“Natty, how are you?” Berdie smiled extra bright as she pulled an oversized ottoman near the chaise lounge and sat on it.
“All the better for your visit, Mrs. Elliott,” she responded with almost child-like enthusiasm. Natty seemed to be quite lucid and full of cheer.
Berdie placed her handbag on the floor, sat the grape iris on a nearby tray table and pulled the gift basket from the shop bag. “A little something to wish you well from the church.”
Natty took the basket and grinned. “Oh, you got this from the church?”
“No, Natty, it’s from the White Window Box and it’s given on behalf of all who attend Saint Aidan.”
“Oh.” She looked a little anxious. “Is everybody from the church coming?”
Berdie patted Natty’s hand. “No. Just me, love.”
Natty’s face beamed. “That’s all right, then.” She sniffed the soap and sachets. “It smells of Miriam.”
“It does.” Berdie wondered if Natty was fully aware that Miriam Livingston had passed from this earth. The former lavender maven of Aidan Kirkwood, and Natty’s neighbor, had been her beloved friend.
“I miss her, you know.” Natty fingered the medicinal tea tin.
“Yes, I should think you would.”
The woman pulled the hand embroidered hankie from the basket and ran it cross her cheek. “But, now I have my Sandra. I’ll ask her to fetch us some tea.”
Before Berdie could inform Natty that Sandra was in the midst of bringing it, the niece appeared in the doorway.
“Here we are.” Sandra moved the vase of flowers aside and positioned the tea service on the tray table that sat astride the chaise lounge.
Natty looked somewhat befuddled. “She’s jolly on the spot.” She eyed Sandra. “Did you know I wanted tea?”
“You asked for it several minutes ago, Aunty Natty.” Sandra flashed a faint smile toward Berdie and bent near her ear. “Her long term memory serves her fairly well, but her short term isn’t worth tuppence.”
“What did you say?” Natty squirmed.
“I’m just telling Mrs. Elliott about your medical state.”
“Healthy as an ox if she’d let me off this settee.”
“You have to stay off your feet, Aunty, as doctor said. Let your ankle heal.”
“My ankle? What’s wrong with it?”
Sandra shook her head while pouring milk in petite spring-green tea cups. “Do you see what I have to put up with?” she directed toward Berdie with a grin before turning to her aunt. “You did yourself a mischief at the Ascension fete.”
The elderly woman tipped her head. Then she leaned slightly forward and touched the stabilizing brace about her ankle. “Oh, yes,” Natty whispered. “Silly thing.”
Sandra poured tea in the waiting cups. “You were very excited to walk in the Ascension procession and you simply overdid.”
“The procession.” Natty perked. “Hail the day that sees Him rise,” Natty began to sing at the top of her voice. She lifted her arms and commenced to flail them about as she continued in song. “Ravished from our wistful eyes.”
Berdie couldn’t help but chuckle.
Natty muttered a sing-song mumble then, as if finding the words once again on a hymn book page, sang out the words with vigor. “Reascends His native heaven.” She gave an extra forceful arm flourish on the word heaven and bashed her cup of tea on the tray table into spiraling splashes to the floor.
“Aunt Natty,” Sandra gently scolded.
Tea dribbled cross Berdie’s handbag and seeped into vulnerable spots.
“Oh, dear,” Natty mumbled. “Did I do that?”
“You did enjoy yourself at the fete, didn’t you Natty?” Berdie grabbed her bag, and Sandra handed her a napkin to wipe the mess.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Elliott,” Sandra apologized.
“Yes, I did, I did enjoy myself,” Natty muttered.
Berdie opened her bag and unloaded the contents to see if any offending liquid had found its way inside.
“I truly did.” Natty’s delight was suddenly tempered. “That is until that one,” she pointed at Sandra, “put me on the bench and told me not to move.”
“You had hurt yourself, Aunty,” Sandra defended between dabs on the carpet with another napkin. “I put you on the bench so I could fetch Mr. Clark to take us home, and as it turned out, to hospital.”
Berdie opened the photo of Mrs. Mikalos to see if the jam smudge on her forehead from Villette’s thumb was now accompanied by tea. She spread it out on her lap.
