by Dean James
“Perhaps not.” Lady Prunella frowned. “Abigail was also inclined to be somewhat overzealous, shall we say, in her inspection of the local mail.”
I grimaced in distaste. “You don’t mean she actually read other people’s mail?”
Lady Prunella nodded. “I’m afraid so. There are things that she knew, things of a most personal nature, that she could have discovered only by violating the ethics of her position.”
“Surely the offended parties could have had her brought up on charges of some sort?”
Shaking her head, Lady Prunella said, “I’m afraid that in a village this small it would never have done. The offended parties simply suffered the embarrassment as privately as possible. After all, Abigail never made her news public. She simply liked to twit one with her special knowledge from time to time.”
“How unpleasant!” I said, sincerely for once. “Do you think this play she was talking about last night could have anything to do with her death?”
Lady Prunella turned pale. She seemed to fight for breath for a moment, then recovered herself with a great effort. “If there was a play to begin with! Which I sincerely doubt! I think it was just Abigail playing a nasty little joke on us all.” She shook her head. “No, Dr. Kirby-Jones, I think that was just poor Abigail’s fevered imagination!”
I’d certainly reserve judgment on that. No doubt folk in the village would hope that the play, if it had ever existed, never came to light.
“Well, this has been most enlightening, Lady Prunella, and I must beg your pardon for taking up so much of your time.” I didn’t want her to become unduly suspicious. “And you will let me know what you find out about a suitable secretary?”
Lady Prunella favored me with an uneasy smile. “Most certainly, Dr. Kirby-Jones. Most certainly.” With that, she marched briskly into the butcher’s shop, a much-relieved Precious leading the way.
I jogged toward home, wanting to get out of the ridiculous clothes before many of my new neighbors spotted me. I didn’t want them to start expecting to see me do this every day. I shuddered at the thought.
At home I changed into more conventional togs while I speculated on what Lady Prunella had told me. Conspicuously absent from her recitation of grievances against Abigail Winterton had been any mention of her own ill will against the poor dear departed. In her own colossal self-absorption, Lady Prunella probably couldn’t imagine that anyone would dare think she had a motive to do away with her nemesis. Not to mention the fact, I thought nastily, that she didn’t have the brains to do it.
Appearances, however, could be deceiving. Yours truly being a perfect case in point. People meeting me rarely, if ever, suspected that I was dead. Lady Prunella could, after all, be hiding a formidable intellect behind a facade of effete aristocratic blather.
And maybe Jackie Collins would win the Nobel Prize for Literature, too.
Now comfortably dressed in country-weekend attire, I felt ready to call on the vicar and his wife in pursuit of my inquiries. I glanced at my watch. Nearly ten. Surely a decent hour at which to call upon the spiritual comfort of the parish and his helpmate?
A few minutes later, I opened the gate to let myself into the yard at the vicarage. Letty Butler-Melville was just coming out the front door, and we stood regarding each other in slightly surprised silence for a moment.
I found my voice first as I moved down the walk toward the front door. Letty Butler-Melville stood still, clutching a large hamper in her hands, watching me. “Good morning, Mrs. Butler-Melville. I trust you won’t mind my calling upon you unannounced like this, but I wished to consult the vicar about a matter of some importance.”
Letty Butler-Melville suppressed a sigh. “Not at all, Dr. Kirby-Jones. My husband is at home and is quite accustomed to consulting with parishioners. He will be delighted to see you.” There was some undertone in her voice; whether simple annoyance at finding me unexpectedly on her doorstep, so to speak, or whether it lay somewhere deeper, I didn’t know. But Letty Butler-Melville barely concealed her irritation, whatever its cause.
“You must excuse me,” she continued briskly as she motioned me inside the vicarage. “I have many errands this morning. You’ll find Neville in his study. I believe you will remember the way.” So saying, she pulled the door shut behind her, and I was left standing in the entrance hall of the vicarage, staring blankly after her.
I shrugged. Maybe she simply didn’t like me. After all, it had been known to happen. Or she just had more pressing matters on her mind. Like that scene in the churchyard yesterday with Colonel Clitheroe. Such mysteries to ponder.
