Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Vera scurried into the parlour. Daisy suspected it had taken a lot of nerve for her to brave the residents’ lounge on her own. She was dressed for outdoors.
“Did Izzie tell you?”
“I told them you’re going to see the vicar. Rector. And I told Willie why, but not Daisy.”
“Oh.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted.”
“Yes. But…” Vera dithered.
“But what?” asked Willie with a hint of impatience.
“Daisy, are you C of E?”
“Yes. At least—”
“Would you mind awfully coming with me? Izzie’s Methodist, and Willie never goes to church.”
“I hardly ever go,” Daisy admitted.
“But you’re not Mr. Turnbull’s parishioner. Willie is.”
As Daisy actually wanted to accompany Vera, she stopped raising objections. “I’ll get my coat.”
“It’s very kind of you, Daisy,” said Isabel, “but are you sure you’re not too tired?”
“Not at all.” Curiosity outweighed weariness every time.
“It’s just across the street,” Vera pointed out, “beyond the church. I’ll run up and fetch your coat and hat if you like.”
“I’ll go,” Isabel offered, and she hurried out.
Taking her cue from Willie, Daisy didn’t tell Vera about Cartwright’s irruption into the middle of things. It might well change her mind about confiding in the rector.
Five minutes later, Daisy and Vera crossed the road, free of traffic on a Sunday evening.
The grass in the churchyard sparkled with frost and the church stood silhouetted against the star-filled sky.
Daisy started to turn left, towards the Old Rectory, an ancient building she had noticed on her peregrinations.
Vera put a hand on her arm and gave a little tug to the right. “It’s this way. The new rectory is to the north. Not that it’s very new—mid-eighteenth century.”
“Much more comfortable, I expect. Look, there’s a light in the church. Could it be the rector?”
“I doubt it, not so long after Evensong. Probably the sexton clearing up.”
“What sort of person is the rector? Is he married?” A nice, sympathetic clergyman would be an ideal match for Vera, Daisy thought.
“He reminds me of my grandfather.”
Too bad. “In what way?”
“He looks like him. Grandpapa was a clergyman. They run in the family. But he was also a hard-headed, practical Yorkshireman. He spent all his life as vicar of a poor parish in Bradford and he was more concerned with alleviating poverty than climbing the church hierarchy, like my father. He was the kindest man I ever met.”
“And Mr. Turnbull is kind?”
“Well, I don’t really know, but he looks kind and he was very nice when he called.”
Daisy crossed her fingers for luck. Vera’s optimism seemed a bit premature, but at least she had cheered up.
A frowning maid opened the door of the rectory and asked their business.
Daisy gave their names and asked to see Mr. Turnbull.
Grudgingly the woman invited them to step into the hall, then went away to ask her master if he could see them, muttering audibly about “people who never give the poor man a moment’s peace. ”
“Should I offer to come back in the morning, before school?” Vera whispered. “Or after school?”
“No.” Daisy was adamant. Given time to worry, Vera would not easily be brought back up to scratch. Besides, delay would give Cartwright a chance to get his story in first.
The maid returned, with a martyred air that Daisy hoped was not a reflection of the rector’s. She led them to a pleasant, shabby living room, Daisy with a firm grip on Vera’s arm to prevent backtracking.
The man who came to meet them was short and plump, with a broad pink face and thick, wavy silver hair. He had changed his clerical black for an ancient blazer with the threadbare crest of a Cambridge college on the pocket.
“My dear Miss Leighton, what can I do for you?” He turned courteously to Daisy. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name, Mrs…?”
Vera seemed tongue-tied so Daisy said, “Fletcher. A friend from London. We’re sorry to disturb you so late on a Sunday evening.”
“Not at all, not at all.” He beamed at them benevolently, then glanced behind him, where a plump, grey-haired woman was gathering up her knitting. “My wife.”
No hope for Vera, then, even if he weren’t thirty years too old. Daisy exchanged polite murmurs with Mrs. Turnbull.
“Don’t move, dear,” said the rector. “I’ll take the ladies to my study.”
“There’s no fire, dear. It will be icy.”
