Up from the Grave (3 page)

“If you pardon me, sir, have we met before?” She couldn’t help but ask.

“Most certainly not.” The disgruntled male, face turning pink as a spring sunrise, arose.

Berdie watched him walk swiftly towards the front garden and hoped he didn’t rally the Green Army to Saint Aidan’s little church garden. Realizing that silence had draped itself over the gaping onlookers, she stood confidently with great grace, smiled, and moved on to the next table. It was a signal that the crowd could return to their fairy cakes and conversation.

Ivy approached. “I say, what was that all about?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure, Ivy. But I have a sense that today’s sod turning could be a bit lively.”

“But it’s only a wee little water feature,” Ivy replied.

Berdie pursed her lips. “And Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte was only a wee little man.”

2

In what seemed to Berdie a skip of time on the heels of the tea, the physical arrangements for the groundbreaking ceremony were in place. And very timely at that. Villagers were arriving. Spectators’ chairs were positioned across the back garden. A single row of seats faced the audience. They were for Hugh and the parish counsel and included a chair, decorated with white and gold ribbons, next to where Mr. Webb was to sit. There it was, Berdie perceived, the spot reserved for the mystery guest who engendered rumors, betting pools, and questioning of values.

The beautiful wood was an enchanting backdrop to the whole arrangement. A large spray of flowers near the line of chairs added a sense of decorum and also signaled the spot where the women’s chorus would stand to perform.

In the tranquil yet festive setting, Berdie greeted parishioners who found their way to seats.

Ivy, having finished tidying up the tea, was joined by her husband, Edsel, and all six children.

Ivy cradled the newest member of the Butz family, seven-month-old Dotty Elizabeth, in her arms. “The tea went splendidly, didn’t it Mrs. Elliott? I mean apart from that odd ‘tree’ fellow.” Ivy glowed.

“Splendidly.” Berdie smiled at the two oldest Butz girls. “Hello Lila, Lucy,”

Lila looked just like her mother, but for very large eye glasses. She nodded her fifteen-year-old head shyly.

Lucy, the first-born, was in her sixth form with an eye on technical college. The sixteen-year-old sported enough lip gloss to fill Boots Pharmacy. “I hope this isn’t too long. I have a study date after.”

“Only the time needed to dignify the event,” Berdie assured.

Preteen twins Martha and Milton filed past Berdie in their usual nonchalant manner.

“Where’s little Duncan?” Berdie quizzed. The two usually had their four-year-old brother in tow.

Milton threw his thumb towards Mr. and Mrs. Raheem. Sharday, her sari flowing, and Hardeep both clutched Duncan by his pudgy hands.

“We’re keeping the eye on him as family friends do,” Mr. Raheem informed.

“Have you shut up shop, then?” Berdie asked the green grocer.

“Oh, yes, we don’t want to miss this surprise.” Mr. Raheem nodded towards the mystery chair.

Berdie smiled. “I dare say that’s the reason most everyone’s here.”

“My money’s on Mrs. Flora Preswood”—Edsel whispered Berdie’s way—“in a manner of speaking.”

“Ah. That manner of speaking wouldn’t have to do with Dudley Horn at the Upland Arms, would it?”

Edsel laid his finger aside his nose.

Berdie was fond of this man with his big barrel chest and easy laugh. He and his toolbox had intervened in a time of danger for Berdie, and she would be eternally grateful.

“Oh, no sooner said.” Edsel grinned and discreetly pointed his shoulder in the direction of the arriving Preswoods.

Berdie spied Colonel Randal Preswood, his thin body stick straight and shoulders back. He appeared quite uninterested coming alongside his wife, Flora, who chaired the county Family Heritage Circle. Classically dressed as befitted those of rank, they were the current Preswoods that resided at Bampkingswith Hall, or Swithy Hall as known by locals. The handsome estate had been held by Colonel Preswood’s family for just over two hundred years. He was still considered the village squire by some.

“I see they have a nose for curiosity as well,” Berdie confided to Edsel.

This was a rare appearance for the Preswoods who really had no true regard for the church but felt a sense of obligation to keep astride village dealings.

“Good afternoon, Colonel, Mrs. Preswood.” Berdie nodded.

The colonel simply grunted, but the well dressed and nicely coiffed Mrs. Preswood spoke, her distinctive chin moving rhythmically. “Rosalie’s singing in the women’s chorus today you know.”

