Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

An ancient-looking tea urn squatted malevolently on a trolley, taking pride of place over the scarred table and plastic chairs. “A necessity of parish meetings, I’m afraid,” said Rebecca, eyeing it with distaste. “I can’t imagine why I went into this line of work-I never could stand the taste of stewed tea.” She separated two chairs for the men and one for herself, and when they were seated she became suddenly brisk. “If this is about Alastair Gilbert, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a dreadful thing.”

“That’s not exactly why we wanted to see you,” said Kincaid, liking the woman’s easy, direct manner, “although any light you could shed on the matter would be helpful. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the items you reported stolen.”

“That?” Her dark, straight brows rose in surprise. “But that was ages ago! August, it must have been, and what on earth has it to do with anything?”

So the vicar had not been privy to the pub gossip, thought Kincaid, or else she was a very good dissembler. “You know, I’m sure, that other people have reported items missing. There is some speculation that a vagrant was responsible for those thefts and that Commander Gilbert might have surprised him in the act.”

“But that’s absurd, Superintendent. None of these incidents occurred at the same time, and besides, if there were anyone like that hanging about the village, I’d know it. The church porch is usually first choice of sleeping accommodations.” Smiling at them, she relaxed back into her chair and folded her arms loosely across her plum-colored sweater. She had hooked her trainer-clad feet around the front legs of the chair, and her balanced posture made Kincaid think suddenly of a bareback rider he’d seen once in the circus.

“Did you ride as a child?” he asked. She had about her a certain scrubbed outdoorsiness, not exactly a toughness but rather an air of healthy competence. Her nails, he noticed, were short and a bit grimy.

“Well, yes, actually, I did.” She regarded Kincaid with a puzzled frown. “My aunt owned a stable in Devon and I spent my summer hols there. How odd that you should ask. I’ve just this morning come back from her funeral. She died last week.”

“So you weren’t here when Commander Gilbert died?”

“No, although the parish secretary called me yesterday with the news.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t quite believe it. I tried ringing Claire but only got the answerphone. Is she managing all right?”

“As well as can be expected, I’d say,” Kincaid answered vaguely, pursuing his own thought. “Were the Gilberts regular members of your flock?”

Rebecca nodded. “Alastair often read the lesson. He took the obligations attendant on his position in the village very seriously-” She broke off and rubbed her face with her hands. “Sorry, sorry,” she said through splayed fingers. “That was very uncharitable of me. I’m sure he meant well.”

“You didn’t like him,” Kincaid said gently.

She shook her head ruefully. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. But I did try, honestly. Judging people hastily is one of my worst faults-”

“So when you dislike someone you go out of your way to make allowances for them?” Kincaid grinned at her in shared understanding.

“Exactly. And I’m afraid that Alastair was very good at taking advantage of me.”

“In what way?” Out of the corner of his eye, Kincaid saw Deveney shift impatiently in his chair, but he refused to be hurried.

“Oh, you know… the special service readings, opening the fete, that sort of thing-”

“Things that look important but don’t require any real effort?” Kincaid asked wryly.

“Exactly. I could never imagine Alastair canvassing the village for a good cause or washing up teacups after a parish meeting. Woman’s work. In fact-” Rebecca paused. A faint flush of color crept into her cheeks and she stared steadily at her hands clasped on the tabletop. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think Alastair approved of me, though he never said it in so many words. I suppose that’s one reason I went out of my way to be fair… proving to myself that I was above petty retaliation.”

“A forgivable vanity, surely,” said Kincaid.

She looked up and met his eyes. “Perhaps. But it wasn’t very tactful of me to speak about him so freely. This is a terrible thing to have happened, and I wouldn’t want you to think I took it lightly.”

“Unfortunately, dying in a brutal manner does not automatically qualify one for sainthood, however much we might wish it,” Kincaid offered dryly.

“Miss Fielding… uh, Vicar,” said Deveney, “about the thefts. You reported no sign of a break-in. Could you tell us exactly what happened?”

Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, as if summoning the details. “It was a lovely warm evening and I’d been working in the front garden. When I came in I noticed that the back door was ajar, but I didn’t think anything of it-I never lock up and that door has rather a stiff catch. It wasn’t until later when I was dressing for dinner that I noticed my pearl earrings were missing.”

“And you were sure you hadn’t misplaced them?” Kincaid asked.

“Definitely. I’m very much a creature of habit, Superintendent, and I always put them straight into the jewelry box when I take them off. And I’d worn them just two days before.”

“Was there anything else missing?” Deveney had his notebook out now, pen ready.

Frowning, Rebecca rubbed at the end of her nose. “Just some childhood keepsakes. A silver charm bracelet, some school medals. It was quite odd, really.”

Kincaid leaned towards her. “And you saw no one unusual about the place?”

“I saw no one at all, Superintendent, unusual or otherwise. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve been a complete bust for you.” She looked genuinely distressed, and Kincaid hastened to reassure her as he rose.

“Not at all. And it gave me a chance to see the church. It’s quite a gem, isn’t it?”

“It was built by G. E. Street, the man who designed the London law courts,” Rebecca said as she led them into the corridor. “It’s a lovely example of Victorian church architecture but rather a sad story. It seems he meant it as a gift for his wife, but she died shortly after it was finished.” They had reached the porch, and as they stepped outside she stopped and looked up at the honey-colored stone rising above them. Slowly, she said, “I’ve felt very lucky to have come here, and I’d hate to see anything disrupt my village. One becomes proprietorial very quickly, I’m afraid,” she added with a smile.

Looking down the hill towards the vicarage, Kincaid said, “You’re the gardener, I take it?”

“Oh, yes.” Rebecca’s smile was radiant. “It’s my temptation and my salvation, I’m afraid. The place was a wilderness when I came here two years ago, and I’ve spent every spare minute there since.”

“It shows.” Infected by her enthusiasm, Kincaid found he couldn’t help grinning back.

“I can’t take all the credit,” she hastened to reassure him. “Geoff Genovase helps me on weekends. I’d never have managed the heavy work without him.”

Kincaid thanked her again and they turned away, but before they’d gone more than a few steps down the lane she called out to him. “Mr. Kincaid, the dynamics that make a village a functioning organism are really quite fragile. You will be careful, won’t you?”

“That explains why she’d missed out on the gossip,” said Kincaid as they walked down the lane. While they’d been inside the sun had dropped in its swift afternoon progress, the light had faded from gold to a soft gray-green, and the shadows stood long on the ground.