Murder at the Old Vicarage

by Jill McGown

  ‘I mean about this afternoon. Shall I fix up the record player?’

  ‘Oh – no, that might not be necessary. Mrs . . .’ He hesitated over the surname, not in deliberate deception, but none the less deceptively. ‘Mrs Langton plays,’ he said. ‘I believe.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Marian.

  Mrs Langton was a newcomer to Byford; eight weeks ago she had moved into the cottage at Byford Castle, with her two-year-old daughter.

  ‘I’ll pop round and ask her,’ George said.

  ‘But Jeremy’s coming.’

  ‘After Jeremy,’ he said.

  ‘I can go, if you’re busy.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. It’ll be a good excuse to get rid of Jeremy.’ He pushed away his pad. ‘Maybe visiting someone will give me an idea for this,’ he said.

  ‘What about tomorrow? Have you still got to write tomorrow’s as well?’

  ‘No. I say the same things every Christmas Day.’

  ‘Do you?’ She frowned. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘More or less,’ he said. ‘It’s the midnight service I like to get my teeth into. But the one I’d written won’t do.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He looked at her. He couldn’t tell her she was married to a fraud. He couldn’t tell his congregation that they had been listening to a fraud all these years. He didn’t know what to say to her, or them. Perhaps seeing Eleanor Langton would help. He found it easy to talk to her, to be himself with her, and not the character actor that he had become, even with Marian.

  Eleanor had told him a little of herself – she had been a research assistant, and was now employed by Byford Castle to work during the winter on preparing their archives for publication, and to oversee the guided tours in the summer. She was a widow, and she was lonely. She had told him that because he was a vicar, he assured himself; that’s what vicars were for. But he felt as though it was vaguely guilty knowledge, because he hadn’t imagined her interest in him, and she had seen and recognised his in her. Unspoken, unacknowledged, but it was there, and it had been for weeks.

  ‘George? Are you feeling all right?’

  He smiled, almost laughed, at himself. ‘Just considering my suitability for getting into the News of the World,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want to get into the News of the World?’

  ‘Other vicars do,’ he replied.

  She smiled. ‘You haven’t developed a passion for choir boys, have you?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Nasty little brutes. Can’t think what all those unfrocked vicars see in them.’ He moved reluctantly from the arc of warmth, back to his desk. ‘And that’s another commandment gone,’ he said, sitting down.

  Marian bent down and sniffed. ‘You’ve not been drinking,’ she said.

  ‘No. But I took the Lord’s name in vain. I do it quite a lot.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marian.

  ‘I suppose,’ he mused, ‘if I worked my way through all ten commandments – that might qualify me for inclusion.’

  ‘Well,’ Marian said, picking up his empty mug. ‘I don’t care how much you covet it, you’re not bringing that ox in here.’

  Judy Hill switched on full headlights as the drifting snow swirled round the car, reducing visibility to what seemed like three feet. Mrs Hill senior sat beside her in the car, and Mr Hill sat in the back, tutting at the weather. Judy felt as though she was somehow being blamed.

  ‘Idiot,’ she said, as a car swept past her through a gust of snow-filled wind.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the new house,’ Mrs Hill volunteered, after a moment.

  ‘We haven’t finished decorating yet,’ Judy said. ‘But it’s looking pretty good.’

  ‘Michael says he’s thinking about converting the loft,’ said Mr Hill from behind her.

  Judy slowed down still more as she felt her tyres become unsure of their grip on the deepening snow. ‘Yes,’ she said absently, peering through the flakes which were falling yet again. The windscreen wipers worked hard, piling snow into the corner of the windscreen, but the weather was beating them. ‘I’m not sure why,’ she went on. ‘There’s more than enough room for us as it is.’

  ‘Maybe he’s thinking of the future,’ Mrs Hill said.

  Judy hooted angrily as a car cut in ahead of her. The future? My God, it wasn’t a granny flat she had in mind, was it?

  ‘Adds to the value,’ came the voice from the rear. ‘When you sell.’

