Tea with Jam and Dread (6 page)

The above description was total hogwash. It was something that Agnes had written just for that night’s entertainment. Nonetheless, I was a freckle’s thickness away from being a believer. After all, it sounded like something that
could
be true, and since it was in black and white that meant it had to be right – except that it didn’t. I mean, both the Book of Mormon and the Koran were also in black and white and I didn’t believe them. And Gabe didn’t believe in the New Testament –
or
the Old Testament, for that matter.

Anyway, now that Agnes had everyone’s attention, she licked her lips seductively. ‘Snipe meat is moist and tender, and far more flavourful than even the most expensive free-range chicken. Fresh snipe meat, like that which we are about to catch tonight, is considered to be one of the most sought-after delicacies in the world.’

‘Balderdash,’ Peregrine said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Agnes said through a mouth that had shrunk to the size of a Cheerio.

Peregrine emitted a moustache-ruffling snort. ‘If that claptrap about tripe meat were the case, then I dare say that I would have heard about it before this. The chef at my club in London is up on all the latest trends and he’s never mentioned tripe.’

‘That would be
snipe
, dear,’ I said. So he’s half deaf, as well as blind, I noted to myself.

Before continuing, poor Agnes shot Alison a warning look. My fourteen-year-old was about to explode with pent-up mirth. A snipe hunt is a practical joke; a fool’s errand. In a few minutes we would lead the eager hunters out across my moonlit pastures to the distant woods, each armed with a battery-powered torch and a cotton pillow case. Then Agnes would station the four unknowing nobles about thirty meters apart along the edge of the woods. The Grimsley-Snodgrasses would be directed to stand quietly and wait for the rest of us to fan out into the woods and flush the snipes.

The clueless aristocrats would wait, and wait, and wait, until finally one of them caught on that it was only a game and that they had been played. If they were good sports – which they would be, given that all Englishmen were jolly, good-natured folk – they would at last come trudging back to the inn wearing sheepish grins and making plans for holding their own snipe hunts once they returned to their native soil. The only time a snipe hunt backfired on me was when I foolishly attempted to play the trick on a party of Germans. They stayed out
all
night, refusing to consider the notion that the proprietor of such a reputable establishment as mine would pull such a stunt on unsuspecting foreigners.

Of course, that was then and this was now, as Alison was wont to say. Then there were a few Germans goose-stepping over my grave, but now, curiously, when all should have been fun and games, I felt as if there were a gaggle of greylag geese rehearsing the rumba in my tummy.

‘Abort mission!’ something, or someone, screamed in my brain. Was it my guardian angel or was it my overactive imagination? Not that it mattered, however, for as usual, my rational nature took over and I followed the course of least resistance: I stuck with the status quo.

I
honestly believe that if all the Redc
oats had been as good sports as Aubrey, and even Celia, we colonialists might not have been turncoats and declared our independence from that ‘Looney Tunes’ King George III. The two Grimsley-Snodgrass womenfolk came traipsing back to the PennDutch in high spirits. They were laughing and carrying on as only a mother and daughter could – just not my mother and me.

This lack of gaiety in us Yoder gals wasn’t our fault, mind you. The Bible states quite clearly that one must fear God, and so my people had – for hundreds of generations. All that fear was bound to produce a few sourpusses. Yes, I know that just stating this sounds like I’m espousing genetics and evolution in some weird, twisted, theological way – which I’m not. As for those who wish to set me straight with a purely scientific point of view, my answer is simple: don’t confuse me with facts. Enough said.

I was beginning to think that Sebastian might have inherited a God-fearing gene or two as well, because he returned to the inn rather rankled. First he stomped on the outside steps like a wine-making peasant, next he slammed the kitchen door, and when no one ran to greet him he slammed it again.

‘Where is everyone?’ he shouted. Woe was me; I could feel it in the marrow of my bones. That gaggle of gabbling, grave-galumphing geese had finally come home to roost in the mixed metaphor of my overactive imagination.

I took a deep breath and prayed for a calm spirit so that I might carry on properly and not shame my fellow countrymen. Instead, my pulse pounded even faster and my thoughts chased each other so fast that they blurred into butter. At that point I could choose to lie down and accept defeat, or, like a tigress, go down fighting all the way. I decided on the latter.

‘Coming, dear,’ I trilled and sallied forth into the adjoining kitchen through the swinging saloon-style doors. Between forefinger and thumb I held aloft a saucer-sized chocolate chip biscuit, of the American variety: soft, chewy, full of shortening and a hundred million calories, and of course a gazillion chocolate chips. It is the kind of snack that you can feed to an enemy and then watch his, or her, hips literally swell in front of your eyes with each bite that is swallowed. In fact, I once wrote to President Obama that there was no need for drone strikes. All he needed to do was drop large bags of cookies down to each ISIL operative and watch them explode from within. My hopes of being appointed Ambassador to the Court of St James, on account of my service to my country, were dashed when I received a brief note telling me that I was not only naïve, but that the cookies had been confiscated by the Secret Service and demolished by explosives for his protection.

