The Vicarage Murder

by Faith Martin

  She took a slug of vodka straight from the bottle, and coughed.

  * * *

  Julie, wearing a skimpy halter top and shorts, flushed nervously as Margaret bore down on her. By her daughter’s side, Joan visibly stiffened, and a look of hate crossed her face as Margaret began to speak. Her voice was so low that nobody overheard her opening comment, but whatever it was took the colour right out of Julie’s face.

  Joan made a sudden lurching movement to one side, and for one brief second, it looked to the startled and nervous John Lerwick, who had been keeping a careful eye on them, as if she were getting ready to thump the elegant Margaret right on the nose. He saw Joan’s hand clench into a fist and then slowly uncurl again. He glanced instantly across the lawn towards Vera, wondering if she had noticed.

  Maurice returned to Monica, wondering if he should think up an excuse to return to the house and voice it, or if he should just casually leave. Which would seem the more natural?

  ‘A very nice turnout,’ he said heartily, waving a hand over the assembly, and trying to ignore the increasingly tense atmosphere that was stealing over the little party. ‘I must say, it’s really rather hot. It’s quite enervating, isn’t it? I think I might go in and change.’

  Monica smiled, thinking that only someone like Maurice would ever use the word ‘enervating.’ Not that he didn’t look washed out, poor thing, she thought with sudden guilt. Maurice, when all was said and done, was a man of advancing years.

  ‘Why don’t you do just that, then come down and find some shade? I’ll bring you something cold to drink,’ she advised gently.

  Maurice nodded, pleased with his nonchalant exit, and moved away.

  * * *

  Pauline Weeks tried the handle of the door, not really thinking it could possibly be unlocked, but it was! For a moment she felt terrified, and told herself not to be so lame. You had to take risks sometimes. Pushing open the door, she walked inside and looked around. It took her only a minute to do what she needed to, and then she was once more back at the door.

  She pushed it open and listened carefully, but heard nothing.

  * * *

  Once inside the cool of the house, Maurice walked quickly to the stairs and mounted them, pausing once to look around, thinking that he’d heard something. A door closing, perhaps? But after a moment, he decided he was probably letting nerves get the better of him.

  With his heart hammering in his chest he resumed climbing, and once outside his own door was rather disappointed to find the corridor empty. Yet again he glanced at his watch. He hoped his new friend wasn’t going to keep him waiting. You’d have thought, though, in his line of clandestine business, it would pay to be punctual.

  He fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, taking a few steps inside, then stopped abruptly. From the sofa a smallish, squat man with ginger hair was slowly standing up.

  Maurice gaped at him foolishly, then quickly shut the door behind him.

  ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ the ex-Oxford don demanded. ‘The door was locked.’

  The ginger-haired man smiled almost cheerfully. ‘Do us a favour,’ he mumbled. ‘You got the money?’

  Maurice, sweating now, walked to the bureau and extracted an envelope, heavy with notes. It represented the last of his savings. But he had no other choice. He hesitated a moment, then handed it over. His companion calmly counted it out. When he was finished, he nodded. ‘Right. Let’s get to business then.’ There was hard look about his face now that made Maurice shiver.

  He was so far removed now from the civilised dreaming spires of Oxford that it wasn’t even funny.

  * * *

  Carol-Ann sighed heavily. So far, Margaret hadn’t even noticed the earrings she was wearing, and she was beginning to get bored. Not seeing her adversary anywhere, she was left without any other option but to sharpen her claws on her stepfather instead. It was beginning to annoy her that the more she got to know him, the better she liked him, and she was determined to do something about it.

  ‘Hiya, Pop,’ Carol-Ann beamed at him. ‘I’ve had a great idea for a sermon. I’ve found a passage in the Book of Deuteronomy that actively forbids surprise tests in school. Next time you get any teachers in on a Sunday, could you tell them about it?’

  * * *

  Time passed the way all time passes at a party, filled with meaningless chitchat, the consumption of more food than necessary, and the telling of jokes that a lot of people had heard before.

  Sean watched Julie talking to her mother with narrowed, worried eyes. It was nearly three o’clock, and the afternoon sun was killing.

