A Crowded Coffin(72)

Oblivious to Harriet’s train of thought, the vicar was reminiscing, looking very pleased with himself and, Harriet noted with a nod to the memory she’d dredged up, with not a trace of remorse or sorrow.

‘It was simple,’ he said, with a complacent smile. ‘New Year’s Eve, lots going on, plenty of to-ing and fro-ing around the village. I’d been invited to join the bell-ringers for the last hour, to bless the bells and so forth, as they rang in the New Year, and to join them at the end for a celebratory pint.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dear God, I should have got an Oscar for that night’s performance. In turns I was the solemn parish priest on duty, the good bloke sharing a joke and a drink, but all the time letting the anxious, harassed husband peek out from behind the mask. I tell you, I had them in the palm of my hand and I even managed a tear, or at least the impression of one, when I rang home to check on Gillian. There was no answer, of course, but I sighed and smiled and said, with a slight choke in my voice, that she must be asleep and I wouldn’t disturb her. There wasn’t one person in the belfry who didn’t understand that I meant she was stoned out of her mind and that I was covering up for her – as always.

‘Anyway, I rang again and when there was no reply, I did my saintly husband thing and told them I’d better go and check. It was quite difficult stopping one or two of them who wanted to go with me, but I choked them off. I couldn’t have timed it better.’ His brown eyes gleamed. ‘Gill was just staggering out of the bathroom when I got in, so I nipped upstairs, twirled her round and gave her a very gentle shove.’

Harriet schooled herself to receive this remarkable information without a blink, noting with approval that Rory too was absolutely deadpan. She had to grip her hands tightly, however, to hide the trembling.

‘Enough of ancient history,’ John said, almost gaily, as he started to circle the gallery once more. ‘Time to have a go at this panelling again. I’m convinced there’s some kind of hiding place behind it, somewhere near the portrait of Dame Margery. That has to be what the piece of paper refers to, the one Brendan dropped. I checked out her tomb in the church but it would take a block and tackle to shift, not to mention the attention it would attract. I just hope the portrait’s not another blind alley, but in it Dame Margery’s definitely wearing a jewel, which may be a reliquary, and I’m sure there’s no other mention of Aelfryth’s Tears. It would be considered a national treasure, from the scraps of information I’ve come across, and it’s inconceivable that if it had been found it would have remained in obscurity. The Attlins would probably have done something noble but stupid, like donating it to the British Museum. At the very least they’d have lent it to some prestigious institution.’

Evidently tiring of conversation, the vicar went back to tapping industriously at the panelling, centring his attentions on the area round the Tudor portrait of Dame Margery. Rory caught Harriet’s eye and indicated the gun but it was clear that any attempt to jump John Forrester would end in disaster, so they let it alone.

To Harriet’s astonishment, John suddenly let out a yelp of delight. ‘I’ve got it!’ After tapping and banging all over the ancient carving he had somehow managed to slide his penknife into an almost invisible crack. A moment or two later he had the catch undone and with a protesting creak of rusty hinges, the panel swung outwards, showing another small door three feet away through the thickness of the wall. It must lead to the roof, Harriet supposed, keeping a wary eye on their captor.

Into her mind slid a dangerous thought: Would John begin to wonder, as she was herself, how the occupants of such an old house had missed this particular door? For instance, Walter had told her once that much of the roof had been replaced back in the 1920s and it was beyond belief that then, even if not before, the little outer door should not have been discovered. Time enough to consider this when they were out of this pickle, she decided, directing a ferocious frown at Rory who responded with an almost invisible nod.

‘Oh yes.’ It was a cry of triumph. John had reached into the gap where a tiny hatch was let into the brickwork. Almost sobbing with delight, he managed to wrench it open and reach into the cavity for a box of blackened and tarnished metal, measuring about four inches long by three deep and only about two inches to the top of its domed lid.

He drew it carefully out into the open, sighing with pleasure. ‘This looks like silver,’ he remarked in a conversational tone, huffing on the metal and rubbing it with his sleeve. ‘Yes, see how it’s polishing up?’