Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death (6 page)

I smiled. “I don’t think so. I fancy Annie—although she’s quite proud of her peculiar talents—doesn’t really want them publicized.”

“I wonder if that’s how she makes people do what she wants?” Rosemary said. “Perhaps she casts spells over them.”

“You never know.”

“Anyway,” Rosemary went on, “how about Father William? What’s his house like?”

“Bungalow—as he is quick to inform one, with some distaste. Apparently he feels he should be living in more dignified surroundings. Though I must say he’s done his best to create a splendidly elegant ambience. He has what you might call beautiful
things
—pictures, objets and so forth.”

“Goodness!”

“I sometimes wonder,” I said thoughtfully, “what he’s really like underneath that affected manner.”

“About the same, I should think.”

“Maybe. He gave me a copy of a booklet he’s written about the church, and it’s a really scholarly piece of work. He’s obviously put a lot of thought and research into it.”

“Oh well,” Rosemary said, “I suppose you can be affected and a scholar as well; look at all those television arts presenters!”

When I put the phone down I found the booklet and looked at it again. As well as meticulous research there was a real feeling of involvement, and I suddenly thought of how he must have stood many times looking at the list of rectors on the board in the church porch and thinking of all those past incumbents from 1292 (when the living was valued at seven marks, three shillings and four pence) down to himself in the present day.

As I was cutting up some mushrooms to go in the omelette I was making for supper, and thinking about Annie’s expertise with fungi, the phone rang. It was Rachel asking if Rosemary and I would like to go with them to the Mere Barton Harvest Supper the following week.

“Do come,” she said. “We’re each of us allowed to bring a guest. It’s quite fun really and the food is always good. Everyone in the village contributes something—Phyll’s been in the kitchen for days now, cooking up little delicacies. I can’t really compete, but I’ve done a few boring things like quiches and sausage rolls.”

“I’d love to come,” I said, “and I’m sure Rosemary would too.”

“Oh, good. Anyway, what with the Book and everything, you’re practically part of the village yourself.”

“Does that mean I should contribute something too?”

“No, no, you and Rosemary are guests, though I do have happy memories of your lemon drizzle cake and I know that would go down very well!”

As I went back to my omelette I smiled when I thought about how well Rachel seemed to be settling down and taking part in village life. I wondered if she could resist trying to take over some of Annie’s activities and, if she did, what Annie would do about that.

 

 

 

The village hall looked very nice. There were proper tablecloths on the trestle tables and arrangements of autumn leaves and flowers at intervals along them. A buffet was laid out at one end of the hall with a wonderful display of food and, I was pleased to see, bottles of wine and glasses.

“Goodness,” Rosemary said, gesturing towards a large ham and a whole salmon with a carapace of thin slices of cucumber, “how very fancy!”

Rachel, who had been talking to Mary Fletcher, came over to greet us, and I handed her my cake.

“A modest contribution,” I said, “to what looks like a very elegant feast!”

“And a little something from me,” Rosemary said, giving her two bottles, “on the principle that you can’t have too much drink on such occasions.”

“Oh, bless you both. How kind. Now, do come and mingle; most people are here now. I’ll just go and give these to Annie, who, you won’t be surprised to learn, is busily organizing people in the kitchen.”

“Rosemary and Sheila, how lovely to see you!” Toby Parker was approaching us, both hands outstretched in greeting. His charming smile was a little different from Father William’s, being more personal and less universal—the difference, perhaps, between the temporal and the spiritual. “Ages since I saw you both.” He turned to Rosemary. “How’s Jack? Still number crunching?” To me he said, “And that clever son of yours, Sheila—has he been tempted away to some high-powered legal practice in London? Quite right—London’s a terrible place to be now, so exhausting. I just wish I could live down here always like Diana, sensible girl, and be a country gent and ride to hounds!”

I noticed that “exhausting” was the word that sprang readily to mind in the representatives of both church and state.

“It must be horrid,” I said. “Though, if it gets too much for you, you could always retire.”

