Up from the Grave (23 page)

There, leaning against the oak, were two folding garden chairs.

“Outdoor furniture.” Lillie applauded.

“Shh.” Berdie placed a finger to her lips. “I brought them out before Hugh came in for dinner. If we’re doing a stakeout at our age, may as well be somewhat comfortable.”

Lillie unfolded the chairs and set them closely together to fit the space behind the bush.

“Did you get some kip this afternoon?” Berdie asked her Watson.

“Not really. I had three voice lessons back-to-back.”

“The tea’s extra strong.” The two settled into the chairs. “That will help.”

She pulled two torches out of a large market bag and an April edition of
Country Homes and Interiors
. “Turn on your torch and you can read this for a bit. Berdie handed the silver light tool and magazine to her friend.”

Lillie grinned. “This is more a midnight picnic than a stakeout. My nose tells me there’s one of your tasty meat pies about.” Lillie nearly cooed. “A midnight snack?”

“No,” Berdie pronounced promptly, “a secret weapon. Remember, Lillie, we are on stakeout, albeit casual. Wilkie Gordon is hardly an axe murderer, but still, we need to be vigilant.”

“Some tea then.”

Berdie handed her the large flask and a paper cup.

Berdie was ninety-nine percent sure that this approach to Wilkie Gordon held no great danger or she would never have asked for Lillie’s help. Nonetheless, it was a bit of an adventure and Berdie enjoyed it.

An hour and a quarter passed, the half-moon had a moisture ridden lunar corona. The clouds were hiding most of the starry host, and the smell of wet tickled Berdie’s nose. “Please hold back the rain,” she whispered to He who hears all.

Lillie was in and out of dreamland, but Berdie was alert. She sat up straight and turned her shoulders side to side to relieve a cramp that made way up her back.

Then she heard it. Finally. The clink of metal identity tags danced, just what Berdie had been waiting for. She roused Lillie.

“Get out the oxtail,” she informed quietly.

Struggling to become alert, Lillie followed the command.

A not-distant torchlight made itself known. Berdie silently pulled the still warm meat pie half out of the bag and unwrapped it. She broke a piece off then sat it on the ground by the bush. She placed the rest at her feet.

The enticing odor of the fresh baked pie began working its magic. The jingling sound came closer, right next the bush then paused.

“Get ready, Lillie.”

Berdie could now just make out the figure of Wilkie Gordon, woodsman hat atop his bald head, white beard in full prominence. He stood near the upturned earth that declared the former grave of a helpless child. Then Berdie espied it. He held a small spade in his hand.

Lillie took a deep inhale as the sight of Wilkie became apparent to her.

Berdie placed her index finger upon her own lips as a signal. Lillie nodded.

Wilkie was mumbling something, but Berdie couldn’t make out what he said.

And then it happened. Creeping around the bush, the fish took the bait. First, his wiggly nose, then his wee front feet and Fritz found the temptation that teased his senses. He stopped and ogled Berdie for a moment and then the pie.

“Good boy, Fritz,” Berdie whispered. “Good boy. Eat up.”

The dachshund cautiously touched his nose to the pie then suddenly took an immense bite. He chewed with absolute delight until all gone.

“Fritz, look.” Berdie pointed to the pie at her feet. “More for the good lad.”

Fritz stepped lively to the meat pie near her feet.

“And look what Lillie has for you.”

Lillie pulled out the oxtail, and placed it on her lap. She sweet-talked the wee creature to her. “Fritz, look.”

Crumbs of crust clung to the edges of Fritz’s mouth as he investigated the enticement of another treat.

Lillie patted her knee. “Hear, boy, up.”

“Fritz,” Wilkie called in a low voice.

The little red sausage stopped momentarily.

“Fritz, come.” Wilkie was just slightly higher in volume.

Then, with gusto, the disobedient canine put his front paws on Lillie’s knees and sniffed. In a rapid flash, the dog leaped into Lillie’s lap.

“Good boy,” Lillie cooed. She stroked his coat then lightly held him as he chewed upon the bone of the oxtail.

“Fritz, where are you boy?” Wilkie stepped towards the bush. “Fritz?” The aged man now stood only a couple yards from the sheltering bush.

“OK, Lillie,” Berdie whispered. “It’s on.”

“Hello.”

Wilkie jumped and lifted his torch towards the bush.

The slurps and slops of Fritz devouring his goodie was as audible as Constable Goodnight consuming fish and chips at the Upland Arms.

