Murder at the Old Vicarage

by Jill McGown

  She must be somewhere.

  Eleanor Langton got out of the bath, and towelled herself dry, pulling on her bathrobe, and rolling up its sleeves. She had, after a great deal of thought, decided against going to the party. Instead of a quick bath and an evening out, she had had the long luxurious bath she had promised herself, and was washing her hair.

  She had been getting ready to go out, having decided that perhaps she could face it, after all; she was coming out of her prison, making a new start, and a New Year party seemed appropriate, even if it was two days shy of the end of the year.

  But then she had looked at the ticket. They seemed to think you’d bring a partner, and she had thought that she might feel conspicuous without one. The others had said that lots of people were going alone, what with husbands on shift-work, or husbands who wouldn’t go to a disco if you paid them, but they might have just been saying that to make her feel better about not having a partner. Everyone else, she had thought, might turn up complete with a man, and she’d be left alone at the table while they all danced.

  Someone might ask her to dance. Eleanor had wondered, then, if she could handle that. But what was there to disco-dancing? You hardly knew who you were dancing with. She had never actually danced at a disco, because Richard had run one for years in his spare time and she had helped. She had even played keyboard in a short-lived group that Richard had got together, before they were married.

  Another Eleanor, another life. Now she played the organ for the carol service.

  She had looked at herself in the mirror, and hadn’t been sure about the dress. Perhaps it should be separates; jeans, even. And reflected in the mirror, she had seen the bedroom, so obviously solo. Going to a party might help, she had thought; she might meet someone.

  But she had met someone; slowly, Eleanor had unzipped the dress, and stepped out of it.

  She had just put on the second lot of lather when the knock came to the door. George. She lifted her hair up and looked at her watch on the windowsill. It was after ten. Surely it was George. She squeezed some of the water out of her hair, and opened the bathroom door, dripping shampoo on to the floor. ‘I won’t be a minute!’ she shouted anxiously. ‘Don’t go away!’

  George picked wonderful moments to call, she thought, as she rinsed the shampoo out of her hair. She was pleased that he’d come, that he still needed her. This morning he had been so distant, and odd. And yet, for a moment, she had thought that at last they would make love, and keep the promise that they had been holding in reserve since Christmas Eve. But it had only been for a moment.

  ‘Coming,’ she called again, as she wrapped her hair in a towel, and ran along the corridor, throwing open the door.

  Again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marian Wheeler. ‘I know it’s a bit late. But I’ve got to talk to you.’

  Eleanor felt a surge of panic. This wasn’t fair. ‘Yes, of course,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Come in.’

  In the sitting room, she waved a hand vaguely at the chairs, and Marian took off her coat, and sat down.

  ‘I’d better come straight to the point,’ she said. ‘George isn’t at all well, Mrs Langton. But I expect you know that.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘He told me it was a nervous reaction,’ she said. ‘That he always got like that if there was an upheaval of some sort.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian said. ‘That’s true. But I think this time it’s worse than that.’

  ‘Do you think he’s really ill?’ Eleanor asked, alarmed.

  ‘I think he’s having some sort of nervous breakdown,’ said Marian. ‘I’m here because – well, I’m here for several reasons, to be quite honest.’ She took a breath. ‘Tonight, I found him with his father’s shotgun. He said it wasn’t loaded, but it was.’

  The words hung in the air, while Eleanor stared at Marian, open-mouthed. George? George, who joked about keeping their tentative affair in reserve? George, who winked at her behind Mrs Brewster’s back? But no, not that George. George, who could barely think straight any more. George, who had called at six o’clock in the morning, then had hardly even spoken to her. That George.

  ‘Why?’ she whispered, ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve brought the gun with me,’ Marian said, hesitantly. ‘It’s in the car. I wondered if you could possibly put it in the gun room here – I daren’t leave it in the house.’

  Eleanor agreed, automatically, with a distracted nod of her head. ‘Thank God you found him,’ she said.

  ‘He may have been waiting for me to find him,’ said Marian.

