This Private Plot

by Alan Beechey

  “Let’s hope we are, too. Okay, who do you know who lives in Synne?”

  “Apart from you and me?” Oliver answered, with a slight snort of laughter. Simon Culpepper was right, it was still funny. Although it didn’t apply to their sexless time in the country. No sin in Synne so far. Maybe their luck would change tonight? After witnessing his charismatic guest-star appearance at the vicar’s writers’ group, Effie was bound to be overcome with lust. And his gentleman’s area was starting to recover from the previous day’s assault.

  “I hardly know anybody,” he continued. “A smattering of neighbors and my mother’s cronies. The landlord of the local pub. The vicar. Vic, the village voyeur. No, he’s the peeping Tom, the voyeur’s the other one. Police Constable Bostar, I suppose. The Bennets, if you stretch it to Pigsneye. Eric Mormal, God forbid. But there’s a constant influx of professional people who want to escape to the smiling and beautiful countryside. They’re the ones most likely to provide fodder for a blackmailer. And they’re strangers to me. Although I do have one potential candidate.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “It was an idea that struck me yesterday. Do you recall the vicar introducing us to Lesbia Weguelin, the verger?”

  “Vividly. Not much to say for herself. Clearly wearing a wig.”

  “Ah good, you thought so, too. And did you happen to notice her husband, Sidney, the church organist, at the funeral yesterday morning?”

  “Not really. He was already playing when we arrived. Did I get an odd impression of the wrong kind of beard?”

  “That’s him. Too much facial furniture, like he’s hiding behind it. Same with the missus—big glasses, thick makeup.”

  “You think Dennis Breedlove was threatening to report them to the Taste Police?”

  “No,” Oliver replied. He swallowed. “I think they’re the same person.”

  “Go on,” she said warily.

  “Well, first, they seem to be about the same height and weight, which is hard to disguise. Second, they both wear as much stuff on their faces as they can for their gender. Third, notwithstanding the previous point, they have the same-shaped pointy nose and firm jawline. And fourth, Lesbia has a deep voice and Sidney has a weak handshake.”

  “So Lesbia’s a bit butch, and Sidney’s a cissy. That’s still two people, not one. Does Lesbia have an Adam’s apple? Is Sidney taping down a pair of size C boobs under his waistcoat? Where’s the evidence?”

  “Okay, Lesbia came over to the house this morning, and she acted as though she’d never met me before. Why’s she so standoffish, all of a sudden?”

  “Because you completely failed to make an impression on her the first time?”

  Oliver shook his head. “She/he senses that I’m on to them. Him. Her. Hem. And so was Dennis Breedlove.” He tapped the copy of Breedlove’s book, lying on the grass between them. “I think they’re Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

  “I thought you said there was only one of them?”

  “That’s the point. That’s why they fit that particular poem.”

  Effie reached for the book of nursery rhymes and found the page. She read Carroll’s words aloud.

  “Tweedledum and Tweedledee

  Agreed to have a battle

  For Tweedledum said Tweedledee

  Had spoiled his nice new rattle.

  Just then flew down a monstrous crow,

  As black as a tar-barrel,

  Which frightened both the heroes so,

  They quite forgot their quarrel.”

  “Don’t see the fit,” she said.

  “It’s possible that Uncle Dennis was thinking of Lewis Carroll’s treatment of them in Through the Looking Glass—and Tenniel’s illustration—as two identical, portly schoolboys.”

  “But that’s still two people.”

  “Well, Sidney’s trying to be two people.”

  “Two people who are as unalike as possible—a thin bearded man and a chubby woman. Not two people who are indistinguishable.”

  “Ah, but there’s more. Dennis Breedlove was an expert in children’s literature. So he would have known about the origin of the Tweedles. It goes back to the early eighteenth century, when a great rivalry developed between the German composer Handel and the Italian composer Bononcini, both working in London. The poet John Byrom, whom most people now think of as a misprint, wrote a satirical epigram about the disagreement from the viewpoint of a tone-deaf Philistine who couldn’t hear why one composer’s music was so much better than the other’s. ‘Strange all this Difference should be/’Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!’ He meant those nonsense words to represent the sound of rococo music to his untrained ears, like ‘tra-la-la’ or ‘oom-pah oom-pah.’”

