Muriel’s usually tidy hair had been scraped back haphazardly. Stray tendrils crept out from beneath the brim of her respectable but uninspiring hat. It was the sort of headwear of which Edwina could not entirely approve. While she understood that a vicar’s wife, especially one in a small village like Walmsley Parva, must comport herself with dignity and clothe herself in a manner that was beyond reproach, Edwina harbored the belief that even the most upright of women might show a little flair in the millinery department. Muriel did not seem to share her convictions.
Her oatmeal-colored day dress was neither flattering nor reproachable. It served the sole purpose of ensuring that it could be said that the vicar’s wife was clothed. She had pinned a brooch made of carved ivory and silver to her bosom upside down. It was not like Muriel to look anything but serviceable and efficient. In fact, Edwina could not think of a time in which she had ever seen the unflappable paragon of village virtue looking anything but uncompromisingly tidy.
In addition to her appearance, Muriel had forgotten to bring along a typewritten copy of the meeting’s agenda and had allowed the previous week’s meeting minutes to be approved without squabbling incessantly over the minutest of details, as was her usual habit. Without a doubt, something was on Muriel’s mind. As a friend, Edwina was concerned. As a newly minted private enquiry agent, she was intrigued.
She felt her hand itch for the tiny notebook and pencil that she had come to keep in the pocket of her summer frock. She found that making detailed notes of her conversations with clients and those people she interviewed on their behalf helped her to keep her thoughts in good order. While she had not reached the point that she felt her memory had entirely abandoned her and gone off on holiday to some fleshpot resort along the Riviera, she had noticed it tended to wander off of its own accord now and again.
However, many of the people with whom she spoke did not feel comfortable having their every word jotted down for posterity. After the first case she and Beryl had undertaken as professionals, Edwina had learned to commit conversations to paper just after they had concluded rather than taking notes during the event. While she doubted from the looks of Muriel that she would much notice anything that was happening, Edwina decided not to risk putting her off. For now, her trusty notebook would remain secreted away in her pocket.
“I don’t suppose you have time to come back to the Beeches for a cup of tea and a wander through my garden?” Edwina asked.
She knew that Muriel was also a gardening enthusiast, and it was one of the many points of interest she and Muriel shared. As a vicar’s wife, Muriel could not be expected to engage a gardener, and for the most part, Edwina did not consider Simpkins to be a great deal of help. She found she and Muriel had much to convey to each other on the subject of staking delphiniums and turning compost piles. It should be an easy enough thing to tempt her to the Beeches for a stroll around to see what was in bloom.
“As much as I wish I had time, I daren’t leave Wilfred alone for long,” Muriel said. “Although I do confess I have been hankering to see how those phlox cuttings I gave you last autumn have settled in.”
Edwina’s thoughts bounced between a desire to enquire after the vicar’s surprising level of neediness and her desire to boast about the success of the transplanted phlox cuttings. The parent plants from which they had been cut had suffered greatly from powdery mildew, a condition Edwina felt showed a lack of vigilance on the part of the gardener. She prided herself on the fact that such a loathsome and telling disease dared not rear its ugly head in any of the garden beds at the Beeches.
In the end, she reminded herself that her duties to her client superseded any petty feelings on her part. Although Muriel was inclined to think her husband incapable of functioning without her direction in every facet of his life, she felt it behooved her to at least make a polite enquiry after his troubles.
“I do hope the vicar has not fallen ill,” Edwina said.
“No, not ill exactly,” Muriel said slowly. She stopped straightening the chairs around the table in the middle of the village hall and gave Edwina her undivided attention. “It’s just that he’s terribly upset by what has happened to poor Frank Prentice.”
“Surely Frank’s arrest has very little to do with the vicar,” Edwina said. She could not imagine why he would be more upset about Frank than he was about Hector Lomax’s murder.
“That’s exactly what I said when he wouldn’t stop nattering on about it this morning,” Muriel said, nodding vigorously. Two more stray tendrils of grey hair slipped out of their pins and fell across her high forehead. “But he said he cannot help but blame himself in the matter.”
“Did he say why?” Edwina asked.
“Wilfred believes that if he had not dismissed Frank from his position as sexton, none of this would’ve happened,” Muriel said.
“But surely the vicar can’t believe that Frank Prentice would kill someone over a perceived slight,” Edwina said. “And even if he did, why would the vicar hold himself accountable for the deeds of another?”
“Wilfred feels that he’s been rather an old fool,” Muriel said. “He dismissed Frank because he was unreliable. Of course you know the man drinks like a fish.”
A look passed between the two women that said more than words ever could. Many men had spent too much time with the bottle prior to the outbreak of the war. Edwina was sorry to say that upon returning home, even more men had joined the ranks of those determinedly dissolute.
She did not blame them for seeking solace where they could find it after all that they had suffered. But she did think it a shame that their loved ones were forced to endure suffering of their own on account of the men’s preferred form of oblivion.
“I had understood from what was said round the village that the vicar dismissed Frank after a pattern of dereliction of duty had developed. I had thought that Hector’s complaint was simply the final straw.” Edwina felt her hand creeping towards her pocket. She forced herself to smooth the skirt of her summer white frock instead.
