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Authors: Carola Dunn

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“Oh, I can't possibly accept!” Mr. Osborne's voice trembled with agitation. “I can't! It's hard enough here. I could never keep it secret in a Cathedral precinct, constantly surrounded by clergymen and Church officials. As it is, since Ozzy—my brother—came to stay, Adelaide has begun to suspect. All these years I've kept it from her, from everyone, but I can't go on much longer!”
Surely Mr. Osborne couldn't have been getting poison-pen letters from his
brother!
The professor's visit must be coincidental. But who
would
write horrible accusations to the inof fensive, kindly vicar? And accusing him of what?
“What, exactly, does Mrs. Osborne suspect?” Daisy asked cautiously.
“She's afraid Ozzy and Gresham between them are subverting my faith. Sooner or later she'll realize I've none to be threatened. I lost it in the trenches.”
“You're an atheist?” Daisy breathed, stunned, yet feeling she ought to have guessed. “An unbelieving vicar?”
Stopping short, he looked at her, his round face wild. The rain was beginning to fall in earnest now, damping the absurd Panama and the shoulders of his black jacket. He was oblivious. Daisy took the umbrella from his arm, managed to open it while holding on to her own, and put it in his hand.
“I can't go on.” He swung round and started up the hill again, his tread heavy, effortful. “I don't know why I'm telling you, except that I must tell someone and you look sympathetic. Ozzy doesn't understand. Even Gresham … They've both rejected religion on logical grounds. They feel no conflict. My revolt is emotional, I know it. I don't
want
to believe in a God who permits young, hale, well-meaning men to be tortured, crippled, slaughtered by the hundred thousand!”
“I know what you mean,” Daisy said soberly. “I wasn't there, of course, but I lost my brother and my fiancé.”
The vicar seemed not to hear her. His bitter, passionate words flowed on: “Nearly five years since the War ended, yet it seems like yesterday. The stench of blood … but the Church was founded in blood. How can I bear to hold services of praise and thanksgiving for a God who demanded a human sacrifice before he'd grant forgiveness for our petty sins? I've tried. I've preached countless sermons, hoping at least to alter people's behaviour for the better though I can't sincerely offer them rewards in Heaven. No one changes. And they call themselves Christians! I can't go on, I can't go on.”
“Why should you? I should think you'd better leave the Church. Couldn't you teach or something?”
“What I'd like to do is join one of the secular groups working to educate the poor, in the East End slums of London, or Birmingham, Manchester … anywhere.” Mr. Osborne sounded quite enthusiastic, but then he groaned. “Can you
imagine my wife leading such a life? Even a school, if any respectable school was willing to hire an atheist, she would regard as a bitter pill after …” He turned and waved his free hand at the red tile roofs of the village, straggling across the hillside below.
“After being monarch of all she surveys?” Daisy suggested.
He gave her a rueful smile. “I'm being grandiloquent, am I not? But all the same, my dear Miss Dalrymple, I can't do it to her. I have a duty to her. I married Adelaide for better or worse, and though I no longer believe in the God before whom I plighted my troth, still, I promised to comfort, honour, and keep her.”
“And your children.”
“Yes, the children, too, with their future ahead of them. So I struggle on, mired in hypocrisy, no better than those I … rebuke. I must be off,” the vicar added hastily, suddenly in a hurry to get away, as if he regretted his confession. “Forgive me for burdening you with my troubles.”
“I shan't tell anyone.”
“Oh, but half of me wishes you would. Then the decision would be out of my hands. Good-bye, Miss Dalrymple.” He set off down the hill at a near trot.
Frowning, Daisy watched him go. Whatever his mixed feelings, of course she would not give away his secret. It ought to be safe with his brother and his friends, the Greshams—but either one of them was the Poison Pen, or someone else had discovered or guessed the vicar's loss of faith.
That was assuming he had received one or more anonymous letters. Continuing up the hill, Daisy wished she had asked him outright. He might turn out to be an ally in her investigation. As it was, she had not even got around to finding out how long Professor Osborne had been staying at the Vicarage.