Thank heavens that Sebastian wasn’t as cautious as all that. ‘Give me one of those,’ he said, ‘
after
you explain to me why it is that you played such a nasty trick on us.’

I waved the fragrant biscuit under his nose and led him through the swinging doors and into my spacious, formal dining room where everyone else sat waiting. That is to say, everyone was there except for Peregrine, who had yet to return from the fields. The remainder of us were drinking tea or cocoa and were eating a variety of homemade treats. One could say that we were having a ‘jolly good time.’

‘Oh, Sebastian, do give it a rest,’ his mother said and took a sip of her chamomile tea. ‘Celia and I had a lovely time.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Didn’t we, dear?’

Celia sprung from her chair as if she’d been fired from a gun. ‘Yeah, Sebastian. And you’re not going to believe this, but after Mother and I walked down from where you and Papa were standing, we each caught three of them.
Three
, Sebastian!’

‘Aren’t you special,’ Sebastian said, contorting his mouth with every syllable.

‘Sebastian,’ said Aubrey, ‘please cut back on your sarcasm. Whatever will the Americans think?’

‘That I intend to immigrate?’ he said.

‘That’s rude,’ Celia said, thereby forever putting herself in my good graces, which for a teenager is a pretty ding-dong hard thing to do.

‘You go, girl,’ I mouthed.

Poor Aubrey looked desperate. ‘Please, darlings, mightn’t we all just get along? For the sake of England?’ She began softly humming ‘The White Cliffs of Dover,’ which never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

Celia gave her poor mother half a nod, which, I suppose, is better than no nod at all. I have been a teenage girl, but never one with a brother to best. However, I am quite sure that, had I been in Celia’s expensive English shoes, I would have done exactly the same thing.

‘Nice plump ones they were too,’ she said. ‘Mother said that they looked to be every bit as succulent as those French capons that cook got her hands on this spring. Magdalena agreed that they looked to be young, tender snipes. She put the snipes in with her chickens for safe keeping until morning. Gentle as lambs, they were – walked right into the pillow slips.’

‘You’re putting me on, you are!’ Sebastian grabbed one of my fabulous chocolate-chip biscuits and began tearing into it like a lion into its prey. ‘There isn’t any such thing as a snipe.’

‘Strictly speaking, dear, there is,’ I said as I dabbed at my eyes with a plain white cotton handkerchief.

‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but it’s not what you describe. In the meantime, my papa is missing.’

‘Missing?’ Aubrey said. ‘What do you mean? I just saw him.’

‘Yeah?’ Sebastian said. ‘Was that before or after you and Celia caught these plump, succulent game birds?’

The Babester, ever my handsome hero, stood and handed his son off to Alison. ‘Hey,’ he said to Sebastian, ‘enough with the attitude. I don’t care if you are our guest; in this house, people respect their mothers.’

Of course, there was stunned silence all around. Alison was the first to speak.

‘You go, Dad!’

‘Thanks, and the same thing applies to the peanut gallery,’ Gabe said with a wink.

‘I ain’t no peanut gallery!’

‘Shh,’ I said, ‘you’re going to wake Little Jacob, dear. How about doing me a big favour and putting him to bed tonight? Then you can watch TV in our room.’ Mind you, that was an
enormous
privilege, so the favour aspect was really all stacked in her direction.

‘Ah, do I hafta?’

‘Yes,’ said her father firmly. ‘You must.’

‘Man, this ain’t fair! Yinz are so mean, ya know that?’

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but if I did, at one point I must have been a fish that took the first baited hook that it encountered. Perhaps it’s because I try my hardest to be the best mother that I can that when Alison tosses out these ‘wiggly worm’ accusations I swim right up to her boat.

‘I am
so
fair – I mean, life isn’t fair. No, that’s not right, either. It’s all in God’s hands, and we don’t know His plans. Enough of that. We definitely aren’t mean; we just have grown-up things to discuss. You should be happy that I’m even letting you watch TV, which, as you know, I consider to be an instrument of the Devil, except for
I Love Lucy
and
Are
You Being Served?
Although, personally, I think that given the state of the world today there should be a show titled
Are You Being Saved?
Of course, finding a good Christian actress is a bit of an oxymoron, isn’t it? Too bad that Aubrey here is Church of England and not a proper Protestant, as the Good Lord intended, because she does have a lovely bone structure—’

‘Ahem,’ Aubrey said, ‘I, and my lovely bones, are sitting right here and my husband is still missing. Do you mind if we talk about
him
?’

‘Well,’ I said, feeling my ears turn red, ‘you don’t have to tell
me
twice on which side of the toast to spread the marmite. I suppose that I do carry on from time—’

‘Mags,’ Gabe said sternly, making a zipping motion across his mouth. ‘Alison,’ he said just as sternly, and pointed towards our bedroom.

Meanwhile, Agnes sat with her hands primly folded on the table, her features arranged in the same manner favoured by Queen Victoria in the many long years of her widowhood. I don’t believe in the transmigration of souls either, but if I did, I would swear (something else that I don’t do) that my best friend had fled for parts unknown on holiday, and that the ‘Mother of Kings’ was her temporary replacement.