Wilkie bent down, gripping his spade tightly and in a stealth manner crept to the bush. At the very moment he came round the vegetation, Berdie turned on her torch, stood, and dazzled him.

“Going walkies are we, Mr. Gordon?”

Wilkie jerked back, eyes large, mouth agape, arm up trying to shelter himself from the sudden light.

Berdie shined her torch on Fritz who stopped eating momentarily, eyed his master, then continued his feast.

“Why, yes, on a walk.” Wilkie replied with shallow breath.

“Mr. Gordon.” Berdie’s voice was now militant as she turned the torch back to the elder. “As the old clergyman once said, don’t play puppies with an old dog.”

Wilkie’s shock turned to resignation.

“Well?” Berdie said with clear determination. “Do you want to tell me the truth or shall I call Constable Goodnight?” Berdie held up her mobile phone.

Wilkie slumped to one knee. He dropped the spade and put his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” came in a quivered voice.

The penitent man kneeling on the hard earth before her moved Berdie immediately into action.

“Mr. Gordon, please.” Berdie scooted the garden chair to the weakened fellow. “Sit here.”

Wilkie struggled to his feet and placed himself into the chair, drooping like a wet umbrella at the end of a drenching storm.

Lillie urged Fritz from her lap and the dog, oxtail bone still in his mouth, sprung to Wilkie’s feet where he continued his nosh.

Berdie opened the flask of tea and poured some of the still warm brew into a paper cup she pulled from her large bag. She handed it to Mr. Gordon whose face was flushed. He gestured a thank you with a tip of his head and took a swallow.

“Where do I start?” He breathed heavily and stared into the night sky.

“You can begin by telling me what you’re doing with that spade,” Berdie said calmly.

“That’s the whole matter of it, you see.” He looked at Lillie.

“Well.” Lillie brushed her lap with her hands. “I can wait inside if you wish to speak to Mrs. Elliott alone.”

“No, stay,” Wilkie bid. “No secrets now and, truth be told, a relief.”

Berdie leaned against the spreading oak that sheltered their little gathering.

Wilkie took a single deep breath. “I have the spade because my little partner,” he bent down and stroked Fritz, “and I are on our way out to gather white gold, or black as it may be.”

“What? There’s ore about?” Lillie blurted impulsively.

Berdie gave her a quick glance and a slight negative shake of the head. Then Berdie put all her powers to play. Thirty thousand pounds paid in full. She eyed Fritz, the spade, and what appeared to be a small carrier bag shoved in the pocket of Wilkie’s coat.

“I know we’re not in France, and it’s not the high season, but could this white and black gold have anything to do at all with Le Petit Chaumier?” Berdie waited for a reply.

“And others. Cherry said nothing gets by you, Mrs. Elliott.” Wilkie shook his head.

Lillie knitted her brow. “Le Petit Chaumier?”

“Truffles, black market truffles,” Berdie informed Lillie. “And not the chocolate ones.”

“Truffles,” Lillie repeated.

Berdie folded her arms as she continued to lean against the tree. “It has to be an area completely undisturbed and not for a short while.” She tapped a finger against her arm. “Private land I should say, untouched wooded area, oak.”

Wilkie removed his hat and fingered the brim, slowly turning it round. “The back woods of the Preswood estate,” he confessed. “I made the discovery quite by accident, when I was groundskeeper.”

“Did you inform Preswood?”

“Randal Preswood doesn’t give a toss about his land, what it needs, or what it possesses.”

“
Beouf au Truffes
,” Lillie interjected just coming up to speed. “You’re the supplier?”

Berdie remembered Preston Graystone’s description of the man he saw in the wood twenty years past. He wore a woodsman’s hat, like Wilkie Gordon’s.

“How long has this been going on?” Berdie looked at Wilkie intently.

“Just gone one year now.”

“Give it to us straight, Mr. Gordon,” Berdie ordered. “How long?”

“That is straight.” He balked. “I made the discovery years ago, but there was no need.”

“Ah.” Berdie nodded. She believed the old fellow.

“Need?” Lillie asked what Berdie was considering.

“Yes.” Berdie answered for Wilkie just realizing what he meant herself. “Not until your Mary became desperately ill.”

“They,” Wilkie spit the word out, “said there was no more could be done for her.” Anger colored his words. “The quacks told her to go home and die.” He squeezed the hat and shook it. “I had to do something, I couldn’t let that happen. Do you see?”

