Jewel of Gresham Green (14 page)

And there was the matter of yesterday’s telegram from Birmingham.

Woman daughter need job home escape. Can you help?

Escape? Had the woman broken out of prison?

Of course not. He trusted Paul Treves not to involve him in a crime. And so there was naught he could do but reply yes, until Mr. Trumble pointed out that he should add two more words, for the minimum price was set at three.

Yes of course.

He expected a reply from Vicar Treves soon, hopefully with meatier details. But for this moment, he was simply a man with a fishing rod, a good friend, and a cloudless morning.

Ambrose gave him a gleeful smile. “You’ll never guess this one.”

“Not if you don’t speak it.” The water dimpled where Andrew’s hook sank.

“ ‘Our doubts are traitors,’ ” Ambrose said, “ ‘and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.’ ”

Andrew repeated the line. “That’s a great one, Ambrose.”

“Take all the time you need,” Ambrose said graciously.

Smiling to himself, Andrew thought how easily his friend fell into the acting role, for patience was not one of Ambrose’s virtues. It was a wonder that he enjoyed fishing.

“What have we here?” Ambrose said, and reeled in a bream, too meager for Mrs. Herrick’s table.

“You’ll be patronizing Temple’s after all,” Andrew said, just before a great wave of pain rolled through his midsection.

“It is no shame to contribute to the village economy.” Ambrose baited his hook, whistling Verdi’s “La Donna è Mobile” between his teeth.

Andrew clutched his stomach with his left hand.

“Say, old man, are you thinking?” Ambrose said.

Sweat trickled down Andrew’s temple.

Ambrose cast his line back into the water. “Would you care for a hint?”

A groan rose up from Andrew’s stomach, pushed through his lips.

“As you wish, but there is no shame in getting a hint.”

Andrew groaned again.

Ambrose jerked his head in his direction, threw down his rod and reel.

“What is it?” Ambrose asked, taking the rod from his hand, helping him sit on the grass.

“Tonic,” Andrew said weakly. “I need—”

“You need the doctor.” Ambrose crouched before him, felt his forehead. “You’re sweating like old cheese. Will you be all right while I get help?”

“Yes,” Andrew replied. And indeed, the pain was subsiding. “I think it’s better. I just need a minute.”

“Not on your life. I’ll be back.” Ambrose straightened, started toward the vicarage.

“Wait!”

Ambrose turned back to him, face tight with concern. “What is it, Andrew?”

“The line . . .”

“It’s over there in the grass. I’ll gather it all up after—”

“No.” Andrew shook his head. “Shakespeare.”

Ambrose gaped at him. “I can’t believe you! It’s from
Measure
for Measure
! Act one! If you’re dead when I return, I shall carve it on your gravestone!”

Andrew chuckled, listening to the fading footfalls against the earth. Only a true friend would make such a morbid joke.

If he passed on this very moment, he would not hold it against God, for he had been blessed with good friends and loving family. A fulfilling vocation. The most loving wife a man could ask for.

Julia,
he thought, and closed his eyes.

But if you would kindly grant me just a little more time . . .

“May I bring you up some tea, Mrs. Phelps?” Dora asked from the landing.

“No thank you,” Julia replied. “I’m sorry your lovely treats are wasted.”

“They’ll make a fine lunch later, anyway. How is the vicar?”

“I don’t know yet.”

What Julia did know was that it was absolutely useless to pace outside the bedroom door, but she could not tear herself away. She was grateful that Elizabeth and Fiona and Ambrose were downstairs to explain to the ladies arriving that the meeting would have to be postponed.

The door opened and Doctor Rhodes stuck his head through the gap. “Come back inside, Mrs. Phelps.”

Julia entered. Andrew sat on the side of the bed, buttoning his shirt. He smiled at her. “I feel much better. Don’t look so worried.”

“Over there! Directly east!” cried first mate Harris. He hopped
to his feet and waved his arms. “We’ll gather sticks . . . build a
fire!”

