Unhappy Returns

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  UNHAPPY RETURNS

  Pollard & Toye Investigations

  Book Nine

  Elizabeth Lemarchand

  To Beatrix Mead

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PYRFORD

  A prosperous village on the main road skirting the western edge of the Whitehallow Hills. Attractive cottages of the local honey-coloured stone. An interesting church (St Michael), mainly fifteenth-century, but retaining a good fourteenth-century tower.

  AMBERCOMBE

  A tiny parish of a few farms and cottages in the Whitehallow Hills, a mile north-east of Pyrford, originally a manor of Tadenham Abbey (q.v.). The small twelfth-century church (St John the Baptist) was built by the monks for their tenant farmers and has several Norman features.

  From Wanderings in Whiteshire by H. R. Cawthorne, FSA

  Prologue

  The doorbell rang. Eric Lacy, Archdeacon of Marchester, grimaced, hastily signed a letter and tossed it into a wire basket on his desk. He sat reorientating his thoughts as sounds of the caller’s admittance reached him. A few moments later a cleric in early middle age with a sensible pleasant face was shown in.

  ‘Come along in, Hoyle,’ he said, getting to his feet with hand outstretched. ‘Glad to see you. Still more glad that you’re accepting the living. Come and sit down. My wife’s bringing us some tea presently.’

  The archidiaconal study was an attractive room, low-ceilinged and book-lined with windows overlooking the Cathedral Close. A blustering December afternoon was sending scats of rain against them, but inside it was warm and cosy. Robert Hoyle looked around appreciatively. Well up to Plumstead Episcopi standards, he thought. Except, of course, that Mrs Grantly wouldn’t be bringing in the tea herself…

  ‘Well,’ the Archdeacon said, when they were settled in a couple of armchairs, ‘Pyrford-with-Ambercombe won’t be exactly a bed of roses, but what living is these days? But I’m convinced you’re the right chap for the job, Hoyle. You’re country bred, with just the right sort of experience, and a good age to make the move. Forty-five, isn’t it?’

  ‘Near enough. Next week, actually.’ A slight frown furrowed Robert Hoyle’s brow. ‘I only hope you’re right, though, about my being the chap for the job, Mr Archdeacon. One knows how dicey these parish amalgamations can be. Not that I’ve heard any protests while I’ve been down there. I thought there seemed to be a sort of general resignation.’

  ‘That about sums it up,’ the Archdeacon agreed. ‘Neither parish is keen on the idea, naturally. Pyrford aren’t used to their parson having other commitments. David Massinger was doing awfully well there, and it was most unfortunate that he got an offer of higher things so soon after Barnabas Viney’s death left Ambercombe vacant. Ambercombe people feel that they’ll lose their identity, but of course it just isn’t on for a place with under a hundred inhabitants to have an incumbent of its own these days.’

  ‘Pyrford made it pretty clear that they’re afraid of having to carry the can financially,’ Robert Hoyle observed.

  ‘George Aldridge who runs the Pyrford Stores, the new senior churchwarden, got on to it at once, I suppose? Did he weigh in right away about selling some of the Ambercombe church plate to pay for the urgent repairs to the building?’

  ‘He did. I was completely noncommittal on the subject. What are your views, Mr Archdeacon?’

  ‘In this particular case I can’t see where else the money can come from. It’s going to cost a packet to put the church in order. A small community like Ambercombe can’t possibly raise it, and could never repay a loan from the diocese. We’ve tried the Historic Churches people, but they say they can only foot a relatively small part of the bill.’

  ‘Is the plate valuable?’ Robert Hoyle asked.

  Archdeacon Lacy pursed his lips and shot up his bushy eyebrows, further elongating his hatchet face.

  ‘Not outstandingly. Rather clumsy Georgian silver. Old Viney kept it in the bank — unnecessarily, I should have thought, although there have been a couple of quite serious church robberies in the diocese over the last two years. He only had the stuff out for major festivals. There’s a Victorian set for ordinary use. But I should think the Georgian plate would well cover the essential repairs, anyway.’

