by Debbie Young
“You should always follow your instincts, Hector,” I said. I certainly did.
“I should hate to accuse a perfectly innocent man,” said Hector. “It’s highly likely that he’s not Septimus Vance at all. And supposing he is? In the eyes of the law, he’s still innocent until proven guilty.”
I set down my teacup with a thud. “Septimus Vance? Of course! That was the name of the author the publisher’s rep mentioned when he came into the shop on Thursday. Not Octavius France at all. I bet it’s him. And I bet the books he’s burning on his bonfire are Septimus Vance’s memoirs. He’ll be destroying the evidence so he can start afresh with his new identify. No wonder Tommy said the books all looked the same.”
Hector snorted. “A bonfire is all they’re good for, if you ask me. But now I’m curious. I really want to get hold of a copy before they go up in smoke, or else we’ll never know.
I spotted a snag. “But it’s not illegal to change your name and become a vicar. A tragic bereavement like that could easily have made him turn to religion for comfort, whether or not he killed her. And you just said yourself that the best thing for him to have done after his release was to slink off quietly and start a new life somewhere else.”
I couldn’t believe I was actually defending Mr Neep. Joshua would have been proud of me.
“But given how much doubt surrounded his release, I still think we need to know. Well, I want to know, anyway. And even if he’s not mad enough to set fire to anyone else in front of a crowd of people, if he is Vance, I think the diocese would want to know, too.”
Hector glanced at his watch. “It’s not yet seven o’clock, so he won’t have lit the bonfire. Let’s give the Slate Green display a miss and get back to Wendlebury, pronto, before he destroys the evidence of his books on the bonfire. One book is all I want, Sophie. Just one book.”
He scraped his chair back noisily, got to his feet and slipped quickly into his jacket. Heading towards the door, he called to me over his shoulder, “And you’re right, sometimes I really should just follow my instincts. Now, let’s go! I don’t want to wait another moment!”
I pushed my chair back, stood up and hesitated.
“What about the rest of the chocolates?”
He glanced back, holding the door open. A chilly draught blew a pile of flimsy takeaway menus off the windowsill. “Bring them with you. You know what brand they are, don’t you, sweetheart?”
I shook my head.
“Matchmakers.”
I took it as a sign.
Grabbing my coat and handbag, I dashed out after Hector, telling the waiter, who had just materialised with a handful of coins on a silver salver, to keep the change. As I bolted for the door, I heard him declare to the cashier in astonishment, “And they didn’t even have the lychees.”
34 Some Guys Have All the Luck
Most of the villagers had come on foot so as not to drink and drive, so there was a free space on the road outside the vicarage, and Hector skilfully manoeuvred his Land Rover into it. Jumping down onto the pavement, I shivered as the chill night air penetrated my silk dress, glad that I’d slipped a small bottle of Auntie May’s sloe gin into my coat pocket to share with Hector at the Slate Green fireworks display.
I’d never been to the vicarage before, but Hector knew his way round. As he led me past the prickly holly hedge and across the straggly front lawn to the side gate, rotting apples from the gnarled tree at the lawn’s centre squelched under our feet, emitting sickly alcoholic fumes. The loud hum of chatter behind the high dry stone wall made it clear that plenty of people had got there before us.
“Looks as if all’s well so far,” I whispered to Hector as we turned the corner to find about a hundred people of all ages milling round the lawn and patio, dimly lit by flaming garden flares in the flower beds. Towards the far end of the lawn, at least fifty guys were arranged in a neat circle at the feet of Joshua and Tommy’s guy. The latest arrivals were perched on the laps of the early ones. The bonfire seemed to be made almost entirely of paperback books, stacked half a dozen deep in the manner of a Cotswold dry stone wall. It had not yet been lit.
I heard Tommy’s high voice among the crowd. “Can we light the bonfire yet, vicar?” Dissenters shouted him down.
“Not yet, please, Mr Neep.”
