The Dean of St Mark’s sat in his sister’s garden with a rickety deal table in front of him covered in papers. At his side was a foolscap pad on which he was writing busily. Occasionally, he paused in his labours and gazed at the pram which stood some feet from him under the shade of an apple tree. An indolently waving arm or leg could usually be seen moving within it; his nephew Andrew, under his supervision, was spending a peaceful afternoon investigating his limbs.
Jane was out collecting for a flag day; one of Winterswick’s older matrons had bullied her into undertaking this charitable act, and Jane had decided that if Andrew were left behind, she would get around her area more quickly. She had been gone for two hours, and Patrick pitied her, trudging round the village begging, while he sat tranquilly at work. All the same, if she did not return soon he would have to give Andrew his orange juice, for such were his instructions, and he was not too confident of his ability to carry out this mission without a clash of personalities.
He turned his attention once more to the mysterious disappearance from Chipping Campden in 1660 of William Harrison, and was absorbed in the details of this puzzling affair when he heard the garden gate open as his sister arrived home.
“Well, how have you been, my angel?” Jane crooned over the pram. “Has that bad uncle of yours forgotten all about you?”
Some cheerful gurgling sounds answered her.
“He’s been extremely good,” said Patrick. “Not a squeak, all afternoon.”
“There, I told you he wouldn’t be a bother,” said Jane complacently.
“How have you fared? Fleeced the natives satisfactorily?” asked Patrick.
“Saturday afternoon’s a bad time to get people at home,” said Jane. “Lots of folk were out, but I did quite well, all the same. It was rather fun really, it’s a chance to chat to people one might not otherwise meet. I met young Cathy Ludlow on her way to deliver a note at the vicarage, so I asked her back to tea. She’ll be here in a minute. I thought we’d have it in the garden, if you’ll clear a space.”
“Very well,” said Patrick meekly. He began to tidy up his papers, and Jane went into the house with her collecting box and tray of flags. As she came out again, Cathy appeared at the gate, pushing her bicycle.
“Ah, there you are, Cathy. Come along in,” called Jane.
Cathy wheeled her machine through the gate and propped it against the hedge. Then she approached the others, looking rather shy.
“This is my brother Patrick. He’s the Dean of St Mark’s, where your cousin is,” said Jane. She bent over the pram and plucked Andrew from its depths. “Here, Cathy, you talk to Andrew and Patrick while I get tea,” she said, and thrust the baby into Cathy’s surprised arms.
“Oh, can’t I help you?” asked Cathy, eyeing Andrew nervously.
“No, no. You sit down and amuse Andrew,” Jane instructed.
Cathy sat down on the wooden garden seat, clutching the baby tightly. He was a writhing, squirming mass of concentrated energy, she discovered, but he beamed at her myopically, and dribbled.
“He likes you,” Patrick observed.
“I’m afraid I’m not very used to babies,” Cathy said. “I’ve never really met one socially before.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m excused from giving him his tea,” said Patrick. “If Jane hadn’t come back by half-past four, that was what I had to do. I’m not used to babies either. But he’s a good little chap, this one.”
Peering at the infant through his heavy-rimmed spectacles, Patrick gave him a friendly poke in the stomach. “I’d better clear up this mess before Jane comes back with the tea,” he added, opening a big box file and piling his papers into it.
“Are you writing a book?” asked Cathy reverently.
“Not a whole book. Just a paper. I’m very interested in unsolved mysteries,” said Patrick, “and there are quite a few that happened long ago and haven’t been explained. I’m adding several thousand words of thoughts to what’s already been said about the Campden Wonder.”
“What was that?”
“He was a man who disappeared from Chipping Campden in 1660. Three people were executed for his murder, and then he turned up again, hale and hearty, two years later,” Patrick said. “No satisfactory solution to the mystery has ever been given. Rather tough on the three scapegoats, too, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Cathy. “How extraordinary.”
“Modern knowledge throws new light on a number of things that baffled our forebears,” Patrick told her happily. “For instance, George III was a much maligned monarch. As you know, everyone thought he was mad, but now it’s believed that he suffered from porphyria.”
“Whatever’s that?”
“A disease with symptoms similar to insanity. It was not recognised all those years ago. But present-day doctors, reading about poor old George’s sufferings, find them typical of the illness.”
“How very interesting,” Cathy said.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Patrick. “Then there was Amy Robsart, who was found dead at the foot of the stairs of the house where she was living, with a broken neck. You remember who she was, the wife of the Earl of Leicester who was such a chum of Queen Elizabeth the First’s. People thought she might have been pushed down the stairs, though the verdict of the day was misadventure. But it was strange that her body wasn’t bruised, as you might expect after such a fall, and as they said at the time, the ‘hood which stood upon her head’ wasn’t disarranged. A theory’s been put forward now that she may have had a spontaneous fracture of the neck due to a secondary cancer. This is not uncommon, and it was rumoured that she was suffering from some severe ailment. Unfortunately her grave can’t be found so that there’s no hope of testing her skeleton to find out for sure. But the facts fit, and would explain what happened.”
“Is this what your work is at Oxford?” asked Cathy.
“No, this is just a hobby,” Patrick said. “My official subject’s English.”
Jane came back at this moment with the tea tray.
“Come on, Patrick,” she exclaimed. “Haven’t you cleared the table yet? I suppose you’ve been haranguing Cathy about Beowulf or something.”
“Your brother’s been telling me about the death of Amy Robsart,” Cathy said. “It’s fascinating.”
“Patrick is the most inquisitive man ever to be born,” Jane told her. “He looks for mysteries where there are none, and is always poking his nose into other people’s business.”
