I didn’t have to work too hard to feign amazement after Lady Prunella’s announcement. I should have figured she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to dramatize herself. Could there really be a stalker loose in Snupperton Mumsley? Or had she simply witnessed the late unlamented on her midnight rambles?
“Dear Lady Blitherington,” I burbled, “how absolutely terrifying for you! Someone has been stalking you? Have you notified the authorities?”
A decidedly shifty look crept onto Lady Prunella’s face. “Why, no, I haven’t. Not yet.”
“But surely you must want the police to find out who is doing something so dastardly!”
“Perhaps stalking is not precisely the correct word.” Lady Prunella backtracked with a noticeable lack of finesse. “There have been a number of unpleasant letters and an odd shadow or two at the windows of the drawing room at Blitherington Hall in recent weeks, rather late at night” She shivered. “There is most definitely a sense of menace involved, but not anything substantial enough to convince the police.” More than likely, then, it was just Abigail Winterton, spying.
“Surely the letters you’ve received?” I insisted.
Lady Prunella sniffed. “I showed one to Police Constable Plodd here in the village, and he professed to find nothing actionable in it.” She sniffed again. “The very notion! The letter made some most unpleasant—and totally unfounded—asseverations about my judging of the Women’s Institute’s annual flower show. The allegations were monstrous, I tell you.” She shuddered delicately. “Such calumnies it contained.”
Probably someone told her quite plainly that she couldn’t tell a begonia from a beet and her amour propre couldn’t withstand the shock.
“But why would someone want to do you grave harm?” I pretended an ignorance I didn’t feel. Most likely just about everyone in Snupperton Mumsley had been annoyed to the point of aggression over something she had done once upon a time.
“I cannot imagine!” Lady Prunella drew upon her considerable dignity. “The person must be completely and irrevocably unbalanced. There is a lunatic loose in Snupperton Mumsley, and now poor Abigail has paid dearly for it.” She sighed tragically, then said, “You must excuse me now, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I have errands I must finish.” She turned to head into a nearby shop, Precious dancing with excitement on his lead, for it was the butcher’s.
“But, my dear Lady Blitherington,” I pulled her up short, “now that this dreadful thing has happened in the village, surely you should tell the police everything you know. After all, it’s your duty. ”
Lady Prunella marched back to where I was standing. Her eyes narrowed as she said, “I have already thought of that. You are right, of course. But in my experience, the officer in charge of this particular investigation has scant respect for his betters."
Oh, ho, I thought. So Detective Inspector Chase refuses to kowtow to you, madam. Very interesting.
“Oh, dear,” I clucked in sympathy. “How very trying for you, Lady Blitherington.”
“You can see, Dr. Kirby-Jones, why one doesn’t have much faith in the police. A savage killer has struck my poor dear friend Abigail Winterton, and I could well be next!” Her voice rose on that last phrase, and Precious started whining.
I leaned closer and whispered, “But, Lady Blitherington, what if it weren’t a mad stalker? What if it were someone here in the village that everyone knows and thinks is harmless?” I wasn’t going to explain that I thought Abigail Winterton had been the “stalker.” At the moment, at least, I thought the stalker and the murderer were different people.
Lady Blitherington drew back in horror. “Oh, surely not, Dr. Kirby-Jones. Surely not!” she protested.
“Let’s just consider it for a moment, though. You had a far greater knowledge of poor Miss Winterton than I, and you are no doubt a very shrewd judge of character,” I declaimed modestly. “Why on earth would someone want to harm Miss Winterton?”
Lady Prunella’s brow darkened momentarily. She seemed caught in the grips of some internal battle. Finally, the urge to gossip won. “Poor Abigail was, as you no doubt noticed even in your brief acquaintance with her, rather a bitter person. She was most inclined to hold a grudge, no matter how unfairly. One sometimes had to overlook these unfortunate tendencies in order to make life bearable, though the dratted woman did go on so upon occasion.”
“Against whom did she hold these grudges?” I asked, wondering what on earth, if anything, she would tell me.
“Any number of folk here in the village! Abigail was always imagining that someone had slighted her for some reason or another. She took offense over the silliest things. Though, mind you,” here Lady Prunella leaned closer to me, “she did on occasion have real reason to bear a grudge.”
“Really?”
Lady Prunella nodded vigorously. “Poor Abigail invested part of her nest egg in some scheme of that Stevens woman’s husband, and she lost it when whatever it was flopped. I believe he had talked her into investing in some sort of joint venture. Can you imagine?”
