Although Tom had already explained that his great-aunt Henrietta was not in her dotage, Fran had still been expecting an elderly, dried-up old stick of a spinster, so the delicate, elegant reality – a woman whose swept-up hair retained a silvery blonde hue, whose clothes were fashionably cut, and whose voice was light and musical – came as rather a surprise.
‘Tom, my dear, how are you? And you must be Mrs Black, Tom’s friend from the literary society. Tom has told me all about how clever you were in helping him solve the mystery of the murder in your book club. Do sit down, both of you – you must be simply longing for a cup of tea.’
When afternoon tea had been brought in and the usual preliminaries covered – the route they had taken, the weather conditions encountered, and the health of various relatives whom Tom and his great-aunt had in common – Aunt Hetty turned to their itinerary for the weekend.
‘It will be just the three of us dining at home this evening,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to make a party of it because I thought you might be tired after motoring all this way. Tomorrow morning I can point you in the direction of the place where Mr Vardy drowned, so that you can view the scene for yourselves. And then – a real stroke of luck – we are invited to luncheon at the home of Mr Ripley.’
‘Husband of your third possible victim?’
‘Yes, Mr Ripley the bank manager. At some time or other I must have told him about the nature of W.H. Dod and Sons’ business and when I happened to mention that you were coming on a visit, he immediately professed an interest in the importation of exotic fruit. Such a stroke of luck! It transpires that he spent part of his childhood in the West Indies, where an uncle of his owned a banana plantation. I said at once that you are a foremost expert on the importation of bananas—’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘I think that might be overegging the pudding a bit.’
‘My dear Tom, it was far too good a chance to miss – I hinted that an opportunity to discuss bananas with someone who had experience of living where they are actually grown would positively make your weekend, and after that he could hardly not invite us. It’s a splendid chance to see where one of the deaths occurred and to meet some of the people involved. Of course,’ she added after a moment’s thought, ‘it won’t do to actually mention the death of his wife, because rumour has it that as soon as the twelve months of mourning are up Mr Ripley is likely to announce his engagement.’
‘His engagement?’
‘To Miss Rose, his secretary. I don’t know whether she will be one of the party tomorrow or not.’
‘These rumours about a romance between Mr Ripley and Miss Rose …’ Fran said. ‘How long have their names been linked?’
The older woman smiled. ‘Don’t think that I don’t know what you are getting at, Mrs Black, because I have a considerable fondness for detective novels myself. Are you familiar with the work of Mr Richard Austin Freeman? No? Oh well, never mind. I imagine that the truth of the matter is that Mr Ripley and Miss Rose have been secretly fond of each other for some considerable time. Mrs Ripley had never been well since the birth of her son, and it must be hard on any man to have a wife who is a semi-invalid. Mr Ripley showed his wife the utmost loyalty and devotion during her lifetime, but now that she is dead he is legally and morally free to pay court to Miss Rose. And Miss Rose, who also demonstrated the utmost propriety while Mrs Ripley was alive, is free to let him see that his affection is reciprocated.’
Fran felt herself blushing for no good reason and had to give a non-committal, ‘Oh, I see,’ while pretending to concentrate on a toasted teacake.
‘We will certainly get a good luncheon at Mr Ripley’s, so I have planned only a light supper for us on Saturday evening. On Sunday morning, of course we will go to church and you will see the Reverend Pinder and the rest of the congregation – or what is left of it – for yourselves.’
‘And I suppose that if the victims are all people who have been opponents of Reverend Pinder,’ Tom prompted, ‘then he is your prime suspect?’
‘Oh, no.’ His aunt looked shocked. ‘I cannot believe that a man of God would be capable of such things. I admit that I cannot bring myself to like the vicar, but surely someone who has taken Holy Orders …’
‘Dear Aunt Hetty, surely you can see that he’s the most likely suspect? And if not him, then who?’
