Missing Joseph

“Nothing for me,” St. James said. “Deborah?”

“No.”

Mrs. Wragg nodded. She rubbed her hands up the sides of her arms. “Well,” she said. She bent to pick a length of white thread from the carpet. She wound it round her fi nger. “Bath’s through that door. Mind your head, though. The lintel’s a bit low. But then all of them are. It’s the building. It’s old. You know the sort of thing.”

“Yes, of course.”

She went to the chest of drawers between the two front windows and made minute adjustments to a cheval mirror and more adjustments to the lace doily beneath it. She opened the clothes cupboard, saying, “Extra blankets here,” and she patted the chintz upholstery of the room’s only chair. When it became apparent that there was nothing more to be done, she said, “London, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” St. James said.

“We don’t get lots here from London.”

“It’s quite a distance, after all.”

“No. It’s not that. Londoners head south. Dorset or Cornwall. Everyone does.” She went to the wall behind the chair and fussed with one of two prints hanging there, a copy of Renoir’s Two Girls at the Piano, mounted on a white mat going yellow at the edges. “There’s not a lot likes the cold,” she added.

“There’s some truth in that.”

“Northerners move to London as well. Chasing dreams, I think. Like Josie does. Did she…I wonder did she ask about London?”

St. James glanced at his wife. Deborah had unlocked the suitcase and opened it on the bed. But at the question, she slowed what she was doing and stood, a single feathery grey scarf in her hands.

“No,” Deborah said. “She didn’t mention London.”

Mrs. Wragg nodded, then flashed a quick smile. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Because that girl’s got a mind for mischief when it comes to anything that’ll take her from Win-slough.” She brushed her hands together and balled them at her waist and said, “So then. You’ve come for country air and good walks. And we’ve plenty of both. On the moors. Through the fields. Up into the hills. We had snow last month — first time it’s snowed in these parts in ages — but we’ve only frost now. ‘Fool’s snow,’ my mum called it. Makes things muddy, but I expect you’ve brought your Wellies.”

“We have.”

“Good. You ask my Ben — that’s Mr. Wragg — where’s the best place to walk. No one knows the lay of the land like my Ben.”

“Thank you,” Deborah said. “We’ll do that. We’re looking forward to some walks. And to seeing the vicar as well.”

“The vicar?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Sage?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Wragg’s right hand slithered from her waist to the collar of her blouse.

“What is it?” Deborah asked. She and St. James exchanged a glance. “Mr. Sage’s still in the parish, isn’t he?”

“No. He’s…” Mrs. Wragg pressed her fi ngers into her neck and completed her thought in a rush. “I suppose he’s gone to Cornwall himself. Like everyone else. In a manner of speaking.”

“What’s that?” St. James asked.

“It’s…” She gulped. “It’s where he was buried.”

CHAPTER TWO

POLLY YARKIN RAN A DAMP cloth across the work top and folded it neatly at the edge of the sink. It was a needless endeavour. No one had used the vicar’s kitchen in the last four weeks, and from the looks of things no one was likely to use it for several weeks more. But she still came daily to the vicarage as she had been doing for the last six years, seeing to things now just as she had seen to things for Mr. Sage and his two youthful predecessors who had both given precisely three years to the village before moving on to grander vistas. If there was such a creature as a grander vista in the C of E.

Polly dried her hands on a chequered tea towel and hung this on its rack above the sink. She’d waxed the linoleum floor that morning, and she was pleased to note that when she looked down, she could see her refl ection on its pristine surface. Not a perfect refl ection, naturally. A fl oor isn’t a mirror. But she could see well enough the shadowy crinkles of carrot hair that escaped the tight binding of scarf at the back of her neck. And she could see— far too well — her body’s silhouette, slope-shouldered with the weight of her watermelon breasts.

Her lower back ached as it always ached, and her shoulders stung where the overfull bra pulled its dead weight against the straps. She prised her index finger under one of these and winced as the resulting release of pressure from one shoulder only made the other feel that much worse. You’re so lucky, Poll, her mates had cooed enviously as undeveloped girls, lads go all woozy at the thought of you. And her mother had said, Conceived in the circle, blessed by the Goddess, in her typical crypto-maternal fashion, and she swatted Polly’s bum the first and final time the girl had spoken about having surgery to reduce the burden dangling like lead from her chest.

She dug her fists into the small of her back and looked at the wall clock above the kitchen table. It was half past six. No one was going to come to the vicarage this late in the day. There was no reason to linger.

There was no real reason at all, in fact, for Polly’s continued presence in Mr. Sage’s home. Still, she came each morning and stayed beyond dark. She dusted, cleaned, and told the church wardens that it was important— indeed, it was crucial at this time of year — to keep up the house for Mr. Sage’s replacement. And all the time that she worked, she kept an eye watching for a movement from the vicar’s nearest neighbour.

She’d been doing that daily since Mr. Sage’s death when Colin Shepherd had fi rst come round with his constable’s pad and his constable’s questions, sifting through Mr. Sage’s belongings in his quiet, knowing constable’s way. He’d only glance at her when she answered the door to him each morning. He’d say Hullo Polly and slide his eyes away. He’d go to the study or to the vicar’s bedroom. Or sometimes he’d sit and sort through the post. He’d jot down notes and stare for long minutes at the vicar’s diary, as if an examination of Mr. Sage’s appointments somehow contained the key to his death.

Talk to me, Colin, she wanted to say when he was there. Make it like it was. Come back. Be my friend.

But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she offered tea. And when he refused — No thanks, Polly. I’ll be off in a moment. — she returned to her work, polishing mirrors, washing the insides of windows, scrubbing toilets, fl oors, basins, and tubs till her hands were raw and the whole house glowed. Whenever she could, she watched him, cataloguing the details designed to make her lot lighter to bear. Got too square of a chin, does Colin. His eyes are nice green but far too small. Wears his hair silly, tries to comb it straight back and it always parts in the middle and then fl ops forward so it covers his brow. He’s always messing it about, he is, raking his fingers through it in place of a comb.

But the fingers generally stopped her dead, and there the useless catalogue ended. He had the most beautiful hands in the world.

Because of those hands and the thought of them gliding their fingers across her skin, she’d always end up where she started from at first. Talk to me, Colin. Make it like it was.

He never did, which was just as well. For she didn’t really want him to make it like it had been between them at all.

Too soon for her liking, the investigation ended. Colin Shepherd, village constable, read out his findings in an untroubled voice at the coroner’s inquest. She’d gone because everyone in the village had done so, filling up the space in the great hall at the inn. But unlike everyone else, she’d gone only to see Colin and to hear him speak.

“Death by misadventure,” the coroner announced. “Accidental poisoning.” The case was closed.

But closing the case didn’t put an end to the titillated whispers, the innuendoes, or the reality that in a