ said JB. ‘There’s three bedrooms.’

  ‘And the dog?’

  ‘We’re animal lovers,’ I added.

  ‘Good.’

  After the cops had left allowing Edna to fetch night things, fresh clothes, and everything she needed for the morning, plus dog food and bowls for Jake, they locked up the vicarage, smothering it in police tape, leaving one poor soul outside the door in the cold all wrapped up like an Eskimo to make sure nobody nicked the building in the night.

  JB got busy with the teabags again, and I parked Edna and Jake on the sofa and asked her exactly what had happened.

  ‘I’d taken Jake out for a walk to the shop after lunch. Well, a bit later in fact. I came back and called for Douglas. When there was no answer, I went through to the library where he writes his sermons, and there he was. You know the rest.’

  ‘Did you see anybody leaving?’

  ‘No.’

  I told her that we’d seen Bertram.

  ‘You don’t think… No. He’s a gentle soul. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  The tea arrived and Edna told us that she and Douglas had planned on retirement to Cromer where her sister lived.

  ‘I must tell her. And the bishop. And friends.’

  She cried again, but not so hard. I guessed a vicar’s wife would have to have a backbone of steel to contend with all that life would throw at her, and I think I was right. When we’d drunk our tea, we left Edna by the front door with the landline to make all the calls she had to make, and we went upstairs to give her some privacy.

  When she’d finished, she came and got us and JB made a late supper though no one felt much like eating. ‘I phoned the bishop,’ said Edna. ‘He’s coming tomorrow to take a service. Then my sister. Looks like I’ll be taking early retirement. The diocese will want the vicarage for the new incumbent. Life goes on I’m afraid. Even in death.’ At that she broke down into tears again, and JB gave her a hug. I sat on the sofa like a spare part.

  ‘You know,’ said Edna, ‘You’ve had such a time of it, what with those yobs yesterday, and now this, I should give you your money back. It’s been no holiday. But the cheque book is back in the house, and I can’t get in for all that tape.’

  ‘Police tape, like promises are easy to break,’ I said back. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of taking back a penny.’ I didn’t add that I hadn’t had as much fun for ages, as I didn’t think it would go down well with the recently bereaved.

  ‘Do you think it’s going to snow tonight?’ I asked her, to change the subject.

  ‘It might. There have been warnings on the news.’

  ‘And in the shop.’

  ‘Tom likes to be a bringer of tidings, both good and bad. If it does, there’s a cupboard under the stairs with Wellington boots, all sizes. You’re welcome to use them.’

  ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’

  Around nine-thirty we got Edna and Jak
e settled in the second bedroom with cocoa for her and fresh water for him, then went downstairs, and JB took a cup of tea out to the poor copper freezing by the vicarage door, and opened one of our last bottles of wine. ‘So much for a quiet holiday,’ I said.

  ‘My fault,’ said JB. ‘We should have gone for the infinity pool alternative.’

  ‘Yes, I remember mentioning that at some point for what it was worth. Well we’re stuck here now. Might as well make the best of it.’

  We knocked back the bottle and headed upstairs to bed. JB peered out if the window and said. ‘It’s started to snow.’

  ‘At last.’

  ‘Just a shower I expect.’

  Wrong again.

  Next morning I woke to a strange light in the bedroom. JB was standing by the window looking through the curtains. ‘What’s up?’ I said.

  She turned. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she said.

  I climbed out from under the duvet and joined her. She pulled the curtain aside to expose a sea of white. I could hardly believe my eyes. Snow covered everything to a depth of at least two feet. The car was just a white hump on the drive. Completely covered. ‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘So much for too cold for snow.’

  ‘Maybe mum was wrong,’ said JB.

  ‘Mums often are.’

  We did our ablutions, got dressed and headed downstairs. The Aga had kept the temperature up, but I cleaned out the fireplace and started a fire while JB got the coffee on. There was so far no sign of Edna or Jake.

  I opened the cupboard Edna had pointed out and amongst half a dozen pairs of wellies I found a pair that fitted perfectly. When I tried the front door I had to fight a snow drift, pushing and shoving until I could get outside. The air was glacial, but the snow was pretty soft. I trudged round to the vicarage door where the police tape was looking a bit sad under the snow. Of the young copper who’d been guarding the site there was no sign.

  I went back indoors, pulled off the boots and headed for a steaming mug of coffee on the table. ‘Something tells me the bish won’t be making any services today,’ I said.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Worse still,’ she said. ‘No signal for the phones. No web on my laptop, and the land line’s dead.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I said again. ‘Apocalypse now.’

  JB nodded glumly.

  ‘There’s a phone at the shop,’ I said. ‘I’ll go see if it’s open, and if it works. It would be nice to find if the rest of the world is still there.’

  About then Edna came downstairs in her dressing gown. ‘This is awful,’ she said.

  ‘Tom was right. On top of everything else.’

  I told her about the lack of communication and my idea of going to the shop. ‘Well if anything’s open it’ll be Tom’s,’ she said. ‘It would take a bomb to get him to close. And would you take Jake. He’ll need to do his business.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘I hate to ask, but if he does anything solid please put it in a bag.’

  I looked at JB and she looked back. ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘It’s just what we do to keep the village nice,’ said Edna. No one would have guessed she’d just been widowed.

  I booted up again, and put Jake’s lead on his collar and headed out. As I left JB solemnly gave me a plastic carrier bag. I looked at Jake and he looked at me. I made no joke about being gone for a while.

