Late Delivery, page 4
*
It was now October and the leaves on the apple trees in cottage gardens were beginning to turn. In autumn sunlight the village green at Netherwick was enchanting. Two small roads giving access to the houses on the long sides of the green ran from the main road and converged on a lych-gate at the far end leading to the church. Piet stopped his car about halfway along the road on the Post Office side of the green and walked back to the shop. Nothing could have been more peaceful. The climbing roses were as he remembered them, with even a couple of ravaged flowers surviving into the autumn. A small notice over the door announced that Harold Grimshaw was licensed to sell tobacco – presumably he was now the Postmaster. Piet didn’t want anything in particular, but he did want to see inside the shop.
A bell tinkled as he opened the door, alerting a small detective nerve. Had it tinkled when the door was broken into? The timing of the break-in was still puzzling – all the evidence suggested that it had been done in daylight, early, but not all that early, in the morning. It seemed a foolish time to choose, but then people, especially, perhaps, eighteen-year-old murderers, do foolish things.
Facing him as he entered the shop was a counter, at the right hand end of which was the familiar Post Office grille. The wall behind the counter carried shelves, stacked with packets of breakfast food, tins of soup, peas, and other canned goods, and a variety of the general merchandise that one would expect to find in a village store. Between the counter and the shelves was a fairly wide space, giving plenty of room for whoever was serving in the shop to move about. The counter did not run the whole width of the shop. To the left there was space for anyone behind the counter to walk round it into the shop, and at the back was a door, presumably leading upstairs. In the left wall of the shop, once a living room, was a big old-fashioned kitchen range, with bars for an open fire. There was no fire in the grate now, and the grate itself was filled with coloured paper. But it looked as if there would be a fire in winter, for the fender enclosed an iron coal-scuttle, shovel and tongs. There didn’t seem to be a poker. The range itself and its surroundings were carefully black-leaded and scrupulously clean.
The rest of the shop contained a big freezer, some shelves of bread, and a rack for newspapers and magazines. It was Saturday morning, and there were three customers in the shop when Piet entered. One was an old man drawing his pension. A man behind the Post Office grille was dealing with him. There was a woman also behind the counter, serving the other customers. Both were women, apparently shopping for the weekend. A small mound of groceries on the counter was being totted up for one woman, while the other waited with her bag. Piet decided to buy some stamps, and moved to the Post Office end of the counter when the old man had collected his pension. The Postmaster, in his early forties, gave Piet a friendly smile. ‘Morning, sir. What can we do for you?’ he asked.
‘It’s a very nice morning, and your village is looking lovely,’ Piet said.
‘New to Netherwick, are you? Just passing through?’
‘Passing through, yes, but I’m an artist, and I hope to stay for an hour or two to make a sketch of your church. I’ve remembered that I’ve got some letters to write at the weekend, and I’ve run out of stamps. Could you let me have half a dozen?’
‘Sure. Anything else?’
‘Not from the Post Office, but I’d be glad of a couple of boxes of matches.’
‘I’ll do the stamps first – Post Office money goes into a separate till.’ He took the stamps from a cardboard folder interleaved for stamps of various denominations, took Piet’s money and put it in the till. Then he called across to the woman also serving behind the counter, ‘Annie, can you reach me two boxes of matches?’
The woman, about his own age, or a little younger, got the matches from a shelf behind her, and the man handed them to Piet. He paid for them, and the coins were passed to the woman, who put them in the shop-till at the end of the counter away from the Post Office. Piet thanked them both. He noticed that against the wall at the Post Office end of the counter was a big, old-fashioned safe. It was rather lower than the counter, and unless you were standing at the counter you could not see it.
‘Have a good day,’ the man said.
‘Let’s hope the sun keeps shining.’
