by JL Merrow
“Or the Guild of Taxidermists.” He coughed. It sounded a lot like “Posers.”
I grinned. “Hey, nothing wrong with having a guild. There’s a Guild of Master Plumbers, you know.”
“You missed out ‘and Dunnikindivers’.” The streetlamps cast a warm glow over Phil’s face that cooled into menacing shadows as we walked.
“We had to kick the cesspit cleaners out. Couldn’t stand the smell.”
“Who couldn’t? You or them?”
I stuck up a finger and swivelled it in his general direction as we walked through the gateway. We could hear the sounds of the party already, and we soon found out why. There was an open-door policy at the Old Deanery tonight—literally. The heavy front door was wedged open with a proper, old-fashioned wooden wedge. Unlike the last time we’d been here, the hallway was brightly lit, and the door to the front room was wide open.
We trooped inside.
The place was heaving. How many people had Cherry and/or Greg invited to this do? Or had they just rung up Rentamob? All the furniture had been cleared to the sides of the room, and there were tables along the wall nearest the door piled high with food. Greg’s ladies had done him and Cherry proud. There were dainty little triangle sandwiches, sausage rolls of every size, wrinkly cocktail sausages next to them looking a bit embarrassed about sitting there with their kit off, and homemade quiches by the dozen with little handwritten flags in to tell you if they were veggie or not. Plus a few more interesting bits someone had clearly sneaked in from Marks & Spencer. I hoped they were properly ashamed of themselves for letting the side down like that.
A separate table held the sweet stuff: mince pies (which I hoped hadn’t been hanging around since Christmas, but it was probably safer to leave them anyway), heavy-looking cakes and a huge bowl of grapes shining like someone had polished them individually. Of course, that was probably what passed for entertainment around here. St Leonard’s is a nice enough place, but it’s not exactly renowned for its nightlife.
Case in point: it looked like half the population of the place had turned up here tonight, although there was a definite bias towards the older end of the demographic. Lots of middling-to-old ladies in frumpy skirts and sensible shoes, and balding blokes in saggy trousers. In fact, from where I was standing I couldn’t see a single person under thirty. Presumably the ones with young families had all stayed home so the kiddies wouldn’t get nightmares from Greg’s glassy-eyed chums—the stuffed animals, I mean, not his actual mates. I’m not one to pass judgement on people till I actually meet them. They must’ve been cursing their luck at missing the social event of the century.
“Think we should say hi to Greg and Cherry, or just dive in?” I asked, raising my voice so Phil could hear me over the din. I couldn’t see Cherry right at the moment, but Greg was over the other side of the room, gesturing wildly in a way that was going to have someone’s eye out any minute as he spoke to a couple of equally tall, churchy-looking types. “Reckon the church has a minimum height requirement?” I wondered aloud.
Phil grunted. “Why, fancy yourself in a dog collar, do you?”
“Nah, I never got into all that kinky stuff. No, it’s just, how many times have you ever seen a short vicar?”
He glanced over at Greg and his chums. “They’re not that tall.”
“Depends on the angle you’re looking from, doesn’t it? Want to check out the sausage rolls?”
He shrugged. “Not that hungry.”
“Suit yourself.” I wound my way over to the table and grabbed a paper plate.
“Do have some of the quiche, dear,” a reedy voice quavered by my elbow. “I made it myself.”
I looked around—and down: I could swear they were making little old ladies smaller these days, and smiled at the wrinkled-apple cheeks of the old dear who’d spoken. “Is that the bacon and leek, or the”—I peered at the spidery script—“mushroom and tomato?”
“Oh, the bacon. Young men like you need a bit of meat inside them.” If it was a cheeky innuendo, she had the deadpan down pat.
“I’ll make sure I remember that. Cheers, love,” I said and took a big slice.
When I turned round to ask Phil if he wanted some, he’d disappeared—and when I turned back to old Mrs. Quiche, she’d doddered off to fuss with the sausage rolls.
Brilliant. I was on my own in a roomful of people who all seemed to know each other. At least now I had something to do with my hands. And Mrs. Quiche’s bacon and leek was pretty tasty.
