Eleven
The Reverend Peter White awoke as usual to the whistlings and splutterings of starlings under the vicarage roof and for a moment thought quite optimistically of a hot cup of tea, half an hour with the morning paper, and then a stroll round the parish to show his face to an indifferent community. Then he remembered. Gloria Hathaway was dead, murdered by an unknown hand, and he was just as much implicated as any other person in the village. And it was a Lois day.
He pushed back the bedcovers and reached for his dressing gown. It was thin, old and too short to cover his spindly legs. He caught sight of himself in the long mirror in the wardrobe door and shuddered. The very model of a sex maniac, he thought to himself. The thought that Gloria might have been the victim of a jealous lover, crazed by rejection and frustration, would occur to more than one person, he was sure, and he had a mental picture of Gloria in the shower, breasts swinging as she washed off the slurry from the sewage works, from which she had bravely dragged poor Maisie. Well, who knows what a man may do in a moment of blind rage? And then not be able to recall the dreadful crime afterwards, going about his business as if nothing had happened? Poor little Gloria, he thought, shivering as he had a quick clean-up with a cold flannel. He pulled on greyish-white, sagging underpants and a vest that had ceased to be thermal long ago. He hesitated, then clumsily knelt on the rug by his bed to say a lengthy prayer, ending with “May God preserve her soul…and that of anyone else in need of preservation.” This last supplication he added quickly, with a shiver.
Lois’s knocking sent him scuttling downstairs to open the door. “Late up again, I’m afraid, Lois!” he apologised. “But come in, my dear, come in. Would you like a nice cup of tea to warm you up? Just going to make a pot, and some toast. Breakfast for two – what do you say?”
Lois shook her head, as she had so many times before. “No thanks, Vicar,” she said. “I’ll have a cup later on, but I’d like to get started now, if you don’t mind. And excuse me for saying so, but it’s time that dressing gown went in the bin. There’s sales on in Tresham and you could get a nice warm one for next-to-nothing.” She collected dusters, cleaner, a brush and dustpan, and headed for the stairs. “Oh, and by the way,” she added, turning to catch him squinting worriedly at himself in the spotted mirror by the sink. “Would it be all right if I go ten minutes early? I’ll make it up next week. Family business, I’m afraid. Our Josie being a bit of a worry…More important than the Great Farnden Murder Mystery!” This jokey remark was not as casual as it sounded. Lois had planned it on the way over, thinking it might jolt something useful out of the vicar.
She was gratified by Peter White’s reaction. He whipped round and glared at her. “Kindly watch your tongue!” he said in a voice she had never heard before. “I need hardly remind you that poor Miss Hathaway’s death is a very serious business and not one to joke about. I am surprised at you, Lois, and disappointed. And no, you may not go early. I have to go out, and I am also expecting a telephone message. I told the caller that you would be here until twelve o’clock.”
It was on the tip of Lois’s tongue to tell him exactly where to go, but she remembered in time that she needed all the contacts in Farnden she could get. So she shrugged, said that maybe if the call came through before ten to twelve, she could go anyway, and stomped off up the stairs, pondering this aggressive side of Peter White, hitherto unrevealed.
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Peter White did not have to go out at all, but now he had to think of something. I could call on the doctor, he improvised, or see how Nurse Surfleet is getting on with the numerous policemen who have plodded up her neighbour’s path. Yes, that was it. He’d try a little counselling of parishioners, though on second thoughts he had distinct qualms about starting with Nurse Surfleet. She was quite likely to dismiss him briskly, or – even worse – turn the tables and worm out of him some of his darkest hidden secrets. She was known for being a sympathetic listener. No, perhaps not Gillian Surfleet. Rachel Barratt, then? She had found the body, so they said. Yes, she was a nice woman, anxious to please and keen to take her place in the village. Yes, he would drop in on Rachel Barratt, and hope that rather dreadful husband of hers was not at home.
He finished dressing and went down to make breakfast. The bread stuck in the toaster, and he extricated the burnt offering, buttered it as best he could, and washed it down with scalding tea. Lois was vacuuming fiercely overhead, and he had to go halfway up the stairs before he could make her hear his voice. “I’m off now, Lois,” he said coldly. “I can’t say when I’ll be back, but your money is in the usual place. And there’s a pad and pencil by the telephone for that message.” And without saying goodbye, he took his coat and slammed the front door behind him. Murder Mystery indeed, he muttered to himself.
