Speaking From Among The Bones (12 page)

What will Cynthia think? indeed!
I thought.

The last I’d heard of Cynthia Richardson, she’d been given a sedative by Dr. Darby after being scared out of her bloomers in the churchyard by the ghost of Cassandra Cottlestone.

Either the injection was just another bit of village gossip, or the vicar was covering up. Cynthia could hardly be stupefied by chloral hydrate and yet still, at the same time, be churning out church bulletins on her Banda machine. It made no chemical sense.

“I should have thought you’d be printing something about Mr. Collicutt,” Miss Tanty said, with a sly glance at the vicar.

Hold on
, I thought.
What’s going on here?

Just minutes ago the woman had been telling me not to waste my crocuses and now here she was practically begging on bended knee for Mr. Collicutt to be given screaming headlines in the church bulletin.

Adults can sometimes behave in the most peculiar ways.

I’ll have to admit that I’d almost forgotten about Mr. Collicutt myself. As discoverer of his corpse, I felt a certain responsibility toward him, but circumstances in the meantime had kept me from giving him more than a moment’s thought.

Later, when I was back at Buckshaw, I would turn to a fresh page in my notebook and jot down the pluses and
the minuses of the deceased Mr. C. But first, I would need to pump Miss Tanty for details. She, after all, was the one who had made an appointment with the dead man.

I was quite certain that, given time, I could extract enough gossip from her to shock even the most hardened tabloid editor in London. If only I could pry her away from Adam and the vicar.

“Yes, well …” the vicar was saying to Miss Tanty, “you really must excuse me,” and with that, he turned and trudged slowly down the aisle toward the door.

The image which trickled into my mind was of the plowman homeward plodding his weary way.

“Sowerby! Blood!”
Meg was calling excitedly from the east aisle. As the others were still chatting, she had made her way back into the shadows among the pews and was beckoning with an unwashed finger.

Adam walked toward her and I followed. After a moment, so did Miss Tanty.

The vicar stopped in his tracks and turned.

I shall never forget that moment. It is etched into my memory like the image on a treasured Christmas card: the three of us, me, Adam, and Miss Tanty, hovering round the crouching Meg like some weird nativity scene carved in wood; the vicar motionless, keeping watch over his flock by night in the far, shadowy fields of the darkened center aisle.

“Blood,”
Meg said again, looking up at us, as if for approval, jabbing at the floor with her filthy finger.

On the stones at her feet was a red ooze.

“The blood of saints and prophets,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

In my memory, we are frozen in our places, although there must have been some bending and jostling for a better view of the red puddle at our feet.

Meg, complacent now that her work of convincing us is done, squats happily beside the mess, looking up at our faces in turn.

“For drinking,” she explains.

A shaft of sunlight struggles through the colored glass, illuminating the liquid.

A fresh drop falls from above, lands with an audible plop, sending out a tiny, but perfectly circular wave of ripples on the surface of the red puddle.

Meg’s bony finger points upward, to where the dark timbers of the hammer-beam roof stretch like the underside of the floorboards of heaven.

Up there, far above our heads, the carved wooden face of Saint Tancred stares down at us as yet another red drop falls from it into our midst.

And another.

“Old man’s crying,” Meg says, simply.

O
DDLY ENOUGH, THE FIRST
to react was Miss Tanty, who, with astonishing flexibility for someone her age, climbed down onto her knees and dipped a finger into the shimmering liquid.

With this she crossed herself, first on her forehead and then again on her breast.
That smeared red stain on her white starched collar is going to be a bugger to get out
, I thought.

“Forgive me, O Lord,” she said, clasping her hands under her chin and staring up rapturously for some reason at the kaleidoscope of colors that was the head of John the Baptist.

Adam produced a white linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dipped a corner of it into the ruby-colored ooze. After examining it closely, he touched it to his tongue.

Well, why not?
I thought.
Since everyone else is sampling the stuff …

Reaching round for my pigtail and untying the remaining white ribbon, I dipped it into the edge of the spreading pool just as another drop fell from the face of the saint in the rafters.

