Sunday dawned with an ominously red sky. Heavy rain clouds
rushed in and very soon the heavens opened over Upper Grumpsfield. Mr Parsnip
remembered the leak in the church roof, jumped into his clothes and dashed to St
Peter’s to make sure the bathtub was in place.
Edith, who knew what the fuss was about, did not rush out.
Presently, Mr Parsnip veered into the vicarage soaking wet and shivering.
Surely he hadn’t caught a chill. He had.
Edith, whose guilty conscience was hurting almost physically,
ministered to her husband’s needs, providing him with a flu powder, a
hair-dryer and a complete change of clothing. The morning service would be
starting in just over an hour. The bemused evangelist did not even notice that
she had not asked him to tell her what all the fuss was about.
“It’s back!” he volunteered at last, pushing his damp feet
into dry socks. “The donation box is back on the wall!”
Edith said nothing.
“Well, aren’t you glad?”
“Oh, yes. That’s marvellous.”
Edith felt bad. Frederick thought it was God’s work and she
was leaving him with that illusion. She sighed, wishing the ground would
swallow her. The vicar interpreted her sigh as one of relief.
“If I had more time I would write a brand new sermon. As
things are, I’ll just have to extemporise.”
Edith’s heart fell at the thought of Mr Parsnip ranting on and
losing touch with reality for the nth time. He was basically a prophet. Nothing
suited him better than sallying forth and delivering ‘the message’ in
bumper-sized portions. His position as vicar of a dwindling community did not
normally allow him any scope. No wonder he jumped at any chance of breaking
out.
Fortunately for Edith, who had to bear the aftermath, such
outbursts were rarer these days. Anyone who had not experienced the vicar in
the throes of one would never have believed him capable of shouting hell and
damnation to all four winds.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Frederick?”
“Of course I’m sure. See you in church.”
Hurrying to get the boys their breakfast, Edith wondered if
she could cope with religion that morning. She was rather glad Sunday School
was not until after the service and going to be taken by a rather officious
member of the community.
Mr Parsnip liked to delegate, especially when children were
involved. They made him nervous and lost for words. He didn’t really like
children, and that included his five sons most of the time.
But the vicar was all fire and brimstone as he rebuked the
culprit who had taken the donation box. Of course, his rhetoric meant
absolutely nothing to the congregation, who didn’t even know the donation box
had been missing. The threatening rhetoric was followed by a eulogy on the
virtues of returning things that do not belong to you, which made nearly
everyone feel guilty one way or another.
There was a fair amount of throat-clearing and several in the
congregation gave earnest thought to their more recent misdemeanours. Others
wondered if they really needed to come to church if it only made them feel
awful. Edith realized that she could not possibly own up. She felt utterly
miserable. Despite her growing misgivings about her life as a vicar’s wife, she
was a loyal soul. She would ask Clare’s opinion. Clare knew how to get over
guilt. She had had enough practice.
“It is indeed a miracle that I have witnessed this morning,”
Mr Parsnip was exclaiming. “Let us give thanks in prayer!’
Edith crept out of St Peter’s while everyone had their eyes
closed. The rain had stopped. She dragged herself to the old gravestones and
sat on a conveniently low one. She hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe in
her thoughts now and again. The donation box was back on its nail, so the best
thing to do would be to let grass grow over it. She was still pondering when a
voice called out to her.
“Edith, what are you doing over there in the wet?”
It was Cleo, who was getting a breath of fresh air and musing
on how a thief would go about stealing things from a church. She had seen Edith
leave and followed her. Edith realized that she would have to say something now
if she wanted to avoid Cleo making a fuss later.
“The donation box is back on the wall.”
Cleo had taken a brief look at where the box was supposed to
be and been extremely surprised to see it back in place, but she thought it
wiser not to say so.
“Since when?”
“This morning, or was it yesterday? I don’t know exactly.”
Edith thought she was making a good job of fibbing, but Cleo’s
eyes narrowed into slits. She thought Edith knew more than she was letting on.
Under Cleo’s scrutiny Edith felt as though the truth was printed on her
forehead.
“And you don’t know who put it back, Edith?”
“No.”
“Well, I think we should find out, otherwise it could happen
again, couldn’t it?”
“I don’t think it will,” muttered Edith.
That did not escape Cleo, either.
“But we don’t know that, do we?”
And that was a bit naughty of Cleo. But Edith had let her go
on a wild goose chase, after all.
