Murder in oils 2

 

Chapter 2

 

Alexander was fortunate to be well off on his own account, not having to rely on the frugal salary and expense account of an inspector, on the promotion ladder, but by no means near the top. It meant that his superiors were happier about him playing a hunch if he paid the train fare or drove himself. 

He took Ida’s story to Superintendant Barrett.

“And your ‘nose’ tells you there’s something in it?” said Barrett.

“Yes, sir,” said Alexander.

“You’re going to ask for leave to ponce off on your own if I don’t give you orders, aren’t you?” said Barrett.

“I prefer not to mention that I haven’t taken any leave for three years and have done overtime to help when needed,” said Alexander.

“I hope it’s productive,” said Barrett. “Lashbrook village; that’s in Poshfordshire. You should fit right in.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Alexander, ignoring his superior’s disapproving misnomer of Oxfordshire. Alexander had a degree in law from Oxford, and had a vague feeling that he may have known David Henderson as well as Basil.  He had a further vague recollection that he might have debagged the said David Henderson over a matter of unjust accusation of one of the scouts of stealing.

Oh well.

“I’d like Sergeant Harris,” he said.

“Oh, you would, would you?” said Barrett, glaring. “And why should I let you have a good detective sergeant?”

“Because when a war hero is murdered – and I knew Basil Henderson and I concur that he would never commit suicide – a good DS is needed,” said Alexander, with some heat.

Barrett sniffed.

“If you didn’t get results, I’d have run you off the force long ago,” he said. “But I have to admit, your policeman’s ‘nose’ is top notch.”

“And I do know how to sooth the uppity,” said Alexander.

“And you don’t push your social position down my throat,” added Barrett, grudgingly.”Take Harris. If you run across a group of drug dealers at the same time, I want to know.”

“Oh, I might have a lead on that,” said Alexander. “But I’ll see where that takes me. Basil’s murder is my priority... uh, and his sister-in-law.”

“Quite so,” said Barrett. “Though the sister-in-law’s death would be the reason for killing your friend.”

“Well, yes, but I might have written off the girl as over-excitable had not someone tried to make Basil look like a suicide. I’ll need an exhumation order for both, just in case.”

“I’ll wire them to you.”

 

oOoOo

 

Ida jogged the mile and a half from New Scotland Yard to Harrods, skirting Buckingham Palace, it being faster than finding public transport. Her looks were against her, but she was accustomed to walking in the country, though the fog caught at her throat. It took her twenty minutes, which meant she had been missing about an hour.

She discovered Miss Truckle having hysterics, with floor staff standing by uncertainly, not sure what to do, and a policeman in attendance.

“Goodness, Miss Truckle, have you been arrested for walking out of the store after forgetting to change back to your own hat?” asked Ida.

“Of course I haven’t, you ridiculous child... Ida! Where have you been?”

“I fancied a cup of tea and a scone, so I had one from Lyon’s,” said Ida, which was not even a lie. “You were taking such a long time, and I had chosen what I wanted.”

“But... but you were in the changing room,” said Miss Truckle.

“You must have followed the wrong girl,” said Ida. “I left all my parcels over there.” She pointed to where she had left purchases when she was out of Miss Truckle’s sight for a moment. “I saw you heading for the changing room, so I thought I’d go and get some refreshments. You take such a long time getting changed, I think it’s because you will wear that old-fashioned corset.”

“Ida! Speaking of... of underwear in public!” shriek-whispered Miss Truckle.

“What? It’s not like mentioning your long frilly drawers,” said Ida. “I don’t see why you can’t be fashionable, you haven’t got the overblown figure they liked in the olden days, and you are still young enough to catch a live one if you try. I burned all my navy blue knickers when I left school to get tap pants and brassieres.” Sometimes it was fun to play to Miss Truckle’s belief that she was very young. The floor staff were openly grinning, and Ida winked.

“We are returning home now!” said Miss Truckle, scarlet with embarrassment.

“I hoped you’d feel that way,” said Ida. “As soon as we have paid.”

 

oOoOo

 

 

With Sgt. Harris in charge of an OS map, Alexander happily climbed into the driving seat of his almost brand new Lancia Lambda. It was a definite upgrade on his previous 1912 Lancia Epsilon, which he had bought when he had finished his degree. Like the Epsilon, the car had a back seat, a useful addition when entertaining nieces and nephews, for whose comfort, Alexander had also had custom-made a folding roof to keep off sun or rain, which improved the comfort of a car journey no end. Some manufacturers were now making enclosed body cars, but Alexander thought them stuffy. He had considered the Hillman all-weather saloon, and decided that his tastes leaned towards the equivalent of his dashing ancestor, said to have raced the Prince Regent to Brighton in a curricle, and other such feats, rather than to the sensibly plebeian. Doubtless he would feel differently if he had a family of his own; but his nieces and nephews did not have to accept rides in a vehicle only one step from the race-track.

