The Fields of Heaven

by Anne Weale

  THE FIELDS OF HEAVEN

  Anne Weale

  When Imelda opened her antique shop, Charles Wingfield expressed doubts about her ability to handle the venture. She assured him, “I can’t be duped by a phony person,” and he replied, “Not as a dealer. As a girl, you might be.”

  Was he right?

  CHAPTER I

  THE night before the wedding, Imelda came home from the office to find her mother sitting, white-faced, at the kitchen table, and a stranger, who turned out to be a policewoman in plain clothes, making a pot of tea.

  It was not the first time that the local police had brought bad news to Margaret Calthorpe. Nine years earlier, when Imelda was eleven, her father had been killed in a road accident, leaving her mother with a rambling Edwardian house in an unfashionable part of London, three dependent children, and no money.

  This time the news was less shocking. The person who had died was Miss Florence Maud Partridge, aged seventy-six, a relation of the late William Calthorpe whom his wife had met only once, long ago, when Imelda was a baby.

  “But apparently we are her next of kin, and there are half a dozen cats and two budgerigars being fed by a neighbour until someone arrives to take charge. Oh, dear, this would happen today of all days!” exclaimed Mrs. Calthorpe distractedly.

  “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll deal with it,” Imelda said calmly.

  “How can you, darling? It means going to Norfolk, and arranging the funeral, and—’

  “I can cope,” Imelda assured her. She turned to the pleasant-faced policewoman. “My mother is getting married in the morning, and she and my stepfather are going to Devon for a fortnight. I’m having a day off tomorrow, and I’m sure my boss will let me take Thursday and Friday as well, when I explain the situation. We have friends who will keep an eye on my younger brother and sister for a few days. If I go to Norfolk tomorrow, immediately after the wedding, and stay there till Sunday afternoon, there’ll be ample time to sort out everything, don’t you think?”

  “I should think so, Miss Calthorpe,” said the policewoman. “A lot depends on whether Miss Partridge left instructions concerning her property, and the pets. It’s always more complicated when people don’t make a will. Our only information is that she was taken ill on Saturday, and died in hospital early this morning. At first she didn’t wish anyone to be notified, but then she changed her mind and gave this address.”

  “I had forgotten about her, poor old soul,” Mrs. Calthorpe confessed. “She was my husband’s mother’s elder sister. She kept a queer little shop, and we visited her once on our way to Sheringham for a holiday. She was wearing clothes which must have belonged to her grandmother, and the house was dark and gloomy, and full of stray cats. She was very eccentric even then!”

  Soon after the policewoman’s departure, the two younger Calthorpes came home with Ben Dereham, their prospective stepfather, who was also John’s mathematics master at the local grammar school.

  John, who had been eight when his father died, was now a six-foot Sixth-Former. Lucy Calthorpe was fifteen, and as cheerfully scatterbrained as her brother was scholarly.

  “Do you think it’s suitable for Imelda to go to Norfolk on her own, Ben?” asked Mrs. Calthorpe, having explained what had happened during their absence.

  It was the first week of the Easter holidays, and John and Lucy had spent the day helping Ben to move his belongings from his flat to their home. Ben was a widower with a married daughter in New Zealand.

  “It won’t be a pleasant task for her, but I’m sure she will tackle it every bit as efficiently as you or I could,” he answered.

  “Anyway, you can’t cancel your honeymoon on account of some half-dotty old lady you didn’t know, Mum,” remarked Lucy.

  Her mother frowned. “Don’t speak callously of her, Lucy. I feel ashamed of forgetting her existence all these years.”

  That night, when Imelda was reading in bed, her mother came to her room on the top floor of the house. Until recently, the three large bedrooms on the first floor had been occupied by the lodgers whose rents, and Imelda’s salary, had formed the family income.

  After they had chatted for a while, Mrs. Calthorpe said, “I must go to bed. I really came up to say thank you for being such a wonderful help to me since Daddy died. You’re such a sensible creature, Melly dear. I’ve relied on you too much, probably. It hasn’t been fair to take the lion’s share of your earnings, and expect you to help with looking after the lodgers.”