*
Piet went back to his car, took his easel, sketch-block, paint-box and a folding stool from the boot, and walked towards the church. About four or five yards from the lych-gate, and a little to the right of it, he had a splendid view of the old building, with a flagged path leading to it. The church was small, with a rather squat tower and no steeple. It was clearly very old – an early Norman foundation, Piet thought, though the existing building had doubtless been restored and patched up over the centuries. The east window, which he could just see, looked like thirteenth century work, and the whole compact little building had an air of solidity and confidence, a testimony in stone to the faith it had sustained for centuries.
The church itself looked loved, but the churchyard was in pitiable condition, rank with long grass. Here and there a grave looked cared for, but many of the older tombstones leaned drunkenly, and some that had obviously fallen were stacked against the wall of the church. The path from the lych-gate to the door of the church was tidy and weed-free, but somehow this made the long grass in the rest of the churchyard look worse. His picture, however, would be the church in its setting of tall trees, and the neglected churchyard could, in this context, be ignored. Setting up his easel at the edge of the green he got down to work.
He liked to paint in oils but he enjoyed watercolour, too, and for the job in hand watercolour needed less equipment. He was soon absorbed in what he was doing, his sensitive fingers finding a positive delight in translating colour and shape into a picture. He worked quickly, and church and trees seemed almost to grow on his paper. He was so absorbed in light and colour that he was startled to hear a man’s voice saying, ‘That is really beautiful work. You are making everything come alive.’
He looked up to see a white-haired man, wearing a clerical collar, standing beside him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Is this your church?’
‘Well, I am the rector of Netherwick, but I have three other churches to serve as well. Tomorrow is our Harvest Festival here, and at noon a group of our ladies are coming to decorate the church. I like to be here to greet them.’
‘You live in Netherwick?’
‘Yes, but not in the old rectory – you can just see its tall chimneys through the trees to the left of the church. It is a beautiful old house, built in the reign of George the Third. But it has nine bedrooms, and was built to serve a different society. It was sold after the war, and the present rectory is a modern building, on the main road just beyond the Post Office.’
‘Is that the Post Office where a dreadful tragedy happened quite recently?’
‘Alas, yes. Doubtless you read of an eighteen-year-old youth being sentenced only a few days ago. The village is still shaken by the murder. Old Mrs Denny, our Postmistress, was well-liked – I think I could say loved.’
‘I did read of the case. Didn’t the boy live quite near the Post Office?’
‘Yes, in the last cottage of that row across the green. They are called Rectory Cottages, and used to be part of our glebe, but they were sold with the rectory.’
‘You must find the upkeep of such an old church very difficult in these days.’
‘The church itself is in fairly good repair. Fortunately it is not a large building, and maintenance is within our means. But the condition of the churchyard saddens me. It is in such a state partly because of the case you were talking about. The unhappy boy who was sentenced used to cut the grass and keep the place neat. He and his mother were both faithful members of our congregation – Eric would take nothing for his work in the churchyard. He is hard to replace. Few people are willing to work for nothing nowadays, and labour is dreadfully expensive. Our Parochial Church Council is trying to find a contractor to do the work, but so far we have not been able to find one we can afford. It would be easier if we could remove the tombstones and have flat grass, like a lawn, which could be cut by a lawn mower. Our PCC has considered this on several occasions, and we could apply for a faculty to level the churchyard, but although most of the graves are old and neglected there are still some people living in the village who care for their family graves, and we are reluctant to disturb them. It is all very difficult . . .’ He broke off to greet a woman who had just come up. ‘Ah, Miss Jermyn, it is good of you to come. And I see Mrs Morrison coming. We must proceed to our tasks.’ To Piet he said, ‘I have enjoyed looking at your picture. I think I told you that we have a working party to decorate the church for our Harvest Festival tomorrow, and now I must leave you.’
‘Would you like this picture of your church as a present?’ Piet asked. ‘I shall finish it and frame it in my studio at home, but I shall certainly return to Netherwick – there is much that I should like to paint. I can easily deliver the finished picture at the rectory next time I come.’
‘My dear sir! . . . It is a professional work of a high standard. You are most generous, but it would be wrong to accept such a picture as a gift.’
‘It wouldn’t be in the least wrong, and I should like you to have it,’ Piet said. ‘I’ll try to drop it in some time next week.’
