Up from the Grave (24 page)

Lillie leaned towards Wilkie. “So you put it about that George developed critical needs and was placed in a special care institution.”

“I had to protect Mary’s delicate state.”

“It squelched the painful gossip and explained Mary’s sadness.” Lillie’s eyes held understanding.

Wilkie sighed again. “Mary’s brother moved to the Orkney’s. George grew up a fine boy, but he didn’t want anything of Mary or me. Didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. As a young man he met Cherry’s mother, married, lived happily I’m told, until he died at sea three years after Cherry was born.” Wilkie cleared his throat. “We loved our boy,” he whispered.

“You had the courage to love him the best you knew,” Hugh comforted.

Lillie nodded then lifted her brow as if something had alighted in her grey matter. “So it was bitter sweet, then, when Cherry arrived in the village. Where and from whom did she come?”

“I invented the story of a previous clandestine marriage, a thin veneer. More lies. Anything to keep the past at bay.” Wilkie blinked. “And Cherry agreed to keep the secret.” He looked into the fire. “But the scent of fabrication wafted throughout the village. In the end, did living all those years with protective lies really help Mary? And Cherry as well, one secret, than another.”

“Whatever has gone before,” Berdie was fixed, “part of your George lives on in Cherry. And that’s a blessing.”

Wilkie laid his eyes upon Berdie, a fresh glimmer about them. “Not a day goes by that we don’t thank God for her and that she pledged herself to find us. She’s taken us to her heart, and we adore her. Then along the way she found her Jeff, a good lad.” Wilkie took another gulp of tea.

“They’re a fine couple.” Hugh’s tone was reassuring.

“But this business that the young child buried in the church garden is somehow tied to my Mary is a burning lie.” Wilkie’s lip trembled. “I knew the moment those upturned bones were a child it would put my Mary in a state, just as she was gathering strength. Wicked accusations. It’s not on. I won’t have it.”

Hugh stood again, military straight, dignified despite his dressing gown. “Wilkie, you needn’t worry yourself anymore on that account.” He looked at Berdie. “My wife, with her God-given gift, will root out the truth of the matter, and I dare say soon. That will quiet the groundless accusations, and in a hurry.”

Berdie smiled and nearly swooned in the loving public affirmation and trust her husband displayed for her and her abilities.

“Spot on,” Lillie pronounced.

“Now, may I suggest we call it a night, or a morning as the case may be, and I’ll drive you home Wilkie.” Hugh assisted Wilkie to his feet.

Lillie cleared her throat.

“And you as well, Watson.” Hugh grinned. He turned his attention on Berdie. “We’ll talk over breakfast. Now get some sleep, love.”

When everyone, including the little four-legged truffle hunter, was escorted to the door and on their way, Berdie sat quietly to take her last sip of tea in the library.

“Wilkie’s guilt actually clears him from the bones issue,” she said aloud. “Stolen glass, broken shards, Flora, that chin, photo, Mr. Smith, certificates, fruit baskets; so many roads lead to Swithy Hall. But then there’s Wanda Pitts, St. Erts, Evergreen. How do they tie in? What’s my next step?” She ran her finger on the rim of the teacup. “Call Billy Beaton, yes, follow-up, then pay another visit to the contessa.” Berdie put her drained cup on the end table near her. “Yes, my dear Contessa, it could be a very bumpy ride.”

****

So far this morning, Berdie had enjoyed her nice morning lie-in plus a refreshment of scriptural meditation and prayer in her favorite Queen Anne chair. She also asked Hugh to call the contessa and ask if Berdie may visit her this morning, which he did willingly. That was the pleasant part.

The lion’s share of her time was taken up with an arduous defense to Hugh at breakfast about her approach to Wilkie Gordon.

And Hugh quite adamantly reminded Berdie that she was to work in tandem with Albert Goodnight. He insisted she visit the constable immediately and even rung up the lawman, who was eating breakfast at the Upland Arms. He informed that Berdie was coming straight way. Then he cautioned Berdie to keep Mr. Gordon out of the conversation entirely, for now, with Goodnight.

All this she had taken in with a certain amount of acquiescence. But now, standing at the entrance of the Upland Arms, she thought it more pleasure to visit a dentist with a toothache.

