by Eric Reed
The sleeping man snored and shifted, rustling his newspaper covers. Grace glanced toward him, then to the tiny congregation. For no good reason she had the impression one woman was her grandmother’s age, the other the age of Grace’s mother when she went away.
She was a child back in Noddweir. She could feel her mother’s firm grip on her mittened hand, smell the grayish green herbs piled on the kitchen table at which her grandmother sat.
“Dragging the poor child off to church again, Mae?” Her grandmother waved a pestle in their direction. “You’d do better to leave her with me to learn my persuasions.”
“Let’s not go through this again, Mother. You know how I feel about those spells and nostrums of yours.”
“What’s wrong with my persuasions, then? Jesus healed the sick, didn’t he?”
“Mother, really!”
Martha pointed the pestle at them. “You’re of the blood, Mae. It’s in the family. You can run away from it, but you’ve no business taking the gift from your daughter.”
Her mother’s grip tightened until Grace’s hand hurt. “We’re going. We’ll both pray for you, won’t we, Grace?”
When the service had finished, Grace approached the pulpit. The vicar stepped down, fussing with the papers in his hand, and looked up with obvious surprise.
“Welcome to St Martha’s. Peter Elliott.” He offered a hand and looked at her quizzically. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No. I was surprised. Martha is my grandmother’s name. I didn’t notice on my way in. What a strange coincidence.”
“If you believe in coincidences. And yourself?”
“Oh, sorry. Grace Baxter.”
“You’re new here, aren’t you, Constable Baxter? How may I be of assistance? I hope it’s nothing too serious.”
In the countryside the local vicar knew everything that went on in the neighborhood. Was it the same in the city?
“Unfortunately, it is rather serious. It’s about the woman found dead across the way.”
“Yes. Of course. I should have realized that’s what you were here about.” There was a furtiveness in the way he looked at her, turning his head slightly to the side rather than meeting her gaze straight on.
“I was hoping you might have seen something.”
He shook his head. “I live behind the church and retire early. Those of us holding the fort at home have many extra tasks to accomplish and I for one find it more tiring than I once did. Take, for example—” He pointed to a bucket set beside the doorway. “The ladies of St Martha’s do the cleaning turn and turn about, all things in their season, and so on. This afternoon scrubbing the floor was my duty. It’s hard on my knees. They’re afflicted with arthritis, an illness I often think was created in the devil’s laboratory.”
“Do you have much trouble with crime locally?”
The vicar invited her to take a pew and sat down beside her. They were alone now, except for the sleeping man who occasionally gave a fitful snore amplified in the silence and emptiness.
“Crime? No more than most poor parishes in big cities. Morally speaking, the war has brought many dangers for young people, especially girls posted to war work away from their homes. And then there’s the black market. We’ve also had problems with ladies of easy virtue being a little too obvious at their work. They like to loiter around the ruins.”
“We’ll do our best to make the ladies keep moving.”
“If you could only order that accursed temple to move too! A fine thing to see from the front steps of a church. At least God’s house is still standing. There’s a lesson to be learned from that if people would open their eyes and see.”
“The war tests people’s faith.”
“Does it test yours? I’ve found that despite so many off to fight, or evacuated or relocated for various reasons, my congregation is bigger. On Sundays, that is. At evensong I often feel like poor Eddi in the poem.”
“And am I the donkey or the ox listening to you now, vicar?”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to imply…You know Kipling?”
“The poem was one of my mother’s favorites.”
“You inherited your faith from your mother?”
“Yes. “
“The war may test it. You must hold fast. I hope you will find comfort here.”
When Grace remained silent he gave a slight smile and continued. “St Martha, you know, was the woman who served at the meal for Jesus in Bethany. I’m not thinking of my own service to the community, but of those who live in the surrounding streets, who serve others in their different capacities. Working class and proud of it, and I am proud of them, including those I only see in the street and never in a pew. My church dates from the late nineteenth century and I’ve conjectured its dedication is an example of subtle Victorian ecclesiastical humour.”
Grace saw the vicar shiver. His hands were bone-white with cold. “I’m sorry. You must have been standing in here for a long time”
She stood up quickly. The vicar got up more slowly.
“I would be glad to talk longer but I must open the church hall. It’s a meeting of the Benwell Ladies’ Benevolent and Social Club tonight. They always have a speaker. Since the war started it’s usually a government official. There seems no end of government officials ready to educate us about the war effort.”
“I was told that a man named Rutherford lectures at the church. Has he spoken to the ladies? Do you know him?”
“Oh, dear no.” The vicar laughed nervously. “I mean ‘no’ he hasn’t lectured to them. But, yes, I do know him. It was another group he used to talk to. They concentrated on mythology and folklore. At first, I mean. But then they moved on to more arcane beliefs. Witchcraft! Seances! When it was brought to my attention I had to turn them out. Those are not fit subjects to be discussed on church property.”
“And Mr. Rutherford was involved?”
