Slaying is Such Sweet Sorrow (9 page)

“All right, calm down,” she ordered, wearily. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I do understand how you feel. Let’s not even mention Dad and Barbie for the rest of the evening.”

Cincinnati chili is served over spaghetti and under a mound of cheddar cheese. It’s not to everyone’s taste, and Rose only sipped at it gingerly and then went to make herself an omelet. Archie ran around waving strands of spaghetti, yelling, “Fwag!” I didn’t see him eat anything except a fistful of cheese. But Emily almost finished her plateful and said she felt better for it. I could see Archie’s racket was setting her already raw nerves on edge, so while we put the dishes and utensils in the dishwasher I proposed taking him off her hands for a while.

“He can come home with me for the night and stay all day tomorrow.”

“Oh, God, Mother, I can’t deal with another accident now!” was her reaction.

“I swear I’ll keep my eyes on him every minute. Please, darling, give me another chance. It will make me feel like I’m doing something to help you. I can’t talk legalese with solicitors, but I can give you a little peace and quiet.”

For a few minutes she watched Archie, who had climbed onto the back of the sofa and now launched himself into the air, laughing at poor Rose’s admonitions.

“That girl’s bound to give notice when he hits the terrible twos,” she mused gloomily.

“She needs a day off in the worst way,” I agreed.

“All right, Mom, you take him, then Rose can have a bit of a breather. I don’t blame you any more for the scary things that have happened when he’s been with you, I know there’s only so much anyone can do to keep a boy like Archie out of trouble. But please—”

“I know, best beloved, and I swear nothing will happen this time. Only one thing—let’s lose the ‘taypay’ temporarily. I can’t take a whole day of ‘Oranges and Lemons,’ et cetera.”

He didn’t notice its absence in the excitement of getting ready to visit Muzzle and the apple tree and my big backyard. While Emily packed his overnight bag I said, “By the way, how’s your patient, Mrs. Stone, getting through this?”

“Well, I don’t really know, because she’s not my patient anymore. I sat down with her at the police station last night, but she said she no longer needed counseling, now Peter had given Edgar the punishment he’d deserved all these years.”

“Wow. She did hate him, didn’t she? What did she mean, the other night, accusing Edgar of murdering her son? He didn’t really do that, did he?”

She shook her head. “I can’t discuss her case with you, Mom. It would be unethical. But whether or not her most extreme accusations had any basis in reality, he did abuse her emotionally for much of their marriage.”

“So do you think she’ll be okay, now she’s free from the abuse?”

“Of course not. The woman has a Major Depressive Disorder, an Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and bereavement issues that will probably never be resolved. She still needs help, but if she refuses to accept it there’s nothing I can do. I urged her in the strongest possible terms to take her medication faithfully, but she’s in such a manic state right now that she probably won’t. I’m trying not to think about it—I can only cope with so much at one time.”

It was past Archie’s usual bedtime when we got home to Rowan Cottage. He was so tired, it wasn’t hard to get him directly from the front door to the staircase. Muzzle was at full alert in the sitting room, ready to run for cover if Archie so much as looked at him, and I didn’t want a confrontation that would force me to let the poor cat out in the rain. He would keep me awake meowing about it until I did, if he got really spooked.

I bedded Archie down in my second bedroom, and he fell asleep pretty quickly, clutching the stuffed Peter Rabbit I’d bought him when I first moved to England. Love had not improved its appearance. Rose had had to sew its left ear back on, and the plush fur had been hugged and washed until it had turned some indeterminate color. I stood for a little while watching Archie sleep, listening to the cat lapping from the bathroom faucet.

How could I let him grow up fatherless, seeing Peter only four days a month, and in prison clothes, wondering as he got older whether the terrible things the state said about him were true?
Somebody
had to prevent that. Maybe the police and the very knowledgeable Mr. Billingsley would find the answer, but I had a feeling they were working on the assumption of Peter’s guilt. The only alternative so far was the suicide theory, and that depended on the autopsy results. If they didn’t give Edgar a motive, then unlikely as it seemed, person-or-persons-unknown must have somehow killed him and implicated Peter.

