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Authors: Suzette Hill
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looks could kill, Mavis would have been struck thrice dead by Edith Hopgarden. But for the most part the other ladies lapsed into a resigned torpor, with one or two of the less comatose taking out their knitting. Not having any knitting to hand, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to the blackmail.
Given the length of Mavis’s discourse I was able to brood at some leisure upon the identity of ‘Donald Duck’. What an absurd soubriquet – only an idiot or warped mind would dream that one up! Oddly enough it was this signature to the letters that annoyed me more than anything else. It was so insufferably insolent … I wondered when the next approach would be made and for how long he intended to make them sweat. And what about the method of payment – one large sum or relentless instalments? He? Yes, it was likely to be a man – improbable that a woman would have such a close knowledge of that particular topic or indeed enjoy exploiting it so fully. Still, one could never be entirely sure … I closed my eyes, lulled by the gnat-like droning from the platform.
And then, just as I was beginning to nod off, unaccountably the amiable face of Rupert Turnbull came into my mind, and with that face the memory of the lucrative little racket he had been running at his language school in France. Learning that a number of the foreign students were domiciled without the requisite papers, he had been blithely threatening to shop them to the authorities unless they produced suitably enhanced fees. Turnbull – as smooth a blackmailer as he was a murderer … I opened my eyes with a start. ‘Good Lord!’ I gasped. ‘Surely not!’
The droning stopped. ‘Oh dear! Is there something wrong, Canon?’ Mavis’s solicitous voice enquired.
‘I, er, well, not really … so sorry, I—’
I was cut short by Miss Dalrymple, who, seizing the opportunity, cried, ‘Fascinating, Mavis, most succinct! Now, I think it’s time we all went home.’ And grasping handbag, gloves and next-door neighbour, she made a beeline for the exit. Others were quick to follow. I rather suspect I may have gone up a notch in her estimation.
I wandered back to the vicarage, musing uneasily upon the possibility of Turnbull being the blackmailer of Clinker and Nicholas. There wasn’t a shred of evidence of course, but as with intractable crosswords, in this type of worrying mystery one grasps at the remotest straws to provide a lead. And it seemed to me that here were three straws: Turnbull had already previously engaged in blackmailing activities to supplement his commercial enterprise; although unproved, he was believed by three of us to be a double murderer, ruthless in pursuit of his own ends; and according to Maud Tubbly Pole he had an innately sadistic temperament – which would make him entirely capable of exerting relentless and teasing pressure on his victims. But why those particular victims? Because they were known to him: the French connection! As Lavinia’s cousin, he had been a frequent presence in the Birtle-Figgins’s house above Berceau, and would have become friendly with the Clinkers during their sojourn there. Nicholas too he had encountered at least a couple of times (indeed, I specifically recalled them chatting most amicably in the aftermath of Boris’s funeral). What might he have guessed, ascertained and subsequently rooted out about that past liaison? And now, returned to London with a fresh enterprise and seeking additional funds, what better pickings to swell the coffers than the noble bishop and his ‘bit of fluff’!
Far-flung conjecture? Possibly. But the thought had taken root in my mind and I was stuck with it for the rest of the evening, even in sleep that night it coloured and troubled my dreams.
* See Bones in High Places
11
The Vicar’s Version
Waking early the next morning I was even more determined to persuade Primrose not to involve herself further with Lavinia Birtle-Figgins and Turnbull. If
Given the length of Mavis’s discourse I was able to brood at some leisure upon the identity of ‘Donald Duck’. What an absurd soubriquet – only an idiot or warped mind would dream that one up! Oddly enough it was this signature to the letters that annoyed me more than anything else. It was so insufferably insolent … I wondered when the next approach would be made and for how long he intended to make them sweat. And what about the method of payment – one large sum or relentless instalments? He? Yes, it was likely to be a man – improbable that a woman would have such a close knowledge of that particular topic or indeed enjoy exploiting it so fully. Still, one could never be entirely sure … I closed my eyes, lulled by the gnat-like droning from the platform.
And then, just as I was beginning to nod off, unaccountably the amiable face of Rupert Turnbull came into my mind, and with that face the memory of the lucrative little racket he had been running at his language school in France. Learning that a number of the foreign students were domiciled without the requisite papers, he had been blithely threatening to shop them to the authorities unless they produced suitably enhanced fees. Turnbull – as smooth a blackmailer as he was a murderer … I opened my eyes with a start. ‘Good Lord!’ I gasped. ‘Surely not!’
The droning stopped. ‘Oh dear! Is there something wrong, Canon?’ Mavis’s solicitous voice enquired.
‘I, er, well, not really … so sorry, I—’
I was cut short by Miss Dalrymple, who, seizing the opportunity, cried, ‘Fascinating, Mavis, most succinct! Now, I think it’s time we all went home.’ And grasping handbag, gloves and next-door neighbour, she made a beeline for the exit. Others were quick to follow. I rather suspect I may have gone up a notch in her estimation.
I wandered back to the vicarage, musing uneasily upon the possibility of Turnbull being the blackmailer of Clinker and Nicholas. There wasn’t a shred of evidence of course, but as with intractable crosswords, in this type of worrying mystery one grasps at the remotest straws to provide a lead. And it seemed to me that here were three straws: Turnbull had already previously engaged in blackmailing activities to supplement his commercial enterprise; although unproved, he was believed by three of us to be a double murderer, ruthless in pursuit of his own ends; and according to Maud Tubbly Pole he had an innately sadistic temperament – which would make him entirely capable of exerting relentless and teasing pressure on his victims. But why those particular victims? Because they were known to him: the French connection! As Lavinia’s cousin, he had been a frequent presence in the Birtle-Figgins’s house above Berceau, and would have become friendly with the Clinkers during their sojourn there. Nicholas too he had encountered at least a couple of times (indeed, I specifically recalled them chatting most amicably in the aftermath of Boris’s funeral). What might he have guessed, ascertained and subsequently rooted out about that past liaison? And now, returned to London with a fresh enterprise and seeking additional funds, what better pickings to swell the coffers than the noble bishop and his ‘bit of fluff’!
Far-flung conjecture? Possibly. But the thought had taken root in my mind and I was stuck with it for the rest of the evening, even in sleep that night it coloured and troubled my dreams.
* See Bones in High Places
11
The Vicar’s Version
Waking early the next morning I was even more determined to persuade Primrose not to involve herself further with Lavinia Birtle-Figgins and Turnbull. If
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