“Lord, I need your patience.” She breathed and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Upland Arms.

Immediately, the tantalizing whiff of bacon made entry to her olfactory parts. It mixed with the distant hint of last evening’s brews and the soot of the open fireplace, which sported a spatter of flame. Imagining the taste of Dudley’s farm fresh eggs on her tongue, she instantly regretted she’d breakfasted already.

Berdie glanced about in search of Goodnight. The white lime-washed walls of the place, made the oak ceiling beams appear even duskier than the myriads of smoke-ridden years had turned them. The walls were littered with pictures: home football teams, and the just-won invitational cup, darts champions, prize ribbons, and the list of current winners from quiz night.

People were seated at snugs and tables, standing to wait for take-away, while others chatted in corners.

Then she spotted the blue uniform of the constable seated near a tap, grinding his breakfast with rapid pace, speaking to Dudley Horn. Confidence in her stride, she made her way to the policeman.

“Good morning, Constable Goodnight.” Berdie’s voice was clear and strong.

“Ah, the vicar’s wife,” he said with little pleasure.

“I believe a consult is in order.” Berdie presented with a hard-pressed smile.

“Oh, of course.” Goodnight winked towards Dudley Horn, and then stuck another fork full of baked beans in his mouth. “Been stickin’ your nose in the latest gossip, then?”

Berdie worked at remaining even tempered.

Dudley Horn grinned. “May I get you something, Mrs. Elliott?”

Berdie shook her head. “The constable and I need to speak.” Mr. Horn, still grinning, stepped to another customer.

“You do know,” Berdie said matter-of-factly, “that the Preswoods own eighteenth century Venetian glass, the same as found in the garden child’s skull.”

Albert Goodnight stopped chewing, slapped his fork down, took Berdie by the elbow, and began ushering her in the direction of the pub’s toilets.

“What are you doing?” Berdie protested.

A few strides and they arrived at the tiny hall that held the Ladies’ and the Gents’.

“Fewer ears to hear, eyes to pry, and I won’t have the Preswoods brought into ill repute.” Goodnight shook his finger and scowled. “You know as well as I that they had a piece of that stuff stolen and enough said.”

Berdie wasn’t going to argue. She knew it would only stir up. Besides, she was attempting to breathe through her mouth as the odiferous quarters brutally assaulted the nose.

A large man with tiny eyes entered the hallway.

“Pete.” Goodnight nodded towards the man who bumped Berdie’s arm as he returned the nod and entered the Gents’.

“Since your high-flyer inspector got his gob in, if you must know,” Goodnight whispered in an irritated manner, “I’m poised to make an arrest.”

“Who?” Berdie could barely get the word out.

The constable moved his eyes from side to side. “Patricia King.” He grunted pompously under his breath.

Berdie blinked and shook her head. Poor Patricia, who already had to deal with her own feelings of remorse, was cleared by Jasper Kent an hour after he interrogated her.

“Surely not,” Berdie steamed.

“She had every opportunity.”

“What’s her motive?”

“What?”

“Why would she want the contessa gone?”

“A foreigner, pushin’ her nose in, actin’ high and mighty in our village, bringin’ nothin’ but trouble?” He sneered. “Why
wouldn’t
she want the woman gone more like?”

Berdie put her index finger under her nose. The hall smelled as badly as Goodnight’s reasoning. Both were beyond her staying power.

“I shouldn’t touch Patricia King.” Berdie eked the words out her lips.

“That’s it then?” Goodnight ran his tongue over his upper teeth. “Good, my eggs are getting cold.”

Berdie swallowed the words she would have loved to yell at the man as he waddled back to his plate. Instead, with great haste, she turned and marched out the pub.

She had bigger fish to fry. She was next calling on the contessa.

****

Little does the contessa know that my bag holds what could be the tiebreaker in the war of telling the absolute truth
. Berdie pressed her finger to the door chime of Swithy Lodge.

When opened, the gracious contessa smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Elliott,” she said in her light Italian accent. “Please, come in.”

Berdie entered the hall admiring the contessa’s lovely aqua blue blouse and matching trousers that made the woman’s kiss-of-tan skin sizzle. Her dark hair was pulled to the back of her neck where it was secured with a jeweled clip.

“Thank you for seeing me on a moment’s notice.” Berdie offered a kind smile.