‘You are too kind. If you let me know when you are coming perhaps you would let me give you lunch or supper, and I could tell you about the history of our church.’
‘That would be nice, but I can’t say yet just when I shall be able to return to Netherwick. And the picture is a present – it doesn’t need any return. But I shall enjoy talking to you, if it is at all possible.’
‘I can only repeat my thanks. Come, ladies, we must get to work.’
*
Three or four other women joined the group, and Piet watched them enter the church. He sat working at his picture for about another half-hour, and then he packed up his things and put them back in the car. It would be a good time, he thought, to call at the Golden Fleece. He knew where it was, on the road running through the village, before it reached the Post Office and the green. It was not far, and after sitting at his easel he felt that it would be pleasant to walk.
The village had really only one street, and although some building had been permitted at the back of the gardens of houses fronting the street there had not been much development. The green was more or less in the middle of the village, the built-up road extending on both sides of it. He turned left at the Post Office, and saw the inn sign of the Golden Fleece about a hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the road. The inn stood well back from the road, the ground in front of it forming a large car-park. It was an attractive building, the original seventeenth century inn fronting the road, with substantial additions at the back. The brewery had employed a good architect, and the additions, though not pretending to be anything but modern, harmonised well with the original building. There was an entrance to the side, leading to the restaurant and residential part of the inn, but Piet went in through a porch in front. This brought him to a low-ceilinged passage, rich with dark oak beams, and with a doorway to each side, one marked ‘Public Bar’, and the other ‘Saloon’. For preference in a house of that age Piet would have chosen the public bar, but since he hoped to find Sergeant Clifford and to be able to talk to him without too many other people around he went into the saloon, thinking that it might be less crowded. He was right in both preference and judgment. The saloon had upholstered red settees and tables with glass tops, far less attractive than the scrubbed tables and benches of the public bar. But there was only one other customer, a man sitting in a corner with a pint of beer in front of him, reading a racing paper. There was no one behind the bar, but Piet’s entry had been heard, and in a moment Sergeant Clifford appeared.
‘Lord, sir . . . I never really expected . . . It is very good of you to come.’
‘Of course I wanted to come, Sergeant. Obviously I can’t be quite your first customer, but I can be among them, anyway. Can you manage a large Scotch?’
‘As long as it’s on the house, sir.’
‘No, Sergeant, it can’t be on the house. It’s a nice thought but you’re still technically in the Force, and it would be most improper. Besides, I want to contribute to your success as an innkeeper. How’s it going?’
‘Well, sir, as you know I’ve only just moved in. There’s a biggish bar trade, and we’ve got eight bedrooms, which is quite a lot of accommodation. There’s five of them occupied now, which seems good for the time of year, but we’ve got bookings right through the winter. Mr Andrews ran the place well, and it has a good name. Of course Netherwick, with the downs all round it, is a nice village to come to for a break from London, or wherever. But I think most of our hotel trade has to do with horses. There’s Mr Meredith’s training place about a mile along the road, and owners who have horses with him seem to come here when they want to watch their horses. Then there’s a riding school in the village, and people can hire horses for riding as well as having lessons. Sometimes people come for a couple of days’ riding. But I mustn’t waste your time with my gossip, sir. Here’s that Scotch. And since it’s a great day for me, sir, may I join you with a pint?’
‘Of course you can. And it’s my pint. One day when you’ve really retired I’ll be delighted to let you stand me a drink, but not now.’
‘As you say, sir. And if you can spare the time I’d like to get Martha to meet you. She’s busy in the restaurant now, but I can fetch her in a few minutes.’
‘Can you do me lunch? Then I could meet her in the restaurant and you wouldn’t have to interrupt her.’
‘That would be a real pleasure, sir. And though I say it, you’ll get a good lunch.’
‘How do you manage for staff?’
