by Lis Howell
Her daughter didn’t tell her much. Did she have a crush on that new vicar chap? It would be just like Daisy to be wasting her chances on some lost cause. Mrs Arthur sighed. Daisy was her third child, her baby and her only girl. She was clever and intense, but with none of her brothers’ drive. I just hope she pulls her socks up and gets out of this village before it claims her for life, Nancy Arthur thought anxiously.
* * *
Robert Clark woke far too early on Easter Sunday. He hadn’t slept well. He had gone to bed irritated with Jane Simpson for wasting hours at The Briars moaning about Phyllis Drysdale’s flower arrangements. Of course there was a history there. The two women had been rivals for years. He would have preferred to go on chatting to Suzy Spencer — there had been times since Mary’s death when he’d found himself watching daytime TV and he’d been intrigued. He would have liked to ask her more about it. He felt concerned about the cool way he had seen her out of The Briars, but once Jane turned up, it had been impossible to go on talking to Suzy.
Another lonely day stretched before him, but at seven thirty when he was dozing, the phone’s ringing wakened him. It was Tom Strickland, in his role as the senior churchwarden.
‘Robert? That you? I’m at the church. Can you get over here?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s up?’
‘It’s Phyllis. When I opened up for eight o’clock communion I found her in the chancel. I think she’s had a heart attack. She was stone cold dead but there’s blood everywhere. I’ve rung the ambulance. And the police are coming.’
‘I’m on my way. Have you told Nick?’
‘Aye, for all the good it’ll do. He’s not here yet.’
Robert levered himself out of bed and pulled his clothes towards him. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘if she died of a heart attack, where’s the blood from?’
‘She’d cut her hand with some flower-arranging thing. A long green wiry decoration. Nasty. It’s gone right through the skin. How soon can you be here?’
‘In five minutes, Tom.’
‘Well, brace yourself for a shock.’
It’s all right, Robert thought. I’ve seen death at its most ghastly so I can cope with this. He knew Phyllis had a weak heart, she told everyone so, and though this was sudden, he wasn’t entirely surprised. He hoped for her sake it had been quick. Poor Phyllis. She was annoying at times, but she had been Mary’s best friend. And a lot of people would miss her. Nick Melling won’t cope, he said to himself; he’s not good on personal pain. He’d been hopeless when Mary died. Then Robert went out into the cool morning, glanced at his ruined fence, and opened the garage.
The sound of his car engine starting shattered the early morning silence of Easter Day.
5
Easter Sunday
Therefore let us keep the feast.
From the Easter Anthem
Monica Bell of Bell’s Wood Yard looked at the chaos in her living room. She rubbed her temples under her brisk brown curly hair, and thought she had better get on with it.
‘Oh well,’ she sighed to herself. On a whim, she’d invited as many people as she could for lunch, and now people were sitting on anything they could find, including a coffee table which was straining under Alan Robie’s well-upholstered weight. The general invitation had seemed the only decent thing to do after the shock. She’d phoned her daughter and told them the family meal was off, and her son Matthew had disappeared, saying he’d grab a sandwich with his mate Russell. So much for everything she’d planned, including inviting Robert Clark to eat Easter Sunday lunch with them. He was a quiet chap, no trouble to entertain, and she felt sorry for him, living alone at The Briars.
But inviting Robert was one thing — having a dozen church members there, twitching with the shock of Phyllis’s death, was another. Still, Monica was glad she’d invited them on the spur of the moment. Someone had to do something, though Frank hadn’t seemed best pleased; in fact he’d been a bit moody since the night before. But now, Monica saw, he was doling out sherry and gin-and-tonics like they were going out of fashion, and he was going to carve the joint with his usual verve, once it had cooled down. She could add the ham she’d got for tea, so there’d be enough for everyone.
That morning, when Frank had dropped her off at All Saints for the ten o’clock service, Robert Clark and Tom Strickland — who was even grumpier than usual — were standing at the door turning people away. The ambulance and the doctor had finally gone, and the service had been cancelled. Nick Melling had talked to the police, separately and with the air of a pained professional — and had disappeared quickly back to the vicarage.
