The Wages of Desire

by Stephen Kelly

  Vera patiently had waited by the car and not sought to get closer to the body. Nor had she taken any active role in helping keep the gawkers at bay. She had, as she had told Lamb she would, merely watched and observed. In the few days during which she’d acted as her father’s driver she had done nothing resembling actual police work, nor was she meant to. She held no illusion that her job amounted to anything other than being a replacement for her father’s sprained ankle. Still, she didn’t mind the job, in part because it allowed her to be with her father; she’d always been curious about the mysteries and occasional dangers that seemed to fill his days. (She knew nothing of the paperwork and bureaucratic drudgery that the job also entailed.) And the pay was fair—five pounds for the week. Even so, she was glad the job was temporary. She didn’t like the fact that her father had gotten her the job through obvious nepotism—and that everyone knew it—though its transitory nature softened the injustice of that. In any case, she didn’t want people concluding that she got along in life thanks to her daddy.

  She had wanted to see the dead woman and, as she had watched her father and the others enter the cemetery to begin the inquiry, she had contemplated why that was true. She decided that the human desire to confront the fact of death was natural, given that everyone had to die eventually, and that this probably became especially true during wartime, with death seeming to hover so much nearer than it normally did—though since the Germans had given up their bombing of southern England nearly a year earlier, she had not felt directly threatened by the violence and killing the war had wrought. She told herself that she should count herself lucky that she and her parents were so far from the actual war—the war as it was being fought in Russia and North Africa, and as it had been fought in Poland, France, Belgium, and Yugoslavia. And yet she did not feel lucky, exactly, but troubled that she remained protected when so many others were not.

  After her father disappeared around the side of the church and headed to the vicarage, Vera eyed Wallace discreetly. She found him very good-looking and possessed of a kind of rugged charm, despite the fact that he tended a bit toward the peacock with his well-cut suits and shined black patent leather shoes. But she’d found him to be approachable and funny, too, and seemed genuine of heart. And she detected something else in him, something buried that, she thought, he endeavored to hide from the world—a kind of vulnerability and even a hint of anguish.

  She contemplated lighting a cigarette from the packet she kept in her inner jacket pocket. She didn’t need a cigarette exactly, but she felt that the time somehow was right for one. She had begun to smoke only a week earlier, mostly as an experiment to see if she liked it, a question she had not yet decided upon an answer to. In any case, neither of her parents knew that she smoked, and she was not prepared to tell them that she did until she had decided. She knew that her father hated his own smoking and that he had tried often to quit but always found that his normally resilient will failed him when it came to tobacco. In the end, she quashed the notion of a smoke for the moment, on the chance that her father might suddenly return and catch her with a fag dangling from her lips.

  At that moment, two women and a girl approached the cemetery along the High Street, coming from the direction of the center of the village. Since the constables had dispersed the initial lot of onlookers, several people had come and gone in ones and twos—stopped and peered into the cemetery and gone on their way. Some of the children who’d earlier been climbing on the fence and been shooed away had returned, stolen another look, and run again when the constable shooed them a second time. Now, though, the constable had gone into the village with Rivers to knock on doors and Vera found herself the lone police presence by the front gate of the cemetery, a fact made all the more obvious by her ill-fitting uniform.

  Because she had parked the car perhaps thirty meters to the west of the front gate, the three approaching women did not see her at first. They slowed as they passed the cemetery. One of the women was quite large—fat, really. She was dressed in a kind of countrywoman’s getup of simple blue cotton frock and Wellingtons, her gray hair piled in a bun beneath a massive straw hat. The other woman was younger, perhaps thirty. She wore simple brown cotton slacks and a white blouse. Her hair was cut short, and she appeared to be wearing little or no makeup. She was quite pretty in an unadorned way, Vera thought. The girl was dressed in a simple tan blouse, blue shorts, and black plimsole shoes.

  As they neared the cemetery, the older woman went to the fence and stared at the proceedings within. At that moment, Winston-Sheed was readying the body to be transported to Winchester for autopsy. The woman got onto the tips of her toes to better see the corpse. The other two stayed back a bit from the fence. The older woman turned to them and said, “But I can’t see a thing! Not really!” She turned again toward the cemetery, as if hoping that the view might suddenly have improved in the instant during which she’d turned away from it.

  “That’s all right,” the younger woman said. “Lilly and I will be getting off home now anyway.”

  The older woman left the fence and rejoined the other two. “But we must find out what happened,” she insisted.

  “We’ll find out soon enough, Flora,” the other woman said.

  The older woman caught sight of Vera. “Oh, here’s someone,” she said and began moving very quickly toward Vera. The other two followed, though not as quickly. The woman in the lead waved at Vera. “I say, are you with the police?” Before Vera could answer the woman was in front of her.

  “My word—a girl policeman,” the woman said. She stared at Vera for a second. “You are a girl, my dear, aren’t you?” Vera found the question rude. She hadn’t thought her uniform that baggy and unflattering.

  “Yes,” she said without enthusiasm.

  The woman smiled. “I say,” she said. “Good for you, my dear. I’ve never seen a girl policeman—though it’s about time. But that’s what the war has done, hasn’t it? Opened up things for us.”