  “It’s still about similarities, not differences.” Effie stifled a yawn and turned to another bookmarked page, the victim who was targeted three years earlier.

  “Jack and Jill went up the hill

  To fetch a pail of water.

  Jack fell down and broke his crown,

  And Jill came tumbling after.”

  “Okay, that could also be Lesbia and Sidney,” Oliver cut in. “Jack and Jill, two sides of the same coin, linked forever in their activities—Jack can’t even fall down a hill without Jill, of necessity, tumbling after him. It’s clearly them.”

  Effie looked at him silently, and then turned to the next rhyme. “And starting two years ago, we had ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary…’”

  “You don’t have to go any further,” Oliver interrupted. “That must be Lesbia and Sidney. ‘Mary, Mary,’ the same person mentioned twice—and her contrary nature is emphasized.” He laughed complacently. “And Uncle Tim said it would be hard to find the victims from the rhymes.”

  Effie smacked his head with the book. “Oliver, sometimes you’re the pinprick in the contraceptive of life.” She lay back and stared at the sky.

  “I’ll try to accept it, of course,” she continued, a slight catch in her voice. “On those days when my friends ask ‘Where did Oliver disappear to?’ and I’m forced to reply ‘He’s going to his mother’s closet.’”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’re clearly obsessed with cross-dressing. First it was that Oona in Plumley, who was really Barry, and now you want to dress Sidney up as Lesbia. All I ask, dearest Oliver, is that you spare me from public shame. A twinset and pearls I could take, in the privacy of our home. But if I ever find you performing in falsies and a liberty bodice in some seedy Aldgate drag club calling yourself The Lady Vulveeta, it’s off.”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Of course, if it is off, it’d probably be off anyway.”

  He launched himself onto her, and there were a few moments of painless, good-humored wrestling, before they lay back again, breathless and happy with each other.

  “Okay, what’s next?” he asked.

  Effie picked up the book again. “One year ago. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”

  “Ah yes, another poem, not a nursery rhyme, with an actual author and several forgotten verses.” He sang the first verse to its familiar tune.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  How I wonder what you are!

  Up above the world you fly,

  Like a diamond in the sky!”

  “If you’re going to hijack the reading, you could at least get it right,” Effie complained. “That third line is ‘Up above the world so high.’ I don’t know where you got ‘you fly’ from.”

  “My fault.” He thought for a second. “Oh, it’s from Lewis Carroll’s parody, which the Hatter sings during the mad tea party.”

  “Well, at least you’re not trying to make out a case for your new girlfriend Sidney with this one. Just remember that I’d prefer you to ask before you try on my lingerie.”

  Oliver whispered the phrase “How I wonder what you are!” to himself.r />
  “And our fifth and final entry is, presumably, the victim who never knew that he or she was a victim. It’s a finger-play rhyme.” Effie put the book down and sat up straight, with her hands clasped in front of her face, fingers interlocked inwards.

  “Here is the church.”

  She lifted her index fingers until their tips were touching.

  “And here is the steeple.”

  She moved her thumbs apart.

  “Open the doors.”

  And then in one movement, she turned both hands palm upward, revealing wiggling fingertips.

  “And see all the people.”

  “Okay, Ollie,” she said, looking at her wristwatch and faking a sports commentator’s cadences, “you have thirty seconds to find all the transvestite references there. Go! Tick, tick, tick…Church, yes, Sid and Les both work at the church. Steeple, no, no steeple on the parish church, but it’s probably a phallic symbol, so we’re still in the game. Do it, England! Open the door—an obvious reference to the Weguelins’ bedroom, are they hiding in two closets or just the one? See all the—uh-oh—people. People plural. ‘All the people,’ not ‘both the people,’ so it’s not just two, we’re losing points, the clock is running down, and unless they’re in the church to pray for hormone therapy, I’d say the number’s up for this plucky little verse. Bzzzz! There’s the final buzzer, and once again, England has failed to qualify.”

