Neville returned shortly with the tea things—no doubt left in readiness for his elevenses by his doting spouse—by which time he seemed to have regained his equanimity. He served us both efficiently, and I took a grimacing sip of the tea. Ye gads, but they must have cast-iron stomachs to endure this abomination.
Masking my distaste with a cough, I alluded to my earlier statement. “Vicar, I regret having distressed you by my mention of Miss Winterton’s mysterious death. But I’m afraid she has been much on my mind ever since the police called upon me yesterday.” Not to mention the identity of her murderer, I added silently.
Neville looked away for a moment. “You have no need to apologize, Simon. I have a most unfortunate failing in one of my calling, I fear. Such news as that of poor Miss Winterton’s death quite oversets me, and it is only with great effort that I can face such unpleasantness.” He turned to me again with a boyishly sheepish grin. Anyone would forgive so handsome and charming a minister of the Lord this little-bitty failing of his. Excepting, perhaps, the bishop, and he very well might be as susceptible to Neville as the rest
“It does credit to your finer feelings, I’m sure, Vicar,” I reassured him. He did bring out that urge to comfort him rather than the other way around.
“Thank you, Simon,” he said. “You are most understanding. I have known poor dear Abigail for so long, naturally, and her death is such a shock. One simply doesn’t expect such tragic accidents to occur.”
Surely he couldn’t be that dim. “But, Vicar,” I pointed out gently, “do you really think it was an accident?” I put an ever-so-slight emphasis on that last word.
For a long moment, Neville seemed likely to swoon. I was ready to rush to his aid should he succumb, but manfully he recovered himself from the shock. “I, hmm, well, I hadn’t thought about that, Simon.” His voice wavered a bit. “Do you mean that Abigail didn’t have a heart attack during the night? That’s what Letty told me had probably happened.”
He had to be putting on some sort of act for my benefit. He couldn’t be that unworldly. Unless, perhaps, his wife was trying to shield him from something, and that bore further thought. At the risk of sending him into cardiac arrest, I decided to try harsher tactics. “No, Vicar, it doesn’t seem to me that she did. Surely the police wouldn’t be treating her death as suspicious if there weren’t some odd circumstances about it. Don’t you think she might have been murdered?”
At that last most hideous word, Neville turned ashen. I cast about for some water to throw in his face, just in case, but with a magnificent effort eyes blinking rapidly and chest heaving deeply, he calmed himself.
“But but,” he sputtered, “why on earth? Why would anyone want to murder Abigail?”
“My dear Vicar, I have no idea. I’ve just come to the village, remember, and I know very little about its inhabitants. Surely you, as spiritual guide and counselor, must know who among us might have reason to do something so coldhearted?” I sat back and awaited further swooning.
Neville obviously possessed more mettle than I realized. He faced me directly and spoke with great determination. “Simon, that is an absolutely appalling notion. No one of my acquaintance here in the village could be so utterly ruthless as deliberately to take someone else’s life! The whole notion is preposterous! There has to be some other explanation.”
He made a good show of innocence outraged, but I thought fear lurked there somewhere. Fear that he was mistaken in his rosy view of his parishioners? Or fear that someone near and dear to him was a cold-blooded killer? What did he know, if anything, that could be pertinent to the case?
“What about that play she was talking about the other night at the meeting? The play all about the moral decay in a village like this one?” I affected an air of innocent inquiry.
“That is the most absolute rot,” Neville thundered, and I was taken aback. I had no idea his voice was that powerful. He continued in a milder tone. “Snupperton Mumsley is a quiet village, full of hardworking and God-fearing souls. You are a newcomer here, and I must make allowance for that. You simply haven’t had the chance to become acquainted with the people here. There is no moral decay. The idea is complete and utter nonsense! Poor Abigail had a tendency sometimes to try to dramatize herself, and I’m afraid this was simply one more instance.”
“Don’t you think it makes the timing of her mysterious death even more strange?” What color was the sky in his little world?
“No, it’s preposterous. I’m sure her death will turn out to be some rather unfortunate accident.” The more he talked, the more agitated he seemed to become. He was afraid of something, but I had no idea what.
“Vicar, are you going to be okay?” I was becoming rather alarmed. He really did look quite done in. Was it the fear? Or just his “unfortunate failing” at its most extreme?
Neville waved a hand weakly in my direction. “I’ll be fine, Simon, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving me for now. This is all most distressing, and I must have some time to contemplate it all.” His voice grew stronger. “Yes, time for prayer and reflection. That’s what I must have.” He gazed at me, those beautiful eyes pleading with me.
