Up from the Grave Read online

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Put it out there.”

  “Turn your mobile off for the next hour or until your meal is finished.”

  There was a distinct silence. “You’re not serious.”

  “As a heart attack. You’ll be doing yourself a great favor if you turn it off.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion.” He didn’t sound even slightly convinced and returned to the initial subject. “I’ll keep you abreast of developments in the case, on the Q T of course.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Berdie rang off. When she returned to the table, Hugh was picking at his food. Truly, her roast chicken, too, suddenly didn’t seem quite as tasty.

  “And so Loren informed you, as he did me, of the dark news?”

  “Yes.”

  Hugh folded his napkin and sat it on the table. “Sad, sad business this.”

  “Indeed.” Here sat her dear husband, who had been engaged in staggering active military warfare, now trying to comprehend the ugliness unearthed in his church garden.

  “The police certainly have a great deal of work to do.” Hugh directed his eyes keenly towards her. “Do you understand? The police have much to do.”

  Berdie nodded. She hoped the eagerness with which she wanted to dig into the matter was well concealed.

  “And when it comes to it, I have work to do as well.” Hugh’s voice betrayed his disconcertedness. “There are a few things that need tending at the church.”

  “I’ll have tea brewing when you return.” Berdie squeezed his hand.

  When Hugh departed, she watched out the library window to see the tall figure of her husband, in an uncustomary hunch, walk the hundred yards to the church.

  Tidying the kitchen took no more than ten minutes. Berdie was looking forward to a nice soak where she would try the new rose-scented bath crystals Hugh had gotten for her just last week. Then she’d settle in with her latest Dorothy Sawyers read accompanied by a warm cup of tea. But, as she ascended the stairs, the front doorbell chimed. Berdie considered what kind of master plan to devise that would send whomever it was packing.

  She retraced her steps and opened the door. “Mathew,” she greeted in a less-than-warm tone.

  “Am I interrupting?” The young man’s face was flushed and his words clipped. “It’s just that I need some assistance.”

  “Hugh’s out but you’re welcome to come in for tea.”

  “Thanks, but no time for tea. Where is Hugh exactly?”

  “He’s at the church.” Berdie had barely made her reply when Mathew started for the house of worship. “You’ll probably find him at the kneeling rail,” she called after him.

  “Dear me,” Berdie said while closing the door. “Why so flushed?” But then, considering her Clare and Nick, what’s youth if not a series of flushes?

  The soft blue terry robe caressed her just-bathed skin. The scent of roses still lingered as she sat in her favorite Queen Anne chair near the hearth of the master bedroom and opened her book with enthusiasm.

  Berdie had to make a concerted effort to keep focused on the reading material. Her thoughts drifted to all that had happened this day: the criticized Mr. Webb, the coarse coach tour gentleman, the unknown contessa, outcries against the construction of the garden, collapses, lost tablet bottles that were actually there, and then that child’s photo.

  It was just as she finished her second cup of tea and the last page of chapter four that the front door opened. She listened carefully to the steps of her husband ascending the stairs. His gait was his usual confident stride, although not as rapid as usual.

  Hugh’s quiet “I’m done in, love,” as he entered the room prompted Berdie to fetch her husband a welcoming cup of tea. By the time she arrived back to the gracious bedroom, Hugh was already in his woolen robe, seated on the Chesterfield opposite Berdie’s chair.

  “Thank you, love.” Hugh gratefully accepted the tea.

  She hoped the refreshing liquid would add a touch of energy for her dear one. She ran her hand across the side of his cheek. “The weight of the world has gone a bit lighter?”

  “God is still in His heaven.” Hugh smiled. “Despite dozy vicars who momentarily forget that.”

  Berdie cuddled next to her husband on the couch.

  “Speaking of lighter, Aidan Kirkwood has one less guest tonight.” Hugh blew on the surface of the drink.

  “How’s that?”

  “Mathew’s woes,” Hugh continued cooling the tea.

  “He found you then.”

  “Indeed, one of his clients from the coach tour has gone missing.”

  “Gone missing?”

