Up from the Grave

by Marilyn Leach

  “No, stay,” Wilkie bid. “No secrets now and, truth be told, a relief.”

  Berdie leaned against the spreading oak that sheltered their little gathering.

  Wilkie took a single deep breath. “I have the spade because my little partner,” he bent down and stroked Fritz, “and I are on our way out to gather white gold, or black as it may be.”

  “What? There’s ore about?” Lillie blurted impulsively.

  Berdie gave her a quick glance and a slight negative shake of the head. Then Berdie put all her powers to play. Thirty thousand pounds paid in full. She eyed Fritz, the spade, and what appeared to be a small carrier bag shoved in the pocket of Wilkie’s coat.

  “I know we’re not in France, and it’s not the high season, but could this white and black gold have anything to do at all with Le Petit Chaumier?” Berdie waited for a reply.

  “And others. Cherry said nothing gets by you, Mrs. Elliott.” Wilkie shook his head.

  Lillie knitted her brow. “Le Petit Chaumier?”

  “Truffles, black market truffles,” Berdie informed Lillie. “And not the chocolate ones.”

  “Truffles,” Lillie repeated.

  Berdie folded her arms as she continued to lean against the tree. “It has to be an area completely undisturbed and not for a short while.” She tapped a finger against her arm. “Private land I should say, untouched wooded area, oak.”

  Wilkie removed his hat and fingered the brim, slowly turning it round. “The back woods of the Preswood estate,” he confessed. “I made the discovery quite by accident, when I was groundskeeper.”

  “Did you inform Preswood?”

  “Randal Preswood doesn’t give a toss about his land, what it needs, or what it possesses.”

  “Beouf au Truffes,” Lillie interjected just coming up to speed. “You’re the supplier?”

  Berdie remembered Preston Graystone’s description of the man he saw in the wood twenty years past. He wore a woodsman’s hat, like Wilkie Gordon’s.

  “How long has this been going on?” Berdie looked at Wilkie intently.

  “Just gone one year now.”

  “Give it to us straight, Mr. Gordon,” Berdie ordered. “How long?”

  “That is straight.” He balked. “I made the discovery years ago, but there was no need.”

  “Ah.” Berdie nodded. She believed the old fellow.

  “Need?” Lillie asked what Berdie was considering.

  “Yes.” Berdie answered for Wilkie just realizing what he meant herself. “Not until your Mary became desperately ill.”

  “They,” Wilkie spit the word out, “said there was no more could be done for her.” Anger colored his words. “The quacks told her to go home and die.” He squeezed the hat and shook it. “I had to do something, I couldn’t let that happen. Do you see?”

  Lillie leaned forward in her chair. She placed a hand on Wilkie’s knee.

  Berdie squatted next to him. “So you got treatment for Mary in Germany. Treatment not allowed here. Treatment that costs a king’s ransom.”

  Wilkie nodded.

  “All paid for with white gold,” Lillie reiterated.

  “And she’s gotten better.” Wilkie whimpered. “She finished the course, and she’s so much better.”

  Berdie became suddenly aware of a gentle pitter patter of droplets on the earth.

  “And the garden falderal.” Berdie’s gift of sorting and aligning was ablaze. “You were afraid the water feature would bring more people in, the thin edge of the wedge, and your precious gold would eventually be trampled or discovered.”

  “Yes, well, and then there was the other.” Wilkie hung his head.

  Just then a crackle sounded. Fritz jerked his head up from his disappearing bone. He sniffed the air, jumped to attention, and began to bark.

  “What’s going on here?” Hugh stood in the midst of the odd little huddle wearing his evening robe while his wet weather wellies adorned his feet and a black umbrella sheltered his head. His left eyebrow elevated. “Wilkie? Lillie? Berdie!”

  Berdie swallowed. “Shall we all retire to the kitchen for a cup of tea?” she suggested calmly, as if it was four in the afternoon on a balmy day.

  “Right.” Hugh growled. “I should say one or two things need explaining, wouldn’t you, Berdie?”

  It was quite obvious. Hugh was not amused.

