“I always do,” I said.
I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then returned the blue journal to its shelf, tamped down the fire, touched a finger to Reginald’s snout, and ran upstairs to finish the kiss Bill had started.
? ? ?
The skies did not clear in the morning and I did not ride my bicycle to church. Thanks to a lost shoe, an unfortunate incident with a glass of orange juice, a broken umbrella, and two last-minute trips to the toilet, I was also unable to get myself and my family to St. George’s any earlier than usual, which was, as usual, halfway through the processional.
I wasn’t as attentive as I should have been during the service, but at least I stayed awake, which was more than could be said for Dick Peacock, Grant Tavistock, Henry Cook, and Bill. They dozed off as the vicar commenced his learned sermon and awoke, looking refreshed, the moment he finished it.
I couldn’t claim the moral high ground, however, because I didn’t listen to the vicar’s sermon, either. While the men slept, I studied my neighbors, searching for the telltale signs of a gossipmonger bursting with news. I found nothing, not a flushed cheek, a knowing smile, or an arched eyebrow, to indicate that anyone had dug up anything worth repeating about Jack MacBride.
I hadn’t reckoned with Lilian Bunting’s poker face. When she took me aside after the service, I expected her to ask me if I’d learned anything about Jack on the drive home after the funeral luncheon. Instead, she had a million-dollar tidbit to share with me.
“In case you were wondering,” she said, as we huddled beneath her oversized umbrella, “Jack MacBride is exactly who he says he is.”
“I was wondering,” I acknowledged, “but I didn’t expect you to come up with the goods. How did you find out? Did the vicar ring Mr. Winterbottom after all?”
“No,” Lilian replied. “I did. Teddy’s a trusting soul, but I’m a scholar. In my world, facts aren’t facts until they’re confirmed by a reliable source.”
“Well done,” I said admiringly. “Did Mr. Winterbottom tell you anything about Mr. Huggins’s unresolved affairs?”
“He did,” said Lilian.
Her gray eyes twinkled as she pulled me farther into the churchyard, where we were less likely to be overheard by prying ears. It was clearly a gesture born out of habit rather than necessity because the only people left to overhear us were too far away and too preoccupied to do so. Our husbands, my sons, my father-in-law, and Bree Pym were engaged in a lively discussion of the upcoming cricket season in the relative comfort of the church’s south porch. Everyone else had scurried home as fast as their wellies could carry them.
“Did you happen to notice the black box in the boot of Jack MacBride’s motor?” Lilian asked.
“I might have caught a glimpse of it,” I allowed. “Bill thinks it’s filled with legal papers.”
“There may be legal papers in it,” Lilian conceded, “but it contains something else as well. Apparently, Mr. Huggins wrote a memoir. In his will he asked his nephew Jack to prepare the manuscript for publication.”
My jaw dropped.
“Hector Huggins?” I said, flabbergasted. “A memoir? I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, Lilian, but who on earth would want to read a memoir written by the world’s most innocuous man?”
“I know,” she said, smiling delightedly. “I couldn’t believe it, either.”
“And what does a kid like Jack know about preparing manuscripts for publication?” I went on. “I can imagine him hiking in the Outback or surfing in Samoa, but . . . editing a manuscript?” I shook my head. “Nope. Can’t picture it.”
“He must have hidden talents,” said Lilian.
“One thing’s for sure,” I said. “Jack won’t stay in Finch for more than a day or two.”
“What makes you say that?” Lilian asked.
“Because Mr. Huggins’s memoir must be the shortest one on record,” I said. “‘I worked. I fished. The end.’”
Lilian’s snort of laughter would have won a disapproving sniff from Peggy Taxman, but, luckily, Peggy wasn’t there to hear it.
“We really shouldn’t make fun of the poor soul,” Lilian said, with a contrite glance at the mound of freshly dug earth on Mr. Huggins’s grave.
“I’d feel guilty if I weren’t so stunned.” I stared incredulously at the grave, then looked at Lilian as a bright idea occurred to me. “Maybe Mr. Huggins made the whole thing up. Maybe he wrote a fake memoir filled with wine, women, and song to compensate for a life filled with water, fish, and silence.”