“There’ll be plenty of that going on,” he added, as he saw a police car parked outside Doctor Rix’s house. He turned into the Barratts’ and saw with relief that Malcolm’s car was not there. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, as Rachel opened the door. “Might I come in for a minute or two, just for a little chat?”
“No, sorry,” said Rachel Barratt flatly. “I’ve got a sore throat and I’m going back to bed.” And she shut the door firmly in his face.
No respect for the cloth, thought Peter White sadly, though it was most unlike Mrs Barratt to be impolite, especially to a person such as himself with his position in the village. He hurried off down the drive towards the doctor’s house, remembered the police car, and swerved off towards the shop. He needed some potatoes. At least they couldn’t slam the door on him in the shop. Then the Tresham bus cruised down the street, and as it stopped by the pub, Peter White, on an impulse, boarded it. What am I doing? he thought, as he fumbled for change. Oh well, perhaps the Lord has a plan for me this morning. I might as well follow Him wherever He takes me. Peter White was not being entirely honest with himself. He knew exactly where he would end up in Tresham, and it was not a place likely to be frequented by his dear Lord, or anyone else he knew, with luck.
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Lois had finished her usual jobs in the vicarage in record time, finding that without Peter White’s constant and well-meaning interruptions, she could move much faster. She looked around, still quite determined to leave early. The mysterious caller had still not telephoned. Lois frowned. She guessed the vicar had invented his appointment and the telephone call too, and couldn’t think what had put him in such a bad mood. She reflected that in his capacity as moral leader of the village, he might well feel an extra burden of guilt that he had not been able to help Gloria Hathaway, maybe even prevent her dreadful death. Pity he wasn’t a Catholic. Catholic priests knew all about everybody, didn’t they, from the confessional? Lois had fancied becoming a Catholic, reckoning they had it easy. All they had to do was confess their sins, get absolution, and then go off and do the same things all over again.
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She decided to turn out the kitchen cupboards and throw out anything beyond its sell-by date. Lois wrinkled her nose at the stale smell as she opened a door. Vicar always smelt a bit, too, she reflected. Wonder what’s his sell-by date? She opened the window and grinned at the thought. Still, if he’d spend a bit of money on himself, clothes, barber, some good food, he could be much improved. Well, perhaps not greatly, but certainly he could look a lot more wholesome, more fanciable. Why hadn’t he got a wife? Not gay, she knew that. A lot of women would like to be married to a vicar…social position and all that. Perhaps he was one of those men who were neither one thing nor the other, like neutered tomcats. Lois thought of the laundry basket upstairs and knew that he certainly had yearnings for something, even if it was a touch kinky. Wouldn’t be the first, but it could end in tears, especially with a vicar!
“Oh, my God!” Lois sat back on a chair, struck by the dreadful thought. It could have been him. Nobody thought anything of it when he went calling on single women. She herself had sent him off to see Gloria Hathaway when she’d been ill. He’d had the perfect opportunity to plan it all, to ask Gloria if she was going to Open Minds, to discover that she was doing teas, to appear at the back door of the village hall without alarming her…oh yes, it would have been so easy.
A shoal of unused small pots of herbs suddenly cascaded down from the cupboard, bursting open and scattering dry green specks all over the floor, making her jump. “Damn!” said Lois. She fetched the broom and began to sweep for the second time.
It’s certainly possible, her thoughts continued along this unattractive track. No doubt that he could have done it. He had every chance and nobody to check on him at home. But why? Did Gloria know some secret of his that he wanted passionately to conceal? Hopeless love, was that it? Lois consigned all the herbs to the bin, and followed them with half-empty pots of jam, grey with mould, and cereal packets with a few stale flakes rattling around. Ugh! She washed out the top cupboards, dried them and put the few remaining pots and jars back neatly.
Now the bottom cupboards. She glanced at the kitchen clock and saw that she still had half an hour to go. No telephone call yet, but Lois had given up expecting it. The next cupboard contained a tangle of saucepans with