“The bench,” Natty repeated. She eyed the photo on Berdie’s lap. “The bench,” she repeated and drew her hands to her mouth. “Oh my, oh my.”
Both Berdie and Sandra looked at Natty as her sunshine became shadowed.
“At what bench did you seat her?” Berdie asked Sandra.
“The one on the edge of the green that faces the road.”
“Across from Kirkwood Green B and B?”
“Yes. I’m afraid my aunt had her back to the balloon release, and she’s been very unforgiving about it since.”
“Natty?” Berdie bent closer.
“A sot.” Natty pointed a slightly shaking finger at the photo. “A drunken sot. Very sad, very bad. The bench.”
Berdie formed her words with clarity. “Natty, when you sat on the bench, did you see this woman?”
Natty’s eyes focused on the photo.
“Did you see her?” Berdie held the picture up.
“Too much to drink, that one. And at a church do. Shame, shame. He had to help her stay afoot.”
“He?” Berdie’s heart gave a flutter.
Natty ran a hand cross her lap, let go a deep breath, and started humming.
“Did he have a lovely tie?” Berdie ran a finger down her bodice.
Natty tipped her head, and then smiled at Berdie. “Would you care for tea?”
Berdie held the photo with both hands and gave it a quick shake. “Natty, did he have a goatee?” She cupped a hand under her chin.
“Goatee? Yes, Mr. Clark has one.” She jerked her thumb behind her back. “He keeps it in his back garden.” She wrinkled her nose. “The creature stinks. But mind you, it makes good cheese, and Sandra thinks so, as well.”
Sandra rose from her cleaning of the rug. “I shouldn’t bother, Mrs. Elliott.” She eyed Natty, who was humming another jolly tune. Sandra stroked the aged white hair. “She’s quite moved on.”
Berdie laid the photo in her lap again. “Yes, quite.”
Sandra lowered her voice to a whisper. “Would you put stock in what she says about the bench and all?”
“I would,” Berdie pronounced. She folded the picture and put it in her bag. “She’s proven before that she’s capable of keen observations.”
“Observations. Keen, yes, but sadly, fleeting at best.”
“What, dear?” Natty questioned her niece.
“We were just saying what keen observations you make, Aunty.”
Natty smiled proudly. “Well then, where’s that tea?”
Sandra handed a filled cup to Natty. “Now, do be careful.”
Natty took a sip. She closed her eyes as if relishing each drop. “Sandra, don’t forget our guest.”
Berdie stayed with Natty for another twenty minutes. It was a pleasant chat, though a bit rambling, but nothing of the bench conversation arose.
Riding home in the car Berdie was amazed. Who would have thought this dear one, disregarded by some, could have held such vital information? Berdie trusted what Natty saw. She had proven herself adept in the Livingston case.
Olivia, drunk? She certainly wasn’t when Berdie saw her earlier when going through the queue. No. But, by Natty’s account, not lucid or resolute, either. He kept Olivia Mikalos afoot. The woman was kidnapped, not lured, not caught unawares, kidnapped. But what officer of the law would give two seconds of thought to Natty’s testimony?
“Lord, who is he?” Berdie knew it was up to her, with God’s direction,
to uncover who he was. And how did Olivia become disabled? She would now need to pour every effort possible into the task. When Berdie entered the vicarage, the hallway telephone was singing. “Vicarage,” she answered with a quick breath, barely through the door.
“Mrs. Elliott, it’s Billie Finch.” The woman’s voice held a tremor. “I fear there’s a punch up in the making.”
“Billie, what’s going on?”
“Olivia’s son-in-law just parked in front of her house, face like thunder, and marched into Sir Percival’s garden.”
“Lord have mercy.” Berdie suddenly remembered her assurance to Linden that she would sort out Sir Percival Barlow and his illegal fence. But between church business and other concerns around Olivia’s disappearance, she had been quite occupied. She could understand how Linden might lose patience. “Now remain calm, Billie. Tell me what is happening.”
“Mr. Davies knocked at the door, Sir Percival opened it, but he hasn’t let Mr. Davies inside.”
