Up from the Grave (28 page)

“Blackmail.” Jeff furrowed his brows.

“Her mother did that?” Martha sounded horrified.

“When everyone thought Robin was going through teenage angst about being a twin; changing her eye color, hair, trendy style, even moving away to a new school, it was instead her reaction to a new identity. Lucy and Lila helped me to glimpse that.”

“Get over, Mrs. Elliott.” Lucy laughed.

“Lucy,” Ivy corrected then looked at Berdie. “How did my girls possibly do that?”

“Girls Hockey uniforms,” Berdie replied.

“The day we went to Ivy’s for a meeting.” Lillie raised her index and third finger. “Two very different young ladies, albeit sisters, dressed in the same clothing, I remember that.”

“I certainly won’t forget it soon either.” Lila pursed her lips. “I hate hockey.”

“Yeah, well I’m still changing nappies.” Lucy wrinkled her nose.

“Girls, enough.” Ivy squalled like a North Sea gull, then quietly turned to Berdie. “Go on Mrs. Elliott, please.”

“When the girls were in the same uniform, their differences, though easily discerned, became far more revealed. In Evergreen’s case, creating differences distracted from the whole idea of similarities, making it more plausible for her to carry on as Robin Darbyshire.”

“Well, I thought her black hair looked a bit naff,” Cherry said.

“Naff, perhaps, and rather desperate.” Loren put his arm on the back of Lillie’s chair. “Eventually, Evergreen had to do-in Wanda Pitts to maintain her established Preswood identity and all it held for her.”

“Money.” Jeff shook his head.

“Charles was an attempt to marry money, too, a backup plan to move into an entirely new identity: Mrs. Roberta Swindon-Pierce.” Hugh ran his finger over his collar.

Ivy shifted her weight in the chair. “Money or not, I can imagine the poor bloke’s shattered.”

Little Dotty, still in Wilkie’s arms, made a cooing sound while drifting in and out of dreamland.

“I have to ask you, Mrs. Elliott.” Wilkie spoke softly. “What is it about orange sherbet that sets you going?”

Lillie had a good laugh.

“Ah you, Wilkie, put the final puzzle piece in place for me. Orange. More specifically, chocolate truffles infused with orange blossom water.”

“Those from the French place in Timsley?” Ivy ran her tongue over her lips. “They’re so moorish. Edsel brought some home. They lasted about three minutes.”

Milton thrust his thumb towards Edsel. “Dad ate all of them.”

“No, sir, you did,” Martha interjected.

“Put a sock in,” Edsel warned his twins. “Let Mrs. Elliott tell us how orange truffles solved everything.”

“It wasn’t the truffles themselves. It was that Robin, Evergreen, ate them without effect. And that dovetails with John Smith, who is, as we all now know, an alias. He is the uncle to Rosalie Darbyshire. Robert Darbyshire is the dead lad’s namesake.

The room buzzed.

“He revealed himself as a Darbyshire kinsman, so he could attend the private family burial of his nephew,” Hugh informed. “I conducted the service. Robert related that he was aware of his nephew’s demise and committal. His long estranged brother, John, called Robert to his death bed in Canada to confess before he died, though not in complete detail.”

“But what was a problem for Robert.”—Berdie took the lead—“He was asked to pass on John Darbyshire’s legacy to the one remaining Darbyshire twin, a daughter. When he arrived here, presumably on a coach tour, there were two Darbyshire girls. They both held enough resemblance to confuse. He had no idea who was the real niece.”

“He was trying to find the truth while living a sham.” Lillie raised her brows. “That’s certainly not a combination for success.”

“I have to put my oar in, Mrs. Elliott.” Jeff was intent. “When Smith, Darbyshire, absently drank from the teacup of another guest one breakfast at the B and B, he became covered in red lumps. An allergic reaction to citrus that vexed his family he said.”

“Yes,” Cherry agreed. “The poor fellow really suffered. And just from one tiny sip.”

“I saw him in the Upland Arms car park that same morning. I can attest to the bumps.” Berdie ran her finger across her neck. “Robert Darbyshire sent citrus gifts, some covert, to the Preswoods to see if the spots would reveal themselves on the real Darbyshire daughter. It didn’t work. But it was that morning I saw those lumps that I began to consider the allergic problem in relation to identity. It wasn’t until bumping into Wilkie that I remembered. We saw Robin shortly after she had eaten orange infused chocolate truffles at Le Petit Chaumier, and not a bump in sight.”