  13

  The warmth of the fire Hugh tended in the library gave a warm glow that eased and gave comfort to everyone seated; Wilkie on the large Chesterfield sofa, Berdie and Lillie in the leather chairs. Fritz, still at his bone, sat quietly gnawing at Wilkie’s feet.

  Lillie’s eyes looked heavy. The chill of the spring night now warded off, Berdie found that she, as well, was being courted by the sandman despite the warming tea and the energy it offered.

  “I should think, after we finish our tea, all can go home and get some sleep.” Hugh was not inattentive. “Most conversations stand best in the fair light of day.”

  “If you please, Vicar,” Wilkie asked politely. “I would like to clear one more matter for your wife. And the truth of it, for me as well. I’ll be done with the thing as quickly as the teacup’s empty.”

  “Of course, Mr. Gordon, as long as you’re not under duress.” Hugh answered with an eye on Berdie.

  Berdie returned the ogle.

  “No, no.” Wilkie sighed. He took a slurp of tea and began his soul baring. “I’m going to be needing some guidance, Vicar. But we can talk about that, as you say, in the light of day. What I’m addressing now is the truth of our son, George.”

  Berdie became instantly alert. “The baby picture on the dresser no doubt,” she said under her breath. She wanted to get every word that Wilkie spoke on this matter.

  “There are rumors about the village connecting my Mary and the unearthed bones. There’s not a bit of truth to them, and I won’t have her name drug through the mud.” Wilkie’s white beard contrasted starkly with his now pink face.

  “Idle gossip.” Hugh crossed his arms. “Wicked stuff.”

  “Our George was born perfectly healthy. It was my Mary who was ill.” Wilkie looked down at little Fritz and stroked him. “The long and short of it, my dear wife couldn’t cope when the boy came.” He ran a finger across the bottom of his nose. “She wasn’t herself, had no interest in the wee one, barely able to tend her own self. She became dark, almost lost.” He stopped petting Fritz and raised his head, moisture in his eyes.

  “Sounds like postnatal depression.” Berdie had seen it before.

  The old gentleman, in the light of the fire, wore his years of lies all cross his face. “It scared me. Her, too, when she had sense about her.”

  “Did you talk to your doctor?” Lillie asked the reasonable question.

  “We were afraid they’d take George from us. All the things you’d hear on the news. You see, with me working, trying to keep life and limb together, well, I couldn’t do it all.”

  Hugh sat down on the Chesterfield next to Wilkie.

  “We gave our George into the care of Mary’s brother and his family, just ‘til Mary could recover.” Wilkie’s voice cracked and he took a sip of tea.

  It was clear to Berdie, as she was sure it was clear to Hugh and Lillie, this was a scabbed wound bleeding to heal, and dreadfully difficult for Mr. Gordon. She took a try at completing what Wilkie was trying to say. “But it took longer than you thought for Mary to get her sea legs back.

  Wilkie nodded. “And by that time, George had become attached to the people he recognized as his parents, his siblings.”

  Lillie leaned towards Wilkie. “So you put it about that George developed critical needs and was placed in a special care institution.”

  “I had to protect Mary’s delicate state.”

  “It squelched the painful gossip and explained Mary’s sadness.” Lillie’s eyes held understanding.

  Wilkie sighed again. “Mary’s brother moved to the Orkney’s. George grew up a fine boy, but he didn’t wan
t anything of Mary or me. Didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. As a young man he met Cherry’s mother, married, lived happily I’m told, until he died at sea three years after Cherry was born.” Wilkie cleared his throat. “We loved our boy,” he whispered.

  “You had the courage to love him the best you knew,” Hugh comforted.

  Lillie nodded then lifted her brow as if something had alighted in her grey matter. “So it was bitter sweet, then, when Cherry arrived in the village. Where and from whom did she come?”

  “I invented the story of a previous clandestine marriage, a thin veneer. More lies. Anything to keep the past at bay.” Wilkie blinked. “And Cherry agreed to keep the secret.” He looked into the fire. “But the scent of fabrication wafted throughout the village. In the end, did living all those years with protective lies really help Mary? And Cherry as well, one secret, than another.”

  “Whatever has gone before,” Berdie was fixed, “part of your George lives on in Cherry. And that’s a blessing.”