It might be said that, policeman or no, Alexander did not observe the antiquated speed limit of twenty mph on the open roads. It was more in the breach than the observance by any road user, and those adhering to it strictly were more likely to be cursed by other road users than congratulated for their law-abiding nature. Indeed, it was only used by the law if they wanted an excuse to stop a vehicle. The technology had outstripped the law; and his own Lancia, with its two-litre, V-4 engine was happy to tool along at just under seventy miles an hour, the top speed a little faster. Alexander was not taking it that fast; it was foggy, and the visibility was poor. Secure in the knowledge that he had four-wheel braking, an innovation he liked, he kept to around forty mph.

Harris hunkered down beside him, hoping not to need the map too much as it was harder to manoeuvre it with gloved hands, and Harris was wrapped up warmly.  He was resigned to being made to get out and climb signposts to see where they pointed at sundry crossroads, whilst Alexander nursed the engine. Finally, after a two-hour journey, they swept into Lashbrook, to see two female figures leaving the train station. Alexander pulled over.

“Give you ladies a lift?” he said.

“Oh! Yes please,” said Ida, for she was one of the ladies. “We’re headed for Foursquare.”

“I’m bound there myself; Basil Henderson being a friend of mine,” said Alexander, easily. She had picked the cue to treat him as a stranger if she so wished, and had picked it up.

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Truckle, as she got into the back seat of the car thankfully with a pile of parcels. “I fear you are too late; that poor man committed suicide.”

“Now that’s nonsense,” said Alexander. “If Basil is dead, it wasn’t suicide. Accident, maybe; I’d believe murder more readily, he being such a gadfly. But never suicide.”

“But the coroner...”

“What were the findings of the autopsy?” asked Alexander.

“Dr. Craiggie did not feel a need...” Miss Truckle tailed off.

“I feel a need,” said Alexander. “And I’ll damn well have him exhumed if I have to.”

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Truckle.

“Turn left here,” said Ida. “That square thing that looks like a sewerage pumping plant is Foursquares.  It’s not much better inside, but at least the plumbing is good and there’s always hot water for a bath when you want it. It may be open plan downstairs, but at least the bedrooms and bathrooms are private. I’d better go and warn David that you are about to give his pompous assumptions a good kicking.”

“You can tell your brother that I am an inspector from Scotland Yard, and that I was coming to see Basil because he wrote to me to let me know something disquieted him, and that he was concerned about his sister-in-law,” said Alexander.

“I will,” said Ida.

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Truckle.

 

oOoOo

 

 

“What the hell is this nonsense my sister is talking?” demanded David Henderson, pugnaciously. He was a big man, dark haired, with a thin moustache, and a passing resemblance to how Alexander remembered Basil.

“My name is Inspector Alexander Armitage,” said Alexander. “Basil was worried that your wife’s life was in danger; and now I hear that he is dead, and his death written off with suspicious haste as suicide, which is preposterous. Basil is not a man to commit suicide.  I first met him crawling across no-man’s-land and a man who does that does not take the precious life he has fought to keep.  Perhaps I can talk to one Helen Henderson as well as looking at Basil’s things?”

“No, you damn well cannot talk to Helen!” yelled David, balling his fists. “She’s dead! She fell downstairs, and Basil killed himself because he was in love with her!”

“You realise that to a policeman, you are talking yourself into being arrested for killing your wife and your brother for knowing of your guilt,” said Alexander.

“How dare you!” howled David, and swung at Alexander.

Alexander blocked the blow easily, and controlled David, with the bigger man’s arm up behind him.

“Henderson, am I going to have to arrest you?” he asked. “If your wife is dead, your brother’s concerns are shown to be true.”

“But he can’t have written to you,” said David. “If I had seen a letter in his hand addressed to the police on the outgoing tray, I would have removed it. He wasn’t well, he needed laudanum for pain, you did not want to know about his hallucinations.”

“You do realise that interfering with mail is a crime, don’t you?” said Alexander. “I can’t believe such arrogance!”

“I would not want him making a fool of himself,” said David. “But I would have stopped him writing....”

“Keeping the poor man prisoner in his own home?” said Alexander, coldly. “Here, Miss Henderson! Did you take your brother, Basil’s, letter to the post for him?”

