A Crowded Coffin

by Nicola Slade

  She broke off as a tall figure appeared at her front gate. ‘Talk of the devil, Sam, here’s Rory, just about to ring the bell. Is it okay if I tell him what you’ve just told me? He’s got his head screwed on and I gather from what the Attlins have said that he can keep his mouth shut.’

  She opened the door to her unexpected visitor. ‘Rory, come in. I’ve just been talking to Sam and he’s come up with something that makes our wilder imaginings seem tame!’

  chapter six

  ‘I just had a narrow escape,’ Rory told her as she handed him a mug of coffee and a slice of cake. ‘Edith scorched past me on her bike but luckily I spotted her first and dodged behind a tree. I don’t want to get into a fight about going into Winchester to the police station and making a fuss so they’ll come out and take a look at things here, or at least, not till I’ve had a chance to discuss it with someone rational. She’s so frightened of worrying her grandparents that she can’t think straight.’

  ‘She’ll calm down,’ Harriet reassured him. ‘Part of it is guilt because she wasn’t here when Walter was injured. Absolute nonsense, of course, and he’s told her so more than once, but it’s hard to be rational where the people you love are concerned.’ She cursed herself when a brief spasm of misery crossed Rory’s face. Poor lad, he was singularly short of people to love, by all accounts. She rushed into the latest development.

  ‘Sam rang to tell me about a conversation he’s just had on the plane to Belfast. It’s yet another bit of information that somehow seems to be related to all the peculiar goings-on round here lately.’ She shook her head, frowning. ‘Seems to me there are far too many things that don’t add up. Oh well, this is what Sam had to say.

  ‘He was sitting next to an old colleague on the plane, someone he’d not seen for ages, and they fell into shop talk, as you do. Then the other man asked if he’d been involved in the inquiry into missing documents at the Stanton Resingham archive. Sam said no, he’d not heard anything about that, so his friend, who sounds a bit of a gossip, told him it had all been kept very hush-hush, on a need-to-know basis, very cops and robbers. It seems a rare manuscript turned up at auction abroad late last year and sold for a pretty impressive sum. The trouble was, some very similar pages turned up a few months later at the archive and there was a bit of a panic because some academic recognized them as being from the same manuscript. Unfortunately the vendor had insisted on anonymity and had disappeared by then, along with the cash.’

  Rory looked bewildered. ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not sure where this is taking us, but go on.’

  ‘The subsequent inquiries,’ said Harriet, ‘revealed that about half the documents in the archive had so far been examined over the previous year, so it was decided to go through them again – fine-tooth comb stuff – and see if they could work out what, if anything, was missing. Not an easy job, as you can imagine. The whole archive was just a mass of documents collected by this old antiquarian, and his notion of collating was impressionistic to say the least, but he’d left a lot of money in cash to finance the whole thing so they’d got it under way.

  ‘Anyway,’ she stopped suddenly, with a slightly shamefaced grin. ‘Oops, sorry, Rory, I’m slipping back into Miss Q mode. Stop me if I start lecturing or giving you order marks for running in the corridors or smoking behind the bike sheds. Where was I? Ah yes. They soon realized from various references that there were other things missing; some whole manuscripts, in some cases, in others just the odd page. The galling thing was that they could tell that the missing items must have been wonderful, not just from their historical perspective, but in some cases as objects of astonishing beauty. There was apparently a note referring to a mediaeval breviary, with scribbled descriptions of the illuminations, a work of art from the sound of it – and not a trace of the actual item to be found.’

  ‘God, that’s a tragedy.’ Rory was horrified and Harriet remembered belatedly that he was an artist himself. ‘Did Sam say if they’d got any clues?’

  ‘Apparently they had a pretty good security system including individual key codes, which are swiped in. You know how it works: when the card is swiped, the time, date and ID are recorded, and when the codes were checked there were no discrepancies. The only person whose card came up was the researcher who was employed to work in the archive. He’d been vetted and passed as honest and well qualified, references panned out okay, no reason to doubt his credentials.’