  Wilkie laid his eyes upon Berdie, a fresh glimmer about them. “Not a day goes by that we don’t thank God for her and that she pledged herself to find us. She’s taken us to her heart, and we adore her. Then along the way she found her Jeff, a good lad.” Wilkie took another gulp of tea.

  “They’re a fine couple.” Hugh’s tone was reassuring.

  “But this business that the young child buried in the church garden is somehow tied to my Mary is a burning lie.” Wilkie’s lip trembled. “I knew the moment those upturned bones were a child it would put my Mary in a state, just as she was gathering strength. Wicked accusations. It’s not on. I won’t have it.”

  Hugh stood again, military straight, dignified despite his dressing gown. “Wilkie, you needn’t worry yourself anymore on that account.” He looked at Berdie. “My wife, with her God-given gift, will root out the truth of the matter, and I dare say soon. That will quiet the groundless accusations, and in a hurry.”

  Berdie smiled and nearly swooned in the loving public affirmation and trust her husband displayed for her and her abilities.

  “Spot on,” Lillie pronounced.

  “Now, may I suggest we call it a night, or a morning as the case may be, and I’ll drive you home Wilkie.” Hugh assisted Wilkie to his feet.

  Lillie cleared her throat.

  “And you as well, Watson.” Hugh grinned. He turned his attention on Berdie. “We’ll talk over breakfast. Now get some sleep, love.”

  When everyone, including the little four-legged truffle hunter, was escorted to the door and on their way, Berdie sat quietly to take her last sip of tea in the library.

  “Wilkie’s guilt actually clears him from the bones issue,” she said aloud. “Stolen glass, broken shards, Flora, that chin, photo, Mr. Smith, certificates, fruit baskets; so many roads lead to Swithy Hall. But then there’s Wanda Pitts, St. Erts, Evergreen. How do they tie in? What’s my next step?” She ran her finger on the rim of the teacup. “Call Billy Beaton, yes, follow-up, then pay another visit to the contessa.” Berdie put her drained cup on the end table near her. “Yes, my dear Contessa, it could be a very bumpy ride.”

  ****

  So far this morning, Berdie had enjoyed her nice morning lie-in plus a refreshment of scriptural meditation and prayer in her favorite Queen Anne chair. She also asked Hugh to call the contessa and ask if Berdie may visit her this morning, which he did willingly. That was the pleasant part.

  The lion’s share of her time was taken up with an arduous defense to Hugh at breakfast about her approach to Wilkie Gordon.

  And Hugh quite adamantly reminded Berdie that she was to work in tandem with Albert Goodnight. He insisted she visit the constable immediately and even rung up the lawman, who was eating breakfast at the Upland Arms. He informed that Berdie was coming straight way. Then he cautioned Berdie to keep Mr. Gordon out of the conversation entirely, for now, with Goodnight.

  All this she had taken in with a certain amount of acquiescence. But now, standing at the entrance of the Upland Arms, she thought it more pleasure to visit a dentist with a toothache.

  “Lord, I need your patience.” She breathed and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Upland Arms.

  Immediately, the tantalizing whiff of bacon made entry to her olfactory parts. It mixed with the distant hint of last evening’s brews and the soot of the open fireplace, which sported a spatter of flame. Imagining the taste of Dudley’s farm fresh eggs on her tongue, she instantly regretted she’d breakfasted already.

  Berdie glanced about in search of Goodnight. The white lime-washed walls of the place, made the oak ceiling beams appear even duskier than the myriads of smoke-ridden years had turned them. The walls were littered with pictures: home football teams, and the just-won invitational cup, darts champions, prize ribbons, and the list of current winners from quiz night.

  People were seated at snugs and tables, standing to wait for take-away, while others chatted in corners.

  Then she spotted the blue uniform of the constable seated near a tap, grinding his breakfast with rapid pace, speaking to Dudley Horn. Confidence in her stride, she made her way to the policeman.

  “Good morning, Constable Goodnight.” Berdie’s voice was clear and strong.

  “Ah, the vicar’s wife,” he said with little pleasure.

  “I believe a consult is in order.” Berdie presented with a hard-pressed smile.

