True Love Ways (4 page)

“Vicars need love to. And they make very nice
husbands.”

“Aunty Peg, I only met him today. His name is Andrew
Cunningham, and he's a … what was the word he used? Troubleshooter. That's it.
A troubleshooter for the Church of England.”

“That'll be about the money in the collection box
then. Old Mrs Wheston said she put a five shilling note in, but when the money
was counted the note was nowhere to be seen. Then there have been other
discrepancies, like the church roof fund, which was five hundred pounds short.”

“Reverend Mortimer was also in the carriage, with
his new wife, Clarice. He doesn't strike me as the deceitful type, Aunty Peg.”

“No, but you should be careful of discounting people
because you like them, dear. I made that mistake in my early days of sleuthing.
That includes the handsome Reverend Drew.” Aunty Peg's eyes twinkled.

“There was a woman called Edith too,” said Meredith,
ignoring her. “I got the impression she was Reverend Mortimer's housekeeper.”

“That'll be Edith Sanderson. She's related to us,
very distantly. Her great grandfather was labeled a lunatic. Very sad and all
that, but it is sometimes hereditary, and Edith Sanderson is a strange one.
Counts herself as a distressed gentlewoman. It's true some of her ancestors had
money. They were architects and built many of the newer houses in Midchester.
What on earth was she doing on the train?”

“She said she had shopping to do in Stockport so
decided to meet them on their way home.”

“I bet she did. She's smitten with Peter Mortimer.
Always has been, even during his first marriage. His wife died of pneumonia
five years ago.”

“I got that impression. About Edith being smitten.
She doesn't like Reverend Mortimer’s new wife, does she?”

Peg grinned. “Oh no. But everyone else does, which
is what makes it so much more difficult for her. Edith, unfortunately, is not
much liked at all. She's very disapproving of people. Gets all het up about the
young wives who put milk bottles on the table instead of a proper milk jug. That
sort of thing. People don't like to be judged nowadays.”

“Then there was Alfred Turner. The dead man. He sat
opposite me,” said Meredith, continuing with her list. “And the three youngsters.
Jimmy, Betty and Bert. Funny I'm calling them youngsters. I don't think they're
that much younger than me. But they act younger. Like overgrown teenagers.
They've only come up from London for the strawberry picking. If Turner was a
policeman in Hereford and surrounding areas, he can't have meant any of them.”

“But they may come up often, Meredith. We do tend to
get the same crowd year after year.”

“I hadn't thought of that.” Meredith sighed. “The
other problem is that he didn't just speak to people in our carriage. He also
had that chat with someone in the corridor, and Reverend Mortimer said he saw
him talking to someone else in the buffet car.”

“No, I think you're making it too complicated,
Meredith,” said Peg. “He stopped talking about his cases to you after he
mentioned deceitful vicars and had that funny turn. Which suggests he saw
something in that carriage. So let's confine it to there for now. I suppose we
could look at past cases in the area. The problem is that the headquarters in
Hereford would have covered such a wide circle.”

“And he was a policeman for a long time,” said
Meredith. “So we've no idea how long ago any of these cases happened. We could
be going back fifty years.”

“Maybe more, and perhaps even further afield. You
see Turner was the type to appropriate other peoples' stories as his own. I
remember him talking once about having been part of a big murder trial, but
when he mentioned the name, I knew it had taken place miles from Hereford. Well
out of his jurisdiction.”

“But if someone tried to kill him because he
recognised them, that discounts any murders that took place out of his
jurisdiction,” said Meredith.

“Yes, that's a good point. But that still doesn't
mean that everything he mentioned in your carriage took place around Hereford,
or really happened to him. The problem will be working out what were his
cases.”

“I would think the police headquarters at Hereford
could tell us,” Meredith suggested.

“Hmm, yes, but that might take too long. No, we have
to do this at a local level to start with. Speak to everyone involved. People
often give things away about themselves without realising. Then if that doesn't
work, we'll spread the net wider. Do you know what I fancy, Meredith?”

“What?”

“A bowl of fresh, juicy strawberries.”

***

The following morning, Meredith, dressed in black
pedal pushers, with a pink gingham blouse tied at the waist and black
plimsolls, arrived at the Bedlington Farm strawberry field.  In the distance
she could see Bedlington Hall, which had once belonged to Colonel Trefusis, but
since his death had become a boarding school for girls.

In the bright sunlight, the fields were a symphony
of green and red, with sweet juicy berries ripe for picking. As well as
employing travelling labourers to pick the crops for selling at the big markets,
the owners also allowed locals to come in and pick their own fruit. It was
under this pretext that Meredith entered the gates. She ambled through the rows
of strawberries, with the air of someone who was looking for the best fruit.
Really she was looking for Jimmy, Bert and Betty, though she suspected that if
Jimmy knew about Turner's attack, he would not be there. Her suspicion was
correct. About two hundred yards into the field, she found Betty and Bert,
working alongside each other.

“Hello,” said Meredith, cheerfully. “I didn't expect
to find you here.”

“That's what he said,” said Betty, gesturing to a
man a little further down the row. The man wore black jeans, and a tight white t-shirt.
He stood up and waved, flashing his heart-stopping smile at her.