Adam caught my eye and gave me a look which said nothing and yet said everything—an invisible wink.

I don’t think the vicar actually saw any of this. He was still making his way toward us, shuffling awkwardly sideways through the long row of pews which separated us from the center aisle. It seemed to take him forever but when he reached us at last and was finally standing between Adam and me, he stared without a word at the bloody mess on the floor.

Now here’s a fine pickle!
he must have been thinking.
When the wooden head of a saint begins suddenly weeping blood in a remote village church, who do you call? The police? The Archbishop of Canterbury? Or the
News of the World?

“Flavia, dear,” he said, laying a quivering hand on my shoulder, “run outside and fetch Sergeant Graves, there’s a good girl.”

Instantly I felt my face becoming hot, the pressure building up inside my head like Mount Vesuvius.

Why were people always doing this to me? Ordering me about as if I were some kind of specialized chambermaid kept on hand for emergencies?

I counted to eleven. No, twelve.

“Certainly, Vicar,” I said, biting my spiritual tongue. Not until I was almost at the door did I add, under my
breath, “Would you like a nice cup of tea and a biscuit while I’m at it?”

Sergeant Graves was nowhere in sight. The blue Vauxhall was gone, which meant, I supposed, that the police had done what they had come to do, and then had vanished.

Which explained why the sergeant had allowed me into the church. My cleverly conceived “flowers-for-the-altar” scheme had been a waste of time. Then, too, Meg had come in and slammed the door explosively without so much as a village constable raising an eyebrow.

I should have known it. The police had already been leaving, and now they were gone.

Which was a shame, in a way. If I were completely honest, I would admit that I had been looking forward to renewing old acquaintances with Inspector Hewitt. The Inspector and I had what might presently be described as a lukewarm relationship—mental note: Look up origin of “lukewarm.” Possibly biblical? One of the finest passages in the Bible, at least to my way of thinking, was from Revelation:
Because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth
—a relationship which seemed, somehow, to blow hot and cold depending upon the Inspector’s glorious wife, Antigone. I had not yet sorted out the cogs and levers of our somewhat shaky triangular relationship, but it was certainly not for want of trying.

I had more than once thrown myself upon this warm cool goddess, hoping that she would—

Would what? Pledge herself to be my true sworn friend and secret sharer, forever and ever, world without end, Amen?

Something like that, I suppose. But it had not quite worked out that way.

I had blundered badly by asking her if, on an Inspector’s salary, they could not afford to have children. Gracious as she had been in her response, I knew that I had hurt her.

Although I was not accustomed to apologizing, I had done my best, but her lost babies had haunted my sleep for weeks.

What had they looked like? I wondered. Had their hair been dark like hers, or fair and wavy, like his? Were they boys or girls? Did they smile when she cooed at them, and kick up their little feet? What pet names had she whispered to them, and, when it came to that, what final names were given to them before they were placed into the earth?

Motherhood could be a grim old business, I decided, and one that could never, really, be shared. In spite of her gentle exterior, there was a part of the Inspector’s wife that was forever beyond knowing.

Perhaps it was like that with all mothers.

I was thinking that when a black Hillman turned in from the main road and came rushing toward me up the church walk, which was not meant to be used by motorcars. I recognized the driver at once: It was Marmaduke Parr, the bishop’s secretary.

His car was so well washed that, as he climbed out of it, I could see the back of his white mane reflected in its polished paint.

“Good morning, Mr. Parr,” I said, instinctively anxious to keep him from going into the church. The vicar had
troubles enough without having a petty bureaucrat from the Diocesan Office barging in on what might yet prove to be a miracle.

An oaken saint whose eyes wept blood would put an end forever to St. Tancred’s chronic financial problems. The Roof Fund, after half a century, would be liquidated, and with any luck, those never-ending concerts, fêtes in the churchyard, and games of Tombola in the parish hall would be laid to rest.

“
Reverend
Parr,” he corrected, in response to my greeting. “Or
Father
Parr, if you prefer.”

