Smile and be a Villain

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘All right. Fire when ready, Gridley.’

  ‘Did you know that Gridley was born in Indiana? I looked it up once. Anyway, my idea has to do with the presumed thefts from the church. I’d like to see if I can find some proof.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that, when you don’t want to talk to any of the parishioners?’

  ‘The business about the choir folders will be easy. I’m going to go to the library and do a computer search. There can’t be all that many firms providing high-quality blue leather folders with gold stamping. I’ll phone them all and ask what’s happened to the order from St Anne’s, Alderney. If they all claim there was no such order – bingo!’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea. Of course it would be easier if you could find the catalogue Abercrombie showed around.’

  ‘Of course, but I can’t think of a way to do that.’

  ‘And the jumble sale funds?’

  ‘That’s a lot harder, but I’m relying on my experience with rummage sales, as we called them back in Indiana. It’s going to mean talking to one parishioner, though, if I can find her. I need to ask some questions of “Lucille”, whoever she is, who ran the sales from time immemorial until Abercrombie bulldozed his way in. I think maybe Alice will give me her name and phone number, and the best part of that is, I know for sure where to find Alice.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Alan. ‘Homebound with an avenging fury about to bear down on her.’

  Reluctant to leave my hidey-hole until I absolutely had to, I phoned Alice instead of going to see her. She was less than thrilled to hear from me.

  ‘You’re the one behind this community meeting, aren’t you?’

  I admitted it.

  ‘I don’t know what you hope to prove.’

  ‘I don’t know that we’ll prove anything. I do hope we’ll learn the truth.’

  ‘And it will set us free?’ There was no amusement in Alice’s laugh. ‘I’ll go to your misbegotten meeting, because Phil wants me to, but for no other reason.’

  ‘At any rate you’ll be there, and I’m glad. But that isn’t the reason I called. There’s a woman at the parish church named Lucille. I don’t know her last name, but she did a lot of volunteer work, especially with jumble sales over the years. I hoped you might have her phone number.’

  ‘I won’t have you upsetting Lucille! She’s given her life to that church. It broke her heart when that man shoved her aside.’

  ‘Alice, I have no intention of upsetting her. We’ve a jumble sale coming up at my church in a few months, and they’ve asked me to help out. I have some ideas from the way we used to do things back in Indiana, but I don’t know if they’ll work here. I just want to ask an expert.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  A shrug couldn’t be seen over the phone, but apparently Alice sensed it. ‘Oh, very well. Her name is Lucille Crenshawe, and she’ll be home. She goes almost no place now that her eyes are so bad. I’ll ask Grace to find you the number. But you must promise you won’t say anything to hurt her.’

  ‘I do promise. There’s been quite enough hurt already.’

  ‘Yes, well, she can be … never mind. Just tread gently.’

  Grace gave me the number. I phoned Lucille immediately, because I feared if I thought about it too much I’d lose my courage.

  She answered promptly, and her voice was not the voice of a sweet old lady. Perfectly courteous, but with an underpinning of steel.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Crenshawe, you don’t know me. My name is Dorothy Martin, and I’ve been visiting here on Alderney for the past two weeks.’

  There was a chuckle on the other end. ‘It’s Miss Crenshawe, or just Lucille. And we may not have met, but I know who you are. You’re the American woman who’s trying to prove someone pushed that upstart clergyman down the hill. And high time, too, I say.’

  ‘Um … well, I am American, or at least I was, and I am looking into the man’s death, but—’

  ‘You may fool the others, but you can’t fool me. I’m old, and my eyes don’t see well, but my mind can still tell a hawk from a handsaw. What are you up to with this meeting you’ve called?’

  I debated saying that it wasn’t my meeting, but gave it up. I also abandoned any idea of trying to get the information I wanted by little fibs. Alice’s conception of this woman’s character was, I thought, somewhat mistaken, or else I had misinterpreted.

  ‘What I hope to do is get at the truth, the truth about a number of things. Abercrombie’s character, for a start, and perhaps the manner of his death, though that’s less certain.’