  “Oh, of course.” Goodnight winked towards Dudley Horn, and then stuck another fork full of baked beans in his mouth. “Been stickin’ your nose in the latest gossip, then?”

  Berdie worked at remaining even tempered.

  Dudley Horn grinned. “May I get you something, Mrs. Elliott?”

  Berdie shook her head. “The constable and I need to speak.” Mr. Horn, still grinning, stepped to another customer.

  “You do know,” Berdie said matter-of-factly, “that the Preswoods own eighteenth century Venetian glass, the same as found in the garden child’s skull.”

  Albert Goodnight stopped chewing, slapped his fork down, took Berdie by the elbow, and began ushering her in the direction of the pub’s toilets.

  “What are you doing?” Berdie protested.

  A few strides and they arrived at the tiny hall that held the Ladies’ and the Gents’.

  “Fewer ears to hear, eyes to pry, and I won’t have the Preswoods brought into ill repute.” Goodnight shook his finger and scowled. “You know as well as I that they had a piece of that stuff stolen and enough said.”

  Berdie wasn’t going to argue. She knew it would only stir up. Besides, she was attempting to breathe through her mouth as the odiferous quarters brutally assaulted the nose.

  A large man with tiny eyes entered the hallway.

  “Pete.” Goodnight nodded towards the man who bumped Berdie’s arm as he returned the nod and entered the Gents’.

  “Since your high-flyer inspector got his gob in, if you must know,” Goodnight whispered in an irritated manner, “I’m poised to make an arrest.”

  “Who?” Berdie could barely get the word out.

  The constable moved his eyes from side to side. “Patricia King.” He grunted pompously under his breath.

  Berdie blinked and shook her head. Poor Patricia, who already had to deal with her own feelings of remorse, was cleared by Jasper Kent an hour after he interrogated her.

  “Surely not,” Berdie steamed.

  “She had every opportunity.”

  “What’s her motive?”

  “What?”

  “Why would she want the contessa gone?”

  “A foreigner, pushin’ her nose in, actin’ high and mighty in our village, bringin’ nothin’ but trouble?” He sneered. “Why wouldn’t she want the woman gone more like?”

  Berdie put her index finger under her nose. The hall smelled as badly as Goodnight’s reasoning. Both were beyond her staying power.

  “I shouldn’t touch Patricia King.” Berdie eked the words out her lips.

&n
bsp; “That’s it then?” Goodnight ran his tongue over his upper teeth. “Good, my eggs are getting cold.”

  Berdie swallowed the words she would have loved to yell at the man as he waddled back to his plate. Instead, with great haste, she turned and marched out the pub.

  She had bigger fish to fry. She was next calling on the contessa.

  ****

  Little does the contessa know that my bag holds what could be the tiebreaker in the war of telling the absolute truth. Berdie pressed her finger to the door chime of Swithy Lodge.

  When opened, the gracious contessa smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Elliott,” she said in her light Italian accent. “Please, come in.”

  Berdie entered the hall admiring the contessa’s lovely aqua blue blouse and matching trousers that made the woman’s kiss-of-tan skin sizzle. Her dark hair was pulled to the back of her neck where it was secured with a jeweled clip.

  “Thank you for seeing me on a moment’s notice.” Berdie offered a kind smile.

  Contessa Santolio waved her hand towards the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of preparing Ortensia something to eat.”

  Once in the large country kitchen, the contessa donned a plain white pinny that hung on the back of a chair. She offered a cup of cappuccino which Berdie declined. “A bit stiff for me.”

  “I’m not the best at making it,” the contessa admitted. “Ortensia is superb. One thing I’ll delight in when she’s once again able to perform her duties.”

  “She’s faring all right?”

  “Appetite returning and improving every day.” The lovely Italian’s eyes displayed relief.

  “Our church community has prayed for her recovery every morning at matins.”

  “For which we are grateful.” The contessa held up her demitasse cup filled with the caramel colored brew. “Do you mind?”

  “Please, help yourself.”

  The contessa took a light sip with her satiny pink lips.

  “Please, sit.” She motioned towards a wooden chair at the ample oak farm table nearby.