Free Devil's Acre by Stephen Wheeler Page B

and most beloved cousin Absalom, priest and paterfamilias to this rabble of ne’er-do-wells!’
    To my astonishment there now came smiling towards me another Abbot Samson - an exact copy of the original right down to the bushy white eyebrows, pink pate, thick sensuous lips and bulbous nose. I had to blink to be sure I was not seeing double. Cousins they may be, but they were also twins. A whisker more here, a tooth less there, but otherwise they were a match for each other exactly. And looking about me now I could see the family likeness in most of the faces around us.
    ‘Goodness me!’ I found myself exclaiming. ‘Is there anyone in the village not related to you, father?’
    ‘Not many,’ grinned Samson.
    ‘Dear father abbot,’ said Absalom pumping his hand.
    ‘No ceremony, I beg you,’ said Samson. ‘Here I am as I always was, a poor son of the parish.’
    ‘A most famous and cherished son of the parish,’ beamed Absalom. ‘Come cousin, bless our humble church by praying with us and giving thanks to Almighty God for your deliverance.’
    Samson put his arm around the man’s shoulders. ‘Cousin, with the greatest of pleasure.’
    And thus the whole mass of them moved off towards the church amid much rejoicing.
     
    I decided not to join them but hung back with Jane and the mules. Poor Jane. In the midst of all the general bonhomie no-one seemed to have noticed her.
    ‘I gather that you are not one of the great band of Samsonites,’ I said helping her down from her mule.
    ‘It were always thus,’ she mused. ‘His tribe dominates here.’
    ‘So it would seem. Not your family, I take it?’
    She shook her head. ‘We were poor folk.’
    ‘In that case you will want to visit them.’
    ‘The last of my line died twenty years ago. I will stay with Ralf’s family. There I will be welcome.’
    ‘Are you sure? They may not...’ I didn’t finish my sentence.
    Jane shot me one of her now familiar stares. ‘You no need to worry, brother. They aren’t Samson’s blood either. They’ll not reject me.’
    I sincerely hoped she was right but I know how these things go. Families often tolerate unorthodox relationships while their relative lives. But with Ralf dead I feared she may not be quite as welcome as she once was. I decided to accompany her just to make sure.
    Two youths were taking charge of the mules.
    ‘Just a minute. Where are you going with them?’ I asked the older one.
    ‘To the stables, brother.’
    I nodded and drew the elder out of Jane’s earshot. ‘What about the body? Where are you going with him?’
    ‘Father Absalom said to take him to the church vestry,’ said the younger.
    ‘Did he indeed? When did he tell you to do that?’
    The boy was about to answer when the older one hit him in the shoulder. Both boys now stood in sullen silence.
    ‘All right . Off you go. But make sure you lock the vestry after you.’
    I watched them lead the mules away. I know they were only a couple of village youths who may have got their facts muddled but something wasn’t quite right about their account. Since Ralf’s death had come completely unexpected no-one in Tottington could possibly have known of it before we arrived. So how and when did Absalom tell these boys what to do with the body?
     
    Jane led me to a corner on the far side of the village. By now it was growing quite dark but from what I could see of the house it looked neat and well-kept. This presumably was the Ralf family home, a little outside the village proper. As we came up to the door it was opened by a man who was clearly Ralf’s relative - same stature, same features - accompanied by a shorter woman.
    ‘Jane, my dear,’ said the man stepping out and taking Jane’s hands in his own. ‘I am so sorry.’
    As soon as she saw him Jane broke down and wept openly. I admit to being quite moved. This was quite a different Jane to the one she presented before and it made me realise just how attached she must have been to her dead