“Are you at your window now?”
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Finch’s voice elevated. “Sir Percival’s face has gone quite red.”
Berdie had the sense this was not going to end well. She heard Billie gasp.
“What?”
“That old goat is now stabbing his index finger into the young man’s chest.”
Berdie couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible for what was happening. “Keep an eye out, Billie. Don’t be frightened. Call 999 if foul play commences.”
“Foul play? Oh, dear, Mrs. Elliott, I don’t know. Oh, dear.”
“Stay inside at your window, and you’ll be safe as houses. I’m on my way, Billie. I’ll be there as soon as possible. And, Billie…”
“Yes?”
“I’m sending prayers that way. You add yours, as well.”
Billie sighed. “Oh, yes, must do. Please, quick as a bunny, then, Mrs. Elliott,” her warbled words cracked.
Berdie tried to ring up Hugh on her trek to Timsley, but found distracted driving didn’t suit her and decided it could wait.
“Oh Lord, protect and preserve. And please give Billie Finch a portion of courage, some real bottle.”
Berdie worked at steeling herself for whatever she was about to face. But upon her arrival, to her surprise, the street was clear and calm.
Billie Finch was out of her door and at Berdie’s car in a shot.
Berdie exited the vehicle.
“It was a dust up, all right,” Mrs. Finch tattled and took a gulp of air.
“Police?”
Billie shook her blonde, shoulder-length locks in the negative. “Sir Percival waved a piece of paper about and the two of them had words. That old bully landed a punch and Mr. Davies fell back, but turned aside.”
“Heavens above.”
“Sir Percival slammed his door, and Mr. Davies went to his car. I dashed out and offered Mr. Davies a bag of frozen peas.”
“Frozen peas?”
“To use as an ice bag, help keep down the swelling.” Her eyes held pity. “He placed it on his left eye which was already going blue.”
“Billie Finch. That was quite a kind thing to do for Linden, and brave, as well.”
The corners of Mrs. Finch’s mouth formed a shy grin.
“Nothing more than a black eye, then?”
“Well, apart from hurt pride and little actually accomplished, I’d say.”
Berdie could feel her sense of justice pick up speed. “Billie, could you do a favor? Go to your sitting room window and keep an eye out.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to speak with Sir Percival.”
Billie’s face went a bit pale. “Is that wise?”
“I’ll not go in the house, and he won’t raise his hand to me, a woman.” Berdie began her march toward Barlow’s front garden. She hoped she was right.
“Do take care,” Billie called out. Like a rabbit to its hole, she rushed back into her house.
Berdie used her determined knock at Sir Percival’s front door. “Hate evil, love good, maintain justice,” she whispered.
The door flew open, and the stormy face of Sir Percival Barlow greeted her. He drew back.
“Good afternoon, Sir Percival,” Berdie said in a solid but kindly voice.
“What do you want?”
“I want the truth.” Berdie anchored her feet, aligned with her shoulders.
He jutted his bottom lip forward.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Mrs. Olivia Mikalos?”
The man’s eyes went into a squint. “Oh, yes, you and another were in my road a few days back.”
“Please answer the question, Sir Percival.”
“I’ve not seen the woman, I don’t care to see the woman, and I haven’t so much as a raindrop in a bucket’s worth of an idea where she could be. There, I’ve answered your question.” The fellow began to close his door.
“Why did you move the Mikalos back garden fence?”
“They’re coming out of the woodwork today.” Sir Percival thrust his index finger toward Berdie, but pulled it back. His attempt to steady the shaking digit wasn’t working. “Need you ask why? My family has owned the Barlow House Estate for generations.
“Then the economic decline hit this fair country, and we had to release our heritage into the hands of money-grabbers who had no real understanding of the beauty or the legacy of this soil. They bought the estate, kept the house, turned it into a sultan’s palace, and sold the land off in bits and pieces.” He took a deep breath, his eyes intense, and every muscle in his body taut. “Tatty houses, built one upon the other.” He thrust his hand in the air, and waved it from east to west.
