“In relation to the case? No. Pretty basic way of life, if you ask me. The kitchen is modernised somewhat. He could cook in reasonable comfort, and I would guess that he had all his meals there. A new breakfast table set up. Garish in a way, considering the setting. But, no. Just the sort of place a bachelor whose whole life was centred on the outdoors would live in. All of a piece. It might help us get a feel for the man, but not likely to add much to what others have said about him. Nothing to help point to who would want him dead.” With that summary Hole had to agree.
They duly went through drawers. Hole hoped to find some paper reference to the financial partnership with Galina that had so exercised Jeremy and Marcia but, apart from a few self-explanatory and mundane bills and accounts, there was not even a private letter. Maybe they were kept in the wetlands office. They were off there next, having arranged for the two good ladies to be available. One of them might give them a lead. They needed one.
The walk back along the rutted drive to the house was accompanied by some geese flying over as though, like the Red Arrows, in homage to their late guardian.
“Know what they are, sir?”
Hole glanced up at the V-shaped flock. They had passed too quickly.
“Long necks. All I can tell you. Didn’t get the markings. Setting off on a two thousand mile spin for all I know. Not all of them will come back. Not swans. Certainly geese. Last of the migrators I fancy. I’d have a lot to learn.”
Maitland didn’t understand that last comment, and left off the subject as they got into the car and set out on the short run to the still-manned but closed to the public dreamland of the late Tewkes.
At the small office, after suitably soothing opening chatter, the Inspector began to probe the two helpers as to whether they could recall any of the visitors in the weeks before Alan’s death. It was a long shot. Both Mrs Munday and her good friend Mrs Donlevy had been helping out in the office since Alan began his development. But they were only two of the local RSPB members involved, albeit the ones who had done more than any of the others.
“That’s why Mrs Foxley asked us especially to carry on for a bit. Until, as she said, things got sorted out.”
“It’s getting a bit boring though, Mr Hole, I don’t mind saying”, chimed in Mrs Donlevy. “It was quite interesting when we used to have visitors. Quite a few in fact by the end….”
“… like when your wife used to bring the kids down, Mr Hole. They was always the nicest of days.”
“Always well behaved they were. Even when with Ms Bright in charge, but ever so good when Mrs Hole was here. Never anyone chasing the birds or making funny noises at them.”
“Nor anyone pushing anyone into the water. I’ve known that before”, concluded Mrs Munday, with a decided nod of the head.
All very well, thought Hole, but not much use to me. He pressed them again on any memorable callers.
“There was that man in the posh car. A Rolls Royce it was. White. Came here again, didn’t he Jenny, only the other day. First time he said he wanted to see Mr Tewkes, but I don’t know if he did find him. Didn’t stay very long.”
“Was quite upset to learn that Mr Alan was dead, though, when he called that second time,” added Mrs Jenny Donlevy. There was a pause as the two tried to drag out of their memories something that would help DI Hole and secure their places in the local hall of fame that was Mrs Carmichael’s. But nothing came. They did try.
“Of course, there was his sister. Never saw his brother down here, but she came. Mrs Foxley.”
“She came more than once?”
“Not sure”, was Mrs Munday’s reply. “Came once, when I was on myself. On my own. We did share and share about. About a week I’d say before the, the, event. Like.”
Hole took it that it was then that she had issued the invitation, the plea, to step in as speaker to the lunch group.
“Did she call again, do you know? Before he was killed, I mean.” Both good ladies metaphorically scratched their heads, but had to conclude that not when they had been on duty. Maybe Flossie Winterton. Or, again, Elsie Marsh might have seen her if she had come. Even, could be, Bessie Farmer, but she had only helped out occasionally when there was no one else. Sorry! Not them.
Maitland duly noted the details of the two volunteer helpers. They would have to be asked. And Mrs Farmer! What had she learned of how things were run? That might be something of a bonus. Whatever, he knew what his boss was trying to establish. Had Galina paid a second visit with financial details and arrangements on the agenda? More leg work.