“Oh, very much so. He used to lead the group but then fell out with them or they fell out with him, I’m not clear which. Is it surprising with everyone’s temper on edge with lack of sleep?”
“Do you know anything about Mr. Rutherford?”
A cloud passed over the vicar’s affable demeanor. “He keeps to himself. When I’ve tried to talk to him he’s avoided me as if I were Satan himself.” Again he gave her a sideways look.
“A strange man with strange interests, it seems,” she said.
“We’re all created differently. I don’t want to give the impression it’s all darkness and dread here. We shall celebrate a wedding next week, a cause for joy in these evil times. Speaking of folklore, here’s a prime example for you. It’s the local custom to toss pennies to children when the wedding party leaves for the church. Not many pennies nowadays, I admit, but a charming gesture nonetheless.”
“I can tell you are very fond of your parishioners.”
“I am, indeed. I fear certain of my lambs have strayed, and yet I think you’ll be impressed how my parishioners help out neighbours in need without being asked. You’ll find they have rough tongues and tend to be judgmental, but when misfortune strikes, they’re around unasked with kind words, bringing food and offering help in any fashion they can, from loaning baptismal gowns for the new baby to laying out the dead.”
The snores from the man sleeping on the pew became a fitful moan. There was the crinkling sound of shifting newspapers.
“Poor soul,” Mr. Elliott said. “I’ve been trying to find a place for him to stay. I don’t have the heart to throw him out.”
“I must let you go, Mr. Elliott.”
“Please, feel free to come and talk to me if you are troubled. Or even if you are not.” He stared past her and winked. No. It was his eye glinting in the candlelight.
His glass eye.
That accounted for his odd manner of looking at her.
&n
bsp; The vicar had one glass eye and how long had Grace talked to him before noticing?
Chapter Eight
“What’s the matter, Grace? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found a penny.” Mavis was standing on tiptoe to peer at herself in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece when Grace arrived home. Still dressed in the green overalls from her factory shift, Mavis tilted a tiny, burgundy-hued hat this way and that on her cropped hair.
“I’d be happy if I’d found a penny’s worth of information.”
“Chin up. You can’t expect to solve all the crimes in the city in two days. How do you like my bonny new hat? Velour. Four shillings, believe it or not!” She spoke to Grace’s reflection.
“Very nice.” Grace had no idea what was considered fashionable or what a hat should cost in Newcastle.
The gramophone filled the kitchen with crackly crooning from a well-worn record. The singer was asking for another chance. Mavis sang along. She had a high, sweet voice. “Poor bugger never had a chance,” she observed as the song ended.
Grace removed her jacket. It radiated cold. “Who?”
“Al Bowlly, the singer. Killed in the Blitz during the spring.”
“That’s terrible.” It made Grace think of Sergeant Baines’ family.
“It’s the saddest thing, isn’t it? Not having another chance.”
Grace went to the bedroom and changed. When she returned to the kitchen, Mavis remarked on the book in her hand.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
When Grace told her Mavis looked puzzled. “Geordie Night? Set up here, is it?”
“Oh, no. It’s set in Oxford,” She held the book up so Mavis could see the cover better. “And it’s Gaudy Night, not Geordie Night. Since you’re getting ready to go out I thought I’d settle down and read a bit.”
“What kind of book is it?”
“A mystery.”
“I’d have thought you had enough mysteries to deal with on the job. I know what will cheer you up. There’s a dance at the church hall tonight. Hans wants to go.”
“Will Hans mind if I come along with you?”
“He’s a dear, but I was hoping you’d take him off my hands tonight. I prefer dance halls by myself. I’m going to one this evening.”
“You go to dance halls alone?”
“More exciting than church dances. At the church hall you only meet blokes you already know. Besides, the vicar keeps an eye out for dancing he thinks is improper.”
“His good eye, I suppose?”
Mavis laughed. “How do you know about his eye?”
“I stopped at the church after work. What happened to him?”
“Nobody knows. He tells a different story every time. My favourite’s the one about how the eye was damaged in a duel when he was a student in Germany. He’s fond of making jokes about his sight—talks about turning a blind eye, says it helps him see almost no evil. He should be on the wireless with a turn as the Merry Minister. He’s a good sort, but some say he doesn’t see half of what goes on.”
“Except at the dances.”
“Oh, aye. I’ve kept your dinner hot in the oven. You must be clamming.”
Grace looked puzzled.
“You know, hungry. I’ll get some tea for us, too.”
Mavis vanished into the scullery and emerged with a teapot and cups. Still sporting her new hat, she and Grace sat down at the table. “Fresh-brewed, more or less. Had to reuse the tea leaves, so it’s only the ghost of tea.”
“It’s hot, just what I need.” Grace cradled the cup in both hands, warming them.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a little fun,” Mavis said. “I like to go out and fly me kite. A girl needs a little appreciation now and then. Take your chance while you have it, I say. Two minutes from now a bomb could come crashing straight through the roof.”