Edith got up. The cold gravestone had chilled her to the bone.
She shuddered.
“I’m sure we shall have no more trouble,” she insisted, then
turned to retreat hastily to the vicarage.
Cleo did not follow Edith.
“See you this afternoon,” she called after her.
“Yes, this afternoon,” Edith reiterated without turning round.
The tears were streaming down her cheeks. Cleo must not see them lest she smell
a rat.
Edith need not have bothered to hide them. Cleo was now pretty
sure she had guessed the truth. But why on earth would Edith do such a silly
thing?
Edith suspected that
the lilies might have been pinched from someone’s garden. It would not be the
first time. What a funny man, but what a nice thought, wherever the blooms had
come from. She smiled shyly and disappeared into the kitchen to put them in
water.
Mr Parsnip led an
only very slightly inebriated Mr Morgan into his study, where he offered him a
stiff drink and said nothing at all about the meeting. He had decided to show
him a photo of the organ as it had looked before the war. Now the organ fund
had grown considerably thanks to the lucrative events of recent months and in
view of coming events that were bound to attract plenty of attention, there was
a fair chance that a start could soon be made on repairs.
Mr Morgan was
thrilled, though he did not know why he had to spend his Sunday afternoon
listening to the vicar telling him the news. His only compensation was the joy
of being near Edith and eating her cakes.
Clare von Klippen was
not just Edith’s twin sister, but also an identical one in looks, if not in
character. Clare had wanted to see the world and started by going to Austria to
work as an au pair. Edith had visited her sister only to find her enjoying the
attentions of an Austrian Romeo quite a bit older than herself. She had then
moved to Switzerland and even enjoyed brief romances there, but none that led
to marriage, the ambition of so many au pair girls.
After numerous other
brief affairs with other continental Romeos, Clare married the Austrian Romeo
who turned out to be a civil servant in the face of, or was it because of Edith’s
opposition to the match. Karl von Klippen was really too set in his ways for
someone as mercurial as Clare, though he did not reveal that side of his
personality before the nuptials.
Clare, looking for
just a little stability, found she had tied herself to an earnest, rather
humourless bureaucrat. What had started out as a frivolous romance ended up as
an act of defiance against Edith’s advice not to tie that particular knot. The
beginning of that marriage was almost the end.
One day, while Karl
was doing something administrative at City Hall, Clare packed her bags and
walked out. Soon after returning to the British Isles she found a job teaching
German, which she now spoke moderately well, at a girl’s private college in the
South of England. Life after Karl had plenty to offer in the way of romance and
adventure. His letters to her appealing to her better judgment remained
unanswered, though Clare stayed married. The men in her life were not the
marrying kind, and being married gave her the kind of respectability that was
appreciated at a girls’ college. It was marriage as a cold case, as far as
Clare was concerned. Karl thought otherwise.
After training as an
infant teacher, Edith had found a job at an evangelical kindergarten. Quite
soon Frederick Parsnip had come into her life. He was the new vicar at Upper
Grumpsfield and Edith was swept off her feet, despite a considerable difference
in age. Now it was Clare’s turn to dissuade her sister from making a big
mistake.
“He has greedy eyes,”
she had said. Edith had not known what that meant. She thought Frederick would
have nothing to be greedy about and she was right. Possessions were important
to the ongoing vicar, but only in the way a three piece suite was. Edith as a girlfriend
was decorative and dignified enough to go to all the church meetings and other
events. Edith as a wife was a good housekeeper and kind mother of his children
until he caught on that she wanted more than he was prepared to give her.
Edith was unaware of
Frederick Parsnip’s shortcomings was Undaunted and unseduced, she married him within
a year, and even if she did sometimes envy Clare’s freedom regained, she was
happier than many, not least because she bore 5 boys despite her husband’s
dislike of children. In each case she had more or less forced the issue, though
she would not have described it as such. Edith was not sex-driven, but
sometimes was has to jump out of the box to achieve something.
Twelve years and five
children later, she was a hard-working mother, a vicar’s wife who contributed
considerable time and energy to upholding events such as coffee mornings, young
wives’ get-togethers and various events in aid of good causes. A general
factotum, in fact.