Bending to kiss my grandson’s cheek, I made a silent promise that nobody was going to take his father from him if I could help it.

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

—Thomas Nashe

I
was woken by a bloodcurdling squawl and sat straight up in the dark, fumbling at the bedside lamp. The clock said 5:20. Over in the corner Archie and Muzzle crouched facing each other, the cat pressed against the wall, his back humped and his fur standing on end like a Halloween cat. Archie reached for him, and before I could get to them Muzzle let out another yowl and swiped his claws across the baby’s arm.

Archie’s reaction sounded a lot like the cat’s. He sat back staring at the scratches in amazement as Muzzle darted out the bedroom door. When I reached him he had started howling in earnest, and three shallow channels on his arm were welling blood. I carried him into the bathroom, bypassing Muzzle’s sink and setting him in the bathtub to wash the scratches and cover them with antiseptic and a Band-Aid. Once he couldn’t see them, he made a lot less noise about them.

“Well, I wouldn’t have let it happen,” I said, “but it’s one way to learn you don’t corner cats.” At least it wasn’t as bad as knocking himself out.

I changed his diaper and got him into the clothes Emily had packed, a pair of pull-up jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with
OXFORD UNIVERSITY
on the front. When we got downstairs I found Muzzle at the door, meowing desperately, and when I opened it he shot out and disappeared in the vegetation while I picked up the milk and the paper.

Archie looked after him and said sadly, “Cat.”

“You have to be slow and gentle with animals, matey,” I said. “But you’ll learn.”

He began his explorations while I cooked my oatmeal and made instant coffee. I knew from experience it was hopeless to tell him to stay in a chair, so I toasted him a slice of whole wheat bread and spread it with Marmite, a salty brown yeast paste universally fed to English babies. Having tasted it once, I was amazed that Archie could eat the stuff. He chomped at it steadily while removing all the pots and pans from under the sink, dumping out the wastepaper basket, and struggling mightily to open the back door, which I’d been careful to lock. I had to have my breakfast orange juice, outrageously expensive though it is in England, and I’d poured him a glass too. Every time he wandered near the table I held it out and he took a sip before toddling off again.

Breakfast accomplished, I’d started washing the dishes when the phone gave its double ring. I went into the sitting room to answer it, calling to Archie to follow me. He came in and set to work pulling the books off my wall of shelves.

Fiona Bennett was on the phone. “I wondered how you’re coping with this awful Peter-thing. Nobody can believe he could commit a violent act of any kind!”

“Of course he couldn’t,” I answered. “I’m doing my bit right now by taking Archie off Emily’s hands. I was going to call you later, to see if John knows anything more since last night. He was the only one at the station who’d tell us a thing.”

“You know about the phone calls, of course? That’s the worst of it. No, he went off this morning without telling me any more. It’s not his case, of course, so I shan’t be able to pump him as I did about our local murder.”

Suddenly I noticed Archie had decamped, leaving a pile of books behind.

“Listen, will you ask him what they learned from the autopsy—I mean, postmortem?” I said quickly.

“Oh, I know what
autopsy
means. I’ve heard the results of any number of them on the American police shows. I was a tremendous fan of one a few years ago, about this police surgeon who solved all the murders instead of the detectives—I can’t recall the name. Of course, I’ll ask him. What are you looking for?”

“There’s just a possibility Stone could have committed suicide, so I want to know if there was any evidence of his facing death soon, you know, cancer or something.”

“Suicide? Oh, surely not, John says the angle of the knife was downward, so it must have been someone standing over him. I can’t imagine killing oneself by lifting a knife above one’s head and bringing it down into one’s chest. It
would
be quite a dramatic sight, but unlikely, wouldn’t you think?”

“I guess so.” I sighed. “Sorry, I’ve got to run and see what Archie’s doing. It’s awfully quiet in the kitchen.”

“Oh, dear. Well, perhaps I’ll look in later. I’m off to A Bit of Old England now.” That was her antique shop in the touristy village of Broadway.

