by Connie Berry
I wondered briefly if Ivor Tweedy was part of the conspiracy to shelter Lady Barbara from all things unpleasant.
“What do you know about Edmund Foxe?”
“The vicar? Not a lot. Why do you ask?”
“I’m on my way over there.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but it seemed to satisfy Ivor.
“Young, enthusiastic—not one of the happy-clappies, but he’s done away with the bells and smells.”
The Church of England, I knew, is divided between those who hold to the old traditions and elaborate rituals—bells and smells—and the more modern, seeker-friendly services with contemporary music and audience participation—the happy-clappies. Edmund Foxe seemed to be navigating the middle.
“How long as he been in Long Barston?”
“Two years. Maybe longer.”
“Do you know where he came from?”
“Essex—Colchester, I believe. Or was it Chelmsford? Hmm.” He saw me pick up a carved cinnabar lacquer brush pot, and his eyes lit up. “What brings you to the shop today? On the hunt?”
“I should be. I need stock. But I’ve come about a book, written by a local man about the finding of the Hoard.”
“Ah, you mean Swiggett. Walter Swiggett, a wealthy amateur historian from over Foxearth way. Printed privately in 1822. Only a hundred copies, and”—his eyes glittered—“one of them is mine.”
I followed him as he limped through a maze of shelves to a small windowless room in the back of the shop. Books filled the shelves floor to ceiling. More tottered in piles on the floor.
“Now where did I put it?” Ivor Tweedy squinted behind his glasses. “History? Hoard? Something starting with h, anyway.” He pawed through the books like a squirrel searching for a lost nut. “Ah, yes.” He gave a little clap. “Here, I think.”
He positioned an iron library ladder against one of the shelves and winced as he climbed.
I moved closer, ready to steady him in case he lost his balance.
“Strange.” He ran his fingertips along the volumes from left to right, then from right to left. Frowning, he adjusted his glasses. “It’s not here.”
“Could you have sold it?”
“I’d never do that. In any case, you’re the first to ask about the book in at least ten years.”
“Lady Barbara’s copy is missing, too.”
“Now that is odd. Very odd indeed.”
“Do you know of other copies?”
“There’s one in the Bodleian, but access is restricted to researchers. There’s an application process.”
I didn’t have time to visit the Bodleian, much less go through a lengthy application process. “Are you sure the book wasn’t stolen? Maybe there’s an obsessed collector out there somewhere.”
“If you were talking an early folio of Hamlet, maybe. But local history? Can’t imagine it.”
“Have any strangers come in recently to browse?”
“Just you.” He chuckled.
“And yet the book is missing.”
“Yes.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
We walked toward the front of the shop. His limp had become more pronounced.
“You’re in pain,” I said.
“Old hip joints. Everything wears out in the end.”
“Isn’t there anything the doctors can do?”
“Replacement. I’ve been on a waiting list with the National Health for six months.”
I pulled my card out of my handbag. “If you find the book, please call me.”
“Of course. I’m quite baffled by this.”
He was still muttering as I closed the shop door behind me. Ivor Tweedy might have been eccentric—well, let’s face it, he was—but he was also a kind and honest man.
A van from BBC News trundled past toward the main road out of town. In a remote Suffolk village, even a second murder had limited national press value.
I turned in the direction of the church. The book that might answer my question about Tabitha’s handwritten list had suddenly gone missing. Twice.
Someone, it seemed, was a step ahead of me.
* * *
St. Æthelric’s was one of the famous “wool churches,” built in East Anglia and the Cotswolds with the proceeds of the sheep-farming industry—or, more accurately, the wool cloth–producing industry. I stood, my guidebook in hand, gazing up at the solid stone walls. The classic Norman structure—high square tower, main arch with zigzag moldings—had been built by the wealthy cloth guilds. Among its treasures were the original medieval glass windows, taken down and concealed during the Second World War and brought out with great jubilation on V-E Day.
