Up from the Grave Read online

  “That’s one of my favorite photos. It was taken one day after we arrived at Swithy Hall.” Rosalie giggled. “Aunt Flora’s not especially keen on it though. As chairperson of the county Family Heritage Circle, her two darling nieces looking a bit like lost waifs just won’t do.”

  “Is that your mother giving you the glasses of lemonade?” Berdie asked of the young woman in the picture who held a laden tray.

  “Good heavens, no, not lemonade and not Mummy. No, that was the domestic. The picture next is Mummy.” She looked over Berdie’s shoulder at the photo of the tall, shapely woman. Rosalie’s voice went wispy as she continued to speak. “She was an entertainer, a dancer, and a cabaret singer. But she gave that all up for Robin and me. Wonderfully caring Mum, I loved her dearly.” The young woman went on. “Of course Aunt Flora isn’t especially keen on this photo either.” Rosalie now whispered. “It was taken at Blackpool near the cabaret where Mummy performed, you see.”

  A chuckle rippled amongst the three women. They were aware that Flora Preswood took great pride in a family lineage of great distinction.

  “She’s an attractive woman,” Hugh offered. “Where the picture was taken is of no matter. She was your mother and undoubtedly devoted.”

  There was that generous spirit for which Hugh was so highly regarded.

  “Good evening, Reverend, Mrs. Elliott, Miss Foxworth.” Mrs. Flora Parks Preswood had arrived and in full authority.

  Hugh stood and the nearly six-foot woman stepped gracefully towards the group. Her coiffed hair, flawless makeup, and tailored dress declared her eminent urge for all to be neat and in appropriate order.

  “Please sit down, Vicar. I see Rosalie is taking good care of you. Is everyone comfortable?”

  “Yes,” Hugh answered.

  “Colonel Preswood received an important telephone call, business of course.” Flora Preswood ran a well-manicured finger across her distinguishing chin. “If he’s not in the London office, he’s speaking to the London office. He’ll join us at dinner.”

  She noticed the pink satin book open in Lillie’s lap. “Rosalie, I’ll look after our guests. Would you please get Charles? I believe he’s reading in the library. Make sure he gets to the dining room.”

  “Right away, Aunt Flora. If you’ll excuse me.” Rosalie swept across the room and out the massive door.

  “I see you’re perusing the twins’ photos.” Mrs. Preswood’s voice sounded more candid. “As you can see, there is precious little of them before they came to live here at the hall with Colonel Preswood and myself.” She exhaled deeply and sat in a large brocade chair. “Rosalie showed you the ghastly picture of my precious but wayward younger sister, I’m sure.”

  Berdie, Hugh, and Lillie all nodded.

  “She’s quite pretty,” Hugh said.

  Mrs. Preswood raised a brow. “Yes, well, pretty though she may be, my dear sister never had the best judgment, frankly. Especially when it came to men. She married a loathsome con artist, John Darbyshire, who carried her off to Venezuela on some oil cache scheme that went terribly wrong. The girls were born there, you see. One morning, twenty-five years ago, I received a postcard from overseas in the morning mail from my sister. ‘Dear Flora, you are the aunt of twins’ was hastily written across the back.” Mrs. Preswood took a deep breath. “At least Rose did have the decency to have the girls christened here the moment they set foot on English soil. When Darbyshire deserted Rose, leaving her desperately alone to care for the girls, she came to live with us. Shortly, she became ill. It was only a matter of months, and she was placed in hospital where she eventually succumbed. We assumed responsibility for Robin and Rosalie. We raised them as our own.” The woman, as if just unloading a large basket of wilted flowers, sighed. “I do ask this information to stay in confidence.”

  “Of course,” Hugh assured, “you needn’t worry on that account.”

  She needn’t worry, Berdie thought, because everyone in the village, at least those at the Copper Kettle, are already aware of it anyway.

  The man in black stood in the drawing room doorway.

  Berdie was expecting him to snap his heels.

  “Dinner, madam.” He bobbed his head, and Mrs. Preswood stood. She recovered the photo album from Lillie’s lap. “To the dining room, shall we?”

  The group made their way into the entry hall where they found Robin eying herself in one of the large lavish mirrors.

