Free Caroline Minuscule by Andrew Taylor Page B

. this Canon Vernon-Jones. It could be useful to have a word with him this weekend about the historical side. Can you tell us where he lives?’
    â€˜Ow, dear. You’re just too late.’ Mrs Livabed looked genuinely affronted by the contrariness of death. ‘He passed on last month. Heart attack. Such a pity – he would have been just the man for you. He helped Mr Pooterkin ever such a lot. There was nothing he didn’t know about the cathedral. Used to live at Bleeders Hall. And such a
nice
man, too. Not all holier-than-thou and just-a-small-dry-sherry like most of the reverends round here. Liked his Scotch, he did.’
    â€˜Oh. That’s a shame.’ Dougal mournfully offered his cigarettes around (‘Not when I’m on duty, thank you love, some of our customers are that old-fashioned, you wouldn’t believe’). ‘I don’t suppose there’s anyone else who might be able to help us there?’
    â€˜Well.’ Mrs Livabed absentmindedly emptied the contents of their ashtray into the fire. ‘Your best bet would be Mrs Munns in Sacristy Row. She’s a widow, poor soul – her husband was Precentor here, and when he died they let her have that house because old Canon Stevens had popped off and it was empty, not that they didn’t know which side their bread was buttered because she runs the flower rota and the WI and the town would fall apart without her and that’s the truth. She was very friendly with Mr Vernon-Jones – helped him with his history and all that. And he made a real pet of Lina (that’s Mrs Munns’s little girl: shy little thing but ever so sweet), you know the way old men can be with small children, liked surprising her with presents and seeing her smile, not that he left her anything when he passed on except that dog of his . . .’
    â€˜Mrs Munns sounds a useful person to see.’ Dougal rushed bravely into the flow of Mrs Livabed’s conversation, directing his words at a point equidistant between her and Amanda.
    â€˜She might be called,’ said Mrs Livabed with refined deliberation, as if she had thought long and hard before making the judgement, ‘a pillar of society. Only the other week—’ the customary speed of delivery was resumed ‘—she said to me at the Bring-and-Buy sale for St Withburga’s central heating (that’s our local parish church, the one on the other side of the green), she said, “Mrs Livabed, these functions just wouldn’t happen if we weren’t here to make the teas and see to the change.” (We were having a quiet cuppa before clearing up after the doors closed.) And I remember saying to her, I said, where would this place be without people like us, we’re like the Unknown Soldier or that man in a poem we had to learn at school,
Unwept, unhonoured and unsung
. Or was it dishonoured? It’s a shame kids don’t learn things like that at school these days, don’t you think?’
    â€˜Women are always the real rulers,’ said Amanda in the tiny pause which followed.
    â€˜Oh, that is so true. Well look at marriage. My poor husband was always talking about wearing the trousers and that shows you, doesn’t it?’ She winked ponderously, like an elephant lowering her eyelid, to Amanda. ‘Still, mustn’t give away trade secrets, must I? It wouldn’t do for Mr Massey here to know too much.’
    For one awful second, Dougal felt himself struggling with the urge to say, ‘Who’s Mr Massey?’ He managed to ask where Mrs Munns lived, making a mental note to practice saying William Massey to himself in front of the mirror before going to bed.
    â€˜Sacristy Row, dear. That’s up the other end of the High Street – the road that goes up by the hotel. You go past the two gateways to the close on your right and there’s Sacristy Row – a little old line of houses like something out of a