“Shame to burn them so soon after all our hard work.”
“Let’s admire them for a bit longer.”
“Do we even have to burn them at all?”
The vicar emerged briskly from the crowd, black frock swirling about his ankles. He rubbed his hands together, looking pleased with himself. “But the conflagration is the whole point of this celebratory occasion. Although if that is your communal wish, we shall refrain a little longer from its ignition until after the pyrotechnics.”
Hector leaned in to me to speak in a low voice. “I remember thinking when I took a brief glimpse inside his book that he never used one syllable where five might do.”
The vicar, meanwhile, seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. “But first, let the games commence with competitive apple bobbing on the patio.”
A swarm of children headed to the end of the patio where a row of plastic buckets filled to the brim with water were topped with mottled windfalls from beneath the tree in the front garden. I wouldn’t have fancied clamping my teeth around any of those.
“Do you think they’re poisoned?” I whispered to Hector. I thought no-one else had heard until Billy appeared, pressing up against me and speaking in an ominously low tone.
“And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, ‘Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die’.” He ended with a snake-like hiss that sent shivers down my spine. I let out an involuntary shriek.
Billy resumed his normal voice. “Genesis Chapter 2, verses 16 and 17,” he said proudly, as if he’d just performed a party trick.
That should have made me feel less anxious, but it didn’t.
Meanwhile Tommy Crowe had found his way to the front of the queue at one bucket. “Can I have a go? I’m brilliant at apple bobbing. I could be a professional apple bobber. And I have been helping you put men on the bonfire all day.”
The vicar forced a laugh. “Guys, Thomas, guys, not men.”
“Same difference,” said Tommy, his eyes on the apples.
The vicar donned his black cloak over his frock for extra warmth. I nudged Hector and nodded at it, wondering whether I was the only one who recognised it as the Grim Reaper’s. Even without the scythe or the hood, he looked sinister. I half expected him to announce that competitive neck-biting would follow the apple bobbing.
The vicar hauled a pocket watch from beneath his cloak as the first volunteers jostled by the buckets. “The fastest performer overall shall have as their prize a packet of sparklers. No contestant shall have more than ten seconds to attempt the feat.”
A murmur of excitement swept across the patio, dominated by a cry of “Yes! Mine!” from Tommy. Like a boxing referee, the vicar roamed around as the children in turn struggled to pick out an apple with their teeth. Occasionally he patted their backs encouragingly, but when it came to Tommy’s turn, he moved in close, his cloak falling like a vampire’s might to conceal a victim from public view.
“Tommy!” I cried out in alarm. The vicar turned to stare at me accusingly before striding away into the shadows.
I realised Hector had disappeared from my side, and panicked until I saw him marching back towards me from inside the house, carrying two pale tumblers of murky liquid.
A noisy splash at another bucket heralded the surfacing of an elfin girl with red hair now sticking damply to her face, a worm-riddled apple in the mouth that smiled around it.
“Tommy’s little sister,” said Hector. There was applause from the crowd.
I accepted the tumbler he passed me and sniffed it suspiciously. “Anyw
ay, where did you disappear to?”
He raised his glass to me and took a confident swig, which reassured me. “I’ve just been inside to check the lie of the land. The party’s hardly started yet and already people are livening the punch up.”
“There’s been a punch-up? Oh no! Who’s fighting?” I wondered whether the locals were taking the guy competition too seriously.
Hector shook his head slowly as if correcting a dimwit. “No, they’re livening the punch. Up. Spiking it. Adding booze to the vicar’s teetotal brew.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. “What about the children? He can’t feed alcohol to children.”
Hector looked confident. “No chance of that. The vicar has bought in a few cases of the little fizzy pop bottles that Carol stocks. You know, the ones that look like samples from a 1960s paint card. The kids will always choose artificial rubbish with sports caps over liquid in a bowl with healthy bits of fruit in it. Nope, to the children their E-numbers, to the adults the booze. I just saw Trevor tip a whole bottle of brandy in it.”
