The Vicarage Murder

by Faith Martin

  * * *

  Most of the old-time villagers, plus a good portion of those from the new estates, were also contemplating fun just then. A small, old-fashioned fair, complete with dodgem cars, roundabouts and a Ferris wheel, had come to Cheltenham, oozing nostalgia (and goldfish in plastic bags) like a leaky tap, and thus proving irresistible to many. Monica had noted its advertised arrival just three days after issuing all the invitations to her own party, and had felt like spitting. She’d contemplated changing the date of the party, but by then Vera had enthusiastically taken up the challenge, and there was no going back.

  And, to be fair, most of the vicarage residents probably hadn’t intended to go to the fair anyway. It was certainly below Maurice, who wouldn’t be seen dead at such a place, and both Pauline Weeks and Paul Waring probably considered themselves far too sophisticated and modern-minded to be lured there.

  But for most of the residents of Heyford Bassett, a summer visit to the fair was high old entertainment, and already the place was becoming unusually deserted. Streams of cars had been seen steadily disappearing up the hill — the only route out of the village — which led to the main B-road about half a mile away, leaving behind an almost eerily silent, and near-empty village. Only, in a small country village, there was always someone watching and listening.

  * * *

  In his study, Graham Noble blinked rapidly.

  ‘Venus?’ he repeated, staring at the gum-chewing, enthusiastic young mother in front of him. He glanced helplessly across at her pimply, equally young partner. ‘Venus?’ he repeated again.

  They were unmarried, and, in his judgement, were likely to remain so, even though they’d come to him to discuss the christening arrangements for their week-old baby daughter.

  ‘You want to call her Venus?’ Graham said again, as if repeating the fact often enough would make it sink in.

  ‘Venus Marjoram,’ said the mother, popping a gum bubble enthusiastically and nodding. ‘Right. We haven’t registered her yet, because we couldn’t agree on a name, but now we have, right, Stevie?’ By her side, the proud father shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘I see.’ Graham swallowed hard. He glanced at the lad, remembering him vaguely from long ago days when he’d sung in the choir. Or rather, caterwauled in the choir.

  Steven Marsh blushed and looked distinctly uneasy.

  ‘And do you, er, like this name, Steven?’ he probed mildly. Steven quickly looked down at his trainers and Linsey gave him a nippy but sharp-elbowed dig in the ribs.

  ‘Yeah, I love it. It’s different, right?’ he added hopefully.

  ‘Oh it’s certainly that,’ Graham agreed dryly. ‘Yes, well, I’ll have to call around and visit, er, little Venus,’ he bit the bullet bravely, ‘sometime soon.’

  ‘Well, don’t make it tomorrow,’ Linsey drawled. ‘We took her to the doc for her check-up this morning, and she’s been grizzling ever since. We’re gonna have to miss the fair today ’cause of her. Can’t get no one to babysit, see?’

  It was nearly eleven o’clock before the proud parents left for the short walk home, arguing about the merits of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ versus ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ for the service.

  * * *

  Julie nimbly negotiated the stile, jumped off the wooden plank onto the other side of the field, and began walking the short distance along the footpath that led behind the church. She squealed as a pair of arms shot out from behind an elder bush and dragged her to the ground.

  Above her, Sean Franklyn’s face grinned down at her.

  ‘You!’ Julie sighed with relief, her heart pounding. ‘You scared me!’ But, of course, she was utterly thrilled.

  ‘I know. Not long to go now.’ Sean’s lean, handsome face slowly became serious. ‘You know what you have to do?’

  ‘Of course,’ Julie said, her own grin fading. ‘We’ve gone over it enough times.’

  Sean nodded. ‘It’s just that we’ve got to get the timing just right.’

  ‘I know. I’ll remember.’ She sounded a touch angry now.

  ‘OK,’ he said, a conciliatory smile coming to his dark, swarthy features. ‘I know you won’t let me down.’ His hands splayed across her slender waist, the fingertips just nudging her under her small breasts.

  ‘Did you go to the safety box this morning?’ Julie asked, running a hand up his sleeve.

  ‘Yes. I’ve got all the money. Spain will be great. You’ll see.’