  Oh yes. Nobody actually bought houses to live in, not in Michael’s world. You bought them as a rung on some socioeconomic ladder.

  ‘It would make a nice nursery,’ said Mrs Hill.

  ‘Not too far now,’ Judy said, hearing a note of desperation creeping into her voice already, and they weren’t even installed yet. Michael didn’t even want his parents’ company over Christmas; he just wanted to show off his enhanced lifestyle. She signalled left with a mental sigh of relief. Almost there.

  The little road was almost clear of snow, and her heart sank as she saw why. The driveway was inches deep, with snow piled up against the garage door. She pulled into the pavement, and stopped the engine.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Hill. ‘Someone will have to get busy with a shovel.’

  You? Judy thought sourly. ‘Yes,’ she said, brightly. ‘Let’s get you settled in first.’

  Mrs Hill got out, and fiddled unsuccessfully with the front seat.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Judy tried hard to keep the edge out of her voice as she tipped the seat forward to allow Mr Hill to clamber out.

  ‘There’s a present here, ducks,’ he said, handing it to her.

  Damn, damn, damn. She had meant to go via the police station, and drop it in to Lloyd. The weather had driven all thoughts out of her head, save picking up the Hills and getting them home in one piece. ‘Thank you,’ she said, putting it in the glove compartment. ‘It’s for someone at work.’

  She led the way up the path, and kicked away the snow from the front door. ‘Go on in,’ she said, realizing that she had left her car lights on. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  Back at the car, she switched off the lights and opened the glove compartment, as if staring at his present would somehow magic it to Lloyd. She couldn’t just leave the Hills there, even if the thought of just driving away again did have a certain malicious charm. With a sigh, she closed the car up.

  ‘It’s a lovely big room,’ Mrs Hill was saying, as Judy went in, shaking the snow from her dark hair.

  ‘It’s a bit of a change from the last one,’ Judy said. ‘We swing a cat every now and then to celebrate.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Judy said, taking out her cigarettes.

  ‘Oh, now – I thought you’d given that up,’ said Mr Hill. ‘You should read what it says on the side of the packet before you light that.’

  Judy lit it without improving her mind. ‘I only have one very occasionally,’ she said truthfully. When she felt she needed one. Like now. ‘I expect you’d like a cup of tea. Or something stronger?’ she added, hopefully.

  ‘Tea,’ Mrs Hill said firmly, as Mr Hill opened his mouth. ‘Thank you.’

  Michael came in while Judy was in the kitchen, and she could hear his mother fussing over him. He wasn’t, apparently, wearing warm enough clothes.

  ‘The driveway’s blocked,’ he said, when he joined her.

  ‘I know. What are you doing home?’

  ‘Office party,’ he said. ‘It started at about half past eleven.’ He leant on the fridge.

  Judy pushed him to one side as she got out the milk. ‘Aren’t you supposed to stay?’ she asked. ‘To mingle with the common folk?’

  ‘I pleaded bad weather,’ Michael said. ‘I can think of better things to do than trying to get my hand up some typist’s skirt, even if Ronnie can’t.’

  Judy laughed. ‘Ronnie doesn’t turn into an office Romeo at Christmas, does he?’

  ‘Does he not.’ Michael looked through his double-glazed window at the w
eather. ‘I’d better start digging,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave the car out in that.’

  ‘The car’ was his car. His company car.

  ‘You won’t be able to get it out again if you put it away,’ Judy pointed out.

  ‘What you’ve just said would have had Ronnie in stitches,’ Michael said, with a smile. ‘Do you blame me for running away?’

  Judy smiled too, shaking her head.

  Michael stood, still looking out, momentarily lost in thoughts which Judy knew she didn’t share, his thin face slightly, pink from the cold air. They were doing well, so far. A good five minutes without a cross word. She set mugs on a tray, and Michael, back in the real world, looked pained.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘We do have cups and saucers,’ he said.