  “It wasn’t ‘fair’ for you to be left alone with the three of us,” Imelda said gently. “Now you have Ben to rely on, and I’m planning a grand splurge on clothes,” she added, smiling.

  After her mother had gone, she switched out the light and lay thinking about the changes which her mother’s second marriage would make to her own way of life. As long as she lived at home, she intended to make an appropriate contribution to the household expenses, but it would be lovely to have a larger share of her salary to spend as she pleased.

  In spite of her joking remark, a restricted clothes budget had not been her greatest frustration during the years of stringent economy. She liked to be attractively dressed, but she had never spent her lunch hours browsing in boutiques like many girls in their late teens. There were certain shops which lured her, but they were not dress shops. Unbeknown to her family, Imelda had a secret passion; one which now, at long last, she could indulge. As soon as she came back from Norfolk ...

  Anticipating pleasures in store, she fell asleep.

  At five o’clock the following afternoon, Imelda stood at the bookstall on Liverpool Street Station, casting her eyes over the colourful display of magazines in search of something to read on the two-hour journey to Norwich. The publication which she chose was an expensive, specialised journal to which she had long wished to subscribe, but had had to be content with studying in the Reading Room at the Public Library.

  The train was not due to depart until half past five and, being in good time, she found a corner seat in an unoccupied compartment. After stowing her overnight case on the rack, she took off the scarlet peaked cap she had bought for the wedding, and smoothed her straight, mid-brown hair which was held by a tortoiseshell slide at the nape of her neck.

  John Calthorpe was fair and clever. Lucy was dark and pretty. I have common sense, thought Imelda, with a rueful grin at her reflection in the mirror below the luggage rack.

  In the past, pondering on the different combinations of genes which had caused her to have commonplace hazel eyes instead of Lucy’s long-lashed, deep brown ones, and a brain much less brilliant than her brother’s, Imelda had reached the conclusion that it would have been a disadvantage for her to have been very clever. With a mind like John’s, she would have wanted to go to university, thereby adding to her mother’s financial difficulties instead of reducing them by leaving school early and entering a large insurance office. In five years she had graduated from typist to shorthand-typist to senior secretary. Her job was not an exciting one. Often it was rather dull work. But it was well paid which, up to now, had been the main thing.

  And now, if I wished, I could change to a different sort of office, she reflected, relaxing in her corner, and thinking of her mother and Ben whose train had left Paddington Station a couple of hours ago.

  At this point the carriage door was opened by a slim, well-dressed, white-haired woman who, judging by her lack of luggage, had been to London for the day. She smiled briefly at Imelda as she settled herself in the opposite corner. Then she disappeared behind an evening newspaper. With an unaccustomed and delightful feeling of luxury, Imelda opened her magazine.

  Immersed in its pages, she was only dimly aware that the train was crowded to Chelmsford where it disgorged
a large number of commuters. At Colchester, she and the woman opposite were left alone in the compartment.

  Imelda had not been out of London for ten years. After her father’s death, there had been no money to spare for the seaside holidays of her early childhood. As the train sped through rural Suffolk, she let the magazine fall to her lap, and gazed in some wonderment at the April landscape, sprinkled with isolated houses. Living in crowded London, one tended to forget that, in spite of the population explosion and the spreading network of motorways, large parts of provincial England were still green and pleasant.

  A steward passed along the corridor, reminding passengers that tea was obtainable in the buffet car. Imelda and the woman opposite rose to their feet at the same moment. As Imelda subsided to allow the older woman to go first, her travelling companion indicated the magazine, and said, “I see you are a collector. So am I. What is your line?”

  Rather startled by this unexpected overture, Imelda said frankly, “I can’t afford to buy real antiques. I have a small collection of buttonhooks, but they’re only ‘junk’, I’m afraid.”

  “Not at all. Buttonhooks are charming,” answered the woman. “I often have to resist them when I’m hunting for the things which I collect. Shall we introduce ourselves, and have tea together? I’m Elizabeth Wingfield.