  ‘Hah! And how can I help you do that?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about the details of the way the jumble sale is run.’

  ‘Want to catch him out, do you? It won’t be easy. He was a devil, but clever, as the devil always is.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I think I have an idea about how to do it.’

  ‘Good. More than I do. You come and see me, and we’ll talk.’ She told me where she lived.

  ‘Wait a second. Let me give my husband the phone. He’s the one who has to find your house.’

  She lived, it turned out, not far from Harold Guillot. I took the phone back. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Would one o’clock suit you, or one thirty?’

  ‘Come now. I’ll give you some lunch.’ She rang off before I could protest.

  ‘Heavens! Eye of newt and toe of frog, probably,’ I said to Alan. ‘She sounds exactly like a witch. Alice said I wasn’t to upset her. I’d say we’re the ones who might get upset. I’ll bet people give her little gifts so their hens will keep laying and their cows’ milk won’t dry up.’

  ‘Precious few hens and cows here in town, love. They more likely go to her to find out how to treat bunions and cure a persistent cough. But a gift or two, of the edible sort, might be a wise precaution.’

  So we stopped at the little food shop in the village for some cheese, and the bakery for some lovely French bread, and then picked up a fresh lemon drizzle loaf from the stand in Victoria Street, and headed up to Miss Crenshawe’s house.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It didn’t resemble a witch’s cottage in the least, but looked pretty much like all the other houses in the neighbourhood: small, with stone walls painted pale blue, shutters a darker blue and a faded red tile roof. The garden was neat but not pretentious. A pink rose climbed a trellis by the front door, which stood open.

  ‘Come in, if you’re who I think you are,’ came a voice from inside. So we did.

  The front room was exquisitely neat and clean, and so was Miss Crenshawe. She wasn’t the frail little person I’d somehow expected, but tall, thin and nicely dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, with a colourful scarf around her neck. No pointed hat, no long nose or warty chin. Her laugh, though, approached a cackle.

  ‘Not quite what you thought, am I? You’ll be pleased to note that I do keep a cat. He’s probably over there in the window seat; that’s where he spends his days, the lazy beast. Lucifer, come and greet our guests.’

  Her eyes were filmed and we could tell that she was able to see very little. We looked over at the window seat, where a blue cushion supported a very large, long-haired black cat. He half opened one eye, revealing a glint of green, stretched out a paw, yawned, turned over and went back to sleep.

  ‘Clearly a dangerous animal,’ said Alan, smiling.

  ‘Ah, he’s there, then? And wouldn’t come when called? Well, that’s a cat for you. Come and sit down. He’ll come fast enough when there’s a meal laid out.’

  ‘We brought a few things,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I mean, we couldn’t just turn up at lunchtime with empty hands.’

  ‘And,’ said Lucille with a wicked grin, ‘you weren’t sure what sort of witch’s brew I might have prepared for you.’

  ‘That was before we saw you,’ said Alan, who was clearly enjoying himself. ‘It’s just bread and cheese and one of those wonderful cakes from the stand near the church.’

/>   ‘Oh, Moray’s the best baker in the town. Lemon drizzle, I hope?’

  ‘Lemon drizzle it is.’

  ‘I’ll ask you to cut it for me, and the bread, as well, if you please. Cheese is easier; I can manage that for myself without cutting off my thumb. And there’s chicken salad and ham in the refrigerator, and help yourself to anything else you might want. I’ll set out the plates and cutlery.’

  She moved around deftly, with no apparent difficulty in finding what she wanted. Yet she couldn’t see the cat.

  ‘You manage very well,’ I said as we settled down to our meal, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘For someone nearly blind, you mean. I’ve lived here all my life, you see. I can put my hand on anything in the pitch blackness of a winter’s night, at least anything that stays where it’s put. Not Lucifer, of course. He’s learned to stay out from under my feet, as he vanishes for me in any but the brightest light.’

  ‘A vanishing black cat,’ said Alan. ‘How appropriate.’