“Natural splendor erased, and all to line their pockets. To watch the decline of the estate was difficult enough. But, to stand in the back garden of my dwelling, this former gate house, the only family land left, and look across the lea at the now-departed bequest that was my childhood home…” There was a catch in his throat. Wetness crept into those intense eyes. “He swans in, occupies the home for only eight weeks of the year at best.” Sir Percival Barlow squeezed his lips together so tightly, they went pale. “My birthright has become his footstool.”
For just a moment, Berdie saw before her not a raging bull, but a lamb whose stately identity had been led to slaughter.
“And you dare ask me why a few feet of property could mean so much to me?” He lifted his chin. “I’ve done nothing wrong by moving that fence. I’ve planned for years to do it and in the past few months I put boots to the ground and made it happen.”
“Sir Percival, I can see you’ve suffered great loss. Still, moving the property line without permission was against the law. Wouldn’t family honor be better served by your exercise of personal integrity, as befits a gentleman’s character, to rise above the wrong done to you?”
Barlow raised his chin.
“Less land, yes. But Barlow Gardens remain a beautiful tribute, and we’re standing on Barlow House Road. Your family name lives on. It’s in your hands to keep it well respected. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He thrust his hand toward the Mikalos home. “That land is mine, and I’ve the papers to prove it.” He took a breath and turned his gaze away. “All right, I admit that doing it when Mrs. Mikalos was indisposed was a bit underhanded.”
“Yes, it was, and suspicious, at that.” Berdie suddenly understood. “That’s why you purchased your materials at Joe’s DIY in Aidan Kirkwood. Who would be the wiser?”
Sir Percival’s gaze darted to the ground.
“There you are.” Berdie verbally crossed her arms.
“Yes, well, as it happens, it’s become more than that.” He steadied his gaze back on Berdie. “Joe Lawler offers real service, the way it used to be. He’s honest and concerned.” The fellow wagged his index finger. “He’d never steal my land.”
“Indeed, Joe is a gentleman in work clothes.”
The man leaned forward. “Still, I can’t say I regret getting my property
back.”
“No, I dare say you don’t. And when Mrs. Mikalos returns, if indeed she does, you will have to take it up with her.”
“I never cared for either her or her greedy husband. But, nonetheless, I wouldn’t harm her.”
Berdie studied Sir Percival. She believed he was telling the truth. “You felt no such compunction toward her son-in-law.”
“He came to my door,” Sir Percival defended with words full of fire, “and called me a cheat, a liar, and a land thief.”
“Linden Davies is out of his mind with worry about his mother-in-law. He made a rash mistake. And you made another one by assaulting him.”
“How do you know about that?”
Berdie raised her brows. “It’s no way for a gentleman to solve a problem, Sir Percival. Much more can be accomplished when volatile temperament is tamed.” Berdie squared her shoulders. “Now, another matter completely. I’m curious, Sir Percival, about your Seabrook Marina jersey that you often wear.”
“My father had a boat there. The jersey was his, if it’s any concern of yours.” The man frowned and thrust his chin forward.
“I see. Well, I must be on my way.” Berdie turned to go. She took two steps then looked back to the sad man who still stood, rather out of sorts, in his doorway. “If you’re ever in Aidan Kirkwood of a Sunday morning, Mr. Lawler often attends St. Aidan of the Woods Parish Church. Do come in. I believe you’ll discover Joe is one of many in our parish who are honest and concerned.”
As she strode to the car, Berdie heard the gentle click of Percival’s door closing. She gave a smile and wave to Billie Finch, who was obediently perched at her window.
The woman gave a vigorous wave of her own and wore relief like the blue sky after rain. And her very large smile was the rainbow.
****
The take-away Hugh brought home was a treat.
As Berdie munched her Cornish pastie and a fresh tomato and radish salad, she told him of her day’s events: Duncan at the cat rescue, Natty’s well-being, and then Sir Percival. That bit made for a tussle.
“You galloped off to a possible explosive situation? How could you do that without telling me?”
In the end, Berdie won Hugh’s agreement that it had ended well. The fact that she had invited Barlow to church wooed a bit more of Hugh’s charity toward her, as well.
Into the Clouds Page 18