Annus Horribilis
Queen Elizabeth II once described the year 1992 as an annus horribilis. The Latin expression, meaning "horrible year," referred to a particularly difficult time for the royal family. Looking back over her own life, Gabby Tillett would have to say her annus horribilis was 1940.
Prior to that year, her life progressed just as she had planned. While she was growing up in a small village near Stratford-upon-Avon, she acquired a love of books. In no small way inspired by living near the birthplace of arguably the greatest writer in the English language, she decided at an early age to follow in the footsteps of Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell, Mary Shelley and the Brontë sisters. After passing her A Levels, she decided to move to the city to pursue a degree in English at the University of London with the hopes of eventually becoming a published author.
Life in London was not without its distractions, however. Although a hard-working student, Gabby soon found herself caught up in the active social life of her classmates. At a party in Kensington, she met a young man who chased all thoughts of a writing career out of her head. She was so enamored of the charming student from Dublin, Paddy McGinty, that she no longer cared to write the next Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice.
It was in the spring of 1940, just months after Britain declared war on Germany, that Paddy had the idea that he and Gabby should quit school and run away to Gretna Green to get married.
"You do realize that with Britain at war, we may not live to see our next birthdays," he declared pessimistically. "Do I really want to spend my last days studying mathematics?"
"You'd rather elope?"
"Either that or become a Redcoat at Butlins. I always fancied myself leading a sing-along of 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary.'"
"And if the war soon ends?"
"Then we can go back to school and get on with our plans for the future."
Gabby was not the first woman ever to choose a handsome face and the promise of romance over an education and career, and she probably won't be the last. Thus, a week after Paddy's hasty proposal, the couple tied the matrimonial knot in Scotland. The two were married only a month and a half when the groom was called up for military service. Given her good working knowledge of grammar and spelling, the bride took a job as a stenographer and was able to stay in London throughout the summer.
The autumn of 1940 began the most horrible period in Gabby McGinty's young life. In the midst of the Blitz, with bombs raining down on London, she received word that Paddy had been killed. With her husband gone and no desire to return to school to pursue her education, she left London and went to live with an aging great aunt in Yorkshire.
* * *
When Gabby first saw Aunt Minnie's cottage, the weather was bleak. The wind made an eerie sound, and the gray sky threatened to unleash a torrent of rain at any moment.
Good God! she thought, looking out over the moors. It feels as though I'm at Wuthering Heights and Heathcliff is about to come riding down from Penistone Crags.
She momentarily considered turning around and heading back to London, but the door opened and Aunt Minnie popped her head out and invited her grandniece inside with a welcoming smile.
"Come in before it starts to rain. You're just in time for tea. Why don't you put your bags upstairs while I get everything ready? Your room is the one on the left side of the landing."
The bedroom, although small, was cheerful and pleasant. There were tiny rosebuds on the wallpaper, and the curtains and bedspread were carnation pink in color. It would have been the perfect room for an adolescent girl.
By the time Gabby went down to the parlor to have tea with Aunt Minnie, the rain had started to fall.
"Sit down and have a cuppa," the older woman said. "I was sorry to hear about your husband. What was he like?"
"Handsome. Funny."
Tears misted in Gabby's eyes, not as much from the loss of her husband as from the sudden realization that she knew so little about him.
I ought not to be too surprised by my lack of knowledge, she thought, considering I met Paddy, fell in love, married him and was widowed in less than a year. That's not long enough to get to know someone.
"Things must be awful in London now, what with the air raids and all," Minnie said, tactfully changing the subject and wishing she had something more pleasant to discuss.
"It was unnerving going to bed at night and not knowing if you'd be alive in the morning."
"Well, you'll be safe here, my dear. Nothing like that will happen on the moors. This isn't London."
Aunt Minnie's words were an understatement. It took only a few days for Gabby to become bored with living in the country.
It's too quiet here, she thought. It's as though Aunt Minnie and I are the only two people in the world. I miss the hustle and bustle of London.
Thankfully, her great aunt was one of those individuals who never got rid of books or magazines. Consequently, there were stacks of reading materials around the cottage. One afternoon Gabby picked up a copy of Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind from a rack beside the fireplace hearth.