Romance had never
been much to write home about in the Parsnip marriage and had died out forever
after the birth of her twins, since Mr Parsnip insisted on single beds and
wished for no kind of physical contact in his life. However, never for one
moment had she thought of Mr Morgan as a possible alternative. His music was
her source of comfort and inspiration, not the man himself. She wondered if
Clare might be interested. He was not bad, all things considered, and
preferable to the pompous Karl von Klippen she remembered.
Next to arrive for the
meeting were Dorothy and Laura. They were welcomed by Edith, who led them into
the living-room. Cleo arrived a few minutes later and the four women had time
to exchange pleasantries before Mr Parsnip emerged from his studio with Mr
Morgan in tow.
“Ah, Gareth,” called Laura,
who had used first name ever since he started playing regularly for her choir. “I’m
so glad you’re here. They have talent contests in Wales, too, don’t they?”
Mr Morgan didn’t have
the slightest idea why she had asked him that, but the tumbler of supermarket brandy
and the good news about the organ had left him in a jovial mood, so he was glad
to inform her that talent contests were indeed a major attraction in the
valleys and had brought forth many a great artist in the past.
“So you’ll help us
with the Upper Grumpsfield show, won’t you?” said Edith, for once getting her
timing right.
Astonished as he was
by this request, being as yet in the dark about what was going on, but not
dreaming of turning down a request made by Edith, Mr Morgan nodded vigorously
and willingly took the seat at the table Edith was now pointing to. When they
were all seated, one chair was still unoccupied.
“I think we are all
present now, aren’t we?” said Mr Parsnip, wondering if he had invited anyone
else and forgotten who. He was anxious to get started and was just about to
declare the meeting well and truly open when the gargoyle door-knocker thudded
several times in rhythmic succession.
“Who can that be?” he
interrupted himself, suspecting that he had indeed invited someone else. Edith
rose hurriedly and said she would go to the door.
“I didn’t think I was
expecting anyone else,” he told the committee. Before he could speculated any
further, Edith called “Surprise, surprise!” from the hall.
Edith and Clare entered
the room together. They both happened to be wearing navy blue. That was not
planned, but it often happened. Mr Parsnip was immediately thrown into
disarray. Had Edith been wearing a blouse or a jumper? He made a desperate
effort to remember. Dorothy and Laura had both noticed what Edith was wearing. Cleo
was amazed at the likeness. Mr Morgan had seen Clare’s photo, but he was
totally stunned by the vision of not one, but two live Ediths. Before Edith had
cast her spell on him, he had never given Clare a thought, except that had been
dreading the day he would be confronted by the twins at close range and be
expected to tell them apart and know which one he was in love with.
Mr Parsnip was
invariably thrown when confronted with both of them, preferring to rely on what
Edith was wearing. He made a conscious note of that if he knew Clare would be
present. The sisters were like two peas in a pod and what is more, they made a
sport of creating confusion.
“Oh! It’s Clare!”
exclaimed Mr Parsnip, looking at neither of them.
Fortunately for
everyone present, Edith realized that this was not the right moment to play
identity games, so she hastened to the rescue.
“Clare phoned while
you were out yesterday, Frederick. I would have told you, but…”
Mr Parsnip sat down
heavily. He felt put out. Clare was quite capable of ruining everything.
Mr Morgan was looking
from one twin to the other and back again, like at a tennis match. Then Clare
took the initiative and walked solemnly round the table, shaking hands with
everyone including a gushing Mr Morgan, who held on to her hand just a trifle
too long with his own moist palm, before Clare sat down on the vacant chair
next to Cleo.
Mr Parsnip could only
hope that this meek and mild start to his sister-in-law’s visit would last
until the committee had left.
“To what do we owe
the honour?” he could not resist asking her, however.
“Clare wants to
discuss something very important with me, Frederick,” Edith replied for her
sister.
“Couldn’t you do that
over the telephone?”
“Not really,” Clare
chipped in. Why was Frederick Parsnip such a busybody? Surely she could visit
her sister without him making a fuss.
“I’ll go and unpack,
Edith. Excuse me, everyone.”
“Unpack? Are you
planning to stay the night?” Mr Parsnip was now severely disgruntled.
“That was the general
idea. Just carry on with what you were doing. Don’t bother about me.”
That, Mr Parsnip knew
from experience, was impossible. Clare was one of those people who filled their
space to the edges and encroached on yours if you didn’t watch out.
“How long are you
planning to stay, Mrs von Klippen?” Cleo asked, sensing that Clare was causing
a disturbance just by being there. Clare was a here today, gone tomorrow kind
of person.
