Chapter Eleven
Ben Vernon, the verger-cum-sexton to the local parish church of All Saints, whistled tunelessly as he scythed the grass in the churchyard.
He was a big, powerful fellow, and had had the job for two years.
This was his least favorite part of it. The trouble with grass was that folks could see if he hadn’t cut it.
The vicar’s wife had already passed comment when he let it get a bit long.
The vicar himself hadn’t said a word, but that was because he never noticed anything.
Had his head in the clouds, he did. Ben had been able to get away with quite a bit in the church — just giving the vessels a quick wipe out instead of a proper wash, and only giving the floors a once-over-lightly with the broom, not bothering with the dark corners.
It was dark in there and you wouldn’t notice unless you really looked.
The way he saw it, it was the sort of job you could do just enough and not too much.
Not like what he did before! Being a carter was a hard life.
Out in all weathers picking stuff up and dropping it off.
Heavy stuff, too. And the customers always arguing about the price, or complaining if you were a bit late, just because you’d stopped at a pub to wash the dust of the road out of your throat once or twice.
He’d been lucky when old Thomas had been forced to give up the church job due to his rheumatics.
Tom’s old lady was his wife Jenny’s best friend, so she’d known about it before anyone else, and told him.
You can bet he’d been to see the vicar about the job before you could say knife!
But then, the way old Thomas had carried on, explaining how he had to do this, that, and the other thing!
He’d be at it all day! He’d felt like saying he wasn’t giving up one hard job to do another!
Nay, he’d just do what he had to, and no more.
It had been a surprise his Jenny going like that nobbut a year after he started the new job, o’ course.
Got sick and died, just like that. Women’s troubles.
Not that he missed her, exactly. In fact, it had been a relief at first, not having her ask him where he’d been all afternoon.
She’d been by the church, so she knew he wasn’t there.
A man has his needs, after all. A tankard of ale now and then, or a toss in the barn with a wench that was willing.
No one could blame him for that. But he’d found it dreary last winter going back to a house with no fire kept up, no smell of dinner, and no one to warm his bones of a night, and he’d decided he ought to get married again before the cold set in.
There were a couple of widows in the village, but Mrs. Brewster had grown sons who’d be bound to cause trouble in the end one way or another, and that Mrs. Witherill wouldn’t do at all.
She was a spender, she was, and would be constantly after him to buy her something.
He knew her type. No, his eye was on the spinster, Cynthia Rowley.
She seemed a quiet little thing, not dressed too fine, and by all accounts, a thrifty housekeeper.
But he wasn’t going to rush into anything.
Apart from not liking to spend, he didn’t want to have his ear talked off.
He liked a nice quiet smoke of his pipe while reading the newspaper, and would prefer it if the potential wife remained in the kitchen, or at least, out of sight, until she served up the meals.
But now he’d heard about the young feller who’d suddenly shown up and was apparently staying with her. That could spell trouble. Seeing the vicar wandering towards the church in his usual vague way, Ben called out, “Mornin’ vicar! Lovely day fer it!”
“For what?” the vicar was alarmed. He habitually forgot that he was supposed to be going somewhere or doing something. Usually, his wife reminded him, but she hadn’t said anything today, had she?
“Fer whatever takes yer fancy!” Ben gave a guffaw.
“I thought as ’ow you might be going t’ ’ave a word with the stranger what’s lodging with the spinster lady.
That Miss Rowley, I think ’er name is,” he said, in a deliberately offhand manner.
“No one knows where he come from. I just ’ope he ain’t takin’ advantage. Her bein’ alone, an’ all.”
“Oh dear! Now you mention it, I do remember my wife saying something about it. You don’t think he could mean the dear lady any harm, do you? Surely not!”
“The thing is, yer never know these days, with all the men leaving the army and not finding work. Who knows what ’e might do, if ’e was desperate, like?”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” The vicar wrung his hands. “I suppose I ought to go and see them. My wife will advise me.”