Contessa Santolio waved her hand towards the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of preparing Ortensia something to eat.”

Once in the large country kitchen, the contessa donned a plain white pinny that hung on the back of a chair. She offered a cup of cappuccino which Berdie declined. “A bit stiff for me.”

“I’m not the best at making it,” the contessa admitted. “Ortensia is superb. One thing I’ll delight in when she’s once again able to perform her duties.”

“She’s faring all right?”

“Appetite returning and improving every day.” The lovely Italian’s eyes displayed relief.

“Our church community has prayed for her recovery every morning at matins.”

“For which we are grateful.” The contessa held up her demitasse cup filled with the caramel colored brew. “Do you mind?”

“Please, help yourself.”

The contessa took a light sip with her satiny pink lips.

“Please, sit.” She motioned towards a wooden chair at the ample oak farm table nearby.

Berdie obliged. “I’ll get straight to it then.” She was firm yet kind. “My husband told you that I have some inquiries to make of you?”

The contessa nodded, moved to the range stove, and took another swallow of her java. She stirred a wooden spoon through the boiling contents of a saucepan.

“Have you considered who may have wanted to do you harm, contessa?”

“Yes, I’ve considered it and have not one person in mind.” The contessa sat her demitasse on the table and returned to stirring the pot more vigorously.

“I see.” Berdie could hardly settle for that answer. “Contessa Santolio, where did you say your family was from?”

“Our relatives live in Milan.”

“Yes, I understand your husband’s people are from there, and yours?”

The woman lifted her chin. “If you’re trying to establish if my own family was wealthy…”

“No, that’s not my inquiry,” Berdie interrupted and proceeded. “You and your husband seemed to have been well suited. How did you meet him?”

The contessa raised a brow. Even with the swath of powdered blush over her cheeks, Berdie could make out a light pink tinge across the tan face.

“Is that important?” Mrs. Santolio asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Berdie urged with a firm tone.

The lovely woman spooned the contents of the saucepan into a bowl that sat near the stove. “If you must know, I came into the Santolio home when the count was still married.”

“Came into his home. You mean you worked for the Santolios?”

“An aide, yes.” There was a slight chill in her voice. She knocked the spoon hard against the edge of the awaiting bowl, loosening the last of the sticky gruel. “As time went on the count became fond of me.”

Berdie watched the contessa closely as the woman placed the empty saucepan in the sink and turned the water full-on, filling the pan to overflowing.

“When his wife died, he asked me to marry him.” The contessa continued matter-of-factly. “It was not well received by his family, but none of them would really benefit by my death. That is what you’re interested in, yes?”

“You’re sure of that, no one?”

The woman turned the water off, grabbed a tea towel, and wiped her hands. “The summer house in Monterosso al Mare became mine along with a comfortable monthly stipend. I’ll never worry for money. The rest of the estate, the business, and all assets, went to his children, and rightly so. I didn’t want his fortune.”

“I see.” Berdie took a deep breath. “Now, Contessa, will you tell me why you’re really here?”

“What do you mean?” Delicately, Mrs. Santolio picked up the cup of her demitasse from the table and brought it to her lips.

Berdie pulled the torn photo of the muddy twins and the domestic, which she had taped on the backside, from her bag. She handed it to the contessa.

The woman gazed at the photo in her hand. She caught her breath. “Where did you get this?” Her voice choked.

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve never seen this picture before,” she avowed.

“You are the domestic serving the girls fizzy water in that old photo.”

The contessa carelessly returned her demitasse to the table. The cup rocked spilling drops of cappuccino.

She handed the snap back to Berdie, a sense of culpability played across her sea green eyes. She moved to the large kitchen window and turned her back to Berdie as she looked out upon the view to Swithy Hall.

“Yes,” she said, her voice shaky. “I am the maid in the snap.” She spun round dramatically and looked intently into Berdie’s face. “And, no, I’m not. Charlotte Grainger, the mousey Lollie you see there in that photo, no longer exists.”

Nor did the contessa’s light Italian accent exist, Berdie observed.

The woman before Berdie stood her full height and collected herself; poised, yet self-protective. “The moment I married my Alberto, I became Contessa Carlotta Santolio, and no one can take that from me.”