Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Read online

  “Well, we didn’t know. Because the story isn’t true,” Jean said. “Trevor’s been playing a joke on you, darling. You know how he likes to play jokes, don’t you? Remember when he rang the church bell very late at night and upset everyone?”

  Jemima nodded, and Nicholas, who’d been following the conversation mutely but attentively, quickly imitated his big sister.

  “Ringing the bell was a naughty thing to do,” Jean went on. “It was naughty of Trevor to tell you such a silly story, too. It’s always naughty to say things that aren’t true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mummy,” said Jemima.

  “There’s no one in the attic but Lori,” Jean said firmly. “No one died in her bed. And dead people can’t be bothered to hang about in dusty old attics. They’d much rather stay in Heaven. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Jemima.

  “If Trevor says anything silly to you again,” said Jean, “you’ll tell me or Daddy about it straightaway. All right?”

  “All right,” Jemima agreed. “Can we set tables with Tessa after we finish our snack?”

  Jean shot a questioning look at Tessa, who’d returned from delivering the porcini to Steve. Tessa nodded good-naturedly, and Jean mouthed the word “thanks.”

  “If you drink up every last drop of your milk,” she said to Jemima, “you may set tables with Tessa.”

  She stroked her daughter’s blond hair and ruffled her son’s, then gestured for us to come with her as she rose to her feet and retreated to the foyer.

  “Trevor Lawson,” she said with a reluctant smile. “I should have known. Forgive me, Bishop Wyndham, but Trevor’s a typical rector’s son. He’s always trying to prove that he isn’t a goody two-shoes. Nearly every prank in the village can be traced back to him.”

  “Like ringing the church bell very late at night?” Christopher asked.

  “He rang it at two o’clock in the morning!” Jean exclaimed. “Frightened poor old Mrs. Dodd half out of her wits. Will you be taking evensong again this evening?”

  “I will,” he said.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d drop a word in the rector’s ear about Trevor’s latest stunt,” she said. “I’d do it myself, but evenings tend to be rather hectic around here.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Christopher. “I’ll convey your concerns to Phillip.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I told him, before turning to Jean. “Unless I’m needed in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “but you’ll be relieved to know that your services are no longer required. Once our crew finished setting up the kitchen in the village hall, they returned to their proper jobs. A table for two will be ready for you whenever you get back.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “In the meantime, I’ll ring a few parents. Trevor’s story will spread like wildfire unless we stomp on it right away. I wouldn’t want it to keep the village children from coming over to play with Jemima and Nicholas.”

  “Don’t worry, Jean,” I said. “I have two ten-year-old sons at home. I can give the rector some useful tips on how to deal with naughty boys.”

  Fourteen

  Jean asked us to wait in reception while she fetched a pair of flashlights from the office. As she handed them to us, she told us we’d need them.

  “You’ll be able to find your way along the high street easily enough,” she explained, “but Church Lane will be as dark as a tomb. There’s been a villagewide power outage, and no one who lives on Church Lane has a generator.”

  Although Christopher and I had already heard about the power outage from Horatio Best, we hadn’t yet experienced its effects firsthand. We thanked Jean for the flashlights and set out for St. Alfege’s.

  “Do you attend evensong when you’re at home, Lori?” Christopher inquired.

  “Not as often as I’d like,” I said. “I find it comforting to sit quietly in church at the end of a busy day, but my days are so busy that I rarely have time to sit quietly at home, let alone at church. I make time for it when I can, though. I like the prayer toward the end of the service, the one that asks God to defend us from the perils and dangers of this night.”

  “An oldie but a goody,” he agreed, “though I hope most sincerely that you face neither perils nor dangers this night.”

  “I thought I was facing some last night,” I admitted. “I don’t mind telling you that Trevor’s story freaked me out a little. I did everything but look under my bed for monsters. I won’t mind seeing the village prankster get his just deserts.”

  “What would be his just deserts?” asked Christopher.