  “This is an unexpected treat,” she remarked presently, when they were sharing a table for two in the buffet car. “I love to compare notes, but, living in the depths of Norfolk, I meet very few other collectors. One gossips with dealers, of course, but it isn’t quite the same thing. You’re not getting off at Ipswich, I hope?”

  “I’m going to Norwich.”

  “Oh, good, then we’ve plenty of time. Is Norwich your home?”

  “No, I live in London. What do you collect, Mrs. Wingfield?”

  “My main interest is in antique sewing tools. Do you know the kind of things I mean? Little acorn-shaped thimble cases, and ivory cotton barrels, and pretty mother-of-pearl thread-winders. What I want most of all is a hemming bird, but they are very hard to find. I’ve been searching for one for several years. Tell me about your buttonhooks. How many have you?”

  “Only thirty,” Imelda replied. “The hooks with silver handles are usually a pound or more, which has been too expensive for me. I have one folding hook which looks at first glance like a penknife. The handle is engraved mother-of-pearl, and I had to pay seventy pence for it. But most of my collection are steel hooks with slogans stamped on them, and they seldom cost more than ten pence.”

  “How interesting. What sort of slogans?” asked Mrs. Wingfield.

  “Victorian advertising slogans. A common one is ‘The Wood-Milne Rubber Heel Pad - Double Comfort and Life of Boots’,” Imelda explained.

  Some minutes after they returned to the compartment, the ticket collector entered. “Did you know you are in the Second Class, madam?” he asked Mrs. Wingfield, when she surrendered her ticket.

  “Yes, I did, thank you, Inspector.” When he had gone, she said to Imelda, “This train is less crowded than usual. I find a day in London so tiring nowadays that I generally travel First Class to be sure of a seat. However, as I arrived at Liverpool Street, I caught sight of a woman I know, and she’s such a terrible bore. So I came in here to avoid her, and have had the undeserved pleasure of talking to you. The taxi service at the station at Norwich is not as good as it might be. My grandson will be there to meet me. Will you be met, or can we give you a lift, my dear?”

  Imelda shook her head. “It’s very kind of you, but I think I can catch a bus to where I’m going. It’s about fifteen miles outside Norwich.”

  Mrs. Wingfield looked doubtful. “The country buses are not as frequent as they used to be when fewer people had private cars. Where are you going?”

  Imelda told her, and Mrs. Wingfield exclaimed. “But we live only two miles from there. I shouldn’t dream of leaving you to wait for the bus.”

  The train was a long one, and they were in a rear carriage, which gave them a long walk down the platform when the train arrived at Thorpe Station.

  “Ah, I can see Charles,” said Mrs. Wingfield, with a pleased expression, as they approached the barrier. “Oh ... Beatrix is with him,” she added.

  The tall, dark man who bent to kiss her cheek, and take her parcels, was older than Imelda had anticipated. She had expected the grandson to be about twenty. This man was thirty or more. She was mistaken also in taking the woman for his wife.

  Mrs. Wingfield introduced her as Mrs. Otley, and added, “Beatrix is an antique dealer, but she sells fine furniture and porcelain, no Victoriana or bits and pieces such as I collect.” She turned to her grandson. “Miss Calthorpe is going in our direction, and is not being met, so I’ve offered her a lift with us.”

  “By all means,” he replied, with stiff politeness. “Let me take your bag for you, Miss Calthorpe.”

  His unsmiling courtesy was in marked contrast to the warmth of his grandmother’s personality. Mrs. Otley, too, struck Imelda as rather aloof. She was dressed with casual elegance and emanated an expensive French fragrance which was more noticeable in the car.

  A glimpse of a Norman castle was the only memorable detail of Imelda’s first impression of Norwich. When they had left the city behind, Mrs. Wingfield broke off a conversation with her grandson, and turned to look at Imelda who was sitting behind him.

  “Where exactly are you staying, Miss Calthorpe? We know most people in our part of the county. Possibly we know your friends.”