Chapter Fifteen
aphne had been briefed, the Vicar was there on time, and Galina had made the unnecessary introduction. The two were now sipping the communal pre-lunch sherry, freeing her to get back to her inner circle ready to prepare the phalanx necessary to ensure that they sat together in the places they wanted. By another democratic decree of the coterie, seats were not allocated.
“The whole principle, my dear, is that we sit as we come among each other. Get to know new people. Such fun, and adds to the occasion and the value, don’t you think?” as she had said more than once to newcomers as and when vacancies arose. She and her entourage carefully planned to avoid this ruling. Their delicate subterfuge had a practical side. Galina did not want, on this occasion, to sit near to or, worse, next to Marcia. She was glad, however, that her sister-in-law was there. As were the other fruits of her recruiting expedition. On the whole it was a most satisfactory turn out. The Vicar should be pleased. Certainly, Daphne had no cause to raise an eyebrow as she gazed over the filling seats waiting for, what for once, would be a respectably-said grace. That over, there was to be another solemn moment. One which she, as Chair, couldn’t pass over to the willing Vicar. She had primed him over the Oloroso. Would he, please, be prepared to add something to her announcement. The dear man had said that he would be only too pleased to do so. After she had told him what it was about, the Reverend Henshaw knew that he did indeed have something further relevant to add. Something that was unlikely yet to be public knowledge. He was able to tell Daphne of it as they made their way to their places at top table. Arriving at her seat of state, she gave the prerequisite little throat-clear, and a due silence befell. The grace was greeted with a firmer ‘amen’ that was usual; this one was realised to be official. Then they sat. Daphne had to move fast.
“Before”, she said in her clearest voice that the local MFH would have at once recognised, “Before we settle I must ask you, for a minute, once more to stand. To stand, if you will, please, in memory of our late member Amy Warburton who died last week. Many of you will recall her well. Others, newer ones among you, may not, as it has been some time since she felt up to joining us on one of these occasions. Now, it is certain, she will no more.” For a moment Daphne feared that she might be taken as being just a teeny-weeny bit flippant. But there were no recognisable reactions. All scraped and shuffled their way to their feet for a second time, preparatory to going through one of those longest minutes that society ever requires. Within twenty-three seconds Daphne declared the minute up, and them to sit down. But again, before the chatter could get into its flood she, remaining on her feet, had to set, this time, a precedent.
“Again, ladies. Please. If you will bear with me just this one more moment. Amy’s death, which we were all so saddened to learn of, has had a – I hope I use a suitable word Vicar – had a development. Mr Henshaw… ” and she waved a gracious hand in the clergyman’s direction and sat down with an inner sigh of relief as she would again, later on, the introduction to the talk completed. On this occasion, the guest thanked her for the opportunity to intervene.
“I am grateful to you, madam chairman.” Proper address! Good man!
“I feel that I should let you know, in view of what Mrs Jackman has just said, that Amy’s husband of sixty-one years, Frank, also died, just this morning. I was there at the end. It was, I can tell you, peaceful and in the Lord. Romantics might say it was a case of a broken
heart. There is no medical evidence to the contrary as I speak. What it does mean is that Amy’s funeral which, as some of you will be aware, was to be tomorrow, has been postponed. This is to allow the deeper excavation of where she was to be laid to allow Frank to rest with her. Both together, and to join their infant daughter. This will mean a week’s delay as this, their burial wish, brings with it problems. Their daughter Rose May, their only child as no doubt some of you will have come to know, died as a baby over fifty years ago. That means that she lies in an old part of the cemetery, that part that lies near the railway embankment. Whilst this means that it is practical to allow such a deep excavation, it also means that we cannot get George Farmer’s machinery to it. The ground between the railway and the area now in use is, of course, very full of other graves. And, sadly, somewhat overgrown. Thus the Warburtons’ grave has to be dug out by hand. A time-taking business. Hence, the joint funeral will be a week tomorrow. Twelve noon in the Church. I hope I may see some of you there. They have no remaining family, so a presence at their service will be especially appreciated. I thought you ought to know. Thank you.” He sat down.
