A Crowded Coffin(47)

It was just on eleven and Rory was due to arrive any time now for his guided tour of the cathedral. Sam sighed; no chance to discuss the unlikely crime wave in his new home village, not with the companion he had picked up on his way here.

A familiar voice had hailed him as he walked down the High Street after a visit to his solicitor, to the bank and to his estate agent, to check on today’s arrangements for the completion on the cottage.

‘Sam? Sam Hathaway? My dear fellow, it’s been too long. How are you?’

An elderly man, rotund in clerical suit and dog collar, was puffing towards him, hands outstretched in greeting.

‘Oliver.’ Sam halted in his tracks and shook hands. His friendship with Dr Sutherland dated back years, to the days when Sam, having exchanged electrical engineering for the church, was newly out of theological college and about to take up his first curacy in Oliver’s parish. Dr Sutherland had proved to be a kind and effective mentor and Sam had held him in considerable respect and affection ever since.

Lately, however, there had been another, sadder link between the two men. Celia Sutherland had died only a week before Sam’s beloved Avril, and the older man had continually sought out his former curate, finding solace in their shared widowed state.

Only I didn’t find solace in it, Sam growled to himself as they turned their steps towards the cathedral. Mrs Sutherland had been in her seventies, Avril twenty years younger, all those years stolen from them. It wasn’t fair. Sam felt himself tighten with the strain of not yelling the words out loud. Even now, nearly five years after her death, the loss of Avril was unbearable; would never heal. All he could hope for was that the move to the cottage next to Harriet would turn his thoughts in other directions.

‘What are you up to these days, Sam?’ For a moment he had forgotten Dr Sutherland but he pulled himself together and gave a brief rundown of his activities, adding, with a glance at his watch, that he must be on his way to meet someone at the cathedral.

‘Good idea.’ The old man gave a benign nod. ‘I’ll walk down with you. Just the thing, a wash and brush-up for the soul. Don’t like to go too many days without dropping in, and it must be getting on for a week at least since I was last at a service there.’

Sam gave in with a good grace and slowed his long-legged stride to suit the old man’s wheezes. As they turned into The Square, Oliver Sutherland paused and looked behind them, then shook his head, tugging at Sam’s sleeve.

‘Been hearing about you, Sam,’ he said. ‘Someone said you’ve been poking about in the matter of that missing research chappie. That true?’ He studied Sam’s startled expression and laughed gustily. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ he puffed. ‘Don’t tell me anything, none of my business anyway. Just thought you ought to know your investigations haven’t gone unnoticed.’

At the West Door, Sam, who was still looking thoughtful, took off his slightly battered but elegant panama hat, shooting a grin at his friend as he did so.

‘I see you still insist on wearing that ruddy panama,’ snorted the old man as Sam had known he would. ‘I should think everyone in town knows you by it, damned silly affectation.’

‘No such thing,’ Sam countered robustly. Their sparring was long-established and affectionate. ‘You know perfectly well it was a birthday present from Avril. She liked me in it so I’ll damned well wear it whenever I want to.’

‘Oh, well, she was a lovely woman, so I suppose you’ll suit yourself.’ The reply was an amiable grunt, then Oliver Sutherland went on, ‘I’ll tell you what, though, you might lend me that poncy silk handkerchief you also insist on festooning yourself with. I’m hot and sticky and my own handkerchief is wringing wet.’

Sam hesitated for a split second then shrugged and handed over the sky-blue silk handkerchief that he wore tucked in his breast pocket. Like the panama it was a relic of one of Avril’s occasional attempts to smarten up her husband. He had resisted her at the time, grumbling loudly, but since her death he had tried to make it up to her by turning out on sunny days in the outfit she had prescribed: cream linen jacket, silk handkerchief and the panama from Gieves & Hawkes in the town.

He had his fair share of vanity and knew that the outfit suited his tall, lean figure and that the blue of the handkerchief brought out the matching blue of his eyes. Harriet teased him about the hat, accusing him of only wearing it so that he could doff it with a flourish when he encountered any female acquaintances, thus revealing his impressively thick silver hair.

Sam always countered the slander by pointing out that Harriet was only jealous. Her own mousy hair had turned pepper and salt in her early forties and when it became evident that she hadn’t inherited the same genes as Sam, she had gone a discreet honey-blonde instead.