“Yes, David censors all our mail,” said Ida. “That’s why I slip out to take all mail into the village to the post office before anyone is up.”

“I’ll lock you in your room!” howled David.

“I think you’ll find illegal detention is, well, illegal, old boy,” said Alexander. “And Basil was right that there is something seriously wrong. Well, obviously, I will order an immediate autopsy into your wife’s death as well.”

“You cannot! I do not agree to it!” cried David.

“You don’t have to agree... old boy,” said Alexander. “And you are talking yourself into position of chief suspect.”

“But I had no reason to kill my wife,” said David, suddenly bewildered, and seeming to shrink. “I love her... loved her... to distraction.  I was looking forward to her being fully well again, so we could go back to sharing a room, and... well, being husband and wife in all things.  And Helen! Even Ida acknowledges that Helen is... was... kind, and sweet, and Ida is incapable of proper feelings.”

“I suspect Miss Henderson represses her feelings because she finds that you anger her in treating her as a child,” said Alexander, dryly.

“She is a child! And wild, and in need of being kept....”

“Kept what? Imprisoned? Basil was impressed that she kicked an addiction some despicable little bastard got her into; I’m down here to look into drugs pushing and thought I’d look in on Basil’s little problem too. A young woman near her majority with the strength of mind to clear herself of drugs is not going to find it hard to quit your house when she is twenty-one, and live independently. And you will have lost a sister as well as a brother and a wife.”

“Gloria said she thought Ida was taking drugs on the sly,” said David, sulkily.

“Oh, come now; look at that clear skin, fine bright eyes without the artificial brightness, normal sized pupils; I’ve dealt with a sufficiency of drug fiends to know that Miss Henderson is not one,” said Alexander.

David brightened.

“You can assure me of that?”

“On my word as a very experienced policeman,” said Alexander.

“Thank God!  She’s such a funny little girl....”

“So would anyone be at the age of twenty with a governess who speaks to her as if she were ten years old, threatened with being locked in her room, and with no companions her own age,” retorted Alexander.

“We told Elinor Truckle that she had had... mental problems,” muttered David. “It’s not my fault that she chooses to interpret that as if Ida was... somehow wanting.”

“And morally indefensible not to correct that,” said Alexander.

“What, were we to tell an outsider that she had been a dope fiend?” snapped David.

“As she was duped, why not?” asked Alexander. “Hardly her fault.  Are you blaming her for being naive at the time?”

“She came to me and Helen was so upset, it caused her miscarriage,” said David.

“So, you blamed the child who needed love, support, and help, and gave her cold comfort, blame, and imprisonment,” said Alexander. “It’s a wonder she hasn’t run away before and even more impressive that she succeeded in escaping addiction.”

“Basil was there for me, always,” said Ida. “And I wasn’t there for him while he was d...dying.”

She burst into tears.

David fetched out a tin of thin cigars and lit one, belatedly offering the tin to Alexander.

“Thank you; no. I don’t smoke,” said Alexander.

“You’re going to make waves about Basil, aren’t you?” said David, bitterly.

“I am,” said Alexander. “And because of his death, I’m going to make waves about your wife’s death, too.”

“I... I can’t handle this,” said David, his hand with the lighter in it trembling. He turned and walked abruptly away.

“I’ll walk down to the village and put up in the inn,” said Harris. It was understood that this also meant keeping his ears open and asking pertinent and impertinent questions.

Alex reached in his pocket, and peeled a number of pound notes off a bundle which he handed to Harris. Harris accepted with a nod of thanks. Buying rounds did not go on an expense account.

“I believe I’ll stay in Basil’s room, for now,” said Alexander.

 

Murder in Oils 1

 In which one of Jane and Caleb's descendents is still in the same business of solving crime; an inspector at Scotland Yard, Alexander Armitage is about to tangle with some very evil people. 

I'm on chapter 17 so well enough ahead to post.

Chapter 1

 

The girl – young woman, he supposed – was pale and thin, with long, dark hair, eyes too big in her face, and she was twisting her hands together.

“Please, you have to believe me; I am sure it was no accident that Helen – my sister-in-law – fell downstairs. I think she was murdered and so was my brother. He would not take an overdose of laudanum, he would not, he’s not that sort of man.”

Inspector Alexander Armitage took the girl by the elbow, and led her into his office, making a sign to his secretary.

“You are gabbling, my dear young lady, and you will give me a straighter story when you have had tea and scones,” he said. “Mary, my secretary, will procure us some sustenance from the Lyons cafe, where I have an account.”

