Berdie found Lady Hemmett’s noteworthy Internet entries. She had spoken at many women’s clubs on the architectural history of Edinburgh, and was an active participant in the movement to preserve historical buildings. That was it. Berdie would ask her if she had ever visited St. Baldred’s and take the conversation forward from there in the course of waiting for Anthony.
She found and entered Lady Hemmett’s home telephone number on the iPhone.
“The Firrs.” A female voice that rolled her R’s like a true Scott answered.
“Hello, yes,” Berdie used her most posh voice.
“What are you doing?” Lillie asked without looking up from her work.
“This is Mrs. Bernadine Elliott. I’m an acquaintance of Wilhelmina Cavendish, and I was hoping that I may have just a moment of time to speak with Lady Hemmett.”
“Shays ouut.”
“Out you say?”
“Ledy Hemmett’s gone ta herr Caribbean estate. Has done ferr a for’night.”
Berdie listened intently to catch each word. Sometimes the Scottish accent threw her. “A fortnight you say?”
“Uh ded say.”
“Perhaps I’ll try to reach her on her return.”
“Aye, you’ll wet some time, yet. That’ll be end t’ Novemberr.”
“As long as that? I see. Well, thank you. You’ve been quite helpful.”
“Bye juust now.”
“Good bye.”
Berdie returned the iPhone to her bag.
She stored this new information in her head. But before she could give it a thorough inspection, a figure, who just stepped inside the building, caught Berdie’s eye.
His black clothing was neat as a pin, but his arm displayed the multicolored, intricate swirls of tattoos. He looked to have Ruby’s small eyes, but his lips were so noticeably bulbous, and his scowl so deep, it was hard to be sure. Slicked back hair made his scowl that much more acute. His sturdy body stance, as if in defense, announced this was his territory.
He glanced about.
“You’d best order up some cod,” Berdie told Lillie.
“What on earth for?”
“Because if that fellow by the door is Anthony, he appears to have a full order of chips on his shoulder.”
Berdie lifted her hand and gave a little gesture with the hopes that he, not Anthony after all, might dismiss her.
He caught her eye, tapped a finger against his thigh and sauntered to her table.
“Hello.” Berdie paused. “Anthony?”
“Tony,” he corrected. “You Elliott, then?”
“I’m Mrs. Elliott, yes.”
Lillie’s eye’s lifted only momentarily to take him in, appearing dismayed at the lad’s manner, and continued her rubbing.
“And this is my friend, Lillie.”
Tony didn’t acknowledge the working Leonardo.
“I understand you have something for me?”
“Yes. Would you like to sit down?”
“I’ve got a lot on,” he mumbled without any real conviction.
Berdie smiled. “Of course you do. Happy Birthday, by the way.”
Anthony eyed the table where Berdie’s carrier bag held the colorfully wrapped parcel.
“Your mother would have loved to personally bring this to you, however…”
“My mother would what?” came from the lad’s large lips like a caustic blast. His scowl deepened even more. “She send you to needle me?”
“Needle you?”
“I left Criswell, and my mum with it. We don’t speak. I have no need for her.”
“Oh.” Berdie swallowed her impulse to shout out a sharp reply. She summoned her logic. “That’s how your Uncle Jack fits in, then, as messenger.”
“Maybe.”
Berdie concentrated her composure. “As a mother with a son of my own, I find your situation very sad.”
Tony smirked. “How well you know Mum?”
“We just recently met, but…”
“Yeah, well she’s a liar and a fake.” The words erupted like heated ash.
“That’s a bit harsh.” Berdie worked at keeping calm.
Lillie humphed and simply kept working on her project. But, people at the table next gave Tony a would-you-please-be-quiet glare.
It seemed to not go unnoticed by him. He sat down on the chair next Berdie. His frown was acidic. He thrust his face into her personal space. “You want to know harsh? I’ll tell you harsh.”
Berdie didn’t flinch, but remained stoic as he went on in a low growl.