Call me old fashioned, but
sometimes
I don’t mind it when Gabe pulls back on my reigns, especially when I’ve been making a fool of myself. As for Alison, it looked as if Buckingham Palace was weighing down her lower lip, but she managed to stomp off without another word, and miraculously without waking up Little Jacob.

‘Now then,
people
,’ Gabe said, giving Sebastian and Celia stern looks as well, ‘I am going to give you back your torches – only we call them
flashlights
here in the States – and we shall all return to the scene of the crime. Oops, bad choice of words. We’ll go to where this young man says that Perry disappeared.’

‘His name is
Peregrine
,’ Sebastian said, and practically without hissing too. Believe me, there is no man quite as virile as an Englishman.

‘Shouldn’t you call the constable, so that he can organize a search party?’ Aubrey said.

That’s when Agnes came to life and began to wring her plump, although perhaps not tender, little hands. ‘Unfortunately, the search party would be Magdalena’s bailiwick.’

‘Et tu, Brutus?’ I said. ‘Why “unfortunately”?’

Quite fortunately, the Babester stepped in again. ‘Hernia is a small village, mostly populated by Mennonites and surrounded by Amish farmers. Both sects are extremely peaceful and law-abiding. For instance, in their religion it is forbidden to take a human life, even in self-defence. It is also a rather poor community, and whereas it once had a two-person police force, it is currently down to just one person, whom Magdalena pays out of her own pocket. Incidentally, Magdalena is the mayor, for which she receives no salary, and she is also the captain of the all-volunteer Hernia Search and Rescue Squad – again, without compensation. If it wasn’t for my wife’s largesse, this community would be without most of its vital services. As for what Agnes might mean by her remark, I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Yeah?’ Sebastian sneered. ‘Is that so? Well, I remember reading about several murders happening right here at this very inn. They were written up in that brochure Mother received in the post.’

At that dear Aubrey came around the table and lightly touched my shoulder in what I was to later learn was the English equivalent of a full-body embrace. In all honesty, had the Good Lord created me with other proclivities, and had Aubrey
actually
embraced me – well, who knows just how many sins that kettle of fish might have contained.

After all, just because God made you a certain way, that doesn’t mean that you get to act that way.
Au contraire
: clearly the Almighty wishes homosexuals to suffer, or else he wouldn’t punish them by all His prohibitions against what He calls ‘abdominal’ behaviour. Someday when I get to Heaven I shall ask the Dear Lord why he bothered to create these painful hurdles for these dear folks to begin with. After all, it isn’t
their
fault that they were born with these urges.

My word, there are times when I do digress! ‘Yes,’ sweet Aubrey said, ‘it is true. On the internet there are numerous articles about the murders that have taken place here. Frankly, that is the reason why I chose your charming inn, Magdalena.’

‘You don’t say!’ I said.

‘Ah, but I do say. It was Chambers – she’s my secretary – who discovered your advert in the back of the beauty magazine. Frankly, it wasn’t the Amish angle, or the little bit of history that you Americans have that attracted us, but the uncanny number of murders that have happened under the watch of one woman. Magdalena, your life really is stranger than fiction.’

Well, that got my knickers in a knot – pardon my French. I slowly and quite obviously brushed my shoulder where Aubrey’s shapely fingertips had momentarily rested.

‘You would think it even stranger, dear,’ I said, ‘if you could have read my mind a minute ago.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Never mind. But since you have brought the matter up, most of these murders were solved by yours truly, and were it not for them I would not be the wealthy woman that I am today.’

‘Wealthy and generous,’ my loyal husband said. ‘She single-handedly supports all the public services in the village. She even brings in a doctor once a week to hold a clinic in the jail.’

‘Saint Magdalena,’ Sebastian sneered.

‘Shut up,’ Celia said. ‘I don’t suppose you need to be rude all the time, do you?’

‘That’s telling him, isn’t it?’ said Aubrey. She turned back to me. ‘I loved how the press gave each of the murders a title, almost as if they were books.
‘Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
,
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime
– the list is endless, and each one more clever than the last.’

‘What did the papers call the last one again?’ Celia asked. ‘Mother particularly liked that one.’

‘
The Death of Pie
,’ Sebastian interjected just to be mean.

‘Listen, dear, you needn’t worry about any murders taking place while you’re here on holiday. Nobody here knows you, therefore nobody dislikes the admittedly unlikable personality of one of you notable nobles, so the only motive could possibly be to keep you from talking after an armed robbery, seeing as how you’re filthy rich, but an armed robbery is simply out of the question because first your presence in Hernia and environs has got to even make it on our radar screen – so to speak. So far I haven’t told a soul about you titled la-dee-dahs or your valises bulging with tiaras, coronets, ermine capes or what have you – well, except for the two hundred and forty-three members of my church; the eighteen ladies of the Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle; my double first-cousin once removed, Sam Yoder, who owns Yoder’s Corner Market; the cashiers at Miller’s feed store; and possibly my banker up in Bedford whom everyone calls Mr Busy Lips.’