  Robert Hoyle asked about the prospects of getting a faculty for the sale.

  ‘Reasonably good, I’d say. Of course, there’ll be some opposition from Ambercombe people. The Gillards, for instance. Quite nice sensible people, and he’s the modern progressive type of farmer, but they’re a bit static in other ways. His family has farmed Ambercombe for centuries. You’ll have met his wife, of course: the new junior warden. And the late Barnabas Viney’s housekeeper won’t take to the idea kindly. I’m afraid you’ve got her for keeps. She’s a militant holy hen, who’s moved into a cottage in the village and is caretaking the vicarage until we can sell it. But whether any of ’em will go to the lengths of lodging an objection to the petition when it goes to the Consistory Court, I can’t say.’

  ‘The late Barnabas Viney seems to be a sort of legendary figure,’ Robert Hoyle said. ‘I can hardly take it in that he was at Ambercombe for fifty-two years. You say he had an absolute fixation about reviving monastic worship in the parish because of the church having been founded by Tadenham Abbey?’

  ‘Fixation is the word. Hence his flat refusal even to discuss his retirement. He realised, of course, that amalgamation with Pyrford would follow, so he hung on, living in monastic style and reciting the Divine Office in toto every day of his life. There was really nothing we could do. At eighty-eight he had a regular Sunday service, and there was always a celebration on Saints’ days. Parish organisation was virtually nil, but imagine the public furore if we’d seriously tried to winkle him out… Well, shall we make a start by discussing possible dates for your induction?’

  Chapter 1

  Robert Hoyle’s induction to the living of Pyrford-with-Ambercombe took place early in March. In addition to the upheaval of moving house, and making, with his wife Jean, the acquaintance of his critically interested new parishioners, he was also immediately involved in preparations for Holy Week and Easter. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that Ambercombe’s problems temporarily faded from his mind, but on the Tuesday before Easter they were abruptly brought back to it by a visit from Mrs Gillard of Ambercombe Barton. On going to answer a ring at the front door soon after breakfast, he found her on the step, a brisk, rather sharp-featured woman with a fresh complexion, wearing slacks and a car coat. She had called, she told him, for the authorisation to collect the church plate from the bank as she normally did.

  ‘Mr Viney always had it out for Christmas and Easter and the Patronal, Mr Hoyle,’ she said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice, ‘so people’ll be looking for it Sunday. As I’m going into Westbridge to do a bit of shopping, I thought you might be glad to be saved the journey.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to think of it, Mrs Gillard,’ Robert Hoyle replied, realising that he had completely forgotten the Archdeacon’s information on the subject, and narrowly missed dropping an outsize brick. ‘Come in for a moment while I write the bank manager a note. Sorry my study’s still in a mess.’

  ‘Shifting must be a terrible job,’ she commented, taking the chair he drew up for her, and looking around. ‘I only hope it won’t come my way for a long while yet. I’ve never had but two homes in my life: my Dad’s over to Thurlstoke,
and now my husband’s. But Mrs Hoyle seems pleased with the New Rectory here, from what she said to me at the welcome party.’

  ‘We both are,’ Robert said as he wrote. ‘We’re thankful that it’s small and easy to run, without being a box, like some of the modern ones. I don’t think we could have faced the Old Rectory.’

  ‘A ramshackle great place,’ Mrs Gillard agreed. ‘Mind you, Mr and Mrs Redshaw have modernised it from top to bottom, and done it up lovely. All right if money’s no object, of course, him being a famous writer.’

  Robert decided to put out a feeler. ‘Talking about doing places up,’ he said, ‘I understand there’s been a suggestion that some of Ambercombe’s church plate should be sold to raise the money for all the repairs that have got to be done. How do you feel about it, Mrs Gillard?’

  Her colour came up quickly, and she made an unconscious movement of planting her feet more firmly on the floor. ‘I’m dead against it, Mr Hoyle, and so’s my husband. He’s not much of a one for going to church, that I’ll admit, but he’s Ambercombe born and bred, and his family before him. They’ve farmed the Barton time out of mind. And we don’t think it’s right that what folk that’s dead and gone gave to the church should be sold now. Why can’t the diocese find the money, seeing what they get in from the Quota, and that we’re only a handful of people out here?’