  She cackled again.

  ‘How do you deal with meals? I’d think cooking would be a bit tricky.’

  ‘Soups and stews are easy; just pop whatever I like into a pot and add water.’ She shot us a look, and I felt uncomfortably sure that her mind’s eye could see exactly what we were thinking. She confirmed it. ‘Though frogs’ toes are a ruinous price these days. I don’t bake anymore, but friends bring me baked goods.’

  She turned serious. ‘The church has been good to me. There’s hardly a soul who hasn’t helped me in one way or another. They run errands, help me sort out my medicines, take me places I can’t reach on my own two feet, take Lucifer to the vet when he has to go.’

  Lucifer, who had crept close to the table and was eyeing the platter of ham, sprang away when he heard the word ‘vet’ and vanished, as Lucille had said, into a dark corner where even Alan and I could scarcely see him.

  ‘Was that the cat?’ she asked at our laughter.

  ‘An intelligent animal who apparently prefers to avoid medical care,’ said Alan.

  ‘Oh, he loves the vet, actually. She pampers him scandalously. He just hates his carrier. But enough of this. You came for information about the jumble sale, information that I hope will help you prove that man’s perfidy.’

  ‘It’s already proven in at least one other case,’ I said, and told her about the embezzlement in America. ‘And I hope to prove he stole the money for the choir folders. But the jumble sale money is harder. Tell me, do you – did you, I suppose I should say – keep a record of items sold and their prices?’

  ‘Of course. Have you ever run a jumble sale?’

  ‘I’ve helped, but I’ve never been in charge. What I remember is a sense of mass chaos.’

  ‘It’s all of that, but good records can help. Until this year, I managed the show. It’s only within the past few months that my eyes have got so bad. I could see well enough to set prices, though someone else had to attach the stickers for me; the numbers were too small for me to read. Then all the items and their prices were entered in an account book, and copies made so every till had one. When an item sold, it was checked off. Then at the end of the day we could add up the prices to tell us how much money we ought to have, and count the money to see if it tallied.’

  ‘And did it, usually?’

  ‘Not exactly. Never exactly. One couldn’t expect it, what with the rush, and some people much better at making change than others. But it was always within a pound or two, so we never worried.’

  ‘Did it tally this year?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I was edged right out of the whole affair. All done with kindness, of course. “Really too much for you … time for you to relax and let someone else do the work … you’ve carried the load all these years.” Pah! That man just wanted to manage everything.’

  ‘But surely you would have heard some talk if the accounts came up short.’

  ‘Oh, they came up short, all right, in one sense. We didn’t make nearly what we usually do. Some said it was because my friends didn’t contribute goods, didn’t come to buy. Which of course is simply not true. That man made off with the money somehow, but I don’t know how.’

  ‘I think I do, and I may be able to prove it. Tell me, what is done with unsold items after the sale is over? Back home, everyone was so tired by the end of the day that we just bundled them off willy-nilly into a storage room, and then sometime later when we’d all got a little energy back, we’d take them to the Salvation Army or some other charity.’

  ‘We do the same. At least we always did. Sometimes it was weeks before we got all the leftovers packed off to Barbara’s charity shop.’

  ‘Good. That’s what I was hoping. Now, where would this year’s account book be kept?’

  ‘At the vicarage, along with other church records. There’s no proper office at the church.’

  ‘And where would I be able to find this year’s leftovers?’

  That afternoon we divided our efforts. Alan went to the library to look for vendors of deluxe choir folders; I went to the church to rummage in a little storage room for unsold merchandise.

  The room was actually a sort of shed. It was padlocked, but very little ingenuity was required to find the key under a nearby flowerpot. The lighting was bad, and the flashlight I’d bought wasn’t very powerful, but my search didn’t take me very long. The leftovers were much the sort of thing one might expect: books that didn’t look very appealing, lamps that might have seemed a good idea once, mediocre pictures, rather drab clothing. There were also a few items that might have attracted buyers but for their rather high prices: a small table for forty pounds that I might have considered at thirty, a small framed embroidery (the frame slightly chipped) for fifty, when it was worth thirty-five at the very most.

