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“You don’t think we have a – a-” Mrs Riverton looked nervously around the room and swallowed. When she spoke next, she locked her narrowed gaze on Clementine and choked out in a whisper: “-a killer in our midst, do you?”
“God, no,” Clementine snorted dismissively even though an icy shiver of forewarning slithered down he
r spine in a way that made her shake her shoulders to nudge it off.
“Mrs McGaffney seemed in fine fettle this morning,” Mr Smorsley pointed out.
He sounded so much like her that Clementine instinctively threw him a dour look. “Don’t you start,” she muttered.
“There you go. We are in danger, aren’t we? It is almost as though someone doesn’t want the village fair to happen. Why not, I wonder? Everyone enjoys it and has for years. Why now? Why this year?” Mrs Riverton wailed again, but this time her loud moans were smothered a little by her handkerchief, which she buried her face in as she began to moan about life and death and her time being cut short.
“God in Hell,” Mr Aldwych muttered when he sailed into the room moments later. “What’s that noise?”
“Mrs Riverton,” Elaine murmured with an unsympathetic smirk. “She thinks that because Mrs McGaffney has died, we are all going to be murdered in cold blood because someone doesn’t want us to organise the fair.”
“What in the Devil’s name has put that foolish idea into her head?” Mr Aldwych snorted.
“Mrs McGaffney’s death.”
“Sally was only buried this morning,” Mrs Riverton broke off her wailing to announce, quite calmly and firmly and with no hint of tears. She then promptly buried her face back in her handkerchief.
“We know. We were all there, you daft woman, or have you forgotten?” Mr Aldwych grunted with characteristic scorn.
“Don’t interrupt her, at least with her face buried in her handkerchief her noise is muffled,” Mr Smorsley grumbled with a typical lack of sympathy only a bored man could muster.
Mrs Riverton managed to break off her wails enough to throw him a menacing squint over the crushed fabric of her handkerchief before she sniffed and descended into a put-upon air of affronted female. Thankfully, though, she didn’t wail anymore. Now that her noise had stopped, the room was left bathed in a decidedly uneasy atmosphere that left everyone sitting in stoic discomfort.
“So, what do we do now?” Mr Aldwych demanded. “Someone has to do it.”
“We all have to do it, don’t you think?” Mr Smorsley replied. “I mean, it isn’t fair for all of the organisation to fall upon one person. If we all chip in we can just about manage it, but we will need the help from the other villagers still.”
“They always help. Mr Giggings is giving us the field to use again. Mr Rowley, the postmaster, has said we can use his cart and horse for the rides. Everyone who has helped us in previous years has already confirmed to Sally that they were prepared to do their bit again this year. We all need to organise the things for the stall and cakes and the like.”
“But what about the cake stall, and the games? Who is going to organise those?” Mrs Kinnerton asked. “Sally always used to do all of that. I shouldn’t know where to start.”
Clementine felt everyone’s gaze turn to her but refused to look up from her careful study of the floorboards beneath her feet, not least because she knew what everyone was thinking. She used to help Sally with the games stall and cake stand and knew what to do. But now, Clementine couldn’t bring herself to do it, not without Sally. It had always been their job not just hers.
“I can do it, as long as Clementine helps,” Elaine suddenly offered.
“How lovely,” Mrs Riverton gushed, her upset forgotten well enough for her to beam with the magnitude of her relief.
“That would be wonderful,” the ladies gushed in chorus.
Clementine sighed. She glared at Elaine, but she was too busy smiling at the ladies to notice. With a sigh, Clementine grudgingly agreed to oversee the organisation of the games before lapsing into a somewhat sullen silence.
“Well, just because our temporary chair lady has also dropped dead, I suppose someone else had better sit in her – their - seat, eh?” Mr Aldwych coughed uncomfortably.
“Don’t look at me,” Clementine snapped before anybody could speak.
Everyone turned to look at the empty seat at the head of the table as if it was some sort of evil talisman that was going to curse them with eternal bad luck, or even death, should they venture anywhere near it. Strangely, nobody volunteered to take the seat that should have been occupied by the two recently deceased local ladies.
“I’ll do it,” Elaine announced suddenly.
Clementine blinked at her.
Elaine shrugged when their gazes met. “How hard can it be? It is just overseeing the village fair. I have been to it since I was a babe in arms. I know what stalls go where, and who runs them. I am sure that if everyone pitches in, we can get this done. Besides, I am not in the least suspicious and don’t care what people think. It is a chair in a village hall not a sacrificial alter. It is highly unlikely that anything sinister is going to happen to me just because I want to sit at a table.”
“Oh, do be careful dear. If you are sure you want to take the job on, you are ever so kind. Why, it’s so good of you,” Mrs Riverton gushed, not least because Elaine’s willingness meant that she wasn’t the one who was going to have to sit in the dreaded chair.