  Julie nodded. ‘Sean,’ she said tentatively. ‘It will be OK, won’t it?’

  Sean smiled and bent his head to kiss her. When he lifted his head again, he was satisfied with the starry look in her eyes. Hell, she made him feel twenty again, and as if anything in life was possible.

  ‘Of course it will,’ he whispered, his voice gruff and a bit impatient. ‘You’ll see.’

  * * *

  Noon came and went, and the temperature soared. Showers were run, and last-minute food items were prepared. And as the time for the garden party to start drew near, somebody intent on murder did a quick tour of the vicarage and grounds.

  Checked that the back doors were unlocked and free of any obstacles. Checked that the recess under the stairway on the second floor was definitely out of clear view of anybody standing in the garden-party area. Checked that all the equipment was working properly. Had a large Scotch, and waited.

  It would be soon now.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monica reached for the thinnest of her summer dresses and slipped it over her head, then realized that you could just see the outline of her bare legs through the cool, multi-coloured, flower-patterned silk, and muttered something vaguely mutinous.

  ‘Oh, très daring,’ Carol-Ann drawled mockingly from her prone position on her mother’s bed, munching industriously on an apple. ‘What would the fan club say? Daring to show that you actually have . . . gasp, shock, horror . . . legs.’

  Monica grinned back at her. ‘Don’t be so cheeky. Anyway, the fan club won’t be here for once. This is strictly a residents-only bash, and besides, most of them have gone off to the fair anyway. So if I’m to blow caution to the wind and ruin my reputation, now is the time to do it.’

  Carol-Ann cast a jaundiced eye over her mother’s demure dress and snorted. She wouldn’t be caught dead in it! Her own outfit for the afternoon consisted of a pair of very short designer shorts and a top that tied into a knot at her navel, exposing most of her midriff. Only she hadn’t told her mother that yet.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Carol-Ann said, reaching into one of her pockets. ‘I bought these this morning, from the shop. Think they’ll look good on me?’ And she held out a paste set of diamond and sapphire drop earrings that looked suspiciously similar to the ones that Monica could remember Margaret Franklyn wearing a few weeks ago. So Carol-Ann had clearly got to hear about Margaret’s suspicions.

  Monica fought between the impulse to laugh and the need to take her mischievous daughter to task.

  ‘I take it that Mrs Franklyn has been asking you some pointed questions about her missing pair of earrings?’ she asked archly instead.

  Carol-Ann snorted. ‘As if I’d want her . . .’ and she mimed sticking her finger down her throat and retching, ‘. . . earrings.’

  Monica sighed and reached for a bottle of Miss Dior, and Carol-Ann promptly shot off the bed and headed for her own room, lest any of the naff scent should get on to her. ‘Say what you like, it’s for the young at heart,’ Monica sing-songed after her retreating back, grinning at her daughter’s pithy response.

  Then she sighed and glanced at herself in the mirror again. Her newly washed wavy hair gleamed nut-brown in the bright daylight, and sensible, cool sandals encased her small, neat feet. She looked ladylike, but not too obviously like a vicar’s wife, which was just how she liked it.

  She glanced at her watch, saw that it was nearly two, and rushed for the front door, tapping on her husband’s study door in reminder as she went. Then, remembering that she�
��d promised John to give the roses in the front garden a final watering before the party got properly underway, she quickly nipped back down the length of the flat. Exiting through the door that led from the Nobles’ flat into an interconnecting communal corridor, she walked swiftly towards the exit.

  This corridor ran the entire length of the converted building. Passing flats 3 and 4 on either side of her as she went, she wondered if anybody could have started the party early, and hoped not. John would kill her! She reached the back door almost at a run and fairly erupted out into the blazing heat of the afternoon. The crunch of the gravel in the car park that had been made out back sounded loud under her feet as she tramped across it.

  The back garden was even more of a jungle than the front, with thick rhododendron bushes, silver birches and weed-strewn herbaceous borders running riot everywhere. But John’s rain butt was kept out here in the shade of two big oaks, as was his tool shed, a rather dilapidated greenhouse and a cold frame that was currently growing cucumbers. She made her way to the shed and quickly filled a watering can. As she walked back to the rear door, she dodged a car, which had, very unwisely, been parked in the full blazing glare of the sun. Skirting the smart dark blue Jaguar XJS, recognizing it as Paul Waring’s car, she winced as she glanced inside at the cream leather upholstery. Anyone trying to sit on that now would get a scorched behind, and no mistake!

