Trick or Murder?: A Sophie Sayers Village Mystery (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Debbie Young

  She held up one of the cards to show us. “Good Lord, is that his handwriting? Hector, have you no books on graphology in that shop of yours? You really must get in that one I read about in Woman’s Wisdom magazine. From that article, I could have told you that this is the handwriting of someone who is deeply disturbed.” Shuddering, she set it back on the desk, turning it face down as if to curb its power.

  “I’m afraid Mr Vance was an impostor all right. But it seems the diocese made it too easy for him to waltz in and pose as the new vicar, what with the vicarage being provided furnished. And they never bothered disconnecting the water or electricity, in case the Bishop wanted to put anyone else up here before the new man arrived. I suspect they may even have left the Reverend Murray’s spare key under the flowerpot by the door in its usual hiding place. Why can’t people be more original with their secret key stores?”

  From the way Hector shifted uncomfortably in his seat, I guessed where he kept his key.

  “All Vance needed to do was to pitch up with his own robes, which you can easily buy from an ecclesiastical outfitter, and take his cues from the prayer book in the church. It’s like a ready-made script for fake vicars.”

  “What did he live on, I wonder, when he wouldn’t have had access to the real Mr Neep’s salary?” asked Hector. “Surely the diocese wouldn’t have started paying it yet, as he wasn’t due to join the parish for a few weeks.”

  “Produce from the vicarage vegetable garden?” said Kate. “There’s certainly no shortage of apples.”

  I suspected he’d had his fair share of beans too.

  Hector picked up an old oak money box from the floor beneath the desk and turned it over. The hinged flap underneath dropped open.

  “The church roof fund collection box. No wonder he was paying Tommy for odd jobs in coppers. Although if Vance had stolen the real Mr Neep’s identity, he probably had access to his bank account too.”

  He got up and started opening the desk drawers until he found what he was looking for: bank cards, a cheque book, driving licence, passport, all in the name of the Reverend Philip Neep. There was a sheet of paper on which Vance appeared to have been practising Mr Neep’s signature without much success.

  Hector checked the passport photo and raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Good Lord, they do look alike. I guess that explains why Septimus Vance chose Neep as his victim. He was someone he could easily pass for, especially when he was about to move to a new area where no-one would know him – except you, Kate, and the Bishop. I suspect he may have been watching Neep and planning his ghastly act for some time. I wonder how he knew about him.”

  “Perhaps he’d spotted him by chance in a wedding photograph in a magazine,” said Kate. “Vicars officiate at hundreds of weddings, and people are always sharing wedding photos in magazines, and not just the posh society ones either. He might easily have seen one in a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room, or someone else might have spotted it and shown it to him.”

  I tried to piece the chain of events together in chronological order, but had trouble getting past the awful vision of Vance’s ambush on the real Mr Neep. “It must have been a very odd experience for Mr Neep to find himself being attacked by someone so similar to himself in appearance. Talk about being your own worst enemy.”

  Hector had a literary spin to add. “It’s like something out of the old doppelganger myth, which dictates that if you ever meet your double, you die.”

  “Is that another episode from Grimm’s Fairy Tales?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “No, but Hans Christian Anderson wrote about a doppelganger in his story ‘The Shadow’. And many writers have returned to the same theme over the years. Look at Oscar Wilde and Dorian Gray, for example.”

  I’d heard of Oscar Wilde, of course, but I never knew he had a double.

  “I recall Goethe wrote about a doppelganger experience in his autobiography,” added Kate, “although his personal encounter was more positive.”

  It seemed Kate didn’t just read magazines. I was starting to feel out of my depth. There’s only so much surreptitious googling a girl can do in the middle of a conversation.

  Then an even more frightening idea occurred to me. “Kate, what do you think Vance would have done if you’d turned up sooner - or the Bishop, come to that – and, being the only one in the village who’d ever met Neep, spotted that he was an imposter? My goodness, it could have been you under the bonfire with Simon Yardley!”

  Hector tried to reassure Kate. “If the similarity was that strong, there was a good chance you wouldn’t have noticed, having met him only once. I expect you’d have been perfectly safe.”