“Just call me
Clare... von Klippen sounds so formal. I don’t know yet.”
Cleo was now so
desperate to find a suitable assistant for the library that she felt there was
nothing to be lost by asking Clare.
“Because if you’re
here for a bit longer I could use some help at the library.”
Mr Parsnip was thinking
that Clare von Klippen was the last thing Middlethumpton library needed, but
all he said was “You don’t know how long you are staying, Clare? What do you
mean by that?”
“I’ll explain later,”
Edith interrupted before Clare could reply. “Why don’t we just get on with the meeting?”
“Yes,” Laura Finch
chipped in. “Let’s get on with it, shall we!”
“A meeting? Can I
stay?”
“Oh yes, Miss
Clip-on. Do stay!” gushed Mr Morgan. Why had he been captivated by Edith all
this time? Her sister was much more attractive, he decided. Not her looks. You
couldn’t tell them apart. No, Clare had something sparkling inside her, like
good champagne, and she smelt gorgeous.
“Von Klip-pen,” Clare
corrected. “But do call me Clare.”
“Oh, indeed I will.
I’m Gareth.”
“So now we’ve got
that sorted out, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Laura said crossly.
“I could take the
minutes,” Clare offered.
“Minutes? We’ve never
had any minutes taken before, have we?” Mr Parsnip really didn’t want Clare
hanging around, even if she was making herself useful. “We don’t need any
minutes.”
“Of course we have,”
Cleo Hartley remonstrated. “I did the last ones, but I don’t mind handing over
to Clare.”
“So what’s the
meeting about?” Clare wanted to know.
“I’d like to know
that, too,” said Gareth Morgan. “I don’t like Sunday meetings, so if it’s not
important....”
Gareth Morgan had
always been prepared to suffer a meeting if it gave him an opportunity to be
with Edith and eat her excellent home-baking. But now, to his own
consternation, he perceived that his affections had switched to Clare in the
twinkling of an eye. He could only hope that they would all insist that he
stayed.
As if on cue Dorothy
came to the rescue.
“Well, now you’re
here, you’d better stay, Gareth. And anyway, you’ll probably be needed.”
“Needed? What for?”
“All in good time,”
said the vicar, hoping to catch the drift of the conversation before long.
Laura Finch was
drumming her fingers loudly on the table.
As it turned out, it
did not take long to make the initial arrangements for the talent contest. Cleo
announced that she would do the publicity and make lists of the competitors.
She would accept applications at the library, too. She was sure lots of
Middlethumptonians would want to compete and that way she would be able to
employ her marketing talent as well as her investigative one.
“But not at the
expense of Upper Grumpsfield artists,” insisted Dorothy.
“And not forgetting
to invite Lower Grumpsfield to take part,” added Laura. Since that village
barely existed on the map, it would take a lot of motivation to get anyone
seriously interested, but Laura liked nothing better than a challenge. After
all, there were a few good singers in her choir and at a pinch they lived near
enough to qualify as residents of Lower Grumpsfield, should some sort of
boundary be drawn, which she would of course do her best to prevent. She would
teach potential candidates showy arias and they would have their own
competition to choose the best for the big show. She kept this plan to herself.
No use putting ideas into people’s heads, people being Dorothy. For a
consideration, Gareth Morgan could be persuaded to keep his mouth shut, of that
she was sure. She was confident that she could produce a winner, since she had
another card up her sleeve, which even Mr Morgan would not get to know about
just yet.
Mr Parsnip was
pleased to see how eager everyone seemed to be to get going. He lost no time in
delegating as many tasks as possible, reserving for himself only the tasks of
inviting the bishop and making appropriate announcements in church.
The vicar assured Laura
that Lower Grumpsfielders would be welcome to compete. That, as far as he was
concerned, was that. After all, it was actually Dorothy’s baby, though he had
not mentioned that during the meeting for fear of putting Laura’s back up. You
never knew who might tip the boat. If they couldn’t get the show up and
running, there was always the risk that Middlethumpton town council or Upper
Grumpsfield busybodies would. No, the organ fund needed topping up and the roof
needed urgent repairs. The money had to come from somewhere controllable. What
could be better than to tie the event to the church?
Edith perceived the
finality of her husband’s rhetoric and announced that tea would be ready in a
minute.
“Just one more
detail,” Clare remarked and they all looked at her expectantly. “We haven’t set
a date yet!”
