Dorothy Price was in no hurry to get in touch with Laura
Finch, who had not even phoned her to find out what was going on in Upper
Grumpsfield, though she must have read the newspapers and no doubt Mr Morgan
would have told her his garbled version of events. With only three days left to
go before the impro show, Dorothy finally picked up the phone and dialled Laura’s
number.
She had decided to come straight to the point. Laura Finch
would no doubt bombard her with all sorts of questions, but she would do her
best to be brief and not enter into any moral judgments on anything.
“Are you coming on Saturday, Laura?” Dorothy started,
cutting out any small talk.
“Neither have you, Laura. Have you been ill?”
Laura Finch did not feel obliged to tell Dorothy that she had
been teaching a few likely candidates how to do improvisations and was quite
certain that she had discovered some splendid new talent. Lower Grumpsfield
would show Upper Grumpsfield up.
“A bit out of sorts.”
“Not from alcohol, I hope, Laura.”
“I don’t touch alcohol, Dorothy,” retorted Laura, and
Dorothy knew that was a whopping lie. She also wished Laura would not put on
such a whining voice, unless that was one of the symptoms of a hangover after a
drinking binge.
“But you are coming on Saturday, aren’t you, Laura?”
“Oh yes. I’m going to bring a little group with me. They’ll
be taking part in the show.”
“Have you told Cleo Hartley? She needs to know how many are
going to participate.”
“I should think the contestants have signalled their
participation to Miss Hartley,” said Laura, choosing her words carefully. She
did not want Dorothy to know she had coached them all.
“Actually, I just wanted to ask you...”
Dorothy ignored what Laura was about to asked though she was
curious to know what it was.
“Well, that’s all right then,” she said. “See you on
Saturday, Laura. Come early, please.”
Laura would, however, not let Dorothy ring off.
“Wait a minute,” she shouted. ”Why are you in such a hurry?
I want to ask you something else.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t. It’s Cleo. She seemed rather preoccupied on
the phone. Is everything all right with her and that nice butcher friend of
hers?”
“I’m sure they’re fine, Laura. She’s had a lot on her plate
recently.”
“Oh, you mean that scandalous business with the bishop.”
“I expect so, but don’t enter into speculation, Laura.”
“On what?”
“On anything.”
“Well, if you won’t tell me, I’ll phone the vicarage. I’m
sure they’ll put me in the picture.”
“Don’t do that, Laura. You’ll find out soon enough. Things
have quietened down now and we’re all glad the journalists have found something
else to write about.”
“You do know more than you are letting on, Dorothy.”
“Not really, but Edith needs time to recover.”
“Recover?”
“From her amnesia.”
“Well, it all sounds very fishy to me.”
“One day I’ll tell you all about it.”
“One day soon, Dorothy. I can’t bear not to know things.”
“You’ll have to put up with that, Laura. And don’t expect Mr
Morgan to have inside knowledge.”
“He was friendly with the bishop, though, wasn’t he?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Well, I doubt if that bishop would tell Mr Morgan anything.
Gareth Morgan can’t keep a secret for five minutes.”
“He kept his Welsh chorus friends a secret, Dorothy.”
That was true and Dorothy hated to be reminded of it.
“And he’s been sidling up to quite a few of my chorus
ladies, too. Mr Morgan is a bit of a dark horse.”
“Well, dark horse or not, he’s got to be kept in a good mood
till after Saturday, so let’s put aside any reservations we might have, Laura.”
“If you say so, Dorothy. Anything else you want me to know?”
“No, Laura. See you on Saturday. Don’t be late!”
Dorothy asked herself why any contact with Laura left her
fuming, although she had vowed to be agreeable. She had even avoided mentioning
Jason. Laura seemed to have been avoiding the topic, too.
Despite having been overshadowed by dramatic events, the
impro theatre evening was a great success. To be truthful, no one, especially Dorothy,
had expected it to be. The idea of amateurs improvising fairy tales had taken
on an air of absurdity, given that real life drama that had been played out
before her very eyes. Even Mr Morgan’s performance as Prince Charming had gone
down well, probably because it was so screamingly funny that no one could keep
a straight face.
