resort. It had been without its own vicar for months and Simon had been asked by the bishop to help out with services until a suitable candidate was found to fill the post. As if it wasn’t enough having two congregations to minister to, Simon was also expected to supervise the builders carrying out restorations to St Peter’s bell tower. As a result, the last few weeks had been as gruelling for him as they had for Penny. They’d barely had a moment to themselves and were both exhausted.
‘The verger at St Peter’s Church has been taken ill,’ Simon told her. ‘He’s been a godsend, helping me out with the services and keeping things ticking over. Without him, I just don’t know how I’m going to cope. We’ve got two funerals scheduled tomorrow morning – one here and one in Trevay – at the same time, so I’m going to have to phone around and find someone to officiate.’ He looked up at her despairingly. ‘And it doesn’t end there. Until the verger recovers, I’ll have to cut evensong down here so that I can dash over to Trevay to take the six p.m. service, and then there’s—’
Penny laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Have you told the bishop? Surely he can sort something out?’
‘I called the diocese secretary yesterday, but the bishop is on a retreat until next week. I probably won’t see him until he shows up to bless the new bell tower. There’s so much to organise, but I already feel as if I’ve been pulled in half – there’s only so much of me to go round.’ Simon’s pinched face was etched with worry. Penny’s heart went out to her beleaguered husband.
‘Oh, Simon. Poor you. Have you even had a cup of tea yet?’
He shook his head.
‘Well,’ said Penny, giving Simon an encouraging smile, ‘ecclesiastical matters may not be my forte, but I do know how to boil a kettle.’
Later that morning, at a more civilised hour, Penny knelt on the sofa in the cosy sitting room at the vicarage. From this vantage point, she was able to see the last of the trucks loading up the dismantled sets of the Mr Tibbs shoot. The set was a painstaking reconstruction of Fifties village life, strategically placed in front of a terrace of Sixties council houses whose occupants were well compensated for the inconvenience. All in all, everyone was happy: the TV crew did their utmost to keep disruption to a minimum; the actors mingled cordially with the residents; locals and visitors alike came to watch the location shoots and the popularity of the series had given tourism in the area a much-needed boost. There was little conflict, but the occasional voice of dissent could sometimes be heard.
It was usually the same voice.
Penny held the phone away from her ear as Audrey gave vent to her feelings.
‘The success of your programme owes everything to the co-operation of we, the villagers! Without us, Mr Tibbs would be a complete failure, Mrs Canter!’
Penny took a deep breath. She’d already been listening to Audrey for ten minutes. Apparently, the woman’s neurotic, smelly and aged cocker spaniels had been disturbed by the crew dismantling the set early this morning, hence the dawn phone call.
‘Yes, Audrey, we do everything we can to avoid disturbing anyone, but if the crew leave it any later there’s a risk the trucks could hold up through traffic at rush hour, or what passes for rush hour in this part of the world.’
It took another ten minutes of yes, Audreys, no Audreys, and three-bags-full, Audreys before Penny was able to get her off the subject and onto another one. But predictably, even then, it was an unwelcome topic.
‘So, as vicar’s wife, it is incumbent upon you to represent the qualities of charitable benevolence, which is why the Old People’s Christmas Luncheon Committee have nominated you as chairperson. Our first meeting will be held in the church hall tomorrow at five p.m., we will expect you there.’
‘What?!’ Penny couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Who nominated me? I’ll have you know that I’ve given myself two weeks’ holiday after a very long and punishing shoot. I’ve no intention of doing anything other than putting my feet up!’
‘The committee nominated you.’
‘Who’s on the committee?’
‘Geoffrey and I, of course, and Emma Scott – Pendruggan’s Brown Owl. It’s a great honour for you. And it’s not merely a token role, either. Your task will be to drum up support. The Old People’s Christmas Luncheon is a village institution. The old folks rely on it.’
‘But it’s only April.’ Penny said, weakly.
‘December will come around sooner than you think. Tomorrow at five p.m., remember.’ And with that, Audrey rang off, leaving Penny under a cloud of doom.
Helen Merrifield was feeling damp, cold and miserable. Cornwall had just endured its wettest and wildest winter on record, and while Pendruggan had got off lightly compared to many of the coastal communities, it hadn’t emerged completely unscathed. The lovely, cosy charm of Helen’s old farmworker’s cottage, Gull’s Cry, had been severely compromised by the constant deluge of rain. The tiny, slow trickle that had started in one corner of her bathroom had turned into a steady drip-drip, the drips multiplying with each fresh rainfall until the upstairs ceilings were a patchwork of weeping stains and the bedroom floors were littered with pots and pans and buckets.
‘Piran! Come and look at this – the one in the bathroom is definitely getting worse!’
Piran Ambrose was Helen’s boyfriend and the epitome of brooding masculinity. They’d been together for a while, but they didn’t live together. Both valued their independence and knew that sharing a house would drive them nuts. Much of the time Helen found his dark and mercurial nature quite thrilling, but it could also be a blooming pain the arse. This was one of those pain-in-the-arse moments.
His deep Cornish bass reverberated up the stairs. ‘’Aven’t got time. Gotta dash.’
This was immediately followed by the clatter of buckets being overturned as Helen came dashing out of the bathroom and down the stairs. She managed to catch him before the front door of the cottage had creaked fully open.
‘Where are you going? You promised me that someone would come out to have a look at it. That was days ago and we’re still waiting.’
‘Think you’re the only one with a leaky roof? There’s plenty worse off than you, maid, and I can’t be expected to sit twiddling my thumbs, waiting!’
‘So I have sit around and twiddle mine! But of course, my time isn’t important, unlike Piran Ambrose, historian of note!’
Piran frowned at the sarcasm in her voice. ‘What exactly have you got to do that is more important than my job?’
‘Er …’ Helen faltered momentarily, but then rallied: ‘I promised to run Queenie down to the surgery later. Her bunions are playing up.’ She jutted her chin out defiantly.
‘Bunions, eh? Really? How taxing for you.’ Piran was quite good at sarcasm himself when it suited. ‘Look, maid, we’re talking about the discovery of a Roman fort here! This is the most significant find Cornwall’s seen in decades – and it’s only two miles from my own doorstep. Opportunities like that don’t come along very often in a historian’s life. The archeological team need all the local support they can get. The bad weather has hampered the dig and they’ve got to work quickly if the site isn’t going to be washed away by more bad weather.’
Piran and Helen stood at the door and looked out at the ominous sky.
‘But what about me and the cottage? Aren’t we in danger of being washed away too?’ she asked plaintively.
Piran shook his headed and headed off towards his car, speaking as he went: ‘Look, I’ve asked Gasping Bob to come out, He should be here later.’
‘Who?’ Helen shouted after him.
‘Gasping Bob!’ And with that, Piran climbed into his pickup and sped off.
‘For some reason,’