Up from the Grave (5 page)

Berdie entered the quiet hall of the vicarage where only the ticking of the station clock in the nearby library gave an assuring rhythm.

A ring from the vicarage phone split into the quiet.

“I’m not home!” Berdie pronounced to the polished oak wood that plated the walls. She reluctantly picked up the receiver. “Vicarage, this is Mrs. Elliott.”

“Berdie,” Hugh was on the other end. “Oh good, you’re in. How is it with Goodnight?”

“Loren’s seeing to him.”

“Have you an extra meat pie in the freezer?”

“Whatever for?”

“It’s just that Wilkie isn’t feeling at the top of his form, and with Mary being too ill to cook, could you see your way clear to provide dinner for the Gordons? Meet me at their home, number twelve Oakwood Gardens, say, in an hour.”

“Of course, love, just after I Hoover the sitting room rug,” Berdie answered.

“What?”

“I’ll be there in an hour, dinner in tow. See you then,” Berdie promised and hung up the phone.

“Meat pie,” Berdie mumbled. “Can’t vouch that it will delight the pallet, but at least it’s a promise I can by all means keep.”

3

Berdie clutched the white wicker basket that held dinner for the Gordons: hot meat pie, brown gravy, spring greens, and lemon pudding for afters.

During the brisk quarter mile walk to number twelve Oakwood Gardens, three different villagers stopped her. One asked if Mr. Gordon was all right. Widow Sheridan wanted to know what an Italian was doing in our village when they weren’t our ally in that horrible war. And someone who wasn’t even at the event asked if the body was recognizable?

“Not a body, simply bones,” Berdie said aloud now as if to reiterate once again.

She turned the corner that opened onto Oakwood Gardens, a pleasant road where stone block terrace houses, attached on their sidewalls, sat in a row like British soldiers trooping the colors. Though all the same design, each home had its own natural embellishments. Spring green hedges hugged stone walls, door urns declared Easter greetings with multi-color tulips, while the scent of freshly upturned soil hinted of floral delights yet to come. Berdie breathed in the earthy odor that promised a new season of growth.

Number twelve had well-trimmed ivy displaying new leaves. It twisted up the stone block above the wooden door and across the upper edge of a broad window. A rock planter was home to dancing daffodils, frilly pink hyacinths, and naturalized ground-hugging white aconites. A testament to Wilkie’s gardening skills, Berdie observed. She stepped directly in front of the door and rapped lightly.

The noise of a barking dog was accompanied by a rapid whoosh of the door opening. Ivy Butz stood in the doorway and held a desperately squirming Dachshund the rusty red of HP Sauce.

“Hello Mrs. Elliott,” Ivy beamed holding the creature against her ample body with both arms. “Ignore him. He’s just trying to prove he’s more than a wee sausage,” she jested.

“Don’t speak ill of my Fritz.” Berdie heard Wilkie’s voice in full throttle.

Ivy winked. “He’s better already,” she said quietly. “Please come in.”

Berdie stepped into a tiny entry then straight way into the cozy sitting room. It was simply dressed in papered walls that displayed shelves of porcelain plates, and the furnishings were plain but comfortable. Hugh sat in one of the large upholstered armchairs just across from Wilkie, who rose from the coffee-colored sofa. The man teetered a bit to one side.

“Oh, please sit down. Thank you.” Berdie caught her husband’s eye as she spoke. Gordon sank back down as Hugh rose and took the basket she held.

“Thank you, Berdie,” he said tenderly as he gave up his chair for her.

“Let me take that through,” Ivy offered.

Hugh seated himself in another comfortable armchair while Ivy put the wee sausage dog down and took the basket to the kitchen.

The dog sniffed all about the floor near Berdie’s feet with brief lifts of his wiggly nose in the air as if torn between sussing out this newcomer and guzzling the delicious smelling meat pie.

“Fritz!” Wilkie beckoned the dog, who suddenly decided being near the pie was his priority. He dashed to the kitchen as quickly as his squatty legs would carry him. “He’s not one to mind his manners,” Wilkie apologized, “but we’re quite fond of him. The little lad earns his keep.” The old man smiled.

“And how’s that?” Berdie chuckled. “I find the dear creatures loll about and eat more than their owners.”

Wilkie blinked and rubbed his hand on the arm of the couch. “Well, he barks, of course.”