  Paul Waring returned at last, triumphantly carrying heavy crates of beer as if they were feather pillows, whilst at the same time miraculously clamping four bottles of wine under his armpits. A conquering hero couldn’t have been given a more enthusiastic welcome.

  Vera rescued the bottles of wine and promptly took them to the ice buckets. Noting that the ice had long since melted into tepid water, she beckoned John over and asked him if he had any ice left in his fridge. Obligingly, John trotted off to get some, just as Sean and Carol-Ann began to crowd around the beer crate.

  Monica smiled her thanks as she accepted a cold can of pale ale from Paul that she didn’t particularly want, and snatched a similar can from the hands of her offspring as she attempted to saunter casually off with it.

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ Carol-Ann sighed. ‘I am fifteen.’

  ‘Drink punch,’ Monica said flatly. Carol-Ann huffed and puffed and slouched off with a truly impressive display of bad grace. Monica smiled after her daughter’s hunched back, took a sip of the ale, and glanced back at the bodybuilder. ‘It’s not like you to advocate something as calorific as beer, is it, Paul?’ she chided teasingly.

  ‘Ah well, a little in moderation won’t hurt,’ he said half-heartedly, popping the ring pull on a can of lager. ‘Besides, I’m celebrating. I just sold one of my gyms for a huge profit. I’m thinking of diversifying into leisure shops, selling sporting gear and clothes. What do you think — a good idea? Are we still riding a high on the crest of the Olympics, or are we all going to revert to being couch potatoes any time now?’

  ‘I’m not the one you should be asking. I never was much good at sports,’ she admitted ruefully. And it was just as she was lifting the long can of light ale to her lips for a second sip that it happened.

  From the house, and making everyone jump out of their skins, came the loud, shattering sound of a small explosion.

  Paul dropped his can of lager onto the lawn, and then stooped quickly to pick it up, froth foaming over his suntanned hands and wrists as he did so. ‘What the hell was that?’

  Everyone froze. Monica, who’d heard the sound before, but never this close, had recognized the sound at once as that of a shotgun being discharged. Usually such a noise meant that somebody was shooting rabbits or pheasants in Chandler’s Spinney.

  But not this time. This time the shot had come unmistakably from inside the house itself. It was so bizarre that for a moment, Monica’s brain couldn’t seem to process the information it was getting. What on earth? In that moment of utter bewilderment, the scene around her seemed to freeze.

  Almost unaware that it was happening, everything became superimposed onto her mind’s eye.

  Paul Waring stood in front of her, his hand covered in spilt beer, gaping towards the house. Over by the punchbowl, her husband turned his startled face towards the vicarage, a look of growing fear coming into his eyes. Joan Dix and Vera Ainsley stood close together, Joan grasping Vera’s arm so hard the cook’s skin was turning white. And Sean Franklyn stood on his own, slowly lifting a glass of wine to his lips and gulping it down in one go.

  And, for some reason she couldn’t explain, a list of the people not present suddenly leapt into Monica’s mind.

  Margaret Franklyn. John Lerwick. Julie Dix. Maurice Keating. Pauline Weeks. And Carol-Ann.

  Carol-Ann! Her baby! With a wordless cry
of fear, Monica sprinted for the front door of her flat, leaving several people gaping after her like a small shoal of startled fish.

  CHAPTER 5

  Graham, seeing Monica dash for their front door, moved swiftly after her, his heart in his mouth. Gesturing to the others to stay where they were, he was still moving fast enough to be just a few seconds behind her as Monica ran into the hall, her eyes enormous.

  ‘Carol-Ann! Carol-Ann!’ she yelled frantically.

  The Nobles’ flat was very simple in design, with a central corridor. The kitchen, dining room and living room were all situated on the left, looking out across the grounds towards the rest of the village. Graham’s study, Carol-Ann’s bedroom and the bathroom all opened off from the right, and looked across the central garden, towards the other wing of the big house. The master bedroom intersected the two halves of the flat, stretching across the bottom end of the corridor.