I could do with a drink, though. I scanned the room. The drinks table was over in the far corner of the room—and guess what? That was where Phil had disappeared to. I looked at the heaving mass of chattering people, and then back at my plate. No way were both of us going to make it through that crowd unscathed. Ah, well. It seemed a bit disrespectful to scarf down the rest of the quiche in a couple of large bites, but I could always go back for seconds.
Sod’s law, by the time I got through the crush to the drinks table, which involved a lot of ducking and weaving and apologising for jarred elbows, Phil had buggered off again. Maybe he was just annoyed there wasn’t any beer on offer. I poured myself a glass from an open bottle of plonk and turned to survey the scene, trying to look like a seasoned partygoer considering where next to bestow my wit and charm.
I soon realised standing by the drinks table, I just got in everyone’s way. Maybe that was why Phil had disappeared. Frowning, I managed to locate him over in the corner. I moved back into the throng and found myself facing a dapper old bloke in a tweed jacket and violently red corduroy trousers.
“Ridiculously crowded in here,” he snapped, looking me up and down. I got the distinct impression that if he’d had his way, riffraff like me would have been turned away at the door.
“Oh, I dunno,” I said, raising my glass of wine. “Nice to see a good crowd here.”
He sniffed. “More like a mob. I haven’t seen you at Sunday services,” he added pointedly.
“Nah, I’m not local. St Albans is where I’m based.”
He was tall but stooped, with hunched, rounded shoulders, so I found myself getting a sympathetic backache the longer I spoke to him. But at least I didn’t get a crick in my neck trying to look him in the eye. “Let me guess,” I said and gulped down a mouthful of plonk. “Church warden?”
“Lay reader, actually.” He seemed mildly offended, which was a great start. Still, maybe it was just my manners. “And you?”
“Plumber.”
He relaxed at that. Clearly the labouring classes couldn’t be expected to know any better, so no insult had been intended. He held out a hand, and I was half expecting him to use it to point out that the drains were that way, but after a mo I realised I was supposed to shake it, so I did. Probably leaving a whole load of quiche pastry crumbs in his dry, bony grasp, but hey, he started it. “Morgan Everton.”
“Tom Paretski. So, is that, like, a full-time job, this lay reading?” What the bloody hell was a lay, anyway? Something to do with minstrels? And how much reading did they need? I wondered if he might have meant ley lines, but he really didn’t look the hippy druid type. Then again, neither do I, and I’ve got this weird finding-things gift. Maybe we could swap psychic stories.
“Oh no, no, no. In my other life, I’m a writer.”
A writer as well as a reader? I wondered if he did ’rithmetic as well. “Yeah? What sort of stuff?”
He shrugged, which actually came over as a bit threatening, what with the way his shoulders were all sort of hunched over towards me. “Novels of the human condition. Human frailties, I should say. I’m chairman of the Lea Valley Literati. A local writers’ group,” he added kindly for the benefit of tradesmen and the otherwise educationally disadvantaged.
“Hey, are you the lot who did that anthology?” I frowned. “What was it called again? Something about angels. I saw a copy in the White Hart—”
“No!” he barked. “We are not affiliated with that organisation.” You’d ha
ve thought I’d just accused him of having been a founder member of the Hitler Youth.
“What, the White Hart?” They had some pretty naff décor—I mean, come off it: suits of armour and red plush thrones? It was like they were expecting the Beckhams to drop in for a pint—and the “haunted” bit gave me the creeps, but it was an okay place for a pint.
“No. That was the other St Albans writers’ group.” He glared at me. “A ragtag, unschooled bunch of self-published hacks and writers of”—his voice dropped in loathing—“genre fiction.”
I decided it was probably just as well I hadn’t mentioned I liked a good thriller every now and then.
“Some of them,” he added, bending low to breathe sherry fumes right in my face, “write erotica.” His voice was husky with prurient outrage, and his face had gone as red as his trousers.
“Well, sex is all part of the human condition, innit?” I said breezily, just to see if I could bring on a stroke. “If you’re doing it right, that is.”
“Sex,” Morgan said sternly, “should not be used to titillate.”
Nope, I decided. He was definitely not doing it right. If he was doing it at all. “Is there a Mrs. Everton?” I asked, just to test my personal theory.