  It seemed odd to Eleanor that Marian was here. If George was that bad, shouldn’t she be there?

  ‘Shouldn’t someone be with him?’ she asked.

  ‘Joanna will be back by now,’ said Marian. ‘I just wanted to get that gun out of the house.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘I think George needs help,’ Marian said firmly.

  ‘Yes.’ The word came out with a shudder, like a sigh. ‘I had no idea he was that bad.’ Her mouth felt dry. ‘Look – can I get you something? A drink, perhaps?’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ said Marian.

  ‘Coffee. I’ll . . . er . . .’ She pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

  She almost ran along the corridor again, and stood for a moment in the kitchen, taking deep breaths. What was coming next? A third-degree on her and George? Eleanor made coffee, the situation beyond her. And surely not of her making? But that was what Marian thought, or she wouldn’t be here.

  ‘Can I help?’ Marian appeared in the kitchen.

  ‘You could help yourself to milk and sugar,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Marian took her time, obviously working on her next reason for being there.

  ‘You see,’ Marian went on, ‘I’ve spent all evening just sitting in the car, trying to work out what’s happened to George.’ She looked up, and gave a little shrug. ‘You happened to him,’ she said.

  ‘We’re not lovers,’ said Eleanor. ‘If that’s what you think.’

  ‘Oh, but you are,’ said Marian. ‘In the old-fashioned sense.’ She stirred her coffee. ‘It might be better,’ she said, ‘if it was in the physical sense.’ She sat down. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I think you’re the only one who can help him.’

  Eleanor’s head shook slightly. This wasn’t happening. Marian Wheeler wasn’t here, practically inviting her to have an affair with George. This wasn’t happening.

  ‘Shall we have the coffee in here?’ Marian asked, for all the world as though they were swapping recipes.

  Eleanor sat down too, still bemused.

  ‘At least get him to see a doctor,’ said Marian. ‘He will, if you tell him. I know he will.’

  George didn’t need a doctor. No one thing had happened to George. It was a mixture of all the things that were happening to George. Meeting her; his crisis of faith; Joanna, Graham Elstow – Marian’s love, smothering him. And was Marian here, now, out of that love? Was she seeking help for George, no matter what she had to do to get it? Protecting him, forgiving him. And not even his attempted romp through the ten commandments could put her off.

  ‘He needs your help, Eleanor.’

  Eleanor didn’t speak. There were things she could say: Mrs Wheeler, my relationship with your husband consists of a few frantic moments in the out-house, and hours of listening to him tell me that you love him, and that he loves you. That doesn’t make me responsible for his welfare. That doesn’t mean that you can lay the blame for this at my door. She didn’t voice her thoughts; what did it matter who or what had driven George to this point?

  But it did matter, of course, and as George would doubtless have said, it was up to her what she did about it.

  ‘He seems to value your opinion very highly,’ said Marian, and there was no trace of sarcasm.

  Eleanor lifted her eyes slowly to Marian’s. ‘But it isn’t my opinion that he should see a doctor,’ she
said. ‘It’s yours.’

  Marian tutted impatiently. ‘He must see a doctor,’ she said. ‘And he won’t listen to me. You’re the one who has done this to him, Eleanor. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.’

  ‘No,’ said Eleanor quietly. ‘I haven’t done this to him. It was already done before I met him. George wants—’ She broke off, then decided to go through with it. ‘He wants freedom,’ she said.

  Marian’s head went back slightly. ‘So that he can do the decent thing by you?’ she asked archly. ‘Are you holding out for marriage? Is that what it is?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Eleanor shouted. ‘Not that sort of freedom,’ she said, her voice quieter. She thought for a moment. ‘You called us lovers,’ she said. ‘But we’re not, you know. Not in any sense of the word. If George wanted me, he could have me, and he knows that.’ She paused. ‘But he doesn’t,’ she said. ‘He thinks he does, but he doesn’t.’