‘Oh dear … Well, that’s the difficult part, isn’t it? It seems so wrong to start suspecting one’s fellow parishioners. I have thought and prayed about it a great deal …’
‘Do you have someone in mind?’ Tom coaxed.
His great-aunt continued to look uncomfortable. ‘It seems so wrong to name names,’ she murmured.
‘Suppose you tell us what’s been happening at St Agnes’s since Reverend Pinder arrived?’ Fran suggested gently. ‘That way things might emerge of their own accord, without your feeling that you are being in any way unfair to your fellow church members.’
‘Good idea,’ Tom said. ‘Start at the beginning, and we will only interrupt to ask questions if we need to.’ He helped himself to another slice of angel cake and settled back into his chair.
‘Reverend Pinder was inducted into the living just over a year ago,’ Aunt Hetty began. ‘I’m afraid there were difficulties right from the start. He made it clear that he intended to do things in his own way, and of course there will always be parishioners who do not welcome change.’
The older woman glanced at Fran, who nodded sympathetically, thinking of her own mother and her cronies at St Winifred’s.
‘Reverend Pinder is an adherent of the Oxford Movement, and he had introduced bells and incense within a fortnight. There was some grumbling, as you might expect, and Mr and Mrs Barnes went over to the Methodists immediately. They were the first to leave, but since then there have been others. Later came a statue of the Virgin Mary – whom Reverend Pinder prefers the congregation to call “Our Lady”, as the Roman Catholics do. He began to encourage the use of rosary beads. Now I didn’t like some of these things, but I was willing to accept or ignore them. Others, however, felt very strongly. Mrs Ripley was seen to remonstrate with Reverend Pinder after one of the morning services. I was standing nearby, waiting to shake hands on the way out of church, as always, and his face was white with anger. The following week, he preached the first of a number of sermons directed against those who opposed the changes.’
‘Goodness,’ said Fran. ‘What on earth did he say?’
‘Oh, it was couched in a lot of biblical references, but the basic message was that we were either with him or against him – and that this translated into being either for or against God. It was quite horrible. As you can imagine, after that there were more departures.’
‘Dear me,’ said Fran, ‘I’ve never heard of anything like it.’
‘The greatest sadness is the way it has set one person against another. You see, there are some people who think that he can do no wrong. Miss Flowers, for example, has stated her conviction at the Wednesday Prayer Group that Reverend Pinder is inspired directly by God and has been sent to put our feet on the right path. Mr Cocklington says that the vicar is the captain of the ship and we must do as he says. As for Mrs Welshman, she has always been a cassock follower – to the extent that if next Sunday Reverend Pinder were to say we should all stand on our heads to take communion, she would go around assuring everyone that it was absolutely the most spiritual thing imaginable. Mrs Dulcie Smith is so convinced of the vicar’s cause that after poor Mrs Ripley was taken ill and died, she said it was a form of divine justice and should be an example to us all of what happens when people stand in Reverend Pinder’s way.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Fran. ‘What an awful thing to say. The woman sounds positively deranged. Is she some sort of religious fanatic?’
Aunt Hetty hesitated. ‘I’ve known Dulcie Smith all her life. She was the only daughter in a household that was strictly ruled by her mother, and therefore the sort of creature who never said boo to a goose. She grew into a nervous, highly strung young woman, and I think most people assumed she would never marry, but then her mother died, and Dulcie went off on a sea voyage for her health and came back with a husband. His name was Patrick Smith and he was a quiet, pleasant enough young man, who came to live in Durley Dean and got himself some work, tutoring any local dunces who looked to be in danger of failing their matriculation, or whatever it is called these days. He and Dulcie had a child – a little boy – on whom they absolutely doted, having both come rather late to parenthood. Then of course the war came. Patrick Smith took the King’s shilling and was one of the men who did not return, but Dulcie seemed to take consolation in the little boy. Unfortunately both she and the child contracted influenza at the time of the great epidemic, and though Dulcie survived the child did not. It is my opinion that the double bereavement affected the state of her mind.’
‘Hardly to be wondered at,’ said Tom.