Then Suzy Spencer had come over.
‘Oh, how awful. Poor Phyllis! I hope she wasn’t alone in there suffering for too long. I feel so guilty. I’d been going to help her, but I had to cry off because I needed to get the kids to the station.’
Tom Strickland had said gruffly, ‘You two are both flower arrangers, aren’t you?’
Monica Bell shrugged. ‘I’m not very artistic, you know. You’ve done a lot more lately, haven’t you, Suzy?’
‘Well, I help when I can. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Phyllis’s flower-arranging kit is all over the place,’ Tom grunted. ‘It needs sorting out. The police have been and said we can tidy up. It’s a pity she had to have a seizure in the church. But there’s nowt suspicious.’
‘Of course not,’ said Monica, shocked.
Robert Clark came over from explaining the cancelled service to an irritated family. Tom Strickland nudged him to one side and said quietly, ‘I don’t think we should tell people about that thing in Phyllis’s hand. I took it out.’
‘What? Why did you do that, Tom?’
‘We don’t want people asking questions about health and safety or first aid arrangements in the church, do we? The police think she had a clutcher and that’s what happened.’ His thin, sharp face was inches away from Robert’s and his hand was on Robert’s lapel.
‘I don’t think you should have touched it.’
‘Well, I did. My view is, least said soonest mended. All right? I mean it was only a stupid bit of decoration.’
‘What was?’ asked Suzy Spencer, moving forward to be helpful.
‘Phyllis had something in her hand,’ Robert said quietly.
Tom looked even more cross. ‘It was nothing. A decoration. She must have cut her hand on it.’
‘But we weren’t using decorations. It’s Easter. We planned to use fresh flowers. And greenery.’
By then a knot of anxious people had formed around Monica Bell, who said impulsively, ‘Come over to our house, we’ve all had a shock. Pass the word on. I’ll do us a quick buffet lunch. Ask Nick as well, Tom.’
‘All right,’ he said gracelessly, realizing that if he put a move on, he could pop home first and tell his wife Vera not to defrost their ‘Roast Ready Meal’. He stomped off.
‘Terrible!’ Alan Robie was booming as he walked over to join them. ‘This really is unpleasant for everyone. You said something about lunch, Monica?’
‘But there’s nothing we can do,’ Stevie Nesbit added anxiously, trotting behind him. ‘We’re due in Lancaster at one o’clock.’
‘On the contrary, I think we need to caucus. If Monica’s kind enough to invite us at this difficult time, I really think we should be there. Now, Robert, what are we telling people?’ Alan led Robert to one side.
‘You’ll come to lunch as well, Suzy?’ Monica asked.
‘Thanks, Mrs Bell. I’d love to.’ But Suzy was surprised. Monica was usually wrapped up in her family and the wood yard business. She had never spoken much to Suzy, who always thought the Bells had written her off as a weird townie. Monica had been one of Mary Clark’s coterie too. But still, it was a kind gesture, and Suzy was aware that she felt a little bit winded. A sudden death always does this, she thought. How awful, that she had passed Phyllis Drysdale’s bungalow last night, and hoped that the older woman was out having fun! And all the time she was
in the church, dying. Robert Clark touched her lightly on the arm.
‘Perhaps you could help, like Tom Strickland suggested?’ he said softly. ‘There’s a terrible mess in the church and it’s all flower-arranging stuff. We need to tidy it away.’
‘OK,’ said Suzy tentatively. She followed Robert cautiously into the church.
He was right, it was a mess. Phyllis had used a modern plastic toolbox for her flower-arranging materials and this was up-ended, with the hinge shattered and all the contents strewn around the aisle. There were thin wires for winding and fastening, two or three rolls of shiny coloured ribbon which had uncoiled like bright snakes, reels of different sorts of sticky tape, and thin strips of green foam which were adhesive on one side only, for holding small sprigs in place. A large piece of oasis foam still oozed water slowly on to the tiled floor, and the metal plinth with a round shelf on top, which was used for the big flower arrangements, had fallen down on its side.