"Have you read this yet?" she asked Aunt Minnie.
"Oh, yes! What a wonderful book! It's all about a love triangle set during the time of the American Civil War. Scarlett loves Ashley, but Ashley loves Melanie. Then Rhett loves Scarlett. I don't suppose you can call it a love triangle if there are more than three people involved. And then there are Scarlett's first two husbands, but they don't count."
"I think I'll borrow it, if you don't mind."
"Not at all."
For the next several days, Gabby followed a simple but satisfying routine. After waking in the morning, she would make breakfast for herself and Aunt Minnie. Then she would see to the housekeeping. Once all the chores were done, if weather permitted, she would take a long walk on the moors, returning in time for lunch. After her midday repast, she would make herself comfortable and immerse herself in the antebellum world of Tara and Twelve Oaks. Although the book was over a thousand pages in length, Gabby finished it in a little over a week. There were tears in her eyes when she read the last paragraph.
That's why I wanted to become a writer, she thought wistfully. I wanted to touch people the way this book touched me.
For the first time since she quit school, she regretted her impulsive decision.
* * *
Gabby had been living with Aunt Minnie for a month when she found a pile of old newspaper clippings on top of the dining room cupboard.
My aunt is a pack rat, she thought with affection, as she took the dust-laden papers down so that she could clean beneath them.
She was about to toss them in the trash bin when she read the headline: MURDER ON THE MOORS.
Sounds like the title of an Agatha Christie novel.
Gabby blew the dust off the top of the stack and scanned the first article.
"What's that you've got?" Aunt Minnie asked when she found her grandniece sitting at the dining room table engrossed in reading.
"Newspaper clippings about a double murder that took place here back in 1922. I found them on top of the cupboard. Why did you save them?"
"When you live in a place like London, I dare say murder is no big deal. But here, things are different. In all my years, this was the only murder in the village. And what a murder! An illicit affair between the vicar of the church and a choir singer—and both of them married. It caused quite a stir."
"I'll bet it did. Did you know either of the victims?"
"I knew both of them. In our little village, everyone here knows everyone else. Besides, St. Mary's is the only church in the area. We all knew the vicar and Mrs. Yardley. People around here couldn't get enough of the story. I'm surprised no one ever wrote a book about it."
It was as though an invisible hand reached into Gabby's head and threw a switch.
I'll write that book! she immediately decided. Even if it never gets published, it will at least give me something to do with my time.
"Do you mind if I borrow these articles?" she asked her great aunt.
"Go ahead and keep them. To be honest, I forgot I'd even had them."
* * *
Hoping to take advantage of the unseasonably warm November day, Gabby donned a light jacket and ran out the door. Abandoning her usual route over the moors, she followed the dirt road to the center of the village. St. Mary's stood at the far end of the green, its stone bell tower rising above the surrounding one-story cottages and shops, its height no doubt meant to signify the church's importance to the townspeople.
When Gabby was a child, she sometimes accompanied her mother to services at Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon. However, the only inspiration she ever received there was from gazing at the monument of Will Shakespeare on the wall overlooking his grave at the foot of the chancel steps. She had often wished that rather than handing out Bibles and hymnals, the church would pass around copies of Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet.
St. Mary's was nowhere near as large as Holy Trinity. It was a humble village church with no delusions of grandeur. The chancel, like the church itself, was rather dull. There was no bust of a great writer, no famous graves, no towering stained glass windows—nothing but a plain crucifix on a simple altar and just enough room for the vicar and a small choir.
The church was empty except for an unassuming, middle-aged man with red hair who was sweeping the floor of the transept. Gabby assumed he was the sexton since, in her opinion, he was far too timid looking to be a vicar. She smiled at him, and he shyly nodded in response to her greeting before putting his head down and continuing his work in silence.
Several of Aunt Minnie's old newspaper articles on the murders had included photographs of the victims. As Gabby gazed at the lectern, she tried to imagine Ronald Eatonton, the forty-one-year-old clergyman, standing there, reading from his Bible and preaching to his congregation.
I hope none of the vicar's sermons were on the seventh commandment, she thought. Talk about being a hypocrite! How could a man stand in a pulpit and lecture about sin with his mistress standing in back of him in the choir and his wife sitting in the pews?
