Could the good villagers of Bishop’s Lacey, caged up here at Buckshaw, have so quickly become as territorial as jungle cats? If they were confined much longer, they’d soon be staking out allotments and planting vegetable gardens.
Perhaps there was something after all in what Aunt Felicity had said. Every last one of them, men and women alike, looked as if they could do with a brisk walk in the fresh air, and I was suddenly glad that I had ventured out onto the roofs, even if only for a few minutes.
But by doing so, had I breached an official order?
Although I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, Inspector Hewitt must have given orders that no one was to leave the house. It was standard procedure in cases where murder was suspected, and Phyllis Wyvern’s death was neither natural nor suicide—she’d been done to death with a vengeance.
But what about Anthony, the chauffeur? Hadn’t he been wandering around freely outdoors? I’d seen him from the roof. And what about the diggers in the forecourt? Wasn’t the vicar, by raising a crew, flying in the face of the law? Somehow, it seemed unlikely. He must have requested permission. Perhaps the Inspector himself had asked for the forecourt to be cleared.
As I was thinking about them, the front door opened and the shovelers came stamping and blowing into the foyer. It was several minutes before I realized that someone was missing.
“Dieter,” I asked, “where’s the vicar?”
“Gone,” he said with a frown. “He and Frau Richardson have set out on foot for the village.”
Frau Richardson? Cynthia? The village?
I could scarcely believe my ears. I looked quickly round the foyer and saw that Cynthia Richardson was nowhere in sight.
“They insisted,” Dieter said. “The Christmas Eve service begins in just a few hours.”
“But half the congregation is here!” I said. “It makes no sense.”
“But the rest are in Bishop’s Lacey,” Dieter said, throwing up his hands, “and one does not preach sense to a Church of England clergyman.”
“The Inspector is going to do his nut,” I said.
“Am I indeed?” said a voice behind me.
Needless to say it was Inspector Hewitt. Beside him was Detective Sergeant Graves.
“And what is it that will cause me to do, as you say, my nut?”
My mind made a quick jaunt round the possibilities and saw that there was no way out.
“The vicar,” I said. “He and his wife have set out for St. Tancred’s. It’s Christmas Eve.”
This was no more than the truth, and since it was hardly a state secret, I could not be blamed for blabbing.
“How long ago?” the Inspector asked.
“Not long, I think. Not more than five minutes, perhaps. Dieter can tell you.”
“They must be brought back at once,” the Inspector said. “Sergeant Graves?”
“Sir?”
“See if you can overtake them. They’ve got a bit of a head start, but you’re younger and fitter, I trust.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Graves said, his sudden dimples making him look like a bashful schoolboy.
“Tell them that while we’ll do everything in our power to expedite the process, my orders must not be circumvented.”
How cleverly put, I thought: compassion with a stinger in its tail.
“And now, Miss de Luce,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I think we’ll begin with you.”
“Youngest witness first?” I asked pleasantly.
“Not necessarily,” Inspector Hewitt said.