A Crowded Coffin(26)

‘The angel motif is unusual, isn’t it?’ he commented, shifting slightly to let Harriet into their discussion.

‘Our particular angel is unique,’ she reproved, then laughed at herself. ‘Mind you, you might be surprised to hear that supernatural beings as a rule aren’t actually that rare in Hampshire. Tell him, Edith.’

‘Harriet’s right,’ Edith told him, as he looked incredulous. ‘I don’t know of any other angels as such, but there was a giant and at least a couple of dragons. The Bistern Dragon on Burley Beacon was quite undemanding, only asking for a bucket of milk every day, so it was very unsporting of the villagers to hire a dragon-slayer.’

‘You’re kidding.’ He looked from one to the other, clearly thinking it was a wind-up.

‘No, it’s quite true,’ Harriet assured him. ‘Well, as true as any of these stories ever are. Hampshire’s very rich in weird monsters. There’s the Wherwell Cockatrice that was hatched by a toad from a duck’s egg and lived in a cellar. That one was a real villain because it ate humans, but the locals were more enterprising. They gave it a polished shield and let it wear itself out fighting its own image, then they finished it off.’

‘So the Locksley angel is quite a cut above the dragons and giants, isn’t it?’ The vicar, Harriet thought, was either really interested in local lore, or perhaps it was just Edith who had caught his eye. Not sure I approve of that idea at all, she mused, recent widower and so forth, though he’s certainly a charmer, an excellent preacher too.

Edith was in full flood. ‘Oh yes, there aren’t many stories of private, personal angels, they mostly prefer to appear to saints. None of those in our family,’ she grinned. Harriet hung around, throwing a word in here and there, although she was aware that John was finding her presence irritating. Well, tough, she frowned. He must know the whole village watches his every move and I don’t want Edith getting caught up in something that could rebound on her. She drifted back to her surroundings and listened as John persisted in angel talk. It was reasonable, she supposed; not every village had its own tame angel, but he seemed to really be pressing Edith about the connection between the Romans and the folk legend.

‘I gather even the name of the village is connected with angels,’ he said, as Edith finished telling the story of how the Roman villa had been built.

‘Mmm, only a few pedants, like my grandfather, insist on using the village’s full name. The post office certainly doesn’t bother with it. My Latin’s pretty ropey but Grandpa says it was something like Locus Angelorum, the place of the angels, now corrupted to Locksley. The church is St Michael and All Angels, as of course you know.’

Harriet was aware of Sam watching her so it was no surprise when he excused himself politely and made his way across the room.

‘Why are you looking ruffled?’ he began, when their host surged up to them with an invitation to admire his orchid collection in the large conservatory.

‘Tell you later,’ she whispered, so Sam tagged on for the tour. The orchids were impressive and Sam scored some Brownie points with Gordon Dean by admitting that he’d visited the Orchid Farm in Fiji on a stopover on one of his visits to his son, Christopher, in Australia. His pleasant features revealed no sign of his complete lack of interest and Harriet watched appreciatively until her attention was claimed by the tall young American who had been looking out of the conservatory window.

‘Admiring Gordon’s garden?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Admiring all the shades of green,’ he said. ‘I know it’s the classic cliché, but I’m from Texas and we just don’t have this.’

Mike Goldstein was a bit of a stereotype himself, Harriet thought, surreptitiously admiring him. Tall, dark and handsome, with a warm, drawling voice that was very attractive. ‘I gather you’re ancestor hunting. Are you a colleague of Gordon’s?’ she asked, a sudden thought darting into her mind.

‘Oh, no. I’m on a year’s contract, based in London. I knew Lara in New York and when I found myself with some unexpected leave, I gave her a call. She and her father very kindly invited me to base myself here while I do my research.’ At her questioning glance, he went on, ‘My mother is very keen for me to find out about her family.’

‘Your family’s from Hampshire?’

‘My father’s folks escaped during one of the Russian pogroms, but my mom’s ancestors didn’t just originate in Hampshire, but actually in the Winchester district too.’ He explained, ‘I spotted a grave in the churchyard here when I blew in last week, a Melinda Zebedee who died in 1801, and that makes me wonder. My great-great-grandma’s middle name was Melinda, you see, so I have hopes. My mom was very excited when I called her about it last week. Great-great-grammy’s maiden name was Zebedee too, which is pretty unusual, I guess, but they say it’s quite common round these parts.’