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Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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Bournemouth school council, for a letter of reference.
The vicar had replied, and not entirely out of politeness, that he would be very sorry to see her go. It was true. Although Miss Crabbe’s manner was often peremptory and impatient and her students feared rather than loved or even admired her, they did their work and there were few discipline problems in her class. And what would Viola and Pansy Crabbe do if their sister should decide to leave the village? Would they go with her, or stay at Castle Cottage, where they had lived for most of their lives? It would be terribly disruptive, all the way round, and Vicar Sackett was not a man who welcomed disruptions. But one way or another, he had to admit that Miss Crabbe was in serious need of a change. If she felt that Bournemouth was the answer, he would ask the Lord to bless her going.
“She did seem very concerned about the leaks,” Miss Woodcock said. “I mentioned it to Miles, and he said that he would speak to Joseph about getting the roof mended.”
“I’ll speak to him, too,” the vicar said, and paused, thinking of his own troubles. “I’m reluctant to bring this up, Miss Woodcock, but I wonder if—” He took a deep breath and forged ahead. “You were in charge of decorating the church for the Harvest Festival, I believe.”
“I was indeed,” Miss Woodcock said brightly. “I thought the volunteers did quite a splendid job, didn’t you? Lydia Dowling’s pumpkins were extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such large ones.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” the vicar said, although he himself had thought Mrs. Dowling’s pumpkins, piled in orange heaps around the base of the altar, rather overwhelming. “But I was wondering if you happened to . . . that is, if you might know . . .” He hesitated, finding it difficult to bring himself to give voice to what was occupying his thoughts. “Actually, it’s the Parish Register,” he said at last. “I discovered it missing when I went to record Miss Tolliver’s burial. I was hoping that you might . . . well, that you might have an idea where it has got to.”
“Missing?” Miss Woodcock asked blankly. “How can the Parish Register be missing ?”
The vicar tried to swallow his disappointment. “Then you didn’t happen to . . . oh, perhaps, just put it away somewhere? To get it out of the way of the decorations, I mean.”
The Parish Register—the record of all the marriages, baptisms, and burials at St. Peter’s—was a handsome leather-bound book with a gold-colored clasp. It was not the sort of thing that one put away somewhere and forgot, since everyone who had anything to do with the parish knew of its importance. Still, he had hoped—
“No, of course I didn’t put it away somewhere,” Miss Woodcock said. “When I saw it last, it was—” She frowned. “Well, I don’t know when I saw it last, exactly. But I’m sure it was on the shelf beside the baptismal font. Have you asked Joseph?”
Joseph Skead, the sexton, put things right after services, swept the leaves out of the entry, and mowed the churchyard. He did not do any of these things speedily and without complaint, of course, but he did them, most of the time.
The vicar sighed. He had asked Joseph first thing, of course. “He has no idea of its whereabouts, I’m afraid,” he replied, adding anxiously, “I trust I don’t sound accusatory, Miss Woodcock. It’s just that I can’t think where it might have got to. It’s a worry, I must say.” He blamed himself, as he usually did when things went wrong. It was easier to shoulder the blame and the responsibility than to hand it off to someone else, even when that might have been appropriate.
“Yes, of course it’s a worry,” Miss Woodcock said consolingly. “I’m sure it will be found, though. It’s not the sort of thing that anyone would . . . well, take .” She paused. “Actually, I’m glad to have run into you this morning, Vicar. Miss Potter is
The vicar had replied, and not entirely out of politeness, that he would be very sorry to see her go. It was true. Although Miss Crabbe’s manner was often peremptory and impatient and her students feared rather than loved or even admired her, they did their work and there were few discipline problems in her class. And what would Viola and Pansy Crabbe do if their sister should decide to leave the village? Would they go with her, or stay at Castle Cottage, where they had lived for most of their lives? It would be terribly disruptive, all the way round, and Vicar Sackett was not a man who welcomed disruptions. But one way or another, he had to admit that Miss Crabbe was in serious need of a change. If she felt that Bournemouth was the answer, he would ask the Lord to bless her going.
“She did seem very concerned about the leaks,” Miss Woodcock said. “I mentioned it to Miles, and he said that he would speak to Joseph about getting the roof mended.”
“I’ll speak to him, too,” the vicar said, and paused, thinking of his own troubles. “I’m reluctant to bring this up, Miss Woodcock, but I wonder if—” He took a deep breath and forged ahead. “You were in charge of decorating the church for the Harvest Festival, I believe.”
“I was indeed,” Miss Woodcock said brightly. “I thought the volunteers did quite a splendid job, didn’t you? Lydia Dowling’s pumpkins were extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such large ones.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” the vicar said, although he himself had thought Mrs. Dowling’s pumpkins, piled in orange heaps around the base of the altar, rather overwhelming. “But I was wondering if you happened to . . . that is, if you might know . . .” He hesitated, finding it difficult to bring himself to give voice to what was occupying his thoughts. “Actually, it’s the Parish Register,” he said at last. “I discovered it missing when I went to record Miss Tolliver’s burial. I was hoping that you might . . . well, that you might have an idea where it has got to.”
“Missing?” Miss Woodcock asked blankly. “How can the Parish Register be missing ?”
The vicar tried to swallow his disappointment. “Then you didn’t happen to . . . oh, perhaps, just put it away somewhere? To get it out of the way of the decorations, I mean.”
The Parish Register—the record of all the marriages, baptisms, and burials at St. Peter’s—was a handsome leather-bound book with a gold-colored clasp. It was not the sort of thing that one put away somewhere and forgot, since everyone who had anything to do with the parish knew of its importance. Still, he had hoped—
“No, of course I didn’t put it away somewhere,” Miss Woodcock said. “When I saw it last, it was—” She frowned. “Well, I don’t know when I saw it last, exactly. But I’m sure it was on the shelf beside the baptismal font. Have you asked Joseph?”
Joseph Skead, the sexton, put things right after services, swept the leaves out of the entry, and mowed the churchyard. He did not do any of these things speedily and without complaint, of course, but he did them, most of the time.
The vicar sighed. He had asked Joseph first thing, of course. “He has no idea of its whereabouts, I’m afraid,” he replied, adding anxiously, “I trust I don’t sound accusatory, Miss Woodcock. It’s just that I can’t think where it might have got to. It’s a worry, I must say.” He blamed himself, as he usually did when things went wrong. It was easier to shoulder the blame and the responsibility than to hand it off to someone else, even when that might have been appropriate.
“Yes, of course it’s a worry,” Miss Woodcock said consolingly. “I’m sure it will be found, though. It’s not the sort of thing that anyone would . . . well, take .” She paused. “Actually, I’m glad to have run into you this morning, Vicar. Miss Potter is
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