  Monica headed straight for her daughter’s bedroom and almost collapsed in relief when she saw Carol-Ann standing there, a blouse clutched to her bra-clad chest, staring, wide-eyed, out the window. Monica could see that her big blue eyes were wide with shock and she was looking a shade pale.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Carol-Ann finally gasped. ‘It sounded like it came from right here. That was a gunshot, wasn’t it? Or am I going bonkers?’ she asked, all in one breath.

  Monica, who was clinging onto the door handle for strength (since her knees seemed to have to turned to jelly), realized she was gasping like an old steam train, and took a deep calming breath.

  ‘What? It sounded like it came from this room, do you mean?’ she asked, still a bit fuddled.

  Carol-Ann sighed elaborately. ‘Duhhhh! Not from right here, Mother,’ she rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Or else I’d have seen who fired it, wouldn’t I? I meant from here, in this house, somewhere. Heck it was loud!’

  Just then Graham appeared behind them, and with a small squeak, Carol-Ann lifted the blouse a little further across her chest.

  ‘Dad!’ she yelled.

  Graham, confounded by two shocks at once — being called ‘Dad’ for the first time ever, and catching a glimpse of his stepdaughter’s bra-clad frame — turned bright pink and hastily backed out into the hall. Monica grinned and went out, slowly closing the door behind her.

  ‘Thank G—’ she hastily stopped herself from taking the Lord’s name in vain, and said instead, ‘She’s all right! When I heard the gunshot, and she wasn’t there, I thought . . .’

  She shook her head and leaned back against the cool wall, managing a weak laugh and closing her eyes. Instantly Graham was beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘It’s OK. She’s all right. You saw for yourself, she’s in her usual sparkling form,’ he said, gently teasing.

  The warm, comforting contact and the sound of his soothing voice calmed her, and her thundering heartbeat began to quieten down to a more normal rhythm. Then her eyes snapped open, and at the same moment met Graham’s.

  ‘But she was right. That was a gunshot, wasn’t it?’ Monica asked faintly.

  Graham nodded grimly. ‘Yes. I’m no expert on firearms but I think it was a shotgun.’

  He moved to the front door and looked out at the garden party, and saw that everyone had instinctively gathered together into a little huddle in the middle of the lawn, as if they could find comfort in numbers. Seeing a shepherdless flock in need instantly galvanised Graham into action, and he walked purposefully outside, Monica not far behind him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Graham said obliquely as he reached them. ‘We just had to check on Carol-Ann.’ They all looked at him blankly, and Graham spread his hands in silent appeal.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to alarm anyone unduly, but I think that was some sort of a gunshot we heard just now. It was probably just some lads on the way back from potting some rabbits up in the wood, and they thought it would liven up the day for them to fire a shot in the grounds or something. Maybe somebody thought it would give him some kudos if he fired into the air over our heads to wake us all up a bit. You know how juvenile lads can be. But, to be on the safe side, I think it might be a good idea if everyone went back to their flats and just checked that everything’s—’

  ‘Julie!’ Joan Dix suddenly shouted, white-faced, and hurried away.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ Paul said vaguely, glancing at the beer can still held in his hand. And then he too headed back to the house. The others followed suit, and soon the garden was empty.

  Monica looked at Graham helplessly. ‘Do you really think it was just a practical joke by one of the village lads?’ she asked. But even as she asked it, she felt a deep sense of foreboding begin to stir inside her. ‘I thought most of them would be at the fair.’

  Graham looked back at her solemnly, and she remembered the tension she’d felt in the air earlier on, caused mostly, it had to be said, by Margaret. She remembered, too, the way Joan had clung to Vera, as if she had also sensed that something awful had happened. Then there was the very stillness around them. Even the birds had been momentarily silenced. No doubt about it, she felt distinctly spooked.

  ‘I say, did you hear that racket?’ It was almost inevitable that it should be the returning Maurice, with his carefully cultivated upper-class accent, who should break the silence and bring an almost farcical sense of comic relief to the moment.

  Monica turned to him and smiled as best she could. ‘Yes. Were you in your flat?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Maurice said, and smiled, showing just a fraction too many well-maintained and even teeth, indicative of someone who wore dentures. ‘Cooling off, and all that. My blood pressure’s not what it should be, or so the quacks keep telling me,’ he said with a shade-too-hearty laugh.