  Outside it was almost total whiteout, the snow almost reaching the top of my boots. I trudged along and Jake lolloped after me. I think he was enjoying the snow. He stopped once for a wee, but nothing stronger. On the way I passed no one. Once we hit the main street there were a few tracks in the snow, and as Edna had prophesied there were lights on in the store.

  I parked Jake outside, his lead tied to a railing. The door opened and the bell rang as before, and as before Tom stood behind his counter, king of all he surveyed.

  ‘You’re brave,’ said with a smile when I was inside and the door closed behind me.

  ‘Dog needed a walk,’ I said.

  Suddenly he was serious. ‘Oh, you’ve got Jake. Terrible thing yesterday. Poor Douglas. Any news?’

  ‘Just what I was going to ask you.’

  ‘Well, no papers as you can see. Nothing’s moving according to Radio Suffolk. I’ve only opened in case anyone needs emergency rations.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to the copper who was guarding the vicarage?’

  ‘There I can help you. I stayed open late last night, being Saturday. He came in about eleven. There’d been a crash, or crashes on the bypass. He was called out. Said someone would come and replace him.’

  ‘No sign,’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, roads blocked.’

  ‘Oh well. Is your phone working?’ I nodded at the instrument on the wall.

  ‘Sorry. Dead as a dodo.’

  ‘Well, I tried.’

  ‘You did. Anything else?’

  I bought cigarettes and half a dozen bottles of wine. Emergency rations indeed. As I was leaving he left his spot and grabbed a chewy bone off one of the shelves. ‘Give this to Jake for me. He loves them.’

  Outside I did the deed, and the old dog trotted along behind me all the way home with the bone sticking out of his mouth.

  I went back to the cottage, and we passed the day warmly. I cooked lunch out of what was left of our supplies, and we all gathered together in front of the fire in the afternoon, and tried to act as normally as possible under the circumstances.

  Round about nine there was a sharp rap on the front door. ‘Are we expecting anyone,’ I asked as a rhetorical question, not expecting an answer, but got one anyway.

  ‘Could be the bishop,’ said Edna

  ‘Or the police,’ JB chipped in.

  ‘I doubt that,’ I said.

  Jake just growled, but not so’s you’d think he was picking a fight. Just adding to the conversation.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ I said. Once again, just a comment.

  With it I got up and headed to the door. I switched on the porch light and opened the door, thankfully now free of snowdrifts. Stood outside was the bloke who’d almost knocked me over at the newsagents. Fitzwilliam.

  He looked at me and I looked back, then from inside his coat he produced a long double barrelled shotgun, its stock and barrels beautifully engraved with whirls and swirls that gleamed in the porch light. Probably a Purdey I thought. Probably one of a pair. He stuck the barrels in my face and demanded. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You know very well. The icon you’ve come to value.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, quite reasonably under the circumstances. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And do you mind getting that thing out of my face.’

  ‘Get inside,’ he ordered, and I did. He followed and slammed the door behind himself. He stamped the snow off his boots, right posh green ones. Hunters I think they’re called. Funny what you think about when you’re in the probability of being chopped in half with buckshot. ‘So you’re not from Sotheby’s,’ he said, chewing the insides of his mouth, there was white foam around his lips, and it wasn’t just cheap cigars that were his drug of choice I guessed. In fact I knew, as I’d been in that state myself often.

  ‘No,’ I said as I backed into the room.

  ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘We’re here on holiday,’ I explained. ‘Destressing was the idea, but as you can see it hasn’t worked.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  I thought enquiry agent might set him off further, so I lied. ‘Something in the city,’ I said.

  ‘And her?

  He moved the gun onto JB.

  ‘I sell lingerie for…’ She mentioned her employer.

  ‘Christ,’ he sai
d. ‘That bastard Whitechurch.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ I said. ‘Especially when you killed him.’

  He ignored that. Just turned on Edna. ‘Have you hidden it?’

  ‘What?’ The poor woman was close to having a fit of hysterics.

  Through gritted teeth Fitzwilliam said, ‘A wedding bowl. Fifteenth century. Russian. Decorated with painted icons.’

  ‘Why would I hide it?’

  ‘Because I had a buyer. Russian. A fucking billionaire. He offered me two million cash. But your bloody husband insisted on having it valued and auctioned and giving the proceeds to the church. This bloody church. I told him I’d give him a percentage to do with as he wanted, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘And you killed him,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Bloody fool. I just lost it. I need that money. I owe too many bad people. Without it I’m finished. My family are finished. They couldn’t bear the shame.’

  Shame. Now there’s a word you don’t hear often these days. And that really is a shame. ‘And the icon?’ I asked.

  ‘Shut up,’ he spat. Literally. He was really foaming at the mouth now.

  Then a thought crossed my mind. I looked at the table as we’d come in on Thursday evening. Wine, flowers, a note, And the fruit in a decorated bowl. The same bowl JB had filled with salad for our supper. ‘That bowl,’ I said. ‘The fruit bowl. The salad bowl.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘The bowl with the pretty designs.’

  I think her jaw dropped. I know Fitzwilliam’s did. ‘Where is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘I put it in the dishwasher. The cycle’s just finished. I thought it would be dishwasher friendly,’ she said.

  I thought he was going to cry. ‘Get it,’ he screamed.

  JB did as he ordered. She pulled the bowl from the steaming machine, and I must say it looked pretty good to me. Anyway, it had managed to exist for five hundred years give or take without any damage, so what was some hot water and detergent going to hurt?

  He told her to put it on the draining board and looked closely. ‘All serene,’ I said.