  She managed the final sentence between convulsive giggles, because Oliver had jumped on her a second time and was attempting to tickle her into silence, always dimly aware that she could bring the encounter to an abrupt and painful end if she wished. Fortunately, she didn’t. They concluded the tussle with a prolonged and intrusive kiss that was just damp enough. Then they brushed the grass and dust from their clothes, and headed downhill in the late afternoon sunshine.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wednesday evening

  The Reverend Gibeon Edwards met them at the door of the vicarage, an ugly late-Victorian pile charitably screened from St. Edmund and St. Crispin across the lane by a high wall and two stubborn sycamore trees. They were late for the writers’ group meeting, largely because Oliver had spent the previous hour loitering outside the Weguelins’ small cottage, pretending to exploit a stray hotspot for his iPod.

  The vicar was still wearing his long black cassock, but with bare feet showing beneath the hem—a mark of humility, Oliver wondered? He deflected their apologies in his usual manner. “You’re by no means the last, and we come and go at will, as the mood takes us, and if we can’t celebrate our individuality in this venue, where else can we? Punctuality is surely one of the most overrated virtues, I always…”

  He trailed off. A middle-aged man had slipped into the entrance hall. The man stopped when he caught sight of Oliver and Effie, but Edwards drew him forward.

  “This is Hartley Vavasoeur, one of our founder members, if you’ll pardon the pun.” (“What pun?” thought Oliver.)

  “This is a little irregular,” said Vavasoeur directly to Edwards, although he was gazing at Effie.

  “It’s quite all right, Hartley,” soothed Edwards. “Oliver and Effie are of our persuasion and are most anxious to contribute.”

  “Actually, this kind of event is new to me, Mr. Vavasoeur,” said Effie. “But don’t worry, I don’t plan to hold back.”

  Vavasoeur broke into a broad smile. “Then why are we standing here talking?”

  “Perhaps you can show our guests the drill,” said Edwards, turning to a side table and bringing over a tray. “Do take a glass of wine. Rather a different situation from when I usually present wine to my parishioners.”

  They each accepted a glass, and Vavasoeur led them into a small drawing room, furnished with closed curtains and low lighting. Upholstered benches stood against the walls, some of them occupied by piles of neatly folded clothes, which Oliver assumed were donations for a jumble sale.

  “Is this where we meet?” asked Effie, puzzled that they were the only occupants of the room.

  “Oh, no, this is where we get ready for our grand entrance,” said Vavasoeur, sitting in a clear space on one of the benches. He indicated a pair of double doors. Faint music could be heard and the odd muffled grunt of appreciation, no doubt for a fellow member’s way with words. Vavasoeur began to untie his shoelaces. Oliver and Effie, knowing that the removal of shoes was a gesture of respect in many households, sat down and followed suit.

  “So what are you writing, Mr. Vavasoeur?” Oliver asked.

  “Writing?” the older man replied, bent over as he took off his shoes followed by his socks. Were bare feet also a requirement? Edwards had been barefoot beneath his cassock.

  “Yes. The book you’re going to discuss tonight.”

  Vavasoeur sat up and stared at Oliver. Then a smile crept across his face.

  “Oh, you mean my cover. Nice one.”

  Well, thought Oliver, many would-be authors do plan a long way ahead, but a cover design is a little premature if you haven’t yet put a single word on paper.

  “Confusables,” Vavasoeur stated, removing his jacket. The vicar certainly did have the heat cranked up, Oliver noted, taking a sip of wine. He slipped off his own corduroy sports jacket, somewhat reluctantly, because he felt it bolstered his self-image as the wildly successful yet still humble storyteller. This had the minor advantage of being utterly true; legal action over the illustrations for the Railway Mice series meant his interim royalties were still only a tiny percentage of the books’ enormous sales. Effie put her thin cotton cardigan to the side.