The man was biting off more than he could chew. Although he meant it as a snub, he was obviously not aware that for we de Luces, who had been Roman Catholics since the Resurrection, there could never be too many bells, books, and candles.

Because the vicar was one of Father’s few friends, we attended St. Tancred’s by choice, rather than force. Father looked favorably upon the many innovations that Denwyn Richardson had brought to the parish and had, in fact, once told the vicar to his face, perhaps joking, that he’d always thought of the Oxford Movement as the fold returning to the sheep. All of this, though, was far too complicated to be discussed while standing about in the churchyard.

Marmaduke Parr was staring at me petulantly, impatient to be on about his bullying.

“Then good morning to you,” he said, and strode off toward the door.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” I called out
cheerily. “There’s been a murder. The place is closed. Off-limits. It’s the scene of a crime.”

I used Sergeant Woolmer’s exact words, although I didn’t bother mentioning that the ban had already been lifted.

He stopped in mid-stride and came slowly back toward me. His face and his eyes seemed paler than ever.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“A murder,” I explained patiently, one word at a time. “Someone’s been killed in the crypt.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Collicutt,” I whispered importantly. “The organist.”

“Collicutt? The organist? That’s impossible. Why, he was just—”

“Yes?” I said, waiting.

“Collicutt?” he asked again. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” I told him. “Everybody in Bishop’s Lacey is talking about it.”

This was not quite true, but I had come to believe that there’s no harm in spreading a little fear where fear is due.

“Good lord,” he said. “I hope not. I surely hope not.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “I was hoping to volunteer to assist with digging out Saint Tancred—sorting the bones, and so forth, but it looks as if that’s off.”

“I should say it’s off!” he said. His face went in an instant from the color of curds to a blazing shade of beetroot.
“It’s desecration! Those who are asleep in the Lord are not to be rousted from their graves for the idle entertainment of a pack of vacant villagers.”

Vacant villagers, were we? Well! We shall see about that!

“I understand you’ve put a stop to it,” I said.

“The bishop has put a stop to it,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height—which was fairly substantial—as if he were wearing the bishop’s miter on his head and gripping the bishop’s crosier in his closed fist.

“And not only the bishop,” he added, as if a clincher were needed. “The chancellor, too, is dead set against it. He has withdrawn the faculty and forbidden the disinterment. The archaeologists have been sent packing.”

“Forbidden?” I asked. I was interested in the word, and not just because it had an amusing sound.

“
Strictly
forbidden.” He said this with a note of doomsday finality.

“And who is the chancellor?” I asked.

“Mr. Ridley-Smith, the magistrate.”

Mr. Ridley-Smith, the magistrate?
I thought.

Cassandra Cottlestone’s father had been a magistrate, Daffy had told me, and as such, was able to move heaven and earth—to the extent even of having his suicide daughter buried in consecrated ground.

“That would be the Ridley-Smiths of Bogmore Hall,” I said.

Everyone knew about the Ridley-Smiths of Bogmore Hall, at Nether-Wolsey. They were the subject of stories that had once been whispered behind elaborate paper
fans, but were now likely chattered about over cigarettes in the ABC Tea Shop.

I had heard, for instance, from Feely’s friend Sheila Foster, about Lionel Ridley-Smith, who thought he was made of glass, and his sister, Anthea, whose pet crocodile had eaten a chambermaid.

“That, of course, was before the First War,” Sheila had said, “when chambermaids were thicker on the ground than they are nowadays.”

And didn’t Miss Pickery, the librarian, have a married sister, Hetty, who lived in Nether-Wolsey?

Hetty had suffered what Miss Mountjoy, the former librarian, had once referred to as “a tragic accident” with a sewing machine. And what was it Miss Cool, at the confectionery, had contributed to my storehouse of knowledge about the mysterious but absent Hetty?

“… the Singer, the needle, the finger, the twins, the wayward husband, the bottle, the bills …” she had told me.

That, of course, had been almost a year ago, but with any luck, Hetty would be more than ever on the lookout for someone who was willing to babysit twins.