by Ann Granger
We had spoken very little during the meal. But when we had finished I spoke my thoughts aloud. ‘The coroner will have to be told. It will cause enormous distress to all who knew Sir Henry. It’s the sort of lurid story the newspapers like. Reporters will flock in, even come down from London. That will make things so much worse for the Beresfords. Poor Agnes, I feel for her.’
‘In my opinion, it is the bishop who must be informed,’ said Aunt Parry. ‘There are set rituals for driving out evil of this sort, and he must see they are carried out.’
After this we neither of us felt like discussing it further, and retired to make our separate morning toilettes.
A little later, around eleven o’clock, we heard the sound of a carriage on the road behind the house. Shortly afterwards Mrs Dennis appeared carrying a small silver tray on which lay a visiting card.
‘It is Mrs Beresford, ladies,’ she told us in a hushed voice.
I turned the little card over and read, written on the back, ‘I am leaving and would like to say goodbye.’
‘Goodness!’ cried Mrs Parry. ‘Do ask her to come in.’
Agnes was wearing travelling dress and looked pale and quite ill. We begged her to sit down and Aunt Parry demanded of Mrs Dennis whether there was any champagne in the house.
‘It is the best restorative!’ she stated.
Unfortunately, there was no champagne and Agnes protested that, in any case, as she had a long journey ahead of her, she would take nothing.
‘I am going to Bournemouth,’ she told us. ‘My old governess has retired and been living there for a while now. I expect to stay with her for a little until arrangements can be made to take rooms. This is until— until matters can be fully resolved. You will have learned what happened last night.’
‘A dreadful business!’ declared Mrs Parry.
‘You will understand, then, that I cannot remain at Oakwood House. It is quite out of the question! Andrew must stay because he has much to do, but I cannot. I feel that I should and support my husband, but last night’s events were… Well, after all that has happened, the— the bonfire was…’
Her voice shook and she looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
‘I am sure it is best that you stay in Bournemouth for a little while,’ I assured her. ‘Forgive me, but may I ask, have you received any more little tokens, like the roses or the fan?’
‘No, there have been no more of those, thank goodness.’ Her voice had been subdued but now a note of passion entered it. ‘I never wanted the coffin kept in the old icehouse! It was too— too grotesque. Just knowing it was there was bad enough. Now…’
‘Since there is no champagne, you should take a small glass of brandy,’ advised Mrs Parry.
‘No, really!’ exclaimed Agnes. ‘Dear Mrs Parry and Mrs Ross, I am so sorry to leave you here and pray that nothing more happens.’
‘I would return to London today,’ announced Aunt Parry. ‘But Mrs Ross is determined to stay, as Mr Ross is nearby, engaged in investigating the whole dreadful business.’
Agnes rose to her feet. ‘I must go or we shall be very late getting to Bournemouth. Miss Jessop, my former governess, should be expecting me. Andrew sent someone to the telegraph office this morning to alert her to my arrival.’
We listened to the carriage roll away and Aunt Parry turned to me. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘I mean no criticism of Inspector Ross. But that Agnes Beresford should be frightened half out of her wits, and driven from her own home, is intolerable. Something must be done!’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it must.’ Silently, to myself, I added, And I must do it. Neither of us paid much attention to lunch, I cannot even remember what it was, but after we left the table Aunt Parry retired to rest, with a cold compress on her brow.
‘It has all made me quite ill!’ she informed me.
‘I am just going to walk down to the church in the village,’ I told her.
She made no reply other than a weak wave of her hand.
‘You go along for your walk, ma’am,’ said Nugent. ‘I’ll take care of madam.’
I set off but did not get very far, only to the gate out of the property, when Jacob Dennis appeared and asked, ‘Off down to the church, I hear, ma’am?’
‘Thank you, Jacob, yes.’ He still hovered so I asked, ‘Can you tell me the name of the vicar?’
‘That’s Mr Appleton, ma’am. He’ll be at the vicarage, ma’am, and that’s in a lane tucked away behind the church. I’ll walk down with you, and show you.’
‘I’m sure I’ll find it.’
