All Hallows Dead (Berdie Elliott Mysteries)

by Marilyn Leach

  “How’s that?” Berdie made sure to ask the question in a casual manner.

  “The senior Mr. Cavendish, God rest his soul, made sure all his children, by the time they were teenagers, had a working knowledge of household electrics. The wiring in their Scottish lodge were a bit dodgy. He wanted his own to be able to take care of things should it be needed. Power outages, storms, things like that.”

  Berdie maintained casualness. “Frankly, I can just about change a lightbulb. That’s the extent of my knowledge of electrics.”

  Jack Slade laughed heartily. “I best get on with it then.” The fellow tipped his head and returned the cap to his head.

  “Cheers.” Berdie moved away from the vehicle, taking Lillie with her, and Mr. Slade directed it into the road.

  “Now that adds another wrinkle to the process.” Lillie shifted her weight on her crutches.

  “The whole family knows electrics,” Berdie repeated. It sent her sussing-out mode into full flow whilst she and Lillie ambled up the close.

  “I’ll be soon glad to shed these sticks and just limp along.” Lillie got the words out, but just.

  Berdie stared straight ahead, mind churning. “Yes.”

  “Loren’s so insistent I use them. But then he’s a doctor, though a wee bit overprotective.”

  “Yes,” Berdie mumbled vacantly, her mind elsewhere.

  “The cog wheels in your brain are turning. I can tell by the sound of your voice.”

  “You what?” Berdie faced Lillie.

  “It’s the electrics thing, isn’t it,” Lillie stated rather than asked. “So, do you think someone in the Cavendish family could be suspect?”

  “More like all of them.”

  “All of them are suspect?” Lillie took an extra-long breath. “Even Doctor Meg?”

  “For starts.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Remember when we saw her exit the church the morning after Mr. Oakes died?”

  Lillie rumpled her forehead as if digging into her memory. “Oh, right. The police tape was still up.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “I’m sure she had a good reason.”

  “And then there’s Wilhelmina.”

  Lillie balked. “Surely not.”

  “You’ve done that one already, Lillie.”

  “She’s so old. School I mean. Old school.”

  “I know what you mean.” Berdie grinned. “But isn’t it uncanny that she’s there, almost instantly, following Neville Oakes’s electric shock?”

  Lillie shook her head. “But she tried to revive him. She wouldn’t do that if she wanted him gone.”

  Berdie pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Maybe.”

  “You’re grasping at straws.” Lillie was flagging.

  Berdie slowed her pace and kept right near her friend.

  “And what of Edward?” Lillie went on. “He wasn’t even around.”

  “No. But then again, only his word for it. Of course it’s easy enough to verify his alibi.”

  “Now you’re just being down right cynical.” Lillie stopped walking and drank in some air.

  “You all right?”

  “Give me just a moment.” Lillie relaxed on her crutches. “If you ask me, the only person who seems a bit dodgy amongst the Cavendishes is Phillip. Undercover meetings, gambling losses, turning the estate into a golf course: he’s a bit of a tear away I’d say.”

  “Yes,” Berdie agreed. “His father abandoned him, took solace in the bottle. That would have lasting effects. But, Pip doesn’t strike me as knowing a light switch from a toaster.”

  “Berdie, let’s face it. The Cavendish family members are a bit eccentric, but simple know how in electric works doesn’t make them all mad, going about committing murder.”

  Berdie sighed. “When it comes to it, there’s one family member I see as more suspect than the others. But it’s the question of motive.”

  “Who?” Lillie made the word sparkle.

  “No, I’m not there yet.”

  “Berdie!”

  “The problem is: why would any of them hire workers and then bump them off? What do they have to gain by it?”

  “Exactly.” Lillie drank in the air, straightened, and began to move forward again.

  Berdie rubbed a finger across her chin as she and Lillie reached the garden path leading to the inn’s entrance. “Three families with inescapable ties to one thing or another that touches these perplexing crimes. It seems the more pieces of jigsaw puzzle I put in place, even more appear to go missing. It’s as if I haven’t gotten the full scope and size of the entire picture itself.”