  “If he were mine,” I said, “I’d haul him in front of every child who heard his story and make him tell the truth to each of them. Then I’d make him apologize for being a big fat liar.” I pursed my lips judiciously. “Then I’d ground him for a week.”

  “Spoken like the mother of two young boys,” said Christopher.

  “Spoken like my mother’s daughter,” I corrected him. “My father wasn’t a rector, but my mother was a schoolteacher. I didn’t have it easy when I was in her class. I wasn’t as naughty as Trevor, but I can remember pulling a few stunts to prove that I wasn’t teacher’s pet.”

  “You must empathize with Trevor,” Christopher observed.

  “I do,” I said. “If I didn’t, I’d ground him for two weeks.”

  Christopher’s hearty chuckle turned heads as we retraced our steps to St. Alfege’s. Rain glittered like tinsel in the light from the high street’s shop windows, and though Church Lane was enveloped in gloom, it wasn’t quite tomblike. Flickering shadows in cottage windows suggested that the residents had stocked up on candles for a rainy—a very rainy—day.

  The lane’s vicious cobbles were still pointy and slick, but my hiking boots, my borrowed flashlight, and the fact that I wasn’t dragging a hefty suitcase behind me allowed me to stride across them with confidence. When Bill’s car came into view, I was relieved to see that it was undamaged and pleased to note that it was no longer blocked by pickup trucks loaded with animal feed. I had no desire to move the Mercedes, but it looked so wet and lonely that I gave it a reassuring pat as we walked by.

  Some of St. Alfege’s windows flickered, while others shone steadily, indicating to me that it was lit by a combination of candles and other less primitive light sources. The flints embedded in the church’s thick walls glinted like rain-washed gems in the beams from our flashlights as we hurried up the churchyard path and through the stout oak door in the south porch.

  St. Alfege’s looked like a monastic barn. Neatly piled sacks of grain covered the nave’s flagstone floor, and stacked hay bales encircled the round pillars that supported the Norman arches. Pitchforks, shovels, and a miscellany of other farming implements leaned against the wall on either side of the bell tower door.

  A dozen wheelbarrows shared the north aisle with the ecclesiastical needlework exhibition, and five laminated wooden chairs near the wrought-iron candle stand in the south aisle supported a huge roll of plastic sheeting that was used, no doubt, to keep the feed as dry as possible while it was transported to the refugee farm animals.

  The church smelled different, too. There was a hint of holy hayloft in the air as the familiar scents of beeswax, incense, old hymnbooks, and furniture polish mingled with the hay’s musty fragrance and the metallic tang of machine oil.

  The only part of the church that looked like a church was up front, where, as Phillip Lawson had promised, two rows of chairs had been left in place before the chancel. While the nave was dimly illuminated by camping lanterns similar to the one that stood beside my bed at The King’s Ransom, the altar was candlelit. It should have been a sight to warm the heart on a cold, wet evening, but the candles didn’t look right.

  “They run on batteries,” said Christopher, following my perplexed gaze. He gestured toward the hay bales. “It’s inadvisable to mix open flames
with combustible materials. Phillip removed the candles and the matches from the candle stand for the same reason.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” I said, nodding.

  “Bishop? Is that you?” A stocky, gray-haired man with a stubbly chin emerged from the shadows beside the altar, carrying a camping lantern. He wore a thick woolen sweater, and his canvas trousers were tucked into a mud-caked pair of black Wellington boots. A smile creased his weathered face when he saw Christopher. “Aye, I thought it was you. Covering for the rector again tonight? I’m thinking you won’t have many takers for evensong. Nothing personal, mind. Folk are sick and tired of getting wet.”

  “Who can blame them?” said Christopher. “Mr. Turner, please allow me to introduce you to my friend Lori Shepherd, who prefers to be called by her Christian name.”

  “Joe Turner,” said the man, offering his callused hand to me.

  I shook it, saying, “You’re the man with the famous terriers. I believe I met your father earlier today at the village hall.”

