Wednesday evening
The Reverend Gibeon Edwards met them at the door of the vicarage, an ugly late-Victorian pile charitably screened from St. Edmund and St. Crispin across the lane by a high wall and two stubborn sycamore trees. They were late for the writers’ group meeting, largely because Oliver had spent the previous hour loitering outside the Weguelins’ small cottage, pretending to exploit a stray hotspot for his iPod.
The vicar was still wearing his long black cassock, but with bare feet showing beneath the hem—a mark of humility, Oliver wondered? He deflected their apologies in his usual manner. “You’re by no means the last, and we come and go at will, as the mood takes us, and if we can’t celebrate our individuality in this venue, where else can we? Punctuality is surely one of the most overrated virtues, I always…”
He trailed off. A middle-aged man had slipped into the entrance hall. The man stopped when he caught sight of Oliver and Effie, but Edwards drew him forward.
“This is Hartley Vavasoeur, one of our founder members, if you’ll pardon the pun.” (“What pun?” thought Oliver.)
“This is a little irregular,” said Vavasoeur directly to Edwards, although he was gazing at Effie.
“It’s quite all right, Hartley,” soothed Edwards. “Oliver and Effie are of our persuasion and are most anxious to contribute.”
“Actually, this kind of event is new to me, Mr. Vavasoeur,” said Effie. “But don’t worry, I don’t plan to hold back.”
Vavasoeur broke into a broad smile. “Then why are we standing here talking?”
“Perhaps you can show our guests the drill,” said Edwards, turning to a side table and bringing over a tray. “Do take a glass of wine. Rather a different situation from when I usually present wine to my parishioners.”
They each accepted a glass, and Vavasoeur led them into a small drawing room, furnished with closed curtains and low lighting. Upholstered benches stood against the walls, some of them occupied by piles of neatly folded clothes, which Oliver assumed were donations for a jumble sale.
“Is this where we meet?” asked Effie, puzzled that they were the only occupants of the room.
“Oh, no, this is where we get ready for our grand entrance,” said Vavasoeur, sitting in a clear space on one of the benches. He indicated a pair of double doors. Faint music could be heard and the odd muffled grunt of appreciation, no doubt for a fellow member’s way with words. Vavasoeur began to untie his shoelaces. Oliver and Effie, knowing that the removal of shoes was a gesture of respect in many households, sat down and followed suit.
“So what are you writing, Mr. Vavasoeur?” Oliver asked.
“Writing?” the older man replied, bent over as he took off his shoes followed by his socks. Were bare feet also a requirement? Edwards had been barefoot beneath his cassock.
“Yes. The book you’re going to discuss tonight.”
Vavasoeur sat up and stared at Oliver. Then a smile crept across his face.
“Oh, you mean my cover. Nice one.”
Well, thought Oliver, many would-be authors do plan a long way ahead, but a cover design is a little premature if you haven’t yet put a single word on paper.
“Confusables,” Vavasoeur stated, removing his jacket. The vicar certainly did have the heat cranked up, Oliver noted, taking a sip of wine. He slipped off his own corduroy sports jacket, somewhat reluctantly, because he felt it bolstered his self-image as the wildly successful yet still humble storyteller. This had the minor advantage of being utterly true; legal action over the illustrations for the Railway Mice series meant his interim royalties were still only a tiny percentage of the books’ enormous sales. Effie put her thin cotton cardigan to the side.
“Confusables?” Oliver repeated.
“Yeah. A book for children. Explaining the crucial differences between commonly confused things. Such as an alligator and a crocodile. Or a seal and a sea lion.” He undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie.
“Oh, I see. That’s quite good.” Time for Oliver to switch on his role as the established author, generous with ideas. “You could include some very basic things. Such as a bowl versus a dish. A pond and a lake.”
“Yeah, that’d do.” Vavasoeur took off the tie and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. He laid them on the bench beside him.
“Or a horse and donkey,” Oliver continued.
“S’pose.”
“A frog and a toad,” added Effie, trying to ignore the obvious fact that Vavasoeur was unzipping his flies and beginning to take off his trousers. She took a large gulp of wine.
“A boat and a ship. A kangaroo and a wallaby,” Oliver offered, with increasing apprehension. “A cashew and a penis. A peanut, I mean.”
Vavasoeur had removed his underpants and was standing stark naked in front of them.
“Yeah, all good stuff, Chiefy,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t wait all night for you two to get stripped for action. Don’t be too long, Effie.”
He winked at her, picked up his glass, and headed for the double doors. As they opened, the noise level rose briefly, including the sighs of satisfaction with what Oliver was beginning to suspect was not a well-rounded phrase.
He and Effie sat together in uncomfortable silence.
“Oliver,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Is it me, or is there something funny going on?”
“Oh, you spotted that too?”
“When you’ve been on the force as long I have…” She finished her glass of wine.
“Do you think I should find out what’s happening?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” She reached for Oliver’s wineglass.
He stepped over to the doors, took in a deep breath, and opened one slightly. Across the adjacent room, the sweating face of Maudie Purifoy, mother of Hugowhoisgifted, stared back at him. It was clear that one of the piles of discarded clothes he’d noticed earlier belonged to her. A cautious flicker of his eyes confirmed that the other piles were all represented by their former occupants, spaced around the room. He closed the door again slowly and rested his forehead against it. Well, that explains the pun.
“Effie?”
“Still here, my love.” She hiccupped.
“Effie, I think we’ve stumbled across a potential blackmail victim.”