Passing Strange Read online

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT

  FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  Passing Strange

  A C. D. Sloan Mystery

  Catherine Aird

  For a lifetime of friends in the Guide Movement

  My story being done,

  She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

  She swore, – in faith, ’twas strange,

  ’twas passing strange;

  ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wonderous pitiful:

  She wish’d she had not heard it …

  Othello, The Moor of Venice

  by William Shakespeare,

  Act 1, Scene 3

  1

  Open diapason

  “Judges don’t make mistakes,” said Fred Pearson.

  “This one has.”

  “If a judge has made it then it isn’t a mistake,” declared Fred, shifting his dialectical ground a little.

  “All right,” said his friend Ken Walls obligingly, “call it an error of judgement if you like.”

  “Ah,” said Fred at once, “that’s different.”

  “But it’s still a mistake,” persisted Walls, undeterred.

  “The referee,” said Pearson with the air of one clinching an argument, “is always right even if he’s wrong. Didn’t you know that, Ken?”

  Mr. Walls remained totally unimpressed. “Come and see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  Ken Walls was a big man and the dense crowd presented no problems to him. He led the way through the throng without effort. Fred Pearson wasn’t far behind him. Walls impatiently waved away someone at the entrance who tried to sell him a raffle ticket, thrust his way towards a table in the middle of the big marquee, and pointed.

  “There, Fred! Now do you believe me?”

  Fred Pearson whistled softly and said, “I see what you mean.”

  Both men had had duties since the opening of the Show and this was their first chance to look round at the exhibits. The two men were standing in front of one of the long trestle tables on which were displayed the entries to the summer Flower Show held annually by the Horticultural Society of the village of Almstone in the county of Calleshire. Although it was always called a Flower Show this term embraced – according to season – the whole horticultural field.

  Fred Pearson and Ken Walls had halted before one of the vegetable exhibits. While taxonomists and other learned specialists laboured over the proper classification as fruit or vegetable of the fruit of the solanaceous plant popularly known as the tomato, no such doubts had ever assailed the Almstone Flower Show Committee. Long, long ago in the dark days of the last war when they had been the plain simple Allotment Society and concentrating on the Dig for Victory campaign the then secretary had put the tomato unhesitatingly in the vegetable class and there – as far as Almstone was concerned – it had stayed.

  “Tomatoes,” said Fred Pearson. “Six.”

  “Money-maker,” said Walls, naming the variety.

  “Underfed,” observed Pearson, noting the condition.

  “Not quite ripe, either,” supplemented Walls, adding sedulously, “Did you enter anything in this class, Fred?”

  The enquiry was a pure formality. As well as being old friends the two men were deadly rivals in the matter of horticultural competitions and monitored each other’s entries with keen interest. Ken Walls knew perfectly well that Fred Pearson wasn’t a tomato man. The main Pearson entries were always in the onion and leek classes, in addition to which, for many years now, almost as a matter of course Fred had collected the first prize for his potatoes.

  “Not me,” said Fred promptly. “Fickle things, tomatoes. Almost as bad as women. How did you do?”

  “Not placed,” said Ken Walls. He had a nagging wife and never mentioned the opposite sex at all if he could help it. He moved down the table to where his entry sat on the paper exhibition plates provided by the Committee. (The paper plates had followed a certain amount of acrimony in the early nineteen-sixties when a disgruntled competitor had complained that the high colour on a well-decorated china plate had enhanced the visual appeal of the winner’s entry. The life of a Flower Show Secretary had never been a bed of roses – as he never failed to remind everyone at the Annual General Meeting.)

  “Not placed!” echoed Pearson indignantly. He eyed the six splendid tomatoes entered by Ken Walls and then cast his glance back to the six underfed and not quite ripe prize-winners. “Ken, the judge has made a mistake.”

  “That’s what I told you ten minutes ago,” pointed out Walls placidly, “and you said judges didn’t make them, remember?”

  “This is different. That lot over there … they’re …” he struggled for the right simile … “they’re no better than snooker balls.”

  “Not as regular,” said the owner of the unplaced tomatoes judiciously, adding, “and nothing like as firm.”

  Another thought had struck Pearson. He took a quick look back at the table. “Ken, yours are better than the seconds and thirds, too.”

  “Not for me to say, is it?” said Walls piously, “specially with what you said just then about the referee being right even when he’s wrong.”

  “Don’t be daft, man. I didn’t mean if he was blind and stupid.”

  “This isn’t a football match, of course,” agreed Walls elliptically.

  “He’s got all the time he needs, too, hasn’t he?” Another thought occurred to Pearson and he moved back to the offending prize-winning entry. Whose tomatoes were they, anyway?” His eye fell on the name on the label. “Oh, I see …”

  Name cards identifying entries – placed upside down and therefore theoretically anonymous during judging – had been standardized in Almstone even before the advent of exhibition paper plates. That little innovation stemmed from the day when one of the keenest competitors in the Show had been Brigadier Richard Mellows of the Priory. The Brigadier had not been a man to scribble his name and address on any old scrap of paper. He had simply placed one of his visiting cards upside down beside each of his plants – all, naturally, entries in the restricted classes for those members of the Horticultural Society who employed gardeners.