  “Aye, so you did,” said Joe. “I heard all about it from Becky Hanson. You’ve no need to confess your sins tonight, Lori. You’ve already done your penance.” He threw his head back and let out a hoot of laughter that rang from the rafters. “He’s an old rascal, my dad, but he’s the only dad I have, so I put up with him.”

  “He’s quite a character,” Christopher agreed. He turned his head to scan the church, then asked, “Where is everyone, Mr. Turner? I didn’t expect a large turnout for evensong, but I thought a few of the farmers I saw last night would be here again tonight.”

  “They’re either feeding themselves or tending to their livestock,” Joe replied. “The rector’s lending a hand—both hands—with the milking.”

  “Bless him,” said Christopher. “Do you know if he’ll return to the church when he’s done?”

  “I expect so,” said Joe. “The less time he spends in the rectory, the happier he is. Lonnie Baker’s cockatoo is driving him mad.”

  “I’ll say a special prayer for him,” said Christopher.

  “I think he’s said a few already,” said Joe. “Mostly asking Our Lord to give Lonnie’s bird laryngitis.”

  “Poor man,” said Christopher, smiling. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Turner, I’ll repair to the vestry to prepare myself for evensong.” He tilted his head toward me. “I shall have at least one taker.”

  “Don’t let the dogs loose,” Joe reminded him, before turning to me to explain, “I keep my pups in the vestry during services—too many interruptions if I put ’em to work.”

  Trying not to imagine the kind of interruptions a pack of rat-hunting dogs might cause, I walked with Joe as he escorted me to a front-row seat.

  “Jemima Hancock thinks highly of you,” I told him. “She’s very fond of the Gloucester Old Spot you gave her.”

  He sat beside me and placed his lantern on the floor.

  “Jemima’s a grand girl,” he said. “Likes to feed the pigs when she visits the farm. Always scratches their backs. They run to the fence when they see her because they know she’ll scratch their backs.” He rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “Have to rebuild the fence when I get home. The sty held up fine, but the wind knocked the fence to pieces.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I hope your pigs are all right.”

  “I got ’em out in plenty of time,” he assured me. “They’re living it up in Ted Fordyce’s back garden.”

  “Good for them,” I said, feeling more relieved about his pigs than I’d felt about Bill’s car. “Is that what happens to the smaller farm animals—the chickens, rabbits, ducks? Do the villagers take them in during a cyclone?”

  “They do,” he said. “Leaves a right old mess to clean up afterward, but we all pitch in.”

  “Cooperation seems to be the key to weathering storms around here,” I said.

  “You’re right about that,” he said, nodding. “Don’t know what I’d do without my neighbors.”

  “How long have you lived near Shepney?” I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.

  “I was born and raised on my dad’s farm,” he said. “It’s my farm now, and it’ll be my son’s farm when I’m too old to manage.”

  “You’ll know a lot about the town’s history, then,” I said, heeding opportunity’s knock.

  “I know a bit,” he temporized.

  “Do you know why The King’s Ransom is called The King’s Ransom?” I asked.

  He squinted toward the ceiling, then said slowly, “I reckon it’s something to do with smuggling.”

  “Smuggling?” I said, taken aback.

  “Aye,” he said. “Smugglers owned East Sussex back in the day. Not legally, mind, but in every way that counts.” He inclined his head in the general direction of the high street. “Horatio Best’s your man if you want to know about Shepney’s history.”

  “The bishop and I plan to speak with him tomorrow,” I said. “We tried to speak with him today, but—”

  “Dennis Dodd fell off the step stool,” said Joe. “I heard.”

  I was about to compare Shepney’s gossip grapevine to Finch’s when the bishop came rushing toward us. It was the first time I’d seen him in a cassock. It gave him an air of quiet authority that was undercut by his rapturous expression.

  “Heavenly news,” he announced. “I hadn’t planned on a choral evensong, but four members of the choir have arrived, ready to sing.”