“Wait!” Captain Jacobs ordered. “We don’t know who they
are.”

“Who they are? After two years on this blasted island, I don’t
care if it’s Napoleon Bonaparte!”

Captain Jacobs drew his pistol, aimed it at Harris. Just two
bullets remained. The rest rusted in the carcasses of Komodo dragons
that had feasted on three of his men.

“Lay low, Harris, or I’ll plug you and leave you for the lizards!”
That got the first mate’s attention. He dropped to the
ground.

“There’s a good man,” Jacobs said. How could he fault Harris,
with his young wife and two children waiting? Perhaps if he himself
had someone to return to, he would not be so cautious.

He raised his field glasses to his eyes. The Union Jack flapped
from the mast. Jacobs smiled.

“Build your fire, Harris.”

What Captain Jacobs could not know was that Indonesian pirates had commandeered the ship.
Another one in the oven
, Aleda thought, unrolling the page and its carbon copy.

She would not trade places with anyone. In what other vocation could one be paid for sitting in the cool window breeze, sending daydreams to the fingers to type? For changing from nightgown at one’s leisure, sometimes not at all when a deadline loomed near.

As she wrapped and tied the original pages for mailing, she wondered how long she could stretch out the story. She would send the hapless crew of the HMS
Sphinx
home eventually—minus the poor trio eaten by Komodo dragons and however many would perish battling pirates. But Harris and Captain Jacobs would come out alive. Readers would want Harris reunited with his wife and children and Captain Jacobs to find romance.

That gave her pause. What if in next month’s installment those same pirates had on their ship a beautiful daughter of a lord, captured for ransom?

Hmm
. Aleda chewed her fingernail. Captain Jacobs would have to be over forty to have participated in the siege of Petropavlovsk. The woman should be in her thirties.

She could be the widow of a lord . . . who was recently murdered by the pirates.

But this lord would have to have been corrupt, perhaps have attempted to do business with the pirates. He would have mistreated his wife, or readers would not accept her falling in love with Captain Jacobs so soon into her widowhood.

She had a month to sort it all out. She pushed back her typewriter on her desk, filled her Waterman fountain pen. Whatever time her bread-and-butter stories did not demand was devoted to her novel.
Wharram Percy
was set in an actual abandoned village in the Yorkshire wolds, and filled with stories of characters who might have lived there. She had visited the site and surrounding area five times over the past four years. Last year, she had tied plots and subplots into a proper ending. Even so, the story stretched out before her like a road dipping over the horizon.

Her pen was the tortoise on that road. The typewriter was too impersonal. Completion was impeded by such things as side trips to chapter six to enhance the dialogue between the constable and his errant child, chapter ten to trim superfluous adjectives from a sunset.

Critics, somewhat forgiving with newspaper serializations for the masses, could be brutal with novels. Aleda had felt just enough critical jabs from her stories to know that she would not surrender her heart, her passion, for public viewing until every word, phrase, and paragraph was the best it could possibly be.

Knocking sounded downstairs. She picked up her watch from her desktop.

Twenty past nine?

Mrs. Moore’s grandson, Vernon, would be delivering clean laundry today, but he usually came just before noon. She pushed out of her chair and slipped dressing gown over nightgown. She could only find one slipper, so padded downstairs in bare feet.

“Aunt Aleda?”

She recognized John’s voice through the door.

“Come in!” she called, halfway across the kitchen.

He opened the door and entered. The eleven-year-old had inherited Jonathan’s dark hair and compact build, but the good-natured hazel eyes were handed down from Andrew. Today they were filled with worry.

“Is it the squire?” Aleda asked.

He shook his head. “Mother says come. It’s Grandfather.”

“Well, it’s an ill wind that blows no good,” Father said from his parlor chair. “It’s good to see you, daughter. Did you finish your story?”