Mr Bontemps had played a dubious Francophile character in nearly
every story, which gave him an excuse to murder Laura Finch, with whom he no
longer seemed to be on warm terms. She had played a witch or wicked stepmother
in every story, being unstoppably ambitious and insisting on wearing the same
costume all evening, arguing that it awarded continuity, which was plainly
nonsense. Mr Bontemps had claimed that he would make a good wizard and should
be allowed to, since the witch’s cloak and hat were in fact unisex and led o
fierce arguments about whose turn it was to be the baddie. Laura’s disapproval might
explain his growing dislike of her, though she told everyone he sold the best
cheese this side of Harrods and she should have married someone who knew about
cheeses.
To cut a long story short, a good time was had by all,
though the accuracy of the stories had left quite a lot to be desired and had
included a wicked satire on the criminal energy of the three Mcduff brothers
who had been magically transformed into the three bears.
When the vicar climbed into the pulpit next morning to
deliver the announcements and a sermon on kindling the Christmas spirit, he
found himself facing a whole sea of expectant faces. James McDuff normally came
to a pre-Christmas service and pocketed the collection, ostensibly for
charitable distribution. He had, of course, been written off. He would face
charges as soon as the police had put their case together.
The vicar told the congregation that there would be a new
appointment soon. The round of applause that greeted this announcement was
entirely spontaneous. After all, Mr Parsnip had fought valiantly for Upper
Grumpsfield and deserved to be rewarded. He didn’t even know that he was a
hero. Half a dozen Christmas carols later, the congregation emerged from St
Peter’s to be greeted by the first snowflakes falling gently. Mr Parsnip invited
Dorothy to lunch and they hurried across the cemetery back to the vicarage. Beatrice
had gone home. Edith was waiting with the Sunday joint done to a turn. It was
just like old times.
***
But something had
been nagging at Dorothy Price ever since the bishop scandal had been revealed.
Monkton Priory, Upper Grumpsfield’s historical ruin, had also been on that shortlist
of desirable building sites. It was the only possible alternative in Upper
Grumpsfield now the church grounds were no longer available. She and Cleo would
have to find out who it belonged.
In earlier discussions they had agreed that a supermarket
would not be welcome anywhere, but now St Peter’s had been saved the idea of
property developers contriving to purchase the Monkton Priory land no long
seemed absurd.
So who owned it? For as long as Dorothy could remember, it
had been common land, open for everyone to enjoy. Apart from Cleo Hartley’s
occasional guided tours, usually for people more interested in the ghostly spirits
from the past than the ruins of the present, no one had shown any further
interest.
Over lunch round the vicarage dining table, she decided to
broach the topic.
“Are you positive that the church has no claim on Monkton
Priory, Frederick?”
“None whatsoever, Dorothy. Henry VIII wasn’t interested
because the monks had been gone for ages when he started his purging strategy.
He was only interested the spoils from the monasteries, not in rebuilding unwelcome
establishments or taking over land at the back of beyond, so he must have got
rid of it at the earliest opportunity.”
“But it must have been sold for gain, so there must be a
historical sale contract somewhere,” Dorothy argued.
“Since no one in living memory has claimed ownership, it
will be impossible for anyone to buy it unless the crown steps in and claims it,
but I doubt if the property developers will want to wait for that to happen,
even if it were possible” said Cleo.
“So what actually happened after the monks disappeared, Frederick?’
Edith asked.
“Tradition has it that a sheriff who was particularly
assiduous at collecting taxes was given the Monkton Priory lands and an
aristocratic title as a reward. The estate was passed down to his descendants
for centuries. Then one of them got into the gaming habit and lost it all in a
wager. The ownership was handed over to the winner and that was that. No one
found out who had won that bet. Whoever it was took no further interest in it.
Eventually it became known as common land and that’s been the situation for a
very long time.”
“Well, I’m sure that such an important document has been
preserved. It will be in a safe somewhere,” said Dorothy.
The more Dorothy thought about what she had just said, the
more convinced was she that that was a real possibility.
“Has anyone done any research, Frederick?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“It’s never too late,” said Dorothy. “But we should only
tell people we can really trust, or we’ll have those journalists tramping
around Upper Grumpsfield again.” Dorothy, had already had to deal with too many
journalists for her liking.
“We could ask Cleo Hartley,” said the vicar. “She’s
trustworthy and very good at detecting.”
