Midge giggled and Sixsmythe frowned.
"I didn't intend to amuse you," he said, somewhat crossly I thought. "We may lead rather sheltered lives in this part of the country, but I can assure you we are not all superstitious country bumpkins. I've proffered my advice, and there's little more that I can do." He reached for his hat and made ready to leave. "In my view, this Synergist sect is not to be trusted; however, I leave you to make up your own mind about that."
I was taken aback by his touchiness. "Hey, look, we're not mocking you and we really do appreciate your coming out all this way to tell us about them. We hardly know these people, but they seem neighborly enough, so it's difficult for us to blindly accept what you're saying. You've gotta own up, you haven't offered any firm evidence."
His miffed expression softened, but he stood anyway. "Yes, I do understand how it must look to you," he said. "I imagine I sound extremely foolish, yet all I ask is that you take heed of my words. And if you should have any concerns whatsoever—anything at all—promise me you'll phone me at the vicarage. Can we agree at least on that?'
"Sure," I replied, rising with him.
Midge was less obliging, and I could see why: the first arrow had been fired at her Shangri-La; she didn't really want to know about bad neighbors, especially when she had already taken a shine to them. Nevertheless, she politely got to her feet and we accompanied the vicar back to his bicycle. Sixsmythe was well aware of her mood and probably felt a tiny bit contrite, because he did his best to direct the conversation onto other, more pleasant matters—Gramarye's beautiful situation, the wonderful garden, the loveliness of the forest itself (even lovelier, according to him, in the autumn months when the trees held a vast canopy of countless shades of russet golds), and whether or not he could welcome us to next Sunday's services at the church (I knew that would come up). Synergists didn't get a mention.
I opened the gate for him and he went through, slid clips around his trouser ankles, then pulled his bicycle upright from the fence where it had reclined as if exhausted by the journey.
"Mr. Sixsmythe?" said Midge as he swung a leg over the machine.
He twisted around to look inquiringly at her.
"Can you tell me something?"
"Of course, providing I know the answer."
"Well, we . . . I . . . I wondered how Flora Chaldean died."
He became momentarily flustered. "Oh, dear girl, I hope I haven't given you cause for too much concern by overstating my case. Please forgive me if I've alarmed you to that extent."
"No, honestly, you haven't. I've been wondering for a while now."
"Flora was a very old lady, Margaret. Nobody is quite sure of exactly how many years she had lived, but it's reasonable to assume she had reached her eighties—possibly her late eighties." He smiled kindly at Midge. "I suppose you could say Flora died of old age itself. Her heart grew weary and she passed away in her beloved Gramarye. Unfortunately, because she was a recluse, nobody knew until weeks later, although there were those who claimed they had passed by the cottage and had caught sight of her in the garden only a few days before her body was found. But then, people are often confused about specific times, particular dates; it's very difficult to be absolutely certain about such things."
"Why should there be any confusion?" asked Midge.
"Ah," the vicar replied, as though her question were pertinent. "It so happened that I was the one who discovered her body. I used to call in now and again to see how she was, just part of what I consider to be my regular duties, even though I can't remember Flora ever attending my church. I make a point of always visiting the elderly of the parish when I have time, particularly during the winter months."
He adjusted the trilby, pulling the hat firmly down over his head so that the breeze would not sweep it away when he started cycling. The brim bent the top of/his ears. "I saw her through the kitchen window, sitting at the table, cup and saucer before her as though she had only just brewed herself a fresh pot of tea. It was an overcast day and the kitchen was very gloomy, so that I was unable to see clearly; I remember thinking how grimy the windows were, because that hindered my view also. When I tapped on the glass and got no response, well, that was when I became anxious. I'd already tried the door and found it locked, which was odd, because I had never known Flora to lock either doors or windows before. Most peculiar, I thought, and immediately drove to the nearest public phone booth and called out Constable Fames from the village."
He shook his head sadly, as if the memory was still all too clear inside his head. "I waited for him at the cottage, meanwhile discovering that the door around the back was also locked, as were the windows. When Fames arrived he broke a pane in the kitchen window and undid the latch; then he climbed in."
Midge moved closer to me. A car sped by, a wooden dog nodding its head at us from the rear window as if it already knew what was coming next.
"He was quite pallid when he opened the door and beckoned me inside. Because of the expression on his face, and the odious smell that came from the kitchen, I entered with some trepidation."
Sixsmythe was looking back at the cottage, not at us. "As I told you, Flora Chaldean was at the table as though she had only just sat down to drink tea. But the cup was filled with a liquid green mold. And Flora's body was so corrupted and crawling with maggots that it was obvious that she had been dead for several weeks."
My stomach turned over like a sluggish spin dryer and I thought Midge's tan had become a shade lighter. She reached for me and I held on to her.
Sixsmythe appeared oblivious, his attentions concentrated on the puzzle that he, himself, had posed. "So the passers-by couldn't possibly have seen her in the garden just days before. The coroner later confirmed what we already knew: the deteriorated condition of Flora's body indicated that she had died at least two or three weeks before, alone and, for all that time until my arrival, unnoticed. Rather sad, wouldn't you say? Yes, rather sad."
With that, he pushed his bicycle from the grass shoulder and pedaled off down the road, waving good-bye over his shoulder at Midge and me without once looking back.
Which was just as welclass="underline" the angry expression on my face might have unbalanced him and caused a nasty accident.
As you'd imagine, the rest of the day was somewhat spoiled. The kitchen of Gramarye lost a lot of its rustic charm with the idea of poor old Flora's rotting corpse sitting there at the table drinking moldering tea fixed in our minds, and Midge lapsed into a miserable silence right through until the evening. She sat on her own in the round room for a long time, and I let her be.
I felt uneasy, not to say queasy, myself and could cheerfully have throttled the vicar for his insensitivity (more than once I wondered if his graphic bluntness hadn't been deliberate, perhaps a petty retribution for our mild scoffing at his warning—but then, men of the cloth are not the vengeful type, are they? Well, are they?).
Still, the day wasn't all bad. Later on in the afternoon Bob called with some terrific news. Phil Collins liked one of the songs I'd cowritten with Bob, wanted to record the number for an album some time during the following week, and would I care to sit in on the session? Would I? Bob took my garbled rambling into the receiver as a firm "yes."
Midge was naturally delighted for me when I broke the news—our self-imposed period of not accepting any professional undertakings would be almost over by next week, and recording with a megastar wasn't a bad way to get rolling again, especially when one of my own songs was involved. She did her best to throw off her gloom, although she was still a little subdued, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening enthusing with me. Early that night we enthused our way up to the bedroom and the excitement didn't end there. Let's say it was nicely rounded off.