She searched for the right words, but the vicar’s unexpected response had thrown her. He was always so compassionate towards everyone. She’d never heard him utter a single cross word or uncharitable comment. Perhaps there was some history between the two men she was unaware of?
Eleanor stole a peep at Clifford, but his expression gave nothing away.
‘As you think best, Reverend,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I shall make the initial arrangements for the funeral in our burial ground, but I fear it will be a poorly attended affair. A man who continues to make enemies on Christmas Eve is going to leave this earth more alone than those who treat their fellow man with civility and respect.’
Eleanor flinched at his words. ‘Did you overhear Mr Canning fighting with someone this afternoon then?’ She thought back to the bearded stranger the twins had mentioned.
He nodded. ‘Mr Canning thought fit on such a day and such an occasion to fight with another runner on the start line before I set the race underway. But let us not dwell on such things. It is Christmas Eve. Perhaps you would both care to join a few of us at the vicarage after our ten o’clock family communion tomorrow? It has become something of a custom to partake of a sherry and exchange some glad tidings on the special day itself.’
Eleanor didn’t need to look at Clifford to know he would be nodding in agreement. She smiled. ‘We would be delighted, thank you, Reverend. Good evening, sleep well.’
The vicar gathered up the many folds of his white surplice and turned back towards the church.
Eleanor suddenly realised how chilled she was. Peculiarly though, the snow didn’t seem to have penetrated her thick boots, nor the frosty air her thick gloves. This was like a block of ice gnawing at her stomach. She placed her hand over her middle. ‘What an unnerving sensation.’
Clifford arched one eyebrow and dropped his voice. ‘Perhaps it is the result of having unexpected misgivings, my lady? That was not quite the conversation I believe either of us anticipated having with the reverend.’
‘I know!’ she whispered back, her breath frosting on the late-night air. ‘So much for the season of goodwill. Even Reverend Gaskell struggled to find a good word to say about Canning.’
As they crunched back through the snow, she found herself frowning. ‘Well, Clifford, do you think the man the reverend saw fighting with Canning was the same man we are after?’
Clifford pointed out a patch of ice on the path and waited until she had skirted around it to reply. ‘If it involved any other man than Mr Canning, one might reasonably assume so. But, if I am not mistaken, he seems to have offended even Reverend Gaskell, a feat I had thought impossible, so it may well have been a different man.’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right. We’d better add him as another person we need to find out the identity of and talk to.’
As they walked on in silence, she remembered what had been tugging at her memory. She turned to Clifford. ‘Everyone may not be good, but there’s always something good in everyone.’
He nodded. ‘Oscar Wilde.’
She shook her head. ‘My mother. She used to say it every time people had nothing but bad things to say about someone.’
‘I mean that is a quote, my lady. From Oscar Wilde. “Everyone may not be good, but there’s always something good in everyone. Never judge anyone shortly because every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”’
Eleanor walked on in silence, thinking it would appear from Reverend Gaskell’s demeanour he considered Canning a definite sinner. But someone had robbed him of his future. Perhaps a future where he’d intended to make up for some of those sins? She remembered again his words and changed demeanour on his last trip to the Hall. She turned to Clifford. ‘It would seem then that all we have to do to track down our poisoner, is to find a saint with a past.’
Twelve
Arthur Treddle had passed away in 1899, after seventy-six years that were dedicated to serving the community of Little Buckford he’d loved so dearly. Eleanor’s uncle had bought Arthur’s flint house and outbuildings and had them converted into a new, more spacious village hall. Among other local groups, Little Buckford’s Women’s Institute had proudly held their fortnightly meetings there since February 1916. And their Christmas morning gatherings were always a special occasion.
By eight o’clock, laden with two wicker baskets, Eleanor bumped open the door with her hip and jerked to a stop.
‘Gracious, that is a lot of boxes!’
‘Forty-three this year, Lady Swift.’ Alice Campbell’s untameable grey curls bounced round her beaming face as she leaned out of the nearest doorway, her green gingham dress setting off her intelligent eyes. ‘And happy Christmas to you.’ Her bubbly voice was as cheery as her words. She wore her perennial housekeeper’s apron, despite having retired from such a job when her employer, a government official, had been murdered at the start of the year. That Eleanor had caught the murderer meant she could do no wrong in Alice’s eyes.
‘Happy Christmas to you too, Alice.’ Eleanor wiggled an encumbered arm by way of greeting. ‘Forty-three, that is wonderful. So many deserving families receiving a little something extra to help them celebrate the festive season.’
Alice beckoned her towards the doorway. ‘And folks won’t just be getting food this year. Look!’
Struggling past the boxes, Eleanor peeped inside the low-timbered-ceiling room. ‘Oh! Linens, soaps, wool and toys!’ An unexpected lump jumped into her throat as she knew that many people who had donated would have little enough of their own.
Alice was still nodding. ‘And you so kindly provided the pile of children’s clothes and shoes. So generous, m’lady.’
‘Not at all. I just hope it’s sufficient.’
Alice held out her hand for one of the baskets Eleanor still hadn’t put down. ‘You’ve only to see the faces of all the folk who will be getting their Christmas surprise in two hours to know we’ll have made their day a special one. Mind, if we don’t get a move on, they’ll have nothing packed ready to take home at all!’
‘Only two hours? Have you ladies time for a small break?’ Eleanor looked down at the baskets. ‘Mrs Trotman sent three Thermoses of tea to go with these almond and apricot pastries she somehow fitted into her busy cooking schedule this morning.’
‘Such a treasure, she is. Bit of reviving tea and sweet treats will make us work all the faster.’ Alice cupped her hands around her mouth and called out. ‘Ladies! Time to feed the workers.’
It was a hasty break, filled with easy chatter about the mischievousness of nieces and nephews, the extortionate price of meat and the vagaries of Christmas weather. Struggling to join in with much of the subject matter, Eleanor was relieved, however, that Canning’s death hadn’t featured. Although she rather suspected that might be out of deference to herself and the Christmas spirit.
With their cups washed in the small adjoining kitchen, the eleven ladies of the Women’s Institute set to ensuring they provided the best possible Christmas for the neediest local families.
Eleanor peered at the first box in her pile. She couldn’t read the recipient’s surname or decipher most of the suggested things to include. She looked round at the other women who were all selecting items from the piles and efficiently ticking them off their lists. Worried to ask one of them in case it was their writing she couldn’t read, she stepped out into the hallway to see if she could find someone else to ask. She, however, was halted in her tracks by voices coming from the end room.