  Upside down or not, had complained more than one disgruntled entrant, the judge knew for sure from whose garden that particular entry had come. And, one malcontent had muttered darkly, knew which side their bread was buttered too, seeing as how the Show was always held in the Priory grounds. Brigadier Mellows himself had died long ago. With his death had gone too the competition classes ‘for those employing gardeners’ – both class and classes, so to speak, were no more. But since that day the names and addresses of all competition entrants had had to be written on a uniform slip of paper.

  One thing was unchanged though.

  The Show was still held in the Priory grounds. This was so in spite of the fact that old Mrs Mellows, his widow, was dead too now. Actually she had died in the spring when plans for this year’s Show were well in hand. After a respectful pause for the routine obsequies of one very old lady, Norman Burton, village schoolmaster and Honorary Secretary of the Horticultural Society, had raised the matter of this year’s Summer Show with Mrs Mellows’s agent.

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t go ahead,” Edward Hebbinge had said after some thought. The agent had run the Priory estate for so long that he knew all about its importance to the village.

  The Honorary Secretary of Almstone Horticultural Society, whose path was never a primrose one, had breathed a visible sigh of relief.

  “After all,” said the land agent reasonably, “we all know that it would have been what Mrs Mellows herself would have wished.”
r />   This was pure window-dressing and they both knew it. Mrs Agatha Mellows had had a stroke years ago and hadn’t been capable of an opinion since her husband’s death. (That she had never been allowed to hold an opinion of her own while he was alive did not somehow crop up.)

  “Quite,” said the Honorary Secretary thankfully, adding after a suitable pause, “Quite.”

  What he had really wanted to know – but didn’t really like to ask outright – was what was going to happen to the Priory and all the land now that Mrs Mellows had died too.

  As it happened an answer was vouchsafed to him.

  Edward Hebbinge had cleared his throat portentously. “Furthermore …”

  “Yes?” said Norman Burton a little too eagerly.

  “Furthermore,” said Hebbinge, “as the estate stays in the family we are hoping for very little change.”

  “Good. No cause for alarm, then,” said the Honorary Secretary cheerfully. If a member of the family inherited the Priory there would be much less for the villagers of Almstone to worry about in the way of the danger of loss of traditional amenity.

  “Though,” pointed out Hebbinge, “undoubtedly there are bound to be some – er – alterations.”

  “Central heating, I hope,” responded Burton promptly. “Some change isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

  “Mrs Mellows had been bedridden for so long that she was not aware of the necessity for having it installed,” said Edward Hebbinge a trifle defensively, “and it was not for me to say otherwise.”

  “All the same, it must have been pretty cold in there in winter,” said the Honorary Secretary, unrepentant.

  “As the Priory estate is settled land and will therefore remain in the family,” continued the land agent, firmly ignoring this, “I think you may take it that it will not be as if there will be newcomers in any real sense and that” – here he had smiled faintly – “the Show must go on.”

  “When will they come?” enquired the Horticultural man delicately. There would be other Shows after this one. Besides, he had a wife at home who would be avid for such news as he had been able to glean from his visit to the land agent. What he had been told so far was not news in the village sense of the word. They all knew both that the Priory property was tied up somehow and that Richard and Agatha Mellows had had no children.

  “That I can’t say,” answered Hebbinge smoothly.

  “Who …” began the Honorary Secretary even more delicately. “There’d been a family quarrel, hadn’t there? Before my time, of course.”

  “Enquiries are being made,” was all that Edward Hebbinge would say to that at the time, “by the solicitors.”

  So the Show had gone on.

  And only one of the many and various consequences of that fact was that Fred Pearson and Ken Walls were this minute standing before a long trestle table studying the name card placed in front of the inferior tomatoes but beside the splendidly engraved red card with the magic words ‘First Prize’ clear to see.

  “Mrs Eleanor Wellstone,” read out Fred Pearson carefully, “Tanglewood Cottage, High Street, Almstone.” He scratched his head. “Where the devil’s that, Ken? I thought I knew the High Street like the back of my hand.”

  “Billy Carter’s old place. The Wellstones have done it up.”

  “Cor!” Fred’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Tanglewood Cottage! That would have made Lily Carter laugh, that would. How many kids did they have in that old hovel – seven?”

  “Eight,” said Ken Walls, “if you count the first.”

  “I expect Lily did,” said Fred realistically, “even if Billy didn’t.”

  Ken Walls returned to the tomatoes which were the sore point with him. “Now if it had been the Beginners’ Class those tomatoes had been top of I could have understood it.”

  “They’re new people anyway, aren’t they?” said Pearson. “The Wellstones …”

  “It doesn’t always go together, does it?” said Ken. “Being new here and a Beginner? Remember when Derek Turling first came and we thought he was only a first timer? Before …”

  “Swept the board,” said Pearson feelingly, “at his first Show, didn’t he?”

  “Including potatoes.” Ken sniffed. “All’s fair in love, war and showing.”

