A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (4 page)

So it
was
connected to Sir Hugh! My hunch was spot on. It seems I have a natural gift for getting information out of people without having to resort to bribery, blackmail, or physical torture.

‘Of course it’s your story,’ I said, savouring the rare moment that Annabel’s feathers were so decisively ruffled. ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled when I go to The Grange after the service and interview the family.’

‘Change of plan.’ Annabel shot me a triumphant look and tossed her hair. ‘His wife didn’t want press at the after-service reception, so Pete and I are going tomorrow morning – once we’ve studied the report, of course.’

I felt as if she had punched me in the stomach. All efforts at being civil vanished. ‘You? Why?
I
do all the funerals. In fact, stop the car. I can walk from here.’ I needed to be alone. ‘Stop the car,
now
.’

‘Don’t be childish. It’s going to rain.’

‘It’s only drizzling.’ The heavens opened, and rain thundered onto the windscreen. I bit my lip in frustration. This was a serious downpour.

Annabel reached over and gave my knee a condescending pat. ‘I’ll take you to the church, you silly thing.’

I was livid. Pete should be taking
me
to the interview. Funerals were my speciality.
I
went to the church;
I
took the names at the door and waited for the service to end; and
I
trooped back to the house for tea and fruitcake, mingled with the mourners, and got the obituary interview. Funerals were
my
kingdom.

It just wasn’t fair. Suddenly I hated Gipping. I hated the dreariness of country life. I felt trapped and depressed.

‘Come on, don’t sulk,’ Annabel said. ‘Which church is it?’

‘St Peter’s the
Martyr
,’ I said, easily identifying with said saint’s character trait. ‘Turn left here.’

Annabel swung the BMW down a narrow lane flanked by towering yew hedgerows that marked the church boundary. We pulled into an empty gravel car park in front of a twelfth-century, grey stone, Norman church.

St Peter’s the Martyr was in Upper Gipping. It boasted the largest cemetery in South East Devon and was jammed with medieval memorials, lichen-covered headstones dating from the seventeenth century, and marble family crypts. Quite simply, it was
the
place to be buried.

The rain ceased as quickly as it had begun. Annabel stopped in front of the wooden lych-gate. ‘There, you see – plenty of time. All that worrying for nothing,’ she said. ‘Are you sure it’s the right place? There’s no one here.’

‘
Yet
,’ I snapped. ‘No one here,
yet
. It’s important to be early.’

‘Oh God, look!’ Annabel’s mouth dropped open in awe. ‘Over there!’

A sleek black Porsche was parked farther up the lane in the shadow of the hedge.

‘Exactly my point,’ I said. ‘That car could belong to a mourner.’

‘I would do anything for a ride in a car like that,’ gushed Annabel. ‘Be an angel and make sure you find out whose it is.’

‘Don’t get too excited,’ I said, opening the door. ‘They won’t be from round here.’

‘Vicky, wait.’ Annabel grabbed my arm, digging her scarlet painted nails into my safari jacket. ‘Look, I know you started at the
Gazette
ages before me—’

‘Three months, actually—’

‘Oh! Is it really as long as that?’ Annabel’s look of surprise did not fool me for a minute. ‘What I am trying to say is that journalism is a tough world. Tough, tough,
tough
! We have to look out for number one, but we can still be friends. Hmmm?’

‘Absolutely.’ I gave her a brittle, totally insincere smile and shook her hand off my arm. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘And don’t forget about the driver of that Porsche.’ Annabel gave a seductive wriggle. ‘I can’t
resist
a man who drives a sports car.’

‘Must go now. Hope the diarrhoea clears up.’ I slammed the door hard, pushed open the gate, and stormed up the brick herringbone pathway towards the church vestibule. I was sick of hearing about Annabel’s obsession with sports cars – or rather, their drivers.

I, too, was curious about who owned the Porsche. Gipping rarely attracted flashy visitors. The town had its fair share of tourists, but most came from the East End of London or from the industrial cities of the north. I wondered what had brought the driver to such a remote corner of rural England out of season. Perhaps he was a long-lost relative of Sir Hugh’s, come to claim his inheritance?