“You’re going to treat me as a child and brush off my opinion like everyone else, aren’t you?” said the girl. “I never meant to get into that awful set, but if someone offers you a cigarette, one is embarrassed to refuse it, and I didn’t know what opium smells like, or that I was being set up to be made into an addict. I got off it all on my own so David didn’t have to send me to a clinic and be embarrassed, and I am not unreliable! Nor am I a child, I am almost twenty-one, and I resent being treated like a little girl because I was stupid once when I was eighteen.”

“I don’t even know who you are, or why I should have any reason to discount something you clearly believe,” said Alexander. “You may, or may not, be mistaken, but if there is any doubt, your beliefs should be investigated.”

“Oh!” she said. “I am Ida Henderson; my sister-in-law was Helen Henderson, married to my brother, David.”

“Who is also dead?”

“No, of course not!” she flared.

“Excuse me, you said your brother was murdered as he would not take an overdose,” said Alexander.

“Oh! Oh, I can see why I confused you if you do not know the family,” said Ida. “My other brother, Basil is dead. Yes, he was at least half in love with Helen; she was loveable, if a bit suffocating. But a man who crawls out of the burning wreck of his Sopwith Camel, and back through allied lines, and survives becoming a double amputee, and takes up painting to deal with his problems does not kill himself. Besides, your name and Scotland Yard was scrawled on his pallet scored through the paint with his palette knife.”

“No, quite so,” said Alexander. “Do you mean Captain Basil Henderson, DSO?”

“Yes! Do you know him?”

“Slightly, yes; I was in the tank that found him crawling, and took him back over lines,” said Alexander. “My family having a military history as well as in police work.  And having many generations of police behind me, I have that odd crawling feeling which tells me there’s something to look into.” Alexander’s ultimate ancestor had been known as ‘the gentleman Bow Street Runner’ before he took to freelance work, having been invalided out of Wellington’s army. And every generation thereafter had had either a private investigation agent or a member of the regular police since such were established by Robert Peel.

“You must be Major Armitage, then,” said Ida. “Basil spoke about you; you visited him in hospital when his friends were embarrassed to do so, and told him how your ancestor was told he would never walk again, and must leave the army, so he took up police work.”

“It’s a small world,” said Alexander. “Now, let’s clear up this drug nonsense; you became addicted to opium, and got over it?”

“Yes; and Basil helped, he would sit and talk to me and read to me, and play chess for hours at a time. It... I felt so good at first, and I didn’t realise why, and then Jonathon, who had given me the cigarette said I’d have to pay for another. And... and I did... but I realised I wanted more and more. So I went to David, and told him, and he shook me hard, and said we should have to find a clinic, and I said I could stop. And I did!  It was awful, so much pain, and being sick, and... and tummy upsets, and nausea, but I kept saying to myself, if Basil could survive losing his legs, I could survive losing fancy cigarettes.  I think David went to the police over Jonathon but I wasn’t taking much notice. I ended up with a heart murmur from it, but that doesn’t mean I need to be treated like an imbecile invalid or a little girl.”

“Indeed, the opposite; someone with the strength of mind to go through withdrawal from such an unpleasant drug is someone quite amazing,” said Alexander.  “Ah! Tea and scones,” he added as a tap on the door preceded his secretary with a tray.

“They’re out of clotted cream, sir, only jam,” said Mary, putting down a tray.

“Never mind,” said Alexander. “Thank you, Mary.” He frowned. “If you are almost twenty-one, then this must have been before the act in 1920 banning the import or manufacture of smoking opium or opiods, so nothing could be done, though there might be something about inducing a minor to take a harmful substance through false pretences.  You’d have had to have gone on the witness stand, however.”

“Which I have not; and David would not countenance it,” said Ida. “And I don’t much like re-living it, but it explains my status in the household, tolerated barely and treated as a naughty child.  I have not been allowed to go to university, but I will when I am twenty-one, because I have been saving my own money, as I have a legacy from a great aunt. They can’t stop me, can they?”

“Only if they have you declared unfit and put in an asylum,” said Alexander. “And I’d testify against that. Do you realise you are talking yourself into being a suspect in killing a jailor?”

“I resent Helen’s outlook, but not Helen, she is... was, I mean, a kindly person and well-meaning,” said Ida. “And Basil!  Basil gave me my life back.  He taught me to draw; he has been an artist since he came back from France. And when I had ascertained that Helen had no heartbeat, I drew how she lay at the bottom of the stairs, because I thought the police would want to know, in case anyone moved her, which they did. And David said I was ghoulish.  He threw several fits when it was found that Basil was dead, and had been painting the staircase too.  He... he was experimenting with cubism, so it’s a bit confused.”