He raised his glass and took another enthusiastic mouthful.
“Your favourite tipple?” I made a mental note to get some in at home.
He nodded. “I developed a fondness for cognac when I was hitchhiking through France.”
I suspected Celeste might have liked it too. Perhaps it had been their special drink.
I produce a little flask of May’s sloe gin from my coat pocket. “What do you think of this, then?”
He peered at the label. “Ah, lovely. May’s was always one of the best. I think she won a prize with it in the Village Show once or twice. I wouldn’t mind being the judge of that competition class. As soon as the first frosts have been, we should take a stroll across the common and make our own for next year.”
That he was assuming we’d be drinking it together next year warmed me up as much as a whole pint of sloe gin. I unscrewed the flask and savoured a sip before passing it to him. He didn’t wipe the bottle clean before putting it to his own lips. It felt like a milestone in our relationship.
35 Hot Books
Another victory cry was raised up from the patio where a small boy had just retrieved an apple. With his dripping cheeks rosy from the cold night air and chilly water, he put me in mind of a suckling pig. Or a sacrificial lamb. The vicar was patting his head in a patronising manner.
“That little lad’s currently favourite in the PTA’s book,” said Hector. “I heard them taking bets by the punch bowl. That big gap from his lost front teeth is deemed an unbeatable competitive advantage.”
As I stowed my flask away, Hector put his arm around me and steered me gently towards the bonfire. “Come on, let’s not get distracted from our mission. We must do what we came for. We must sneak one of the books the vicar’s burning to prove whether he really is Septimus Vance.”
We made our way through the still-growing crowds. When we reached the bonfire site, Hector crouched down to examine the paperbacks at its base.
“The spines are all facing inwards, as if he’s trying to hide what they are. If that’s not suspicious, then I’m Jeffrey Archer.”
I bent down beside him and tried to pull a book free, then drew back when I felt a restraining hand clamp down on my shoulder.
“Don’t do that, Sophie, you’ll make the whole lot come tumbling down.” I recognised the warm voice of our village policeman. Although my conscience was clear, the long arm of the law – well, Bob’s long arm, anyway – made me nervous. I wondered how he ever got a date.
“What, like dominoes?” I stood up and turned round to face him, trying to form an innocent smile.
“Well, who’s to say what it might do?” asked Bob. “I’m just on the lookout for issues of health and safety.”
Billy sauntered up to join us, a brimming pint mug of punch in his hand. I recognised the glass from the pub. He must have brought it with him to ensure a large serving.
“Health and Efficiency? What, the nudist magazine? Are there copies of that on the bonfire?” He moved closer, ready to have a good look till Bob held him back.
“Now, now, I don’t want any bonfires collapsing on members of the public, whether or not they’re lit, on this most dangerous night of the year.”
“I thought New Year’s Eve was more dangerous, in terms of emergency service callouts,” said Hector.
“Yes, but only because of all the alcohol that gets drunk.”
Billy shook his head. “Ah no, you’re wrong there, young Bobby. Depends where you spend it. I’ve managed to get quite badly injured spending a quiet night at home on New Year.”
“Yes,” said Bob, “because you fell down your cellar steps going to fetch your third bottle of sloe gin.”
I gripped my little flask of the stuff tightly in my pocket, as if it might leap out of its own accord and incriminate me. I suspected Bob had a handle on every villager’s vice.
“Still, there shouldn’t be any trouble like that here,” he said.
Suddenly worried whether the vicar might overhear us, I added loudly, “Because we all know the vicar’s teetotal. I’m sure no harm will come to anyone at this party.”
Bob leaned over to me conspiratorially. “I know, daft old bugger. That’s why I’m planning to slip a bottle of my home-made crab apple wine into his punchbowl as soon as I get a chance. Sweet and smooth as a nut, it is.”