I cast around for a glimpse of the mysterious driver. Perhaps he was already in the church, praying to the Lord Our Saviour? I peeped inside, inhaling the comforting smell of musty prayer books and brass cleaner, but, apart from the floral tributes that lined the aisle from font to pulpit, the place was empty.

Outside, I scanned the churchyard. Funerals could be harrowing at the best of times. Perhaps he had sneaked off for a soothing cigarette?

My instincts were spot on. Lurking by the hedge, a man stood smoking. Dressed in a long black trench coat, he had short black hair and wore sunglasses. It was hard to tell from this distance but he bore a striking resemblance to Pierce Brosnan.

After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to walk over and get his name – not to satisfy Annabel’s curiosity, but to get a head start on my mourner list. If strangers were expected to attend, it could get busy. Retrieving my reporter notebook from my jacket pocket, I gave him a cheery wave and set off across the damp grass. To my surprise, he turned abruptly on his heel and disappeared through a hole in the hedge.

How unbelievably rude! Hadn’t anyone any idea how much skill was involved in recording these names? Spelling was vital. The integrity of the newspaper was at stake. Many a time the
Gazette
had to print embarrassing apologies for a misspelling or omitted participant or – far more heinous – a participant who had been recorded as present but who turned out to have a longstanding feud with the deceased, and, declared he or she, ‘Wouldn’t be seen dead at old Johnson’s funeral.’

Gipping-on-Plym was rife with petty grudges – usually over cattle or wayward second cousins, caught
en flagrante
in semipublic places. I felt frustrated. This was destined to be a very trying morning – especially as the appearance of the man in black suggested there could be mourners from all around the country attending who would be unfamiliar with funeral format.

Cars started to arrive in the car park to disgorge occupants dressed in sombre shades of grey, black, and dark navy. They trickled up the path towards the church where I eagerly waited, pen in hand and notebook flipped open. My expression was a nice blend, I hoped, of attentive, yet respectful, professionalism.

Fortunately, the local mourners knew the drill. They helped those who were visiting to carefully spell their names for me. In the few moments when I was not wrestling with some extraordinary spelling, my thoughts returned to those poor, mutilated chickens. Why were they found at The Grange? My mum always says, ‘There is no such thing as coincidence.’

As the belfry clock struck eleven, the funeral motorcade arrived.

‘Hello, young Vicky,’ boomed the Reverend Whittler, whose habit of materializing from thin air I always found unnerving. ‘We really must stop meeting like this. People will talk!’

I smiled weakly and caught a waft of pear drops and whisky on his bream. Whittler’s attempts at being racy always made me uncomfortable. Tall and thin, with his hawk like nose and long, black hooded cape, he reminded me more of the Grim Reaper than a man of God.

Clapping his hands sharply, Whittler shouted, ‘Come along, come along, ladies and gentlemen. Please take your seats.’

Obediently, the mourners trooped up the path and entered the church.

Whittler turned to me with a hopeful smile. ‘Are you joining us for the service today?’

Pierce Brosnan had still not passed by. ‘Can’t afford to miss any last-minute stragglers,’ I said. ‘But I’ll be with you in spirit.’

Pallbearers dressed in pinstriped trousers, black mourning coats, and top hats carefully dragged the coffin, laden with white chrysanthemums, out of the back of the hearse.

Lady Trewallyn rose majestically from one of the sedans. I’d heard that Sir Hugh’s second wife was younger, but had not expected someone in her early thirties.

She was wearing an elegant black designer suit with jaunty hat and veil. Even from this distance, I could see the scarlet slash of lipstick through the net fabric, and thought she resembled a film star from the forties.

A handful of fawning locals fussed around the widow, in preparation for the slow procession up the path and into the church.

Whittler retrieved a small silver whistle from a hidden pocket, and blew three sharp peeps. On cue, the ancient pipe organ lumbered into life and began the dour opening chords of Chopin’s Funeral March.