Wandering down the hall toward Neville’s study, I noticed anew the shabby gentility of the furnishings.
The Butler-Melvilles seemed to live comfortably in their fraying nest, but the place certainly could use a thorough cleaning, not to mention a bit of renovation here and there. Perhaps an anonymous donor could offer money for such purposes? One hated to think of dishy Neville living in surroundings that did him less them justice.
And here was dishy Neville himself, dozing in his chair. I coughed discreetly, and Neville’s eyes fluttered open. Ah, I thought, those emerald eyes. The man was wasted here in Snupperton Mumsley. He really should be a movie star. Mel Gibson and Kevin Costner had nothing on him.
The vicar stood up hastily, dislodging a book from his lap. I caught a quick glimpse of its cover before it tumbled to the floor behind the desk, and I was amused—and gratified—to see that the book the vicar had been reading was none other than Daphne Deepwood’s Succulent Surrender. Shouldn’t the vicar be working on next Sunday’s sermon? Or reading some edifying theological work? I wondered. What would the bishop think?
“Dr. Kirby-Jones!” Neville quickly overcame his embarrassment at being caught napping and came forward with his hand outstretched. “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here this morning?”
“Good morning, Vicar,” I said. “I apologize for arriving unannounced like this. I do hope you will forgive me.”
“Not at all, not at all!” Neville motioned me toward a seat in front of his desk. “You should feel free to call here whenever you like. I’m never too busy to talk with one of my parishioners.”
“Thank you, Vicar; that’s most reassuring,” I told him, settling comfortably into the battered-looking leather armchair. “I met Mrs. Butler-Melville at the front door. She seemed in quite a hurry, but she told me to come on in.”
The vicar beamed with pride. “Dear Letty is the most amazingly industrious woman. Such a perfect helpmate for a vicar! She is on her way to check in on several of our elderly parishioners. Letty visits the shut-ins and the ill among our little flock without fail. I don’t know what I—or they—would do without her ministrations. She has abundant energy and takes such good care of us all.” A part of me wondered why the vicar himself wasn’t out and about visiting some of these poor folk, who would no doubt be the cheerier for one of his dashing smiles rather than the dour—and dubious—pleasures of his wife’s sour visage and her oddly raspy voice. But perhaps I was doing Letty Butler-Melville a grave disservice. Maybe she lit up like a Christmas tree in the presence of those who sorely needed kind words and chicken soup. Neville certainly seemed a fit testament to his wife’s skills at caretaking.
“I’m sure the people of Snupperton Mumsley frequently have cause to be very grateful to Mrs. Butler-Melville for her many good works,” I said, all in hopes of seeing Neville smile again.
He did not disappoint me. “Quite so, Dr. Kirby-Jones, quite so.” He continued beaming. “Now, what can I do for you this morning?”
Quickly, I explained my need for a secretary and asked for his recommendations of someone suitable. Dear Neville gave the matter his utmost attention, as if I had brought him the most thorny moral dilemma to unravel.
After several moments’ thought, Neville reached for pen and paper and jotted down several names and phone numbers. He handed the paper across the desk to me. “I’m sure, Dr. Kirby-Jones, that you’ll
find any of these women most suitable.”
“Vicar, please, I must insist that you call me Simon. You’ve made me feel quite welcome here in Snupperton Mumsley, so much so that I’m beginning to feel quite at home here.”
“Of course, Simon. We’re delighted to have someone of your accomplishments here in the village.”
I inclined my head in modest thanks. “And thank you for these recommendations.” I waved the piece of paper at him. Perhaps at some point I’d actually get around to contacting one of the women listed there. “One has to be careful these days. And after what happened during the night to poor Miss Winterton, one has to wonder just what the world is coming to!”
