Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery (4 page)

She looked at the large stack of unopened mail that had been tossed on her desk and with a resigned sigh, reached for her letter opener. A single woman who needed to work, she had expected to retire at sixty as British women used to. But with the downturn in the economy, she was glad that the laws had been changed so she could continue on in the position she had held for almost ten years. Money was definitely an issue; she hadn’t saved nearly enough for a comfortable retirement. And the cost of everything kept going up. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a new winter coat. Vacations were spent with her sister or a cousin in Devon.

She enjoyed her job, most of the time, and her old-fashioned, unquestioning loyalty to her employer was almost absolute. But lately feelings of resentment had begun to creep in. She found it harder to get up in the morning to come to work. There were other things she’d rather be doing. She was more tired than she used to be at the end of the day and occasionally she longed for a nap after lunch. There were times when it took every ounce of restraint she had to not tell the bishop’s spoiled, vain wife what she really thought of her. As for the bishop, although she was well aware of his flaws, she respected him. She admired his sharp, clear thinking and the way he made decisions quickly. He hated dithering. He was all about getting the job done quickly and efficiently. She knew that some thought him cold and even questioned his suitability for the role of bishop but she thought his first-rate administrative skills made him perfect for the job. He held people accountable. If he had one weakness, though, it was that he did not pay as close attention to the financials as he ought to. After all, they tell the real story and the only one that matters for any organization.

She reached out a veined and freckled hand to switch on the desk lamp, and in the little pool of white light that flooded her desktop, she slit open the first envelope. Soon she had a small pile of parish reports to analyze, enter into a spreadsheet and summarize for the bishop’s attention. She checked her watch. That late already! She was beginning to regret not taking an earlier train. She walked into the small kitchen that adjoined the office and filled the kettle. A cup of tea would help. It always did.

An hour later, puzzled, she sat back in her chair. She peered closer at the document on her computer screen and took a reflective sip of cold tea.

That’s rather peculiar, she thought, running her finger along the rows of numbers that summarized various activities in the different parishes. In one parish a set of numbers was substantially higher than in the others. She compared the figures on each side of the parish that puzzled her. Perhaps there had been some kind of error. She double-checked her entry figures one last time and then gave up. She printed out the document, circled a number and tucked the paper in her handbag. She’d take a closer look in the morning. It was easier to make sense of numbers when they were on paper. It was late, she was tired, her eyes felt strained; at her age she much preferred working by daylight. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Just a few bills to pay and then she’d be off home. She didn’t understand why the bishop was so resistant to the idea of using modern technology to process donations. She’d been paying the bills online for the bishop, his wife, and the diocese for ages and it saved a lot of time and bother. The old way of writing out cheques and putting them in the post belonged to another century. Pushing aside the thought of the small pile of unopened bills awaiting her at home, she picked up the last bill to be paid: Mrs. Blaine’s mobile. She checked that the previous payment had been credited and then scanned the call list to make sure no incorrect charges had been listed.

She recognized one number that she had noticed on the bill over the past couple of months but was surprised at how many times it appeared on this one. That’s odd, she thought. Why would she be calling him so often? In fact, why would she be calling him at all? A moment later she gave a little exclamation of understanding as she realized the implication. Mrs. Blaine having an affair? No, surely not. There must be some perfectly reasonable explanation. But what else could it mean? Minty covered her mouth and yawned as a wave of troubled fatigue washed over her. Too many numbers. Phone numbers. Parish numbers. Too much to think about. She was that tired, she wasn’t thinking straight, was all. Time to pack up and get off home to the small rented flat she could barely afford above a ladies’ dress shop. She made a mental note to start checking the newspaper advertisements when the conference was over to see if she could find cheaper accommodation. A cozy bedsit, maybe.

She checked her watch. If she left within the next five minutes she could just make the bus and, as it would be so late when she got home, she wouldn’t have to worry about switching on the heat. Just as well, as the little jar in which she kept the pound coins to feed the meter was almost empty.