  She paused. ‘The only trouble is, his name was Colin Price, and he’s been missing since the beginning of January this year.’ Rory glanced at her and was struck by the gravity of her expression. ‘The last known sighting of him was on the fifth of January when he had a couple of pints at The Angel in Locksley. While he was there he was very interested in the village and particularly asked about the church, the vicar and the history of the Attlin family up at Locksley Farm Place.’

  She looked down at her folded hands and then at Rory, her blue eyes shadowed and anxious. ‘He hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Rory stared at her. ‘I heard about that, Edith’s convinced his disappearance has got something to do with her grandfather’s accident and with this midnight poking-about by the angel stone.’ He finished his coffee and nodded abstractedly as Harriet offered a refill. ‘I thought she was imagining things but then, I don’t really know her very well.’

  ‘She’s not one for flying off on a tangent,’ Harriet told him, looking thoughtful. ‘Most of the time she’s logical and practical, but this is about her family and Edith is very close to her grandparents. You’ve heard about her father? Yes, well that was a very difficult time for her, obviously. A tragedy like that could warp anyone but Edith’s mother bravely bore the brunt of it herself in London, while the Attlins kept Edith safe down here. She’s turned out remarkably well-balanced, on the whole.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘I can’t imagine what she’d say if she heard me say that; she imagines she was one of the scourges of my time at her school. She wasn’t, though, but I was probably more aware of her because of the distant relationship, even though she’s only just been brave enough to drop the “Miss Quigley”.

  ‘Anyway, anything that touches her family sends her into a panic and, of course, the old people are just that – old. Edith can’t bear to think of anything happening to hurt them.’

  Rory digested this in silence then asked, ‘Why would this Colin Price have been asking about the vicar, do you think? I can understand an interest in the farm – loads of history there and he was a researcher, after all. He could have been hoping to get a lead on whether there might be stuff in the archive, things that might be saleable; but why the vicar?’

  ‘No idea.’ Harriet shook her head. ‘I’ve racked my brains and Sam was no help. It’s public knowledge that John Forrester was looking like a high-flyer, maybe even a fast-track to a bishopric, who knows? But his wife, who was a bit older, I think, seems to have had a lot of problems and had a breakdown, so last autumn he was appointed here to cover the four parishes. I suppose the thinking was that she could recuperate more easily; we’re quite high up here and out in the country, so there’s more air and less hustle and bustle.’ She made a face. ‘At least, that would be the official thinking, I suppose. In fact, of course, there’s as much stress in the country as in the town, if not more. Just fewer people and less noise.’ She cut another slice of cake and put it, unasked, on Rory’s plate. ‘The trouble is, not everyone is happy with the way a village works, everyone knowing your business. I’m not sure Gillian Forrester was too keen on that aspect of her new life.’

  ‘How did she die, then?’ Rory was curious. ‘The vicar’s wife, I mean. It can’t have been long ago, from what you’re saying, but he was hardly playing the heartbroken widower at that party yesterday.’

  ‘It was New Year’s Eve,’ said Harriet. ‘Sam and I were in Italy on a short break after a particularly stressful time. I heard about it when we came home. Apparently the move to the country wasn’t proving the
success he’d hoped for, and Mrs Forrester reeled around most of the time in a daze. Nobody seemed sure if it was drink or drugs, either prescription or illegal, but the consensus was that she was out of it all the time. She wasn’t popular; she’d upset most of the village in the short time she was here, by being rude about everything. The pub was too noisy and needed smartening up, and the food they served was inedible.’ She broke off and grinned. ‘That was true enough when she first moved here,’ she said, ‘though it’s been in new hands since just before Christmas, and is doing very well. However, it was hardly tactful to complain loudly in the public bar one night, only days after she’d arrived in the place. She also moaned about the vicarage – too big, too draughty – and she was sarcastic about the village shop, said it was pathetic and run by amateurs. That really got up people’s noses as it won a prize last year for being a well-run community effort.’