  ‘I’m afraid that it’s the usual story of too many needs chasing too little money, you know,’ Robert said, addressing an envelope. ‘But the decision on selling the plate doesn’t rest with the parish, does it? We should have to apply for a faculty from the Consistory Court of the diocese.’

  He glanced up and met her uncompromising steady gaze.

  ‘I know about that, Mr Hoyle, being warden at Ambercombe for quite a while. And I know if you object you can write in and say so. We’re not ones to make trouble, Matt and me, and we don’t want to stir any up for you, seeing you’ve barely set foot in the place, but it’s only honest to say that if it comes to going to court, we’ll have to speak up.’

  He held out the letter that he had just written and smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you for being so frank, Mrs Gillard. I’m glad to know what you think. Of course, I’ve had no time to go into things yet.’

  They walked down the path to the rectory gate discussing the arrangements for Easter services at Ambercombe, and he sensed that she was mollified. A girl of about fifteen was sitting listlessly in the passenger seat of the estate car outside.

  ‘That’s your daughter, isn’t it?’ Robert asked. ‘I remember her at the party.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Hoyle. She’s on holiday now, of course. Rosemary, here’s the Rector.’

  Quite a pretty child, he thought, as he tried rather unsuccessfully to get her to talk to him. Rather pale and withdrawn, though. Mum a bit overwhelming, perhaps?

  ‘Looks a bit peaky, doesn’t she?’ Mrs Gillard remarked, echoing his thoughts and slamming the car door vigorously. ‘Girls always outgrow their strength at her age. Well, thank you, Mr Hoyle, and I’ll be dropping in the plate box round dinner time, if that suits.’

  The car drove off, and he went back into the house. Jean Hoyle, small and cheerful with dark curly hair and bright brown eyes, was organising the contents of her kitchen cupboards. She broke off and perched on a windowsill to be briefed by her husband on Mrs Gillard’s visit.

  ‘I suppose it’s a foregone conclusion that the PCC will vote for selling the plate,’ she said when he had finished. ‘And it doesn’t sound as though the Gillards have any other ideas about raising the money, does it?’

  ‘No. I think there’s very little doubt that the faculty would be granted. But it’s all so unfortunate. I mean, the last thing you want is a divisive brawl when two parishes have just been amalgamated. I wonder if it’s really necessary to have as much done to the building as the diocesan architect chap says in his report? I’ve got to go up to Ambercombe now to fix up Easter communions for a couple of bedridden old birds, and I think I’ll have a detailed look round on my own. Back about twelve-thirty, when Mrs Gillard’s due to drop in the plate.’

  Over the centuries Pyrford had grown in the shape of a T, the crosspiece along the main road to the west of the Whitehallow Hills, and the stem running up a small valley to Ambercombe. At the intersection was the village green, with the church on the north side and the Old Rectory on rising ground behind it. Facing the church on the opposite side of the green was the pub, the Seven Stars, and the Village Stores. The New Rectory, as it was still called locally, post-war and purpose-built, was on the main road, a short distance to the south. Robert Hoyle emerged carefully in his elderly Austin 1100, and turned right. A second right turn brought him to the Village Stores. He parked and got out to buy some stamps, but paused briefly for the pleasure of looking about him.

  In the clear sunlight of this bright March morning Pyrford looked enchanting. Colour was intensified. Against the honey-gold of the cottages, flowering trees, daffodils, climbing japonica and clustering purple aubretia made a brilliant mosaic. A green-flecked tide was rising on the wooded lower slopes of the Whitehallows. Higher still, the sun touched the outcrops of bare rock, bringing them to life in a still dead land of winter-bleached grass and rotted bracken. Over it all in the soft blue vault of the spring skylarks were singing. Round and round the War Memorial a small boy pedalled a red tricycle in total absorption.