  “Well, I know you, Berdie. You’ll get it, every tiny jot and tittle.”

  When they stepped inside reception, Lillie almost slumped.

  Mr. Owl-eyes met them, electric kettle in hand. He took in the wilted Lillie. “You look like you need a cup of tea.”

  “You read my mind, Sydney.” Lillie worked at a smile.

  The fellow raised a brow and sucked air in between his clenched teeth.

  “What?” Berdie quipped.

  He turned the electric kettle upside down. “Done in, I’m afraid. Fried.”

  “Oh.” Lillie’s wilt turned to regret.

  “Perhaps we can get a Cavendish in to do a repair,” Berdie teased.

  “Cavendish?” Sydney looked confused.

  “A joke, something Lillie and I were discussing earlier.”

  The fellow held the dead appliance against his chest. “I just rang my mum, and she’s on her way into Bridgeford to get a new one. She shouldn’t be terribly long.”

  “Mum’s always come through,” Berdie cheered. “That’s all right, Sydney. I’ll just leg it over to the Watergate and get some fresh brewed for us all.”

  “Cheers, Mrs. Elliott,” he said with sunshine.

  “Now, you get Lillie settled in her room, and I’ll be back momentarily with steaming tea.” She glanced at Lillie who gave a grateful nod.

  Berdie flew out the door, down the close and arrived at the Watergate where she raced to the counter in record time.

  “Hello. In a rush, are we?” Gus observed.

  Berdie nodded and took in the full tables. “You’re busy.”

  “We’ve got a church tour group in today.” Gus was extra enthusiastic.

  “Ah,” Berdie said. Not just in response to Gus but in recognition of a whole new sense of understanding that popped into her head. Another puzzle piece just dropped in place.

  “And what can I get you?”

  “Just a pot of tea, please, Gus, take away,” she requested with a light pant. “The electric kettle at Bell Tower Inn has gone to kettle heaven.”

  Gus laughed and nodded.

  “I’ll just wait over there.” Berdie pointed to the empty table near the notorious Sailor.

  “Hey, baby,” Sailor squawked.

  Berdie’s eyebrows rose in surprise, the corners of her mouth turned up. “You scoundrel,” she directed to the parrot, and sat down.

  “High fire,” he sang out.

  People around him started to laugh.

  “Hey, baby,” he screeched.

  “Sailor, want to sing?” a young man at the next table called. He started whistling a jaunty tune and Sailor bounced his head in time.

  The young man’s friend seated with him called out, “This is your best song. Sing, Sailor. High fire,” he mimicked the bird’s song.

  Berdie was amazed as the bird began to sing, bobbing his head. She braced herself, as well, for what the bawdy bird might produce.

  Some of Sailor’s words were clearer than others. Something, something flames rise ever higher. There were mutters, three maids of my desire. Then something about go to deepest parts for you? Berdie then heard the words Ruby, barrel, and Aggie.

  She worked to not appear shocked. “Beryl, not barrel.” Why on earth would that bird name those women in such an apparently coarse song? Aggie and Ruby were referred to in the same se
ntence. And Beryl as well, whomever she was. No wonder Aggie told Sailor to put a sock in.

  The young men at the table next, and several others, laughed and whooped as Sailor finished. Applause boomed from other patrons.

  Gus arrived at the table with the large cozy-covered tea pot. “Here you are.” He sat it on the table. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  “Thanks, Gus.” Berdie smiled. “Sailor certainly has a flare for the naughty.”

  He looked at her with a cautious eye and glanced at his pet. “Sailor’s been singing again?”

  “He was egged on, so to speak.”

  Gus laughed.

  Berdie’s curiosity bubbled. “You said he was rescued?”

  “His former owner died tragically.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Sailor’s owner, Fitch, was a horrible excuse of a man, but he did love that bird. Took good care of Sailor.”

  Had Berdie’s ears heard rightly? “Who owned him?”

  “Fitch Dennison, my former brother-in-law.”

  Berdie smiled and nodded as if it meant nothing to her. She had a whole new perspective on this lively bird and his singing.

  “Aggie didn’t want to keep him, and I liked the old salt. So I took Sailor in, though Aggie wasn’t best pleased.”