  “I’m going to stay at Miss Partridge’s house. The Miss Partridge who died in hospital yesterday.”

  For some seconds there was a hush. Then, unexpectedly, since she had been sitting in silence, not troubling to make any polite small-talk, Mrs. Otley said, “Do you mean that extraordinary old person who owns the shop full of dust and cobwebs and mice droppings? I didn’t know she was dead. Are you a relation?”

  “Miss Partridge was my father’s aunt. I never knew her,” said Imelda.

  “But, my dear child, you can’t mean to stay there,” exclaimed Mrs. Wingfield. “I’ve known Miss Partridge for years, since her mother was alive. In those days the house was spotless. But now! You can’t possibly sleep there. Heaven knows what a state it must be in.”

  “I expect there’s a pub, isn’t there? Or perhaps the neighbour will put me up. The one who is taking care of the cats.”

  “That will be Bessie Medlar,” said Mrs. Wingfield. “I don’t think she has a spare room, and none of our three public houses does bed and breakfast any more. It’s a very small market town, you see, and too near to Norwich to need a hotel of its own. Never mind: you must spend the night with us.”

  Imelda began to protest that she could not impose on them, but Mrs. Wingfield brushed aside her objections, and assured her that they always kept a room ready for an unexpected guest, and would be delighted to have her.

  “You say you never knew Miss Partridge?” remarked Mrs. Otley.

  “The last time my parents saw her, I was a baby. My father is dead, and it’s impossible for my mother to come to Norfolk at present, so I’m here to see about the funeral, and to find homes for the cats,” explained Imelda.

  “Are there no other relations?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “We’re nearly there,” said Mrs. Wingfield. “Would you like to look at the house tonight, or would it be better to wait until tomorrow morning?”

  “There’s little point in stopping now. There’s no electric light in the place, and the oil lamps may not be working. The old girl was reputed to go to bed before it was dark,” said Charles Wingfield.

  His tone had a briskness which might be characteristic, but which made Imelda suspect that not only was he thinking of his evening meal, but that he felt his grandmother was too quick to offer hospitality to strangers.

  “Yes, you’re right. I’d forgotten that,” agreed Mrs. Wingfield. “But slow down as we go past, Charles, so that Miss Calthor
pe can at least see the place.”

  Imelda’s introduction to her great-aunt’s property was a daunting sight at the end of a long, tiring day. The small town — a mere village, to a Londoner’s eyes — was an unplanned conglomeration of the building styles of several centuries. The bank and the chemist’s shop were next door to each other in a Georgian terrace. A butcher and a hairdresser had premises in a row of thatched cottages, and the Post Office was a red brick Edwardian villa. The late Miss Partridge had lived in a small, double-fronted house with an almost indecipherable fascia board above the bow window to the right of the shabby front door. The house was separated from the busy main road only by the width of the pavement, and the light from the nearby street lamp showed that the panes of the downstairs windows were begrimed by a long accumulation of summer dust and winter wet flung up by the wheels of passing traffic. The upper windows were veiled by Nottingham lace curtains which, even from a distance, looked as if they had not been washed for five or ten years.

  “It looks rather eerie, doesn’t it?” remarked Mrs. Wingfield, in the few minutes that the car was at a standstill on the opposite side of the road. “But early Victorian houses are usually very solidly built. I daresay that, cleaned and painted, it would look altogether different.”

  “It needs more than paint to make it habitable,” said Beatrix Otley. “When I first came here, I made some enquiries about it. It has not been modernised since it was built. There’s a privy at the bottom of the garden.”

  At this point, Charles Wingfield took his foot off the brake and drove on. By now the spring dusk had deepened into darkness, and as far as Imelda could judge they drove another two or three miles by way of minor roads before he swung the car between two tall brick gateposts surmounted by weathered stone urns. Inside the gateway was a lodge house with a small white-fenced garden and picket gate. Here he stopped the car, and climbed out and walked round to open the door for Mrs. Otley.

  “Goodnight, Elizabeth. Goodnight, Miss Calthorpe,” she said.