Page 10 of Lies in Little Sutherland
And more dry, if the sky decided to open up.“We can walk about once we get there, I suppose.”
“We’ll likely have to,” Constance said, and headed for the passenger side of the Crossley.“Come along, Pippa.”
I came along, and let myself be chivvied back into the backseat.Francis fitted himself behind the wheel, and we were off.
It might have taken twenty-five minutes to walk, but the drive—quite pretty—was much shorter.It was only a few minutes before we rolled into yet another charming little village full of honey-colored houses, with another honey-colored church—this one a Norman style, with a square belltower with crenellations, according to Christopher—and the same burbling little river.What looked like a small chapel sat tucked into a row of other buildings on the other side of a stone bridge.
“That must be it,” I said.
The others eyed it consideringly.It looked nothing like the church, with its tower reaching for heaven, but there was something about the squat modesty of the barely-curved tops of the windows and doorframe—so different from the defiantly arched stained glass of the church—that nonetheless advertised piety and religious humility.
“Looks like we missed the mass,” Francis commented, “or whatever Primitive Methodists call their worship.”
I nodded.“It looks empty.I wonder whether there’s a vicarage or whether the vicar—or the priest or minister; do you know what Primitive Methodists call their head bloke?”
“God Almighty, I imagine,” Francis said dryly.And added, “No, I can’t imagine that anyone who would build that as a church—” He gestured to the humble building, “—would bother with a residence for their vicar.”
No, I couldn’t either.“He must live elsewhere.I wonder who would know?”
“There’s a pub,” Francis pointed.“I don’t know about anyone else, but I could go for a pint and a Ploughman’s.”
So could we all, I imagined.Unfortunately— “It’s Sunday, and it’s just gone noon.Do you think it’ll be open?”
Francis made a face.“Likely not, now that you mention it.”
He tried the door of the establishment, but it was locked.
“Shall we find somewhere to picnic and bring out Cook’s basket, then?”Constance suggested.“Perhaps someone will come by that we can ask about Morrison.Perhaps Morrison will come by.And if not, at least we’ll have had food.”
“Let’s do,” Christopher agreed, while I sighed.
“Why didn’t one of you remind me that today is Sunday and everything would be shut?”
“Because we came here looking for Morrison,” Constance said, opening the boot of the Crossley for the picnic basket, “and besides, I think we all assumed that you were looking for an excuse to get away from Sutherland Hall and Geoffrey, and it didn’t matter what day it was.”
“More Lady Laetitia than Geoffrey,” Christopher added.
“Not to mention His Grace,” Francis said.“Give it here, Connie.”
He took the basket out of Constance’s hand and offered her his other elbow.“Down there by the river looks like a pleasant place.”
He headed in that direction.I squinted at it.Sitting on the cold, wet grass in November didn’t look particularly pleasant to me, but there was nothing for it, I supposed.
Christopher glanced at me.“We could sit in the Crossley and eat, if you prefer?”
I shook my head.“I think we’ve all spent enough time in the motorcar for now, don’t you?Besides, the food basket has already departed.Better we follow it, and get some air and stretch our legs and then find someone to talk to once we’re done.Perhaps there’s a vicar’s wife in this hamlet, as well.”
“No doubt there is,” Christopher nodded and offered me his elbow to hang onto across the uneven ground, “although I don’t know that the churchyard is an appropriate place for a picnic.”
“Certainly not.But we can go there after.It’s cold and wet enough that I don’t see us lingering long over luncheon.”
And indeed we didn’t.We ended up crowded together on a bench, which was marginally better than squatting on the wet ground.But the sky was still lowering, and the wind was blustery, and there was rain threatening, and so we scarfed the food as quickly as we could before loading the basket back into the boot of the Crossley.
And it was at that point that footsteps came toward us and, when we looked up, we beheld that village staple, the local bobby.
“Good afternoon, Constable,” Francis said politely.The bloke was around his age, with a freckled nose under the regulation helmet.
He nodded back.“Sir.Can I help you find anything?”