“That is accurate, at least up to a point,” Muriel said. “Perhaps I should not speak ill of the dead.”
“I should think, as practically a member of the clergy, you would feel it your duty to prioritize the needs of the living and possibly the wrongly accused,” Edwina said. Sometimes Muriel could use a little coaxing.
“I see just what you mean. Frank is the one who requires advocacy at this point. I’m sure that Constable Gibbs is doing all that she can on Hector’s behalf,” Muriel said.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Edwina said. “Now you are saying?”
Muriel cleared her throat and looked about the village hall conspiratorially. “Wilfred had reason to believe that Hector’s complaints about Frank were not entirely based on his disappointment with the services Frank rendered.”
“What else could it have been about?” Edwina asked. She was surprised to consider there had been any other motivation for Hector’s desire to see Frank relieved of his duties. Did he bear the man a personal grudge?
“Only hours before Hector’s body was found, he had approached Wilfred about taking over the job of church sexton himself,” Muriel said.
“What did the vicar say?” Edwina said.
“He agreed to hire him. After all, a church cannot go without a sexton for long, and he had not yet found someone to replace Frank,” Muriel said.
“Did Frank find out about Hector being given his previous post?” Edwina asked.
Muriel nodded slowly, setting her soft second chin awobble. “Hector approached Wilfred in the church early in the afternoon of the day that he died. He asked Wilfred if he had filled the empty position, and when my husband said that he had not, Hector suggested himself for the role.”
“But how did Frank find out about that?” Edwina asked.
“As soon as Wilfred agreed to give Hector a trial run at the job, Frank sat bolt upright in one of the pews only a few feet from where they stood chatting. App
arently, he had been taking a nap stretched out on one of them, and neither of the other two men was aware of his presence,” Muriel said.
Edwina wasn’t sure exactly what the world had come to when people could be emboldened to use the church as a place to sleep off too much drink. But the sad truth remained that over the past few years churches had lost much of their utility for their supposed purpose.
Despite the fact that churches had played a central part in village life for centuries, the Great War had changed all that. With so many young men having joined up and having died for their country, there had been far fewer weddings for the church to perform. Without weddings, there had been a sharp decline in the number of births and thus the need for christenings. As a final blow to the value the church establishment provided to the community, the decision by those in charge to refrain from recovering bodies and returning them to British soil for burial had eliminated the need for funeral services.
It was no wonder that appeals for funds to support the church roof repair had fallen on such deaf ears. From Sunday to Sunday, Edwina found herself saddened by the small number of fellow villagers who felt the need to attend services on a regular basis. It was a small step from a lack of regard for services to a repurposing of the pews as a space not for spiritual solace but for sleep.
“Did Frank confront them about it?” Edwina asked. She shuddered to think of a confrontation taking place within the sanctity of the church itself, but she supposed that anything was possible.
“Wilfred reported that Frank did not say a word. He simply sat up, scowled at Hector, then turned a look of reproof on Wilfred himself. Wilfred mentioned that Frank did raise a fist and shake it in Hector’s general direction.”
“I do hope the vicar will not continue to blame himself for what has happened. The duties of a village vicar are onerous enough without adding to them by self-recriminations,” Edwina said. “Please send him my best, won’t you?”
“I’m sure he will be glad of your support, but he would not approve of me gossiping about his worries with his parishioners. I hope that you will refrain from mentioning it to him,” Muriel said, a deep groove appearing between her eyebrows.
“My lips are sealed. In my capacity as a private enquiry agent, I have learned to be entirely discreet,” Edwina said. “When you find the time, I do hope you will come by to see the gardens. Perhaps I can persuade you with the offer of some softwood cuttings Simpkins has taken from a rather fine quince specimen.”
Muriel nodded absentmindedly, her eyes darting towards the door. If the offer of a prized flowering quince did not ignite her interest, Edwina was certain the vicar was truly in a bad way. Muriel had been hounding her for a piece of her magnificent flowering shrub for years. Edwina wished to distress her neighbor no further. She hurriedly made her good-byes and headed out the door and on into the sunshine of a warm summer’s morning.
As she headed back towards the Beeches, striding along at a rapid pace, she felt she could hardly wait to share her findings with Beryl. It was more information about the case but not good news for their client. The more she discovered, the guiltier Frank Prentice looked.
Most people would not be inclined to kill someone over a job digging graves in the local churchyard. But by all accounts, the Prentice family was in dire straits, and perhaps Frank had been pushed to the snapping point by Hector’s actions. As she made her way home, she couldn’t help but feel there was little likelihood their newest case would end in success.
Chapter 22
Beryl decided to take advantage of the fact she was still in town and to go discreetly in search of Geraldine, the telephone operator. As the telephone office was situated not far along a nearby street, Beryl found herself peering in through the plate-glass door of the small brick building in short order.