“I’m working with this fellow, casual acquaintance, a bit full of himself, but likable. He dies on the job,” he thrust a finger to his chest, “and it’s my fault. We go to the funeral and the body’s six feet under when my mum says to me, ‘Don’t tell no one but he was your father. And she never told him I was his son neither. That’s harsh.”
Anthony was there when Fitch Dennison died? Berdie stared Tony in the eye. “Wasn’t that years ago?”
“And that makes it less cruel?”
“No.” Berdie tempered her words with concern. “I can see how terribly difficult that would be for you. But, what do you mean ‘he died on the job and it was your fault?’”
He drew back. The young man studied Berdie for a quick moment. “Ok. The old sot fell whilst repairing the estate church.”
“You said.”
“And when he lay dying, I was out on a joy ride.” His eyes steeled. “If I did my job as it should have been done, my father might be alive today.”
“Might? That’s a dubious word, Tony.”
“Dubious?”
“And what do you mean by joy ride?”
He paused. “Why are you so interested?”
Lillie glanced up at Berdie and Tony.
Berdie tilted toward the young man. “Tony, I can imagine these life altering events were dreadful, thorny for you,” she said with sympathy. “And in the same moment I have a great desire to hear your story.”
He eyed Berdie as if to catch her out in some lie. But then his scowl softened somewhat. “I was called out from the church for another job by my boss, who happened to be my uncle. He sent me to repair a broken gate in the north meadow, but when I got there, nothing was broken.”
“So this repair you were sent to do wasn’t really needed after all.”
“Wires crossed somewhere. It happens.”
Berdie nodded, but she was convinced that wires were exactly where someone wanted them to be on that fatal day. “But, that’s certainly not a joy ride.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “But, taking the long way back in the estate’s new SUV, my first taste of a power vehicle; that’s a joy ride.”
“Your first taste of a power vehicle?”
“My uncle let me drive it to the north meadow. Not his usual way, but there it is.”
“Your uncle was at the church?”
Tony nodded. “Not for long, though. He had a separate errand to do for the family.”
“I see.” Berdie saw that and more. “I imagine the whole thing weighs heavily on you.”
Tony appeared pensive. “One small thing was oddly fitting.”
“What was that?”
Tony lowered his eyes. “Fitch spoke his last living words to me, barely got them out.” He baulked. “Though neither of us knew we were father and son at the time.”
Berdie waited expectantly to hear what the dying man’s last words were. “Yes?”
“Trustyn, here.” Tony raised his eyes to Berdie. “That was it.”
Berdie processed this with great attention, her mind percolating. But she remained silent.
Tony’s eyes seemed to drift to a time past. He almost grinned. “He said he had a business lunch earlier. Right. Sank a few, he did. I told him I was saving up to get a mobile phone. ‘If you wait a bit, I’ll buy one for you,’ he said.” Tony’s moment of reverie slipped past. “I’ve often wondered what his last words would have been if he knew he was speaking t
o his son.” Tony frowned and put his scowl back in its defensive position. “I’ll never know.”
“Speculation, including the fact he might have survived had you arrived sooner, belongs in its proper place, Tony. Behind you. What-ifs are not a part of moving forward.”
Lillie nodded, still creating her artwork.
“Oh, I see. And I suppose you’ve never had to deal with any what-ifs.” Tony sat back and crossed his arms.
“I wouldn’t be a part of the human race if I hadn’t. We all have them, Tony. What separates the men from the boys is how we respond to them. In fact, how we respond to all the difficulties in our lives.”
“What are you talking about?”
Berdie looked round the room. Then she pointed to Lillie’s working. “A Masterful Hand holds the wax and applies pressure against the hard surface. If we let that hand, and its tool, do the work, we eventually end up with a fine piece of art work.”
Tony stared at Lillie’s creation and shrugged.
“Or,” Berdie said more pointedly, “we can resist the friction, by no means yield to the one true Masterful Hand at work, and never allow our lives to become anything more than cold brass.”
Tony stared at Berdie. “The Masterful Hand.” He smirked. “That’s right. Uncle Jack said you were connected to the church.”
Lillie’s head snapped up. “She’s a woman of faith, as I am,” she said in a stiff tone.