  “Well, done a bunk really.” Hugh took a swallow of the hot brew. “He signed in at the Lawler’s B and B but never made dinner with the tour group. So Mathew went to rouse him from his room. The gentleman and his luggage were gone.”

  “Hard on Mathew, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “And Cherry Lawler was distressed, thinking something in the accommodations didn’t suit. Mathew asked if the fellow may have said anything to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Apparently, you had a conversation with him at the tea today?”

  Berdie pursed her lips. “Oh, that gentleman, the surly one. He didn’t have any problem expressing his disgust concerning what an environmental disaster the garden water feature would be. No, I’d say he’s surely the type who would readily make known his dissatisfaction if that were an issue.”

  Hugh took another sip. “I told Mathew not to take it to heart. There were any number of reasons one would leave a tour without notice. I suggested he ring the fellow tomorrow and see if he could set things right. And then I encouraged him to apply himself completely to the people who didn’t do a runner.”

  Berdie laid her head on Hugh’s capable shoulder.

  “Just a nightcap to the scramble of a day, I suppose.” Hugh put his arm around Berdie. “Let’s do hope tomorrow will be more even keeled.”

  “Yes.” Berdie tried to make her voice sound resolutely in agreement while in her heart of hearts she courted an insatiable curiosity concerning the disappearance of Mathew’s gentleman and just how it may play into the most peculiar puzzle taking place in their back garden. A copious grin spread across her face.

  ****

  The next morning, the lovely call of the church bell announcing Sunday worship sounded across the village, and Hugh was at its bidding. However, scattered was the best word to describe the attendance at church, Berdie decided, as she entered the nave.

  She sat in a front pew, listening to Mr. Castle’s rendition of “Christ is Made the Sure Foundation.” Then he played it a second time, and a third. It was then Berdie realized something was missing. “Hugh,” she whispered.

  With haste, Berdie entered the sacristy. To her surprise, Hugh was talking to someone on the telephone.

  “Hugh,” she prodded. “Did you not hear the organ?”

  Hugh nodded and silently pointed to the receiver at his ear. “Yes, delighted,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I am familiar, yes.”

  “Well?”

  Hugh lifted his left brow. “I look forward to it, but I really must ring off now.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I’ll be right there,” he whispered.

  “There’s no time to spare.” She moved toward the door. “We’re all waiting.”

  Berdie reentered the nave. Mr. Castle squinted his aging eyes and looked cross the nave for the absent priest.

  The congregation, by this time, were fussing about and craning their necks up the church aisles.

  Hugh bolted from the sacristy door like a horse loosed from his stable. He raced to where the acolytes stood, and the service officially began. The general tone of the congregants went from a fuddled unrest to an inestimable sense of well-being.

  Hugh didn’t skip a beat. Just as Berdie expected, he conducted the service with genuine grace and decorum, not a trace of hassled activity. When it was
time for the sermon, he got right to it.

  “With the events of yesterday filling our attentions, all the questions and emotions such a discovery can stir, it creates a certain amount of unease.” Hugh had every ear, except Batty Natty whose chin rested on her chest in napping. “We need to be certain that said events do not steal away our focus on what Lent is all about. Remember God is greater than any unexpected event,” Hugh told the congregation. “Not to take away from the seriousness of the unfortunate discovery, still we cannot let it deprive us of our season of preparation for Easter.”

  Some heads bobbed in agreement.

  “Lent,” he continued, “is the season of alignment. We all need sincere moments of self-reflection to make sure we are aligned with God’s purposes.”

  Hugh used servicing an auto’s engine as an illustration of the Lenten practice to heed the care of our soul.

  Berdie noticed Preston Graystone fidgeting about at Hugh’s words. But Lucy Butz, who just recently got her driver’s license, was keenly attentive.

  Hugh invited the congregation to be a part of the Lenten practice of special prayer. Early risers, he recommended, may enjoy taking part in matins. Or, he encouraged for those not up for morning prayers, midday Lenten prayers would also be taking place.