  “Folk are getting bored,” Joe commented.

  “Their boredom is our blessing,” said Christopher. “It will take a little longer than a spoken evensong, but I didn’t think you’d mind, Lori.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I’ve never been the only worshipper at a choral evensong before. It’ll be a service to remember.”

  “You’re welcome to join us, Mr. Turner,” Christopher said encouragingly.

  “Thanks, Bishop,” said Joe, “but I’ll stay in the vestry with my pups. They’re not used to music, and I wouldn’t want ’em to raise a ruckus when you’re halfway through the third collect.”

  “Before you go, Mr. Turner,” I said, “can you tell us how badly flooded the roads are?”

  “They’re bad enough,” Joe replied. “No one’ll be going anywhere soon.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I was neither surprised nor disappointed. The day’s steady rain hadn’t raised my hopes for an early departure from Shepney. “Give your pups a pat for me.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  Joe retreated to the vestry, the four choristers filed into the stalls, and the service began. I was completely absorbed in the readings, the music, and the chancel’s candlelit beauty until a faint yip from the vestry reminded me that Joe Turner’s terriers were not on patrol. From then on, I couldn’t help listening with half an ear for the sound of scurrying vermin.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the rector slid into the chair next to mine. His cheeks were red and rain dripped from his yellow slicker, so I assumed he’d come directly to the church after he’d finished milking his quota of cows, without stopping at the rectory first. Lonnie’s cockatoo, I thought, must have the lungs of a costermonger.

  The service ended and the choristers dispersed. Joe Turner released his terriers and the four adorable little dogs resumed their search-and-destroy mission among the grain sacks. The vicar returned to the vestry to change into his civilian garb. I told the rector about the last-minute switch from a spoken to a choral evensong, and he told me proudly that he’d milked twenty cows in just under three hours.

  “That’s amazing,” I said.

  “I was raised on a dairy farm,” he explained. “It was automated, of course, but my parents made sure that each of their children knew how to milk by hand, in case we lost power. Little did they know . . .” He nodded at the candles.

  “Ah, Phillip,” Christ
opher said as he walked toward us. “I’m glad to see you.” He pulled a chair around and sat with his back to the altar, facing the rector and me. “I’m afraid I must speak with you about Trevor.”

  The rector’s grin vanished as he let out a piteous moan.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “What’s he done now?”

  Fifteen

  The rector had the desperate look of a man pushed to his limits. “Every time I turn around, Trevor’s up to something.”

  “We did hear that he had a slightly tarnished reputation,” Christopher acknowledged.

  “We heard about the church bell incident,” I said.

  The rector moaned again and buried his face in his hands. “He woke every dog in the village. Leona Dodd came tottering out of her cottage in her dressing gown, convinced that an air raid was imminent. Everyone else thought the church was on fire. The county fire brigade showed up, sirens wailing, along with an ambulance and two police patrol cars. Church Lane looked like a scene from a disaster film.”

  “How very distressing,” said Christopher, eyeing the young man sympathetically.

  “The emergency service workers were not amused,” the rector continued, staring bleakly at the flagstone floor. “Nor were our neighbors. My wife and I were up until dawn, assuring Mrs. Dodd that she had nothing to fear from the Luftwaffe, answering dozens of phone calls, and brewing tea to pacify the furious few who banged on our door. I had to make a public apology from the pulpit the following Sunday.”

  “What happened to Trevor?” I asked.

  “My wife suggested sending him to jail in one of the patrol cars,” said Phillip, “but in the end we decided that the policemen had suffered enough, and we grounded him instead.”

  “For how long?” I asked out of professional curiosity.

  “A month.” Phillip released a dismal sigh. “The hours he would have spent at football practice were spent doing chores for Mrs. Dodd. He also wrote individual apologies to every living soul in the village, which he delivered by hand. It gave him a chance to demonstrate his remorse, and it gave quite a few villagers the chance to tell him to his face what they thought of his behavior.”