“The great protector.” Hugh relaxed his shoulders into the chair. “Busy little ones. Dachshunds were bred to chase prey and burrow after their victims, weren’t they?”

“I believe so,” Wilkie whispered with a short breath and then took a deep inhale.

Berdie became instantly aware of how taxing all the visitors and conversation must be for the recovering old gentleman.

“Here then, let me give my greetings to Mary and we’re off.” Berdie sent her gaze towards Hugh then stood.

“Capital idea,” Hugh agreed.

“Mary’s upstairs?” Berdie directed her inquiry to Mr. Gordon who tried to stand. “I can see to her,” came between short breaths.

“Wilkie,” Hugh advised, “let Berdie have a moment with her. She’s quite good at cheering one.”

When Berdie entered the small bedroom, Mary Gordon sat motionless in the bed, covered with layers of quilts. Her frail upper body was propped against double pillows that lined the iron rail headboard. The fact that Mary could sit upright was an improvement from the last time Berdie had visited. The woman’s white hair was in a tangle and her dark, deep-set eyes had the mist of one visiting distant memories.

“Mary?” Berdie spoke in hushed tones. “How are you dear? It’s Mrs. Elliott, from the church.”

There was a spark of recognition and a faint smile.

Berdie stood by the bed and placed her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Is there any way I can help?”

“Help. Can anyone help me?” The woman’s thin lips moved with effort. “Does God still love me?” Her sad eyes echoed the sentiment.

“Of course He does,” Berdie assured. “I know things can get difficult, but nothing separates us from His love.”

Mary raised her hand with great effort and feebly grasped Berdie’s free hand. With as much strength as she possessed, she gave a squeeze. Berdie sat on the edge of the bed.

“And you know, Mary, that Hugh, Ivy, Cherry, indeed the whole church community, we all can lend a hand. We want to help.”

“Do you?” she mumbled. She released Berdie’s fingers. Her eyes redirected their gaze to a nearby dresser where a bottle of tablets stood next to a framed photo of an all-in-blue infant with chubby cheeks and a cheerful smile. Berdie studied the tablets. She arose and picked up the photo.

“Your grandchild?” Berdie asked.

“A treasure,” a male voice responded.

Berdie started. Wilkie Gordon stood in the bedroom doorway. “Mr. Gordon,” she said breathlessly and replaced the framed photo.

“It’s time for my wife’s medicine.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. If you had only said.”

The old man stood at the bed’s edge. “Your husband waits for you,” he mumbled, and then bent to tuck the quilts around his bride, obviously devoted to her comfort and care.

Berdie gave Mary an assuring nod. “Do hope you like meat pie. There’s some waiting for you in the kitchen.”

The sick woman nodded in return.

“Thank you, Mrs. Elliott,” Wilkie clipped. “I think you best go downstairs.”

Berdie momentarily paused outside the room.

“Love, I’m going to put the photo back in the drawer now and give you your medicine,” Wilkie almost whispered.

Berdie moved quietly down the stairs and found Hugh standing at the door.

“Ready then?” he asked.

Berdie pursed her lips and nodded.

The jot to the vicarage afforded a stop at the Upland Arms. Hugh suggested getting take away. “After all, you’ve already cooked one full dinner.” He winked.

The specialty of the day: roast chicken, mash, and cauliflower-cheese, was a favorite for both of them.

Berdie waited in the car while Hugh went into the local pub. She thought her husband truly brave to enter the establishment where surely tongues wagged with accounts both true and exaggerated concerning today’s events.

Berdie glanced across the High Street where Flora Preswood and Preston Graystone stood near his solicitor’s office. The well-off woman seemed in a rush when Mr. Graystone began a rapid pursuit. He caught Flora by the arm, which was a bit too familiar for a lawyer and his client, Berdie reasoned. Flora yielded momentarily. Preston pulled her close and said something to the woman, which, by all appearances, created a fleeting surrender that turned quickly to anxiety. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp, furtively scanned for onlookers, and continued her quick pace. Preston Graystone looked after the departing woman with a woeful visage.

“How unlike him.” Berdie had never known him to let anyone have the last word, let alone leave him wistful.

He made a quick sweep with his eyes for passersby, straightened his tie, and stepped along in the opposite direction.

“Now that would make tender fodder in the Upland Arms. Indeed it would,” she breathed.