‘No trouble, ma’am,’ he assured me earnestly. ‘I’m about to walk down to the village myself, anyway.’
‘Charlie, the postman, has told you that some village children threw stones at me, I think?’ I guessed.
‘So I believe, ma’am, and I’m very sorry for it.’
‘Jacob, I don’t need a guardian!’
‘Bless you, ma’am,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘I am sure you don’t. But, speaking for myself, I’m in need of a pint. All that shouting and wailing earlier, I’m sorry you and the other lady were disturbed by it. My wife and I are really distressed that Mrs Beresford has left to stay a while in Bournemouth. We all hope she’ll return. The loss of the Beresfords from Oakwood House would be very bad news for the neighbourhood.’
‘If your daughter is broken-hearted because of Davy Evans running off,’ I said, ‘I must admit I’m inclined to think that, at least, could turn out for the best. If the relationship is over, I mean. Evans is not of good character, and must be quite a bit older than Jessie, I imagine?’
‘Why, my girl is only sixteen!’ Jacob nodded. ‘And you’re right. Of course Davy is too old for her. He’ll be thirty, I believe, at Christmas. He was a Christmas baby, you see, and they’re supposed to be lucky. But that doesn’t mean I want him trying his luck with my daughter.’
He didn’t know it, but he had just given me a very useful piece of information. I sought a little more.
‘Jacob,’ I asked, ‘I know you’ve gone fishing with Davy in his sailing boat. Do you think it is possible he has reached France?’
‘Well, he’s a good sailor, is Davy,’ returned Jacob, after a moment’s thought. ‘But it’s a long crossing from here to the French coast. That’s where he’ll be heading, I dare say. If he left yesterday evening, and without the fog, he’d only just be in sight of the French coast now, I reckon. But it was a bad night. All clear this morning, but out at sea it must have been desperate bad visibility.’
I asked no more questions as I realised how uneasy Jacob Dennis was. Supposing Davy did reach the French coast, I thought there was a strong possibility he’d find a welcoming committee in the form of the French police. The information would have been telegraphed to them by now; and word put out. Even if Davy did have smuggling connections with France, the nature of his action, taking the body from the coffin and setting it on a bonfire, would horrify them, and they’d not be pleased to welcome him.
When we reached the church I saw it was the scene of some activity. It wasn’t taking place within the church but at the side of the building, where an outer flight of steps by the outside wall led down below ground level. As I watched, a man’s head appeared in a disconcerting way beside a tombstone. He then rose into view, a bit at a time, carrying a large basket filled with a jumble of items. It resembled nothing so much as a ludicrous resurrection. Following that of Sir Henry’s body, it was quite frightening. I stopped.
‘Just hold on a moment, ma’am,’ said Jacob. ‘I’ll find out what’s going on.’
He pushed open the gate and strode towards the man with the basket, who set down his burden to greet the visitor. I watched as he talked with Jacob, both joined by a second man who came up, like the first one, from below ground level. I realised there must be a way into the building, probably into the crypt, by outer steps.
After a few minutes’ conversation, Jacob returned to me. ‘Now then, ma’am, it’s a go
od thing we stopped to ask, for Mr Appleton is not at the vicarage. He’s driven over to Oakwood House to help with the arrangements with the coffin.’
‘Sir Henry’s coffin? Is he… is the body…’
‘Back in the coffin, where it should be!’ said Jacob cheerfully. ‘Only it’s been decided to store it in the crypt of the church until the funeral.’
‘I can’t think why it wasn’t there in the first place and not in an icehouse!’ I snapped before I could stop myself.
The second man to come up the steps from crypt level had joined us, slapping dust from his coat. ‘Quite right, ma’am,’ he agreed. ‘The problem was that the crypt was so full of all kinds of junk and bits and pieces, it hardly seemed decent to put Sir Henry there at the time. It’s been used as a storeroom for as long as I can remember. But now we’re clearing it out a bit, and making a respectable area for the coffin to rest there, until the funeral. My name is Colman; I’m the verger here.’ He bowed. ‘Jacob’s told you that Mr Appleton has gone over to Oakwood House, I believe? They’re going to bring Sir Henry over here, after the vicar has said a prayer or two, to make things right, as it were.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible thing, desecrating a body like that!’