This evening she'd ask Johnnie when the first letter had been
delivered. Tomorrow, chatting over “urn tea,” it shouldn't be difficult to inveigle Mrs. Osborne into putting a date on her brother-in-law's arrival in Rotherden. Come to that, any of the village busybodies at the WI meeting would probably remember not only the date but which train the professor had come down on from town.
Oh gosh, the WI meeting! What the dickens was she going to talk about?
 
Daisy had no opportunity that evening for a private word with Johnnie. He had telephoned to say he was bringing one of his colleagues on the Bench home for dinner as they had business to discuss. After dinner, they disappeared into the library.
Vi professed herself perfectly happy to listen to a concert on the wireless. Daisy still had no brilliant ideas of what to say to the WI, so she fetched her London Museum notes from her room and settled down to put them in order, to the pastoral strains of Beethoven's Sixth.
When the last notes of the “Shepherds' Thanksgiving after the Storm” had died away, Violet stretched and said, “I'm for bed. Are you coming up? Shall I turn the wireless off?”
“In a few minutes, and yes, please. Oh, Vi, what
am
I going to talk to those women about?”
“Why not explain what you're doing now? It's a sort of magic, reducing chaos to order. I mean, I wouldn't know where to begin turning a sheaf of notes into an interesting article. Maybe you'll get them all started writing ‘A Day in the Life of a Farmer's Wife.'”
“Heaven forbid!” Daisy laughed. “That's a starting point, though. I'll see what I can come up with. Thanks, darling, and good night.”
After her active day, Daisy slept soundly. She only half
roused when a maid brought her early-morning tea. A few minutes later, a tap on the door brought her the rest of the way to wakefulness. “Come in.”
Belinda was already dressed—in her shorts, although her first, tragic words were, “It's still
raining
, Aunt Daisy.”
“I'm sure you and Derek will find plenty to do indoors.”
“He wants to play with Meccano.”
“And you don't?”
“It's for boys.”
“Why?”
“Gran says … You mean I can build stuff, too?” Bel asked in wonder.
“Of course, silly.” Another source of strife with Mrs. Fletcher, Daisy groaned silently. Having been coerced in the past into assisting her nephew, she added, “I bet your fingers are better at those beastly little nuts and bolts than Derek's.”
“I'll make a house. He's got
loads
.” She dashed off, full of enthusiasm.
Sipping her cooling tea, Daisy wished she could summon up equal enthusiasm for this afternoon's lecture. At least the rain made it easier to devote the morning to preparation. This she did, with a break in the middle to start typing her London Museum article, a boring task which was positive bliss in comparison. She had frightful visions of droning on while her audience fell asleep one by one—Mrs. Osborne would never let them abscond.
By lunchtime the rainclouds were blowing over, and by the time Daisy had to leave for the Parish Hall, the sun shone on a refreshed, sparkling world.
Violet told her bracingly that she looked very smart in her dark blue costume and a pale blue blouse, with silk stockings, hat, and gloves.
“Well, at least I shan't look like a chump, even if I sound like one,” Daisy said glumly. “Why did I ever let myself in for this?”
Afraid that, left to her own devices, she would turn tail and flee in panic, she invited Belinda and Derek to walk down the drive with her. Gumbooted, at Nanny's command, they skipped and hopped on either side of her, telling her about the lion's cage they had constructed around Peter while he lay on the floor drawing.
“It had a real gate, with hinges and everything,” Belinda reported.
“When it was all built, we made Tinker go inside with Peter, only she jumped out,” Derek said admiringly. “I didn't know she could jump so high.”
Tinker Bell apparently bore no resentment. Naturally she had come along. She dashed hither and thither, exploring smells enhanced by the rain.
“She spoiled Peter's picture,” Bel said, “so I helped him do another one. I drew a lion in a cage, but he coloured it green and it just looked like a bush behind a fence. He's never seen a real lion, Aunt Daisy. Can we take him to the zoo, one day?”
“Me too,” Derek begged. “I've only been once.”
“I've been lots of times, 'cause I live very near. Sometimes I can hear the lions roaring in the night.”
“Lucky thing!”