The graveyard, enclosed behind the red brick wall, spanned centuries. The oldest stones were nearest the church itself, simple tablets inscribed with names and dates. Some leaned at crazy angles, but all were intact, the names legible. As I moved toward the outer walls, the monuments became increasingly elaborate and sentimental, some bearing sculptured designs—willow trees, weeping angels, urns. Some taught a lesson about the brevity of life or the inevitability of death. Some included Bible passages or clever aphorisms. Many were decorated for Christmas with evergreen branches and faux red poinsettias.
I was looking for the names Thurtle, Gedge, and Ingham. And there she was. A stone near the wall marked the resting place of Eloise Ingham née Gedge, age forty-eight: DEAREST WIFE OF GEORGE INGHAM. BORN 4TH APRIL 1902. DIED 4TH FEBRUARY 1951.
Then I read the stone next to hers and did a double-take:
Sacred to the memory of the beloved daughters of Eloise and George Ingham.
Lydia aged 19, Born 29th January 1931. Died 1st February 1951
Margaret, aged 21, Born 11th April 1929. Died 7th February 1951
Thelma, aged 14, Born 19th April 1936. Died 12th February 1951
George Ingham’s wife and three daughters had all perished within a two-week period in February 1951.
“Sad, isn’t it?” A pleasant-looking woman carrying a small evergreen wreath stood behind me. Her dark hair, just going gray, was tucked behind her ears. She wore corduroy slacks and a pine-green waxed jacket similar to Tom’s.
She leaned the wreath against a stone carved with the name NUTHALL and squinted against the light. “I’m Hattie Nuthall, the vicar’s housekeeper. Every stone here tells a story. The one you’re looking at is especially sad. All four taken in the flu epidemic of 1951.”
“Were there other children?” If all Eloise’s children died in the epidemic, Peter Ingham couldn’t be related to her.
“There was a son. Ironic, really, because he’d gone to the Korean War. I’m told his mother lived in terror he’d be killed, but in the end it probably saved him.”
“Is his grave here as well?”
“I’d have to check. Are you related to the Inghams?” Her nut-brown eyes registered keen interest.
“Not at all, but I am interested in local history. My daughter is one of the interns at Finchley Hall. She’s working in the family archives.”
“The Hall—my goodness. More sadness. Shocking for your daughter, I imagine.”
“Yes, although she didn’t really know Miss King.”
“I felt sorry for that girl. Something was obviously playing on her mind.”
“You knew her?”
“Not well, but the vicar spent a lot of time with her, especially in the weeks leading up to her death. We were devastated when we heard.” Hattie polished the headstone with the cuff of her jacket. “My parents lived in this village their whole lives. I’ll be here, too, one day, next to them.”
“The history of the village is here, I imagine—if you know where to look.”
“The vicar knows a lot about local history. I’m headed there now. Come along. I’ll see if he’s free.”
“Thank you.” I checked my watch. Tom wouldn’t arrive at the Stables for another two hours. Plenty of time to freshen up and change clothes.
We stepped down to enter the stone-floored church. Hattie bustle
d off to find the vicar.
The nave of St. Æthelric’s was lit by a series of tracery windows containing the medieval glass so prized by the villagers. I could see why. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the leaded glass, laying streaks of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and topaz. Four windows depicted the four Gospel writers, each carrying a book and wearing robes in brilliant jewel colors. Lozenges beneath their feet held their identifying symbols—divine man, winged ox, winged lion, rising eagle.
Hattie rejoined me. “Vicar’s on his way.” She followed my gaze to a window along the east wall. “That one was given to the church in the late fifteenth century by Gilbert Finchley and his wife, Juliana.”
A prosperous-looking man with his wife in a high-waisted kirtle and winged headdress knelt with their four children to pray beneath a circlet of the Risen Christ and the Finchley coat of arms.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Today the vicar wore jeans and a clerical collar under a tweed jacket. He stuck out his hand. “Edmund Foxe.”
