‘But Canning would never be told, you know that,’ said a woman.
‘Too busy being the one doing the telling, that’s why,’ came a second female voice. ‘Too much of a stubborn mule to listen to an expert. You can see him setting his jaw all hard, like he did before he got riled when poor old Doctor Browning tried to tell him, can’t you?’
‘But Doctor Browning weren’t his doctor anymore, was he? Not after, well, you know.’
‘True, but he’s a good sort. He had to offer his advice, having taken that hypocritical oath.’
Eleanor had to cover her mouth to stifle a good-natured laugh.
The first woman’s voice continued. ‘Yes, but after all that business I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d helped Conrad put his shoes on and told him to run as fast as possible!’
‘What a wicked thought!’
‘Speak as I find, you know me. And, well, I’m not one to gossip, but there’s rumours that Canning didn’t pass away of his own doing, if you know what I mean.’
The sounds of boxes being moved stopped. A sharp gasp pierced the air. ‘You mean he was… murdered?’ The last word was said in a dramatic whisper.
‘’Tis only hearsay.’
‘If it is true, he probably got himself killed ’cos of him and all his tall stories.’
‘That may be, but there’s talk that maybe those tales weren’t as tall as we all imagined.’
‘Really? Go on.’
‘We’d best stack those boxes while I do then.’ Sounds of scraping and stacking restarted along with the first voice. ‘I heard that if you were to strip all the nonsense he spouted away, what was true was that he really did go to most of the places he boasted.’
Eleanor’s ears pricked up. She knew Canning had been a sailor years back. Clifford had mentioned it to the inspector, after all, but why were the two women interested in that? With a quick peek over her shoulder, she leaned forward to hear better.
‘Why would that have got him killed?’ the second voice said.
‘’Cos they say he wasn’t above joining the likes of pirates out on the high seas. Smuggled all sorts of stuff in his time. Word is he was sitting on more than a pretty packet of money.’
There was a pause. Eleanor found she was holding her breath. The second woman’s voice filtered out to her.
‘But that can’t be right. He lived almost as poor as a church mouse. It’s a wonder that tiny cottage of his is still standing. He never spent a penny on it. Besides, why would he have gone round humping coal like a labourer if he went home at night and laid his weary bones on a mattress stuffed with money? No sense in that at all.’
Eleanor clapped her hand over her mouth. The key, Ellie! Maybe it opens some kind of treasure chest of stolen bounty?
‘I reckon he was a miser,’ the first voice said. ‘But why did Canning do any of the things he did? That’s like asking what on earth women saw in him.’
‘Oh yes, but that was ages back. I’d not seen him with a woman for years.’
‘Me neither.’
Eleanor felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
‘Lady Swift?’
She spun round guiltily to see Mrs Fontaine standing in the doorway. Her shoulders relaxed at the sight of the vicar’s housekeeper.
‘Are you alright? I thought something happened? You disappeared?’
Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Eleanor’s cheeks coloured. She held up her list. ‘I’m embarrassed to say I was looking for someone to ask what these items are. I couldn’t read the writing.’
Mrs Fontaine laughed. ‘Then let me help you. I have almost finished. Together, we make a fast job of your list too, non?’
Eleanor smiled with relief. ‘Thank you. I would greatly appreciate that. I had a horrible fear that some families might receive all kinds of items they neither need nor want.’
‘Ah, now this I think could not happen. Good things come to good people. Only good people, though. Shall I take your list and call out the items to be placed in each box?’
‘Yes, please. You’re a lifesaver. I’m supposed to be at the vicarage at ten o’clock.’
The woman laughed again. ‘And I should be there at the twenty minutes to, otherwise the, how you say, ah the nibbles, they will be all muddled. The reverend is a wonderful man but I think he might need the new spectacles sometimes.’
Eleanor laughed this time. ‘He’s very lucky to have you, Mrs Fontaine. He appreciates you very much.’
She waved her hand. ‘It is a pleasure to help him. We are perhaps a little like you and Mr Clifford, I think. The reverend and me, we have the good understanding of each other.’
Eleanor smiled. ‘Maybe, but I’m pretty sure you’ve worked for the reverend a lot longer than Clifford has worked for me.’
Mrs Fontaine nodded. ‘True. Eleven years I think. Now to work! These boxes will not fill themselves.’
‘Oh gracious, no. And here we are chatting away.’
Mrs Fontaine grinned. ‘Do not worry, I will not tell Mr Clifford. He is one to keep the time, I think. A man who studies the details always, non?’
A slight groan escaped Eleanor. ‘Only so as you’d notice.’
Thirteen
On the top step of the village hall, Eleanor pulled off one glove to catch some of the softly falling snowflakes. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said with a sigh as she closed the door behind her, staring out over the postcard view. A white carpet covered the village green and surrounding trees and rooftops.
A quiet cough from the pavement broke her reverie.
‘Ah, hello, Clifford.’ The gossip about Canning was still ringing round her mind. She gave him a conspiratorial look. ‘We really need to talk.’ She looked around. ‘But I say, where is the Rolls?’
‘It is waiting for us at the church, my lady. Forgive my presumption, but I thought you might prefer…’ He held up a pair of her stout-heeled, lace-up boots.
She clapped her hands in delight. ‘A walk in the snow! Clifford, you truly are a mind reader. I’ve waded through waist-deep snow abroad, but I’ve never skipped about in the snow in England. Not even ankle deep. As a child, I always dreamed of a proper, white English Christmas.’
She bounded down the steps, catching herself as she slipped at the bottom by grabbing the thick overcoat sleeve of his outstretched arm. ‘Oops! Thank you.’
She bent and swapped her Oxford lace-ups for her boots. Mrs Fontaine’s comment about Clifford’s meticulous timekeeping popped back into her head.
‘But won’t we be frightfully late for drinks at the vicarage? Surely you’re not going to countenance such tardiness?’
‘In the words of Oscar Wilde, my lady, “experience is the one thing you cannot get for nothing”. I am sure Reverend Gaskell will understand the need to indulge in a childhood dream.’
‘Excellent! There is something so magical about snow on Christmas morning, isn’t there?’
‘Indeed. This is only the fifth time I have experienced it in this country.’
That niggling question popped into her mind again. Just how old is he, Ellie? He looked almost the same to her now as he had on her few rare visits to Henley Hall when she was a child. During their recent murder investigations, despite his slightly advanced years, she’d also seen him scale fences and carry an unconscious person with the strength and agility of a much younger man. But, then again, he and her uncle had been in the army for much of their lives.