“How distressing for her, though, to have lost money like that.”
“Well, certainly,” Lady Prunella acknowledged, “but she knew it was a risk when she did it. Letting herself be swayed by a City charlatan, mind you! You’ll notice that Mr. High-and-Mighty Stevens and his wife haven’t lost any noticeable amount of money lately.” She sniffed. “There was nothing poor Abigail could do, though she talked about it to all and sundry, until Mr. Stevens threatened proceedings against her for libel.”
“I can’t imagine, though, that Mr. or Mrs. Stevens would have murdered her for that reason.”
“Perhaps not.” Lady Prunella frowned. “Abigail was also inclined to be somewhat overzealous, shall we say, in her inspection of the local mail.”
I grimaced in distaste. “You don’t mean she actually read other people’s mail?”
Lady Prunella nodded. “I’m afraid so. There are things that she knew, things of a most personal nature, that she could have discovered only by violating the ethics of her position.”
“Surely the offended parties could have had her brought up on charges of some sort?”
Shaking her head, Lady Prunella said, “I’m afraid that in a village this small it would never have done. The offended parties simply suffered the embarrassment as privately as possible. After all, Abigail never made her news public. She simply liked to twit one with her special knowledge from time to time.”
“How unpleasant!” I said, sincerely for once. “Do you think this play she was talking about last night could have anything to do with her death?”
Lady Prunella turned pale. She seemed to fight for breath for a moment, then recovered herself with a great effort. “If there was a play to begin with! Which I sincerely doubt! I think it was just Abigail playing a nasty little joke on us all.” She shook her head. “No, Dr. Kirby-Jones, I think that was just poor Abigail’s fevered imagination!”
I’d certainly reserve judgment on that. No doubt folk in the village would hope that the play, if it had ever existed, never came to light.
“Well, this has been most enlightening, Lady Prunella, and I must beg your pardon for taking up so much of your time.” I didn’t want her to become unduly suspicious. “And you will let me know what you find out about a suitable secretary?”
Lady Prunella favored me with an uneasy smile. “Most certainly, Dr. Kirby-Jones. Most certainly.” With that, she marched briskly into the butcher’s shop, a much-relieved Precious leading the way.
I jogged toward home, wanting to get out of the ridiculous clothes before many of my new neighbors spotted me. I didn’t want them to start expecting to see me do this every day. I shuddered at the thought.
At home I changed into more conventional togs while I speculated on what Lady Prunella had told me. Conspicuously absent from her recitation of grievances against Abigail Winterton had been any mention of her own ill will against the poor dear departed. In her own colossal self-absorption, Lady Prunella probably couldn’t imagine that anyone would dare think she had a motive to do away with her nemesis. Not to mention the fact, I thought nastily, that she didn’t have the brains to do it.
Appearances, however, could be deceiving. Yours truly being a perfect case in point. People meeting me rarely, if ever, suspected that I was dead. Lady Prunella could, after all, be hiding a formidable intellect behind a facade of effete aristocratic blather.
And maybe Jackie Collins would win the Nobel Prize for Literature, too.
Now comfortably dressed in country-weekend attire, I felt ready to call on the vicar and his wife in pursuit of my inquiries. I glanced at my watch. Nearly ten. Surely a decent hour at which to call upon the spiritual comfort of the parish and his helpmate?
A few minutes later, I opened the gate to let myself into the yard at the vicarage. Letty Butler-Melville was just coming out the front door, and we stood regarding each other in slightly surprised silence for a moment.
I found my voice first as I moved down the walk toward the front door. Letty Butler-Melville stood still, clutching a large hamper in her hands, watching me. “Good morning, Mrs. Butler-Melville. I trust you won’t mind my calling upon you unannounced like this, but I wished to consult the vicar about a matter of some importance.”
Letty Butler-Melville suppressed a sigh. “Not at all, Dr. Kirby-Jones. My husband is at home and is quite accustomed to consulting with parishioners. He will be delighted to see you.” There was some undertone in her voice; whether simple annoyance at finding me unexpectedly on her doorstep, so to speak, or whether it lay somewhere deeper, I didn’t know. But Letty Butler-Melville barely concealed her irritation, whatever its cause.
“You must excuse me,” she continued briskly as she motioned me inside the vicarage. “I have many errands this morning. You’ll find Neville in his study. I believe you will remember the way.” So saying, she pulled the door shut behind her, and I was left standing in the entrance hall of the vicarage, staring blankly after her.