“We are sadly estranged.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” I bet Mrs. E wasn’t, though.
“And yourself?”
“Nah, nobody’s liked it enough yet to put a ring on it.” Well, not a wedding ring, anyhow. I had a few fond memories of a mildly kinky ex. And a lot more memories of the bastard that weren’t fond in the slightest, but that was another story. Talking of which… “So, you had any of these novels of yours published?”
“I’m currently between agents,” Morgan said shortly.
I wasn’t sure whether to commiserate or congratulate him. Playing it safe, I held up my empty glass. “Right, I’m off for a refill. Get you one?”
He shook his head grumpily and held up his own, full glass. I’d checked before I’d offered—I’m not daft.
“See you around, then.” I legged it.
Phil was still over in the corner, holding his sherry glass up in front of him as if to ward off evil spirits and/or evangelists. To be honest, it looked a bit too small to do a proper job on either of them, especially in his meaty paws. When I caught his eye, he made a pissed-off face. I raised both eyebrows, trying to convey sorry, but you’re the one who insisted on coming. The glare didn’t alter, so I reckoned my eyebrow semaphore must need a bit of work.
Either that or he was just determined to be a grumpy old sod. I sighed (quietly, because my mum brought me up to have manners), dumped my empty glass on a side table and started to weave through the crowd towards him. Not as easy as you might think. If Jesus was looking for another rock to build his church on, he could do worse than some of the little old ladies forming a solid wall across the room like a wrinkled, cardi-wearing version of the Arsenal line-up.
“’Scuse me, coming through,” I said to the smallest and therefore hopefully least immovable one, flashing a smile so she wouldn’t notice I was basically manhandling her out of the way. Then I stopped, still with both hands on her bony, wool-clad shoulders. “Edie?”
Edith Penrose turned and blinked up at me with her disconcertingly bright eyes. “Hello, Tom. Fancy seeing you here! Did you bring your young man?” She lowered her voice. “Such a dreadful business that was. Murder, in Brock’s Hollow!”
I rubbed my arm. “Yeah, not what you move out to the country for, is it?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t catch me living in a city. Old people aren’t safe there, you know. And I could never leave my Albert.”
“Guess not.” Clearly she reckoned her Albert wouldn’t be up for moving out of Brock’s Hollow. I had to agree, seeing as he’d had a steady job pushing up daisies in St Anthony’s Churchyard for the last twenty years now. “Hope he appreciated you when he was alive,” I added.
“Oh, he was a lovely man. You’d have liked him. But how’s that young man of yours? Is he here too?”
I gestured towards Phil’s corner, but he was ignoring us, the sod, in favour of renewing his acquaintance with the Awfully Reverend’s badger, liberated from the study in honour of the occasion. He was right. It was bigger than you’d expect. He didn’t look as pleased as you might think to see it again, though—Phil, I mean. The badger seemed happy enough, although his grin was a bit fixed.
Maybe Phil was thinking about his own dead husband.
“Oh dear. He doesn’t look much like he’s enjoying himself. Not really one for parties?”
“Not this sort, anyway. So…” I tried to think of a way of asking Edie who’d invited her that didn’t sound like what are you doing here? “You know my sister, do you?”
“Never met her before. I must say, she’s not at all what I would have expected. Still, at my age, one rather relishes being surprised. No, I knew Gregory in his first curacy, bless him. Such an intense young man. I always thought he’d go far. He buried my Albert, you know. It was Gregory’s first funeral, and he did such a lovely job of it.”
“Yeah? Small world, innit? Was he into the taxidermy back then?” Hopefully she didn’t think I was asking if she’d had her Albert stuffed.
Edie nodded happily. “He was just starting out in that too. I do feel it’s important for a young man to have a hobby. Do you have any hobbies, Tom?”
Er… “Well, you know. Going down the pub, watching the footie…”
“You need to find an interest, young man.” She cocked her head on one side. “Something creative, I think. But perhaps not working with your hands, as you do that in your profession.” She nodded, more to herself than me. “No, I can see you with a more intellectual hobby.”
