Late of This Parish by Marjorie Eccles Read Free Book Online Page B

his chief, as a comparative newcomer to the district, when it came to the more distant parts of his bailiwick, though by now there weren’t many parts he wasn’t familiar with, nearer to hand. He thought for a moment. ‘Not a lot to it, as I recall, but not a bad place. Remote. High up. Castle ruins. Last time I came here was on a school outing and all I remember is seeing who could roll fastest down the grass on the castle hill ... Here we are.’
    The sign for Castle Wyvering had at last made itself manifest and he executed a smooth right turn, steering the car into a dark narrow road made darker by the trees arching together to form a natural tunnel above it. Winding upwards, it passed on the way a pair of large wrought-iron gates with a gold-lettered notice-board announcing the entrance to Uplands House School. There was no other sign of habitation until, leaving the trees behind at the top of the hill, at a point where the ruins of an ancient castle stood dramatically silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky, the road levelled out and turned sharply into Wyvering itself.
    Most of the houses were in darkness as they drove down Main Street, itself unlit save for the brash fluorescent anachronism of the Mobil garage and a few television screens flickering through uncurtained windows. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Two men having a late gossip and a smoke over their garden fences turned to watch the police car as it sped by. More lights, and sounds of muted revelry issuing from the Drum and Monkey. Otherwise, silence.
    â€˜Strewth! Bet it all happens here of a Saturday night,’ Kite remarked, so disgusted he almost overshot the narrow turning which PC Wainwright, the local policeman, had declared they couldn’t miss. Having spotted it just in time, he braked and turned right, slowing to negotiate an exceedingly narrow street of small, very old houses whose upper storeys leaned towards each other.
    Dobbs Lane gave no indication of what was waiting at the end, where it opened out into what was in effect a kind of miniature cathedral close. In the middle, in its own churchyard, was St Kenelm’s church, a grey sandstone edifice with a strong square tower, gilded by the rays of the setting sun. The churchyard stood on a green sward and surrounding it was a narrow road of houses of vastly disparate styles and sizes, their doors and windows opening directly on to the pavement. Mayo drew in his breath with pleasure. Although erected haphazardly over the centuries, the buildings had grown into a natural sympathy with each other and most of them, he was glad to see, had escaped the tarting-up that always set his teeth on edge. Quiet and harmonious, Parson’s Place lay undisturbed by the twentieth century.
    Undisturbed except for two cars, one of which was Wainwright’s police car, ignoring the No Parking sign outside the church gates. As Kite drew up to join them, a black furry object stirred in the shadow of the lychgate, revealing itself as a huge Persian cat which glared at them and then lifted its tail and stalked off, all offended dignity, on its stocky legs.
    Dr Hameed, the locum, with Wainwright in attendance, had apparently been writing up her notes while waiting for them at the back of the church. She was small, slim and brown, her face a perfect oval and her expressive eyes large and dark and not a little disdainful. There was gold in her ears and a faint emanation of chypre issued from her. She was fashionably dressed in western clothes. ‘I don’t have much time,’ she told them crisply, consulting her watch, ‘but I’ll give you any information you need before I leave. I have been asked to call on Miss Willard. Her father dying like this must have been a great shock to her.’
    Her accent was that of the educated Indian, pedantically correct and precisely enunciated, with a borrowed touch of the pukka memsahib and a corresponding put-down effect; it