Their niece, Rosalie, was more a daughter than a niece, really. Berdie had a certain respect for this couple simply because they were surrogate parents for both Rosalie and her twin, Roberta, or Robin, as most called her. The girls had come to the Preswood household at an early age.

“Robin, dear.” Mrs. Preswood sat and patted the chair next to her.

Roberta Darbyshire scooted past Berdie just bumping her shoulder. The twenty-five-year old bestowed a quick glance with her aqua eyes and gave her short dark hair a quick toss.

“Excuse me,” she offered in a rushed manner and went to the chair next to her aunt.

Berdie politely tipped her head. Robin, in the past three years, had spent most of her time near London. And it would appear that London was now spending time in her.

Mrs. Preswood, dressed in linen, laid her hands in her lap, and directed her words towards Berdie. “Robin inherited my father’s keen business acumen. Now Colonel Preswood is grooming her to become managing director of Preswood Enterprises.” She smiled, then the expression went a bit limp. “Rosalie, it seems on the other hand, took after her mother in that she is gifted with vocal abilities. My sister, Rose, had a brief professional musical career.”

Singing in the follies at Blackpool is what Berdie recalled being said somewhere. “Rosalie has a fine voice. We enjoy her being a part of the choir,” Berdie confirmed. “I’m so glad you came to hear her perform.”

“Mrs. Elliott, hello,” Jamie Donovan called. His handsome face, rimmed with black locks, beamed as he approached the row behind the Preswoods. In his muscular arms, the young man held his first born, ten-month-old Katy, christened Kathleen Grace after her two dearly departed grandmothers. She had her father’s dark hair and her mother’s grey eyes, all shown off nicely by a dainty pink dress.

“Good afternoon,” Berdie greeted. “And hello little precious one.” Berdie made a cooing noise that made the baby giggle.

“Happy as she goes.” Jamie shook his head.

“Quite fussy actually,” corrected Cara Graystone Donovan, the beautiful wife and mother whose arm slipped around her husband’s elbow.

The long blonde hair that usually cascaded down her back was caught back in a twist. The shapely shoulders that once held a beauty contest banner now carried a strap attached to a bag of baby goods. “Of course when her father’s about, she’s an angel.”

“Isn’t that the way?” Berdie laughed. “It was the same with my Clare.”

“And my father is spoiling Katy pitifully,” Cara said under her breath.

Preston Graystone stepped close to his daughter. His angular features and salt and pepper hair fit his surname quite well. Berdie had to grin at the sophisticated village solicitor who handled all the residents’ legal matters, as he now carried a small Paddington Bear and a pink sunbonnet. He gave Berdie a polite nod.

“Hello Randal, Flora,” he spoke to the couple in the row forward. He gave a deliberate nod to Mrs. Preswood who responded with what seemed only a furtive glance.

How odd that she didn’t respond to him.

Mr. Graystone took a deep breath then proceeded to the chair next to his daughter. He gripped the baby wares like a holiday hare unwilling to give up its carrots.

“Graystone’s quite smitten with his granddaughter, I should think, and rightly so.” Young Dave Exton, the newspaper editor Berdie saw earlier on the High Street, stood near her. “Though it is hard to believe the old iceberg has a warm spot in that arctic heart of his.”

“Everyone has a warm spot in their heart,” Berdie replied. “It just sometimes takes a bit of defrosting to find it.”

“Including that one?” The editor pushed his trendy glasses against the bridge of his nose and thrust his chin towards the village constable, Albert Goodnight.

Oh that one!
Berdie didn’t voice the thought. “Yes, well, with a good blasting furnace at hand, indeed he does.”

Berdie wasn’t sure if it was so much a matter of finding the amiability of Albert Goodnight’s heart or just the need to see him demonstrate some genuine competence in his line of work.

The editor drew near the large constable who hung at the edge of the crowd. Goodnight’s rotund stature made youthful Dave Exton look absolutely willowy. The constable’s uniform showed large gaps between the buttons, and his sleeves were just short of his wrists.

Albert could probably sweep the village roads with that large unkempt mustache.

Nonetheless, Albert Goodnight was the law in Aidan Kirkwood, as Hugh had pointed out to her on more than one occasion.