Archie had climbed up my kitchen step stool onto the countertop, where he stood investigating the previously unknown wonders of the wall cabinets. I was beginning to realize that climbing was currently his favorite activity. I managed to lift him down without any dishes getting broken, and whirled him round a couple of times to turn his indignant howls into laughter. Then we went upstairs so I could put on slacks and a sweater and get us both into shoes. The rain had stopped during the night and the sun was showing itself intermittently. I planned a nice long walk, staying on pavement until the ground and foliage dried.

Archie refused to ride in a stroller anymore, so I had to suit my pace to his short legs and his need to keep stopping to pursue his investigations. Emily and I agreed he was just like the Elephant’s Child in
Just So Stories
, full of “’satiable curiosity,” which he had to satisfy, “with the world so new and all.” The countryside was a treasury of strange and nameless things. “Dat?” he kept demanding, solemnly repeating each word I supplied, committing it to memory so, I knew from experience, he would be able to repeat it immediately the next time he saw the thing.

I turned us left up the main road and we mosied along the grassy shoulder, taking about a quarter of an hour to cover the hundred yards or so to Church Lane. There we hung another left and proceeded between high hedgerows full of wildflowers and dripping shrubs, toward the village church. St. Etheldreda’s is a square, stone building in the Norman style, without ornament except for rows of sharp-pointed zigzags around the front door, like teeth ready to eat you if you try to come in. From what I knew about the Normans, they were more inclined to the military than the artistic, and their churches always seem to have a defensive air. But St. Etheldreda’s is beautiful in its own blunt way. I even like the squatty tower with crenellations around the top like castle battlements, none of that poetic stuff about reaching toward heaven with a spire.

There were cows in the field on the other side of the lane, which delayed Archie for quite a while. As I stood waiting for him, uttering an occasional “uh-huh” to his commentary on these amazing beasts, I looked all the way down the lane, at the manor house. Built, like the church, by the Norman lord who received this area after the Conquest, it was now a mixture of styles as his descendants, the Damerels, had torn down and rebuilt sections of it in the styles of their own eras. I’d been inside on a couple of memorable occasions, but I knew I’d never be invited there again. I felt a momentary sadness, thinking how violent death and desertion had decimated the family that had occupied that house for centuries. Only one of them was left behind, living there now in self-imposed isolation from the village.

“Come on, let’s go find the cat,” I finally said to Archie, with perfect confidence that Muzzle would never let that happen. It got him toddling again, though, and I guided our expedition through the medieval lych-gate, into the churchyard.

The enormous beeches and oaks were in full leaf now, rustling in the chilly breeze, shading the graves of Far Wychwoodians from the time of the Plantagenets to the most recent, a numbered plate in the ground where Muzzle’s old friend George Crocker lay unmemorialized. Some of us had talked about buying a headstone for him, but nothing had been done yet.

Archie’s main interest was the low, mossy stone wall that surrounded the churchyard. I stood close by while he pulled himself from stone to stone until he stood precariously on top. At that point I wrapped the bottom band of his sweatshirt around my hand, behind where he wouldn’t see, and kept a tight hold while he teetered along to the inevitable fall. This time he hung suspended from my fist instead of hitting the ground. When I set him down and let go of his shirt, he started right back up the wall.

“Because it’s there, I guess.” I sighed, spotting him again.

“Ah, Mrs. Penny! You’ve brought your grandson to see the church—what a good thought!”

Mr. Ivey, the vicar, was coming toward us in a flutter of black, his fine-boned face lighted by a smile.

“
Catherine
, please,” I said for the umpteenth time. “My married name was
not
Penny, and anyway I’m divorced now.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” The smile drooped into a concerned frown. “What a great shame! I can’t begin to understand the marriages and divorces and remarriages that seem quite normal to people nowadays. The comfort of a long-lasting partnership with one person is life’s most consoling gift, at least I found it so. Constantly adapting to the ways of someone new must be extremely stressful.”

“I’m not going to remarry,” I said shortly.