“We?”
Mr Parsnip’s shackles
rose. Was Clare thinking of participating?
“November is a dead
month. Let’s have it then!” suggested Mr Morgan, hoping Clare would stay till
then. That would give him quite a long time to plight his troth. Edith had now
slipped his mind.
“Early November. We
don’t want it clashing with the Christmas events.”
There was a general
murmur of assent to Dorothy’s suggestion.
“Well, that’s settled
then.”
Mr Parsnip was
relieved there wasn’t going to be an argument. “How about the second Saturday
in November?” he said.
A round of applause
brought agreement and an end to the meeting.
Mr Parsnip thought
everyone would like a drop of sherry after all the hard work. While he was
getting it, Mr Morgan had time to sidle round to Clare and indulge in a little
small talk. It was at moments like this that he took care to remind himself
that short men could be as charming as tall men. What did Napoleon have that he
didn’t? Wasn’t Mozart a short man? And that Greek shipping owner, Onassis? He
was a real gnome. Compared with him I’m quite an Adonis, thought Gareth Morgan,
modesty not being one of his strong points.
Gareth Morgan’s role
models had been successful men short in stature but long in persistence and
ambition. Mr Morgan might be lost for words from time to time, but inside he
felt strong and in control, especially when he perceived himself to be the only
eligible bachelor far and wide.
Edith’s was a little
peeked that Mr Morgan had transferred his attentions to Clare. Smothered by Mr
Morgan’s effusive attention, Clare extricated herself and went to help in the
kitchen, giving Laura an opportunity of clandestinely reminding Gareth of the
next choir rehearsal in Lower Grumpsfield. On no account was he to arrive late.
If there was going to be a talent contest, she would need to audition her best
singers. Better to be prepared, though she had her doubts about the whole
venture.
“I’ll be there on time,”
he hissed, hoping that Dorothy had not heard them. He needn’t have worried. Dorothy
was busy thanking Mr Parsnip for taking up her idea.
By the time they all
left it was almost suppertime. Clare had promised to visit Cleo at the library
next morning, Dorothy had vowed to make a list of possible talent contest
candidates among her pupils, and Mr Morgan had put away half a bottle of sherry
and a great deal more than his share of cake before toddling off home on foot
since his degree of inebriation made driving his little car impossible. He was
as perplexed by his infatuation for Clare as by his back-peddling from Edith,
who was now past her sell-by date as far as he was concerned. Laura would have
to catch a bus home.
Mr Parsnip was sure
that Edith and Clare were hatching something out. However, what with eating
supper, checking school satchels, sorting out the usual squabbles about who was
responsible for the mess everywhere and making sure that the five boys were all
in bed by the time the cuckoo clock on the landing struck nine, Mr Parsnip was
exhausted. Yawning widely, he retired to the sanctuary of his study to think up
a deadly sin for next Sunday’s sermon. At last, the two sisters could sit down
and talk.
On Monday morning Clare woke well ahead of her alarm clock.
She was looking forward to her visit to Middlethumpton library and hoped it
would give her a real reason for staying in Upper Grumpsfield rather than her
having to trump up excuses to tide herself over.
Although Mr Parsnip knew nothing about her current dilemma,
she was sure he would understand when he did find out and treat her with less
enmity than during past visits. She and Edith had resolved to keep him in the
dark for as long as possible, however. Clare hoped Edith would not weaken in
the face of Mr Parsnip’s sometimes amazingly astute questioning. After
breakfast with the boys, she set off in her car, wondering if she could give Cleo
Hartley a lift into Middlethumpton. Sure enough, Cleo was still waiting at the
bus stop and only too glad to accept a lift in Clare’s two-seater.
She was even more enthusiastic about taking Clare on when she
realized that this ride in the car would not be an isolated case. Cleo was no
keener on buses than she was on church pews. Years of self-indulgence added to
her naturally generous build meant that she was now quite round,
But apart from shirking fad diets, Cleo could be strict and hard-headed
when the need arose. Now she was about to strike a deal with Clare she became
rather officious and Clare wondered if it would be such a good idea to work
alongside her.
“You see, the old librarian took me on when I was down and out.”
Clare thought that was rather an unfortunate way of putting
it, but in a way Cleo was right. Clare wondered if she was always so perceptive.
She decided to put Cleo Hartley in the picture.
“Well, it would rather save my bacon right now,” she admitted.
“I thought as much. In trouble, are you?”
