'Can you tell me something?'
'Of course, providing I know the answer.'
'Well, we . . . I . . . I wondered how Flora Chaldean died.'
He became momentarily flustered. 'Oh, dear girl, I hope I haven't given you cause for too much concern by overstating my case. Please forgive me if I've alarmed you to that extent.'
'No, honestly, you haven't. I've been wondering for a while now.'
'Flora was a very old lady, Margaret. Nobody is quite sure of exactly how many years she had lived, but it's reasonable to assume she had reached her eighties—possibly her late eighties.' He smiled kindly at Midge. 'I suppose you could say Flora died of old age itself. Her heart grew weary and she passed away in her beloved Gramarye. Unfortunately, because she was a recluse, nobody knew until weeks later, although there were those who claimed they had passed by the cottage and had caught sight of her in the garden only a few days before her body was found. But then, people are often confused about specific times, particular dates; it's very difficult to be absolutely certain about such things.'
'Why should there be any confusion?' asked Midge.
'Ah,' the vicar replied, as though her question were pertinent. 'It so happened that I was the one who discovered her body. I used to call in now and again to see how she was, just part of what I consider to be my regular duties, even though I can't remember Flora ever attending my church. I make a point of always visiting the elderly of the parish when I have time, particularly during the winter months.'
He adjusted the trilby, pulling the hat firmly down over his head so that the breeze would not sweep it away when he started cycling. The brim bent the top of/his ears. 'I saw her through the kitchen window, sitting at the table, cup and saucer before her as though she had only just brewed herself a fresh pot of tea. It was an overcast day and the kitchen was very gloomy, so that I was unable to see clearly; I remember thinking how grimy the windows were, because that hindered my view also. When I tapped on the glass and got no response, well, that was when I became anxious. I'd already tried the door and found it locked, which was odd, because I had never known Flora to lock either doors or windows before. Most peculiar, I thought, and immediately drove to the nearest public phone booth and called out Constable Fames from the village.'
He shook his head sadly, as if the memory was still all too clear inside his head. 'I waited for him at the cottage, meanwhile discovering that the door around the back was also locked, as were the windows. When Fames arrived he broke a pane in the kitchen window and undid the latch; then he climbed in.'
Midge moved closer to me. A car sped by, a wooden dog nodding its head at us from the rear window as if it already knew what was coming next.
'He was quite pallid when he opened the door and beckoned me inside. Because of the expression on his face, and the odious smell that came from the kitchen, I entered with some trepidation.'
Sixsmythe was looking back at the cottage, not at us. 'As I told you, Flora Chaldean was at the table as though she had only just sat down to drink tea. But the cup was filled with a liquid green mold. And Flora's body was so corrupted and crawling with maggots that it was obvious that she had been dead for several weeks.'
My stomach turned over like a sluggish spin dryer and I thought Midge's tan had become a shade lighter. She reached for me and I held on to her.
Sixsmythe appeared oblivious, his attentions concentrated on the puzzle that he, himself, had posed. 'So the passers-by couldn't possibly have seen her in the garden just days before. The coroner later confirmed what we already knew: the deteriorated condition of Flora's body indicated that she had died at least two or three weeks before, alone and, for all that time until my arrival, unnoticed. Rather sad, wouldn't you say? Yes, rather sad.'
With that, he pushed his bicycle from the grass shoulder and pedaled off down the road, waving good-bye over his shoulder at Midge and me without once looking back.
Which was just as well: the angry expression on my face might have unbalanced him and caused a nasty accident.
As you'd imagine, the rest of the day was somewhat spoiled. The kitchen of Gramarye lost a lot of its rustic charm with the idea of poor old Flora's rotting corpse sitting there at the table drinking moldering tea fixed in our minds, and Midge lapsed into a miserable silence right through until the evening. She sat on her own in the round room for a long time, and I let her be.
I felt uneasy, not to say queasy, myself and could cheerfully have throttled the vicar for his insensitivity (more than once I wondered if his graphic bluntness hadn't been deliberate, perhaps a petty retribution for our mild scoffing at his warning—but then, men of the cloth are not the vengeful type, are they? Well, are they?).
Still, the day wasn't all bad. Later on in the afternoon Bob called with some terrific news. Phil Collins liked one of the songs I'd cowritten with Bob, wanted to record the number for an album some time during the following week, and would I care to sit in on the session? Would I? Bob took my garbled rambling into the receiver as a firm 'yes.'
Midge was naturally delighted for me when I broke the news—our self-imposed period of not accepting any professional undertakings would be almost over by next week, and recording with a megastar wasn't a bad way to get rolling again, especially when one of my own songs was involved. She did her best to throw off her gloom, although she was still a little subdued, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening enthusing with me. Early that night we enthused our way up to the bedroom and the excitement didn't end there. Let's say it was nicely rounded off.
Eventual sleep was marred for me by a dream of taking tea with the maggoty Flora Chaldean downstairs in the kitchen, tiny wriggling white things dropping from her leprous hand into the brew as she stirred it before passing me the cup.
Thank God I awoke before I drank, for the last nightmare image was of a decomposed, almost fleshless, finger floating on top of the green furry liquid.
MYCROFT
THE FOLLOWING Sunday we drove out to the Forest Inn for a snack lunch and a well-earned drink. What with the forthcoming recording session, set for the following Wednesday, and most of the tasks around the cottage now completed, we were in the mood for celebration.
I drank two pints of bitter with my lunch while Midge stuck to her customary orange juice; maybe it was because I was out of practice, but I felt fairly light-headed after I drained the last of the second pint, and more than ready for another. Midge had had enough of the pub, though, and in a way I couldn't blame her: after the tranquility of Gramarye, the crowd and the noise—this place was obviously a popular Sunday watering hole for both tourists and locals alike—was a little hard to take. The bustle and smoky atmosphere were in direct contrast to the peaceful and unpolluted existence we had quickly become used to (although I have to admit I quite enjoyed the change). Without
It was Midge's suggestion that we take a drive and explore some. We hadn't had much opportunity before, apart from walks into the woodland surrounding Gramarye and shopping trips into Cantrip and Bunbury, so it wasn't a bad idea providing we kept away from the mainroads which would be busy with day-trippers. I reversed the car from the parking space and headed away from the inn, breaking into loud song as we hit the road.
We soon turned off onto a quiet lane that snaked into a dense part of the forest, the twists and turns demanding all my concentration. The upper branches of trees formed a leafy tunnel, providing a pleasant relief from the hot sun. To be honest, I think we both had an idea where this road might lead, even though neither of us voiced an opinion: we were curious about the Synergists, our interest kindled by Sixsmythe's warning rather than cooled. Not that we wanted anything to do with them—in fact, it had been a relief that neither Kinsella nor the others had visited us since the blond bomber's departure the previous week. We only wanted to take a closer look at the gray house, the Temple itself. Nothing earnest, no deep motivation—only a destination for an afternoon drive. We'd discussed the Synergists, sure enough, and had easily come to the conclusion that they were no threat to mature and sensible people like us. Possibly Sixsmythe's stupid disclosure of Flora Chaldean's macabre death scenario hadn't exactly endeared him to us, so his views were not taken too seriously. Midge had been pensive for days afterward, but had eventually shed dark thoughts and relaxed in Gramarye's warm ambience once more. I'm sure
