Smile and be a Villain (6 page)

‘He wouldn't even bury her. He said suicide was a sin, and he let her be buried from a funeral home, with no proper service.'

I had to swallow hard. This was appalling. I took Alan's hand and squeezed it hard.

‘So when he turned up here, on this island I've loved for so long, this place of peace and refuge …'

‘I can imagine,' I began.

‘No, you can't. You can't begin to imagine how it felt to see him charming everyone here as he did back in America. I very nearly left the church. I couldn't bear to see what he was doing. I couldn't even tell anyone; they wouldn't have believed me. But I can tell you. You're visitors; you'll be gone soon. I just wanted you to know why I can't wait to see him buried, and I'm sorry it will be in consecrated ground. He doesn't deserve that.'

S
he slipped out of the bunker before either Alan or I could think of any response to her terrible story, but not before we saw the tears start to course down her cheeks. My mouth was dry; I realized when I tried to stand up that I was trembling.

Alan took my arm without a word and led me back the way we had come. I had no heart to continue our walk, and neither, apparently, did Alan. We didn't speak. What was there to say?

We had passed, near the beginning of our walk, a pub called the Marais Hall. As we approached it now, Alan said, ‘I think a restorative is in order. Come, love.'

‘I think I'd rather just go back to the room.'

‘Keep me company.'

It wasn't even eleven in the morning. I had no interest in anything alcoholic, but Alan ordered coffee with brandy, added sugar and told me to drink it down. He seldom gives orders. I drank.

‘Better?' he said when I'd finished the cup. ‘Want another?'

‘No. I mean, yes, I do feel a little better, but no, I don't want another. Maybe just plain coffee, though?'

When he came back with it, he gave me a searching look. ‘There's a little colour back in your face. You have no idea how pale you were.'

‘I felt pale. I felt – Alan, what a perfectly dreadful thing!'

‘Yes, love, but do keep your voice down. There aren't enough people in here to create privacy. I think we'd better look at the map and pretend to be planning our next little jaunt.'

‘Why?' I did lower my voice, but I didn't see the point.

‘You've forgotten the size of this community. Anything you say that is of any interest will be all over the island in about fifteen minutes. Now, we've still masses of time before we need to think about lunch. What if we walk down to the harbour, trying the way we were going when we got benighted?'

All I wanted to do was go to our room and lie down and try to empty my mind, but I had no resistance. I felt as though all my stiffening had been yanked out, leaving me like the Scarecrow without his straw. I nodded and followed him out the door.

Seen by brilliant daylight, the way we'd taken yesterday looked very different. We walked as quickly as the slope allowed; I don't know about Alan, but I was trying to leave a horror behind.

‘Alan, stop,' I said after a long silence. ‘Here's that little garden. I want to see it properly.'

There was a sign:
The Sapper Onions Peace Garden
. ‘What does that mean?' I asked Alan.

‘My dear, I've no idea. Odd name. It's a pretty little garden, isn't it?'

It was. There was no touch of the professional about it; rather it looked to be a labour of love. I noted the pictures of plants and animals worked into the low wall surrounding the central flower bed. ‘Those look like children's work,' I said.

‘I'd say so. Perhaps this is a project of the school.'

‘Perhaps. It
is
a peaceful place. I can see why that poor man came here to be alone with his grief.'

‘You've decided it was a man?'

I shrugged. ‘No. Manner of speaking.'

The sun began to grow uncomfortably warm in that space enclosed by trees and bushes. I drew a deep breath. ‘Let's get down to where there's a sea breeze.'

The road at that point seemed to lead far from where we wanted to go, so we chose a track leading through an area of underbrush and the occasional small tree. It wasn't hard going, but I was glad for my boots and stick. The place was alive with bees and butterflies, with crickets that hopped suddenly out of our way, with tiny wildflowers lavishing their perfume on the warm air. Almost without my noticing, I began to feel better.

