The vicarage hadn’t always been like this. When they had inherited the house – and the diocese – from the elderly Reverend Montagu, it had been very much an old man’s home, damp and unwelcoming. But Henrietta had worked her magic, throwing out all the furniture that she deemed too ugly or uncomfortable and scouring the second-hand shops of Wiltshire and Avon to find perfect replacements. Her energy never ceased to amaze him. That she had chosen to be a vicar’s wife in the first place was surprising enough but she had thrown herself into her duties with an enthusiasm that had made her popular from the day they had arrived. The two of them could not be happier than they were in Saxby-on-Avon. It was true that the church needed attention. The heating system was permanently on the blink. The roof had started leaking again. But their congregation was more than large enough to satisfy the bishop and many of the worshippers they now considered as friends. They wouldn’t have dreamed of being anywhere else.
‘She was part of the village. Although we are here today to mourn her departure, we should remember what she left behind. Mary made Saxby-on-Avon a better place for everyone else, whether it was arranging the flowers every Sunday in this very church, visiting the elderly both here and at Ashton House, collecting for the RSPB or greeting visitors to Pye Hall. Her home-made cakes were always the star of the village fête and I can tell you there were many occasions when she would surprise me in the vestry with one of her almond bites or perhaps a slice of Victoria sponge.’
Osborne tried to picture the woman who had spent most of her life working as the housekeeper at Pye Hall. Small, dark-haired, and determined, she had always been in a rush, as if on a personal crusade. His memories of her seemed mainly to be in the mid-distance because, in truth, they had never spent that much time in the same room. They had been together at one or two social occasions perhaps, but not that many. The sort of people who lived in Saxby-on-Avon weren’t outright snobs, but at the same time they were very well aware of class and although a vicar might be deemed a suitable addition to any social gathering, the same could not be said of someone who was, at the end of the day, a cleaner. Perhaps she had been aware of this. Even at church she had tended to take a pew at the very back. There was something quite deferential about the way she insisted on helping people, as if she somehow owed it to them.
Or was it simpler than that? When he thought about her and looked at what he had just written, a single word came to mind. Busybody. It wasn’t fair and it certainly wasn’t something he would ever have spoken out loud, but he had to admit there was some truth to it. She was the sort of woman who had a finger in every pie (apple and blackberry included), who had made it her business to connect with everyone in the village. Somehow, she was always there when you needed her. The trouble was, she was also there when you didn’t.
He remembered finding her here in this very room, just over a fortnight ago. He was annoyed with himself. He should have expected it. Henrietta was always complaining about the way he left the front door open, as if the vicarage were merely an appendage to the church, rather than their private home. He should have listened to her. Mary had shown herself in and she was standing there, holding up a little bottle of green liquid as if it were some medieval talisman used to ward off demons. ‘Good morning, vicar! I heard you were having trouble with wasps. I’ve brought you some peppermint oil. That’ll get rid of them. My mother always used to swear by it!’ It was true. There had been wasps in the vicarage – but how had she known? Osborne hadn’t told anyone except Henrietta and she surely wouldn’t have mentioned it. Of course, that was to be expected of a community like Saxby-on-Avon. Somehow, in some unfathomable way, everyone knew everything about everyone and it had often been said that if you sneezed in the bath someone would appear with a tissue.
Seeing her there, Osborne hadn’t been sure whether to be grateful or annoyed. He had muttered a word of thanks but at the same time he had glanced down at the kitchen table. And there they were, just lying there in the middle of all his papers. How long had she been in the room? Had she seen them? She wasn’t saying anything and of course he didn’t dare ask her. He had ushered her out as quickly as he could and that had been the last time he had seen her. He and Henrietta had been away on holiday when she had died. They had only just returned in time to bury her.
He heard footsteps and looked up as Henrietta came into the room. She was fresh out of the bath, still wrapped in a towelling dressing gown. Now in her late forties, she was still a very attractive woman with chestnut hair tumbling down and a figure that clothing catalogues would have described as ‘full’. She came from a very different world, the youngest daughter of a wealthy farmer with a thousand acres in West Sussex, and yet when the two of them had met in London – at a lecture being given at the Wigmore Hall – they had discovered an immediate affinity. They had married without the approval of her parents and they were as close now as they had ever been. Their one regret was that their marriage had not been blessed with any children but of course that was God’s will and they had come to accept it. They were happy simply being with each other.
‘I thought you’d finished with that,’ she said. She had taken butter and honey out of the pantry. She cut herself a slice of bread.
‘Just adding a few last-minute thoughts.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t talk too long if I were you, Robin. It is a Saturday, after all, and everyone’s going to want to get on.’
‘We’re gathering in the Queen’s Arms afterwards. At eleven o’clock.’
‘That’s nice.’ Henrietta carried a plate with her breakfast over to the table and plumped herself down. ‘Did Sir Magnus ever reply to your letter?’
‘No. But I’m sure he’ll be there.’
‘Well, he’s leaving it jolly late.’ She leant over and looked at one of the pages. ‘You can’t say that.’
‘What?’
‘“The life and soul of any party”.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she wasn’t. I always found her rather buttoned-up and secretive, if you want the truth. Not easy to talk to at all.’
‘She was quite entertaining when she came here last Christmas.’
‘She joined in the carols, if that’s what you mean. But you never really knew what she was thinking. I can’t say I liked her very much.’
‘You shouldn’t talk about her that way, Hen. Certainly not today.’
‘I don’t see why not. That’s the thing about funerals. They’re completely hypocritical. Everyone says how wonderful the deceased was, how kind, how generous when, deep down, they know it’s not true. I didn’t ever take to Mary Blakiston and I’m not going to start singing her praises just because she managed to fall down a flight of stairs and break her neck.’
‘You’re being a little uncharitable.’
‘I’m being honest, Robby. And I know you think exactly the same – even if you’re trying to convince yourself otherwise. But don’t worry! I promise I won’t disgrace you in front of the mourners.’ She pulled a face. ‘There! Is that sad enough?’
‘Hadn’t you better get ready?’
‘I’ve got it all laid out upstairs. Black dress, black hat, black pearls.’ She sighed. ‘When I die, I don’t want to wear black. It’s so cheerless. Promise me. I want to be buried in pink with a big bunch of begonias in my hands.’
‘You’re not going to die. Not any time soon. Now, go upstairs and get dressed.’