Hector smirked. “Really, Bob? The rate the punch was disappearing when I was up there just now, I suggest you go and top it up before it’s all gone.” He drained his own glass and led Bob back inside, leaving me alone with Billy and his near-empty mug. I hoped Billy wouldn’t stand too close to the bonfire. With that high an alcohol content, he’d be inflammable.
I turned and ran to catch up with Hector, overtaking Bob, who had paused to move one of the flaming torches at the side of the path to a less hazardous position.
“What about getting the books?” I hissed.
“Don’t worry, Sophie, it’s all under control. This is subterfuge. It’ll distract Bob from the bonfire, then we can go back and grab one while he’s tucking into the punch and the snacks. Bob can never resist a free buffet. He’ll fill his policeman’s boots.”
Hector led the way through the back door and the kitchen to the vicarage’s large formal dining room, where a heavy oak table was laden with food and drink. At the centre was a large cut-glass punch bowl, immediately surrounded by a ring of old-fashioned snacks in cheap pressed glass dishes – crisps, twiglets, salted peanuts in various shades of beige. Expense had been spared.
Providing a pleasing contrast was a more colourful outer circle, like the petals of an exotic flower. Platters of all sizes were piled high with generous nibbles: slivers of pizza jewel-bright with peppers; hunks of cranberry-topped pork pie; traffic-light kebabs of red, yellow and green melon balls; cheeses dappled with every imaginable shade of fancy extra.
Bob chuckled at the sight. “It looks as if some of the guests didn’t quite trust the vicar’s standard of catering and sneaked in a few platters of their own.” He headed off to fill a paper plate on an investigatory circuit of the table.
“I’m too full of Chinese food to eat a thing,” I said to Hector through a mouthful of cantaloupe melon. “But I wouldn’t mind another glass of punch.”
“Go on, then,” said Hector, holding out his own empty glass for a refill. “Then let’s get back to the bonfire to nab our evidence before it goes up in smoke.”
But as we returned to the lawn, the vicar was herding everyone away from the bonfire to stand back on the patio, directing them officiously. “Health and safety, health and safety!” That didn’t sound like the cry of a murderer, unless it was a clever double bluff.
“Now, before we light the bonfire, it’s time for sparklers to get you all in the mood for the big moment,” he said. “All children under twelve, step forward.” He reached into a capacious pocket of his cloak and pulled out a handful of short packets of sparklers. As a
high-pitched cheer went up, I looked around for Tommy, expecting him to be disappointed at being excluded on grounds of age, but he was nowhere to be seen. I hoped he wasn’t downing the punch. Tommy and alcohol would not be a good combination.
“But first the prize for apple bobbing goes to Laurence Jenkins. A whole packet of sparklers to himself.”
The little boy with the big gap in his front teeth marched forward to a round of applause, receiving the paper packet from the vicar politely, before hissing loudly on his return to his mum, “You were right, they are only the short ones.” His mother shushed him with a nervous laugh.
The vicar then called the rest of the children from the village school forward, dispensing a single sparkler to each.
“How do we light them, vicar?” asked one small voice.
Mrs Broom, the headmistress, stepped forward from the crowd. “Here, children, line up behind Laurence and give me your sparklers one at a time. I’ll light each one from this garden torch. Hands behind backs till I’ve lit yours. Then take it slowly to the middle of the lawn to play with it, keeping a good arm’s length from the nearest child.” She stretched her arm out in demonstration. “Once your sparkler’s gone out, throw it carefully on to the bonfire and walk sensibly back to your parents.”
As the children fell into line, I leaned across to Hector. “Do you think we can sneak back to the bonfire while they’re playing with their sparklers? All the adults will be watching the kids for a bit.”
Hector nodded. “Yes, let’s pick our moment once they’re all running about.”
Soon it was as if there’d been an invasion of fireflies on the lawn as dozens of children darted about, pink-cheeked with the excitement of knowing the fiery thrill would be short lived. I watched them wistfully.