“No matter, no matter. They are young and dressed for out-of-doors, and you know I don’t feel the cold.”
Vera found her voice. “Mrs. Fletcher has just recovered…”
“Come and sit by the fire, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Mrs. Turnbull placidly. “I’ll make cocoa.” She went out.
When they were all seated, the rector asked Vera how he could help her. She looked pleadingly at Daisy, beside her on a sofa.
Daisy knew only half the story. Also, she wanted to avoid all mention of the murder, let alone suggesting any link between it and Vera’s troubles. She opted for brevity and candour.
“I just happen to be in Beaconsfield for a few days. I’m not really familiar with the situation, but I gather something that happened at the school upset Miss Leighton. She—”
“Indeed!” The rector leaned forward, fixing an intent gaze on Vera. “I’m sorry to hear it, Miss Leighton. And extremely interested.”
Alarmed, Vera faltered, “B-but I … You already know?”
Had Cartwright spread his version of events? If so, Daisy thought, the fat was in the fire. She could only hope she’d be able to smother the flames.
“The fact is,” the rector continued, reaching over to pat Vera’s hand, “we have had great difficulty in keeping teachers for the infants. It is some time since any have stayed longer than a single term. Naturally we—the board and I—suspect a common factor. However, not one of the young women has been willing to speak out, to give any but the vaguest of reasons for resigning. Without facts, we cannot act.”
“Go on, Vera,” Daisy urged.
“It was last month,” she began hesitantly, “a couple of weeks after the beginning of term. Before we moved to Beaconsfield. The children had left and I was tidying the room, preparing lessons for the next day. I was at the blackboard copying out a poem from When We Were Very Young. Children respond so well to Mr. Milne’s verses.
They want to learn to read them for themselves. ” She fell silent.
“My little ones love them,” said Daisy. “You were writing one on the board when…?”
“When Mr.… The headmaster came in. I thought … I assumed he wanted to make sure I had everything I needed, to ask if I had any questions or wanted advice, as he had once or twice before. I said hello and went on writing on the board. He came up behind me and put his arms round me, and he … he…” She shuddered. “I’d rather not describe—”
“No, no, by all means!” exclaimed the rector.
“I broke away from him and ran to the door. I told him I was going to report his … advances. He said I was a … a typical frigid old maid and it was no wonder no one had ever loved me. It’s not true!
I was engaged. It’s different when someone you love kisses you, when you want to be kissed. ” Her voice cracked.
“He didn’t come back from the war?” the rector asked gently.
Vera nodded. Daisy couldn’t speak, a lump rising in her throat as she relived the moment when she’d heard that Michael wasn’t ever coming back. She took Vera’s hand in hers.
As if taking strength from her clasp, Vera went on: “Mr. Cartwright threatened that if I told anyone, he’d say I tried to … to seduce him and had hysterics when he wouldn’t … cooperate. He said I’d lose my job and never teach again.”
“Darling, that’s a threat that would only work if he had done it right away. Telling his version now will lead to his having to explain why he let you go on teaching innocent children after your misbehaviour. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Turnbull?”
“Why, yes. I hadn’t thought about it in precisely those terms, but yes, I see your point, Mrs. Fletcher. He would be most unwise to come forward now.”
Daisy realised it was pointless to try to keep Vera’s personal troubles separate from the murder. “That seems to be just what he’s done.”
“What? He hasn’t come to me.”
“He went to the police.”
“Surely this is not a matter for the police!”
“I doubt it. But ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth.’” Daisy was pleased with herself for producing an apt biblical quotation. “You’ve heard about the police investigation in Beaconsfield?”
“I have heard a doubtless garbled version of something of the sort,” the rector said severely. “More than one, in fact, so one or the other is necessarily inaccurate.”
“Yes, well, the details are not important just now. As to what brought Mr. Cartwright into the picture, I can only speculate. My theory is that he was passing the house where Miss Leighton lives, saw the police there, learned that she was helping with their enquiries, and jumped to the conclusion that she’d reported him.
At any rate, I witnessed his bursting into the inspector’s room declaring wildly that an unnamed ‘she’ was lying.
