by Alan Beechey
“A sad occasion for such a delightful encounter, dear lady,” said Scroop. “Frankly, most of us in the club were surprised the old sod was still alive. Dennis told me once, many moons ago, that he’d never expected to make it past seventy-five, so he’d planned all his pensions and annuities to run out five years ago. Goodness knows what he’s been living on. Country air and the beauty of his neighbors, I presume.” He bowed slightly to Chloe, ignored Oliver, and strutted into the church, stooping unnecessarily in the doorway to imply that he was even taller than his six-foot stature.
“He’s very charming,” Chloe said, smoothing her close-cropped gray hair, but Oliver’s mind was on other matters. If Dennis was out of money, how could he pay a blackmailer? Was that why self-slaughter was his only option when he opened that letter, even before he knew the amount of the vig? Could have been dead for a ducat.
More people were following Scroop into the church, all Synne residents, identified by Chloe:
“Woman who runs the village post office, lesbian but not in a way that would interest you…
“Local gynecologist, also village peeping Tom—well, one of them…
“Retired PR guru, tried to boost Synne’s profile by renaming it ‘Synne!’ Came up with the slogan ‘It’s the end of the Wold as we know it.’
“Relic of the sixties satire boom. Famous for not being famous. Claims he’s the Ninth Python and the Fourteenth Beatle…”
From inside the church, Sidney Weguelin began a meandering improvisation on the organ. Oliver noticed the same small, elderly man he’d seen stepping out of the village shop on Saturday, now observing the church from the other side of the lane. Where had he seen him before?
“Who’s that one?”
“What one?”
“The man standing in the street. I know him from somewhere.”
Chloe peered across the lane, but the man was gone.
“I didn’t see anyone,” she said with a shrug.
The arrivals continued, including Davina Bennet as the representative of her clan, accompanied by vulgarian Eric Mormal. A stout woman in her early forties followed them and nodded to Chloe.
“Maudie Purifoy,” Chloe whispered. “Art dealer, late-in-life single mother, convinced her only son is a four-year-old genius. One of these women who uses the phrase ‘who is gifted’ all the time, as if it’s the kid’s middle name. You know: ‘My son, Hugo, who is gifted…Hugo Who Is Gifted…’ Never had that problem with my kids. She’s in the vicar’s writers’ group—she’s trying to get Hugo W.I.G. to dictate his memoirs.”
“Writers’ group?”
“A handful of locals, all working on some book or other, meet in the vicarage once a month to critique each other’s work. Very exclusive.”
The party from the Swithin house came into view over the churchyard wall…Bob striding ahead, Tim and Phoebe Mallard walking with Effie, who’d borrowed a simple black dress from Eve Swithin’s closet, and Toby bringing up the rear staring at Effie’s. A hearse was also approaching, drifting slowly along the narrow lane, followed by a large, black limousine.
“Hey, there’s an idea,” said Chloe. “You’re a visiting author. Get the vicar to invite you to talk to the group. I think there’s a meeting this week.”
“Well…”
“Go on, they’d be all over you. Just tell Mr. Edwards you’ve heard about their activities and you’d like to join in for an evening. He’ll be tickled pink, but being him, he’ll make it sound like he doesn’t want you there at first. Tell him you know what it’s all about and that you’d really like to see what they’re doing. Oh, Ollie, it’ll be good for you—everyone likes an audience. Effie can spare you for a while, I’m sure.”
“I’m certainly getting used to it,” Effie said as she reached them. She slipped her hand into the crook of Oliver’s arm. He squeezed it with his other hand, but he was watching the limousine, now disgorging the distant kin of Uncle Dennis: a couple of older women, closing in on Dennis’s age, whose permed, thinning white hair, blue plastic glasses, frowns, and plain Marks & Spencer raincoats made up the uniform of their years; a middle-aged married couple, the portly husband uncomfortable in his suit, the bony wife uncomfortable in her life; and a slew of their overweight, unruly children, whom the couple succeeded in ignoring almost as expertly as they ignored each other.