“No. Out of it, actually.”
“That sounds mysterious. Would you like to tell me about it?”
Cleo was being surprisingly circumspect for someone dying with
curiosity.
“I lost my job at the college the other day.”
“Oh dear, I am sorry.”
Cleo’s hunch had been right. Clare was down and out.
“There was a misunderstanding that has now been cleared up. But
I had already moved out, so I came here.”
“But why didn’t you take your job back?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly have gone on working there after what
happened.”
“But if things had been straightened out, surely…”
“No way.”
“The assistant’s job I had before becoming the chief librarian
is still vacant and you can have it if you want it. The money isn’t good, but
it’s a start.”
“Thanks. That would be great, Cleo! But aren’t there any other
applicants?”
“Oh Clare, I’ve had at least half a dozen helpers from the job
centre who were no help at all. I’m not even sure if they could read, let alone
deal with the contents of a public library. They caused more chaos at their test
runs than the kids on a Saturday morning.”
“Well, I hope I can do better than that. When can I start?”
“Park in my space behind the library and start this morning,
unless you have something else planned! No time like the present! It’s quiet on
Mondays, so I’ll have time to show you the ropes.”
“OK. I will,” Clare agreed. She really had no choice, given
that she had no other source of income, very few savings and absolutely no plan.
Her intention had been to inspect the library on Cleo’s invitation and then
make a decision, but when opportunity knocks, you grab it, she had learnt by
experience.
Back at the vicarage, things weren’t running smoothly at all.
Edith had a guilty conscious about Clare living with them without Mr Parsnip
knowing why. She was sure he would avoid asking her directly. He preferred to
avoid confrontations and always stayed out of the way when Edith and Clare were
hatching out some plan or other. But this time it wasn’t something trivial,
like an identical new hair-do, or a shopping expedition to replenish their
identikits.
Mr Parsnip had not been out of his study all morning. Edith
realized she would have to tell him what was going on while Clare was still in
Middlethumpton because Clare would be sure to insist on secrecy without
realizing how impossible it was for Edith to keep even the most trivial piece
of news to herself without getting flustered and coming out in a nervous rash.
Then Clare phoned to say she had taken the job and would be at
the library all day. The children were at school, so the decks were clear for a
heart to heart.
“Lunch is on the table, Freddie,” Edith called out from the
kitchen. Mr Parsnip wandered in looking apprehensive.
Edith cleared her throat and busied herself with serving their
mushroom omelette. Mr Parsnip deduced that if she had made him one of his
favourite lunches, she must have something momentous to say.
“I think I owe you an explanation.”
“I think you do.” Mr Parsnip was not in the mood for helping
his wife to find the right words. “So why don’t you just spit it out?” he
continued, using Dorothy’s turn of phrase. Actually, he wished he were talking
to Dorothy instead of his wife.
“Clare has lost her job.”
“That’s no surprise. Is that all?”
“Ah, but you don’t know why.”
“I can put two and two together. Your sister had another night
out on the tiles and didn’t show up for work.”
“No, this time it wasn’t like that at all.”
“Well, what was it like?”
“A man was seen climbing out of Clare’s window in the middle
of the night.”
Mr Parsnip reacted unpredictably.
“What’s wrong with that? Clare is entitled to a private life.
The place isn’t a nunnery.”
Edith was astonished at her husband’s sudden broadmindedness.
“The man was
apprehended by the police and a quantity of goods stolen from the college safe was
found in a briefcase he was carrying.”
“Oh. And did Clare know this man?”
“No, but the police searched her apartment and found stolen
property behind the sofa. They assumed that Clare and the man were working
together and she was arrested by the police and told by the school director to
leave the college premises immediately.”
“Did they have proof that she knew the man?”
Though Mr Parsnip found Clare both overpowering and irritating,
he did not believe she would do anything criminal. But he had to point out that
if part of the booty was in Clare’s apartment, it was not surprising that the
police thought she was involved.
The vicar wondered what it would mean for him as a vicar if
that information found its way into the newspaper and the bishop read it. He
could imagine the headline: vicar’s sister-in-law arrested for burglary.
Unthinkable. Rumours had it that the bishop, who was starting to be more of a
liability than an asset to the diocese, was looking for a reason to close the
doors of St Peter’s and that would be handing him a church on a plate, so to
speak.