“I can’t say I am a connoisseur of the style,” said Alexander.

“Basil says... said... that it’s a crazy way of getting a heap of things happening all at once on a canvas without having to draw them all out because they are implied,” said Ida. “His first attempt was a ballerina, and he’s got the first painting where he’s drawn out every move of a pirouette most meticulously and just put a few squares on it, but he worked from that, and there is a kind of movement in the later ones. I can’t say it floats my boat, either, but Basil sometimes has – had days when he could barely move, and then he wanted to distract himself with something quick to work on.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Alexander. “He was painting the staircase she fell down?”

“Yes; we have a very modern house, and apart from Basil’s living rooms, the downstairs and mezzanine is very much open plan. His studio has curtains on a window into the atrium, but he keeps them open a crack to see who is going in and out. If it’s me, and he wants a chat he calls me, and if it’s David, he picks a quarrel with him, if he’s in bad pain, if it’s Miss Truckle, he insults her. Actually, he insults most people, but not always in a way they realise. Oh! And he is dead!”

She burst into tears.

Alexander plied her with tea and a handkerchief and pushed a jammed scone into her hand.

Ida was young enough to eat it without thinking, but concentrating on that calmed her down.

“So, who is Miss Truckle, and who else is in the household?”

“Miss Truckle is my jailor; David said I was too delicate for university and engaged her as a governess. She treats me as if I am feeble-minded. She teaches me to paint pretty little water-colours and play the piano; Basil shows me how to find line and form, and construct a strong image. I gave her the slip in Harrods, and went out dressed as a Nippy, because I am wearing a dark blue dress and at a distance with a white apron and cap, most people imagine black. I climbed over the division in the dressing rooms. Anyway, the other members of the household are Gloria, Miss Wandsworth for best, who’s cook-housekeeper, and she was at university with Helen. Basil has painted both of them many times, together and separately, as Gloria has brown hair and Helen blonde, mostly as Greek goddesses in the Renaissance style. He does a style for a while then goes on to something else, you see.”

“A man who is either devoid of talent, or too talented for his own good,” said Alexander.

“The latter; he is very good,” said Ida. “He likes to paint seagulls and they almost fly off the canvas. He started off in the Royal Naval Air Service, on triplanes. He was sent to the front as they were short of pilots.”

“Yes, the lifespan was not long,” said Alexander.

“But Basil survived it, even if he did lose his legs; he was hoping for prosthetics for his lower legs, you know,” said Ida.  “Anyway, Gloria is over Gladys, the maid of all work, and Gregson, the man of all work, but has no say over Foster, who is David’s man, or Campbell, who is Basil’s, and who is disobliging as a matter of form, I think, being his old batman from the Camel Squadron.”

“David was too young to serve?”

“David is the eldest. He was born in 1890, so he’s thirty two now. He does something in the city that he was able to use not to be called up. He probably bribed someone as well, and kept well out of it. Basil joined up right away. He was just eighteen. Anyway, do you want the household or not?”

“I do, I am sorry, but you are giving me good background,” said Alexander.

“Oh, I see,” said Ida. “Helen had a late miscarriage almost a year ago, and she was very ill with it, so there’s also Miss Galbraith, the nurse, who is also her companion. She’s quite decorative in a rather full-blown way, but Basil has only painted her ironically with her face described by the shadows of the stamens in a peony, one of those lush pink ones which falls almost as soon as it is open.”

Alexander wondered whether Basil considered that Miss Galbraith was happy to fall as soon as she had opened in more ways than one.

“Why would anyone murder your sister-in-law?” he asked.

“Because any one of the other women, including Gladys, would love to marry David, because he is tall, good-looking, rich, urbane, ambitious, and did I mention rich?” said Ida. “I expect if you shake them up they will point out that I am sadly unstable and possibly have little idea of my urges and impulses. Both Gloria and Miss Galbraith are amateur psychologists, and read the work of Freud avidly. Miss Truckle is just of the belief that I should be treated like a tiresome child. She sends me to bed at seven,” she added. “I think David finds it amusing.  I’m in the habit of climbing down the stonework and in Basil’s window.”

“It’s a thin motive, but murder has been done for less,” said Alexander. “And often enough by nurses. Describe Helen and the other women.”