This was not the jolliest or socially happiest start to the eating and talking. Some felt that Daphne had been quite wrong to bother them with all this extraneous information. Marcia to the fore. Those who had known Amy, and had any concern, would know soon enough. They could have awaited promulgation of her husband’s demise by the usual means, rather than this intrusion on their gastronomic delights. Few had had any contact with them, so why hold the meal up? The food was good here.
That the food was good Annie Hole agreed. What was not so good was the company. Loyal wife as she was, however, she was pleased to be in earshot of Marcia Tewkes, although rather removed from Galina. Marcia was not one to hold her tongue. She was already hinting to those around her, mainly old stagers, that a proper person in the Chair would have handled things in an altogether more propitious way. Annie hoped that she would be able to get the conversation around to Alan’s talk at their last session. In this way she might hear something to provide her husband with something of interest. So she tried. It was, at first, more difficult than she had feared. Her neighbours were interested in minor local scandals and, overpoweringly, Marcia was determined to be heard. Critical of Daphne, for sure, but she also was aiming remarks, Annie was surprised to find, at Galina. Had her husband’s sister made even more of a botch of things, in Marcia’s judgement, when she had chaired the last lunch? Had Marcia been there? Annie didn’t know. So, she kept her ears tuned to the sharp frequencies of the chatelaine of Wickton while trying to pad along with the normalities of the two on each side of her. There was limit to her interest in the latest designs and the lack of social awareness among the population at large. Fortunately, no one tried to talk about schools or about education. She knew herself. She would have involved herself in such topic to the exclusion of all else, including that which Gerald wanted her to try and pick up. As it was, with years of teaching experience behind her, she could keep each ear tuned to separate zones, while continuing to speak a part in the immediate foreground. She listened with care to the veiled barbs directed at Galina’s character by her sister-in-law while herself assuming a spectator role, and took such mental notes as she could until the inevitable tap on the table, and the Chair rose once more, Galina’s note in front of her, copied out in an extra clear hand, and screened by the water jug.
“By Redemption and the Individual I do not indicate that I am about to land you with a sermon.” His pleasant voice allowed the phrase to bring a smile – of relief in a few cases – among his audience. Henshaw went on: “Sermons are generally held to be things to be received, not remembered. I ask no more than you hear my words. Whether you receive my message will be up to you. As individuals.”
His style pleased Annie Hole. She was aware, from her church attendance, that he was a good speaker to listen to. The church of St Peter and St Paul flourished, largely backed by a traditional congregation. Such as DeLacey Thornley. Not that he didn’t have his reservations about the way the institution was going. His family was one of those that had once had a private pew. Labelled with their names, true but, as Thornley had pointed out to each incumbent he had known, paid for. With good money.
“If the church needs money, then why go in for this newfangled egali-tarianism?” he would complain. Such modern practices included, in his view, every innovation since the death of Good Queen Victoria.
“Let those who can pay, pay. Makes no difference to how anybody else sings or prays.” He got nowhere with this argument, but still did his weekly duty and attended, sitting in the pew that he claimed had been that of the family. His premise had never been challenged. Nor had his place on the PCC. He was not all committee. He helped out here and there about the church itself and its grounds. No one else seemed to keep an eye on how things were kept in shape!
Robert Henshaw talked on with a light touch and a few good jokes. He was being a success. As Annie had said to Bessie Farmer after last Sunday’s service:
“He is clear, well modulated, not artificially accented, and, as a public speaker, a good example to the young. Just a pity more don’t come to hear him.”
Such inner musings led her to miss out on a central piece of the argument which, so far as she could grasp, was to do with the role of each soul in the world to find a path to meaningful existence. She came back in to full focus as the talk drew to its close, picking up on the last of what had, it seemed, been a series of inspiring examples.