  Kate shook her head slowly, her eyes widening in realisation. “Oh no, I’d have spotted the difference straight away. You see, there’s one small detail that Vance wouldn’t have been able to fake. The real Reverend Neep has six fingers on his right hand. I don’t think he’d really thought it through. I prefer to believe that than to assume he was going to bump off anyone who rumbled him.”

  She took the collection box from Hector and closed the flap with a loud clunk, as if to draw a line under the episode. A sad look came in to her eye. “What a tragic waste of a man’s life.”

  I wasn’t going to let that go unremarked. “But even if he didn’t murder his wife before he came here, he almost certainly attempted to murder the real Mr Neep, drugged Simon Yardley, then tried to kill him and place the blame on Billy.”

  Kate raised a hand in caution. “Innocent until proven guilty,” she said, before adding brightly, “Not that we haven’t all wanted to murder Billy now and again.”

  Then I remembered she knew nothing about the rest of Vance’s antics, so I gave her the potted version. “He’s been horrible to everyone ever since he arrived, making out that we were doing the work of the devil by celebrating Halloween. He compared Wendlebury Barrow to Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  I expected Kate to laugh at that, but she remained serious. “That was probably a coping mechanism for dealing with unresolved guilt and grief about his late wife. I think it’s called displacement.”

  “Which magazine did you glean that theory from?” asked Hector, teasingly.

  Kate suppressed a smile. “Well, I still think he’s more to be pitied than blamed.

  I had to admire her powers of forgiveness. I thought for a moment.

  “I wonder whether he prayed for his wife at the All Souls’ Day service? If he did, I hope it brought him comfort.”

  Her charitable attitude, like Joshua’s, was infectious.

  We fell silent for a moment. Then Kate set down her empty glass on the vicar’s desk and rose from her chair.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better get down to sorting this muddle out tomorrow. We must restore the vicarage to order for when the real Mr Neep joins us, but I’m not sure that will be any time soon. He might even have to retire, if he’s left with any lasting damage. Goodness knows what the Bishop will say when he hears about it all.” She clapped her hands decisively. “But don’t you worry, dears, you run along and join the party. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll stay here to make a couple of quick phone calls.”

  She patted my shoulder companionably. “Lovely to meet you, Sophie dear. I can see the family resemblance now that we’re indoors under the light. May Sayers was a dear lady and is much missed. I’m glad Hector’s found you.”

  I was starting to like this lady a lot.

  40 The Last Rocket

  Hector and I left Kate in the study and headed for the spacious drawing room, in which it seemed half the village was intent on partying into the night. People of all ages were piled on to sofas and sprawled on the rugs by the fireplace, chatting and laughing and exchanging their versions of the events of the evening. When Kate joined us a few minutes later, they all turned to wave and cheer, obviously delighted to welcome her back from her long holiday. She plunged into their midst, hugging and kissing people and shaking outstretched hands, before making
her way to the bay window which was filled with a baby grand piano. Casting aside the hymn book on the music stand, Kate made herself comfortable on the piano stool, raised her hands to play, and then paused for a moment, before reaching into her pocket.

  “Sorry, my phone just went ping. Excuse me a moment, folks.” She flipped open its case to read a message, then looked up to cast the broadest of smiles around the room.

  “Good news, my friends. Given the unfortunate indisposition of the real Mr Neep, the Bishop has persuaded the Reverend Murray to come out of retirement for a little while to fill the void. So we’ll be celebrating Advent with our dear old friend once more.”

  A roar of approval went around the room, while Kate snapped her phone case shut and slipped it back in her pocket. Perhaps there weren’t as many Jedis in the village as Ella feared.

  Hector raised his voice so I could hear him over the clamour. “I think you’ll like the Reverend Murray rather better than the Reverend Neep.”

  I smiled. “I think I will. I look forward to meeting him.”

  Only Carol, squeezed into an armchair with Billy, looked disappointed. Remembering there was also a Mrs Murray, I renewed my resolve to find Carol a more suitable partner by Christmas.