“We'll all go, Daddy too, if he can. We'll see the sea-lions getting fed, and go for a ride on an elephant, and watch them having their baths …” Belinda was still enumerating the wonders of the zoo when they reached the gates.
“I'll see you later,” said Daisy.
“Can't we come and listen to you?” Belinda asked, disappointed.
“No, it's a talk for grown-ups. You wouldn't find it interesting.”
And nor will my audience
, Daisy thought despairingly, crossing the lane to the lych-gate. Why had she ever agreed to make a fool of herself, like a monkey in a cage, with everyone staring and wishing she would do something entertaining.
At least she looked professional, she hoped. Peering over her shoulder, she poised first on one leg, then the other, to check that her stocking seams were straight.
She turned down the path to the gate which led to the Parish Hall, her steps lagging as she felt in her handbag for her notes. Had she time to glance over them? She must! She couldn't remember a word. Just for a minute she'd sit down on a tombstone. There must be a sittable one nearby.
Glancing around, she saw that the granite angel had fallen flat on its face. Beside it on the grass lay a shabby Panama with a faded tartan band.
And between its head and the top of its wing, a round face with a startled expression stared blindly at the sky.
T
he vicar couldn't possibly be alive, with his head at that angle, and the glassy look of his eyes, and his body pinned by the ironic—avenging?—angel.
Nonetheless, Daisy had to make sure. Feeling sick, she approached the horrible spot. His arms were hidden by the angel's wings, so she couldn't try for a pulse. What else was hidden by the granite mass, she didn't care to think. She knelt on the wet grass, dug her vanity mirror out of her handbag, and held it to the vicar's mouth and nose.
No sign of condensation. Daisy pulled off her gloves and steeled herself to lay her hand on his cheek. Still warm. Of course, the accident must be very recent or the women going to the Parish Hall would have seen him lying there.
Accident? The angel had stood stable on its cinerarium pedestal for decades. Yesterday's gusty wind had died hours ago, and in any case it had not been particularly strong. Certainly not strong enough to shift a granite monument which must weigh several hundredweight. Yet would the angel be any more easily pushed over than blown over?
And who would want to murder the vicar? Had he discovered
who was writing the anonymous letters? He was—had been—in a good position to do so. Could the Poison Pen have killed to protect his identity? Did she know Daisy was on her trail? Was he lurking now behind a tombstone, waiting to pounce?
With a shiver, Daisy looked around. She ought not to have embarked on this frightful investigation alone without Alec's support! Standing up for a better view, she wished more people over the centuries had been satisfied with small, modest grave-markers. No one in sight.
It
must
be an accident, she tried to persuade herself.
Accident or murder, it was sudden, violent death. The police and a doctor must be summoned. The body ought not to be left unattended. Daisy was due at the WI meeting. Suppose someone came to look for her and found the dead vicar: In no time there would be a gaggle of nosy women trampling all over any clues. For the same reason she could not go to the Parish Hall for help. Yet she must not be away more than a few moments.
Not the Vicarage. Mrs. Osborne was not there, and Daisy decided with a hysterical giggle that she didn't feel capable of announcing to the professor that his brother had been squashed by an angel.
Mrs. LeBeau, just the other side of the lane, would be calm and capable, and surely had a telephone.
Daisy glanced up at the church clock. Only five to three. In her anxiety she had arrived early, anxiety which now seemed appallingly trivial. She had a few minutes' grace before she was missed.
Involuntarily, her gaze returned to the ghastly eyes. She found her handkerchief and stooped to cover the vicar's face with the small, inadequate square. As she straightened, a corner
of black cloth, protruding from beneath the angel's wing, caught her attention. Black cloth with a slight sheen in the sunshine—black poplin. An academic gown.
The professor?
The Poison Pen had mistaken Professor Osborne, in his brother's Panama, for the vicar. Daisy was shocked by the relief which flooded through her. She liked the vicar; she had not liked the professor. But neither deserved so horrible a death.
The clock struck three. She was wasting time. Trying to step in the spots where her tread had already crushed the grass and dented the rain-softened ground, she returned to the path, then hurried along it and through the lych-gate.