Lillie leaned forward in her chair. She placed a hand on Wilkie’s knee.

Berdie squatted next to him. “So you got treatment for Mary in Germany. Treatment not allowed here. Treatment that costs a king’s ransom.”

Wilkie nodded.

“All paid for with white gold,” Lillie reiterated.

“And she’s gotten better.” Wilkie whimpered. “She finished the course, and she’s so much better.”

Berdie became suddenly aware of a gentle pitter patter of droplets on the earth.

“And the garden falderal.” Berdie’s gift of sorting and aligning was ablaze. “You were afraid the water feature would bring more people in, the thin edge of the wedge, and your precious gold would eventually be trampled or discovered.”

“Yes, well, and then there was the other.” Wilkie hung his head.

Just then a crackle sounded. Fritz jerked his head up from his disappearing bone. He sniffed the air, jumped to attention, and began to bark.

“What’s going on here?” Hugh stood in the midst of the odd little huddle wearing his evening robe while his wet weather wellies adorned his feet and a black umbrella sheltered his head. His left eyebrow elevated. “Wilkie? Lillie? Berdie!”

Berdie swallowed. “Shall we all retire to the kitchen for a cup of tea?” she suggested calmly, as if it was four in the afternoon on a balmy day.

“Right.” Hugh growled. “I should say one or two things need explaining, wouldn’t you, Berdie?”

It was quite obvious. Hugh was not amused.

13

The warmth of the fire Hugh tended in the library gave a warm glow that eased and gave comfort to everyone seated; Wilkie on the large Chesterfield sofa, Berdie and Lillie in the leather chairs. Fritz, still at his bone, sat quietly gnawing at Wilkie’s feet.

Lillie’s eyes looked heavy. The chill of the spring night now warded off, Berdie found that she, as well, was being courted by the sandman despite the warming tea and the energy it offered.

“I should think, after we finish our tea, all can go home and get some sleep.” Hugh was not inattentive. “Most conversations stand best in the fair light of day.”

“If you please, Vicar,” Wilkie asked politely. “I would like to clear one more matter for your wife. And the truth of it, for me as well. I’ll be done with the thing as quickly as the teacup’s empty.”

“Of course, Mr. Gordon, as long as you’re not under duress.” Hugh answered with an eye on Berdie.

Berdie returned the ogle.

“No, no.” Wilkie sighed. He took a slurp of tea and began his soul baring. “I’m going to be needing some guidance, Vicar. But we can talk about that, as you say, in the light of day. What I’m addressing now is the truth of our son, George.”

Berdie became instantly alert. “The baby picture on the dresser no doubt,” she said under her breath. She wanted to get every word that Wilkie spoke on this matter.

“There are rumors about the village connecting my Mary and the unearthed bones. There’s not a bit of truth to them, and I won’t have her name drug through the mud.” Wilkie’s white beard contrasted starkly with his now pink face.

“Idle gossip.” Hugh crossed his arms. “Wicked stuff.”

“Our George was born perfectly healthy. It was my Mary who was ill.” Wilkie looked down at little Fritz and stroked him. “The long and short of it, my dear wife couldn’t cope when the boy came.” He ran a finger across the bottom of his nose. “She wasn’t herself, had no interest in the wee one, barely able to tend her own self. She became dark, almost lost.” He stopped petting Fritz and raised his head, moisture in his eyes.

“Sounds like postnatal depression.” Berdie had seen it before.

The old gentleman, in the light of the fire, wore his years of lies all cross his face. “It scared me. Her, too, when she had sense about her.”

“Did you talk to your doctor?” Lillie asked the reasonable question.

“We were afraid they’d take George from us. All the things you’d hear on the news. You see, with me working, trying to keep life and limb together, well, I couldn’t do it all.”

Hugh sat down on the Chesterfield next to Wilkie.

“We gave our George into the care of Mary’s brother and his family, just ‘til Mary could recover.” Wilkie’s voice cracked and he took a sip of tea.

It was clear to Berdie, as she was sure it was clear to Hugh and Lillie, this was a scabbed wound bleeding to heal, and dreadfully difficult for Mr. Gordon. She took a try at completing what Wilkie was trying to say. “But it took longer than you thought for Mary to get her sea legs back.

Wilkie nodded. “And by that time, George had become attached to the people he recognized as his parents, his siblings.”