I introduced myself. “I saw you at the Hall the night the body was found, but we weren’t introduced. My daughter is one of the new interns at Finchley Hall.”
“Ah, yes.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Hattie said. “Must finish January’s flower rota.”
“You may not believe this,” the vicar said, “but Long Barston is a quiet community. Crime in the village is usually limited to a bit of shoplifting or joyriding. We’ve had nothing close to murder in decades.” He gazed at the altar screen and inhaled sharply.
I followed him up the main aisle toward the chancel, adorned for Christmas with greenery and a crèche. “Your housekeeper tells me you knew Tabitha King.”
“Not well.” Emotion crossed his face, gone as soon as it appeared. “Tabitha was searching for something. She thought the church might provide it.”
“But it didn’t?”
“Let’s just say, not in time. On a happier note, Hattie tells me you’re interested in local history.”
“My daughter is working in the Finchley family archives. We noticed the names Gedge and Ingham.”
“Common names in these parts.” His smile revealed perfect white teeth. If this young clergyman didn’t inhabit the dreams of the village bachelorettes, he most certainly did the prayers of their mothers. “Plenty of Gedges and Inghams in the records—births, marriages, deaths. Someone particular you’re interested in?”
“I noticed the memorial to the mother and three daughters who died in the flu epidemic of 1951. Your housekeeper said Eloise Ingham had a son who survived the Korean War. Do you know if he stayed in the area?”
“Married a girl from Norwich, if memory serves. I believe he moved up that way.”
We’d reached the altar.
“How old is the church?”
“There was an earlier church here,” he said, “mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086. Construction on the present church began in the middle of the fifteenth century. The oldest part is the tower. Wonderful views of the village and park. That’s where I caught a glimpse of the man who was found dead—at least I assume it was him. And the other one.”
“The other one?”
“The man he was with.”
“The two were together? Where was this?”
“Best if I show you.” His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Let’s run up there now.”
I did not want to run up the tower, but he was already halfway toward the door. And I was curious. Curious enough to face my fears.
“Seven flights. Eighty-four steps.” He threw over his shoulder, “We’ll catch our breath at the ringing chamber.”
Wooden steps zigzagged upward. I grasped the railing, forcing myself to look straight ahead rather than up or down. That usually helps, but by the time we reached the ringing chamber, I’d started to hyperventilate.
I felt the color drain from my face, but the vicar didn’t seem to notice. He flashed me a smile. “The bell chamber is directly above. Then the viewing platform. Come on.”
“Are there railings? It’s just I’m a bit …” I trailed off, feeling sweaty and nauseated.
“Fear of heights?” He grinned. “Not to worry. We’ll be inside the tower at all times.”
This didn’t help. I’ve been known to get vertigo in platform shoes.
“It’s an incredible view. Come on. Trust me, Kate. May I call you Kate?”
I nodded, reminding myself that a clergyman in the Church of England probably didn’t harbor fantasies of pushing me off the tower.
Then we were there, and he was right. The view was incredible, even from my vantage point in the exact center of the small room. I looked around for something to hold on to. Finding nothing, I widened my stance. You’re all right. You’re safe. The viewing platform had a sturdy wooden floor and a thick parapet that rose comfortingly to chest level. Even I couldn’t throw myself off without a great deal of effort.
“Where’s Finchley Hall from here?” I asked, hoping to distract myself with information.
“Just there.” He pointed toward a patch of green in the middle distance. “If you come forward a bit—just a step or two, Kate—you can see the roof and the chimneys.”
I took a cautious step. Then another. “Is curing phobias part of your job description?”
He laughed. “You don’t have a phobia. Most people don’t like heights. It’s the feeling of vulnerability. The secret is to focus on what you see, not where you are. Here, take my arm. There’s the Folly—right there, near that patch of dark green—and beyond it the Chinese Bridge.”