  When, at the last, with sermon done and prayers prayed and hymns sung, the final notes of Mr. Castle’s organ postlude sounded. Berdie and Hugh stood at the door of the church offering farewells. The entire lot of congregants were cheered and encouraged, save Mr. Graystone who had the same fidgety attitude that only allowed a tip of the head and a departing scowl.

  The dappled sun peeked through large clouds as Hugh and Berdie finished their Sabbath duties and walked to the vicarage.

  “I wonder if there will be rain this evening,” Berdie mumbled, eyes to the sky.

  Hugh stopped suddenly. “This evening,” he whispered. He peered into Berdie’s eyes. “Oh, yes, I haven’t yet told you.”

  Berdie wasn’t sure she liked the sound of those words.

  “It was the Preswoods who rang me at the church earlier.”

  “Well, really. They must know that was a terribly inconvenient time.”

  “I should think.” Hugh’s voice had no sense of impatience. He wrapped his fingers around Berdie’s hand. “They’ve invited us to dinner at Swithy Hall this evening following evensong.”

  “Oh, Hugh, I hoped for a night in.”

  Hugh simply shrugged.

  “I suppose they urged you. Really, the Preswoods ring you up, at the church, and in poor timing, because they want us to Sunday dinner?”

  “Eight this evening, and, yes, they were quite insistent. Mrs. Preswood said they had something to discuss with us. And they want us to bring Lillie.”

  “We’re to bring Lillie?” Berdie pulled her hand from Hugh’s grasp. “Do they still consider themselves lord of the manor? They expect us to come at their beck and call.”

  Hugh used his clerical voice. “They may not attend church, Berdie, but they are members of the parish we’re here to serve. And, yes, to a certain degree, they’re still important and influential. We owe them the courtesy of attending just as we would any other family in the parish.”

  “Yes, well.” Berdie knew he was right. “What do they want?” Berdie asked herself as much as she asked Hugh.

  “At eight this evening, I dare say, we’ll find out.”

  “Must we dress up?”

  “I should think so.”

  Berdie sighed. “You know what that means.” She and Hugh resumed walking. “An afternoon safari through the far reaches of my wardrobe.”

  Hugh just grinned and put his arm around Berdie’s waist.

  “Think of this evening as an opportunity to let someone else cook. What do you suppose the Preswoods will lay on for dinner?” Hugh asked playfully.

  “I can assure you of one thing. It won’t be humble pie.”

  4

  Despite the quiet of an English countryside evening in spring, the crunch of the gravel drive beneath Berdie’s feet assaulted her ears. And the rocky bits of it felt like boulders beneath her thinly soled evening dress shoes, which only made occasional forays from her wardrobe. The high heels made navigating her slightly robust body to the large front portico of Bampkingswith Hall a bit precarious. Berdie careened to the left, almost stumbling. She widened her eyes at the sense of impending disaster.

  Hugh caught her elbow. “You all right then?”

  Berdie curved her lips into an elfish smile, and she gave a quick nod to her husband.

  “It wouldn’t do for the vicar’s wife to go head over backside in Colonel and Mrs. Preswood’s drive now would it?” Lillie spoke what Berdie was thinking.

  “Lillie, you mind your manners this evening.” Berdie laughed.

  “The both of you take care,” Hugh admonished with a cheerful voice.

  When the trio reached the front door, Hugh pulled the aged door chime, and a gentleman, smartly dressed in black, opened the door.

  “Welcome to Bampkingswith Hall.” His formal tone held just enough warmth to make it seem quite sincere. “Please come in.”

  Berdie contained her awe as she stepped into the cavernous marble front hall.

  Her former investigative reporter eyes scanned the room, observing it discreetly. There were two majestic Venetian mirrors, four Italian-styled chairs, with a similar small table between them, and a display cabinet brimming with glistening glassware, which stood at the bottom of a grand stairway. And over it all, a crystalline chandelier cast its silvery light.

  Lillie, on the other hand, stood agape peering at the lighted sparkling display dangling overhead.

  “Just like home, yes?” Berdie whispered unobtrusively to her friend.

  The black clad butler waved his hand towards two large oak doors embellished with carved details. “If you please, make your way to the drawing room where refreshments are being served,” he directed. “Colonel and Mrs. Preswood will join you shortly.”