Dorothy was enthusiastic about that idea.
“Let’s phone her now and ask her to help.”
An hour later, Cleo had joined them and agreed to do what
she could to trace the document proving ownership of the Monkton Priory land. Now
St Peter’s was not going to be demolished, it would be a race against time and
the property magnates. Cleo promised to make a start the very next morning.
Clare said she would manage on her own at the library. Cleo would start by
going to Middlethumpton banks and asking about very old, unattended safes. It
was a long shot and she wasn’t hopeful, but it was the best she could think of
at such short notice.
Clare was now fascinated by the idea of bringing history to
life, not least because Karl von Klippen was due to arrive any day and would be
sure to want to share in the search.
“Why don’t we start now, Frederick?” Clare proposed.
“Today?”
“We could find out if there are any clues to the identity of
the person who won that wager.”
Though Mr Parsnip thought it unlikely after such a long time,
he was delighted that Clare was showing an interest. It would take days to sort
through all the church annals, but it would be fascinating in its own right.
As if on cue, the phone rang and it was Karl von Klippen to
say he was in Folkestone and would arrive very late.
“He’s uncanny,” said Clare.
“He’s just in the nick of time,” said Edith.
“I’d better get home now,” said Cleo. She wanted to discuss
her plan of action with Robert, who liked to get an early night before going to
market at the crack of dawn on Monday mornings.
“I’d better help you with all those records, Clare,” said Dorothy,
who was at least as curious about the outcome.
Back home, Cleo told Robert briefly what had been decided at
the vicarage.
“What about your own family records, Cleo?”
It occurred to Robert that the metal box in the loft had
been there forever and Cleo had never shown any interest in it. The loft was
only used to store junk. He had spotted the box when he put his suitcases and
boxes up there. You had to go up a rickety ladder you pulled down from the
ceiling. That was probably the reason Cleo had never been to the top, let alone
balanced precariously on the rafters to investigate the far corners. Now Robert
proposed rectifying the oversight and retrieving the box.
“You stand at the
bottom of the ladder and I’ll hand the box down to you,” he instructed.
“What if you slip, Robert? You aren’t exactly elflike. I
don’t think the ceiling would hold your weight.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t, but it’s worth the risk. I don’t know
why you didn’t get it down before now. There’s bound to be something
interesting in it.”
“I would have, eventually. There’s so much junk up there
that needs sorting out when I get round to it.”
“Well, now’s the time to get started,” said Robert.
Minutes later the rusty old metal box had been retrieved
from the darkest corner under the eaves. wiped clean of what appeared to be
centuries of cobwebs and dust and deposited on the hearthrug for inspection. It
was locked. Robert prised it open with various tools and a pile of yellowed old
papers came to light. There were no documents referring to Monkton Priory, but
at the bottom of the box was a collection of rusty keys.
“What if…”
“Yes, what if…” Robert repeated. “You’ll have your work cut
out tracing the locks to match all these, Cleo.”
“I’ll try bank safes tomorrow, Robert. I was planning to do
that anyway.”
“One of the keys is for this box. And look! Here are some
door keys. I wondered where all the keys of this cottage had gone. What a silly
place to put them.”
“I assume this box belonged to your father, Cleo. I wonder
if your mother knew about it?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
Three of the door keys did fit doors in the cottage. Robert
thought the two smallest ones might well be safe keys.
“That gives me a very good reason for going round the banks.
I almost wish my mother were here. She would know which bank my father used. He
had money sent to her for years and years.”
“Phone her.”
“I’d rather not, Robert. You’ve seen her in action. She’d
revel in all this.”
“And it might be a false alarm, of course. We don’t know if
there’s a Hartley safe anywhere, and if there is one, it’s probably empty. It
wasn’t mentioned in your father’s will, was it?”
“No, but he left me the cottage with all the contents. Look,
here’s a copy of the deeds. And here’s photo of me as a baby and the letter my
mother sent to him begging him to support me.”
“Fancy him not owning up to such a pretty daughter.”
“You know what the villagers are like, Robert. It’s like a
microcosm. Somehow, different rules apply. They did a lot of checking up on me
when I came here because they had closed up like clams after my mother left and
was never mentioned again. My father was just as bad as the worst of those
bigots. He kept his secret right up to the end and even after the rest of the
family had passed on.”