The octagonal roof of the Folly was easy to pick out among the treetops. A flash of red identified the Chinese Bridge. He was right. I started to relax and took another step forward. I reached out for the brick parapet but instantly took a step back as a spell of vertigo brought another wave of nausea.
Focus on what you see, not on where you are.
Below me, the long, winding main street of Long Barston curved to the left, crossed the River Stour, and disappeared over a low hill. The buildings, cars, and antlike people looked like the models in my brother Matt’s train setup.
“There’s the Finchley Arms,” Edmund Foxe said. “See it? At the intersection of the High and Sheep Street. Sheep Street marks the route originally taken by drovers, bringing their animals to market. If you lean forward, you can see the tiled roof of the Three Magpies on the next street.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He laughed. “The torch parade began in the church parking area.” He indicated a small paved area between the churchyard and the edge of the wood leading to Finchley Park. “That’s where I saw the stranger. I’d come up here to ring the bells at four. We do that two hours before the torch parade and then again around six—a call to arms, if you will. That’s when I saw the man who was killed. Four o’clock”—he stabbed a finger—“right there at the edge of the wood. I couldn’t see his face, of course, but I noticed he was wearing some sort of dark head covering. A flat cap, maybe, or something knitted. Someone joined him.”
“Who was it?”
“Couldn’t say. Couldn’t even tell you if it was a man or woman. Just a figure, although I had an idea he—or she—was wearing sunglasses. I remember thinking it was strange because the sun was already low in the sky.”
“What happened?”
“One minute they were there, then they were gone.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Should I have? They haven’t contacted me.”
“I think you should. Every bit of information is important.”
“I heard the police found a shack where the stranger was sleeping rough.”
As we gazed at the crime scene, a thin plume of smoke rose and hung in the air before dissipating. Then another. “What’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Burning leaves? Campfire? Do you know the number of rough sleepers in the UK has more than doubled in
the past five years? In spite of all the government programs, most refuse to ask for help—fear, mental illness.”
The smoke was no longer visible.
“Let’s get you to ground level,” the vicar said. “I’ll go first. Hold on to the railing and put your left hand on my shoulder.”
I followed him, step for step.
The vicar looked over his shoulder. “The poor man should have come to us, you know. He would have found a hot meal and a safe place to sleep.”
We’d reached ground level. I took a breath and blew it out. One thing was clear. If the figure seen by the vicar the afternoon of the Peasants’ Revolt was the murder victim, less than four hours later he was dead.
Was the second person, the man or woman in the sunglasses, his killer?
Chapter Twenty-Three
The evening menu at the Three Magpies featured three main courses—slow-roasted lamb shoulder with chickpeas and apricots, pan-fried trout with buttered new potatoes, and a wild mushroom–and–mozzarella lasagna with roasted cherry tomato sauce.
This time Tom and I sat in the main dining room.
Jayne Collier brought us glasses of crisp Sancerre. “And to get you started, Gavin’s homemade sourdough with lemon and coriander olives.” Small purplish-brown olives and larger torpedo-shaped green ones swam in a pond of herbed olive oil.
“You’re almost full tonight,” I said, noticing that only three of the fifteen or so tables in the dining room were empty.
“Not bad for a Thursday.” Jayne smiled. “No locals yet.”
“Saxby St. Clare isn’t exactly local,” Tom said. “But once my mother gets the word out, you’ll be turning them away.”
The mention of Tom’s mother brought another stab of guilt. I really had to tell him about our disastrous tea, but when?
He smiled at me, and his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. Oh, not tonight.
“Have you seen the competition?” Jayne asked. “The Arms has started advertising two-for-one mains with a free bottle of wine.”
“We’ve had the wine,” Tom said. “Free is just about right.”
She laughed. “Water’s free here. Still or sparkling?”
Jayne left and returned with a pair of squat glasses and a cool green bottle of spring water. “Enjoy. Take your time. I’ll come back to take your orders.”