I scanned the churchyard once more – still no sign of Pierce Brosnan. Then, to my astonishment, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure emerging from the shadows close to where I’d first spotted my mystery man.

I’d recognize that brown tweed coat and matching cloche hat anywhere.

It was my landlady, Mrs Poultry.

Her appearance was puzzling. Not only was she a self-proclaimed atheist, she should have been at The Grange laying out the finger buffet.

To my surprise, Mrs Poultry did not even look in the direction of the church. Instead, she crept stealthily alongside the hedge towards the ornate iron railings that enclosed a small, domed mausoleum – the Trewallyn family crypt.

Flanked by granite pillars, the bronze door stood invitingly open. Engraved above the doorway was the family motto:
HOMO PROPONIT, SED DEUS DISPONIT
– ‘Man proposes, God disposes’. For a ghastly moment, I thought she was actually going to go inside, but instead, she headed over to a large hawthorn bush a few feet away.

Mesmerized, I watched Mrs Poultry drop to her knees. With lightning speed – all the more extraordinary given her advanced years and chronic arthritis – she crawled beneath its branches and vanished from sight.

H
alf an hour and two hymns later, I realized Mrs Poultry was not coming out. At one point I considered the wisdom of going over to the bush to say a friendly hello but, recalling the surreptitious approach to her hiding place, I guessed she wanted to remain unseen. Everyone grieves differently.

There was no sign of Pierce Brosnan, either. It was relatively easy to watch both hedge and bush from inside the church vestibule, which also afforded an excellent view of the mausoleum.

I stamped my feet to keep warm and mused over my landlady. What on earth she was doing under there was anyone’s guess. Our paths only crossed at breakfast – served between 7.45 and 8.15 a.m. – and occasionally in the evening, when I was using the bathroom and bumped into her on the landing.

I had found the furnished room in Rumble Lane via the classifieds in the
Gazette
. It was on the outskirts of Middle Gipping, a convenient fifteen-minute walk to the office.

As with most attic rooms, the eaves sloped from ceiling to floor. Light came from a tiny dormer window above a built-in wooden cupboard, which housed a noisy water tank. I had a narrow iron bed; child-size desk, small chair, and a metal dress rack on wheels that served as a wardrobe. Behind the door was a plastic chest of drawers in a hideous shade of salmon pink. I kept telling myself it was a temporary arrangement until I could afford my own flat.

My mind drifted to Ronnie Binns and his odd comment that Mrs Poultry was always clean and that her dustbins were a joy to empty. It didn’t surprise me. Mrs Poultry’s house was sparsely furnished. There were no knickknacks or mementos. My landlady was meticulous about her appearance and never had a grey hair out of place, making her foray into the mud and under the bush so out of character.

Why
did
Mrs Poultry mention me to the dustman? For a ghastly moment I wondered if news of my parents’ exile had got out and she’d heard of the reward for their arrest. Perhaps she’d found the waterproof plastic box I had hidden in the water tank, and discovered the two postcards from Mum in Spain? My stomach began to churn at the implications.

I gave myself a sharp slap to the forehead with my notebook.
Pull yourself together, Vicky!
Perhaps I was right about Ronnie being infatuated with Mrs Poultry? Just because you reach a certain age doesn’t mean the heart is not capable of great passions. He’d certainly been praising my landlady’s virtues with unexpected enthusiasm. I didn’t know anything about her past, but assumed she had been married – though I could be wrong. Spinsters are notoriously defensive about being left on the shelf and dying a virgin. Why not invent a dead husband?

I turned my speculations to Pierce Brosnan. It seemed he was not going to reappear, either. Clearly, he could not be a mourner, after all. Unless he was some kind of funeral pervert who enjoyed witnessing other people’s grief. As I grew older, the more I saw of the world and the more funerals I attended, I realized how fleeting life really was. With global warming, viral pandemics, and biological warfare an all-too-real threat, who knew when the end would come? This chilling thought made me realize even
I
could die an old maid if I didn’t get a move on.