  And still, teeth gritted, Judy didn’t allow the very cross words she was thinking to pass her lips. They would have shocked Michael even more than the mugs had.

  ‘George – come in.’ Eleanor Langton had decided to stop calling him Mr Wheeler the last time they had spoken, but she hadn’t had the nerve. She waited apprehensively for his reaction, as though he might tell her off.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, brushing snow from his coat as he came in.

  ‘I’d take my coat off, if I were you,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit warm in here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again.

  ‘Is this a social visit?’ she asked, as he slipped off his coat. ‘You’re in civvies.’

  He smiled. He really did have a lovely smile, she thought. It made him look about six years old.

  ‘I’ve come to beg a favour,’ he said.

  ‘Anything. I must owe you several favours.’

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  Eleanor indicated a chair. ‘Listening to my moans,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t moan. And if you did, it’s a vicar’s job to listen.’

  Eleanor brushed her blonde hair back from her face. ‘What favour?’ she asked.

  ‘My organist has let me down, or turned up trumps, depending on your ear for music,’ he said. ‘In any event, he can’t play, and I’ve got a children’s carol service this afternoon. Nothing tricky,’ he added. ‘Just the usual carols to the usual tunes.’ He paused. ‘Will you play for us?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I only play an electric organ.’

  ‘It is electric,’ George said. ‘It used to be a harmonium, but I didn’t see why the church shouldn’t move with the times.’ He smiled again. ‘No pumps, no bellows,’ he said.

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Eleanor. ‘I was taking Tessa anyway.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ He sat back. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At the film-show. Mrs Brewster took her, bless her.’

  ‘Oh, yes. In the church hall. I’d forgotten about that.’ He sat forward a little. ‘Eleanor,’ he began, slightly hesitant. ‘You – you’re not going to be alone tomorrow, are you?’

  ‘No. Richard’s mother’s coming – well, she was. If this goes on much longer . . .’ She shrugged, glancing out of the window at the snowflakes dancing through the air.

  ‘Well, the vicarage is at your disposal,’ he said. ‘Marian always buys an enormous turkey – it lasts until about April.’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘Will you have a Christmas drink with me? It’s almost lunch time.’

  ‘I’d love to. I feel as if I’m playing truant,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Eleanor stood up. ‘What should you be doing?’

  ‘Writing tonight’s sermon.’

  ‘Oh dear. You’re cutting it a bit fine. I can only offer you whisky or sherry, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’d better have sherry,’ he said.

  ‘Is the sermon proving difficult?’ She handed him his sherry, and sat on the sofa.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off? It’s a little—’

  ‘It’s very,’ Eleanor said. ‘The boiler has two modes – off or equatorial.’

  He took off his jacket, but he didn’t sit down again. He walked over to the sideboard and picked up the photograph of Richard. ‘Your husband?’ he asked, turning.

  Eleanor nodded.

  ‘Is this your first Christmas without him?’

  ‘Not really.’ She could talk about it now. There had been a long time when it was impossible, when the tears that were denied her at the time would suddenly surface. But she was over that now. ‘Richard was in a coma for a very long time,’ she explained.

  George carefully replaced the photo. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Tessa never knew him, not really. I took her to the hospital when she was born, but—’

  George looked horrified. ‘Oh, forgive me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know the circumstances—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Eleanor assured him. She took a breath. ‘It was a motorbike accident. Head injuries.’

  Driving without due care. That was all the driver had been charged with. Her life was shattered because someone drove without due care. It was anger that she felt now, more than grief. More than anything. But that would pass too.

  ‘He only died in October,’ she said. ‘But – well, this is the third Christmas without him.’

  George sat down beside her. ‘How dreadful for you,’ he said.

  ‘It was,’ said Eleanor. ‘To start with. They said I should talk to him – you know? At first, you feel self-conscious, but in the end, it became—’ She paused. ‘A habit, I suppose,’ she said, looking away from the hazel eyes that she was saddening. She hadn’t meant to talk about Richard. ‘After he died,’ she heard herself saying, try as she might, ‘I kept a diary. Telling it the things I would have told Richard.’ She looked up. ‘But I haven’t had to do that since I started working here.’