“Helen; all ethereal, blonde, and fond of drifty drapy garments,” said Ida. “She isn’t a natural blonde, though, she has darker roots.  I’d say she was a honey blonde, but it’s not ethereal enough. Now, Gloria is a shade or two darker, a rich honey brown, with gold highlights. She’s slender and a good dancer. Her folks lost all their money after the war, which is why she has to be a housekeeper, and Helen gave her the job out of pity for her. Gloria hasn’t a bad word to say about Helen, and praises her for her kindness all the time, but it never has stopped her looking admiringly at David. I expect she will hope to fill Helen’s shoes, now. Gladys is a silly girl who moons about and casts herself in positions she fondly believes are romantic, with big doe-eyes cast at David, though I suspect she’d be the first to squeal and give notice if he did take her to his bed. She has ideas of what she wants, but then wouldn’t want it, and I’m sorry to be vague, but I’m afraid I’m still a virgin.”

“I consider that commendable in a young lady,” said Alexander, severely.

“Oh, that’s quite all right then,” said Ida. “One has the impression that, like smoking, it’s something to aspire to. Not being virginal, I mean.”

“I would hope you don’t smoke, either,” said Alexander.

“No, it’s rather horrid,” said Ida. “Which is how I was so fooled because I was afraid to look a ninny in front of sophisticated people.”

“Poor child that you were; you know better now,” said Alexander.

“Yes, as Basil always says, dare to be different,” said Ida. “Where was I? Oh, yes, the Galbraith.  Overblown, rather greasy skin, does not strike me as suitable as a nurse. But professional enough in her behaviour, and solicitous of Helen. I would have thought it would have been easier to kill Helen when she was still so helpless, but maybe her professional pride wouldn’t let her fail to nurse Helen back to health.  Is that too much psychology?”

“No, it’s got some logic to it,” said Alexander. “How old is Miss Truckle? You gave me the impression of an elderly lady.”

“She’s still the right side of forty,” said Ida. “David wanted someone I could relate to, as he put it, someone ‘close to us in age’ which is closer to him than me, there being quite eleven years between us.  She gets all flustered and coy when David comes into the room. I say room, downstairs is regions between pillars and partial walls, but there is a music room which can be closed off with folding screens.”

“How long has your brother been married?”

“Four years. I was still at school, right after the war,” said Ida. “I was going to go to Oxford to read literature but I was hoping to find an antiquarian and learn about digging up old skeletons from the past. Who, not being known to me, would be more palatable than dead bodies in the present.”

“I’ll be calling; you go home and lie low,” said Alexander.

 

I might have gotten a little distracted...

 you recall I was toying with a 1920s detective series with a detectoress from  the now vanished village of Lashbrook?  I started writing, the premise is changing slightly, my heroine is going to be the sidekick and inspiration to a Scotland Yard inspector,  himself a descendent of Jane and Caleb, whom she first calls in to investigate the murder of her sister-in-law and her brother [the other brother, not the husband of the sister-in-law.]  I did a competition on Night Cafe, the subject being 'cubism' and the dying brother paints a picture in which there are hidden clues to the murder of his sister-in-law, which he witnessed. He's wheelchair bound, having lost his legs in WW1. and I'm sorry to kill him off as he's quite a character, but the painting is a dying deposition. I'm using it on the cover stood on an easel, with other paintings on the wall and stood against the wall, one of which is a clue as well. I thought it would be fun to have the clues in the front cover! 

 

the village vicar 15

 

Chapter 15 Turn the other cheek does not apply in cricket

 

“Oh, Vicar! Someone has bought the meadow!” cried Mrs. Hadley.

“Yes; it was me,” said Chaz. “I’m going to cut just enough grass for a wicket, and put up a hut for the Church cricket club, which the scouts can use for water if they want to camp there, and otherwise I’m leaving it as it is, stream and all. But it’s a bit hush-hush; we need to practise on the Q.T. before I challenge Sir Tarleton.”

“Oh, that dreadful man!” said Mrs. Hadley. “He has it in for poor Ross, and poor Lucy. You should have heard what he said about her entrapping you when you read the banns on Sunday!”

“It’s my Christian duty to feel sorry for him,” said Chaz, blinking slightly to hear Sgt Blake referred to as ‘Ross’ by one who had criticised him.

“People like that Sir Tarleton do not invite sympathy,” said Mrs. Hadley. “I am not as good a cook as you, but Lucy and I can combine to make sandwiches for cricketers.”

“Excellent!” said Chaz. “I might need her to bat at the moment, though. Summer is running for Ross Blake. Wendel has not played cricket since he was at school, but hands that can catch excited animals trying to flee without hurting them should be safe hands for a cricket ball.”