“Hello, Meredith,” said Drew. “I fancied a few
strawberries myself.” Meredith's breath caught in her throat. The t-shirt clung
to his toned body in a way that she was sure the church would frown upon. He must
be an imposter. He’d killed the real Drew Cunningham and taken his place. It
was the only explanation for a man that sexy to be telling everyone he was a
vicar. She would have to reveal the truth and have him arrested. It was the
only way to save everyone from his devilish antics. It was the only way to save
herself from the dangerously pleasurable tingling sensation in the pit of her
stomach.

“We don't know where Jimmy is,” Bert said to
Meredith, pulling her out of her reverie. “He's already asked us all those
questions.” He jerked his thumb towards Drew.

“And we know he didn't attack the old man,” said
Betty. “So stop bothering him.”

“How can we be bothering him if we don't know where
he is?” asked Meredith.

“I don't know where he is, but you should still not
be bothering him.” Betty returned to her work, strawberry picking.

“Betty,” said Meredith. She knelt down, and started
putting strawberries into her basket. “Has Jimmy got any convictions? For using
the knife, I mean.”

“No he hasn't. I've already told Drew that. And he
should know anyway.” Betty glared at the vicar.

“Jimmy used to come to a youth club I ran in the
East End of London,” said Drew. “He's stolen a couple of cars, gone joyriding,
and he fancies himself as a bit of a tough guy, but he's not a bad kid really.
He just needs a bit of direction in his life.”

“Has he been coming to the strawberry picking for
long?” asked Meredith. She was speaking to Bert and Betty. “I mean, does he
know Midchester well?”

“We were all born around here,” said Bert. “Not in
Midchester. I was born in Clun, Betty in Shrewsbury and Jimmy in Crewe. But
yeah, we all know Midchester.”

“So you've family in the area.”

“I never said that.” Bert looked sheepish. “We met
at the children's home in Shrewsbury, didn't we, Betty? Then when we were old
enough, we decided to go and live in London. We just come back for Strawberry
picking. There's not much work in London.”

Remembering what Turner said about a child whose one
parent was hanged for murdering the other, Meredith asked, “What happened to
Jimmy's parents?”

“I dunno.” Bert shrugged. “His dad ran out before he
was born, and his mother couldn't cope, so she left him there.”

“What about your parents?”

“What about them?” Bert became belligerent. “What
have they got to do with anything?”

“I just wondered. What about you, Betty? What
happened with your parents?”

“Meredith...” Drew spoke gently. “Could I have a
quick word?”

He led her to a place several rows away from Betty
and Bert. Meredith didn't like the way he folded his arms. He reminded her of
the time she had done something to upset her schoolteacher.

“Meredith, I've worked with these kids for a long
time. You can't just fire questions at them like that. It makes them feel
guilty of something even when they're not.”

“I'm just trying to find out what happened to Alfred
Turner. I'm not suggesting they're guilty.”

“They won't see it that way. All their lives they've
been pushed around by authority figures, made to feel worthless because they
came from a bad background. You're adding to their feelings of being
victimised.”

Meredith felt her cheeks start to glow. “I didn't
mean to do that. I just wanted to ask questions.”

“If you're going to play sleuth here, you've got a
lot to learn.”

“And you're an expert?”

“Maybe not at detecting, but in my line of work you
learn how to get information out of people without them realising you're doing
it. Whereas you... I'm sorry, but you're too full on. Too abrasive.”

“I am not abrasive!”

“Yes, you are. Shooting out questions like that. You
should have taken the time to get to know them, and then you might find they'd
tell you what you want to know.”

“Have they told you?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for the right time to open
up the discussion. But I'm afraid you've probably put paid to that. They'll be
on their guard now.”

“Well, Monsieur Poirot, I'm very sorry if I've
queered your pitch!” Meredith stormed off down the strawberry field, and was
about to leave when she remembered that her aunt really did want fresh
strawberries.

She worked quietly near to the entrance. Though the
best strawberries were probably further into the field, she did not want to
have to face Drew again. How dare he chastise her for her methods of detecting?
Obviously he thought he was in with the young crowd, because he listened to the
same music as them, and let them call him Drew, but that didn't mean he had the
right to tell her what to do and how to behave. She fumed silently, pulling
strawberries violently from amongst the leaves.

It was only after she'd worked for about ten
minutes, filling up her basket, that she admitted to herself that he was
probably right. She had gone into things with all guns blazing, fired up by the
thrill of the chase. She probably had a lot to learn about being a detective.
Not that she was going to let Drew Cunningham put her down. She would find out
who attacked Alfred Turner and prove to Drew that she was a better sleuth than
him.

“I hope your aunt wanted those strawberries mashed,”
Drew said. He crouched down in the lane opposite hers, looking at her over the
strawberry plants. “Whatever have they done to upset you? Or are you pretending
each one is my head?” His lips curled at the corners.

Meredith looked at the strawberries in her basket.
They did look somewhat bashed and beaten. Ignoring Drew, she took a deep breath
and moved along the row, picking strawberries more calmly.