  Vera forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  The other two caught up and stood behind the woman named Flora. The young girl caught Vera’s eye and ostentatiously whirled her right forefinger around her ear, signaling to Vera not to be alarmed—as if to say that the woman who stood in front of her was loony and that everyone knew it. The younger woman gently swatted at the girl’s hand, but without vehemence or true censure. Vera did her best to suppress a smile.

  “My name is Flora Wheatley,” the older woman said, offering Vera a pudgy hand.

  “I’m Vera Lamb.” Miss Wheatley shook Vera’s proffered hand with what Vera thought was needless vigor, as if Miss Wheatley was working a recalcitrant water pump. She realized that she had no rank to put in front of her name—only the baggy uniform.

  “I say, my dear, can you tell us what’s happened?” Miss Wheatley asked. “We only know that some unfortunate woman has been shot to death in our cemetery.”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t know any more than that myself.”

  “Oh, but you must!” Miss Wheatley said. “You’re with the police, aren’t you?”

  “I am, but …”

  The younger woman stepped closer. “It’s all right, Flora,” she said, putting her hand on Miss Wheatley’s shoulder. “I’m sure Miss Lamb would not be at liberty to discuss the case with us even if she did know anything.” The younger woman smiled at Vera.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Vera said, though she wasn’t certain that it was. “Even so, I really do know nothing. I’m only just a driver, you see. It’s a temporary job.”

  “I should think it would be a nice job to have,” the girl said. “Exciting.”

  Vera smiled at the girl. “It’s not bad. But to be truthful, it’s mostly standing around waiting.”

  “Still, you get to go to the scene of the crime,” the girl insisted.

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m afraid Lilly’s on a bit of kick when it comes to detective novels at the moment,” the y
ounger woman said. She offered Vera her hand. “My name is Julia Martin, by the way, and this is my daughter, Lilly.”

  “I say, my dear, is your captain about?” Miss Wheatley interjected.

  “Chief inspector, madam. And no, I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.”

  “Well, I wonder if you’ll give him a message from me. I’m afraid we’ve a crime spree going on here in the village and have had for some time now.”

  Vera saw Lilly roll her eyes.

  “A crime spree?” Vera asked.

  “Yes, very much so. I’ve long said that the police should have been involved, but no one else in the village seems to care about the problem outside of me.” She leaned a little closer to Vera and whirled her finger around her ear, just as Lilly had done. “Some in the village will tell you that I’m crazy, my dear, but I don’t care. Those people have their heads in the sand. They don’t want to hear the truth because the truth so often hurts. I’m speaking of the case of the nuthatch hereabout. The poor creatures are rare enough as it is, but with people stealing their eggs the poor things will never survive the war. They’re cavity nesters you see, but they can’t compete with the blasted starlings, which are so much more aggressive; I’ve built nesting boxes for them all around the village. But people steal their eggs from the boxes—and for food no less. And the worst of the offenders is our own chairman of the village parish council, Lawrence Tigue.”

  Julia touched Miss Wheatley’s shoulder. “Now, you shouldn’t say such things, Flora. You’ve no proof of that.”

  “Of course I have proof! He’s in the egg-selling business isn’t he? Besides, I’ve seen him.”

  Vera didn’t quite know what to say. She didn’t think she minded people taking birds eggs for food under the present circumstances.

  “We must be vigilant,” Miss Wheatley said. “But no one wants to hear it, least of all our very own local officials. They’re all in it together, the lot of them.”

  Vera stole a glance at Julia, who raised her eyebrows slightly.

  “Well I’m sure everyone is doing what they can,” Vera said.

  “Don’t you believe it, my dear! Either way, I beg of you to inform your captain. He may call on me anytime he wishes.” She nodded toward the wood beyond the cemetery. “I live just the other side of that wood. You can’t miss my cottage; it’s just off the trail.”

  “I promise that I’ll mention it to him,” Vera said. “He’s my father, actually.” She immediately wondered why she had felt the need to mention that. Was it from guilt that her father had obtained her position for her?

  “All the better, then!” Miss Wheatley said. She looked at the sky, then back at Vera. “Well, it’s getting on to midday, and I’ve duties to attend to.”

  Vera didn’t want to say anything that might encourage Miss Wheatley to linger. To her relief, Miss Wheatley bade them goodbye and set off down the High Street in the direction of the village.

  When Miss Wheatley was out of earshot, Julia said, “You must forgive her, Miss Lamb. She’s harmless, really.”

  “No, she’s not,” Lilly said. “She’s a windbag and a terrible gossip. And she’s loony.”

  “That’s no way to speak in front of someone we’ve only just met,” Julia scolded Lilly. “And it’s not fair to Flora.”

  “But she is, Mother.”

  “Nonetheless.” Julia shot Lilly a stern look. “Apologize to Miss Lamb, please.”

  “Sorry,” Lilly said. She shrugged slightly.

  “It’s all right,” Vera said. Miss Wheatley clearly was a windbag, she thought.