  Robert Hoyle shook off the recurring sense of incredulity that his lot could have fallen in such a place, and plunged resolutely into the Village Stores. Early days though it was, he knew instinctively that he would never be en rapport with George Aldridge, the proprietor, and his wife. Mabel Aldridge, a pale bespectacled woman with straw-coloured hair, could never meet your eyes, and confined her conversation to a variation on the theme of your last remark. Her husband, also pale, with sharp black eyes and a small black waxed moustache, was unstoppably voluble. As senior churchwarden of the now combined parishes and a keen business man, he was never at a loss for a topic needing immediate discussion where his rector was concerned. The sight of Robert Hoyle at the post office counter brought him hurrying across from the bacon sheer.

  ‘Morning, Rector. And a proper spring morning this time. It’s a bit of luck you’ve chanced to look in. A young chap was in here yesterday about a new oil distributing company starting up in Westbridge. Sureglow’s the name, and they’re offering churches a special discount on fuel oil. Here’s their price list, if you’d care to take a look, and I’ve written what we’re paying now alongside. We’d stand to save a nice little bit from the look of it. I’ve been over to check up on the tank, and —’

  ‘It’s certainly worth looking into,’ Robert cut in. ‘Of course, we’d have to weigh up any cash saving against losing the goodwill of our present suppliers. I understand they’ve always been very satisfactory.’

  ‘You’re right there, Rector. Dead right,’ George Aldridge agreed, with the camaraderie of one keen business man talking to another. ‘That’ll be one thing more to go into after Easter.’ He shot a keen look at Robert Hoyle. ‘We shan’t be looking for a job then, and that’s a fact… Have they been on at you up there about getting the Ambercombe plate out of the bank for Easter? Plain ridiculous, I call it, seeing the size of the congregation they get.’

  ‘Mrs Gillard is kindly fetching it for me this morning,’ Robert replied, and was unable to refrain from adding that he was on his way up to Ambercombe to arrange about Easter communions for the bedridden. He hurried off, raising a hand in greeting and suppressing a grin, aware of the disapproval radiated by George Aldridge and two Pyrford housewives who had just come into the shop.

  Two minutes later he was driving up the winding road to Ambercombe, which ran through coppices bursting into leaf, and between hedges starry with celandines and primroses. It gained height steadily, and finally swung right past the well-kept farmhouse and buildings of the Barton. Fifty yards further on there was a pull-in by the church gate where he park
ed, setting off on foot to pay his parochial calls.

  Half an hour later, having made these, he returned to the church, a small sturdy building with a diminutive belfry. Before going inside he circumnavigated it, scrutinising the roof. This was in worse condition than he had realised, the crumbling stone tiles encrusted with moss and lichen, the guttering broken in several places, and ineffective-looking patching having already been carried out. A completely new roof was obviously a must. A couple of thousand quid at least at current prices, he thought. Being so off the map was bound to run up costs.

  He paused briefly by Barnabas Viney’s grave close to the south wall. A granite cross bore the inscription ‘BARNABAS VINEY 1886-1974. Rector of this Parish 1922-1974. Faithful Unto Death. Seven times a day will I praise Thee, O Lord’. The grass had been neatly clipped, and there was a bowl of primroses. Robert Hoyle wondered who had paid for the cross. The redoubtable Ethel Ridd, perhaps, who so far had declined to recognise his own existence beyond attending services held in the church.

  There was a tiny south porch, and a door of oak, black with age, set in a Norman arch with rough zigzag mouldings. It stood open, a screen of wire netting protecting the interior from birds and stray animals. Robert unhooked it and stepped into the dank chilliness, blinking to adapt his eyes to comparative dimness. There was a small fifteenth-century east window, but the others were Norman lancets, deeply splayed in the massive walls. There were damp patches on the latter, and the plaster was crumbling in several places. Catching sight of traces of powdered wood on the uneven stone floor he glanced up anxiously at the roof timbers. The diocesan architect was urging renewal of these, and of the bell supports: the two medieval bells had been silent for years. And, of course, it would be hopeless to do all this unless some proper heating could be put in, he thought, contemplating an elderly Aladdin stove.