“To their advantage sometimes,” said Patrick mildly. “I’ll just take these papers into the house.”
“He must be very clever,” said Cathy when he had gone.
Jane looked surprised.
“Oh, not especially,” she said, with the nonchalance of one whose relations were always expected to get brilliant firsts.
“I expect you’re just used to him,” said Cathy tolerantly. “He looks very learned.”
“That’s his specs,” Jane said. “I used to think he took to them originally to furnish his face and make him seem older to the undergraduates, but he seems to need them now.”
“I haven’t heard Tim mention him,” said Cathy. “I expect their paths don’t cross, as he isn’t reading English.”
Jane forebore to mention that Patrick, as Dean, was responsible for student discipline and so had often come across her cousin.
“Where is Tim now?” she asked instead. She had set out the tea things, and put a rusk into Andrew’s hand. The baby chirruped in a pleased way and began to gnaw it wetly.
“I don’t know. He’s been in Spain, but I think he’s back from there. He’s probably staying with some of his weirdie friends,” said Cathy.
Patrick came back and sat down, and Jane poured out the tea.
“Hang on to Andrew while I do this, Cathy,” she said. “Then I’ll give him his orange juice. I was just asking Cathy where young Tim is,” she added to her brother. “She doesn’t seem to know.”
“My uncle and aunt, Tim’s parents, came to Pantons last night,” Cathy said. “They don’t know where he is at present, but he’ll turn up.”
“Of course he will,” Patrick agreed. When his funds run out, he thought. “He’s been away for most of the vacation, has he?”
“Oh yes,” said Cathy. “I thought he had a lot of work to do, but he must have forgotten about that. I don’t think he’s written home very much. It’s bad of him, because Aunt Betty anguishes about him and he ought to humour her.”
“Young men are sometimes thoughtless,” Patrick said.
Jane took her son from Cathy.
“Help yourselves, you two,” she said, and began to spoon orange juice into the baby’s mouth.
“Cathy, tell us about your stepmother. How did you get on last night? Do you like her?”
“Jane, really! Now who’s exhibiting vulgar curiosity?” expostulated Patrick. “Don’t answer her, Cathy.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Cathy. “It’s nice of you to wonder. She’s rather nice. A bit shy, I think. She didn’t talk very much, but it must have been pretty awe-inspiring for her, meeting everyone like that, and Gran too.”
She turned to Patrick. “My grandmother has arthritis and has to be in a wheelchair, and she’s rather a formidable person, a bit like the old lady in the Whiteoaks books, if you know who I mean. Alarming, even when you’re used to her.”
“Well, I’m glad you took to your stepmother,” said Jane. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you to tea with us today, as she’s only just arrived. You might have preferred to stay at home and get acquainted.”
“Oh no,” Cathy said. “I couldn’t, anyway. Helen and Father have gone to London for the day.”
“Oh?” Patrick’s tone was interrogative, and Jane frowned at him.
“I was a bit disappointed when I heard about it,” Cathy admitted. “But it seems Helen hasn’t been to England before and she couldn’t wait to see Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. They’re coming back tonight and Aunt Phyllis and I are going to have drinks with them after dinner.”
“Well, that will be pleasant,” said Jane.
“Yes, it will,” said Cathy. She had vigorously suppressed the hurt she felt because Father and Helen had not included her in their trip; she must get used to this exclusion, and not mind it.
“It will do Gran good to have a quiet evening,” she added. “She got a bit worked up last night and couldn’t sleep. Aunt Phyl had to read to her for hours.”
“She doesn’t have a nurse?” asked Patrick.
“No, she isn’t ill. Just immobilised. She has pills and things to calm her down or to keep her going. It must be pretty awful for her, if you think about it,” Cathy said. “Mrs Mackenzie - that’s the housekeeper - is very good with her. She helps Aunt Phyllis get her dressed, and bath her, and so on. One of them’s always at home.”
“I met Mrs Mackenzie in the Post Office this morning,” said Jane. “I was mailing a letter to Michael by the first post, and she was sending a letter somewhere abroad too.”
“I expect it was to her daughter in Canada,” said Cathy. “She writes twice a week, as regular as clockwork, on Wednesdays and Sundays. But it’s Saturday today, this must have been an extra one.”
“Perhaps her daughter has a birthday coming up,” Patrick said. “Is she Mrs Mackenzie’s only family? I wonder she doesn’t join her.”
“She’s got a son, too. He lives in London. He’s got a tobacconist’s shop,” said Cathy. “Mrs Mack goes to see him every Thursday.”
“A creature of routine, clearly,” Patrick said.
“Yes,” Cathy agreed. “She used to live in Canada; she often talks about the frozen Red River. It flows into the Arctic, so when it thaws it can’t escape because the sea’s still ice. They have bitter winters out in Winnipeg, she says.”
“Lucky for you she prefers the English climate, then,” said Jane.
“It is. I don’t know what we’d do without her,” Cathy said. “She’s a super cook, and not many people would put up with Gran’s ways. Not that she’s really such a trial,” she added hastily. “She’s only old.”
“Any independent person forced to rely on others can be forgiven for getting a little tetchy,” Patrick said; rather pompously, his sister thought.
Later, when Cathy had gone, he asked Jane if she had taken her collecting box up to Pantons.
“Not yet. I’m a bit scared of the old lady, as a matter of fact,” admitted Jane. “I thought I’d go up after supper, when she might have gone to bed. The paragon Mrs Mackenzie could no doubt cart my tin up to her bedside.”
“I might do it for you, if you ask me nicely,” Patrick said.