“So”, said the speaker, “even here, in our own small community, no one, certainly not myself, would expect Den Bracegirt to come to communion – and certainly not to confession should I institute such a thing”. There was suitable laughter. “Yet when I faced the problem this morning of knowing that an extra difficult, hard physical job had to be done, and that I could not expect George Farmer to do it all alone by hand, I asked Den to help and got, at once, a full-hearted and positive response. No, it is not for what little I can pay! That I am sure of. Den sees the job of lifting out that baby’s coffin and then digging deep enough so that she can be returned to her final reunion with her parents as his way of contributing to the worship of this parish. That is how I see it. Not through dewy eyes but as a true example of an individual working out his own pathway to the awareness of God’s greater kingdom and, hence, the purpose behind his life.”
Though the subject had been a little heavy, at times a little severe for some, the general tenor and the manner of presentation brought a genuine round of applause that was nicely taken up by the chosen proposer of the vote of thanks. All in all, Galina had cause to be pleased as well as relieved with her choice. She felt a rush of thanks to Henshaw. Maybe she could do him (and herself through a form of redemption? For any unfair act to her brother? She inwardly smiled at that) a service. She collared him before he left, after he had been let go by the gushing throng.
“Thank you so much, yet again, Robert. Very well done and, I can tell you from long experience of these gatherings, well received. You got through to quite a few, I feel sure. Certainly through to me.”
“That’s nice to hear. I do hope so. It was less daunting than I feared.”
“I was sorry to learn of Frank Warburton. No family left at all you say?”
“Not so far as I know. I got it from Frank himself when I went to see him about his wife’s funeral. It has rarely been more true that in the midst of life we are in death. He was an old man, of course, but only last week seemed to be in robust health.”
“Ah me! Well! It’s not likely to be a large funeral congregation, despite your plea for support. A poor little affair, maybe. Can I, may I, decorate the church for them? Some flowers? Not too much. I will meet all the costs and, if you will allow, I can gather some greenery from the churchyard. It might help to make something of such a sad occasion. Just so long as you tell no one, absolutely no one, as though I was in that confessional of yours! that I have
had anything to do with it. I shall do all I can to decorate without being seen. Of course, if I am stumbled across while putting up the displays then so be it, but I would prefer to be anonymous on this occasion if it is at all possible.”
“A touching and fine sentiment. I know your skill in this work. I am sure it will be much appreciated. Some from the village will come, I’m sure. The Warburtons have been here all their lives. But they have outlived the friends of their youth so, yes, it will in all probability be a sparse gathering. Some flowers, and I am quite happy to leave the choice entirely to your taste and discretion, would be a pleasing touch. A very kind thought. Help yourself to any greenery you want. The church is normally open during the day as you know, but if you do need the key at any time just ask.”
With that the lunch club meeting finally came to its end.
Chapter Sixteen
he churchwarden panted up to the vicarage as fast as his gammy leg would allow his good one to drive him. He hoped the vicar was let him be in! He must be in! He was.
“There’s been an accident, Vicar. Down in the churchyard. In the cemetery. It looks bad but I can’t get down to see what’s happened. Please come. Now.”
“Down? Get down where?” The vicar, being a man experienced in meeting human crises was already getting his coat. It was a chilly morn. “Down where exactly?”
“Down the grave. The Warburtons’. That one. The one they’re digging out. It’s that Bracegirt man. Lying at the bottom. I think he’s fallen. And, I fear, hurt himself. He didn’t answer me and I didn’t see him move.”
The two men made as good a pace as the tiring warden could manage.
“Isn’t George Farmer there?”
“No. I didn’t see anyone. Thought I heard someone. On the embankment. But no. Not a soul.”
Henshaw pushed on a little faster, leaving his companion to catch up as best he could. He got to the grave side, skirted the surprising, to him, amount of earth that had been excavated, offered a silent prayer of thanks that the baby’s remnants had been removed and covered well away from the site, and looked down. The wooden steps that Den and George were using to get into the bottom were still in place. Had he fallen from them? They were basic. The warden could never manage them with his leg. Carefully the minister eased his way down into the pit, well aware that each rung was coated in mud, and came to the recumbent figure. His experience of human tragedy came to the fore again. He had no doubt that Den Bracegirt was dead. Neck broken, no doubt, by his fall.
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