“What a beautiful day for a village fete,” said Edith Langford, looking around happily. The village green, transformed by bunting and brightly-coloured stalls, was filled with cheerful crowds enjoying themselves and trying not to trip over the children zipping around at incredible speeds. The church choir, led by the indomitable Lady Elrington, filled the air with pretty, if slightly old-fashioned melodies, none-of-that-jazz-thank-you being Lady Elrington’s general approach to music. Even the rain clouds had been kind enough to stay away.
Edith and Miss Mallowby, as the most junior members of the Women’s Institute, were in charge of the tea and cake stall.
“Don’t you think it’s lovely?” Edith asked.
Miss Mallowby, who was surreptitiously reading a penny dreadful under the table, made no reply.
Knowing better than to interrupt her friend whilst the hero was in grave difficulties over being tied up and lowered into the villain’s shark tank — or was it a lava pit this time? — Edith turned her attention to people watching. Constable Horn was wheeling a giant pumpkin to the prize vegetable stall, wearing the resolute air of a champion with a title to defend. Suddenly, a man in a dark coat lurched out in front of the wheelbarrow, almost knocking it over. Edith could see the constable waving his fist and shouting, but the man didn’t seem to care. He stumbled away, almost collided with the vicar, and disappeared into the crowd.
Poor Reverend Tuttle! thought Edith. The vicar looked positively shocked. It certainly seemed like the stranger had been drinking and was out to cause trouble.
Constable Horn must have thought the same, because he gingerly set down his pumpkin and trundled off after the mystery man. Immediately, two small boys materialised near the wheelbarrow and started climbing it.
“Hold down the fort a minute,” Edith told Miss Mallowby, and marched over to the scene of the impending pumpkin tragedy. Seeing their teacher on the warpath, the boys immediately scampered off.
“That was a close one,” she remarked to Reverend Tuttle.
“What? Oh, yes, quite.” Edith got the feeling he hadn’t really heard her.
Constable Horn appeared from behind the fortune-teller’s tent and motioned them over.
“I hope everything’s all right,” Edith murmured. But she could tell from the look on his face that it wasn’t. As they rounded the corner of the tent, she was not surprised at what she saw. The man in the dark coat lay crumpled on the grass, completely still.
“I’m afraid,” said Constable Horn in his most conspirational whisper, which actually carried quite a way. “That the poor chap’s dead.”
“Not murdered!” exclaimed the vicar. Edith and the constable stared at him.
“I wonder you should say that, sir,” said the constable slowly. “You didn’t think for instance he’d been taken ill?”
The vicar turned pink.
“It’s just that these things happen so often at village fetes…” he murmured. He took off his glasses and began to polish them nervously. Something was clearly wrong, but what, Edith could not imagine. The idea of this quiet, scholarly clergyman having something to do with a suspicious death seemed outrageous.
“I’ll have to telephone the station,” said the constable. “And we’ll need to keep everyone away until the doctor and D.S. Anderson arrive.”
“We can help,” said Edith.
Madame Zara — in real life, Mrs. Trent the charwoman — poked her head out of the tent.
“What’s going on, then?” she demanded.
“Nothing to concern yourself with, ma’am.” The constable assumed his most official tone. “Just an unfortunate accident.”
“Not another murder!” wailed Mrs. Trent. “Can’t have a village fete in peace, we can’t.”
“Mrs. Trent, please—”
“What’s going on?” demanded a passerby.
“Not Mrs. Trent being arrested?” said another.
“Well she ought to be,” said a peevish female voice, “for lying to the public. Tall dark stranger indeed.”
Constable Horn wiped his brow and advanced on the gathering crowd, urging them to mind their business. It was then that Edith glanced back towards the body and gasped. The vicar was crouching by the victim, for all the world looking like he was searching his pockets. Suddenly he straightened up, clutching something in his right hand. His eyes met Edith’s, and he hastily stuffed the thing in his coat pocket.
“Reverend Tuttle,” said Edith in her sternest teacher’s voice. “What is going on?”
The vicar hesitated, looking like he might make a run for it, then deflated.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he said, glancing to where the constable was still occupied with curious onlookers. “I’m in a dreadful bind, really. I can’t betray a confidence, and yet I can’t lie to the police.” He shook his head and looked down at the dead man. “They certainly didn’t cover this in the seminary.”
“You just tampered with evidence,” Edith pointed out. “Surely you can explain why you did that? Because if not, Constable Horn might think you had something to do with the murder.”
“Goodness, you don’t think—!” He looked more startled than ever. “But that’s not it at all. You see, I had to— It’s a matter of great urgency— But I can’t tell you. I simply can’t.”
“Because this man came to you for confession,” she guessed. “And you are bound as a clergyman not to reveal what he said.”
He nodded gratefully.
“That’s exactly it. He wasn’t contemplating a crime or anything like that. Then my duty would be clear, and I could go to the police. But as things stand…” He trailed off, looking defeated.
“You could still bring a murderer to justice. Wouldn’t the victim have wanted that?” She frowned, trying to put the pieces together. “Vicar, you are an extremely honest person. The only reason you’d take something from this man’s pockets is if he’d asked you to. Perhaps he was protecting whatever the thing is? And that’s why he was killed? Ah!” she added, seeing from his expression that she was right. “And you feel you can’t trust anyone with this information? He told you that secrecy was of the greatest importance?”
The vicar nodded solemnly.
“I think, Miss Langford, that I can trust you with the truth.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper.
“That poor man came to the church yesterday and asked for confession. He didn’t give his name. All he would say was that he was being pursued, and that this piece of paper was what they were after. He told me his life was in danger.” The vicar sighed. “I suppose I didn’t quite believe him. After the war, so many chaps had shell shock, and I wondered, you know… But it turns out he was telling the truth.”
“Who was supposed to be after him?” Edith asked.
“That’s the fantastic bit. He said they were foreign agents, and that the fate of Britain depended on this paper. It was like something out of a book.”
“Foreign spies? In Longborough?”
“Exactly. You can see why I was sceptical. But now I wish I’d done more to help!”
“I’m sure you did all you could,” Edith said gently. “What is this piece of paper that the fate of the nation is supposed to depend on?”
The vicar unfolded the paper in his hand, and together they peered at it.
“But it’s just a receipt from Mrs. Benson’s shop!” Edith exclaimed. “Do you think it’s some sort of code?”
“I have no idea. If it weren’t for the poor chap lying dead right here, I would have said it was a hoax, or a delusion.”
“One thing’s for certain,” Edith said firmly. “We have to go to the police with this.”
Reverend Tuttle hesitated again.
“He said to trust no one…”
“Can you honestly picture Constable Horn as a foreign spy?” Edith smiled. “You might as well suspect Mrs. Lundy. Or me!”
“I know it seems fantastic,” agreed the vicar. “But there’s one more thing he told me. He was certain that someone in the village would be after him, but he had to be at the fete today to meet his contact.”
“So someone here is one of our spies?”
“Exactly. And someone else is one of theirs.”
“Can you guess which one I am?” said a voice behind them.
Daria Writes 