The Newcomer. Fern Britton

and you got everyone drunk.’

      ‘And there was I thinking I was brightening the dull and unsullied lives of your flock,’ Mamie smiled impishly.

      Angela’s tired grin shifted into a yawn.

      ‘And you are exhausted,’ Mamie said kindly. ‘You two go up to bed and I’ll clear the last bits up.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ asked Robert.

      Mamie picked up a tea towel and flapped it at the pair of them. ‘You’ve got early church tomorrow. I can lie in.’ She kissed her niece and nephew-in-law affectionately. ‘Off you go. Bed. Now.’

      ‘Where does she get her energy from?’ Robert plumped the pillow under his head, his eyes already closing.

      ‘She’s always been the same.’ Angela lifted her legs onto her side of the mattress and pulled the duvet up. ‘Always.’

      It was Angela who found Mamie’s body. She had woken at 3.20 with a post-alcohol thirst that needed at least a pint of water. In the dark, she had padded, barefoot and silent, to the top of the stairs and noted a line of light under her aunt’s bedroom door. She thought vaguely that Mamie was probably engaged in her usual nightly routine of make-up removal and meditation, so she decided not to disturb her.

      Her fingers carefully held the smoothly worn stair rail as she counted the sixteen treads down to the hallway. She and Robert had been in the vicarage only six months but Angela knew by now most of its foibles and peculiarities: the sticky window in her office, the back door that needed an encouraging kick after rain, and the creaking third and fifth treads.

      At this hour all was still and silent. The now-familiar warmth of the house wrapped itself around her.

      The smell of garlic roast lamb and sherry still hung in the air, and something else. She stopped for a moment and sniffed. Ah, yes. Mamie’s perfume. Shalimar. Angela was surprised that it could override even last night’s cooking smells, but there it was. The very essence of her aunt.

      She reached the bottom step and her naked toes felt the familiar texture of the Indian rug covering the oak floor of the hall.

      Confidently, she let go of the wooden sphere on the end of the newel post, and turned left in the darkness, heading towards the kitchen.

      It was then that her foot felt something unusual.

      Soft.

      Fleshy.

      Her skin began to prickle.

      ‘Mr Worthington? Is that you, boy?’ She knew it wasn’t the dog.

      She stood stock-still and held her breath. But there was no answering thump of a wagging tail or whiskery nose sniffing her leg.

      Fear crawled from her stomach, through her bowels and down her legs. She began to shake.

      She was breathing faster and recognised panic. What should she do? Scared to progress further and tread on anything else that might be lying in the dark, but knowing she had to, she reached her foot forwards, feeling for anything else.

      What was that?

      She drew her foot back quickly.

      ‘Oh dear Lord,’ she whispered, and took two quick hops to where she hoped the light switch was.

      In the sudden glaring light, she saw her beloved aunt’s body.

      ‘Robert! Robert!’

      Robert was dreaming of Venice, sitting in the sun, under the shade of a bougainvillaea and having lunch alone, watching the beautiful women walk by. Where was Angela? He couldn’t remember why she wasn’t with him, but never mind. He could sit here without guilt. Of course Angela would be very cross if she caught him but it was innocent fun. Then he heard her. Upset. Angry? Her voice was coming in distressing sobs.

      ‘Robert, oh dear God. Robert! Robert. Robert.’

      The vision faded and he sat up in bed, ready to apologise. It had only been lunch. Nothing more. Angela would understand. But Angela’s side of the bed was empty. He ran his hands through his thick, dark hair and heard her shout again, ‘Robert, it’s Auntie Mamie, she’s fallen.’

      A dose of adrenaline hit him and he leapt out of bed. Six foot two, muscular and naked, he sped onto the landing and looked over the banisters. His wife had one hand to her mouth while the other clutched her nightdress to her heart. He saw the body on the rug. Twisted awkwardly. Her eyes half open. A bruise spreading on her temple. He knew she was dead.

      He took the stairs two at a time. Stepping round the grim scene, he reached Angela and pulled her to his strong, naked chest.

      ‘Darling. Don’t look. Make some tea. I’ll call the police.’

      ‘She needs an ambulance.’ Angela pushed her way out of Robert’s arms. She stepped carefully over Mamie’s feet and went to the phone on the hall table. ‘Check her breathing, Robert, and fetch a blanket. She’ll get cold.’

      Robert dashed for the blanket from the back of the sofa, then knelt and checked Mamie’s pulse. Nothing. He bent his ear to her nose. She wasn’t breathing.

      ‘Ambulance, please.’ Angela’s voice broke as the emergency operator asked for details.

      Robert placed Mamie’s lifeless arm gently on her chest and stood up. ‘Darling, we need the police as well. I’m so sorry. She’s gone.’

      Angela took the receiver from her ear and looked at Mamie, lying in her scarlet silk pyjamas, and her legs gave way.

      Robert took the phone and gave the emergency operator their address and an assessment of what had happened. He put his hand fondly against Mamie’s cool cheek, before pulling the blanket snugly over her as though she was sleeping.

      Finally, he collected Angela’s small frame in his arms and carried her to the kitchen. Tenderly he lowered her onto her chair by the Aga.

      ‘I’ll make tea. The police and ambulance will be here soon.’

      ‘Mamie,’ keened Angela, her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t hear her fall, Robert. I should have heard her. Why didn’t I hear her?’

      ‘Darling, it’s an accident. Somehow she tripped on the stairs and fell. I don’t think she would have known anything about it.’ He smiled into Angela’s green eyes. ‘In a funny sort of way, isn’t this so typically her? Exactly the way she would have liked to have gone? After a great party where everyone loved her … and full of gin.’

       1

       Six months earlier

      ‘Penny?’ Simon Canter shouted from the bottom of the vicarage stairs, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

      ‘Penny.’ He shouted a little louder.

      He had been emptying and clearing his office for the last three hours and it had not put him in the happiest of moods. ‘Penny!’

      ‘What?’ Her voice from upstairs was irritated. ‘I’m sorting the bloody books in Jenna’s room.’

      ‘Where are the bin liners?’

      ‘Under the sink, where they usually are.’

      ‘I’ve looked and they are not.’

      ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she muttered to herself, then shouted, more loudly, ‘Have you looked in the box by the back door?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well, look!’

      Penny was not quite as busy as she was pretending. In truth she had been lying on her daughter’s bed for most of the morning, surrounded by packing cases and constantly being distracted by long-forgotten possessions. She