Beryl strode into the small office, and a young woman seated on a low stool spun around to face her. Some sort of a headset with a mouthpiece and earphones sat upon her head. She held a plug attached to a length of cord in her hand, as if Beryl had interrupted her in the midst of her duties. Beryl could not help but notice that despite the girl’s impeccable posture and stylish attempts at a modern cropped hairstyle, her face looked as though it had been hastily constructed by a sculptor about to clock out for the day and eager to hurry along with his mates to the local pub.
Her small eyes were set far too close together, and her irises were a blue so pale as to be almost unsettling. Her nose, overly large and bulbous, dominated her face. Thin lips perched above a receding chin. Despite the fact she was old enough to hold down a responsible position in the village, she was still unfortunately sporting a bumper crop of spots and blemishes on her skin.
A less prepossessing young woman, Beryl thought, she had never encountered in all her life. Still, she was not interested in hiring Geraldine Howarth for her beauty but rather for her practical skill set. She crossed the room and stuck out her hand.
“I do hope that I’m not bothering you, but your friend Hattie from Alma’s House of Beauty suggested that I make your acquaintance,” Beryl said. “Are you Geraldine?”
The girl’s eyes widened, which merely brought them to the size of those of a normal individual. Her appearance did not improve upon closer inspection. Beryl thought she looked unsettlingly like a sleepy lizard.
“Yes, I am.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Beryl Helliwell.”
“Everyone knows who you are. I’ve been just dying to meet you,” Geraldine said. “But why did Hattie send you to find me?”
“Your friend suggested you as just the right person to help me with a predicament I’ve gotten myself into,” Beryl said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
Geraldine let the switchboard plug fall from her fingers and clatter to the surface of the makeshift desk in front of her.
“I’d be happy to help any way that I can,” Geraldine said. “Do you need to place an overseas call? Perhaps a coded message for the king?” Geraldine lowered her voice with each word that passed her lips.
When Beryl had first arrived in Walmsley Parva, she had deliberately shared the information with the village’s biggest gossip, Prudence Rathbone, that she had on occasion done some work for His Majesty. Prudence had promptly spread the news to the rest of the population. Every now and again, Beryl found herself in the position of explaining to yet another resident of Walmsley Parva that she and the king were not working on any joint projects at the moment. Geraldine was just the latest such person.
Beryl hated to disappoint any of her adoring public, especially when it took so little to entertain them. Still, any communications she had with George were not to be conducted in the open, over a telephone line, where any member of the public might listen in.
“As ably as I’m sure you could assist me with contacting the king, I’m here for another sort of skill you possess,” Beryl said. “Hattie led me to believe that you were an expert typist.”
Geraldine nodded, with her mouth hanging open widely. “I can type, take dictation, and even do a bit of light bookkeeping,” she said. “Are you hiring someone for your enquiry agency?”
Beryl felt quite heartbroken at the look of eager anticipation on Geraldine’s face. She understood the yearning for adventure that many young people felt. Why should Geraldine be any different simply because she was a plain-looking girl from an isolated village? Beryl hated to disappoint her and did her best to play up the opportunity she had on offer.
“I do need something in connection with the enquiry agency, but we are not yet looking to add staff to our partnership,” Beryl said. “I’m sure you can be relied upon for your discretion, having been placed in a position of trust as a telephone switchboard operator, can you not?”
“I know enough not to go carrying tales, if that’s what you are asking,” Geraldine said. “Are you looking to have some letters typed?”
“I’m afraid that our business is of such a delicate nature that our clients would prefer
us not to allow anyone other than Edwina or myself to know the specific details of their difficulties. Which is what brought me to you,” Beryl said. “I had hoped you would be able to teach me to type.”
Geraldine looked Beryl up and down, as if trying to decide how best to answer. When her gaze fell upon Beryl’s large, broad hands, she tipped her head to the side and squinted.
“I certainly could try, but you understand I cannot guarantee the results,” Geraldine said. “I shouldn’t want you to get your hopes up. Not everyone finds it easy to learn.”
“I am delighted to hear you say that. My first attempts with the machine have not proven successful. Is there some sort of a trick to bashing only one key at a time?” Beryl asked.
“Having slim fingers is probably the best thing,” Geraldine said, eyeing Beryl’s hands for a second time. “A great deal of practice may be what you require.”
“Would you be willing to take on the job of trying to help me?” Beryl asked. “I can pay you for your time. Shall we say at the same rate as you earn here at the telephone office?”
Beryl was gratified to see the young woman’s eyes light up with pleasure.
“How soon were you hoping to start?” Geraldine asked.
“How about in two days’ time?” Beryl said. “I’m in the thick of a case at present and may not be able to devote myself to the lessons immediately.”
“Did you want to bring your machine here, or would you like me to meet you somewhere else?” Geraldine asked, looking around the small telephone office.
Beryl looked around, too, and decided that there was nowhere in sight that seemed an auspicious place to set up shop. Besides, anyone might wander in at any time, and Beryl was not quite sure she wanted the world to know what difficulty she had been experiencing operating such a simple machine. It was the sort of thing that might make the newspapers.
“Would it be possible for you to call on me at the Beeches? I have the typewriter already set up in a quiet room there, and we would not be in anyone’s way at that location.”
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 14