“Aunt Daisy!”
Both the children were high up on the gate. The dog, sitting at the bottom, watched them with a solicitous, reproving eye, as if she was named for Nana in
Peter Pan
, not Tinker Bell. The tip of her tail swished back and forth as Daisy crossed the lane.
“We took our gumboots off. We won't get stuck,” Belinda assured her.
“What were you looking at in the graveyard?” Derek asked curiously. “We saw you from up here, but we couldn't make it out.”
Thank heaven! “There's been an accident, darlings. Come down quickly, both of you—and carefully!” Daisy added as they swarmed down the wrought-iron curlicues. Mrs. LeBeau might be out, she thought. Faster to dispatch the children for help. “I want you to run up to the house and send for the police and the doctor. You understand?”
“Gosh, yes, Aunt Daisy.”
As they pulled on their boots, Daisy impressed upon them, “Hurry. And stay up there, don't come back.”
“Why not?” said Derek. “Oh, all right. Come on, Bel. Come, Tinker.”
Belinda, her grey-green eyes wide with alarm, dashed over to Daisy and gave her a quick, silent hug, then sped after Derek and Tinker Bell.
Daisy returned to the churchyard. Now that she had nothing to do but wait for the police and the doctor, she felt rather sick. Actually, she felt altogether pretty wishy-washy. Though, being a modern woman, she naturally was not going to faint, she thought it might be quite a good idea if she sat down. Soon.
Failing all else, she subsided on a sort of marble kerb outlining a grave just beyond the lych-gate. Her head soon stopped whirling when she stuck it between her knees.
As long as she didn't think about what was beneath the fallen angel, she'd be all right. She did have something to do, she remembered. Any minute someone would come out of the Parish Hall to see where she had got to. She had to stop them approaching the body … which she was
not
going to think about. To do that, she needed to be beyond it.
A gravel path recently trodden by a horde of women seemed unlikely to provide much in the way of evidence, but just in case, Daisy circled round on the grass, among the tombstones. That route took her further, too, from the—from what she wasn't thinking about.
By the time she rejoined the path, her good shoes were sopping, to match the hem of her skirt. Her stockings also were wet and uncomfortable down the front, from kneeling by—from kneeling. She glanced down to see if they were laddered, and was relieved to see them undamaged, though it seemed heartlessly petty when the professor …
Oh
blast
! She was feeling wobbly again. Nowhere nearby to sit, so she leaned against the nearest upright stone slab. When
she died, Daisy vowed, she would have a bench for a tombstone.
It was odd that no one from the WI was looking for her yet. The Parish Hall's windows were the high, narrow kind meant for illumination, not an exterior view, so no one could see her. She checked the time by the clock on the tower again. Ten past three. Perhaps Mrs. Osborne thought she had funked it. No doubt the vicar's wife had a fund of rhetoric to fill in with when a speaker didn't turn up.
And how long was she going to have to wait for the doctor and the constable? Eleven minutes past three. It seemed like forever since she had sent the children off, but they had probably only just reached the telephone.
 
Detective Sergeant Tom Tring turned back from the filing cabinet and regarded his empty desk with satisfaction. “That's the last of the Islington arsonists, Chief,” he said. “Reckon you might get away for a day or two after all.”
Alec quickly touched wood. “Don't tempt fate, Tom. Saying something like that is an incitement to every crook in the Metropolitan area to—”
The telephone shrilled. As Tom's burly arm, chequered in robin's-egg-blue and white, reached out for the apparatus on his desk, Alec groaned. He'd known a couple of days in Kent with Daisy and Bel was too much to hope for.
“
Who?
” The sergeant's luxuriant moustache quivered with astonishment, and his eyebrows climbed his boundless brow. “Yes, of course, put her through. It's Miss Belinda, Chief. She
never
'phones you at the Yard!”
“She'd better have a good reason for doing it now,” said Alec ominously, reaching for his telephone as Tom pressed the button to tranfer the call. “Hello? Bel?”
“Daddy! I'm awfully sorry to disturb you, but we didn't know what else to do.”
