Up from the Grave (8 page)

Once the aloof Randal Preswood arrived, the meal was served.

Hugh gave a blessing to which the Preswoods obliged. Colonel Preswood offered Hugh a stock tip, and apart from that, the meal was bereft of any truly stimulating conversation. Or any real discussion about the nuptials for that matter. It was a bit like the creamed cauliflower soup served as the first course: under-cooked and without true color.

Robin didn’t even come to the dinner table until the dessert was served. And when the bride-to-be did arrive, her face was wan, and she clung to Charles like a climbing rose on a garden wall.

Berdie perceived a fat little elephant sitting squarely in the middle of the dining table but could not make out its composition or just exactly why it was there. This family, which worked at presenting themselves well, seemed to be trying too hard to do so.

The departure from this meal and Bampkingswith Hall came none too soon. Within twenty minutes of the last bite of strawberry mousse, Berdie, Hugh, and Lillie were out the door. Apart from the pleasant Rosalie, it had started with a foot cramp and went downhill from there.

As Hugh stood in the doorway finishing cordial conversation with the Preswoods, Berdie and Lillie were several yards down the drive waiting by the car.

“Did Robin Preswood seem more than odd to you this evening?”

“I think the bride should enter to the ‘Trumpet Voluntary.’” Lillie nearly waltzed as she spoke. “What? Odd? Yes, well, my experience has been that brides do get testy when planning their big day.”

“True,” Berdie agreed, “but…No, there’s something else going on there.”

“Perhaps Dr. Avery could do a solo, yes, ‘Come Down, O Love Divine.’”

“Lillie! Will you listen, please? There’s a great deal of something else that surrounds the whole goings-on in that house, and it doesn’t smell right.”

“Indeed? A bit like the odiferous cauliflower soup.” Lillie scrunched her nose.

“Well, something’s off. I hear the trumpeting of a large grey creature.”

“You and your elephants.” Lillie became more intrigued. “What sort of trumpeting?”

“Yes, if only I could put my finger on it.”

“Knowing you as I do, my dear friend, you’ll not put your finger on it. Rather, you’ll lay on your entire weight and wrestle the creature to its knees until all is neatly sorted.”

Hugh now joined the women at the car. “What needs sorted?”

Berdie gave Lillie a visual nudge to be quiet. “Deciding what time Lillie and I will meet for tea tomorrow.” Berdie nodded her head as nonchalantly as possible.

“Elevensies, of course,” Lillie stammered in an all-knowing kind of way. “At The Copper Kettle.”

“Right.” Hugh smiled slightly. “Why do I have the feeling you two are conspiring?” He pulled the car keys from his pocket. “I realize things in the Preswood home this evening were not perfect. Families seldom are. But it’s up to the Preswoods to work it out for themselves. I should hope you leave things well enough alone.”

“We’re not ones to interfere.” Lillie fluttered her dark lashes.

Hugh lifted his left brow. “That’s like saying rain isn’t wet,” he countered and opened the car door for Berdie and Lillie. “If you try it on, everyone involved will be soaked through. Catch my meaning?” He looked very deliberately at Berdie.

“Eminently, dear,” she replied and slipped onto the car seat.

****

Whether it was the dodgy cauliflower soup or the unstrung bits and pieces of recent events that played in her mind, Berdie was awake and restless when she should have been sleeping soundly.

She eyed Hugh, slumbering beside her, and thought again how grateful she was that his prolonged military jaunts here and there were no longer a part of their lives. No, now she just had to share him with every Tom, Dick, and Cherry in the parish, including the Preswoods. Even so, she was grateful for his presence.

She let go an easy sigh then arose. Putting on her dressing robe, she tried not to disturb the man with whom she delighted in sharing her bed.

Within minutes, she was in the kitchen and had the kettle on, navigating it all by the light of a small candle lamp that sat atop several stacked recipe books. She poured a cuppa.

Berdie felt compelled to wander down the dark hall to the library where she sat in one of the leather armchairs. She took a sip of the warm soothing liquid and let her restlessness melt into the stillness.

She noticed that the richly woven curtain on one of the windows facing the church garden was slightly open. Taking her warm cup with her, she thought to close it, but found herself peering up at the dappled clouds that played hide and seek with the vivid stars gracing the night sky.