Tony gave a snarled laugh. “Seated with the saints, am I? And me a heathen.”
Berdie steadied herself. “We, just like you, and more to the point, just like your mother, make mistakes.” Her words were calm. “And by God’s grace, we learn from them and move past them to develop fulfilling lives.”
“Preach it somewhere else.”
“Tony, you just said that your youthful indiscretion, a joy ride, may have contributed to your father’s death.”
Tony jutted his chin.
“And your mother was aware of this?” Berdie knew she was taking a bit of a chance, but what she knew of Ruby urged her on. “Has your mother ever brought up the issue of your joy ride, raged at you, held that at your door, said she didn’t want anything to do with you because you weren’t there when your father needed you most?”
Tony rocketed up from his chair.
“No.”
He drew a quick breath as if he had just been punched in the stomach by the truth. “What’s it to you?”
“No, Tony. What’s it to you?”
Lillie thrust her finished friction print of the Madonna and Child toward Tony. “Take this, with my best birthday wishes,” she said in a less-than-compassionate voice.
Tony grabbed it and pushed his chair backward without looking at the art work. Like a lion snatching his prey, he ripped the carrier bag that held his gift from the table. The ragged movement tore a festive ribbon from the present, and it fell to the floor.
Berdie pointed to the bag he held. “Write your mother a thank you note, Tony.”
“Get stuffed.”
He went for the door.
“Put that artwork where you can see it, and think about Mrs. Elliott’s words,” Lillie called after him.
Tony shoved the rubbing into the bag with such force Berdie thought he’d damage it. He exited with no acknowledgement to anyone.
Wyndham stared after Tony.
Lillie gathered materials to start another creation. “I’ll not get stuffed. I’m not a turkey,” she said in quiet malice.
Berdie understood Lillie’s attitude, but she felt pity for Tony. “God go with you,” she breathed. It was more a prayer than a blessing.
****
Berdie ran a hand over the bodice of her smart black coat whilst standing in the Bell Tower Inn’s sitting room. She, Hugh, Loren, and Lillie were meeting to go to the Watergate for dinner. And she was the first one downstairs.
Her thoughts swirled. She hadn’t wanted to tell Tony, today when they met, that she believed him to be a prop in some elaborate scheme that ended with Fitch Dennison’s demise. But she believed it to be true. Being sent to a repair that wasn’t broken? The unusual opportunity to drive a new car? A new glimmer of possibility seemed to have come into play: Jack Slade. He appeared quite affable, but was the foreman actually cunning and capable of murder?
“Well, one more to go and we’re off,” Loren’s words interrupted Berdie’s thoughts as he and Lillie entered the sitting room. Both were dressed warmly against the autumn evening and appeared quite chipper. Lillie’s crutch was gone, replaced by a therapeutic boot, a result of her visit to the doctor this afternoon.
“Hugh should be down any moment,” Berdie informed.
“I’m crutches free.” Lillie thrust both arms outward.
“Yes, I like that attractive new footwear you’re sporting,” Berdie teased.
“Designer.”
“And all paid for by the National Health.” Loren grinned.
Lillie gave him a playful elbow.
“And so,” Berdie felt a zip of anticipation, “are you getting excited?”
Lillie scrunched her forehead. “Excited? To walk without sticks or because we’re going to the Watergate for dinner?”
Berdie gave a quick glance in Loren’s direction.
“I think she means our going to dinner at Nethpool House tomorrow evening,” Loren told Lillie.
“Oh, yes. That’ll be a treat,” Lillie agreed with casual enthusiasm.
Loren returned the glance to Berdie.
“What is it?” Lillie looked between the two.
“It’s going to be special, isn’t it?” Berdie said without thought, and then caught herself. “I mean Hugh and I remember our time there. It was an occasion.” Berdie tried to sound convincing. She knew it would be the romantic setting for Loren to pop the big question, and she couldn’t help but get a bit eager for both her friends’ sake.
“Yes, we’ll enjoy ourselves immensely, won’t we, love?” Loren slid his hand into Lillie’s and gave it a tender squeeze.