Neville had been fondling a pipe he had retrieved from a rack behind his desk, but at my words he dropped the pipe with a clatter onto the desk. His face clouded, and he stood abruptly, surprising me. “Simon, I’m afraid I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be most kind of you, Vicar,” I assured him, and he moved briskly off to the kitchen to fetch the tea. I sat waiting patiently, wondering why an allusion to the death of Abigail Winterton had unnerved him.
CHAPTER TEN
Neville returned shortly with the tea things—no doubt left in readiness for his elevenses by his doting spouse—by which time he seemed to have regained his equanimity. He served us both efficiently, and I took a grimacing sip of the tea. Ye gads, but they must have cast-iron stomachs to endure this abomination.
Masking my distaste with a cough, I alluded to my earlier statement. “Vicar, I regret having distressed you by my mention of Miss Winterton’s mysterious death. But I’m afraid she has been much on my mind ever since the police called upon me yesterday.” Not to mention the identity of her murderer, I added silently.
Neville looked away for a moment. “You have no need to apologize, Simon. I have a most unfortunate failing in one of my calling, I fear. Such news as that of poor Miss Winterton’s death quite oversets me, and it is only with great effort that I can face such unpleasantness.” He turned to me again with a boyishly sheepish grin. Anyone would forgive so handsome and charming a minister of the Lord this little-bitty failing of his. Excepting, perhaps, the bishop, and he very well might be as susceptible to Neville as the rest
“It does credit to your finer feelings, I’m sure, Vicar,” I reassured him. He did bring out that urge to comfort him rather than the other way around.
“Thank you, Simon,” he said. “You are most understanding. I have known poor dear Abigail for so long, naturally, and her death is such a shock. One simply doesn’t expect such tragic accidents to occur.”
Surely he couldn’t be that dim. “But, Vicar,” I pointed out gently, “do you really think it was an accident?” I put an ever-so-slight emphasis on that last word.
For a long moment, Neville seemed likely to swoon. I was ready to rush to his aid should he succumb, but manfully he recovered himself from the shock. “I, hmm, well, I hadn’t thought about that, Simon.” His voice wavered a bit. “Do you mean that Abigail didn’t have a heart attack during the night? That’s what Letty told me had probably happened.”
He had to be putting on some sort of act for my benefit. He couldn’t be that unworldly. Unless, perhaps, his wife was trying to shield him from something, and that bore further thought. At the risk of sending him into cardiac arrest, I decided to try harsher tactics. “No, Vicar, it doesn’t seem to me that she did. Surely the police wouldn’t be treating her death as suspicious if there weren’t some odd circumstances about it. Don’t you think she might have been murdered?”
At that last most hideous word, Neville turned ashen. I cast about for some water to throw in his face, just in case, but with a magnificent effort eyes blinking rapidly and chest heaving deeply, he calmed himself.
“But but,” he sputtered, “why on earth? Why would anyone want to murder Abigail?”
“My dear Vicar, I have no idea. I’ve just come to the village, remember, and I know very little about its inhabitants. Surely you, as spiritual guide and counselor, must know who among us might have reason to do something so coldhearted?” I sat back and awaited further swooning.
Neville obviously possessed more mettle than I realized. He faced me directly and spoke with great determination. “Simon, that is an absolutely appalling notion. No one of my acquaintance here in the village could be so utterly ruthless as deliberately to take someone else’s life! The whole notion is preposterous! There has to be some other explanation.”
He made a good show of innocence outraged, but I thought fear lurked there somewhere. Fear that he was mistaken in his rosy view of his parishioners? Or fear that someone near and dear to him was a cold-blooded killer? What did he know, if anything, that could be pertinent to the case?
“What about that play she was talking about the other night at the meeting? The play all about the moral decay in a village like this one?” I affected an air of innocent inquiry.
“That is the most absolute rot,” Neville thundered, and I was taken aback. I had no idea his voice was that powerful. He continued in a milder tone. “Snupperton Mumsley is a quiet village, full of hardworking and God-fearing souls. You are a newcomer here, and I must make allowance for that. You simply haven’t had the chance to become acquainted with the people here. There is no moral decay. The idea is complete and utter nonsense! Poor Abigail had a tendency sometimes to try to dramatize herself, and I’m afraid this was simply one more instance.”