Grace looked over her cup. “What about your husband?”
“Ronny?” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. Her fingernails were already painted red. “Anyway, I like to tease a little. I never let the blokes have what they’re looking for. I like meeting new people.”
“Did you meet Hans at a dance hall?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. There, you see, you did discover something today.”
“I can’t see Hans going to dance halls by himself.”
“Why not? He’s a man.”
“Was that how he came to be visiting you?”
“I invited him back here for a cup of tea, didn’t I?” She raised her cup and winked. “And that’s all he got. That and a kiss. He’ll never get nowt but that! Mind you, he’s still hopeful, but always so very polite. It makes me laugh.”
“Poor Hans.” Grace began to eat her dinner.
“If he wants to live in hopes, that’s his business. But we’ve become good friends. So will you go to the dance with him?”
***
St Martha’s church hall was turned out in shabbily festive dress. The Union Jack on the back wall was faded, and the red and green streamers looped from the ceiling had seen happier days. The air reeked of cigarettes and sweat, but music was playing and couples were dancing.
The gramophone occupied one end of a long table placed in front of the flag. On the other end, a starved little tree struggled to hold up its overly large glass ornaments. Peter Elliott stood behind the table.
The vicar looked older to Grace than he had when she’d met him in the dimly lit church. Before long, she realized his hair was no grayer, his gaunt face no more lined, but here he was surrounded mostly by young people, as comfortable working as master of ceremonies as he had been reading psalms.
“Ladies and gents, here’s one for the old folk! Any that are here! But first let’s shake the dust off the rafters by giving a big hand to our gramophone winder! Now take your partners for a polka!”
Hans continued the vague side-to-side motions he had used for both the waltz and the foxtrot. He was light on his feet, but heavy on Grace’s.
“Don’t you know the polka, Hans?”
“Polka? No. I apologize for my feet, Miss Grace. They do not speak English.”
“What do you call the dance you’ve been doing? Is it Dutch?”
“I never learned to dance. I pretend I am keeping my balance on deck during rough seas. But does it matter? The point of dancing is holding hands.”
When he smiled down at her she felt herself blush. He had caught her thinking that she quite liked holding hands with this tall, fair man with eyes bluer than any sky Newcastle was ever likely to see.
She pulled her gaze away from those blue eyes and concentrated on keeping her feet from under his. Her partner’s hands were calloused, like those of the farmers and labourers she recalled in her home village. Like them, his face knew the weather.
Another blond man, shorter than Grace, approached and bowed. He held out his hand and spoke in a foreign language. Hans interpreted. “My countryman wishes a dance.”
Grace smiled as she left Hans to dance with her new partner as a contribution to the war effort, and a relief for her feet.
When the record finished she walked over to the vicar. An energetic number which she didn’t recognize started. Before she reached him, a matronly woman in a flowered dress stepped in front of her.
“Mr. Elliott,” the matron said. “Mr. Elliott, really, do you see what that couple is doing?”
The vicar looked into the melee on the dance floor. The woman was pointing, a hunting dog that had located prey.
“No, you’re not looking in the right direction.”
“My good eye is. You mean the girl in the red dress and the RAF man?”
“They’re dancing far too close for a polka! And, as for the waltz…well…it was sinful!”
The vicar raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Is that so? I fear I did not take dancing at seminary. If they get too rambunctious I will have a quiet word.”
“I should think they are already—”
The vicar raised his hand. For a frail man he had a very large hand. “Mrs. Bloom, let us recall how David danced before the ark. We don’t want to scare our youth away from the church, do we? Once they are too arthritic to polka they may show up at services.”
Mortified, Mrs. Bloom huffed away.
“You’ve offended her.” Grace suppressed laughter.
“Not at all. We are all sinners, and our dance steps are the least of it.”
Staring out into the blue haze Grace spotted the girl who had been trying to be arrested as a prostitute. She was dancing with Hans. “I wanted to talk more, Mr. Elliott, but I must rescue a young lady who is about to stray!”
In fact, it was Hans she didn’t want to stray. She kept him close the rest of the evening. It was for his own protection, she told herself. The make-believe tart ended up with a merchant navy man. The couple were no longer in the hall by the time the evening ended with a collection for the Red Cross and a rousing rendition of “God Save The King.”
Hans took a half-consumed chocolate crisp bar from his pocket, snapped what was left of it in two and offered a piece to Grace, rather as a man might offer a cigarette when lighting one for himself. She refused politely.
He turned red as it dawned on him that a sweet he’d been carrying in his pocket all day was not quite the same thing as a cigarette, “I am sorry, Miss Grace. These are my favorites. I just—”
“It was a kind thought, Hans.” She didn’t mind his awkwardness. She felt awkward and out-of-place in the city herself.
Soon Hans was accompanying Grace, not around the church hall to the merry strains of a wind-up gramophone, but down the dark back lane of Carter Street.