Clare had insisted to the police that she had not done
anything wrong. The man they had arrested finally admitted that he was friendly
with to one of the students and didn’t even know Clare. Using insider knowledge
to gain entry, he had been helping himself to valuables out of the safe in the
residential wing when he had heard a noise, run down a corridor and gone
through the first unlocked door, which happened to be into Clare’s apartment.
He had rushed to the window and jumped out, hoping to get away, but dropped
part of the stolen property in his haste. It was just his bad luck - and
Clare’s - that one of the staff could not sleep and was gazing out of a window
on the other side of the quadrangle just as he climbed out of Clare’s window
and ran off.
The witness phoned the police and they intercepted him on
their way to the college just a few minutes later. He had been cycling in a
one-handed zigzag line along the road in the middle of the night without lights.
He had a bulging briefcase in his free hand and trinkets were dripping out of
his pockets. It would be hard to imagine a better way of making oneself
conspicuous.
Edith sighed deeply at the end of what was probably the
longest monologue she had ever held.
“And where was Clare when the man got into her room?”
“In bed, asleep. Her bed is in a tiny room next to her
sitting-room. She was wearing ear plugs because the teacher in the next
apartment always listened to loud music late at night, so she didn’t hear
anything, and she had forgotten to lock her door.”
“So she was arrested in bed.”
“Yes.”
“But she was innocent.”
Edith nodded, now tearful. Mr Parsnip tutted several times. He
wasn’t quite sure whether to believe the story.
“But they didn’t know that then, did they?” Edith argued. “They
had just stumbled over valuables behind the sofa.”
“Why was her door unlocked?”
“She forgot. I don’t suppose she was expecting a burglar,
anyway. There’s supposed to be security at night.”
“Well, she’s here now, so it’s all been cleared up, hasn’t
it?”
Mr Parsnip was intensely relieved, mainly for selfish reasons.
The story had had a happy end. There was nothing keeping Clare at the vicarage.
Edith told him that Clare had moved into a local B & B the
same night. When she returned to the college to collect the rest of her things
after it was confirmed that she knew absolutely nothing about the man and his
escape via her living room, everyone was terribly sorry and begged her to stay,
but she didn’t want to. Apologies were no recompense for the humiliation of the
previous night. It was just her good fortune that the thief, who turned out to
have a long track record, was enough of a gentleman not to let her share the
blame.
“So now Clare has no job and no roof over her head,” concluded
Mr Parsnip.
Having Clare under his feet all the time was what the vicar
dreaded most, apart from her consorting with a criminal, which he thought
possible, though presumably she hadn’t this time.
“Yes and no. She’ll have to stay with us until she gets
something sorted out.”
“What do you mean by yes and no?”
“Yes, she has a job and no she has nowhere to go,” said Edith.
Mr Parsnip thought Edith was now pressurizing him with an
appeal to his better nature, but he did not see how he could protest and still
call himself a Christian, so he just shrugged his shoulders and commented that he
hoped it wouldn’t take her long to get somewhere to live. In the meantime, he
would endure Edith’s preoccupation with her sister and the continued presence
of that sister under his roof with as much fortitude as he could muster.
“I’m sure she’ll keep the job at the library,” enthused Edith.
“She hit it off with Cleo Hartley straightaway. We’ll just have to organize
somewhere for her to live.”
“We?”
“You and me, Frederick.”
“What about that husband of hers? Couldn’t he help?”
“Karl? Clare has no contact with him these days.”
“She could get in touch with him again.”
“She doesn’t want to. He visited her at the college more than
once and pestered her to go back to Austria. He’s the last person she would ask
for help.”
Mr Parsnip thought Karl von Klippen was an odd bod and not at
all Clare’s type. He had never understood why she had married him in the first
place or rather, he had married her. The polite Austrian was far too nice for
Clare, thought the vicar.
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
The vicar did not say so, but he fervently hoped that maybe,
just maybe this experience would have a sobering effect on his sister-in-law
and she would think seriously about what she had done with her life so far and
change its course.
Edith was light-headed with relief that Clare’s sorry story
had gone down so well. Clare would be glad the subterfuge was over, she knew.
Later, replete from his omelette and a large slice of gooseberry
tart, Mr Parsnip returned to his study deep in thought. He could feel a sermon
coming on; something on the lines of ‘my brother’s keeper’, ‘charity begins at
home’ or ‘the prodigal son’. He settled into his swivelling chair and was soon fast
asleep.
