Chapter 4: Green Fingers
Barbara was busy sorting foliage on the floor of the vestry when she was disturbed. Humming happily to herself, she ignored the green stains communicating themselves from stem to hem and found peace, as ever, in the contemplation of God’s work. The flowers were for a wedding on Saturday and would do nicely for the multiple baptisms on Sunday. “Hatch, match and dispatch,” she murmured; “In the midst of life and all that.”
The parish was in shock over Monty’s sudden demise. Such a popular man, so well-loved and respected in the town and the surrounding villages that made up his constituency. Barbara tutted to herself; too bad it had to end this way, his glorious career poised on the edge of a comeback to the centre of politics. Revered for his knowledge and sheer bloody-handed experience, he had been set to retake one of the great offices of state after the election. A mere sixty-eight to Barbara’s seventy-two. She shook her head at the waste of it all.
“I knew you’d be here!” came a sudden cry, startling her into upsetting a jug full of water.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Babs darling! The Rev Bev said you were back here and I had to see you.”
“Christ on a bicycle, Viv, you could have rung!”
“You know I don’t do mobiles, and shhh, someone might hear,” Vivian looked theatrically about her.
“Who? Christ or Beverley? I doubt either would mind. What brings you here, anyway? Conspicuous as you are by your absence on Sundays,” her friend sniffed, mopping the puddle with a handful of paper towels.
“It’s about Monty,” hissed Vivian, “I had to come.”
“Why?” stiffened Barbara, “It didn’t happen here. Although I know the funeral’s been booked for a week on Wednesday, if you’re interested.”
“Of course I’m interested,” avowed her friend, “I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about it.” Her wide-eyed gaze swept around them, taking in the vestments half out of the cupboards, the heap of coloured paper and crayons left over from Sunday school and a large box of assorted biscuits.
“For the Mothers’ Union,” Barbara said swiftly and removed them from Viv’s reach.
“I think his death was suspicious. I think it was murder.” Vivian whispered, even though the vestry was empty apart from the two of them. The vicar, the Reverend Beverley Barrett, had been observed to be on her way out to visit a parishioner when she’d entered the church.
“What? Vivian, you have a heck of an imagination sometimes.”
“How so? The police are still investigating aren’t they? They haven’t confirmed it’s suicide yet. And I knew Monty,” she said firmly, “I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t, couldn’t do such a thing.”
“You don’t know him!” scoffed Barbara. “He comes to open the fete once a year. Snip of the scissors and a cup of tea and he’s off again! He’s a very busy man. How can you possibly know him that well?”
Vivian arranged her features in a portentous manner, smoothed the turquoise and orange silk bandeau across her silver-blonde fringe and mouthed, rather than spoke the words: “Oh I knew him alright. In the biblical sense too, you might say.”
She got the reaction she was seeking. Barbara dropped the vase she was holding; the second flower-arranging casualty of the day. Following the explosive sound of pottery meeting parquet, both women silently surveyed the mess at their feet.