  Berdie clung to Hugh’s arm praying she’d make it across the polished floor without going “head over backside,” as Lillie had put it. The trio’s distinct clatter of footsteps on marble echoed as they made their way to the drawing room entrance.

  The massive door swung open an instant before Hugh reached for it.

  “I thought I heard someone arrive.” Rosalie Darbyshire, the Preswood’s niece, greeted them. The twenty-five-year-old’s warm chestnut hair enhanced her green eyes and kind smile. “Vicar. Mrs. Elliot. I’m so glad you came. Lillie, you look lovely.”

  Rosalie was often seen at St. Aidan of the Woods Parish Church. She not only sang in the women’s chorus but also was first alto in the church choir.

  “And it’s very pleasant to see you.” Hugh tipped his head.

  “Please sit down.” The young woman picked up a tray of stemmed glasses sparkling with refreshment. “Raspberry Pimm’s anyone?” She stretched out the tray towards Berdie.

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” Berdie took the Pimm’s cordially, as did Lillie and Hugh.

  “Raspberry Pimm’s are one of Robin’s favorites.” Rosalie took a glass for herself and waved toward the grand sofa. “Please, do sit down.”

  All three seated themselves watching not to spill on the gold brocade.

  “Where is that sister of yours?” Lillie held her Pimm’s with both hands. “Someone said she’s in from London.”

  “She is, indeed, but Robin went down to greet an overnight guest staying at the lodge this evening. She’s seeing to their comfort and should arrive back in a tic.” She paused. “Have things in the church garden quieted now? I mean, being a crime scene and all,” Rosalie asked politely.

  “A bit.” Hugh cleared his throat. “We still have officials hovering about.”

  “I see.” A wide grin spread across her light pink lips. “Did Aunt Flora tell you why we’re gathering here tonight?” Her eyes beamed.

  “Actually, no. Your aunt just said there was some
thing of importance to be discussed with us and asked us to dinner.”

  “I see.” Rosalie looked almost puckish.

  “Perhaps it concerns the Easter Special number, something to do with new choir attire?” Lillie chirped with a note of hope.

  “No, I’m afraid not. But I certainly don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  “Oh, I do love surprises.” Lillie took a dainty sip of her Pimm’s.

  As long as they’re pleasant. Berdie was not up to any unpleasantries. She eyed Rosalie’s shoes, dark ballerina flat slippers. Now that footwear is sensible, Berdie thought, just as she felt a slight cramp in her left arch.

  Rosalie wore a modest spring dress, and the shoes fit the style of it nicely. Her attire wasn’t lavish, but it suited her. Rosalie Darbyshire didn’t go in for all the trendy looks like Robin, her fraternal twin. Although Robin garnered all the beauty acclaim, Berdie decided that Rosalie, in her own simple way, was genuinely beautiful.

  “What’s this?” Lillie gestured to a large pink satin book lying on the small polished table next to where they sat.

  Rosalie directed her gaze at the object. “Oh, Aunt Flora retrieved that from the library this afternoon. She and Robin were perusing the snaps.”

  “May I?” Lillie asked Rosalie.

  “Of course. As long as you don’t mind witnessing sun-kissed nine-year-olds displaying missing teeth and dripping lollies.”

  “Childhood pictures.” Berdie enjoyed discovering what people were like as youngsters.

  “A bit embarrassing really, but there it is.” Rosalie had a merry tone in her voice.

  “Our Clare hid the children’s photo album one time, when she was thirteen,” Berdie stated. “It took us weeks to find it.”

  Hugh chimed in. “Actually, Nick, he’s our younger son, found it and brought it out for the entire world to see. Clare was embarrassed to the point of tears, and it caused a horrible row in our house.”

  “Not difficult to do amongst siblings.” Rosalie gently laughed.

  Lillie opened the satin book. “Look at those chubby little cheeks.”

  Berdie chuckled and pointed to a photo that displayed two toddlers smudged with mud head to foot. “You girls look ready for the bath. I see you found your way to a spring mud puddle no doubt.”