  “Robin, you’re in.” Flora Preswood stated the obvious.

  The young woman’s outfit, surely from Harrods, was the epitome of London chic, and it suited her model-thin body well. It was complemented by very Italian and, by the look of it, very expensive high-heeled sandal shoes.

  Robin pushed a long black fringe back from her aqua-colored eyes, and it was then Berdie realized how flushed the young woman’s cheeks were.

  Robin turned to face them and shaped her satin lips into a smile. “Good evening,” she said. “Sorry I wasn’t able to join you earlier.”

  Robin ran her hand across the neckline of the stylish outfit she wore. Berdie thought she caught a sparkling glimpse flutter with Robin’s movement.

  “Come along, my sweet. We’re just going to the dining room.” Mrs. Preswood put her free arm across Robin’s shoulder and placed a tender kiss on her niece’s cheek.

  Robin’s smile went sour. “Oh, Aunt Flora, I thought you put that awful thing away.” Robin grabbed the satin photo book from her aunt’s fingers and held it tightly to her chest.

  “Roberta! We have guests,” Mrs. Preswood admonished.

  “My point exactly.” Robin looked piercingly at Hugh, Lillie, and then Berdie. “You haven’t…”

  “Oh, come, Robin, you were darling little girls,” Lillie proffered.

  “Still.” She didn’t smile. “How careless Aunt Flora,” Robin scolded. The twin spun away from her aunt. Her jaw tightened and moisture appeared in the corners of her eyes, heavy with dark mascara. “These are quite personal, to say nothing of embarrassing. You should have returned them to their shelf. And I will not have them displayed on some mundane table at a whipped meringue wedding.” Robin’s tone was less than gracious. “I simply want to wed Charles. Not months away, I want to marry him now.”

  Marry who? Berdie questioned.

  Mrs. Preswood’s stern face softened. “Of course you want to marry Charles. I know all the planning is hectic my sweet. Be patient.”

  Robin clung to the pink satin book. She appeared to find no solace in her aunt’s words. “I want to marry him now, Aunt Flora. Why should I wait any longer? I love him. He’s everything to me.” Robin nodded to Hugh. “Please excuse me.”

  “Are you okay, Robbie?” Rosalie’s voice echoed across the hall.

  Berdie turned to see Rosalie and a young man standing near the stairs.

  Without a word, Robin moved briskly to the stairs and began a rapid ascent.

  “What’s going on here?” the young man asked. Though he looked to be just shy of Robin’s height, he possessed a certain air. Both his hair and suit were a classic style. The tailored fabric clearly said moneyed.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “She’s just a bit stressed, Charles. We’ve been working on plans for the wedding.” Mrs. Preswood gestured toward the staircase. “A few moments to herself, and she’ll be right as rain.” She looked at Hugh. “Oh, do excuse me. Charles, this is Reverend Hugh Elliott, his wife Berdie, and our church choirmaster, Lillian Foxworth. May I introduce Mr. Charles Swindon-Pierce.”

  The young man stepped along to Hugh and shook his hand. “Vicar.” He nodded politely to Lillie and Berdie.

  Mrs. Preswood continued. “Mr. Swindon-Pierce is Robin’s fiancé.”

  The man smiled and tipped his head courteously.

  “They wish to marry here at the church. Isn’t that wonderful, Vicar?” Mrs. Preswood continued.

  “I see. It would certainly seem right to do so. Congratulations.”

  “We’re so looking forward to it
,” Mrs. Preswood sounded resolutely confident.

  Hugh went on. “You are aware I ask couples who wed at St. Aidan’s to do two one hour pre-wedding sessions with me at the church? Wonderful guidance in navigating the waters of marriage. That’s what I’ve been told by those who have done them.”

  Charles’s mouth lost a corner of its smile. “Robin and I are doing just fine, thank you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you are. No, I’m just saying that the couples who have completed the course found the information extremely valuable, a good footing.”

  “Robin and Charles are aware that a meeting with you, Vicar, is a prerequisite and are happy to oblige.” Mrs. Preswood looked directly at her niece’s future husband. “Aren’t you, Charles?”

  The groom-to-be simply lifted his chin.

  “Well then.” Hugh was warm but subdued.