He laughed politely. “I might just do that. But I simply couldn’t resist coming down for the Harvest Supper. Such happy memories of it in the old days—quite different now, of course. When I was a boy it was the event of the year—all the workers on the farm and their wives and children, in the big barn; a real knees-up. Well, you can imagine—all that home-brewed cider!”

“I imagine this will be a more formal affair,” I said.

“Is Diana coming?” Rosemary asked.

“Something the matter with one of the horses, but she hopes to be along later.”

“Are you down here for long?” I asked, not that I particularly wanted to know, but somehow I always found myself making this kind of all-purpose conversation with Toby, probably because I only ever seemed to see his public face, and what else could one say to that?

“Only for a few days, I’m afraid. There’s a rather important parliamentary committee that I’m sitting on—public transport, very boring—and I have to be back for that, but I do hope to have a little time down here before the House sits again.”

I could sense, rather than hear, Rosemary give a little sardonic snort at this and I hastened to say, “They do seem to have put on a wonderful spread—all that marvelous food and drink. And I believe Marcus Hardy—you know, he lives at Lark Hill, just outside the village—bought an old cider press last year, so we may even have home-brewed cider!”

“Ah, but it won’t be like the old stuff. I can remember as a boy sitting with the men in the cider house passing round an enormous jar, and the cider was really rough and had bits of goodness knows what floating around in it and you had to drink it or else you’d lose face!”

“Telling you about the old days on the farm, is he?” Annie had joined us. She turned to Toby. “Thought you were saving all those stories for when you come to write your memoirs—that’s what you politicians do, isn’t it, when you give up? Make a bit of money selling it to the Sunday papers.”

He gave her the MP smile, a little uneasily, I thought. “Oh, I’ve got a great deal of material,” he said, “political and otherwise, but I do have a special feeling for this part of the world; after all, as I was saying just now, I’m a countryman at heart.”

“I suppose that’s why,” Annie said sharply, “you have a London constituency.”

The smile again. “Ah, we politicians have to take what we can get.”

“The best of both worlds,” I said, feeling obliged to break up what seemed like a tense moment. “Aren’t you lucky!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to live in London,” Rosemary said. “I did when I was young. I thought it would be lovely to live where the really important things were happening. But now everything’s changed and changed for the worse.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Toby said. “London’s still an exciting place to be, though, of course, I’m fortunate to be at the center of things, as it were.”

“None of you lot are ever there,” Annie said. “When I watch that Parliament channel on my Sky TV—I like to keep up—the place is always half empty. No, not even that, just someone speaking and one or two people round him, and then a lot of empty seats. I don’t call that a job of work!”

“A lot of the work is done in committee,” Toby said, with an air of controlled patience. “As I was explaining earlier, I’m serving on a rather important one, on public transport . . .”

“Will it give us a better bus service to Bridgwater?” Annie demanded. “No, I didn’t think so. Well, I can’t stand here chatting; I’ve got to get back and see what they’re up to in the kitchen.”

“Well,” Rosemary said when Annie had gone, “she doesn’t mince her words, does she?”

Toby laughed. “Oh, Annie and I understand each other; we more or less grew up together. In fact, I do believe that, apart from Fred and Ellen Tucker, we are the last original inhabitants still living in the village.”

“The last of the aboriginals,” I said. “Ellen was talking about it just the other day.”

“Of course,” Toby said, “rural depopulation is a serious matter. I hope to bring a private Member’s Bill on that very subject.”

Since Toby was now embarked on what appeared to be a rerun of one of his parliamentary speeches, I was relieved when Rachel came up.

“Oh, Toby, sorry to interrupt, but everything’s ready now, so if you could gather people together and say a few words. Just introduce the entertainment—they’re all ready—and then after that Father William will say a prayer and we’ll all get on with the eating and drinking, which is the main thing, really!”

Certainly the food was marvelous. When the entertainment was over Rosemary and I, who’d been getting hungrier by the minute, filled our plates (rather greedily) and sat down at one of the tables. We’d just settled when we were joined by Jim and Mary Fletcher—not the people I would have chosen to spend the evening with, but they chatted amiably enough about the food and the entertainment we were promised.