The visitors wore their dissatisfaction with the world almost like a proud campaign medal. Were these the guardians of the Breedlove family secret, the insiders to the blessed plot? Was the haste over the funeral just their impatience to find out what was in Uncle Dennis’s will—not much, if Scroop is to be believed?
“We’d better go in,” said Chloe, as the relatives formed a loose knot behind the coffin. The Reverend Mr. Edwards himself, cassocked and surpliced, passed them in the opposite direction and stepped out into the sunlight to greet the funeral party.
The Swithin family found an empty pew near the middle of the church, giving Oliver a good view of the thirteenth-century doom painting above the altar, a well-preserved decoration that had been carried over to the current building from its Norman predecessor. An emaciated, mildew-stained Christ sat enthroned on judgment day, flanked by the kneeling images of his mother and the Apostle John. Scattered below them were the naked figures of the judged, rising from graves and either being led by angels into a celestial city or getting tortured and devoured by demons. It could have been a scene from a television talent show.
Given that most artists of the day worked for religious orders, Oliver was always intrigued by how frequently their holy subjects gave them an excuse to conjure gruesome images of blood-drenched torment for the damned, plus some well-drawn derrieres. Sex and violence on the church wall, the medieval equivalent of late-night TV. The artistry made him think again of Effie’s athletic posterior, moving ahead of him in the moonlight on Synne Common, or as he’d last seen it that morning when she was wandering unselfconsciously through the bedroom, wearing only a tight pink t-shirt.
The previous evening had been yet another sexual washout. Effie was clearly still chafing from his absence during the day, so to help the atmosphere, Oliver had found a radio station playing romantic songs that he’d left on at bedtime. The kissing and casual stroking stage was promising, and he was about to make the next move when the program broke for a news broadcast, ushering in reports of a flood in Bangladesh, wildfires in California, and National Health Service waiting lists for hernia operations. He leaped from the bed and groped in the dark for the radio’s off-switch, overturning the bedside lamp and spilling a glass of water over his side of the duvet. But by then, the bounce had gone out of their bungee.
The congregation in the church rose, and Uncle Dennis himself made the slow journey down the nave behind the vicar, who was holding a lit candle. The coffin was placed on wooden trestles, and the Breedlove relatives sidled into a reserved pew in front of the altar rail. Two of the children began a pillow fight with hassocks.
The vicar carried it off well. After prayers and a hymn, he delivered a brief address, making just two approving references to the ancient habit of burying suicides at a crossroads and ignoring the moment when an entire bag of candies spilled out of the front pew, although he did glower slightly as the unmistakable aroma of a McDonalds Happy Meal started to spread through the church. Whoever had briefed him on Dennis Breedlove’s life had covered all the salient points that Oliver already knew, but added nothing fresh.
Oliver gazed around the nave. The relatives were too far forward to see their faces, but Breedlove’s neighbors showed a mix of solemnity, boredom, and slight amusement. Even Oliver’s mother and her sister wore identical faint smiles, as if contemplating the late author’s heavenly reward. Assuming, that is, he qualified for the next round, eschatologically. Nobody was weeping, although Toby would win the prize for the saddest expression.
The service continued, brief, with
no eulogies or tributes. After a final series of prayers, the vicar took up a position at the far end of the coffin.
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace…” Edwards began.
There was an odd noise from the opposite end of the church, like a snappish release of compressed air coming from the vicinity of the font. In the solemnity of the moment, nobody dared move. Edwards glared at something and began again.
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,” he repeated, but the sound came again—somebody trying to attract his attention with a loud “pssst.”
The mourners began to look for the source. An elderly man was tiptoeing slowly down the aisle, adopting that hunched gait that people think makes them invisible, even after fifty pairs of eyes had fallen upon him. He was wearing old, worn clothes, and his trousers were stained with mud.