  What was she to George, she wondered for the first time. A fellow prisoner? Or just a stick to shake at Marian? The one thing that he hoped would make her angry? And when that didn’t work . . . was that what the shotgun was about? Marian had said that perhaps he was waiting for her to find him. Yes, Eleanor could see George doing that, trying to baffle Marian into something other than patient understanding.

  Failed again, George, she thought. Failed again.

  ‘I’m just a . . . a sort of focus,’ she said.

  ‘A focus?’ Marian repeated.

  Eleanor couldn’t tell Marian what she meant. She and George had both been in prison; but she was on the other side of the bars now, free, while George was still painfully tunnelling out. Hers was the freedom of the newly released long-term prisoner; the world was a frightening, alien place. She and George needed one another, that was all.

  ‘A focus for his dreams?’ said Marian.

  ‘If you like,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘A damsel in distress, that he had to come and rescue?’ asked Marian. ‘A sleeping beauty that he had to awaken with a kiss?’

  Eleanor felt her face grow hot, and Marian nodded. ‘He told me about Graham Elstow,’ she said, after a moment. ‘About his having caused your husband’s accident.’ She leant forward. ‘He was with you on Christmas Eve,’ she said. ‘What time did he get here, Mrs Langton?’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a simple question,’ said Marian. ‘What time did he get here?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Eleanor, her voice horrified. ‘That George killed Graham Elstow? On my behalf?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Why? Why would you think that? George didn’t . . .? No,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell you that. Why then? Just because you think he was going to kill himself? Is that why?’

  Marian looked up at her. ‘I don’t think I said anything about George killing himself,’ she said, barely stressing the final word.

  ‘My God,’ said Eleanor. ‘If you can’t sacrifice yourself for your daughter, you’ll sacrifice George. You’re trying to blame George.’

  ‘Blame him?’ Marian repeated, with an uncomprehending movement of her head.

  Eleanor sat down again. No. Marian had never blamed George for anything. ‘But you can’t really think it was George,’ she said. ‘Marian – he was in the pub, and ten minutes later he was with me.’

  Marian nodded again. ‘And you had thirty minutes,’ she said. ‘Thirty minutes between my visit and George’s arrival.’

  Eleanor’s eyes widened slightly.

  ‘That’s what is making George ill, Mrs Langton,’ said Marian. ‘That thirty minutes.’

  George Wheeler splashed water on his face, and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. If he saw that man walking down the road, he wouldn’t recognise him.

  Had he been going to kill himself? People asked him questions, all the time. And he didn’t have the answers. To thine own self be true. Had he been going to kill himself? Marian had gone to the police; she must have done. And wasn’t that why he had told her? So that she would protect him from that, too? She would go to the police, not him.

  He’d gone to see Eleanor this morning. Why? Because she’d called him yesterday, said she had to see him. He hadn’t slept, and then he’d been pacing the floor, deciding to die. Yes, then he had been going to kill himself. He’d seen Eleanor’s light, and gone to her. Just once, he had thought. He wanted her just once before . . .

  Before he killed himself? But his courage had already waned, even then. He couldn’t have Eleanor; he couldn’t even die.

  Had he been going to kill himself?

  Eleanor. When had he realised? Not when Marian found Elstow’s body, not even when they arrested her. It was later, after that, that it had begun to dawn on him. It was the day after that, in the church, with the sunlight streaming through the stained glass. Eleanor, coming in. Talking quietly. Almost angry when he had told her about Marian; just at that moment he could have sworn that Eleanor had thought he’d done it. But then, as she rushed him off to the police station, he had realised. Eleanor had been angry because someone else had been implicated, and she hadn’t meant that to happen; she had urged him into the police station, desperate to clear Marian’s name.

  But she hadn’t told them about Elstow’s involvement in her husband’s accident, and neither had he, even though Marian was under arrest. Marian thought that it was his betrayal of her that was making him ill, and so had he, until now. But it wasn’t.

  ‘When did you start to feel ill?’ When they arrested Marian, he had said. But it was Marian, of course, who knew when he had really started to feel ill. ‘It started when Eleanor Langton came here, didn’t it?’