  I slipped the embroidery and a couple of small pictures into my purse and made my furtive way out of the churchyard and back to Belle Isle.

  Alan wasn’t back yet, so I phoned Mr Lewison. He was rather stiff with me, but yes, he was at home, and yes, he knew where to lay his hands on the jumble sale ledger, and yes, he could bring it to me.

  ‘I don’t think I want to know why you want it,’ he said.

  ‘Then I won’t tell you,’ I said agreeably.

  Alan returned before Mr Lewison arrived. ‘I was lucky,’ he said. ‘I could find only five firms that supply the sort of folders Abercrombie said he ordered. I haven’t phoned them yet.’

  ‘No, of course you couldn’t do it at the library.’

  ‘Would you rather make the calls?’

  ‘No, you go ahead. You can sound much more business-like than I. What I’m hoping is that one company will say such an order was discussed, but they’re waiting for payment before they can ship.’

  He hit pay dirt on the third call. His end of the conversation was enlightening. ‘I see. But I was assured that had been taken care of a few weeks ago. Give me the final price again, and I’ll look into it at once.’

  Mr Lewison knocked on our door just then, and was surprised when I asked him to sit down. ‘We’ve found another length of rope,’ I said. He looked puzzled. ‘For hanging purposes, if he were still around to be hanged.’

  ‘The choir folders were never ordered,’ said Alan heavily. ‘I just spoke with a representative of the company from whom Abercrombie requested an estimate. I would be very much surprised if Abercrombie didn’t quote a very much higher price to your vicar and choir director, to justify collecting more money.’

  The priest sighed. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, after all the other misdeeds that have been laid at his feet.’

  ‘And I’ve another,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. None of this is pleasant.’

  ‘Truth is often unpleasant. What have you uncovered?’

  ‘I’ll know for certain when I’ve seen the ledger.’

  He handed it to me. It was a simple spiral notebook with lists of items and prices, many with checkmarks beside them. I went through rapidly unt
il I found what I was looking for. ‘Framed embroidery, parish church, walnut frame, twenty-five pounds.’ I read aloud. I pulled the item in question out of my purse. ‘I purloined this from the storage room a little while ago. I’ll return it, of course. Note the price tag.’

  ‘Fifty pounds. Someone made a mistake.’

  ‘Yes. The mistake was in not destroying the ledger or removing the tags. Here’s another: “Occasional table, modern, round, chipped leg, twenty pounds.” I didn’t bring that with me, obviously, but it was priced at forty pounds. Here are some pictures, mostly photographs, of some value perhaps for their frames. I think if you’ll look them up you’ll find prices far lower than the ones on the tags.’

  He glanced at them, still puzzled. ‘Group photos, not very good. Whoever took them wasn’t a photographer. The frames aren’t bad, but they’re certainly priced quite high. I don’t understand. Are you saying that Abercrombie reduced prices to increase sales?’

  ‘No, I’m saying just the opposite. I believe Abercrombie either tagged all the items himself, or more likely removed the price tags before the event and replaced them with much higher ones. He left the ledger entries as they were. On the day, he collected the prices shown on the tags and pocketed the difference. If he had removed the altered tags before the unsold items were stored away, no one would ever have known. He must have decreed a single till and served at it himself, or perhaps counted on the confusion of the day making others less careful about checking prices.’

  ‘But it’s insane! The amount of money would be so small, and you say he was a millionaire!’

  ‘He was insane, in a sense,’ said Alan, ‘though perhaps not by any legal definition. He had to keep proving that he was so very much cleverer than anyone else, that he was invincible.’

  Mr Lewison was silent, his face dark with sorrow. ‘Such a waste,’ he said finally. ‘So much power for good, and he turned to evil instead.’

  ‘And ruined several people’s lives in the process,’ I said rather sharply.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten them,’ he said, ‘but neither must we forget Mr Abercrombie himself.’