“Would you exclude people like... you know, Catholics, Methodists, and so on?”

“Not in the least, so long as they’ll bat for God in their own way,” said Chaz.

“Well, the Roman Catholic priest has been heard to say he wouldn’t mind a game of cricket if it wasn’t for having to play with the godless. He meant Sir Tarleton,” she explained, unnecessarily.

Chaz brightened.

“An all-churches team? That would be worth doing. And religion a banned subject, but taking turns to lead pre-match prayers,” he said.

“Oh, dear, what have I started?” said Mrs. Hadley.

“A drubbing for the Ungodly,” said Captain Cunningham, escaping briefly from the reverend.

“Well, when you put it that way....”

 

oOoOo

With the chubby, but enthusiastic Catholic priest on board, and two elders from the Methodist chapel, the All-Churches Cricketing Club, or the Triple-C was born.

There were a few clashes of personality, but Chaz went with the advice Wendel gave him; treat them all like disobedient dogs at dog training classes, keep the loudest on short leashes, and reward good behaviour with treats.

So far, it was working.

The group was not a team yet, but they were getting there.  And if there was an underlying sense of purpose of trouncing Sir Tarleton Rickett, that Unchristian and Uncharitable thought was at least unspoken. And acknowledged as unlikely; Sir Tarleton’s team had been playing together for years, and one of them had once been a Household Name, at least, to those who were glued to the commentary of Richie Benaud on Radio 4 in their misspent youth of smuggled transistor radios during revision periods of school exams.

This did include Chaz.

He was accosted by Sir Tarleton in the village shop.

“What’s this I hear about you putting together a scratch eleven to give us some practice, reverend?”

“Oh, I think we’ll give you more of a challenge than just some practice, Sir Tarleton,” said Chaz, sitting firmly on the captain within who wanted to find a glove to strike Sir Tarleton across the face.

“Well, well, I hope your lads won’t make a mess of our pitch, when you come to bat; but it’s a date. What about the twenty-seventh?”

Chaz made himself smile brightly.

“So long as it’s in the afternoon; I’m getting married in the morning.  It will be a lovely celebration of teamwork as epitomised by marriage. I’ll give a sermon on it. And we can convene to the church for after-match eats combined with the reception.”

“Haw haw, the bridegroom wore whites, eh? Maybe you’re entitled to it.” The joke was heavy; Sir Tarleton knew fine well when Chaz and Lucy were getting married and had hoped to make Chaz look disobliging, by failing to accept.  Being let down on that, he could not resist the dig at Lucy.

“Oh, I can’t claim virginity,” said Chaz. “I lost that to Matron’s daughter when I was sixteen.  I was a bit of a bad boy in those days; it drove the women wild. And I had the sort of moped which looks like a real bike, full leathers, long hair, and a tattoo of Betty Boop on my bicep. I could make her wriggle.”

“Very fine tattoo,” put in Ajit Patel.  “Do you still have it?”

“Alas, no; the Bishop said it had to go,” said Chaz. “Still, making Betty dance was one of party tricks in the army. I’m sure Sir Tarleton knows the sort of high jinks young men get up to.”

Sir Tarleton, who had never been through the usual channels made the sort of noise usually spelled as 'harrumph’ and left in a hurry.

 

 

“My love,” said Chaz to Lucy, “I lost my temper a bit with Sir Tarleton and we’re playing the match on the day of our wedding.”

“Before, or after?”

“After.”

“That’s not a problem, then, I won’t have to worry about wedding photos with a husband limping , or with  a black eye from taking what should have been a six in the face.”

“You’re a wife in a million,” said Chaz.

“Get married in your whites,” said Lucy. “Just to remind us in future years.”

“I will, then,” said Chaz. “He suggested it and cast aspersions on you not being able to.”

“I’m wearing blue. Mrs. Hadley has a nice blue dress with subtle clouded white flowers on, with matching jacket in plain blue and white piping, and she helped me make Summer a dress in a colour very close to her own, and it has layers of daisies around it,” said Lucy. “I confess, I let her take me over rather.”

“She is a bit of a force majeure,” said Chaz.

 

oOoOo

 

The day of the wedding dawned, and Chaz rose bright and early, along with the Bishop, who had arrived the previous evening, to stay over and do the job properly, as he had cheerfully said.

He had also been roped in as twelfth man for the cricket match.  It was being refereed by the local radio commentator, but the bishop did not mind playing on the side of God.

He had heard of Sir Tarleton.

The campanologists gave it their all, and Chaz sighed happily on his way into church to hear the mellow sound ring out across the countryside.