  Then Kate poised her hands dramatically over the keyboard, pausing till the room fell silent, before launching into a rollicking rendition of ‘Let’s Go Fly A Kite’ from Mary Poppins, playing from memory, and making a singsong inevitable.

  Putting his arm around my shoulders, Hector drew me back into the relative quiet of the hall.

  “Well done, Hector. Without you, Vance might have got away with it.”

  He allowed me to give him a congratulatory hug, then tightened his hold on me.

  “It’s not all down to me, you know. You’re the one who remembered what Tommy had said about Neep’s books all looking the same, otherwise that crucial evidence might have been lost for ever. And but for your observation of those lime green socks, Yardley of the Yard would have breathed his last by now. You’re the one who saved a life tonight, not me.”

  I leaned against him, suddenly exhausted.

  “What I don’t get, Hector, is why Vance brought all those copies of his book with him. I mean, if he had stolen Neep’s identity, didn’t they rather give the game away?”

  Hector shrugged. “Vanity? Delusion? Maybe he really did think he’d written a good book, and couldn’t bring himself to destroy all traces of it until he absolutely had to. Once he recognised me, even though I didn’t remember him, he must have realised he had no choice. He couldn’t have picked a less suspicious time to incinerate his books than on Bonfire Night.”

  “Yes, but with the whole village watching?”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t also stupid. Maybe he thought he was – dare I say it – fireproof?”

  I forced a grin, though all I wanted to do now was find a space to sit quietly alone – or, at least, alone with Hector. I looked up at him.

  “To be honest, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Do you think it would be terribly rude if I left the party now?”

  He released me from the hug. “No, not at all. Let me fetch our coats and I’ll walk you home.”

  I let out a little laugh. “Oh, Hector, really? It’s not like we’re in the middle of some big city. This is Wendlebury Barrow. I’ll be perfectly safe on my own, I’m sure.”

  “Tell that to Yardley of the Yard.”

  I took his point.

  Only as he was helping me on with my coat did I realise how stupid I’d been almost to have missed the opportunity for a midnight stroll alone with Hector on Fireworks Night. What could be more romantic?

  Hand in hand, we slipped quietly out of the front door unnoticed and headed up the path to the High Street where all was still. I walked as slowly as I could to make our journey last as long as possible. I hoped Hector planned to walk me all the way back to my house, rather than just as far as his shop. That way our time alone together would last twice as long. I wondered whether to invite him in for coffee if he did, and then remembered I’d run out of coffee.

  “Have you left something at the vicarage?” asked Hector, stopping in his tracks beside me.

  “No. Why?”

  “You were going so slowly I thought you were about to go back the other way.”

  I shook my head, then shivered a little. I wished I’d worn a hat and scarf. We’d been warm enough in the crowds around the bonfire, but out in the open it was chilly. I huffed a big puff of steam to check the temperature, half-expecting my breath to precipitate into a shower of snow.

  “Cold?” asked Hector, slipping his arm around my shoulders. Suddenly glowing, I put my arm around his waist. When he hugged me closer and planted a kiss on my hair, I reached my other arm across his tummy. Soon we were walking along so entwined and in step that we’d have stood a good chance of winning a three-legged race. I made a mental note to suggest one for the next Village Show.

  Too quickly, we reached Hector’s House. Hector guided us to a halt in front of the shop window. The display already looked strangely dated with its small Action Man guy on top of its cellophane bonfire. Carol had done a wonderful job on his tiny outfit, a purple velveteen suit trimmed with the lace edging salvaged from one of her mother’s old cotton handkerchiefs.

  “We’d better redo the window first thing tomorrow,” said Hector. “After tonight’s events, that looks in decidedly poor taste.”

  “I presume next up will be a Christmas display?”

  “No, first we’ll have a week of war poetry and poppies, in the run-up to Remembrance Day. Then Christmas-lite, building up slowly with Christmas cookery books, how-to books on present-making, that sort of thing. We’ll leave the Christmas tree and fairy lights till Advent. If people want the full works sooner, they can go down to Slate Green. They’ve been displaying all that stuff since about August anyway. My shop, my rules.”