“Weren’t those handbell ringers from Lower Barton wonderful?” Jim said. “They’re really quite remarkable.”

“Such an old tradition,” Mary said. “And of course we have a very fine peal in the church here; I expect you’ve heard them. In the olden days they used to muffle the bells on New Year ’s Eve to alternate the six normal rings for the New Year with six almost inaudible for the old. Isn’t that interesting—perhaps you could put it in the Book.”

“How fascinating,” I said, with what conviction I could muster.

“Oh, Mary will put you right,” Jim said. “Very interested in things like that—always has been. When we were living in Farnborough she was very involved with the local history society. Working in the library, you see, she was able to look up all sorts of things for them. I’m sure she could do the same for you here—she’s struck up quite a friendship with the chief librarian in Taviscombe, haven’t you, Mary?”

“Well, of course I’d be only too glad to do what I can to help,” Mary said stiffly. “I understood that Annie was going to compile it all herself and I thought she might have been glad of a little assistance, since she’s always so busy. But, of course, I do see that a proper author, like Sheila here, would be the person to ask.”

“I must say I thought Annie was doing it all,” I said, recognizing umbrage when I heard it. “But apparently she expects me to do more or less the whole thing, which I really hadn’t bargained for. So I’d certainly be
most
grateful if you could spare the time—there’s a great deal to do and I’m sure, with your experience, you’d be exactly the right person.”

“There you are, Mary,” Jim said. “I told you Sheila would appreciate your help. Why don’t you come round one morning, Sheila, to have some coffee and a chat?”

“That would be lovely,” I said. “Do give me a ring and we’ll arrange a date. Now,” I continued, standing up, “I think I must just have a tiny slice of that delicious chocolate cake while there’s still some left. How about you, Rosemary?”

“Oh dear,” Rosemary said when we were out of ear-shot, “do you really want to work with Mary Fletcher?”

“To be honest,” I said, “I’ll be delighted to work with anyone who’s willing to take some of the burden—there really is so much to do and I know Annie will be badgering me if I’m not doing things quickly enough for her. No, I’ll be glad to off- load as much as she’ll take!”

Diana, underdressed, I thought, for such an occasion in jeans, shirt and a body warmer, was pouring herself a glass of red wine at the buffet. She held up the bottle and looked at the label. “Australian merlot,” she said. “I suppose it could be worse.”

“Oh, Australian wines are splendid,” I said, “almost my favorites.” Diana gave the impression of raising her eyebrows without actually doing so. “Though, of course,” I added, “I usually drink only one solitary glass of wine with my supper.”

It’s odd, really, the way I always make fatuous remarks when talking to Diana. Rosemary says it’s a sort of disdain on my part, not thinking her worthy of a rational reply.

“How’s the horse?” Rosemary asked. “Toby said one of them wasn’t well.”

“Caught his leg on some wire when we were out last Tuesday,” Diana said briefly, “so I’ve got to put fomentations on it.”

“Oh dear,” I said, “that’s quite a business.”

“A blessing tonight.” She laughed. “That way I didn’t have to sit through the ghastly ‘entertainment’—last year it was those dreary handbell ringers and that grisly woman singing folk songs, or some old man telling endless dialect stories.”

“Well, there’s still quite lot of food left,” I said helpfully. “It’s very good.”

“I don’t really want anything,” she said. “I’ll just have a bit of quiche and some of this
wilted
salad. Oh, and another drink.” She drained her glass, refilled it and drank again. “Did Toby say his piece like a good little MP?” I wondered just how much she’d had to drink before she arrived. “And I suppose dear Father William said grace, or whatever you call it—God, that man is so camp—no wonder he wanders around all the time in that frock! And all this broadcasting nonsense, so ridiculous!” She put some food on her plate with an unsteady hand so that some of the salad spilled onto the cloth. She laughed again, rather more loudly. “Oh dear, mustn’t make a mess, or that old bat Annie Roberts will never let me hear the last of it.” She picked the salad carefully off the cloth and put it on her plate. “There, now.” She lowered her voice and leaned confidentially towards us. “Now she’ll never know! Thinks she knows everything—she’s a witch.”