Read Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death for Free Online Page A

returned with a tray.
    “What a splendid picture,” I said. “He looks very grand. I love his waistcoat, such a lovely color and all that gorgeous embroidery.”
    “Very becoming, but I wouldn’t fancy the wig; I believe they quickly became very unsanitary.” So not an ancestor, then, since I was sure he would certainly have told me if it was. He put the tray on the desk and continued. “Do sit down, and I’ll pour the coffee. There are some of Phyllis’s delicious shortbread biscuits that she kindly brought for me the other day.”
    “How lovely. She’s a marvelous cook, and Rachel’s very good too. I gather they’ve divided the domestic duties between them.”
    “Yes, Rachel has settled nicely and they do seem to get on very well— not always the case where relatives are concerned.”
    I wondered whether the stern military figure was a relative.
    “Oh, they’ve always been very devoted,” I said, “ever since they were children.”
    “Of course, you were all at school together—how I envy you that. I never seemed to stay in one school long enough to make any friends—a sort of peripatetic life.”
    “Really?” I said inquiringly, hoping for some sort of personal history, but he put a cup of coffee on the little table beside me and changed the subject.
    “So, you’re going to be writing this splendid book,” he said.
    “Not actually writing it,” I said hastily. “Just helping Annie with some of the research.”
    “Don’t you believe it—once Annie’s got you involved you’ll be doing more than just helping. Annie’s absolutely brilliant at organizing . Need I say more?”
    “Oh dear.” I sighed. “That’s what everyone says. I really can’t spare the time to do the whole thing.”
    “Well”—he looked at me quizzically—“if you feel up to telling Annie that . . .”
    I laughed reluctantly. “I see what you mean. Oh well, I’ll just have to do the best I can. So what about the church records?”
    “Ah well, most of the important ones—the really old, historical ones—have gone to the County Records Office, but you are very welcome to see what we still have. Most churches have given up their parish registers and only have photocopies, but I felt it was important to keep ours in the village—something tangible, as it were, for the villagers to see and handle if they wished. Meanwhile”—he got to his feet and went over to the desk and took something out of one of the drawers—“you may conceivably find something useful in this.” He handed me an elegantly printed little booklet. “It’s a short history of the church. A poor thing but mine own.”
    “But this is absolutely splendid,” I said, turning the pages. “Lovely old engravings too. Goodness, it must have been very expensive to produce something like this!”
    “Well,” he said, “it was rather beyond the means of the parish council.”
    “So you paid for it yourself?”
    He shrugged. “Having spent some time on it, I felt it deserved a slightly better presentation than a photocopied typescript. And we do have quite a few visitors—people who rather want to see the church I’ve mentioned in my broadcasts.” He smiled the charming smile again. “Such is the result of even minor media attention. But you will know all about that—your splendid radio talk about Mrs. Gaskell must, I’m sure, have reached a wide audience.”
    He inclined his head slightly, as if to include me in that small circle of “celebrities.”
    I put my coffee cup down on the table and got to my feet. “Well, if you have a moment, perhaps we could go up to the church and have a look at the records you have there.”
    As we walked through the churchyard he pointed out things of interest—the ancient yew tree, the remains of the old preaching cross, a gravestone recording that, in 1865, Joshua Minns died from a wall falling on him. As I watched his tall, cassocked figure moving among the graves, I felt how absolutely right such a