We reached the bottom, coming out onto a road that skirted the sea, but the harbour was nowhere in sight. Alan did one of his magic tricks and decided we needed to turn to the right, and sure enough, a few minutes of walking brought us around a curve, and we could see the breakwater. ‘I know it's early, love, but I could do with some lunch. How about you?'

‘We've lots of food back in the room.'

‘The room is back up at the top of the hill. We can have our pasties for supper.'

The mention of the hill was all it took. I was suddenly ravenous, and my knees were telling me they'd had enough. I let myself be persuaded. Another bit of a walk found us at a promising-looking fish-and-chip shop. Now, I can be as snobbish about food as the next person, but I've always loved well-cooked fish and chips, and these were excellent. Plainly the place had a good reputation; even though it was early, there were lots of customers – enough that we could enjoy a private conversation.

‘Are you able to talk about it now?' asked Alan when I'd made my way through a generous meal.

‘Yes. Sorry I went wobbly back there. I now know what a person means when they say they've had the stuffing knocked out. But I'm okay.'

‘We have to decide what to do.'

Yes, we did. The dreadful story Alice had told us had removed the option of doing nothing, of pretending nothing was wrong. Now we knew there was at least one person who had an excellent reason to hate the late Mr Abercrombie. He was dead under circumstances that were at least questionable. And we had found his body. That squarely involved us.

‘I don't believe in coincidence, you know,' I said with apparent irrelevance.

‘I do know. Nor do I. You're saying there's a reason we found him.'

‘Yes. We're meant to do something about it.'

‘The police have come down on the side of accident. They're going to release his body when someone can be found to claim it.'

‘But even they don't entirely believe it. Alan, do you think they'll get upset if we poke around? They're sure to know. Nobody can hide anything on this island.'

‘It depends on what you mean by poking around. There's no reason we can't talk to people. We would, anyway, as visitors trying to learn about the place. And people talk to you. You have a way with you.'

He grinned at me and briefly touched my hand. ‘Oh, Alan, we're both greasy! I'll need a good scrub before I can really touch anybody. But I do see what you mean. I like people, and they seem to like me. The trouble is, at home I'd know who to talk to. Here …?'

‘Start with the people at the church. There's Morning Prayer again tomorrow. They were the ones who probably had the most contact with this chap.'

‘They all seemed to think he walked on water.'

‘And maybe they're the ones with the true picture. Let's see what sort of rounded picture we can get, and then if it seems as if there's more to look into, we can go from there.'

‘You are a sensible and utterly delightful man, sir. I might just consider a closer acquaintance.'

‘I would deem it a great privilege, madam. Would you wish me to engage a carriage for our journey back to the town?'

‘No, but I wouldn't mind a hand to extract me from this chair.'

As we made our way slowly up Braye Road, I reflected again on my extraordinary good fortune in finding Alan at a time when I thought my life was over.

We got to our room with just time to wash hands and faces, and change from boots to shoes, before going back down to the Visitor Centre for our tour of the town.

The tour turned out to be just us and our guide, who was named Robin Whicker. A tall man with a deep voice and a crooked smile, he introduced himself as a retired schoolmaster, which created an immediate bond. I told him I had taught for forty years. ‘Indeed? In America, that would be, of course.'

‘Yes, sixth grade, mostly, eleven-year-olds. In a public school in Indiana, which I'm sure you know is not what you mean by a public school.'

‘Yes. You taught all subjects?'

‘With varying degrees of success. I'm afraid I was hopeless at trying to teach the poor little things art; I haven't an artistic bone in my body. And thank heavens there was someone else to take them to gym. Physical education, that is. I'm no good at all at what you Brits call games.'

‘Ah, well, we can't all be good at everything. And you, sir?'

‘I was a civil servant.' He used his usual formula when he doesn't care to reveal exactly what he spent his life doing. I found his reticence interesting.

‘Right,' said Robin. ‘Now we'll start up Victoria Street, where some of the houses are actually quite interesting.'