  “And tomatoes,” Pearson reminded him, “seeing as you’re mentioning individuals.”

  “The Wellstones have retired here,” said Ken Walls, returning like a homing pigeon to the tomatoes of today.

  “Ah.” This was not a point in their favour. Retired people arriving with a clean slate seldom got a good credit rating in the Almstone book. The village liked to be able to judge for itself the work a man had done in his lifetime.

  “From somewhere in Luston,” added Walls.

  “Oh, I see.” This was, if anything, even less of a testimonial. The suburbs of the industrial town of Luston in the north of the county of Calleshire were not, in Almstone’s view, the ideal background for a new countryman.

  Or countrywoman.

  This point had not escaped Ken Walls.

  “It’s not even as if it was Flower Arrangements,” he said obliquely. “My wife says that she can never understand the judging of Flower Arrangements.”

  Fred Pearson was an essentially practical man. “What are we going to do about it, Ken?”

  In the end they decided to do what the inhabitants of the parish of Almstone had been doing with their problems – secular and religious – ever since one Roger de Someri had come to the village in the year 1261 as its earliest recorded incumbent.

  And that was to take it to the Rector.

  They weren’t the only members of the parish with a problem seeking out the Rector that afternoon.

  Edward Hebbinge, the agent for the Priory estate, had been on the look-out for him too. He finally ran him to earth just where he had expected him to be – by the White Elephant Stall.

  “Ah, Rector,” he said rather breathlessly, “we’ve been looking for you.”

  “Why they always put the second-hand books with the White Elephants defeats me,” said the clergyman. “It’s not logical.”

  “Rector, we can’t find the District Nurse anywhere.” He mopped his brow. “Anywhere,” he repeated.

  “Is someone ill?” The Rector turned away from the books. “I think I saw the doctor over by the cactus display, if he’ll do instead.”

  The land agent shook his head. “It’s not that. She’s just missing, that’s all.”

  “Missing?” echoed the Reverend Thomas Jervis. “Nurse Cooper?”

  “Well … not so much missing,” admitted Hebbinge, “as not where she’s supposed to be.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “The Fortune Teller’s Tent. She’s meant to be gazing into a crystal ball or some such nonsense and the secretary can’t find her anywhere.”

  “Dear me,” said Mr Jervis mildly. “Is that serious?”

  “There’s quite a queue outside her tent and they’re getting restive.”

  “If she’s not there I can see that they would be. Well, I’m sorry I can’t help.” He started to thumb through the second-hand books again. “If I should see her …”

  Edward Hebbinge cleared his throat. “I was looking for you actually, Rector.”

  “So you said.”

  “Norman Burton said if I found you I was to ask you if you would mind – er – holding the fort while we find Nurse Cooper.” He ran a finger round the inside of his collar. “She must be about somewhere.”

  Thomas Jervis gave him a curious look. “I’m sorry, Edward. Not there.”

  The agent looked surprised. “Not there?”

  “The Fortune Teller’s clients might think there was a connection with my own firm,” explained the Rector lightly, “if they saw my clerical collar behind the crystal ball.”

  Hebbinge’s face cleared. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

  “I can’t deputize for anyone dabbling with the occult, even in fun.”

 
“Even in a good cause?” asked Hebbinge wryly.

  “The Bishop wouldn’t like it,” said the Rector, blithely invoking his spiritual superior. (There was, he felt, no reason why that good man shouldn’t come in handy sometimes.)

  “No, no,” protested Hebbinge hastily, “of course not. I must say we hadn’t thought of that aspect at all.”

  The Rector stroked his left cheek with a gentle finger. “I have enough trouble getting my flock to understand that the Devil is a fallen angel without confusing them by appearing to change sides …”

  But Edward Hebbinge had already gone. The Rector turned back to the second-hand books only to find Fred Pearson and Ken Walls by his side.

  “We’ve got a little problem, Rector, if you don’t mind,” began Fred.

  The Reverend Thomas Jervis didn’t mind. In fact he was old enough and wise enough to welcome little problems as being more likely to be capable of solution than big ones.

  “About tomatoes,” amplified Ken Walls.

  The Rector bent his head attentively. Ken Walls was married to a querulous, complaining creature for whom there was no real solution this side of the grave. The man never even referred to the big problem in his life and the Rector was only too happy to help him with a manageable one, recognizing that the pursuit of the perfect tomato was an alternative to committing a homicide that, if not exactly justifiable, would at least be comprehensible.

  “Tell me all …” he began.

  It wasn’t very much later that the Rector met his own wife in the tea tent.

  “At least,” said Mrs Jervis, when she had heard about the tomatoes, “it’s one thing that can’t be laid at the door of the Church of England.” She was a staunch defender of the faith at grass roots level.

  “I have known parishes,” declared the Rector, “rent asunder …”

  “Split,” interrupted the Rector’s wife automatically. She did her best to keep weekday and Sunday phraseology separate.

  “Split,” amended the Rector equably, “on such fundamental issues as who runs the cake stall.”

  “Or plays Boadicea in the pageant,” supplemented his helpmeet, who had heard it all before.