  He’s nervous, Monica noted, then gave a mental shrug. Well, weren’t they all?

  ‘Was anything wrong in your part of the house?’ she asked rather obscurely, and wasn’t surprised to see Maurice blink.

  ‘Wrong?’ he echoed blankly. ‘Don’t think so. Why? What sort of thing do you mean? Broken windows or someone’s television aerial crashing down? Can’t say as I saw anything amiss.’

  Monica glanced at Graham helplessly, and then shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s probably nothing.’

  John, moving as quietly and unobtrusively as usual, was almost upon them before anyone noticed him.

  ‘Was that a shot I just heard?’ he asked. Monica jumped visibly, such was the fraught state of her own nerves, and John shot her an apologetic look. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We think so,’ Graham answered his question in such a matter-of-fact tone of voice that John merely nodded. It was one of Graham’s more priceless traits that he always seemed able to bring calmness and a sense of normalcy to any situation. ‘The others are just checking their places to make sure that there’s been no upset,’ he added, with masterly understatement.

  ‘Well, my place is all right,’ John said, equally as matter-of-factly, and held up a big plastic bowl of ice. ‘I’ve just come from there.’

  Pauline came back next, looking around the small group, her face tense.

  ‘What was that awful noise? And where’s Paul?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘He’ll be back soon,’ Monica said automatically, and he was. He came loping across the lawn at that moment, looking like he could run for miles without getting out of breath. As he no doubt could.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with my place,’ he said, then was forced to give Pauline a blow-by-blow account of what he meant.

  During the next few minutes everyone slowly filtered back, Joan and Julie bringing up the rear. At the sight of the young woman alive and well, Monica felt herself relax, and it wasn’t until that moment that she realized just how tense she’d been.

  That was when she realized that Sean Franklyn still hadn’t returned.

  ‘Well, it looks as if it was just a storm in a tea—’ Vera began to say, when Sean, at last, came back, out of the door in the left wing of the house. Even before he reached t
hem, they sensed that he was bringing trouble.

  ‘I can’t find Margaret,’ Sean said flatly, as soon as he was within talking distance. ‘I’ve searched every room in the flat, the car park and gardens round back, even your garden shed, John. She’s just not here. Does anyone know where’s she’s gone? Did anyone see her?’

  Monica licked lips that had gone suddenly dry. ‘Did she say anything when she left the party, Sean?’ she asked quietly. ‘That she had an errand to run, or had to leave for a while, maybe, and would be back soon?’

  ‘No. Well, not that I know of,’ Sean replied sullenly, then flushed as everyone looked at him in some surprise. ‘I mean, she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to . . . Julie,’ his voice trailed off, and he looked as if he could kick himself.

  Naturally everyone turned to look at Julie, who in turn went white.

  ‘She didn’t say anything to me,’ Julie yelped defensively. ‘She just sort of floated off.’

  Nobody said anything to that. They’d all experienced the way that Margaret could just ‘float off,’ leaving you feeling about as uninteresting and unimportant as a gadfly.

  ‘I think it might be a good idea to check the empty flats,’ Graham said into the sudden and rather ominous silence. ‘The decorators leave them unlocked. It’s a very hot day — perhaps she’s fainted.’

  ‘But what would she be doing in one of those?’ Sean asked scornfully, then glanced uneasily around the group as nobody spoke.

  ‘All the same,’ Graham said softly. ‘Let’s just make sure she isn’t in the house. I think we’d all feel better if we searched for her. Agreed?’ He turned to Paul, who blinked then nodded.

  ‘Yeah, OK. I’ll take number 12. It’s the only one empty on my floor,’ Paul muttered.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Pauline said, adding defiantly, ‘it’s right next door to me, after all.’

  ‘There’s an empty flat next to me, too,’ Vera added quietly. ‘Number 7. Oh, and number 5 is also empty.’ She looked questioningly at John, who nodded briefly. Without a word, the two of them turned back towards the house.