Phil Rickman - A Crown of Lights

‘D S Mumford, vicar. Amazingly enough.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘They have accelerated promotion for young graduates like DI Howe,’ Mumford said heavily. ‘For plods like me, it can still take twenty-odd years. How’s your little girl?’

‘You’re just a late starter,’ Merrily assured him. ‘You’ll whizz through the ranks now. Jane’s doing OK, thanks. But that’s not why you’re here?’

Andy Mumford’s smile was strained as he stepped into the kitchen. Another two or three years and he’d be up for retirement. Merrily had coffee freshly made and poured him one. She’d left the door open for Jane, for once hoping she was listening – a strong indication of recovery.

‘You’ve been in contact with Mrs Barbara Buckingham,’ Mumford said. ‘We traced her movement back through the hospital. Sister Cullen says she referred her to you.’

Merrily stiffened. ‘What’s happened?’

‘She’s been reported missing, Mrs Watkins.’

‘Barbara? By whom?’

‘Arranged to phone her daughter in Hampshire every night while she was here. But hasn’t rung for two nights. Does not appear to have attended her sister’s funeral.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Checked with Hampshire before I came in. No word there. It’s an odd one, Mrs Watkins. Teenagers, nine times out of ten they’ll surface after a while. A woman Mrs Buckingham’s age, middle class, we start to worry.’ Mumford sipped his coffee. ‘You saw her last when?’

‘Tuesday evening, here. It was the only time. How much did Eileen Cullen tell you?’

‘She said Mrs Buckingham was very upset, not only over her sister’s premature death but the fact that she wouldn’t be getting buried in the churchyard like normal people. She said she thought you’d be the minister most likely to give the woman a sympathetic hearing.’

‘I’m just the only one Eileen knows.’

Mumford smiled almost shyly. ‘To be honest, Mrs Watkins, I got the feeling there might have been another reason she put the lady on to you, apart from this objection to the burial. But that might just be promotion making me feel I ought to behave like a detective. Of course, if you don’t think that would throw any light on our inquiry...’

‘Well... there was another reason, relating to my other job. You can put this down to stress if you like but don’t go thinking she was nuts because I don’t think she was – is .’

‘Not my place, Reverend.’

‘She was having troublesome dreams – anxiety dreams probably – about her sister. Barbara left home in Radnorshire when Menna was just a baby, and they’d hardly seen each other since. Anybody would feel... regrets in that situation. She’s a Christian, she was headmistress at a Church school. Eileen thought she might appreciate some spiritual, er, counselling.’

‘She explain why she was alone? Why her husband wasn’t with her?’

‘She said he was away – in France, I think. He deals in antiques.’

‘Didn’t say anything about him leaving her, then?’

‘Oh God, really?’

‘For France, read Winchester.’ Mumford pulled out his pocketbook. ‘Richard Buckingham moved out two months ago.’

‘Another woman?’

‘That’s the information we have from the daughter. So, were you able to ease Mrs Buckingham’s mind? I mean, if I was to ask you if you thought there was any possibility of her taking her own life...?’

‘Oh no. She was too angry.’

‘Angry.’

‘Yeah, I’d say so.’

‘At anybody in particular?’

‘At J.W. Weal, I suppose. Know him?’

‘Paths have crossed in court once or twice. He used to do quite a bit of legal aid work, maybe still does. I don’t get out that way much these days.’

‘Really?’ She’d made a joke out of it to Sophie, but she couldn’t imagine Weal defending small-time shoplifters and car thieves and dope smokers; that would mean he’d have to talk to them. ‘I had him down as a wills and conveyancing man.’

‘Place like that, a lawyer has to grab what he can get,’ said Mumford. ‘Mrs Buckingham didn’t care for her brother-in-law, I take it.’

‘Not a lot. You have a situation where Menna spends her young life looking after her widowed father and then gets married to a much older bloke, in the same area. No life at all, in Barbara’s view. And then can’t even get away when she dies.’

‘You don’t like him either then, Mrs Watkins?’

‘I don’t know him.’

Mumford considered. ‘You’d wonder, does anybody? So, when you spoke to her, did Mrs Buckingham give you any idea what she was going to do next?’

‘She wanted me to go to the funeral with her. I went along, but she apparently didn’t.’

‘ You were there?’

‘We were supposed to meet.’

‘Seems an unusual arrangement, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘I thought she needed somebody.’

‘You didn’t know Mrs Weal, then?’

‘Well, I was actually at the county hospital, with a friend, just after she died. But, no, I didn’t actually know her. I don’t really know why I said I’d go along. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. Maybe...’ Why did coppers always make you feel unaccountably guilty? ‘Maybe I thought Barbara might do something stupid if I wasn’t there, which I might have been able to prevent. It’s hard to explain.’

‘Stupid how?’

‘Maybe cause some kind of scene. Start hurling accusations at J.W. Weal, or something, at the funeral.’

‘But you didn’t find her there?’

‘To be honest, it was a difficult day. I had Jane to pick up from hospital in Worcester. If I’d known Barbara had been reported missing, I’d have... tried harder.’

She returned from seeing Mumford out to find Jane at the kitchen table. The kid was dressed in jeans and her white fluffy sweater. She looked about ten. Until, of course, she spoke.

‘He thinks she’s dead.’

‘Police always think that, flower.’

‘I think you think she’s dead, too.’

‘I don’t think that, but I do feel guilty.’

‘You always feel guilty,’ Jane said.

OLD HINDWELL POST office was a brick-built nineteenth-century building a little way down from the pub, on the opposite side of the street. Betty was there by eight-fifteen on this dry but bitter Monday morning. The newsagent side of the business opened at eight. There were no other customers inside.

‘ Daily Mail , please.’

The postmistress, Mrs Eleri Cobbold, glanced quickly at Betty and went stiff.

‘None left, I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve only been open fifteen minutes.’ Betty eyed her steadily. It was the first time she’d been in here. She saw a thin-faced woman of about sixty. She saw a woman who had already read today’s Daily Mail .

‘Only got ordered copies, isn’t it?’ Mrs Cobbold swallowed. ‘Besides two extras. Which we’ve sold.’

Betty was not giving up. She glanced at the public photocopier at the other end of the shop. ‘In that case, could I perhaps borrow one of the ordered papers and make a copy of one particular page?’

Mrs Cobbold blinked nervously. ‘Well, I don’t...’

Betty sought her eyes, but Mrs Cobbold kept looking away as though her narrow, God-fearing soul was in danger. She glanced towards the door and seemed very relieved when it was opened by a slim, tweed-suited man with a neat beard.

‘Oh, good morning, Doctor.’

‘A sharp day, Eleri.’

‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ Mrs Cobbold bent quickly below the counter and produced a Daily Mail . She didn’t look at Betty. ‘You had better take mine. Thirty-five pence, please.’