‘Dulcie had been brought up in an intensely religious household. Her mother, old Mrs Owen, was the sort who allowed no books other than the Bible on Sundays. Dulcie herself did not grow into the kindest of women, but she had originally been so meek that a word from one of the older women in the parish soon kept her in her place. However, the influenza changed everything. After the loss of her little boy, Dulcie threw herself even more wholeheartedly into church affairs, but the other legacy was that the influenza had weakened her heart, so it was put about that everyone should be careful not to upset Dulcie, lest it bring on a bad turn which might prove fatal.
‘She had always been rather swift to criticize those who failed to live up to her own ideals, but old Reverend Caswell, who preceded Reverend Pinder, knew Dulcie all too well and he made sure she did not get above herself. Like any experienced clergyman, he recognized the sort of slightly hysterical women whom it is better to keep at a kindly arm’s length.’
‘But Reverend Pinder is different?’
‘Reverend Pinder has managed to upset so many members of the congregation since his arrival that he has been forced to turn to women like Mrs Smith in order to keep the church running. Flower arrangers, Sunday School teachers … all manner of roles and committee vacancies have had to be filled, and this has brought women like Dulcie Smith, Mrs Welshman and Miss Flowers to the fore. This little coterie of favourites has come to see themselves as the vicar’s protectors in the face of what they imagine to be a concerted attack by other persons in the congregation who are less fond of him and therefore less godly than themselves.’
‘And has the vicar encouraged them in this belief?’
‘He has certainly done nothing to discourage them. We have been subjected to sermon after sermon warning us not to stand against his attempts to return us to what he calls “the Catholic fold”. The worst day of all was when he stood up in the pulpit and denounced by name some parishioners who had jointly written a letter to the bishop, asking him to intervene in the disputes which were under way about the installation of various statues and pictures within the church.’
Tom leaned forward slightly in his chair. ‘Did those names happen to include any of your three suspected victims?’
Aunt Hetty nodded vigorously. ‘They did indeed. Mr Vardy, Mrs Ripley and dear Miss Tilling were all signatories to the letter.’
‘Was there anyone else?’
Aunt Hetty thought for a moment, then said, ‘Mr and Mrs Brayshaw and Mr Hargreaves were the others.’
‘But nothing has happened to them?’
‘Really Tom, don’t sound as if you are disappointed,’ said his aunt. ‘When the vicar denounced the signatories to the letter – a horrible moment, I felt quite sick – Mr Brayshaw stood up and said in a loud voice, “I am not sitting here to listen to any more of this. Come, Mona”. Then he took Mrs Brayshaw’s arm and they made their way out of church in what I can only describe as an extremely dignified manner, and one or two other people followed them. None have returned since. Some of them have defected to the chapel and some have gone to St Bartholmew’s in Heppersley, though it is rather a long way to travel.’
‘And Mr Hargreaves?’
‘Mr Hargreaves stayed where he was. Afterwards, he said he had been attending St Agnes’s as man and boy and no one but the Lord himself was going to stop him from worshipping in his own church.’
‘And what happened about the letter to the bishop?’ asked Fran.
‘Very little. Apparently the vicar’s group of special pets wrote to the bishop in defence of their precious Reverend Pinder, saying that almost everyone was completely behind him and that the original letter had been the work of one or two troublemakers, some of whom had now left the church. Dear me, it doesn’t make me sound very Christian, does it, telling you all this gossip?’
‘You can’t help it, Aunt Hetty. Someone has to put the facts together.’
‘Nevertheless, Tom, it is terribly distressing. One occasionally hears of rows between vicars and their congregations, but I never imagined that such a situation could arise at St Agnes’s. Why, we were always such a happy band under Reverend Caswell, and indeed Reverend Gascoigne before him. Anyway,’ she made a visible effort to gather herself, ‘let me show you up to your rooms. And after you have unpacked your things, there will still be enough warmth in the sun for you to have a stroll in the garden before dinner.’