  “Yes. Well,” Berdie added. Judging by the snapshot of the family dynamics so far this evening, she could clearly see the young couple needing every available advice to ward off shipwreck on those waters of marriage.

  “And you’ll be in charge of our music,” Mrs. Preswood directed towards Lillie.

  “How exciting.” Lillie lit up. “It’s all a very pleasant surprise. Oh, I do love weddings.”

  “Robin’s over the moon,” Rosalie piped and stepped next to Charles. “And I’m excited about having Charles as a brother-in-law.”

  Mrs. Preswood moved to the center of the group. “I had hoped to announce this properly with an appropriate toast at our special dinner. But it seems to have now gone by the wayside.”

  “A quick toast with the meal will do nicely, I should think,” Charles presented as a peace offering on his fiancée’s behalf.

  Flora Preswood wasn’t responsive.

  “It’s a happy occasion.” Rosalie all but danced. “Let’s enjoy it.”

  The gentleman in black reappeared. “Is there a delay for dinner, madam?” echoed across the great hall.

  The disappointed Mrs. Preswood gathered herself. “No.” She straightened her shoulders and resolutely led the party to the dining room of Bampkingswith Hall.

  Once the aloof Randal Preswood arrived, the meal was served.

  Hugh gave a blessing to which the Preswoods obliged. Colonel Preswood offered Hugh a stock tip, and apart from that, the meal was bereft of any truly stimulating conversation. Or any real discussion about the nuptials for that matter. It was a bit like the creamed cauliflower soup served as the first course: under-cooked and without true color.

  Robin didn’t even come to the dinner table until the dessert was served. And when the bride-to-be did arrive, her face was wan, and she clung to Charles like a climbing rose on a garden wall.

  Berdie perceived a fat little elephant sitting squarely in the middle of the dining table but could not make out its composition or just exactly why it was there. This family, which worked at presenting themselves well, seemed to be trying too hard to do so.

  The departure from this meal and Bampkingswith Hall came none too soon. Within twenty minutes of the last bite of strawberry mousse, Berdie, Hugh, and Lillie were out the door. Apart from the pleasant Rosalie, it had started with a foot cramp and went downhill from there.

  As Hugh stood in the doorway finishing cordial conversation with the Preswoods, Berdie and Lillie were several yards down the drive waiting by the car.

  “Did Robin Preswood seem more than odd to you this evening?”

  “I think the bride should enter to the ‘Trumpet Voluntary.’” Lillie nearly waltzed as she spoke. “What? Odd? Yes, well, my experience has been that brides do get testy when planning their big day.”

  “True,” Berdie agreed, “but…No, there’s something else going on there.”

  “Perhaps Dr. Avery could do a solo, yes, ‘Come Down, O Love Divine.’”

  “Lillie! Will you listen, please? There’s a great deal of something else that surrounds the whole goings-on in that house, and it doesn’t smell right.”

  “Indeed? A bit like the odiferous cauliflower soup.” Lillie scrunched her nose.

  “Well, something’s off. I hear the trumpeting of a large grey creature.”

  “You and your elephants.” Lillie became more intrigued. “What sort of trumpeting?”

  “Yes, if only I could put my finger on it.”

  “Knowing you as I do, my dear friend, you’ll not put your finger on it. Rather, you’ll lay on your entire weight and wrestle the creature to its knees until all is neatly sorted.”

  Hugh now joined the women at the car. “What needs sorted?”

  Berdie gave Lillie a visual nudge to be quiet. “Deciding what time Lillie and I will meet for tea tomorrow.” Berdie nodded her head as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Elevensies, of course,” Lillie stammered in an all-knowing kind of way. “At The Copper Kettle.”

  “Right.” Hugh smiled slightly. “Why do I have the feeling you two are conspiring?” He pulled the car keys from his pocket. “I realize things in the Preswood home this evening were not perfect. Families seldom are. But it’s up to the Preswoods to work it out for themselves. I should hope you leave things well enough alone.”

  “We’re not ones to interfere.” Lillie fluttered her dark lashes.