Just as she turned her mind to said events, to her surprise, Hugh returned. When he entered the car, Berdie inhaled the satisfying aroma that emanated from the carrier bags.

“I just witnessed a bit of an event.”

“Oh, yes.” Hugh seemed to have little interest in said event.

“Dare I ask how it was inside?” Berdie took the bags from her husband.

“I gave Dudley Horn a five pound note, said he was a fine publican, and told him to put a rush on. In terms of the rest of the lot in there, you can probably imagine.”

“Let’s see,” Berdie made her voice hoarse and deep. “’Hey vicar, disposing of wayward parishioners in the church garden now, are ya’?”

“Along those lines, yes.” Hugh displayed the shadow of a smirk. “At least they’re up front on the whole matter, and humor is a very acceptable way of putting dreadful things in order.”

Berdie admired Hugh’s ability to accept people just where they were. There were leaders in the church who would have found such comments deeply offensive. But her husband was not one of them. She popped a quick loving peck on his cheek.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“You still spend a few bob to impress your wife with roast chicken, of course,” she teased.

When they pulled into the vicarage drive, police tapes were visible across the church back garden. An auto track on the grass lead to a white transit van displaying the word
Coroner
on the side. A small tent draped protection over the dig, and white-capped workers went about their business, but Berdie didn’t see Dr. Meredith or Constable Goodnight.

Once inside the vicarage, sitting at the tiny wooden table in the gracious kitchen of Oak Leaf Cottage, it felt a tender sanctuary.

“For what we are about to receive we are truly grateful,” rolled off Hugh’s lips with a keen sense of appreciation. He gripped his fork and looked at Berdie with a sigh. “And I’m not half grateful that days like this one are rare in our parish.”

Berdie nodded her head in agreement.

“A simple plan gone pear shaped.”

“And a broken promise.” Berdie felt the prick of guilt stab at her.

“How’s that?” Hugh tucked his fork into the potatoes.

“Cherry Lawler approached me this morning and expressed concern for her grandfather. I told her I’d ask you to see him before the ceremony. I lost track of you, and then I simply forgot.”

“Ah.” Hugh didn’t seem upset. “Easy to do on such a busy day, and we have no assurance that anything I could have said would have helped.” Hugh cut a piece of meat from the chicken bone. “One redeeming note: I’m so pleased Wilkie appears to be recovering.”

“Mary seems slightly improved, too.” Berdie drew her napkin across her lips. “Did Dr. Honeywell say anything to you about Wilkie’s condition?”

“That information is strictly between the doctor and his patient, and you are fully aware of that. Wilkie did mention to me that he was out of his high blood pressure tablets. He was sure that was today’s problem.”

“Did he? That’s odd.”

“Doesn’t seem odd to me.”

“And the picture of their grandchild, that was off as well.”

“Off?”

“Don’t grandparents rabbit on when you view a picture of their grandchild?” She went on. “Well, neither did that. And they keep the photo in a drawer. Now that’s off.”

Hugh took a deep inhale. “Berdie, are you prying?”

Berdie sensed a bit of impatience in Hugh’s voice. “Simply observing.” She took another bite of mash. “And another thing, there was a full bottle of blood pressure tablets sitting on the dresser in the bedroom. His name was on it.”

Hugh swallowed. “Wilkie’s elderly. He probably forgot he had an extra bottle.”

“Pensioners, don’t have extra bottles of medication lying about.”

Hugh lifted his left eyebrow, which was always the sign to Berdie that something didn’t meet his pleasure. “Have you taken to rummaging through people’s bedrooms?”

“Hugh Elliott”—Berdie’s volume raised a decibel—“I should say not.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way.”

Just as Berdie’s lips formed a definitive defense, the vicarage phone in the hallway let out its holy bleating.

“I’ll get it.” Hugh stood and made hasty steps toward the hallway.

“Saved by the bell, that.”

Berdie knew exactly what displeased her husband. It was in her nature to ask questions, to fill in missing pieces of the puzzle. He understood that. Often, he even appreciated it. He just wasn’t fond of her muddling parish business with inquisitive designs, especially after the kind of happenings that took place today.

She crunched two cauliflower florets. “Rummaging indeed.”

“It’s Dr. Meredith.” Hugh swung back through the kitchen door. “He wants to speak with you.”

Berdie whisked to the hallway in double time.

“Loren?” Berdie wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but she made herself ready to listen carefully.