“Oh yes,
that
night,” Loren said in a low voice.

Lillie smiled uneasily.

Berdie gazed at Wilkie. “So then, when you said orange sherbet, it all suddenly fit together.”

Wilkie grinned. “I wonder if Sherlock Holmes needs another Watson.”

“There you are, Granddad, you could go into the detecting business.” Cherry giggled.

“A divine reality,” Berdie remarked, “is that the resolution to the whole mystery was given to us at the burial site, right there in the back garden. She looked to Milton. “Remember the wild geranium?”

“Herb Robert I think.” Milton’s eyes widened. “Herb Robert!”

“Forgotten by some, unknown to most, God remembered little Robert with a simple flower where he laid in that cold earth.” Berdie sighed. “And right near was where John Darbyshire planted the Lenten Rose.”

“An evergreen,” Milton exclaimed with a sense of wonder.

“Sometimes the things most difficult to see are the things right before us,” Berdie expounded.

“How tender is our God.” Wilkie rocked little Dotty in his arms.

A knock came at the door. Fritz burst from his spot and went into a barking frenzy.

“They’re here.” Ivy jumped from her seat and answered the door.

It was Mr. Webb and Constable Goodnight, followed by Dave Exton.

“Please come in.” Ivy, arms waving like Easter bunting in a spring breeze, could barely get the words out for her excitement. “Now, Mr. Webb, explain to all what this is about.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Butz.” The well-dressed gentleman tipped his head. “I won’t keep you from your Easter lunch or rest on ceremony. Constable Goodnight and I are here with the reward I sponsored. It is, as I stated when announced, to go to the individual who was instrumental in bringing down those responsible for Mrs. Santolio’s attempted murder. One in this room will receive five hundred pounds. Would you all be upstanding?”

Everyone got to their feet and flutters of surprise circulated the room like a bouncing rabbit. Many eyes went to Berdie, others to Goodnight.

“Constable Goodnight,” Mr. Webb’s voice resounded, “please come forward.”

Goodnight had the glow of fresh daffodils as he stepped to the right of the parish council chairman.

Mr. Webb gave Albert an envelope.

A hush came over the household.

Berdie merely grinned.

Mr. Webb addressed those present as if announcing the arrival of the Prime Minister. “This award goes to one of great courage, one who went beyond the call, a genuine hero to us all.” Mr. Webb paused and Goodnight glowed. “As the law in Aidan Kirkwood, Constable Goodnight,” the room froze, “I’d like you to present the five hundred pound reward to Fritz, beloved pet of Wilkie and Mary Gordon.”

Goodnight blinked. He swallowed then furrowed his brow. His jaw tightened.

The whole household broke into a resounding cheer, which sent the award-winning sausage into a barking serenade.

“Yea, Fritzi,” Milton yelled.

“Good boy.” Martha and Lila clapped their hands.

Duncan stood to his feet and did a little dance and Fritz joined in.

Dotty, who was half-asleep, was jarred awake and began a howl. Ivy rescued her from Wilkie’s arms and the elder scooped the dancing Fritz into his grasp.

Little Fritz seemed to know he was the center of attention, and he looked absolutely regal.

“I’m givin’ this to a flea-bite dog?” Goodnight went red.

Mr. Webb bent towards the humiliated constable. “Don’t be a git, Albert. Give it to Wilkie.”

Albert Goodnight took a deep breath, twitched his broom of a mustache and thrust the envelope towards Wilkie Gordon who grabbed it with one hand, and held on to the squirming canine in the other. Dave Exton took several snaps.

Goodnight pursed his lips. “Not the newspaper.”

“Congratulations,” Berdie nearly sang. Since going straight and having been forgiven by Randal Preswood in a merciful moment, Wilkie needed every penny.

Mr. Webb, across the room, smiled broadly at Berdie. Just last week he had notified her that she was due the reward, but Berdie asked that he give it to the Gordons, to Fritz—the real hero.

Wilkie waved a hand for silence. “Thank you, Mr. Webb. And I’ll try to keep the little rascal out of your rubbish on dustbin day.”

Everyone went back to the tumult of a joyful celebration.

Goodnight slipped out the door faster than a fox fleeing a pack of hounds. Mr. Webb and Dave Exton courteously dismissed themselves.