“And I shall wear my new designer boot.” Lillie worked at trying to make a bit of a swirl, but wound up tipping sideways.
Loren grabbed her and took a deep breath. “No fancy stuff. You want to be in top-notch form tomorrow evening.”
Lillie chuckled and leaned against Loren’s arm. “We’re going to samba on the dance floor after dinner, are we?” she teased.
“Maybe.” Loren’s grin widened.
Berdie tried to encourage Lillie’s anticipation for the outing. “Well, the countryside drive will be lovely as well as the dinner. It’s in such a pretty valley.”
Lillie nodded. “I do hope it doesn’t rain.”
“Oh, but rain can be so lovely and refreshing,” Berdie rebutted and realized she was trying too hard.
Loren shifted his weight.
“Actually, I’m quite hungry myself right now.” Berdie eased the conversation a different direction. “Do you know what the pub’s special of the day is?”
Before anyone could answer, Hugh entered the room with flourish. “Ready to go on?”
“Yes.” Berdie answered too quickly.
“Well, twenty-four hours from now you’ll be wending your way to Nethpool.” Hugh rubbed his hands together whilst addressing Lillie. “You must be excited.”
Lillie almost looked puzzled, casting her eyes from Berdie to Hugh. She perked. “Do you and Berdie want to come with us?”
Hugh’s brows rose and Loren’s face fell.
“Everyone keeps asking if I’m excited. I thought perhaps…”
“Everyone?” Hugh eyed Berdie.
Berdie glanced at Hugh, then the floor.
“No,” Hugh said quickly. “No, Berdie and I have plans of our own, but thank you. Besides, this is our treat for you both.” He waved his hand from Lillie to Loren. “Enjoy your time together. Such a lovely place. On your own, that is.” He nodded.
Berdie threw Hugh a glance that said don’t over egg the pudding.
�
��Well,” Loren motioned his hand toward the exit, “shall we?”
The walk over to the Watergate was pleasant, though Hugh chuntered on about what was discussed in his classes today, as if trying to put the earlier conversation to bed. But Berdie’s head was somewhere else.
“Yes, Criswell Abbey has had a history with not a little turbulence,” Hugh informed. “Badly impacted by King Henry the VIII and his decision to abolish the monasteries. That was not the only difficult time. Much of the abbey was lost then, but no, there was more.”
“Is that so?” Berdie said whilst considering Jack and Carol Turner Slade as possible suspects in Fitch Dennison’s death.
“When Queen Elizabeth I was setting non-Protestant properties alight, Criswell Abbey came under threat again.”
“Out-of-favor priests had to run for their lives,” Loren interjected.
“Run for their lives?” Berdie repeated whilst looking at multiple angles of Tony’s joy ride. Who, exactly, was behind the false information that sent him on a wild goose chase? Could someone besides Slade be suspect?
Loren went on. “You know people built clever escape routes for those fleeing from royal troops: rotating walls, tunnels, artificial hearths, secret passageways. And many were quite effective.”
“Yes, but there were also those who didn’t survive as well,” Hugh reminded. “They were trapped, captured, and worse.” He sighed. “Absolute power corrupts.”
“More’s the pity,” Lillie agreed.
Hugh pointed to the not-distant manor house where they had dined with the Cavendish family just days ago. “I’d love to do a proper explore of Marthrad House.”
“Marthrad House?” Berdie repeated.
“It may have a secret passage or two I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Do you think?” Loren asked.
Something clicked in Berdie’s brain box. “Secret what? False what? What did you say?”
“Were you listening at all?” Hugh seemed slightly aggravated. “Stay with the conversation, Berdie.”
“And here we are,” Lillie twittered as they reached the pub. “Let’s get a window table.”
“Not near that wicked bird,” Hugh decreed.
“Sailor,” Berdie nearly shouted. “His name’s Sailor.” She thought of the bird’s racy song and what she had discovered in it. “I’ll not have one bad word said against that parrot.”
All Hallows Dead (Berdie Elliott Mysteries) Page 15