“Not the best time, Mr. Sowerbutts,” said the vicar through clenched teeth, as if, in his turn, a semblance of ventriloquism might persuade the congregation that he hadn’t really spoken.
“Sowerbutts, the sexton,” Chloe whispered into Oliver’s ear.
“Sorry, your worship,” said Sowerbutts, stopping in the center of the church. He had removed his cap and was nervously kneading it in both hands. “But would I be right in thinking you’re going to stick him in the ground right away?”
It was the genuine local accent of Synne. Shakespeare would have spoken like Sowerbutts—Stratford Will, anyway.
“We are proceeding immediately to the committal, yes,” said the vicar firmly, with a glance of apology toward the relatives’ pew. A small female occupant said “penis” to him and dissolved into chuckles.
“Ah,” confirmed the sexton, but stayed where he was. He smacked his lips. “Any chance of a bit of delay, vicar?”
“A bit of a delay?”
“Well, he’s not in a hurry, is he?” Sowerbutts nodded toward the coffin. There were some mild, controlled sniggers. Edwards took a step toward the sexton, but skidded on a candy.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Sowerbutts?”
“I told you, your reverence. It’s the grave.”
“The grave? What’s the matter with the grave?”
“Well, it was fine last night, sir.”
Most of the congregation had now given up all attempts to preserve the solemnity of the occasion. Many were pressing handkerchiefs to their mouths.
“I haven’t been drinking, your grace,” protested the sexton. Some mourners broke into open laughter. Davina Bennet took out her iPhone and began to text rapidly.
Edwards tried to exert some priestly authority by clapping his hand several times. The small children in the family pew picked up the cue and burst into applause, which didn’t cover the noise of a beer can being opened by their father.
“But you did dig the grave, Mr. Sowerbutts?” Edwards resumed wearily.
“Oh, yes, I dug it all right, your grace.”
“Splendid.”
“Ah, but where is it now?” Sowerbutts tapped the end of his nose and winked at his audience.
“What?”
“Old Mr. Breedlove’s grave, vicar. Where is it now?”
“Well, where you left it, you idiot!” yelled Edwards, immediately followed by a guilty glance across his shoulder at the picture of Christ in judgment. But the damage was done—every new utterance was now greeted as raucously as if the event were an Eddie Izzard stand-up. Even the sexton’s name was a cause of joy with each repetition. Some mourners were leaning against each other in helpless mirth. Maudie Purifoy hastily exited her pew and headed for the church toilet.
Well, thought Oliver, they’re weeping at last. Like Niobe, all tears.
“That’s just it, your highness,” Sowerbutts resumed. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Edwards shrieked.
“Yes, squire. Somebody’s stolen it.”
Chapter Nine
Tuesday morning (continued)
“Do you think I should call the police, Superintendent Mallard?” Edwards asked nervously. “Officially, I mean. Though I hate to bother Constable Bostar. He gets so cross if you disturb him during his soap operas.”
“If you think about a freshly dug grave,” pondered Mallard, contemplating the intended site of Dennis Breedlove’s last resting place, “it’s not a thing.” He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and jingled the loose change. “It’s an absence. A hole. Somebody stole a hole. And I’m not at all sure that particular fault is a crime.”
“A bit like the Grand Canyon,” Oliver offered.
“You can’t steal the Grand Canyon.”
“No, but every year, millions of tourists trek out to Arizona to see a big, long, deep hole. They don’t go there because of what’s there, but because of what’s not there that should most decidedly be there. A pregnant negative, as Toby would say. Like the curious case of the dog in the nighttime.”
Mallard shot him an exasperated glance. “Now, if the earth taken out of the grave had been stolen, you might have a crime,” he continued, philosophically. “But there it is.”
The three men stared at the pile of soil that Sowerbutts had deposited, a yard or so from the original hole. The hole itself was plainly outlined, a long oblong surrounded by grass, but it had been filled to the brim with dark earth.