She tucked her notebook and a couple of pens in her handbag and checked her desk to see if there was anything else she’d need at the conference. She wished the bishop had invited her to travel to Hawarden with him and his wife, but he had not mentioned it.

She would take the train to Chester in the morning and make her way from there to the Library on the number 4 bus. She’d have to pack light so getting on and off the bus would not require too much effort. It might be a good idea to arrive a little early to have a word with the bishop about those numbers on the spreadsheet. Something wasn’t right and the bishop should know so he would be up to speed before Mr. Stephens, the accountant, did his presentation. He might also want to discuss their meaning with the accountant.

And then there was the little matter of the telephone number that appeared so often on Mrs. Blaine’s statement. She had an idea what it meant, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Probably best to do or say nothing. None of her business if Mrs. Blaine was seeing a fancy man, but the bishop might want to know about it. But would telling the bishop be an example of her loyalty or would it just hurt him needlessly? And what if she told him and it turned out she’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick and his wife was not having an affair at all? What if there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the phone calls, even though Minty couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine what that might be.

Oh, she thought, switching off her desk lamp, it was all just too much to think about. She wasn’t paid enough to have to deal with all these problems.

Eight

Pulling her wheeled suitcase behind her, Minty bumped her way across the forecourt of Chester railway station. After a quick glance at the taxi cabs waiting to pick up fares, she crossed the street and walked to the bus stop. The bishop had told her to take a taxi from the station, but she’d take the bus now and later she would cobble together something that looked like a taxi receipt.

As the bus wound its way through the narrow streets of the English walled town, dropping off passengers in front of shops with colourful window displays, Minty gazed through the mud-spattered window, envying the bustling shoppers. The town centre gradually gave way to suburbs and then countryside, so she settled back in her seat and closed her eyes, thinking about the long list of tasks still on her to do list. She opened her eyes when the driver announced they were approaching Hawarden.

Located six miles from Chester, the town of Hawarden, just inside the Welsh border, is best known for its long ties with the family of William Ewart Gladstone, who served as Britain’s prime minister a record four different times in the second half of the nineteenth century. A champion of liberalism, rights for women, and education over his long and distinguished career, he was also a great reader who owned some 32,000 or so books that he decided not to bequeath to his alma mater, the University of Oxford, on the grounds that that distinguished university already had enough books.

The idea of creating a different kind of library appealed to Gladstone. A residential library that was private, because it received no public funding, yet open to everyone. Before his death in 1898 he transferred his books, many of which contain annotations in his own hand, to a temporary building, known as the tin tabernacle. After his death, a permanent, much grander building was built to house the collection. This building, completed in 1906, comprised the library and a residential facility for students, staff, and visitors. It remains today the only prime ministerial library in Britain.

Built of red sandstone with an exuberance of stylized Victorian detailing, the two-storey Library features dormers, gables, and plenty of Gothic touches. There are oriel windows, pointed doorways, leaded pane windows, and pinnacles and small statues of great thinkers, such as Aristotle, in canopied niches.

Minty struggled off the bus at the stop closest to the Library entrance, crossed the street, and strolled along the pavement past the curving stone wall covered in greenery to the Library entrance. She paused for a moment on the lichen-covered path to take in the extravagant statue dedicated to the memory of the Library’s namesake, William Gladstone. She continued on her way, and as she reached the main entrance a young staff person opened the door for her and helped her in with her bag.

Minty paused in the reception area to look around. She had grown up in the area, and although she had been to the Library many times it always filled her with a sense of quiet, respectful awe. She loved it more on every visit and, in fact, it was she who had suggested holding the conference here. Sometimes it reminded her of an elite college and at other times of an understated boutique hotel. But it always reminded her of a much loved and much used country house with its quiet comforts and atmosphere of tranquil exclusivity. However, as she wandered down the hallway, glancing at the leaflets on the deep-set oak windowsills, she was reminded that first and foremost, it is a library—a place for research, reading, and learning—at once traditional and modern. Pamphlets offered week-long courses in beginners Latin, Greek, Hebrew, or Welsh and promoted presentations by visiting authors. Several courses focused on the Victorians and others connected theology and film—a three-day course exploring the cultural context of Jesus at the Movies looked interesting.