  Had he been going to kill Marian? Marian, who sat there calmly discussing the pros and cons of his adultery, Marian who had confessed to the police because she thought he’d done it? Not Joanna, for Marian knew Joanna too well to think that she was capable of it. Joanna had loved Graham Elstow; she had been frightened of him, but she hadn’t hated him. No, Marian had been protecting him. Her other egg. Or so she believed. But all the time, she had been protecting an intruder, defending a cuckoo’s egg.

  ‘Eggs are supposed to hatch out.’ Eleanor understood. He was trying at last to break out of the shell, and that was what was making him ill. Yes, he had wanted to blast his way out with his father’s shotgun, and he could never be sure which way he would have pointed it, if he’d had the nerve to pull the trigger.

  Lloyd carried the empty plates into the kitchen.

  ‘It was lovely,’ Judy called through. ‘Well worth the wait.’

  ‘Good things take a little time,’ Lloyd called back, smiling. ‘I’ve told you before. Andante.’ He piled the plates in the sink, and took mugs out of the cupboard.

  ‘I could have made something in ten minutes,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you could, but I wanted one decent meal today,’ he said, hunching up his shoulders as he waited for her reaction.

  She arrived in the kitchen. ‘I can show you a school report,’ she said. ‘It says, “Judith shows an interest in and aptitude for domestic science.” So there.’

  ‘What happened?’ Lloyd put the sugar bowl on a tray with the mugs. ‘Black or white?’ he asked.

  ‘White.’

  ‘Take that through, will you?’ he said, indicating the coffee jug.

  ‘Do you trust me to?’ She took it.

  He poured milk into a cream jug, then remembered that he had cream. ‘Cream or milk?’ he called.

  ‘Milk.’

  He shrugged. No soul. It was good to see her back to her old self again, but it did make him feel more than ever like a bottle of aspirin. He carried the tray through, to find Judy looking at his Christmas cards. ‘You won’t find it there,’ he said. ‘If anyone had the nerve to put it on a card, it would go in the bin.’

  She turned, smiling, ‘I don’t have to,’ she said.

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘Am I? All right,’ she said, sitting on the sofa. ‘
Call my bluff.’

  ‘How?’ He picked up as many things as he could carry from the table, and went through to the kitchen. Judy was under strict orders to do nothing. This was an occasion. He came back through. ‘How can I call your bluff?’ he asked.

  ‘If I’m bluffing, give me permission to tell Jack Woodford,’ she said.

  Her eyes glowed with mischief. But she was a rotten liar, as she had pointed out last night, and she didn’t look as though she was bluffing. She must be, though. How could she have found out?

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Can I tell him?’

  ‘No.’ He picked up the salt and pepper and table mats, and turned to see her grinning at him. ‘If you know,’ he said, ‘you must have gone to Somerset House.’

  She shook her head. ‘It isn’t Somerset House any more,’ she said. ‘And that would have been cheating.’

  ‘Certainly would.’

  Back in the kitchen, he illogically put away the table mats and the salt and pepper, and left, closing the door on the piles of dishes. ‘So you are bluffing,’ he said, as he came back in. ‘I’m not calling it,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Am I allowed to pour the coffee?’

  ‘No! You’re to be waited on hand and foot.’

  ‘So how come I had to carry the coffee in?’

  ‘It’s good luck,’ he said solemnly, pouring the coffee. His first name had haunted him all his life. She didn’t know it. ‘How could you have found out?’ he asked.

  ‘You took me to visit your father before he went back to Wales,’ she said.

  Lloyd joined her on the sofa, relaxed, now. ‘Then you’re definitely bluffing,’ he said, drinking some coffee just to see Judy wince. He liked it when it almost burned his mouth. ‘If it’s possible,’ he said, ‘my father is more ashamed of it than I am.’ Even his father just called him Lloyd. And his mother had settled for a shortened version, which could have been the diminutive of something less awful.