When the inspector obviously didn’t know what he was talking about, he withdrew his words. And his person.”
“Good gracious!” the clergyman exclaimed.
“Daisy, you didn’t tell me!”
“No, you weren’t there when I told the others, and as you’d already made up your mind to report him to Mr. Turnbull, I decided his antics might scare you off.”
“They might. I’m such a coward.”
“Some of us, myself included, would be scared stiff to face a classroom full of children.”
The rector asked, “You say Cartwright’s not going to pursue the matter?”
“The police will. He has no choice. One can’t make wild accusations to an officer investigating murder, and expect—”
“Murder? Then that part of the story was true. I didn’t want to believe it, in our quiet little town.”
Daisy was about to speak, but he bowed his head in silent prayer over his clasped hands. She was wondering whether she too ought to pray, and if so for whom, when he looked up.
“What should I do, Mr. Turnbull?” Vera asked desperately.
“Sit tight, my dear. Go to school in the morning. Have as little to do with the headmaster as is consonant with courtesy and the necessities of your profession. I’m going to do a little investigating myself.
I have the addresses of two of your predecessors who left unexpectedly.
I shall write at once and ask them to reveal why they felt unable to stay with us. ”
“It might be better to look them up in person,” Daisy suggested, “if they are within reach. They may not care to put the experience on paper.”
“Why should they speak up now,” said Vera, “when they wouldn’t before?”
Daisy thought fast. “Because, before, they would have just put their reputations and careers in danger, but now they’d be helping you, who find yourself in the same position. Or so we can reasonably assume.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Fletcher. One is in Croydon, I believe, and the other also south of London. Surbiton? I’m sure there are buses,” he added vaguely.
“Oh, Mr. Turnbull, I’m sure writing to them will be enough. I can’t ask you to traipse about—”
“My dear Miss Leighton, you are not asking, I’m offering. I keep Mondays as clear as I can, in case anything should come up. ‘Traipsing about,’ as you put it, will be a pleasant outing.”
“I’ll drive you, Mr. Turnbull,” Daisy proposed. “I’m going up tomorrow to see my babies. I’ll pick you up at Marylebone Station in my car.”
“That would be most enjoyable, Mrs. Fletcher, if you can spare the time. Let me find my address book and the train timetable.” He toddled off to his fireless study.
“It’s very sweet of you, Daisy, but—”
“Don’t worry, darling, it shouldn’t take long, and besides, I have an ulterior motive. You’ve probably already realised that my besetting sin is curiosity. I’d like to see your predecessors for myself. Also, they may be willing to tell me what they find embarrassing to spell out to the rector.”
“I couldn’t bring myself to confess to him that I smiled at Mr. Cartwright when he came in.”
“Why shouldn’t you? The previous time, he’d come to help you.”
“Yes, but he probably thought I was encouraging him.”
“Admittedly you’re particularly attractive when you smile, but if one has to consider every time one feels like smiling that it could inflame the passions of the nearest male, life would become impossible. You mustn’t think for a moment that his boorishness was in any way your fault, Vera.”
“I used to smile a lot more before, I think.”
“Well, start smiling again. It suits you.”
As she spoke, a tap on the door preceded Mrs. Turnbull’s entrance with a tray of steaming mugs. “Here we are. Now where’s my husband disappeared to?”
“He went to get his Bradshaw’s, Mrs. Turnbull.”
Without comment or questions, the rector’s wife—properly discreet in public, though he might tell her everything in private—passed round the cocoa and offered a plate of custard creams. She sat down, saying, “I’ll leave you in peace when Jeremy comes back.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Turnbull.” Vera managed to smile at her. “We’ve just about finished my … our business.”
The rector returned, happily waving a large diary, the larger train timetables, and a map book. “Here we are. Let us plan our travels, Mrs. Fletcher.”
While they discussed train times and pored over the maps, Vera talked to Mrs. Turnbull. Daisy didn’t hear much of what they said, but to her relief, they appeared to be getting on well together.
Daisy and Vera left the rectory half an hour later. Vera walked with a much springier step. Daisy plodded. All she wanted was her bed.