There was nothing announcing upcoming conferences, such as the one she herself had organized, as these events were private.

After asking a staff member if the bishop and his wife had arrived and being told they had not, she went upstairs to her room to get settled in, review the conference arrangements, and lie down for an hour or so before the evening welcome reception began in the Gladstone Room. She took out the sheet of figures she had printed off the night before and, sitting on the edge of her bed, mulled them over. The discrepancy in the one parish bothered her. There was increased activity, but as far as she could tell not the corresponding increase in revenue she would have expected to see. Wondering if she should take it upon herself to ask Hywel Stephens, the accountant, about that, she pulled the puffy white duvet over her, closed her eyes and drifted blissfully into a much longed for nap.

An hour later, somewhat refreshed but a little groggy, she splashed some cold water on her face and then checked her to do list. The warden! She must speak to him about an important last-minute request from the bishop before the reception started. She hurried down the hall in the direction of his office. She opened the door that separated the bedroom wing and entered the open space at the top of the stairs. As she did so, the door to the warden’s office opened and a couple emerged, followed by the warden himself.

“Wonderful to see both of you again,” Graham Fletcher said to the departing couple, “and we’ll catch up some more at the reception, I’m sure. I hope you enjoy the conference. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay here at the Library more comfortable.”

With smiles all round, the couple left and he ushered Minty into his office.

“Might I just go over a few last minute details with you, Warden?” she asked. “The bishop wants me to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

*

As Thomas and Bronwyn strolled down the green-carpeted hall to their bedroom after their short meeting with their old friend, Bronwyn looked at her husband.

“Didn’t he look exactly like the cat that got the cream?” she said. “I’ve never seen a man so pleased with himself.” “He may have got the cream,” Thomas replied, slipping his arm around his wife’s waist and pulling her closer to him, “but I was the lucky one. I got you.”

Nine

“Bishop, I wonder if I might have a word?”

The bishop sighed and raised a hand to his temple. “Not a good time, Minty,” he said, glancing at the document in her hand. “Pamela and I arrived later than I wanted to and our guests are about to arrive. I’ll need to circulate. I’m sure it’s important, but whatever it is you want to tell me, it’ll have to wait.” He gestured at the paper. “We can discuss that later. There’ll be plenty of time.”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that…”

“My wife will be down in a minute, so if you wouldn’t mind just making sure everything is under control until she gets here,” the bishop interrupted, eyeing the door. “Oh, look, there’s, er…”

“Oh, that’s Reverend Thomas Evans and his wife, Bronwyn. From Llanelen,” Minty supplied helpfully, after glancing at the doorway. “I saw them a few minutes ago coming out of the Warden’s office.”

“Yes, of course it is.” The bishop stepped forward.

“Thomas,” the smiling bishop said in the warmest voice he could muster, extending his hand. “And Bronwyn, do, please, come right in. Welcome. How nice it is to see you. So glad you could make it. How are things in Llanelen? Well, I hope. Still busy with the coffee mornings? The others will be here in a moment, I’m sure.”

And then, in the way of social events, the Gladstone Room suddenly seemed filled with people and the polite buzz of party chatter. Introductions were made, hands were shaken, kisses were given and received, old acquaintanceships were renewed, and news and gossip exchanged. But genuine smiles were rare and faded quickly and after the initial greetings, silences hung heavy, and what conversation there was seemed forced. The atmosphere seemed charged with reluctance and formality as if everyone found it all rather heavy going and could think of lots of other places they’d rather be and things they’d rather be doing.