When it became clear that the funeral could not continue, Edwards had rapidly blessed the congregation and asked some of his less judgmental parishioners to escort the Hull contingent to one of the village pubs for lunch. Most of the churchgoers had staggered gleefully back to their homes at the same time, leaving Dennis Breedlove’s remains alone in the nave. Effie had chosen to walk back with the Swithins.
It was obvious to Mallard what had happened. The way to the grave was an overgrown, brambly path that weaved between the tombstones, tricky for the pallbearers, even harder for a half-dozen trips with a wheelbarrow full of damp earth, and besides, there were no fresh wheel tracks through the grass. But the gravesite was next to the low drystone wall that surrounded the churchyard. If a lorry or tractor had pulled up on the other side, it would have been fairly simple for one or two men to shovel the dirt over the low wall and into the open grave. A clump of dense bushes would have hidden them from the lane.
“A practical joke, I suppose,” Edwards remarked. “Someone with an antic disposition. Like those fellows who make crop circles with a plank of wood and hope we’ll think they’re landing strips for flying saucers. Although there’s no reason why a believer should pooh-pooh the possibility of alien visitors outright. There are more things in heaven and earth, as it were, and in fact some people believe the shining angel messengers mentioned in our New Testament are actually men in spacesuits—”
“I’d get your sexton to dig it out again,” Mallard cut in. He knew the vicar’s conversational style. “Then you can get the burial done before Breedlove’s people go back to Hull or Hell, whichever they hail from.”
Mallard and Oliver turned away from the grave, or lack thereof, and walked back toward the church. “Well?” Oliver said, once the vicar was out of earshot.
Mallard shrugged without stopping or looking back. “A prank, like the vicar said. Half of the village was here. Great audience. Put the ‘fun’ in ‘funeral.’”
“You don’t believe that. If it’s a practical joke, why not just dump back the dirt that Sowerbutts dug out? There’s more to this. We have a man being blackmailed with a letter that mentions plots and digging up the past. And now here’s a plot—his plot, his private plot—that’s been dug over. Coincidence?”
“They do occur.”
“Oh, come on, Uncle Tim. It’s evidently a message of some kind. Someone has unfinished business with Dennis Breedlove, which didn’t end with his death.”
“So you say.”
“You don’t think the blackmailer’s still on the sc
ene? You don’t think that’s who filled up the grave last night, after old Sowerbutts had gone? You don’t think he was sitting in that church, enjoying the mirth in funeral with the rest of us?”
Mallard halted. “Ollie, I have no idea,” he said. “And I’m really not concerned. Just because you’re bored witless out here in the wilds of Warwickshire, you don’t have to drag everyone else into your private fantasies. And incidentally, Hyacinthe McCaw would tell you that a thwarted blackmailer would be too wary and just too bloody embarrassed to turn up at the burial of a victim.”
“If you’re not concerned, why did you send me to Dr. McCaw?”
“So she could convince you that it’s impossible to identify the blackmailer from the text of that first letter.”
“Then Dennis’s killer gets away with it?”
“Dennis killed himself!” spluttered Mallard.
“So you say.”
Mallard took a deep breath and perched on a tilted headstone. “My dear nephew,” he continued, plucking burrs from his trousers, “you knew the victim only slightly, you happened to discover his body. That’s not enough to spur any dull revenge. Leave the investigation to the excellent Sergeant Culpepper and pay attention to poor Effie instead.”
“Effie?”
“She’s taken more than a week of her precious holiday entitlement to be with your family, and so far, you seem to have arranged an evening of abuse and embarrassment, left her for two days in the company of an unnecessarily handsome houseguest, and then treated her to a funeral. Not much joy for her.”
Oliver realized with sudden dismay that his uncle was right. Poor Effie. “I could take her somewhere nice after lunch,” he ventured, after a moment’s contemplation.
“She told me she’s never been to Stratford-upon-Avon.”