  Luckily for Monica, everyone had decided to be fashionably late and the party area was still free of guests, with only the volunteer workers present. John, a padded fifty-two-year-old with blond hair fast becoming silver, twinkled at her as she began to guiltily water the standard roses.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she called to him as she flitted from rose bush to rose bush like a demented hummingbird. She then tucked the empty watering can out of sight under the tables. ‘Shall I go and get my fruit pies now?’ she asked cheerfully, turning to Vera, who nodded at her fondly.

  Almost a female equivalent of John, she was also blonde turning silver, plump-figured, and easygoing. And right now, the celebrity cook’s own contributions lay scattered along the length of the tables, looking, as always, in a class of their own. Crisp green salads of every description, tempting seafood platters, delicious-looking little quiches and tarts, trifles and towering gateaux all combined to set Monica’s tastebuds watering.

  When she came back, towing a complaining and pie-laden Carol-Ann in her wake, Pauline Weeks and Joan and Julie Dix had also emerged with their own offerings. And if Pauline’s chicken and ham pie looked suspiciously like the huge pies you could get in the local Sainsbury’s, nobody was going to say as much.

  Within half an hour, everyone else had arrived. Maurice Keating looked set to go punting on the Cherwell, with a rakish boater hat atop his head, very smart white cotton trousers and a matching white shirt with a navy blue trim. Paul Waring, typically, was dressed in shorts that revealed the strong columns of his hairy and muscular legs, and a plain white T-shirt that stretched impressively across his broad and even more muscular chest. Margaret Franklyn was dressed as if she were about to go to Ascot. The lace and cream dress she was wearing was set off with a hat so outrageously wide-brimmed that it offered shade from the sun to anybody standing within a few yards of her, and the jewellery she had on quite literally took one’s breath away.

  Monica eyed the dramatic aquamarine necklace, which was comprised of interlocking irises, and wondered if she dared ask her to make one for herself. Then she realized that Margaret would probably only sniff superciliously and say that every piece she made was a unique one-off, and that only the desperate and tasteless wanted replicas made.

  ‘Wine, dear lady? I should get in while you can if I were you, as I can only see one bottle.’

  Monica jumped then turned and smiled at Maurice, who had somehow appeared beside her.

  ‘No, thank you, Maurice, it’s far too hot for that,’ she declined, fanning a hand in front of her face for emphasis.

  Maurice, who could always drink wine, especially if someone else had paid for it, refilled his own glass, and offered to bring her a glass of Julie’s fruit punch.

  ‘I’ve heard tell that it’s very good. And chock-a-block with ice.’ At that they both turned to look automatically at Julie, who was just selecting a jumbo prawn from the seafood platter.

  ‘Thank goodness they’re being eaten quickly.’ Vera, having walked quietly up to them, nodded at the platter. ‘Seafood in this heat needs to be consumed right away.’

  Maurice sneaked a quick glance at his watch.

  Monica noticed but didn’t mind, since she rather liked Maurice. She could see right through him, of course, as could everyone else, but there was something endearing about the front he put up. An essentially lonely man, missing the collegiate life, and perhaps living just a little above his means, he reminded her a bit of a character out of a book, one where the hero was trapped living in an age that didn’t suit him.

  Vera caught her eye and smiled, as if reading her thoughts, then said brightly to him, ‘I wouldn’t mind a glass of punch, since you’re giving it your own personal recommendation.’

  ‘Oh now, I wouldn’t say that—’ Maurice began, turning the talk to fine wine, which, apparently, was his real forte.

  Monica, content to let Maurice flirt with the cook, tuned out their conversation, and instead glanced around at the rest of the throng. Off in one corner, beside a table on which a big blackcurrant cheesecake predominated, Pauline was buttonholing Paul, so no surprises there. Joan had wandered over to her daughter’s side. Julie, it had to be said, looked studiously bored, but was maybe just a little bit nervous. Her eyes kept darting about, as if afraid to land on any one spot, Monica noticed.