There was something special about the wee hours when the world sleeps. The mad rush of conversation hushed, the frightful tear of spinning activity silenced. It was as if the beating of God’s heart silently sent it’s rhythm out to any who would take a moment to listen. And Berdie readily took note.

She opened the curtain further and relaxed back into the gracious armchair where she could gaze into the beauty of the night.

She swallowed her tea slowly when her eyes fell to the ground of the back garden. Even the beehive of activity around the tented crime scene was now absent. One lone constable stood watch, slowly pacing, fighting against the tedium that made sleep so very attractive.

“Poor chap,” Berdie whispered aloud. “I bet he’d love a cuppa.” Just as she spoke the words, the solitary figure in the back garden commenced a great yawn accompanied by a stretch. “Tea it is.”

By the time she prepared and poured the large Stanley flask, found Hugh’s sizable torch that looked more a car headlight, put on her wellies, and buttoned her coat, several minutes had elapsed.

Once outside, the dark coolness reminded her that it was early spring.

She walked towards the taped-off area. But the constable wasn’t pacing. In fact, he appeared to have become a big lump-of-a-thing in a piece of garden furniture. And not surprisingly, she heard a slight rattle-gurgle that sounded very much like snoring.

She started to rouse him then smiled and stopped.
Where’s the harm? No one’s about. I’ll rouse him in a bit.
Berdie turned off the blinding torchlight.

She began to make a retreat but hesitated and breathed in the freshness of the English night. The stars were even grander now she was standing out in them, and she reveled in the moment.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been basking in the glory of creation when she heard a sharp snap. A twig breaking? Someone was about. Thinking the constable had awakened, she spun to face the tent. But a muffled gurgle-sigh told her he was still slumbering. If she called out to awaken the guard, she would surely frighten off the intruder.

Silently, she inched her way along to the tented dig. She gripped the large tea flask, recognizing its value as a potential weapon. Her ears were on alert. She strained forward. Yes. There was a definite rustling. Indeed, someone was near at hand.

She raised the substantial flask, ready to strike, and set her thumb on the torchlight switch. In a lunge of energy she lurched forward, at the same moment turning on the torch that sent a blinding light, ripping away the dark of the crime scene. “Halt.”

There he was, frozen at her command. Berdie recognized the intruder.

“Fritz!”

The stunned dachshund, eyes wide and ears perked, wore moist dirt about his pointy nose. He looked like a deer in the headlights until the constable, roused and suddenly aware, leaped from the garden chair, crashing it over in a heap.

The wee, now defensive, sausage scrambled in circles as his frenzied barks bit into the silence.

Berdie’s apprehension melted into a foolish laugh.

“Freeze, don’t move.” The constable drew out his truncheon. Squinting, he raised his arm against the bright light of Berdie’s torch as Fritz continued his barking.

“What goes on here?” the young man in uniform shouted trying to get his sea legs.

It was then Berdie was sure she heard a curt whistle from the wood. Instinctively, she turned the torchlight towards the trees, but saw only a quick movement.

Fritz gave a final nip near the constable’s shoe and raced into the woods as fast as his stubby legs would take him, like a hound on the hunt, long ears flapping.

“Who goes there?” the constable asked, truncheon still in strike position.

“I’m Berdie Elliott, Constable, the vicar’s wife.” Berdie pointed to the vicarage.

“You really ought to keep your rascally dog on a lead, ma’am.” The young man somewhat sheepishly returned his weapon to its proper place.

“Should do if he were mine.”

“Why are you out here then?” The policeman eyed Berdie’s wellies and dressing gown that hung down below the hem of her overcoat. He suddenly clasped his hands behind his back, trying desperately to appear very awake and very aware.

“It’s just that I brought you some tea.” Berdie smiled, and handed the former defensive tool, sloshing with hot liquid, to the guard. “Doing a double shift?”

The young man’s face went a bit pink. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He gave a quick nod and grasped the flask. “Ta.”

“It’s slightly sweetened. Does that suit, um, Constable…?”

“Daren. Tom Daren.”

“Constable Daren?”

“Yes, thank you,” he cordially responded.

“Well then, I’ll go and brew a fresh pot for my husband.” Berdie knew that if Hugh was not awakened by her stirring earlier, he certainly would now be.