‘Well, then, Mr Colman,’ I said, ‘perhaps, as verger, you can help me. I’d like to consult the registers of marriages and baptisms. Are they kept here in the church or at the vicarage?’
‘Indeed I can help you, ma’am. The registers are kept in a cupboard in the vestry, all safely locked away. But I have all the keys on this ring here.’ From his pocket he produced a formidable set, like a gaoler’s, and held them up, jangling them for effect.
There was no need to negotiate my way down the worn outer stairs into the crypt, thank goodness. Colman opened up the north door and we made our way through the church to the vestry. The records were kept in a venerable cupboard of blackened oak.
‘Any particular year, ma’am?’ asked Colman, opening the cupboards with a flourish. The smell of aged books, leather and glue, and dust filled the air. ‘There’s a fair old number, as you see.’
‘My goodness, there certainly are!’ I exclaimed. The cupboard was full of volumes, the history of this village and its inhabitants from very early times. But thanks to Jacob, I had a good idea which year I needed. ‘Eighteen thirty-nine,’ I told the verger, ‘and eighteen forty.’
I suspected I did not need the records for thirty-nine, only those for forty. But I could feel Jacob’s eyes watching me and wondered if he guessed what I was about. It did no harm to confuse him a little, muddy the water, as it were.
‘Well, let’s see,’ said Colman happily. He was obviously proud of being in charge of all this. ‘Marriages, you say? Here we are.’ Two thick volumes landed on a table with a thump. ‘And here’s the births.’ Another two thumps. ‘I dare say you’ll find there’s enough light to read by from the window there, but there is a candle, if you need one… And do you want me to stay and help?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Colman. I’ve very much obliged to you for taking this trouble. I’ll come and find you and let you know when I’ve finished.’
He appeared relieved. ‘Thank you, ma’am, only we’ve got to get back and finish making ready the crypt before Sir Henry arrives.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ offered Jacob.
‘Good of you, Jacob,’ said Colman and the two of them set off together back to the crypt.
I thought that Jacob Dennis was a wily old fox. He now knew what my errand in the village was, in some detail. He had the perfect excuse for remaining at the church while I made my searches. Then, when I came to tell Colman I was done and he could lock up the records again, Jacob would declare himself ready to leave and I’d have his company wherever I went next. This might all be for the purpose of protecting me from stone-throwing urchins. But it also meant he knew what I did. Add that to my question as to the age of Davy Evans, and Jacob was shrewd enough to guess exactly what I was about. Ben had been finding it difficult to make his investigations unobserved. So was I.
It was very quiet in the vestry. Whatever the men were moving in the crypt beneath my feet, I could hear nothing of their efforts. I opened the heavy tomes carefully to read the handwriting of record keepers long dead. Most entries were basic: names and dates. It did not take me long to find what I sought, beginning with the register of marriages performed in that church. There, neatly entered, was the name of Isaac Evans, his occupation given as ‘itinerant labourer’, who married Tabitha Dawlish ‘of this parish’, in July 1840.
Now I moved on to the register of baptisms, and the entries for later that same year. Sadly, many mothers were entered as ‘deceased’. But I found, on December the twenty-fourth, David, a male child, born to Isaac Evans and his wife, Tabitha. Born on Christmas Eve, Davy Evans was a ‘Christmas baby’, as Jacob had said. Tibby Dawlish had therefore already been four months gone with child, or very nearly, at the time of her marriage. She, at least, had survived childbirth. What, however, I wondered, had happened to Isaac Evans? Why had she resumed her maiden name?