But for paleness to his cheeks, he seemed well. There was more distress in the faces of the other occupants of the parlor— Mother, Elizabeth and Jonathan, Ambrose and Fiona Clay.

“Yes. John says you’re ill. What is it?”

“Gallstones,” her mother said gently, sitting on an ottoman at his side, holding his hand.

“What does that mean?” asked John.

Father smiled at him. “That I’ve got too much gall, John. Can you believe it?”

“Grandfather will be fine,” Elizabeth assured her son. “The stones just need to . . . come out.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “How?”

“Well, in hospital.”

“It’s done all the time now,” said Mr. Clay, but the assurance in his voice did not travel up to his eyes.

The parlor table was set with teapot and two trays of sandwiches and assorted treats. They looked barely touched, and must have been intended for one of her mother’s charity meetings. Aleda was famished, having subsisted on bread and cheese and gooseberries for the past week. But nothing could have induced her to eat. She crossed the carpet and stood before her stepfather with arms folded.

“We will
not
allow Doctor Rhodes to put a knife to you!”

A gasp came from behind. She twisted around and realized John had followed her across the room. Jonathan got up from the sofa to put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Elizabeth, rising too, shook her head at Aleda as if to reassure her that she had done nothing wrong.

“Why don’t you take him home?” Mother said gently. “See about the twins. Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda will be tired.”

Jonathan and Elizabeth looked at each other. The message traveling between the two sets of eyes was as distinct as if spoken. When Jonathan did speak, it was simply confirmation for the rest of the people in the room.

“We’ll go,” he said softly to Elizabeth. “Stay here awhile.”

She touched his sleeve and returned to the sofa. Aleda moved to sit beside her.

“Doctor Rhodes recommends a well-reputed surgeon at Saint John’s Hospital,” Mother said. “He’s telegraphing to inquire for Monday.”

“Monday?” Fiona Clay said.

“That was the first attack I’ve had in a couple of weeks,” Father said. “I feel right as rain now.”

“Right as clouds, you mean,” Aleda said. “You’re white.”

“Mother?” Elizabeth pleaded.

“I agree he shouldn’t wait,” she said with pained tone. “But we may as well argue with a gatepost.”

Father nodded. “I appreciate all of you. And I don’t wish to cause you worry. But I’ve had these attacks for months now. Four days will make no difference. I’ve promised to baptize the Coggins’ grandchild, and have already written my sermon. As I shall be laid up in bed for weeks afterwards, I intend to be in the pulpit on Sunday.”

It was useless to argue. Aleda could hardly blame him. If she were told she required immediate surgery, she would argue for a couple of days to get her manuscripts in order, adjust to the idea. But there was another question no one had asked—at least not in her hearing.

“What about Philip?” she asked.

“Yes, Andrew,” Mr. Clay said, starting to rise. “I’ll telegraph him at once.”

“No,” Father said. “Doctor Rhodes says this other man is good. I’m satisfied.”

“But, Father,” Elizabeth said, “Philip was at the top of his class.”

“And you have that heart murmur,” Aleda reminded him.

“He wouldn’t have time to arrange for someone to cover his absence.”

“Shouldn’t that be his decision?” Mr. Clay said, seated again but looking prepared to hop up at a moment’s notice.

“No. It should be mine.” Father looked from face to face. “I appreciate all of you. More than I can say. But I shall be very hurt if any of you go against me and contact him.”

Silence followed, with most eyes staring down at hands.

This is insane
. Aleda cleared her throat. “Will you even inform him, Father?”

“Of course. Tonight I’ll write to him, as well as to Laurel and Grace. Now, noon is only forty minutes away. What say we pass those dishes around and have lunch?”

“Yes,” Mother said, rising. “We have so much here. Oh, but Jonathan and the children . . .”

“I’ll just pack a hamper and join them at home,” Elizabeth said.

“I’ll help you.” Aleda got to her feet and gave her mother a regretful look. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

Chapter 12