  Hugh lifted his left brow. “That’s like saying rain isn’t wet,” he countered and opened the car door for Berdie and Lillie. “If you try it on, everyone involved will be soaked through. Catch my meaning?” He looked very deliberately at Berdie.

  “Eminently, dear,” she replied and slipped onto the car seat.

  ****

  Whether it was the dodgy cauliflower soup or the unstrung bits and pieces of recent events that played in her mind, Berdie was awake and restless when she should have been sleeping soundly.

  She eyed Hugh, slumbering beside her, and thought again how grateful she was that his prolonged military jaunts here and there were no longer a part of their lives. No, now she just had to share him with every Tom, Dick, and Cherry in the parish, including the Preswoods. Even so, she was grateful for his presence.

  She let go an easy sigh then arose. Putting on her dressing robe, she tried not to disturb the man with whom she delighted in sharing her bed.

  Within minutes, she was in the kitchen and had the kettle on, navigating it all by the light of a small candle lamp that sat atop several stacked recipe books. She poured a cuppa.

  Berdie felt compelled to wander down the dark hall to the library where she sat in one of the leather armchairs. She took a sip of the warm soothing liquid and let her restlessness melt into the stillness.

  She noticed that the richly woven curtain on one of the windows facing the church garden was slightly open. Taking her warm cup with her, she thought to close it, but found herself peering up at the dappled clouds that played hide and seek with the vivid stars gracing the night sky.

  There was something special about the wee hours when the world sleeps. The mad rush of conversation hushed, the frightful tear of spinning activity silenced. It was as if the beating of God’s heart silently sent it’s rhythm out to any who would take a moment to listen. And Berdie readily took note.

  She opened the curtain further and relaxed back into the gracious armchair where she could gaze into the beauty of the night.

  She swallowed her tea slowly when her eyes fell to the ground of the back garden. Even the beehive of activity around the tented crime scene was now absent. One lone constable stood watch, slowly pacing, fighting against the tedium that made sleep so very attractive.

  “Poor chap,” Berdie whispered aloud. “I bet he’d love a cuppa.” Just as she spoke the words, the solitary figure in the back garden commenced a great yawn accompanied by a stretch. “Tea it is.”

  By the time she prepared and poured the large Stanley flask, found Hugh’s sizable torch that looked more a car headlight, put on her wellies, and buttoned her coat, several minutes had elapsed.

  Once outside, the dark coolness reminded her that it was ear
ly spring.

  She walked towards the taped-off area. But the constable wasn’t pacing. In fact, he appeared to have become a big lump-of-a-thing in a piece of garden furniture. And not surprisingly, she heard a slight rattle-gurgle that sounded very much like snoring.

  She started to rouse him then smiled and stopped. Where’s the harm? No one’s about. I’ll rouse him in a bit. Berdie turned off the blinding torchlight.

  She began to make a retreat but hesitated and breathed in the freshness of the English night. The stars were even grander now she was standing out in them, and she reveled in the moment.

  She wasn’t sure how long she had been basking in the glory of creation when she heard a sharp snap. A twig breaking? Someone was about. Thinking the constable had awakened, she spun to face the tent. But a muffled gurgle-sigh told her he was still slumbering. If she called out to awaken the guard, she would surely frighten off the intruder.

  Silently, she inched her way along to the tented dig. She gripped the large tea flask, recognizing its value as a potential weapon. Her ears were on alert. She strained forward. Yes. There was a definite rustling. Indeed, someone was near at hand.

  She raised the substantial flask, ready to strike, and set her thumb on the torchlight switch. In a lunge of energy she lurched forward, at the same moment turning on the torch that sent a blinding light, ripping away the dark of the crime scene. “Halt.”

  There he was, frozen at her command. Berdie recognized the intruder.

  “Fritz!”

  The stunned dachshund, eyes wide and ears perked, wore moist dirt about his pointy nose. He looked like a deer in the headlights until the constable, roused and suddenly aware, leaped from the garden chair, crashing it over in a heap.

  The wee, now defensive, sausage scrambled in circles as his frenzied barks bit into the silence.

  Berdie’s apprehension melted into a foolish laugh.

  “Freeze, don’t move.” The constable drew out his truncheon. Squinting, he raised his arm against the bright light of Berdie’s torch as Fritz continued his barking.