  “Yes, I can imagine.”

  Gus nodded as a grin broke out across his face. “Most of my regular punters love him. My sister fusses, but she’s become fond of ‘the pest’ as she calls him, too.”

  “He’s rough, as you say, but he does have a certain charm,” Berdie admitted. “You know, he’s only a reflection of those who have owned him.”

  “Well, that’s it then.” Gus beamed. “The charm is on my part.”

  “Is that so?” Berdie grinned.

  “Put a sock in, Gus,” Sailor blared.

  Everyone laughed, including Gus, who went about his business.

  But Berdie was suddenly interested in this little creature, especially in his ill-mannered song. What were the full lyrics, bawdy as they may be, and was Fitch Dennison the author of them? A poet Ruby said? Could this little ditty offer any insights about him, about anything that could be relevant?

  She drew a paper napkin towards her whilst she rummaged a pen from her bag. She poised the pen on the paper.

  “Young man,” she said to the lad who had goaded Sailor into his song. “Do you mind getting Sailor going again? If you please, will you whistle his favorite tune?”

  The lad raised his brows and laughed. “You want to hear old Sailor’s song again, Missus?”

  His pal next him laughed. “You going to report Sailor to the vice squad?”

  “Perhaps.” Berdie knew her cheeks must be pink. The fellows laughed, but she kept her decorum. “Now, if you please, young man, set him singing.”

  10

  Jack Slade was true to his word. The foreman brought Ruby’s colorfully wrapped birthday present for her son to the Bell Tower Inn by nine PM. It included a note with the time and place to meet Anthony in Edinburgh. And now, twelve hours later, here they stood at the right time, and Berdie hoped, the right place.

  A shop sign said Open. Berdie checked the building number against the number detailed in Jack’s note. “Yes, this is it. I believe we’ve arrived.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” Lillie said with vinegar.

  Berdie could see why Lillie was off color. She was using just one crutch today, and a visit to the doctor was set for this afternoon. The journey up what seemed like hundreds of stairs from the Edinburgh Waverly train station to the street known as the Royal Mile had been filled with her groans, moans, and sighs. And presently, she wore a face like thunder.

  “If this isn’t where we’re supposed to meet Anthony, you can just leave me here anyway. I’m not so sure I fancy going to a rubbing shop, whatever it is.”

  “It’s something artistic, Lillie; Jack assured that it’s quite respectable.”

  “Artistic? What, exactly, does that mean? And have you seen it yet?”

  Berdie lifted her hand toward the door. “We’re standing in front of it. We’ve both seen it.”

  “I mean inside. Are you sure this is the place?”

  “There’s one way to find out.” Berdie put her hand on the door handle.

  “If Anthony was going for a public place, why couldn’t he have chosen to meet at a Sainsbury’s or something?”

  Berdie removed her hand from the door handle and shifted the carrier bag that held a wrapped gift from Anthony’s mother. “Lillie, I’ve told you. He explained to his Uncle Jack that a friend worked in this shop. Probably makes him feel safer when meeting two strangers. He said it was close to the train station.”

  “You call five hundred steps close?”

  “It’s near the station then. You do exaggerate.”

  “Why all this falderal with Anthony’s Uncle Jack passing information anyway?”

  “I’ve no idea. Now, Lillie, look at the façade. It seems a nice shop.”

  “It doesn’t sound nice, a rubbing shop, indeed.”

  Berdie stood firm, opened the door, and a jolly shop bell sang out.

  “You look first,” Lillie demanded. “Then, I’ll decide if I’m going in.”

  “Oh for saints’ sake, Lillie.” Berdie stepped just inside the door. The architectural details of the old building felt familiar and inviting. Plus, there were large wooden work tables, brass plates in stacks with some on display, ceiling-high church-like windows that streamed with light, and only a handful of people seated at the tables working. The scent of wax mingled with a hint of wood polish.

  “Come along, Leonardo, I think you’ll enjoy this.”

  Lillie peeked first, then came inside with Berdie, though she displayed a cautious eye.