Fritz pranced about, being patted and basking in the cheers.

Then Berdie caught a glimpse of Wilkie Gordon. His celebratory laughter halted. Awe spread across his aged face as he looked to the stairwell.

Berdie, and all present, turned to the stairs. Adorned in a lavender dress, silver white hair neatly arranged, and a smile of rosy lipstick brightening her renewed facial glow, Mary Gordon steadied herself against the banister.

“Grandma?” Cherry called.

“Sounds a party down here.” Mary’s voice was just audible. “And I’m hungry for Easter lunch.”

“Aunt Mary.” Lila stood from her stair step and went to her great aunt’s aid, Lucy directly behind her.

“Aunt Mary,”—Milton wore surprise—“you’re about.”

Wilkie, still silent, gazed. Moisture gathered in the corner of his eye. “Indeed, she is,” he spoke hoarsely.

When the brave woman who had weathered so much illness reached the bottom of the stairs, Martha gave her Great Aunt Mary a giant hug and Duncan offered her a bright yellow egg from his treasure trove.

As Wilkie gathered the woman, with Edsel’s assistance, to the armchair in which he had been seated, Hugh put his arm around Berdie’s shoulder and bent closely to her ear.

“It seems we have a resurrection of our own today, right here in Aidan Kirkwood,” he whispered.

“Indeed.” Berdie nodded. “Indeed.”

“Aunt Mary”—Ivy raised baby Dotty near the elder’s face—“our Dotty would like an Easter kiss.”

The great-great-aunt ran a wrinkled finger across the baby’s cheek. She placed her aged lips upon the child’s forehead. “Bless you, Dotty, love.”

“Now, Aunt Mary,” Ivy rabbited on as she passed Dotty off to Edsel, “Cherry and I have made you the best roast lamb ever.”

Hugh raised his glass of fizzy water. “Let us be upstanding.”

Everyone, less Mary, rose to their feet.

“A toast. Happy Easter and to Mary’s good health.”

“To Mary’s good health.” The group responded a little out of sync. “Happy Easter.” Glasses clinked round the room.

Ivy and Cherry buzzed into the kitchen.

“What a day.” Lillie moved next to Berdie. “And you cracked another case.” She touched her glass to Berdie’s. “Not rusty anymore, then?”

“Oh, well oiled.”

Lillie clinked her glass again on Berdie’s.

“What’s that for?

“That’s for the next opportunity that waits out there, yet unknown.”

“Yes, well, for my husband’s sake, let’s hope it doesn’t become known to him,” Berdie gurgled.

“What’s that?” Hugh questioned, Loren peering over his shoulder.

“Just discussing rust, my love.” Berdie winked at Lillie and took Hugh’s hand.

Ivy appeared from out the kitchen again. “It’s laid on. Come you hungry lot, tuck in.”

And all of Aidan Kirkwood, filled with a sense of well-being, sat down to Easter lunch.

Author’s Note

In this Lenten mystery novel, “This Joyful Easter Tide”
was sung by Berdie and the congregation of St. Aidan in the Woods Church on Easter morning. It is sung in churches all cross England on that special day. Here is a bit about it. George Radcliff Woodward (December 27, 1848 – March 3, 1934) is accredited for the blissful Easter hymn, though officially anonymous, with George Wood the composer. It was in the collection of hymns Mr. Woodward published in 1894:
Carols for Easter and Ascension-tide
. He grew up in Hertfordshire, England and graduated from Caius College Cambridge. He became an ordained clergyman in the Anglican Church. He was noted for his religious verse and enjoyed setting his work to Renaissance tunes. An avid beekeeper, it was also said that he took pleasure in playing cello or euphonium in church processions. Besides other hymn publications, he’s the author of the Christmas carol, “Ding Dong Merrily on High.”

This Joyful Easter Tide

This joyful Easter tide,

Away with sin and sorrow!

My love, the crucified,

Hath sprung to life this morrow.

Refrain:
Had Christ, who once was slain,

Ne’er burst His three day prison,

Our faith had been in vain:

But now hath Christ arisen,

Arisen, arisen, arisen.

My flesh in hope shall rest,

And for a season slumber.

Till trump from east to west,

Shall wake the dead in number.

Refrain

Death’s flood hath lost his chill,

Since Jesus cross’d the river.

Lover of souls, from ill,

My passing soul deliver.

Refrain

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