  “Confusables?” Oliver repeated.

  “Yeah. A book for children. Explaining the crucial differences between commonly confused things. Such as an alligator and a crocodile. Or a seal and a sea lion.” He undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie.

  “Oh, I see. That’s quite good.” Time for Oliver to switch on his role as the established author, generous with ideas. “You could include some very basic things. Such as a bowl versus a dish. A pond and a lake.”

  “Yeah, that’d do.” Vavasoeur took off the tie and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. He laid them on the bench beside him.

  “Or a horse and donkey,” Oliver continued.

  “S’pose.”

  “A frog and a toad,” added Effie, trying to ignore the obvious fact that Vavasoeur was unzipping his flies and beginning to take off his trousers. She took a large gulp of wine.

  “A boat and a ship. A kangaroo and a wallaby,” Oliver offered, with increasing apprehension. “A cashew and a penis. A peanut, I mean.”

  Vavasoeur had removed his underpants and was standing stark naked in front of them.

  “Yeah, all good stuff, Chiefy,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t wait all night for you two to get stripped for action. Don’t be too long, Effie.”

  He winked at her, picked up his glass, and headed for the double doors. As they opened, the noise level rose briefly, including the sighs of satisfaction with what Oliver was beginning to suspect was not a well-rounded phrase.

  He and Effie sat together in uncomfortable silence.

  “Oliver,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Is it me, or is there something funny going on?”

  “Oh, you spotted that too?”

  “When you’ve been on the force as long I have…” She finished her glass of wine.

  “Do you think I should find out what’s happening?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.” She reached for Oliver’s wineglass.

  He stepped over to the doors, took in a deep breath, and opened one slightly. Across the adjacent room, the sweating face of Maudie Purifoy, mother of Hugowhoisgifted, stared back at him. It was clear that one of the piles of discarded clothes he’d noticed earlier belonged to her. A cautious flicker of his eyes confirmed th
at the other piles were all represented by their former occupants, spaced around the room. He closed the door again slowly and rested his forehead against it. Well, that explains the pun.

  “Effie?”

  “Still here, my love.” She hiccupped.

  “Effie, I think we’ve stumbled across a potential blackmail victim.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thursday morning

  As we’ve already noted, Synne’s isolation—indeed its very pointlessness—makes it look like the perfect destination for disenchanted corporate types longing to escape the pettiness of company culture and the Loaded lads, new ladettes, lager louts, looters, and luvvies who haunt their urban streets. But when these burned-out television producers, advertising copywriters, and human resources managers arrive in the middle of nowhere, what can they do with the rest of their lives?

  If you’re childless, forty-eight-year-old, laid-off widower Hartley Vavasoeur, former brand manager for Toothaker Teas’ range of decaffeinated tropical fruit-flavored infusions, and you’ve blown all your retirement savings on a drafty eighteenth-century cottage facing the Square, you fall back on what you know best. You open a tea shop in your front room.

  “Pineapple oolong?” he offered Oliver sheepishly, when the young man turned up on Thursday morning. “Banana Darjeeling? Orange pekoe?”

  “Ah, orange pekoe…”

  “Not what you think. There’s no tea in it. Just orange. Well, orange flavoring.” He sighed. “You want a cup of builder’s?”

  “I think so.”

  Vavasoeur slunk off and returned a couple of minutes later with a steaming teapot and a plate of chocolate biscuits. “On the house, squire,” he said. “With my apologies to you and your good lady for the mix-up.”

  “Forget about it, Hartley,” said Oliver with a forced smile, even though he hadn’t been able to forget about it, to the point of letting his brief scan of the vicar’s sitting room stifle his sex drive for another evening. Fortunately, the Reverend Mr. Edwards hadn’t been in the room at the time, so Oliver could manage to look him in the face when he arrived at the tearoom ten minutes later.