How could I resist? I should be hard-hearted and grill him further, while his resistance was low. I’m no longer human, but despite what you might think, I’m not completely lost to the finer feelings. At least not where a handsome man is involved.
“Of course, Vicar. I quite understand,” I said as I stood. “Please forgive me for distressing you so.”
He stood with me. “Don’t think about it any further, Simon, really. I’ll be fine...” His voice trailed off forlornly.
My sense of humor, inconvenient at the best of times, almost got the better of me then. A picture of his face at that moment would have moved even the most hard-hearted to give thousands to famine relief or whatever charity you might name. Pain for the human condition was nobly etched in his face, distress radiating from those remarkable eyes, sorrow aching upon his lips. He was most definitely wasted in Snupperton Mumsley.
Assuring the vicar that I could see myself out, I left before I disgraced myself completely and giggled right in his poor face.
I wandered back home, wondering what my next move ought to be, I could call and see if Jane was at home and share the fruits of my morning labors with her. I was sure she’d be quite amused at my efforts at interrogation. Thinking back over the meager amounts of information that I had gleaned, however, I decided that perhaps I didn’t want to share everything with Jane just yet.
However, I reminded myself as I unlocked the door to my cottage, I had only just begun. Whistling the old Carpenters song softly, I advanced into my office. The light on my answering machine was blinking, and I stopped to play back my messages.
The cool voice of Samantha Stevens flowed out into the silence. “Dr. Kirby-Jones, I apologize for ringing you on such short notice, but I wondered whether you might be available to join us for dinner this evening? My husband is most eager to meet you, and I trust you will not mind indulging him while he recovers from his accident.” She went on to give me her phone number, asking that I call back and leave word with her husband’s secretary about tonight and get directions as well.
Most interesting, I thought, jotting down the phone number. I had nothing else planned for this evening, and I might as well meet the mysteriously injured Mr. Stevens and further my acquaintance with his wife. Would there be a way in which I could—discreetly, of course—bring up that little matter of Abigail Winterton and her lost nest egg?
I’d have to ponder that one awhile. “I say, old chap, rumor hath it that you swindled the dear departed out of her life savings, what?” Not quite the done thing. No, something more subtle would be required.
After all, that alleged business deal gave Abigail Winterton motive to murder Mr. Stevens, and not the other way round, as far as I could see. But perhaps old Abigail had been carrying on a torrid affair with Mr. Stevens and the icy Samantha had caught wind of it and decided to rid herself of her rival once and for all.
I laughed aloud. That would take more imagination than even I possessed. Daphne Deepwood most emphatically would not go for it.
Perhaps, though, the dear departed had stumbled upon some deep, dark secret that one of the Stevenses would rather not have anyone know. If the late, unlamented postmistress really did snoop through the mail, goodness only knew what she might have winkled out. And that certainly didn’t limit the field to the Stevenses. Anyone in the village was fair game for blackmail, provided the existence of guilty secrets.
The whole village hadn’t been present at the meeting, of course, so the group of potential murderers was probably limited to those in attendance that night. Unless everyone else at the meeting immediately went home and started spreading the word throughout the village about Abigail Winterton’s play (I was going to consider it hers, for the ease of discussion), then the murderer was most likely someone at the meeting.
Until the police officially confirmed that Abigail Winterton had been murdered and released some details as to just how it was accomplished, I could carry my speculations only so far. I could imagine several rather lurid scenarios in which one of my fellow committee members had snuck into Abigail’s home during the night and batted her over the head or strangled her. But until we knew a bit more, all this speculation didn’t serve much purpose.
I stared at the piece of paper in my hands. Might as well call Mrs. Stevens and accept her invitation to dinner. I punched in the numbers and listened to the burring of the phone. A prim, cultured voice answered, and I stated my purpose in calling. The voice, strangely androgynous, calmly took the news of my arrival for dinner and just as calmly gave me directions to the Stevens estate. I thanked it (for it had never introduced itself) and rang off.
Wandering into the kitchen, I got myself a glass of water. Because of those little pills I keep mentioning, I do get a bit dehydrated from time to time. I don’t understand the way the darned little things work; I’m just grateful for most of what they allow, minus the occasional supernatural side effect. I’ve yet to experience the odd desire to bay at the moon that some have reported or the excessive growth of hair on various parts of the body. I’m hairy enough as it is.
The doorbell rang, and I set my empty glass down in the sink. By the time the bell rang the second time, I was opening the door. There, standing ever so handsomely on my doorstep, was none other than Detective Inspector Robin Chase, stroking his mustache.
I smiled. The game was afoot.