  “There, you see, Lillie.” Berdie glanced about. “Very pleasant.”

  Lillie relaxed her shoulders and took a deep breath. “What’s going on, exactly?”

  A tall gangly fellow in a dark blue work apron stepped briskly toward Berdie and Lillie, almost bouncing along as if spring had just sprung. He smiled. “Hello, welcome to our rubbing shop. I’m Wyndham and I’m here to assist you any way I can. Would you like to get started?”

  Lillie’s eyebrows knit.

  “First, can you explain your artistic process?” Berdie requested. “Primarily for the sake of my friend here.”

  “Love to.” The fellow rubbed his long hands together. “Come and join me at the table.”

  Berdie took the few necessary steps with Wyndham, Lillie behind, to reach the nearby table laden with brass plates, colored papers, and large wax sticks of various rich colors. She wasn’t entirely sure what to expect apart from something aesthetic.

  He took a brass plate engraved with a bulky sheep, added a piece of grey paper, and a dark blue wax stick. “You begin by putting the paper on the plate. Tape it, or hold it steady if you trust yourself.”

  He slapped the paper over the brass plate and held the paper securely just as he had probably done hundreds of times before.

  “Now, take the wax stick and rub it vigorously, pressing hard, cross the paper.” As he did it, the design became visible. Little by little, the sheep engraved in the brass plate now appeared in blue on the paper. “It’s a friction print. Easy peasy.”

  “That’s marvelous,” Lillie exclaimed. “What fun.”

  “Thank you for the demonstration, Wyndham. My friend was curious as to what kind of art was created in a rubbing shop.” Berdie hoped she didn’t sound totally culturally ignorant. “Actually, we’re to meet a friend, so if you don’t mind us just waiting?”

  Before the last word left Berdie’s mouth, Lillie was seated, crutch propped against the table, a gold wax stick in her hand. “I do think the brass engraving of the Madonna and Child is quite spectacular.”

  “Lillie, I’m not sure…” Berdie began.

  “Yes,” Wyndham jumped in. “That one’s very popular, and may I recommend, with the gold wax,” he u
nfurled a roll of dark paper, “a black background does make it very rich.”

  “Oh, yes, I like that.” Lillie took the paper.

  Berdie realized she may as well be seated at the table with her dear friend who was already in the first throes of creating her artwork.

  “Tell me, Wyndham, how did this kind of shop come into being?” Lillie studied the task before her.

  “Sure. Pretty simple. As you can see, this is an old church.”

  “Yes,” Berdie whispered. That explained why it felt familiar, comfortable.

  “Historically, people who visited our churches, many on pilgrimage, wanted a memento to take home. So they made rubbings of artistic reliefs that were on the church facade.” Wyndham pointed at the brass plates. “Many of them just like these. It eventually took a toll on the building surfaces and the practice was banned, but people still desired them. The designs were disappearing, so replicated brass plates were made. And, voila, the rubbing shop was born.”

  “Wonderful idea.” Lillie’s delight was obvious.

  “Would you like to try your hand?” the young man asked Berdie.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “This is enjoyable,” Lillie chimed. “You should try it.”

  Berdie smiled at Wyndham. “Thank you, no,” she repeated.

  Wyndham nodded and moved to another table where two young people plumbed the pleasures of creating their prints.

  “This is much different from sketching. The picture just appears before your eyes, more or less.” Lillie pushed hard on the wax stick that she held in her hand and rubbed it back and forth across the paper.

  “I’m glad you’re amused, Lillie. But, do be quick about it. Anthony’s soon to arrive.” She glanced at the clock adding, “If he’s on time.”

  As it would happen, more people came and went. Berdie began to worry a bit that Anthony may be a no-show.

  Whilst Lillie rubbed her art into being, an idea came to Berdie. She could hear her grandmother spouting those familiar words: whilst resting, do the mending.

  Berdie drew out the iPhone, Hugh’s contribution to safety concerns for the trip, and began a net search for Lady Hemmett. She was the long-time friend Wilhelmina came to visit here in Edinburgh that evening Berdie and all had dinner at Marthrad House. Could she possibly shed more light on the Cavendish family?