  “Well, I’m afraid that we also must be going,” Julia said. “It was wonderful meeting you, Miss Lamb. It’s terrible, what’s happened here—this sudden killing—and I think it’s shocked us all a bit more than we are quite yet willing to admit.” She smiled again. “Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you,” Vera said. She sensed a kind of sadness in Julia Martin and, as she watched Julia and Lilly leave, spent a moment guessing at its source. Something to do with the war, she concluded. After all, wasn’t that the primary source of everyone’s sorrow these days?

  SIX

  THE VICARAGE OF SAINT MICHAEL’S CHURCH WAS A MEDIUM-sized, white-shingled cottage with a green door and slate roof. Lamb had not much liked the majority of country vicars with whom he’d been acquainted; nearly to a man, he’d found them possessed of mediocre intellects and an unmerited self-regard. They tended to be plump, red-cheeked, self-satisfied men who ate and drank very well and often seemed entranced by the sound of their own voices.

  He therefore found himself surprised by the man who answered his knock on the door. Gerald Wimberly was at least six feet tall, slender, and fit looking. Lamb judged him to be somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty. He had a full head of tousled gray-at-the-edges brown hair, blue eyes, and a strong, squared-off chin. He was a handsome man. He wore a gray shirt and white clerical collar, along with a pair of dark blue corduroy trousers that were stained slightly with mud at the cuffs and a pair of stout brown leather government-issued military boots that Lamb recognized as identical to those he’d worn during his time in the trenches of the Somme.

  “The Reverend Gerald Wimberly?” Lamb asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lamb showed Wimberly his warrant card. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Lamb of the Hampshire Constabulary. I’d like to speak with you, please.”

  Wimberly stepped back from the door. “Yes, of course, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Wimberly led Lamb into a cozily furnished study that contained a large wooden desk that faced the door and stood in front of a wall that was full of shelved books. A pair of red-upholstered chairs situated on opposite sides of a small, round, polished cherry table faced the desk. The left wall also contained tall, brimming bookshelves, while the right was dominated by a large window that looked onto a well-tended flower and vegetable garden at the rear of the vicarage.

  Wimberly sat behind the desk and gestured for Lamb to take one of the chairs. He was conscious of the impression of authority and control the large desk afforded him, and hoped it would work on Lamb.

  “I understand that you found the body, sir,” Lamb said.

  “Yes, yes,” Wimberly said. “A terrible thing. Terrible. It’s given my poor wife the shock of her life, I’m sorry to say. I had to give her a sedative; she’s upstairs sleeping now.” He paused for few seconds, then added, “But I’m rambling, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to say that my wife’s condition is the only thing that matters in this business.”

  “Did you know the dead woman? We have reason to believe that she was employed as one of the workers who are building the prisoner camp just outside the village.”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t know her, though with the prison construction we’ve had more than the usual number of strangers about the village in recent weeks.”

  “You’ve never seen her in the cemetery, then?”

  “No, I’d never seen her until this morning.”

  “Can you tell me how you came upon the body?”

  “I was returning from a walk—I always take an early morning constitutional—when I heard a gunshot. I could tell that it came from the direction of the cemetery, so I went there and found the girl. Unfortunately, my wife, who had been in the house, followed me, though I hadn’t realized at first that she’d done so. She must have heard the shot, too. I’m afraid she went right to pieces. She’s never seen anyone in that state before. I took her back to the house and got her into bed and mixed her a sedative. Then I called the Home Guardsman who acts as our law enforcement hereabouts. I understood that we could not have people from the village gawking at the poor woman; it would have become a mess, and I was worried that it might frighten some of the children and elderly people. So I left Mr. Built, the guardsman, at the gate and came in and called the constabulary.”

  As Wimberly spoke, Lamb pulled a notebook from his pocket and
scribbled a few lines in it with the stub of a pencil. “And how long did it take you, sir, to get your wife calmed down?” he asked.

  “A good fifteen minutes or so.”

  “So what time was it, then, when you heard the shot?”

  “It must have been just before seven, perhaps quarter till. I usually go out to walk at about six and am gone three-quarters of an hour or so.”

  “Did anyone see you while you were walking?”

  “No.”

  “And what was your wife doing when you heard the shot?”

  “She was in bed, sleeping. She doesn’t rise as early as I.”

  “You don’t seem to have been much affected by the incident, sir,” Lamb said. “You seem rather calm, given the circumstances. And you seem to have acted rather calmly. Most people who suddenly come upon a dead body—particularly one that has been shot—would find themselves at least a bit stunned and confused.”

  “Well, I daresay you’re right. But I suppose I lost my shock at seeing the dead in the last war.” He looked toward the window for an instant.

  “Yes,” Lamb said. “I noticed your boots.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve kept them. I’ve often wondered why. And yet they’ve served me quite well. All these years later and they continue to hang together. I suppose you were part of it, too, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, well it was all a terrible business. I’ve often asked God why it was necessary, why any of it is necessary, including this war. And I’ve never received an answer.”

  “You were in the infantry?” Lamb asked.

  “Yes, captain of infantry.”

  “Did you keep your service pistol, then, sir?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact. There was a time when I used it to shoot the occasional rat about the place. But I’m afraid it was stolen about a week or so ago.”