“I’m very sorry—Catherine,” he went on. “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental, that is of course one of the main things a clergyman has to guard against! It’s only that my marriage was such a source of happiness to me, I wonder how—Well, there I go again! As I started to say, it’s never too early to introduce a child to—Oh, dear! Is he all right?”

Archie was again dangling from my grip on the sweatshirt, laughing as he swung back and forth in the air.

“Yes, as long as I watch him like a hawk.”

“Very good—‘watch him like a hawk’! They do watch the ground very intently, don’t they? I might use that in a sermon. One could say that’s the way God watches over us.”

“You were very lucky to have such a good marriage,” I said, setting Archie on his feet and trying to herd him away from the wall. “How long has it been since you lost your wife?”

“Ten years,” he answered sadly. “People told me it was a blessed release, but do you know, even in the last stages of her illness, when she was unconscious all the time, I was unwilling to let her go. Selfish of me, I daresay, but just to know she was still on this earth was important to me. Tom didn’t understand that. I’m not sure I do myself.”

“I think I do,” I said as the three of us finally started moving toward the church. “I was only twelve when my mother died, and she died suddenly, not like your wife. But I remember feeling that the world was a different place, a foreign place, if she wasn’t in it anymore. It passes, though, that feeling.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve learnt to live without her, of course. God doesn’t leave us without consolation. I had Tom to raise, as well as my work.”

“Tom’s a fine young man.”

“He is, although these days—” He broke off as we passed through the forbidding doorway into the serene, flower-scented little church with its heavy round pillars, low ceiling, and age-worn oaken pews. Archie went for the pews, crawling under and over them, talking to himself.

“Is Tom having problems?” I asked.

“Well—I must admit to being rather worried about this engagement of his. The young woman—Gemma—seemed at first very suitable, academically minded, well mannered—They became engaged last winter, but after only a few months she became infatuated with the man who was so unfortunately murdered the other night, Mr. Stone. She broke off the engagement and Tom was devastated. Now Stone is dead, he tells me the ring is back on her finger—the one she’d returned to him when this fellow took up with her! Doesn’t that seem to you very flighty behavior? Hardly auspicious for a successful marriage.”

“Well, yes, it does,” I had to admit. “And my own experience tells me any attempt to talk to him about it just results in a quarrel?”

“Quite.” He sighed deeply. “He is far too much in love, I’m afraid.”

I was touched by his openness, so untypical of the English, telling a near-stranger like me such personal things. There was a naïveté about him that was very appealing. I was about to confide how immovable Emily could be when she’d formed an opinion, to show him he wasn’t the only parent with that problem, when I heard a ringing crash at the front of the church. We both started and looked toward the sanctuary. Someone had left the celebrant’s chair close beside the altar, and Archie was in the process of climbing from the one to the other while a gold candlestick rolled back and forth on the floor.

He made it onto the altar before I could reach him and stood up on the embroidered white cloth that covered the stone top, beaming at his accomplishment. I heard the vicar oh-dearing and tut-tutting behind me as I put my hands under Archie’s arms and lifted him to the floor, complimenting him enthusiastically on his jumping ability.

“Do you think this would be a good chance to speak to him about the sanctity of the altar?” he asked.

“Oh, Vicar, he’s much too young,” I said, unable to repress a laugh, “and his vocabulary’s very limited. I don’t think he’s anywhere near ready for theology!”

Archie was now squatting on the floor, rolling the candlestick around, and I could see the white candle it held had split down one side.

“You must let me pay for a new candle,” I said to Mr. Ivey, “and I’ll take the altar cloth home and wash those muddy shoeprints out of it.”

“No, no, we have quite a supply of candles, I shouldn’t think of taking money for it. The cloth, now—I’ll accept your kind offer there. Mrs. Watkins won’t be coming for the laundry until Tuesday, and we shall need this cloth for Sunday services.” He fingered it rather wistfully. “Some of the parishioners disapprove of these things, you know—candles, altar cloths, even the use of the old Prayer Book. I’ve been told my services come perilously close to papistry!” He smiled ruefully. “I have tried to explain that these things were the norm in our church until about thirty years ago, but of course people have forgotten.”