I closed the books and sat for a while, deciding what I should do next. I thought I knew what had happened, but I couldn’t prove it. All I could do was ask. I stood up and went to find the verger. When I left the vestry, and entered the main body of the church, I saw with relief that I did not have to go outside and negotiate a way down the mossy, slippery steps. The door to the crypt inside the church stood open and safer steps led down. Now I could hear noises coming up from below, suggesting some heavy piece of furniture was being dragged across the floor. I went down to investigate and found myself in a fantastical place, its vaulted roof hung with ancient cobwebs, dimly lit by lanterns placed here and there. There were stacked chairs and old pews, boxes of books, brass candelabra in dire need of a polish and fragments of medieval statuary, the better pieces perhaps brought down here as long ago as Cromwell’s days to save them from being smashed. Other pieces, worn and battered, must once have been on the exterior of the building. The stone faces, with all the damage, stared at me curiously: saints, angels, likenesses of medieval stonemasons, a wyvern’s-head waterspout… The only natural light filtered in from the door behind me and from that to the outer staircase. Jacob, Colman and a third man were pushing an ancient cope chest against the far wall. I recognised it for its purpose, as it was a quarter-circle in shape. The semi-circular cape, the cope, would be folded to make the quarter-circle before being put away. I wondered if there was a cope still inside it or whether it was empty. But now was not the time to inquire. My presence had been spotted.
‘Well, ma’am,’ said Colman, coming towards me and dusting his grimy palms together. ‘Any luck? Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Thank you, Mr Colman, it was all very interesting.’ Not exactly an answer to his question, but I did not want to volunteer more information about my search than I had to.
‘Ready to go, then, ma’am?’ said Jacob. ‘I’ll fetch my coat.’
‘Oh, please, Mr Dennis, I can find my own way back, so there is no need. You can stay and help here.’
‘Oh, we’re pretty well finished,’ said Colman unhelpfully. ‘We’ve cleared all that end, see?’
One end of the crypt had indeed been cleared and trestles set up ready for the coffin to rest on. I suddenly wanted very much to get out of there. I thanked Colman again and turned to leave the crypt as I had entered it, from the interior of the church. I did not want to walk through the crypt, past all those stone eyes, and rise up through the ground on the outer stairway to emerge among the gravestones.
I was anxious to get away now, before any other villagers saw me there. However as bad luck would have it, just as Jacob and I met up again in the churchyard (he had come up the outer stair), a rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves announced the arrival of a closed carriage and, riding behind it, Andrew Beresford. Beside me, Jacob took off his hat, and stood with head bowed in respect. I did not want Beresford to see me, so I
stepped back quickly behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak tree. I was able to peer round this and observe the coffin taken into the church. When the vicar and Beresford had gone inside I came out of my hiding place, feeling rather sheepish, and found Jacob watching me quizzically.
‘I did not want Mr Beresford to think that I— that I was taking undue interest at such a sensitive private moment,’ I said firmly.
He nodded. ‘Will you be going home now, ma’am?’
‘No, but you go home, Jacob, or go on down to the public house and have your pint. Please let me pay for it.’ I fumbled in my reticule for a coin.
He accepted the coin with a nod of thanks and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. ‘If you’re going on down to the village we can walk together, ma’am.’
We stared each other out for a moment. I had to give in. He was not going to leave me.
‘All right,’ I said, somewhat ungraciously.
We walked up the lane from the church to the main street of the village. Here we paused and I tried one more time to be free of him.
‘If you want your pint of ale, Mr Dennis, please go to the public house.’ He didn’t move. I decided face-to-face challenge was best. ‘I mean to call on the Dawlish sisters. So you need not come.’
‘Very well, ma’am, I’ll just sit on that bench outside their cottage and wait for you there.’
I sighed and gave up. ‘You mean to look after me, Mr Dennis.’
‘Yes, ma’am, I do. These are strange days.’
Jacob settled himself down on the wooden bench where I’d first encountered Aunt Tibby and Aunt Cora. He took out his clay pipe and pouch of tobacco and began to fill the pipe in a leisurely way. He had time enough, he knew. I walked up to the door and knocked.
Cora Dawlish opened it. She stood looking at me with unfriendly eyes, her sturdy frame blocking the way. ‘What do you want, Mrs Ross?’
‘I want the truth, Miss Cora, as you know I do. I would like to speak to your sister.’
She hesitated, but from the room behind her I heard Tibby call, ‘Bring her in, Cora.’