  George stroked his upper lip for a moment before he spoke. ‘Did you have your family to help you?’ he asked.

  ‘Richard’s mother. I’m not from Stansfield. My brother came down as often as he could—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really didn’t mean to bend your ear with all this.’

  ‘I told you,’ he said gently. ‘That’s what vicars are for.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s why I’m telling you,’ she said quietly, and there was a silence.

  The man wasn’t just married, he was a vicar. A vicar. The first man in whom she had had a flicker of interest, and he was a married vicar. ‘I’m supposed to be listening to your problems,’ she said, her voice sounding false, even to her.

  ‘My problems?’ He loosened his tie slightly.

  ‘With your sermon.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He sighed. ‘That’s easy. I don’t think I have the right to preach to people.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ she said. ‘Just tell them what’s on your mind,’

  He looked at her, into her eyes, and smiled, ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ he said.

  Eleanor closed her eyes for a second; George loosened his tie some more. Another silence. She had to say something, do something. ‘I’m sorry it’s so hot,’ she said.

  ‘Have you had anyone to look at it?’ he asked.

  ‘The castle said they’d get someone, but they haven’t yet.’

  ‘I could look at it for you.’ He smiled. ‘I’m quite good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘Would you?’

  He put down his drink. ‘Lead the way,’ he said, getting up.

  ‘Oh – but you’re too busy just now.’

  ‘It might just be that the thermostat’s set too high,’ he said, following her into the little outhouse which had been tacked on to the cottage. The cottage itself had been built on just after the Civil War, to accommodate the family while they repaired the ravages of Roundhead occupation.

  George caught his breath as he walked through the wall of heat to which Eleanor had become acclimatised. ‘You could grow tropical fruit in here,’ he said.

  Elea
nor watched as he pored over the yellowing manual, and she fetched screwdrivers and pliers when requested, like a nurse assisting a surgeon.

  He mopped his own brow, however, and stood up, ‘Why they want to put the damn thing in the most inaccessible—’ he said, and bent to his task again, his tie trailing in the dust at the back. He stood up again. ‘Would you undo my tie?’ he asked. ‘It’s getting in the way, and I can’t let this go.’

  He kissed her as she undid his tie, as she had known he would. Just a gentle kiss.

  She slowly pulled his tie from his collar.

  ‘A dog-collar wouldn’t have afforded me the opportunity,’ he said, with a little laugh. ‘Maybe that’s why I came in mufti,’

  Eleanor didn’t speak, because she couldn’t.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked, after a moment.

  She shook her head. There were so many things she wanted to say. About the months and months of willing someone to live, but waiting for him to die. About the relief when the end finally came, and the resultant guilt at that relief. About being locked into a kind of limbo, neither married nor widowed, with a baby to bring up. A limbo where you shrivel up inside. About how it simply wouldn’t do for the person who broke through that terrible barrier to be him, of all the men it might have been. Her tongue couldn’t find the words. Any words. But she reached for him, and it found a different kind of eloquence until the doorbell made them spring apart.

  ‘Tessa,’ Eleanor said.

  He nodded. ‘I think I have mended your boiler,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t just a ploy.’

  Eleanor stepped back to let him pass. ‘We’re not going any further with this, are we?’ she asked.

  George shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’re cut out for it,’ he said, as they went along the corridor to the sitting room. He put on his jacket. ‘I love my wife,’ he said, but it merely undermined the effect of his previous statement.

  She handed him his coat.

  ‘But I don’t want to pretend that it never happened,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not sure what I want.’

  ‘You mean we should keep it in reserve?’ Eleanor asked, smiling.

  ‘Perhaps I do.’

  Eleanor went to the door. ‘What time’s the carol service?’ she asked, as Mrs Brewster came in with Tessa, who immediately turned shy.