The constable tipped his young head.

Berdie smiled and beamed her torch towards the vicarage. Despite the humor of it all, one menacing thought raced through her mind. What was Wilkie Gordon doing about the crime scene, and more importantly, why?

5

Berdie glared at the cloud dappled morning sun outside her kitchen window as if to send the possibility of showers retreating. The fact was, after the added affairs of last night, Berdie had more questions than answers concerning all sorts: Preswoods, Wilkie Gordon, coach tour run-away, and the inevitable bones.

It was almost time to meet Lillie at the Copper Kettle, and slogging through the rain certainly didn’t sound a treat.

“Perhaps the weather will move on,” Berdie spoke aloud at the exact same moment three watery drops hit the glass.

The spring shower tapped erratically on Berdie’s taut umbrella as she ambled towards the High Street. By the time she spied the Copper Kettle, the dance had become a frenzied torrent. She felt the wet creep into the edges of her shoes.

The Copper Kettle’s jingling bell sounded comfort and shelter despite the prospect of gossip flowing at high tide. Berdie shook the excess water from her umbrella and drew it closed.

There Lillie sat, looking a bit soggy herself, at a table with an awaiting chair and a brown betty teapot, steam rising from its spout.

“Remove your fins before sitting, please.” Lillie swept her arm to the empty chair.

“That and all.” Berdie sat right by the teapot.

Looking round, only one other table was occupied, unusual for this time of day. By eleven on most days, the Copper Kettle was at full throttle, but it suited her purposes that it was less populated. Suddenly, she appreciated the downpour. Very discreetly she pushed her wet shoes just off the heel, well under the table, of course.

Lillie poured a dash of milk into the cup closest to Berdie then added the hot, brown liquid. “Now, I can see by the wee lines beneath your eyes that you didn’t sleep well last night, so lay it all out then.” Lillie’s tone had a gleeful edge to it, much like a child embarking on an Easter egg hunt. “Mustn’t let the vicar overhear. That is why we’re here.”

“You are the impudent one.” Berdie wore a half smirk.

“That’s why I’m your best friend,” Lillie retorted and took a sip of the hot tea in her cup. “Out with it.”

Berdie leaned forward. “It’s not just last night’s visit with the Preswoods that’s bothering me. It’s a whole bag of peculiarities. This bones discovery seems to have unearthed, pardon the pun, a whole rash of odds and ends.” Berdie added a spoonful of sugar and held the warm teacup in her hand. “The course man from the tour group, for instance. The moment he stepped from the coach he seemed to be set on going to the church back garden. Hugh actually had to strictly redirect the man into the church. I didn’t think much of it at the time, apart from the fact he was churlish, but I dare say his desire for a soon-to-be-served tea was not a driving force. Why was he so interested in the back garden?”

“What we’ve seen of him, he didn’t appear to be especially social.” Lillie tapped a finger on her chin. “Perhaps he just wanted a moment’s peace away from the crowd.”

“Precisely.” Berdie took a large gulp of tea. “Now, why was someone of that makeup on a crowded coach tour to begin with?”

Berdie heard the clip-clop of sturdy shoes on the wooden floor. Villette Horn, the owner and operator of the Copper Kettle, was rapidly approaching the table.

Her long horseshoe shaped face made her inset eyes seem even smaller. Berdie always thought Villette’s caramel brown colored hair looked as if it had been sprinkled with muscovado sugar.

“Good morning, Mrs. Elliott, Lillie. We’ve some lovely cakes this morning just out of the oven, also fresh treacle tart.”

“Cakes, please,” Berdie answered with haste.

“Right then, cakes it is,” Villette nodded. “And have you heard more about the bones?”

“Not really,” Berdie answered but her silence for a scant moment let the hostess know that this topic would not be pursued.

“Yes, well, cakes.” Villette spoke with a slight tone of annoyance. She was not use to being denied any topic of conversation she chose to pursue. She turned abruptly and left the table.

“Now, continue while she’s out of earshot.”

“And there’s our dear Wilkie Gordon,” Berdie went on.

“Yes, poor Wilkie,” Lillie agreed. “Just in the past year he’s faced forced retirement as grounds manager at Swithy Hall and then his Mary’s illness getting worse. How is he, now?” Lillie quizzed.