She could? I was one hundred percent certain nobody else could. Including, to be fair, me. “Yeah, see, school and me didn’t go all that well.”
“Oh, school.” She flapped her crepey hands as if to shoo away such ridiculous, new-fangled notions. “I think a lot of people don’t really flower there, don’t you? Such a rigid sort of place.”
“Edie, you rebel, you.” I grinned. “How about I get you another sherry?” Phil would just have to wait.
“That would be very kind of you. But don’t think I don’t know you’re just changing the subject!”
I finally bumped into Cherry over at the drinks table. Not literally, luckily, as she was holding on, tight-knuckled, to a brimming glass of something that looked a lot stronger than sherry.
“All right, Sis?” I asked. She was looking a bit harassed, to be honest.
She glared at me like I was the one who was doing the harassing. “What were you talking to Morgan about?”
Morgan? Right, no-sex-please-we’re-British bloke. “Reading and writing, mostly. Why? Worried I’ll tell him all your dirty little secrets?”
“What? No, don’t be silly. It’s just… Honestly, I wasn’t expecting him to be here.”
“You didn’t invite him? Want me and Phil to strong-arm him out?” I didn’t mention it’d be Phil doing most of the heavy lifting there, and I was grateful she didn’t either.
“No—God, no. The last thing I want is a scene.” Her face turned a bit pink. “But it’s kind of you to offer,” she added without a lot of conviction.
“Mate of Greg’s, is he?” Maybe he liked playing with dead furry animals too.
Cherry was starting to resemble her name. “He’s—well, he used to be—a friend of both of ours, actually. Well, in a way. We used to be members of the same writers’ circle.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? What have you been writing?”
“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in. A book.”
“Cheers, Sis.” My sister: a card-carrying member of Intellectual Snobs ‘R’ Us.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it’ll probably never get published. But Morgan and I had a bit of a falling-out, and we—Gregory and I, that is—we left the circle. It was utterly ridiculo
us—he said I’d accused him of misuse of funds, which I didn’t at all.”
I could believe that. If anyone knew about slander laws, it’d be my sis. “Maybe he came here to mend some fences, then?”
“Burn them down, more likely.” Something caught her eye then, and she glanced over my shoulder. “Oh—Richard’s here.”
I turned to the door. “Bloody hell, what happened to his hair?” Big Brother, currently folding his trench coat, was balder than a ball-cock. Granted, he’d been heading that way last time I’d seen him, but he’d at least had a bit of fluff to keep his ears warm back then. “He hasn’t been ill or anything, has he?” You couldn’t catch cancer, could you?
“Don’t be stupid. What did you think was going to happen? Look at Dad.”
I couldn’t, because he wasn’t there, but I took her point. My dad, as far as I could tell from old family photos from before I was born, went bald early. And thoroughly. He didn’t mess about with a comb-over or those little fringes of hair that make you look like a monk. No, he was doing ping-pong ball impersonations before he was thirty. Fortunately, I seemed to have inherited Mum’s hair, although thankfully not the rigid ’50s “do” even she’s too young for. In her seventies. “Doesn’t always follow, does it? I mean, look at me.”
She did. With a funny expression, like she was about to say something—then she sort of shook her head. “I’d better go over and introduce him and Agatha to Gregory.”
“I’d leave your drink here, then, if I were you. You know what Agatha’s like. You’ll end up getting the evils of binge drinking sermon if you’re not careful.”
Cherry looked at her glass as if it was someone else’s hands holding on to it for dear life. “Oh. Yes.” She handed it to me absently and drifted off. I raised it, trying to look like I was just having a sip, and gave it a sniff. Ye gods, she was on the Slivovitz. Maybe letting Cherry get the binge-drinking lecture would have been a good idea after all. I put the glass down carefully at the back of the table so no one would pick it up by mistake, then glanced over guiltily at the door.
Agatha, like most people in my family, was taller than me. She also loomed over Richard, but he obviously didn’t mind too much, seeing as he’d married her. Maybe he’d been too scared not to. Right now, her hawk-like eyes were scanning the crowd as if for prey. I wondered what Greg would make of her. Probably some kind of taxidermy tableau, with her swooping down for the kill on some innocent partygoer.