I shrugged. Maybe she simply didn’t like me. After all, it had been known to happen. Or she just had more pressing matters on her mind. Like that scene in the churchyard yesterday with Colonel Clitheroe. Such mysteries to ponder.
Wandering down the hall toward Neville’s study, I noticed anew the shabby gentility of the furnishings.
The Butler-Melvilles seemed to live comfortably in their fraying nest, but the place certainly could use a thorough cleaning, not to mention a bit of renovation here and there. Perhaps an anonymous donor could offer money for such purposes? One hated to think of dishy Neville living in surroundings that did him less them justice.
And here was dishy Neville himself, dozing in his chair. I coughed discreetly, and Neville’s eyes fluttered open. Ah, I thought, those emerald eyes. The man was wasted here in Snupperton Mumsley. He really should be a movie star. Mel Gibson and Kevin Costner had nothing on him.
The vicar stood up hastily, dislodging a book from his lap. I caught a quick glimpse of its cover before it tumbled to the floor behind the desk, and I was amused—and gratified—to see that the book the vicar had been reading was none other than Daphne Deepwood’s Succulent Surrender. Shouldn’t the vicar be working on next Sunday’s sermon? Or reading some edifying theological work? I wondered. What would the bishop think?
“Dr. Kirby-Jones!” Neville quickly overcame his embarrassment at being caught napping and came forward with his hand outstretched. “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here this morning?”
“Good morning, Vicar,” I said. “I apologize for arriving unannounced like this. I do hope you will forgive me.”
“Not at all, not at all!” Neville motioned me toward a seat in front of his desk. “You should feel free to call here whenever you like. I’m never too busy to talk with one of my parishioners.”
“Thank you, Vicar; that’s most reassuring,” I told him, settling comfortably into the battered-looking leather armchair. “I met Mrs. Butler-Melville at the front door. She seemed in quite a hurry, but she told me to come on in.”
The vicar beamed with pride. “Dear Letty is the most amazingly industrious woman. Such a perfect helpmate for a vicar! She is on her way to check in on several of our elderly parishioners. Letty visits the shut-ins and the ill among our little flock without fail. I don’t know what I—or they—would do without her ministrations. She has abundant energy and takes such good care of us all.” A part of me wondered why the vicar himself wasn’t out and about visiting some of these poor folk, who would no doubt be the cheerier for one of his dashing smiles rather than the dour—and dubious—pleasures of his wife’s sour visage and her oddly raspy voice. But perhaps I was doing Letty Butler-Melville a grave disservice. Maybe she lit up like a Christmas tree in the presence of those who sorely needed kind words and chicken soup. Neville certainly seemed a fit testament to his wife’s skills at caretaking.
“I’m sure the people of Snupperton Mumsley frequently have cause to be very grateful to Mrs. Butler-Melville for her many good works,” I said, all in hopes of seeing Neville smile again.
He did not disappoint me. “Quite so, Dr. Kirby-Jones, quite so.” He continued beaming. “Now, what can I do for you this morning?”
Quickly, I explained my need for a secretary and asked for his recommendations of someone suitable. Dear Neville gave the matter his utmost attention, as if I had brought him the most thorny moral dilemma to unravel.
After several moments’ thought, Neville reached for pen and paper and jotted down several names and phone numbers. He handed the paper across the desk to me. “I’m sure, Dr. Kirby-Jones, that you’ll find any of these women most suitable.”
“Vicar, please, I must insist that you call me Simon. You’ve made me feel quite welcome here in Snupperton Mumsley, so much so that I’m beginning to feel quite at home here.”
“Of course, Simon. We’re delighted to have someone of your accomplishments here in the village.”
I inclined my head in modest thanks. “And thank you for these recommendations.” I waved the piece of paper at him. Perhaps at some point I’d actually get around to contacting one of the women listed there. “One has to be careful these days. And after what happened during the night to poor Miss Winterton, one has to wonder just what the world is coming to!”
Neville had been fondling a pipe he had retrieved from a rack behind his desk, but at my words he dropped the pipe with a clatter onto the desk. His face clouded, and he stood abruptly, surprising me. “Simon, I’m afraid I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be most kind of you, Vicar,” I assured him, and he moved briskly off to the kitchen to fetch the tea. I sat waiting patiently, wondering why an allusion to the death of Abigail Winterton had unnerved him.