‘I recognize some of this kit,’ Robert said, ‘but I’ve no idea what all of it is for.’
Suzy picked up the secateurs.
‘Oh, it’s hard work. It’s not just a question of standing and putting some daisies in a vase while looking elegant, especially in a church where you need big displays. You have to hack and chop and twist things. Then wire them against their will. It’s quite exacting. Not that I really know much about it. Everything I can do, I learnt from Mary and Phyllis.’
And now they’re both dead. Suzy shivered, and glanced at Robert. The same thing had occurred to him, it seemed. He had found a black plastic bag and was putting the crushed lilies in it.
‘Who do you think will do the flower arranging now?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. There’s Monica and me. Then there’s Yvonne Wait. She always contributes her own display, although she doesn’t work in the team as such.’
Robert looked up sharply. ‘Yvonne Wait, who works at the hospital? I didn’t realize she helped.’
‘Oh yes, she’s very good. But she usually turns up with something she’s already done and then adds the finishing touches in here. Jane Simpson from Tarnfield House did some stuff at Christmas . . .’
Suzy paused, remembering Jane’s holly, tortured around a candlestick which she must have told them ten times was a family heirloom. She couldn’t imagine Jane taking charge.
‘Oh, and of course there’s young Daisy Arthur, who runs the Sunday School. She and the younger children once made a lovely scene representing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.’
‘The purple-headed mountain, the river running by . . .’
‘That’s right. We used fake reeds and a mirror for the river. The reeds were too sharp for the kids, so Daisy asked Mary to put them in.’
‘Yes, I remember. It was really effective.’
‘Daisy might do more flower arranging now—’ she paused — ‘but Nick Melling doesn’t really like flowers in church. Too many middle-class people with time on their hands and money to waste. And you don’t have to be Freud to know that Daisy Arthur has a big-time crush on Nick.’
‘It would be a shame if no one did it. What about you?’
‘Me? You must be joking. Mary Clark would turn in . . .’ Suzy tailed off, then grimaced.
‘It’s all right. I’d rather people said the wrong thing than said nothing. That’s far worse. Anyway, why not you?’
‘I suppose I could. I’m not really the type, but I could have a go sometimes.’
What am I thinking of? Suzy thought. Me, head flower arranger? Successor to Mrs Perfect? Robert was gathering up crushed stems. She said, ‘The paramedics must have trampled all over this stuff.’
‘It was a mess even before they arrived.’
‘But Phyllis was always so tidy. And I still don’t understand about the decoration.’
‘Tom Strickland said she’d cut herself with it. Perhaps that brought on the heart attack.’
‘Phyllis? Cut herself? You must be joking.’
Robert thought, if Tom Strickland has moved the decoration, it wouldn’t do any good to talk about it. No one else had noticed anything amiss. An elderly woman with a heart condition had cut herself flower arranging and had suffered a heart attack. That was all there was to it.
‘We’ll never know, will we? Best not to speculate.’
Suzy shrugged, stooped, and picked up a small sharp pair of scissors with a serrated blade. The metal caught the light, but she noticed that the point was dulled. She peered at it. There was a brownish stain on the tip. Odd, she thought. Mary and Phyllis had been scrupulously careful about wiping and drying tools after use. ‘Rust,’ Mary would say as if talking about the plague. ‘Rust must be avoided.’ One of Phyllis’s cloths was lying over a pew end, so Suzy picked it up and wiped the scissors till they were shiny, before putting them back in the damaged box.
‘I’ll put this in the flower vestry. I suppose it’ll belong to whoever inherits Phyllis’s stuff. She didn’t have any family, did she?’
Robert studied the knot he was tying in the plastic bag. ‘I can’t say,’ he answered shortly.