  Harriet sighed. ‘I tried, we all did, but the poor, silly woman alienated everyone who would have tried to make friends with her and there’s only so much you can do, or offer, without becoming a pest. Perhaps if she’d made an effort, responded to the various overtures, her health might have improved. However, the night she died the vicar was at bell-ringing practice in the belfry. Our bells are famous locally and the New Year changes are particularly fine. He was invited to bless the bells, and I believe he had a go at ringing too. Apparently he got home around 12.30 a.m. after they’d toasted the bells with champagne, and found her dead on the hall floor. She’d obviously staggered out of bed – she was in her nightdress – and the supposition is that she’d been going down to the kitchen. Or maybe the bathroom, the stairs are next to it and it was thought she could have made a mistake. The inquest found she was doped up to the eyeballs and wouldn’t have known which way was up.’

  ‘That’s horrible.’ Rory was shocked. ‘I didn’t take to the vicar but that’s an awful thing to happen. What about him? You said people sympathized with him, and you can see why; do they like him, though?’

  Harriet considered the question. ‘It’s early days yet,’ she said slowly. ‘Our old vicar was extremely popular and died in harness so it would be tricky at first for anyone new to come here, big shoes to fill, kind of thing. John Forrester had only been in situ for a couple of months before the tragedy struck so in a sense he’s not had time to establish himself in the normal way. He’s devastatingly attractive, of course, even though he’s not strictly handsome, and a lot of the females in the parish are rather taken with him.’ She grinned, looking slightly sheepish. ‘I can understand that; he’s very charming and he looks fabulous in his vestments. His sermons are well thought out, not too long but not skimped. He’s good at the pastoral side and the committees he’s inevitably on are pleased to find he’s firm and decisive, while managing to be tactful at the same time, and that’s quite a rare skill.’

  ‘You don’t like him,’ Rory accused her. ‘Never mind how attractive and charming he is, or how well he does his job, you still don’t like him.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she argued but shrugged as he looked sceptical. ‘Oh all right, but this is strictly entre nous. He’s everything I said, and more, but I somehow feel, whatever he does and says, that he’s acting a part. I can’t put it more directly than that and it’s not a crime. It may simply be that he finds that the way to cope with his wife’s death. Or it might just be that he’s an actor, as many clergy are at heart, politicians too; there’s certainly a kind of glamour about him and people who are born like that can’t help putting on a performance. It’s so instinctive to them that they don’t realize they’re doing it.’

  ‘I feel pretty confused, you know.’ Rory sipped his third cup of coffee. ‘All this talk of mysteries and missing people may be moonshine, but you can’t get away from the fact that Mr Attlin was hit by a car. And you’re adamant that he wouldn’t have imagined that?’ She nodded and Rory carried on. ‘Plus there’s the metal-detector guys last night. They were definitely there and up to something, but whether they’re part of the other weird stuff happening round here, or just a coincidence, is beyond me.’

  ‘Edith says John Forrester wasn’t the only one making up to her yesterday,’ Harriet said, watching him closely. ‘I noticed it myself. Brendan was hovering round her, but that’s nothing new. He was around at Christmas when she was home and I think she did go out for a drink with him, but nothing else happened, she says. What was odd, though, was that Gordon Dean was being very free with his compliments and that’s not like him; his tastes usually run to older, more sophisticated women. And of course the Texan chap, Mike Goldstein, he was buzzing round her too.’ She gave him a direct, blue-eyed glance. ‘Come to think of it, what do you think of Edith?’

  He coloured slightly, the flush bright against the sallow, fading tan. ‘I like her,’ he said frankly, ‘but she holds back. We’ll be talking and laughing and getting on fine, really friendly, maybe something a bit more, and then she’ll suddenly stop and look upset. I don’t know what it is, whether I’ve annoyed her, though I don’t think it’s that. She was okay before we went to that party but since then she’s been really odd.’

  ‘She hasn’t mentioned anything to me,’ Harriet said, frowning as she thought back to her conversation with Edith. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. She’s a very straightforward kind of girl so if there’s something about you that’s bothering her, you’ll find out sooner or later. And it can’t be anything too serious or she’d have had you booted out of the house by now, make no mistake.’