“We?”
“Me and Derek. Derek and I,” Belinda amended scrupulously. “You see, there's a body in the churchyard and …”
“I imagine there are lots. Belinda, are you having me on? Because if Derek has put you up to—”
“Daddy,
listen
! Aunt Daisy's found a
body
in the churchyard.”
“I don't believe it,” Alec said flatly. It could not be true. Not another one!
“Well, we're not
absolutely
certain,” his daughter wavered, “but she said there'd been an accident, and she told us to get a doctor and the police, like on the train, 'member? When I found—”
“I remember only too clearly.”
“So we think—'cause I told Derek all about the train—we think it's another murder. She did say police first, after all. And he rang up the doctor and he's coming but the village bobby's not at home and we didn't know what to do. 'Cause Uncle Johnnie's out riding and Aunt Violet's asleep, and Aunt Daisy sounded urgent. She looked
frightfully
pale.”
Alec's heart twisted in his chest. The two beings he loved best in all the world mixed up with a murderer on the loose, and he was too far away to protect them.
If Bel hadn't misunderstood. She would not make up such a story, but she had a vivid imagination.
He could not risk it. “All right, Bel, you were quite right to ring me. Ask Derek what's the nearest town.”
Over the wire came the faint sound of the question being passed on. Then, “He says Ashford, Daddy.”
“Hang on.” Alec put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to his sergeant, “Get hold of the police in Ashford, Kent, Tom.
Criminal investigation, if they have such a thing.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Belinda, we'll have a policeman on his way right away, but it may take a little while.” He felt helpless, knowing so little of the situation. “Let me talk to Derek, now, love.”
An agitated colloquy, far away, mingled with Tom's voice on the other telephone. Then a scared young voice, “This is Derek, sir.”
“Derek, I need your advice and help.”
“Yes, sir!” The voice swelled with pride.
“Someone must take a message to your aunt.”
“I'll go.” Excitement, and more than a touch of trepidation.
“
No,
absolutely not. You are not to go anywhere near the churchyard, nor to allow Belinda to go, understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Disappointment and relief. “Shall I send a servant?”
“A manservant, not a maid. Do you have footmen?”
“Just one. Arthur.”
“Is he a sensible chap, Derek? And will he do what you say?”
“Oh yes, sir, pretty much. Both, I mean.”
“All right.” Catching Tom's eye, Alec held up a finger and mouthed, “Just a minute.”
He heard Tom saying, “This is Scotland Yard, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher wishes to speak to …”
“Derek, tell the footman to tell Daisy the Ashford police will be there as soon as possible.” Alec hoped it was true. “And he's to stay with her and help her in any way she asks. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. Bel, ring that bell over there. That's right. Arthur should come right away, sir.”
“Good man. Remember, you and Belinda are absolutely not to go near the churchyard. Everything is under control. I must go now, Derek. Give Bel my love.” Feeling as if he were casting his daughter adrift in a storm, Alec pressed the hook to cut the
connection. When he let it up again, Ashford was on the line.
“Inspector Flagg, Chief,” Tom advised in an undertone. He listened in on his apparatus.
“Inspector Flagg, this is Fletcher. We have received a report of …” Of what, for heaven's sake? A body in a graveyard! “ … Of a sudden death, possibly by violence, in the village of Rotherden. That's in your district?”
“That it is,” said the Ashford inspector suspiciously, with a strong country accent. “Might I enquire, sir, why it was Scotland Yard was informed?”
Alec couldn't say the news had come from two nine-year-olds, one of them his daughter, who hadn't even seen the body. “I gather the person who rang us up had tried to get hold of your local constable. He was out, and the informant apparently didn't think to telephone Ashford. I thought less time would be wasted if I got in touch with you myself.”
“You think it's an urgent matter, then, sir?” Flagg sounded dubious in the extreme.
“I think someone official ought to get there soon,” Alec said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice, “before half the village tramps over the scene of the crime. If any.” Which, knowing Daisy's penchant for stumbling upon murder, was inevitable. “I understand a doctor is on the way already.”

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