“Don’t you think it makes the timing of her mysterious death even more strange?” What color was the sky in his little world?
“No, it’s preposterous. I’m sure her death will turn out to be some rather unfortunate accident.” The more he talked, the more agitated he seemed to become. He was afraid of something, but I had no idea what.
“Vicar, are you going to be okay?” I was becoming rather alarmed. He really did look quite done in. Was it the fear? Or just his “unfortunate failing” at its most extreme?
Neville waved a hand weakly in my direction. “I’ll be fine, Simon, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving me for now. This is all most distressing, and I must have some time to contemplate it all.” His voice grew stronger. “Yes, time for prayer and reflection. That’s what I must have.” He gazed at me, those beautiful eyes pleading with me.
How could I resist? I should be hard-hearted and grill him further, while his resistance was low. I’m no longer human, but despite what you might think, I’m not completely lost to the finer feelings. At least not where a handsome man is involved.
“Of course, Vicar. I quite understand,” I said as I stood. “Please forgive me for distressing you so.”
He stood with me. “Don’t think about it any further, Simon, really. I’ll be fine...” His voice trailed off forlornly.
My sense of humor, inconvenient at the best of times, almost got the better of me then. A picture of his face at that moment would have moved even the most hard-hearted to give thousands to famine relief or whatever charity you might name. Pain for the human condition was nobly etched in his face, distress radiating from those remarkable eyes, sorrow aching upon his lips. He was most definitely wasted in Snupperton Mumsley.
Assuring the vicar that I could see myself out, I left before I disgraced myself completely and giggled right in his poor face.
I wandered back home, wondering what my next move ought to be, I could call and see if Jane was at home and share the fruits of my morning labors with her. I was sure she’d be quite amused at my efforts at interrogation. Thinking back over the meager amounts of information that I had gleaned, however, I decided that perhaps I didn’t want to share everything with Jane just yet.
However, I reminded myself as I unlocked the door to my cottage, I had only just begun. Whistling the old Carpenters song softly, I advanced into my office. The light on my answering machine was blinking, and I stopped to play back my messages.
The cool voice of Samantha Stevens flowed out
into the silence. “Dr. Kirby-Jones, I apologize for ringing you on such short notice, but I wondered whether you might be available to join us for dinner this evening? My husband is most eager to meet you, and I trust you will not mind indulging him while he recovers from his accident.” She went on to give me her phone number, asking that I call back and leave word with her husband’s secretary about tonight and get directions as well.
Most interesting, I thought, jotting down the phone number. I had nothing else planned for this evening, and I might as well meet the mysteriously injured Mr. Stevens and further my acquaintance with his wife. Would there be a way in which I could—discreetly, of course—bring up that little matter of Abigail Winterton and her lost nest egg?
I’d have to ponder that one awhile. “I say, old chap, rumor hath it that you swindled the dear departed out of her life savings, what?” Not quite the done thing. No, something more subtle would be required.
After all, that alleged business deal gave Abigail Winterton motive to murder Mr. Stevens, and not the other way round, as far as I could see. But perhaps old Abigail had been carrying on a torrid affair with Mr. Stevens and the icy Samantha had caught wind of it and decided to rid herself of her rival once and for all.
I laughed aloud. That would take more imagination than even I possessed. Daphne Deepwood most emphatically would not go for it.
Perhaps, though, the dear departed had stumbled upon some deep, dark secret that one of the Stevenses would rather not have anyone know. If the late, unlamented postmistress really did snoop through the mail, goodness only knew what she might have winkled out. And that certainly didn’t limit the field to the Stevenses. Anyone in the village was fair game for blackmail, provided the existence of guilty secrets.
The whole village hadn’t been present at the meeting, of course, so the group of potential murderers was probably limited to those in attendance that night. Unless everyone else at the meeting immediately went home and started spreading the word throughout the village about Abigail Winterton’s play (I was going to consider it hers, for the ease of discussion), then the murderer was most likely someone at the meeting.