I saw a row of houses, most of them now housing shops or businesses, painted in pastel colours, all looking quite similar. Robin seemed to have X-ray eyes. He pointed out that one building with what looked like a Georgian façade was actually Victorian, reflecting the more elegant older style, and that the ‘cat slide' dormers on an earlier house suggested a previously thatched roof. He showed us where the original streets of the medieval settlement would have been, explained the origins of the French street names that still prevailed over so much of the island, pointed out the house where the renowned author T.H. White had lived (still called ‘The White House') and confirmed Alan's guess that the house with the red archway was in fact medieval. His knowledge was broad, his enthusiasm contagious. When we fetched up back at the Visitor Centre, Alan asked Robin to join us for a cup of coffee, or tea, or a pint – his choice.

‘That's very kind of you,' he said, with a charming smile. ‘If you're happy with the Georgian House, it's near at hand and has all those things on offer.'

We sat in a corner on Windsor chairs that looked hard and unforgiving but were surprisingly comfortable. Alan opted for a pint; Robin and I chose tea and scones.

‘You know such a lot about Alderney,' I said after I'd slaked my thirst with the excellent tea. ‘Have you lived here all your life?'

‘No, no. I taught for forty years at a public school – in our sense – in Dorset, and moved here only after my retirement. I'd holidayed here over the years, of course, and made friends. The community has been very generous in admitting me into their midst, though of course I'll always be an outlander. I've even begun to sing in the choir; I suspect they're happy to have me, as I'm the only bass.'

I began to hum the line from ‘Seventy-Six Trombones': ‘And I modestly took my place, as the one and only bass …'

Robin smiled. ‘Exactly.'

Alan and I exchanged glances. I took a deep breath. ‘So I suppose you know the man who fell down the cliff. Mr Abercrombie.'

‘Ah.' Robin drained his teacup. ‘Yes, I knew him slightly.'

We waited for more, some conventional expression of sorrow, at least. There was only silence.

Robin pushed back his chair and started to stand.

‘We found him, you know,' I said quickly. ‘We were doing the Zig-Zag walk and came across him. It was quite upsetting.'

‘Yes, it must have been.' He stood. ‘Now, this has been delightful, but I've things I need to do, so if you'll excuse me—'

‘Please don't go,' said Alan quietly. ‘We're trying to work our way through a rather devastating experience, and one way to do that is to learn more about Mr Abercrombie. My wife feels particularly involved with him, since he was also an American. Can you give us any impression of what sort of man he was?'

Robin looked at us searchingly. Funny, I hadn't noticed before how penetrating his eyes could be. He didn't sit down. ‘I didn't know him well, so my impressions are worth little. You'd do better to talk to the church ladies, or perhaps his family, if they manage to find one.' He began to walk away.

‘Robin, did you like him?'

He pretended not to hear me and walked out the door.

‘Well, that was odd,' I said when we had gone back to our room. ‘He was so pleasant, so courteous, until we started talking about Abercrombie.'

‘It's fairly obvious he disliked the man,' said Alan, taking off his shoes. ‘I wonder why he was unwilling to talk about him.'

‘You don't suppose there's some awful story in his background, like poor Alice.'

‘I don't see how their paths could have crossed. Abercrombie came to Alderney only a few weeks ago, and lived in America before that. Whicker spent almost his whole life in Dorset. There's rather a famous school there; I imagine that's where he taught. I think you're going to have to talk to a lot more people before you can get the picture you want of Abercrombie.' He lay down on the bed, ready for our afternoon nap. ‘And I'll try not to interfere. I don't know if you noticed, but Whicker didn't believe my story about why we wanted to know more about him.'

‘That was when he got that funny look on his face, wasn't it? No, we'll have to come up with something better. I can usually think up a good lie; I'll give it some thought.' I yawned. ‘Later.'

My dreams were troubled, I think. I remembered nothing when I woke an hour or so later, but I felt a vague unease that had nothing to do with my pleasant surroundings. The sun still shone brightly, the room was just the right temperature, my dear husband was by my side. All was right with the world.

Except it wasn't.