Berdie continued her meeting and greeting exercises until the parish council lined up and took their seats without great fanfare. Hugh and Mr. Webb sat first. Mr. Webb was next to the enigmatic empty chair. Lillie, in her choirmaster robe, led the way for the women’s chorus who came to rest behind the flower spray.

Hugh arose wearing his pastoral duties like a royal scepter. “Good afternoon. As your parish priest, I welcome all, parishioners and visitors alike, to this festive sod turning for the new water feature of Saint Aidan of the Wood Parish Church. Following the turn of the spade, we will pronounce a blessing.”

The crowd clapped vigorously.

“I will now turn the ceremony over to Mr. Grayson Webb, our parish council chairman.”

The applause was not quite as vigorous.

Mr. Webb’s expensive clothes, slightly over-the-top for the event, fit him well and enhanced his fashionable hairstyle and tanned features. With his usual flair, undaunted by the lukewarm response, Mr. Webb launched into his oration. “Today we celebrate the expansion of our church grounds, a great opportunity to ‘enlarge our tent’ as the Good Book says. To begin our joyful gathering, I now ask our wonderful women’s chorus to raise their voice in song.”

With that, Lillie lifted her slender hands to direct and at the first down beat, the women’s voices broke into sweet harmony.

Berdie wondered if the disgruntled coach tour man she spoke to earlier at the tea did indeed stay for the fête. And then she wondered if he might present a fuss if he was here. She hadn’t seen him, but while the choristers sang the second and third verses of All Creatures of Our God and King, she unobtrusively surveyed the crowd from her second row chair on the edge of the seating. Berdie recognized most of the coach tour visitors and then she spied him, the distressed gentleman.

He stood in the very back of the audience along with a few others who seemed to simply be skulking about, taking in the fanfare. However, the man’s former anger had apparently eased. He was motionless, his eyes fixed intently on the women’s chorus. No. Rather he was transfixed. True, the women were singing with great expression, but the hymn was one sung prolifically in churches and concert halls all across England.

Let all things their Creator bless, And worship Him in humbleness, O praise Him, Alleluia!

Berdie saw a hint of moisture in the fellow’s mellowed eye.

Praise, praise the Father, praise the Son, And praise the Spirit, Three in One!

The cool grey man appeared to take on the color of spring. Something was stirred deeply within him.
A nature lover indeed
, Berdie thought. Or perhaps this song had a special memory in his life. And it appeared his resolute displeasure that the church was turning earth to create a pond had quite melted.

“Good,” Berdie whispered.

Then she spotted something unusual. A black limousine halted in the road by the front church garden; and there emerged a silhouette, much like a film star, wearing sunglasses. Her soft tan skin looked fresh against the pink linen tailored dress and pomegranate-colored shrug she wore. Her very first step, though unnoticed by the crowd, announced her arrival eloquently. She swept silently along the side of the engaged spectators. Mr. Webb, with broad smile, tipped his head towards the empty chair upon seeing the woman. With demure movement, she made her way to the seat creating a great stir amongst the onlookers, which put Lillie, who gazed at the surprising figure, off her form thus ending the musical presentation in an understated manner.

“Who is she?” Berdie whispered to the One Who always hears.

Almost immediately, Mr. Webb and the men seated up front were on their feet. A quick nod from the woman gave the gentlemen permission to resume their seats.

The creature’s upswept hair, though dark, gleamed in the sun creating the sense of a natural tiara. After a quick greeting between Mr. Webb and the woman—a kiss on both cheeks, “Ah, European,” Berdie quietly noted.

Without delay, Mr. Webb gripped the large nearby spade and stepped to the microphone with great pomp. “Thank you, chorus,” he acknowledged without even looking in their direction. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a very special and generous friend to Aidan Kirkwood. Countess Carlotta Santolio, who, amidst her demanding schedule, will assist in turning the first spade of soil to our new garden scheme.”

Berdie heard a loud tone above the murmur of those gathered. Perhaps it was those who said goodbye to their money in the betting pool.

“What has a nobbily countess we’ve never heard of have to do with our church garden?” Wilkie Gordon gave voice to the question everyone probably wanted to ask.

Berdie turned to see Mr. Gordon rise from his seat. Stretched to his full five feet and seven inches, Mr. Gordon’s bald head took on a pink cast while his face appeared as pomegranate red as the contessa’s shrug. The bushy white beard that edged his visage outlined the crimson. He raised a clenched fist.