‘Not at all badly, sir. I don’t suppose you knew, but Martha was trained in hotel management before we were married, and ever since Joan – that’s our daughter – got married and went away Martha’s been working as assistant manageress at a place near Abingdon. She gave up that job about a month ago to come here, to get experience with Mr Andrews. That’s before we knew that Mr Andrews would have to go so soon. He wanted a bigger hotel, so he knew he would be going, and both Martha and I felt that we’d like to come here when I retired. Only, as you know, sir, everything got speeded up.’
‘Who’s the cook?’
‘Well, Martha can cook in an emergency, and she can do all the catering. But we’ve got a real chef – out of the Army Catering Corps, retired, likes the work and living in the country, but doesn’t want the responsibility of running a restaurant. He’s real good, sir, you’ll see. It may surprise you to get a good cook from the Army, but I reckon the Army must eat well nowadays. These ACC chaps are first class.’
‘What happened to that boy’s mother, Bella Marshall, who used to work here?’
‘She still does, and she’s a treasure. Things haven’t been easy for her, but I hand it to the village for not taking it out on her. Of course you can hear talk in the bar sometimes about black bastards and why don’t we clear them all out of the country, but that’s not the general view, not about Bella, anyway. There was a chap in here last night, shooting his mouth off about black people, and a couple of the village lads stood up to him and said he’d no call to talk like that about folk who couldn’t help being black, and did a better day’s work than some others. He was a stranger and he didn’t like being taken up, so he soon left. I must say I was glad to see him go. Bella’s a fine woman, and a brave one, too.’
‘Does the village still talk about the crime?’
‘Not talk, sir, or not much. I’m a village man myself, and village folk don’t talk much about things that happen in the village. But they think about them, and you can feel that they know and care about them. Everybody knows that Bella Marshall’s son murdered the Postmistress, but they don’t seem to hold it against her.’
‘What does she feel? She must have recognised you. Does she resent your taking over?’
‘I don’t think so. She believes her son was framed in some way, but she seems to accept that the way the evidence went he was bound to be sentenced. As for me and my part in the inquiry, well, I was only doing my job, and I was never blustery or hard with her. In fact, when her son was in prison on remand I once drove her to the prison so that she could visit him. She’s broken by it, sir, but I’ve said she’s a brave woman. She believes her boy will come out one day, and she wants to have a home for him to come to.’
III
A Postcard
HOW SHAMEFULLY LITTLE you know about the people who work for you, Piet reflected as he walked away from the Golden Fleece. Before the Netherwick case Sergeant Clifford was no more than a name to him, and even in the Netherwick affair he had been simply a subordinate officer carrying out mostly routine inquiries. Yet all the time he was a husband and father, with skills and ambitions as an innkeeper, and a wife who was a competent hotel manageress. Her competence was apparent as soon as he entered the hotel part of the Golden Fleece, and Sergeant Clifford was right about the lunch – it was a simple, well-cooked meal, admirably served. The Cliffords considered themselves lucky to have acquired the Golden Fleece; Piet thought that the brewery was lucky to find people of the quality of the Cliffords for one of their inns.
Walking back to the green he noticed the rectory on the other side of the road, a detached modern house, with two gates and a small semi-circular drive. Like the churchyard, the lawn needed cutting, though not so badly. An elderly Ford car stood in the drive. A rector with four country churches to look after would need to use a car a lot, and few congregations have yet caught up with the costs of having the services of a priest. Piet doubted whether the parish’s contribution to the rector’s expenses went far to meet the real costs of maintaining his car, and by today’s standards his stipend was probably less than many a factory worker’s wage. Truly a priest needed a vocation. When the great Georgian rectory was built the priest was on equal terms with the squire – if his living included a lot of the surrounding farmland, in almost every sense he was the squire. A better society? Who could say? Better for the beneficed Anglican clergy, no doubt, but not so good for their tenants and farm labourers. Yet there were devoted priests in the opulence of the eighteenth century as there are devoted priests in the poverty of the clergy today. Did more poverty mean more devotion, or do constant nagging worries about making ends meet sap faith? It was the society Piet had to police, and although he might be concerned about its relativities and moral values, he had to take them as they came.