  Further down the table stood the fabulous Margaret, and her rather less-than-fabulous husband. Sean, like the rest of them, was beginning to look a bit wilted in the intense heat. A more mismatched couple Monica couldn’t imagine — and not a happy one either, if their perpetual arguments were anything to go by.

  Moving on, her eyes softened. Graham was handing Carol-Ann a glass of fruit punch, and pretending not to notice her daring attire. He himself was wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt, his ever-present dog collar, and a pair of lightweight grey trousers.

  Monica noticed Margaret detach herself from her husband’s side and wander over to Paul. Even from where she was standing, Monica could see the way that Pauline bridled at her sashaying approach, and rested a hand possessively on Paul’s forearm.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ said Carol-Ann, who’d sidled up to her mother and followed Monica’s line of sight. She now gave a brief chortle of glee. ‘Poor old Pauline’s gonna get her knickers in a twist now, just you wait and see.’

  ‘Carol-Ann,’ Monica chided automatically. ‘You know Graham doesn’t like you to talk like that.’

  ‘Sure.’ Carol-Ann shrugged. That was why she did it.

  To Carol-Ann, life had been good in their small Clapham flat. So when her mother had met a country parson at a PR party in Cheltenham and then one day calmly announced that she was getting married and that they were moving to the countryside, Carol-Ann hadn’t exactly been overwhelmed with joy.

  Having a vicar for a stepdad stripped her of her street cred overnight, in such a cruel way that it bordered on child abuse! And as for having to change schools at such an impressionable age, well, her mother would have only herself to blame if her schoolwork crashed and she had to leave school at sixteen to become a waitress. Which meant that she’d never be able to find a decent boyfriend, and would die a dried-up old maid. Monica would never be a grandmother.

  None of these dire predictions, it had to be said, had seemed to make any great impression on Monica, and now here she was, lumbered with Graham for a stepfather. Carol-Ann sucked moodily on a spoon. In her other hand was a bowl filled to the brim with one of Vera’s coconut and chocolate meringue trifles. Then she suddenly smiled.

  ‘See, I told you. Just look at Pauline. She looks set to explode,’ Carol-
Ann crowed. ‘Margaret’s all over Paul like a rash.’

  Pauline’s sharply raised voice and Margaret’s sultry answering laugh wafted across the party like an uninvited guest. Paul deftly broke up the potential catfight by simply shrugging off Margaret’s red-painted hand from his other arm and saying something quietly in her ear. Margaret, giving a little shrug and a wide, predatory smile, returned to her husband, who’d been trying to avoid looking at Julie Dix.

  Pauline said something pithy to Paul and stomped off, disappearing inside the house. Maurice, who’d failed to hold Vera’s attention for more than five polite minutes, wandered back to the table in search of more wine. As he did so, he glanced yet again at his watch. The solitary wine bottle was empty. Seeing him put the empty bottle back on the table, Paul came up to slap him on the back.

  ‘Sorry, Maurice, old boy, my fault,’ he said, making the older man jump. ‘I said I’d bring the booze, and damned if I didn’t forget. Monica, does the village shop stay open on a Saturday afternoon, do you know?’ he called across the table, and Monica nodded back.

  ‘Righto, everybody, booze coming up. Who wants ale or beer?’

  John jauntily agreed that that would be a good idea — and maybe some stout. Grinning good-naturedly at the progressively tall orders that were being playfully tossed his way by the others, Paul jogged back into the house and disappeared.

  Sean glanced across the lawn and caught Julie’s eye. Carefully, inching one hand up to the other, he surreptitiously tapped the glass in his watch.

  Vera, just about to raise a glass of fruit punch to her lips, caught the little by-play and looked nervously around. But she needn’t have worried. Margaret, having put Pauline into a satisfying bad mood, was now more than happy to turn her attentions to Julie, but had turned around just a shade too late to see the silent message being passed between her husband and the other woman in his life.

  * * *

  Pauline stomped into her flat and slammed her shoulder bag onto the settee. ‘That bitch!’ she hissed, walking to the kitchen and reaching for a bottle of vodka. Paul was hers, damn it. And she wasn’t about to let a Venus flytrap like Margaret get in her way.