  “You’re a very bossy boss,” I said. I only meant to tease, but he looked suddenly serious.

  “Your boss? Is that how you still think of me? I’m sorry, Sophie. You know now why I am so cautious in relationships. But let’s not go through all that again. How about we throw caution to the wind, and you come up to my flat for a cup of coffee?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know, I’m still enjoying the after-effects of the punch.”

  He laughed. “I’ll remind you of that when you’re clutching your head tomorrow and downing paracetamol. How about a drop of brandy instead?”

  If he’d asked me to come upstairs for a glass of drain cleaner, I’d have said yes, and we both knew it.

  I wondered why Hector had never invited me into his flat before, when I’d been working in the shop beneath it for the past six months. Was he hiding some dark secret? A mad wife in the attic? A shrine to Celeste? No, I was being silly. He probably just needed a little man cave away from the very public arena of the shop – the bookseller’s equivalent of a shed. One way or another, whatever lay inside was Hector’s private space.

  We skirted around the shop front to the side door that led to the flat. Hector stooped to extract his door key from beneath a big pot of bronze chrysanthemums beside the doorstep, unlocked the door, and told me to go up the stairs ahead of him while he found a new hiding place for the key.

  I climbed the wooden staircase, my footsteps muted by a crimson Persian runner, and gently pushed open the door at the top, which gave on to the living room. I stood in the doorway to survey the decor. The room resembled the lounge of a gentleman’s club, with dark green winged leather armchairs and matching sofa arranged around a mahogany coffee table piled with books and newspapers. A shaggy cream rug looked like a pressed Himalayan yak, while sturdy tapestry cushions added colour, as did a scarlet cashmere blanket draped over the back of the sofa. In the open fireplace, a log fire was set ready to blaze the minute Hector put a flame to it. Squatting on the stone hearth stood a tubby bottle of brandy, ready to absorb the fire’s
heat, and a pair of crystal balloon glasses waiting to receive a splash of its warming nectar.

  But it wasn’t the ruggedly masculine furniture that most impressed me, nor the promise of a fireside nightcap, nor even the evidence of Hector’s confidence that he would not be returning home alone that night. Instead it was something that stood on the neatly ordered top of the huge antique oak writing desk under the front window. I recognised the person in the solitary silver photo frame as Virginia Woolf. Then I realised it wasn’t Virgina Woolf at all, but me, snapped unawares in profile on the day of the Village Show, where I’d been dressed as the great author on the Wendlebury Writers’ float. Hector must have photographed me, taken me back to his flat and put me in pride of place on his desk.

  Next to the photo stood a small crystal vase of sky-blue forget-me-nots – fake fabric ones, of course, because this was November. But that didn’t matter.

  “You’ve got the wrong colour eyes for Virginia Woolf,” he’d said me when I’d announced my alter ego for the Show. “Hers were grey. Yours are forget-me-not blue.”

  By this time Hector had reached the top of the stairs and was standing behind me, his hands gently resting on my waist. “So, what do you think of my flat?”

  With one hand, he swept my loose hair over my shoulder and kissed the back of my neck.

  I leaned against him. “I think it’s lovely.”

  Taking my hand, he led me over to the sofa, then he crossed to the fireplace, knelt down, and struck a match to the fire. It began to crackle pleasingly beneath his touch. He opened the bottle of brandy, poured a little into each of the two glasses, set them on the coffee table, and came to sit beside me on the sofa. Then he picked up the remote control from the coffee table and pressed play. As the overture of Handel’s Firework Music reverberated around the room, he settled back and drew me closer to him.

  “Now,” he said softly, “let the fireworks commence.”

  Coming Soon

  Further down the High Street, a few hundred yards from where Sophie and Hector were getting beyond the sparkler stage, past The Bluebird and the village shop and the village green, a battered white camper van had just pulled up outside May Sayers’s cottage. A tall, gangly man with the thick, wild hair of a Viking got out, pushed open the gate, and strode up to knock on the front door. He waited a few moments, then knocked again impatiently.