He could not have told anyone the highlights of the ceremony later, even though it was one he knew by heart; but when the Bishop told him that he might kiss the bride, he swept Lucy into his arms, and did just that.

Dave and Lily-Kate had come, of course, and the rest of the group ‘Apocalypse’ and were to organise the music at the reception. They presented Chaz with the group’s first CD, ‘Apocalypse – Pending,’ and Chaz laughed.

“That sounds like any children’s party,” he said.

“Well, we’re hoping to flog a few copies as well as entertain your parishioners,” said Dave. “Thank goodness you didn’t rope us in for the cricket; I’m a cricket muppet, as you know, and Lily’s dangerous with any kind of bat.”

“I heard she routed some hoodlums at the church where she’s serving as curate,” said Chaz, smiling at the diminutive newly-ordained Lily, whose hair was pink in honour of the wedding, as she had explained to a slightly bemused Lucy.

“I had an old hockey stick I was using to reach with my duster,” said Lily.  “And I asked them to go nicely first, but they thought they might have what they called some ‘fun’ with me, and then spray up the church. So I whacked ‘em, and whacked ‘em, and whacked ‘em. They were very glad when the fuzz arrived to take them off to the safety of jail.”

 

They all dined in the vicarage on a chicken salad which Chaz had prepared earlier, and Lucy and Summer changed in what was now their rooms. The bishop was wearing whites under his cassock, just in case, and Summer had whites to run for Sgt Blake.

 

oOoOo

 

Chaz won the toss, and elected to field first. It would steady his team down. The former professional went in to bat first, opposite Sir Tarleton, and Chaz opened the bowling with his accurate fast bowls. The professional chalked up a respectable twenty-five runs before Chaz added a googly to his bowling, and the professional went down, caught behind, by Wendel.

A wicket change had Chaz facing Sir Tarleton. Chaz, aware that Sir Tarleton was not above gamesmanship, appealed LBW whenever it might be feasible, with a ‘howzat?’ to the referee.

This made Sir Tarleton hopping mad, and he swiped hard at the ball, which was caught at silly mid-off by old Charlie.

Chaz let the next pair settle to slugging it out against his fast bowling, and put Charlie in, and four wickets fell quickly. Alternating, the final four were despatched with despatch, for an overall score of fifty four all out.

Chaz stood opposite Blake for their opening in bat, Summer eager to run. The old sergeant would tell her when to run, at their turn; and the opening pair notched up twenty runs.

How close the match might have been, had not Sir Tarleton been a vindictive man, is debateable.  But he managed to get a ball to bounce and hit Chaz in the box, still a painful thing to happen even with the protection.

“Haw haw, sorry, reverend, spoiled your wedding night there, a bit,” said Sir Tarleton. “Better turn the other cheek... and retire hurt.”

“I’m fine,” said Chaz, fighting nausea. “I’ll keep playing.”

The captain inside won the battle for supremacy, and Charles Cunningham, capped for Eton and Oxford for his batting as much as his bowling, thrust aside the reverend, and his nausea, and sent the next ball for a resounding six.

Thereafter he placed all his boundaries into random, and different, locations, inspiring Blake to bat almost as well, and the score stood at three hundred and two when the professional managed to bowl a deceptive curve ball which took Chaz’s bails off. He retired gracefully to watch the rest of his team struggle on for a further fifty all out.

Tea was welcome, and then Sir Tarleton’s team were back in to bat.

Sir Tarleton was flustered, it had to be admitted, but to be caught out, and by Summer, first ball was the end of his tether.

The fact that several people were quacking at his duck was not helping.

He threw his cap on the ground.

“Damn you, Cunningham, where did you get them?  Did you hire professionals to help you?”

“The only pro is on your team, Rickett,” said Chaz.  “You know all the team members; they all live in the village. Our bobbies are new, but you should know them. You might not have met the Methodist church wardens or Father Michael from the Catholic church but my team are all locals.”

“I... you must be cheating!” cried Sir Tarleton.

“I will anticipate an apology for that infamous suggestion,” said Chaz, coldly. “Now stop being childish and let your next player in.”

The match was won by two hundred and four runs and eleven wickets, as the established team did not manage to match the first innings of the Combined Church eleven.

“Most entertaining,” said the Bishop.

“Well, there’s a feast in the church, but I’m going home with my wife and relying on Summer to steal us a basket of food to eat later,” said Chaz.

Summer giggled, being more than equal to doing just that; and Rev. and Mrs. Cunningham retired to the vicarage to explore their marital vows.