  At 7.30 that evening Edith was peering surreptitiously out of a window in the hall, watching the drive, when Rory’s footsteps behind her made her jump.

  ‘Blimey,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s the matter with you? You jumped right out of your skin.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be creeping around.’ She was flustered and glared at him. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rory.’ She held out an olive branch. ‘It’s all this cloak-and-dagger stuff getting on my nerves, treasure hunters and Grandpa’s accident and Harriet suddenly turning into the local wise woman who’s seen something nasty in the woodshed.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to cancel your date with the vicar,’ he suggested, looking hopeful.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been talking to Harriet?’ She carried on without waiting for an answer. ‘I’ll tell you what I told her. I’m not an idiot and I don’t propose to give the local mafia anything to gossip about. It’ll be a casual dinner in a public place, on a friendly basis and nothing else.’ He just looked at her and she shrugged. ‘Oh, all right, yes, I do want to sound him out about one or two things.’ She gave him a rapid rundown of her conversation with the vicar at the previous day’s party. ‘I’ll be tactful, but I’d like to see if he does have interests other than the late Roman period.’

  Rory hesitated then clearly decided against saying anything but his concern was clearly apparent. He looked at his watch and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder instead. ‘Have a good time,’ he said kindly, ‘but be careful. Locksley is starting to look like a village in Midsomer Murders, creepy characters all over the place.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she snapped as he turned to go. ‘I wish you and Harriet would stop treating me like a kid, so stop behaving like a big bro….’ Her mouth shut on a gasp and he stared back at her curiously, but the glare he received was forbidding enough to make him take the hint.

  Why on earth did I say a thing like that? Edith was aghast. Not for a moment did she believe Lara Dean’s veiled slur about Rory and her own father, but the unsettling idea had nevertheless been planted in her head and she couldn’t leave it alone.

  The sound of tyres on the gravel drive rescued her from her distracting thoughts and she opened the front door to see Rory going off in one direction in his elderly rattletrap, while a sleek Alfa Romeo drew up with a flourish and John Forrester, as polished and sexy as his car, jumped out and came over to greet her.

  Sure that Rory could still see her she bestowed a glowi
ng smile of welcome on the vicar and accepted a kiss on the cheek. ‘What a gorgeous car,’ she told him. ‘I’m so envious. I’m planning on buying some kind of transport myself, but it won’t be anything like this beauty.’ She was about to take the passenger seat he was offering when she spotted something. ‘That’s nasty,’ she said, with sympathy, ‘the dent on your wing. What was it? A traffic shunt or something?’

  ‘Nothing so glamorous.’ He looked rueful. ‘I miscalculated the tricky angle of the vicarage drive just now and had an argument with the gatepost. Didn’t you notice the brick dust embedded in the metal? I’m a fair driver, normally, so I can only plead a distracted mind. You look lovely, by the way.’

  The smile that accompanied this remark made her feel slightly uncomfortable. Was it possible John Forrester was actually interested in her for her own sake? If so, things could get a tad awkward. She shifted uneasily in the expensive leather seat, sidetracked for a moment as she wondered how a Church of England clergyman could rise to such a car. Oh well, she hunched her shoulders slightly, it’s only dinner and if he is harbouring ideas about me, it’s no big deal, I’ll just put him straight.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she enquired, putting her misgivings aside as they turned out of the village.

  ‘I thought we’d try Stockbridge. Plenty of good pubs there so I’ve booked a table,’ he told her. ‘I hope that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ she approved. And it was: great food, not too far from home and right on the wide main street so that even the most determined village gossip couldn’t make an assignation out of it.

  He was a good driver so she relaxed and studied him under her lashes. Devastatingly good-looking in a craggy, lived-in kind of way – everyone was right about that – with reddish-brown hair and laughter lines at the corners of the eyes that almost matched his hair. Long and lean and tanned, he was casually dressed with no sign of a dog collar and she wondered just how old he was; late thirties, she decided.