“But he never forgot you.”
“No, but he never wanted to meet me either.”
“And now you’ve got a box of old papers to mull over and a bunch
of keys to identify.”
“And that’s got to happen tomorrow, Robert.”
“Don’t expect too much.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s have a nightcap and turn
in now. It’s nearly midnight.”
Sleep evaded Cleo. So much had happened recently. She almost
wished her mother would turn up out of the blue. It might solve one or two
mysteries. Cleo didn’t know that Gloria was almost on her way to
Middlethumpton. The only person who knew about Gloria’s plans was Clare, who
had kept up regular contact and dealt with the business connected with the
apartment in Middlethumpton that Gloria had rented.
***
Karl von Klippen turned up even later than he had predicted.
He and Clare had plenty to talk about. Most of the time they talked about
themselves.
“I’m here to stay if you want me to, Clare,” he told her.
“I do want you to, Karl.”
“Well, that’s okidoki then, isn’t it?’
And it was…okidoki.
Next morning Karl and Clare announced their intentions at
the breakfast table.
“But I can only stay on one condition,” Karl said, looking
at the Parsnip boys. “And that is that I don’t get shot again.”
The tension was broken. Everyone congratulated everyone else
and Mr Parsnip remarked that the whole family had come a long way in a short
time.
“There is something else, though.”
All eyes were on Clare now.
“Remember the night of the fire?”
“We drank coke and sat outside in the dark,” chirped Cedric,
who had been deeply affected by the whole episode.
“And I, we...”, said Clare. “Well, to cut a long story
short...”
Edith understood immediately, but everyone else was agog for
more.
“I wanted to wait with my news a bit longer, but since you
all seem rather curious...”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” recited the twins, who were
deeply impressed by Lewis Carol’s quaint language.
“Time for school now,” said Edith, who thought Clare’s
imminent announcement would disrupt the morning routine.
“You’re not....” gasped Karl.
´”I am. We made a baby.”
“They’ve made a baby,” Cedric informed the twins in an awed
whisper.
“How?” they wanted to know.
Edith interrupted this dialogue firmly.
“Never mind that now. Off to school with you.”
By now the only person not to have got the message was the vicar,
but then, he was always the last to know anything of importance. Monday
mornings were trying enough, what with a week of problem-solving and sermon-writing
ahead. He hoped Clare and Karl would be thinking of moving out of the vicarage
into a place of their own. On the other hand, he had been able to try out all
his new ideas on Karl and Clare had been a godsend to Edith in recent weeks.
Was this the right moment to ask them to stay on indefinitely?
“I must rush now,” Clare was saying. “Cleo phoned last night
to ask me to open up this morning.”
The magic moment of revelation had been pre-empted by
Cedric’s observation, but no one really minded. Karl von Klippen jumped up and
said Clare was not to drive in her condition.
“Why ever not? I’m perfectly well. Having a baby isn’t an
illness! But you can come too, of course. I’ll need some help. All the people
who finished their books at the weekend will want to bring them back this
morning.”
Mr Parsnip thought he could devise next week’s sermon on the
strength of the news about the baby. Inspiration flowing, he darted off into
his study to get started.
Arguably the most interesting Monday morning was had by
Cleo, who was hall bent on solving the mystery of those rusty keys before the
day was out.
She was in luck. At the second bank in Middlethumpton High
Street it turned out after intense perusal of old lists that there was a
Hartley safe in the darkest corner of the cellar. The keys still fitted. The
safe contained a document confirming that the ownership of Monkton Priory had
been transferred to someone named John Hartley a century ago. Cleo read it
several times before rolling it up and putting it back.
She would leave it where it was for now. Robert would have
to know, of course, but he would be happy to carry on as before. The mystery
was solved. Incredibly, the fate of Monkton Priory was tucked away in the old
Hartley safe. Upper Grumpsfield would not have to move with the times. The
village was delivered from a fate worse than death.
“I’ll donate the Priory to the nation when the time comes,” Cleo
told Robert. “I can’t think of anything I could do with it apart from guided
tours.”
“You might want to consult Dorothy first,” Robert mused. “Though
I’m sure she’ll agree with you.”
“She’ll be the first to know, Robert. That’s the least I can
do.”