I’ll shut up then, thought Suzy, feeling dismissed. She couldn’t see what was so undiplomatic about asking what would happen to Phyllis’s belongings. It was a shame because she’d started to enjoy talking to Robert Clark. Again. She closed the box, and wiped her hands on her trousers before running them through her spiky blonde hair. She realized there was slime from the crushed lily stems on her face, and mud on her jumper. Gorgeous, she thought. Exactly the sort of neat, tidy person Mr Perfect would admire! Perhaps it was a good job their conversation had come abruptly to an end.
Behind them she heard voices. Nick Melling and Tom Strickland had both come back into the church. Nick sounded even more forced, his professional clergyman’s voice a few notes higher, and his tone even more strained than usual.
‘Thank you, I’m fine now, Tom, and I’ll certainly be, yeah, brill for lunch. It was just shock. I mean how often does one come in for eight o’clock communion and find a dead person in the church?’
‘I was the one that found her. And I didn’t faint,’ Tom grumbled.
‘Oh, yes, of course. I don’t mean that I found her. It was just a form of words.’ Nick Melling’s bright tone sank under the weight of patience he needed for the less educated members of his flock. ‘And by the way, Tom, I didn’t faint either. I just needed to sit down, and to have a moment of, kinda private prayer. That’s why I went back to the vicarage with the police. After all, you and Robert were in here.’
‘Good thing too,’ rasped Tom Strickland. He thought Nick Melling was a lazy sod on top of everything else. He stamped into the choir vestry at the back of the chancel, where they kept the Parish Council paperwork.
Robert turned back to Suzy. ‘Do you want a lift to the Bells’ for lunch?’ he asked.
‘No thanks, I’d like the walk,’ she answered coldly. If he was going to keep putting her in her place, he could sod off! Then she felt guilty. Her car had demolished his fence only the day before and he’d been very good about it. She turned to say something softer, but Robert had disappeared after Tom Strickland and the vicar.
The full electric lights were on now, pricking the gloom, and outside the day was a monochrome grey. The light through the stained-glass windows was dulled and the church was uniformly dim and exposed, all mystery gone. She looked towards the altar, which was dressed in white for Easter, the most important day of the year. But even from where she was standing she could see that the altar cloth had been pulled sideways to expose the plain trestle beneath. There was a streak of blood across the front of the cloth. How awful! Phyllis must have grabbed at it after cutting her hand.
But it just didn’t figure, she thought. Then she told herself not to imagine things. What had happened was a horrible accident — that was all. And if she was going to get to the Bells’ on foot, it was time to leave the church and to get moving.
She tore her eyes away from the sp
arkling white brocade, but the dark stain lingered like a rip at the back of her eyes.
6
Lunch on Easter Sunday
Thou dost put into our minds good desires, so . . . we may bring the same to good effect.
From the Collect for Easter Day
Half an hour later, Monica Bell called, ‘Now would everyone come into the dining room? Lunch is ready,’ and was relieved to see that, when Alan Robie stood up, the coffee table was undamaged.
‘Where’s the vicar?’ she whispered to Frank as she passed him carrying a big bowl of coleslaw.
‘In the cloakroom, looking down on the unemployed.’
‘Oh Frank, don’t be disgusting.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose he knows what to do with his willy. Is he gay, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know! Daisy Arthur’s after him . . . and of course there’s Yvonne . . .’ Monica raised her eyebrow to Frank and he smiled.
‘She’ll find this one has hard nuts to crack.’
‘Frank!’
Their eyes met with the friendliness of thirty years of marriage. The Bells had hardly spent a night apart, except for ten years earlier when Monica had been in hospital. But as Frank went back to the kitchen to get the garlic bread out of the Aga, his wife felt a shiver of concern. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but Frank had been preoccupied since the previous evening. Thank goodness he seemed to be his old self again now.
Suzy found herself talking to her neighbour from Tarn Acres, Janice Jones.
‘My mum’s minding the children for me for an hour. She’s really upset. She’s known Phyllis Drysdale for years.’
‘I didn’t know you were from Tarnfield!’ Though I should have done from the accent, Suzy thought.
‘Kevin, my husband, isn’t. He’s from Bradford. But my mum farms locally.’