After making a few mental notes on the interior for the church, Gabby walked out the door, hoping to explore the village. Next to St. Mary's was a large stone house built at approximately the same time and in the same architectural style as the church. She assumed it was the rectory.
"Excuse me, miss," a voice said from directly behind her. "Did you want to see the vicar?"
Gabby turned and saw the redheaded sexton, who had apparently followed her outside.
"No, I was just sightseeing."
"I didn't think you lived in the village."
"I'm here from London. I'm staying with Minnie Tillett, my great aunt."
"And you'll be attending services here at St. Mary's?"
"Well, actually ...."
The sexton's voice lowered, although there was no one around to overhear their conversation.
"You're curious about the murders, aren't you?"
"I must admit I am," she replied, seeing no reason to hide her interest. "Were you here when they were committed?"
"Yes. I was sexton back then."
"And you obviously knew them both."
"It's a small village. Everyone here knows everyone else."
"That's what my Aunt Minnie said."
"Would you like me to give you a tour?"
Gabby looked down at her watch. Her great aunt would be expecting her home for lunch at noon.
"I'm not sure I have the time."
"It won't take long. I'll show you where Mrs. Eatonton lives ...."
"The vicar's widow?"
"Yes. I can also show you where Mrs. Yardley lived, and if you're up for a bit of a walk, I can take you to the place where the bodies were found."
Gabby looked up at the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky despite the crisp November air—perfect weather for a nice, long walk. She was certain Aunt Minnie would forgive her if she did not hurry home.
* * *
The first stop on the sexton's guided murder tour was a modest house across the road from the chemist's shop.
"That's where the Yardleys lived," the sexton announced.
"Do any of them still live there?"
"No. The two children have grown up and married. Understandably, they left the village after their mother was murdered."
"And the husband?"
"He died."
"What did he do?"
"He was a janitor at the school."
Once Gabby felt she could adequately describe the choir singer's house in her book, the tour resumed. As the sexton was heading away from the center of the village, he shared with her his perceptions of the murdered choir singer.
"Fannie Yardley was born in the village, same as her husband. Ah, she was such a pretty girl," the sexton said with a wistful smile. "But she had her head in the clouds most of the time—always reading romance novels and primping in front of the mirror. Back before the Great War, there weren't many options open to young women, not even the pretty ones. So, Fannie married at age fifteen and was a mother at eighteen. Life didn't hold much excitement for her, I'm afraid. The only time she ever left the house was to go to market or to church. Eventually, most likely out of boredom, she began singing in the choir."
They turned down a narrow, tree-lined lane, and Gabby suddenly spotted, not too far ahead, a three-story home that surely belonged to a person of means.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked, doubting so splendid a place would be associated with such sordid murders.
"This is where the vicar and his wife lived," the sexton replied.
"Here? I assumed they lived in the rectory."
"Oh, no. Lillian Eatonton was a wealthy woman. Her father owned a number of factories in Manchester. When the vicar was assigned to St. Mary's, she bought this house for them to live in."
"So unlike the Yardleys, she wasn't originally from the village?"
"Neither was the vicar. He was born, raised and educated in London."
"Did he have money as well?"
"No. In fact, many people believe he only married Lillian because of her fortune. She was seven years older than he was, and—how can I put this?—she was somewhat lacking in feminine charms."
Gabby liked to have thought that as a man of God, Vicar Eatonton would see beyond the woman's plain exterior to the soul beneath, but then she remembered he'd had an adulterous affair with the pretty choir singer.
The aspiring writer stared at the huge dwelling, committing its appearance to memory. Finally, they turned away and began walking back down the lane.
"And Mrs. Eatonton still lives here?" she asked.
"Yes, but since her husband's death she's become somewhat of a recluse."
Suddenly overcome with emotion, Gabby took a handkerchief out of her jacket pocket and dabbed the corners of her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she apologized to the sexton. "I recently lost my own husband."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"We weren't married very long. In fact, I hadn't even known him that well, but ...."
"Grief is a very painful experience but unfortunately a necessary one."
What Gabby did not admit to the sexton was that she was sad because she was finding it increasingly difficult to remember the exact features of her late husband's face. She often had to refer to the wedding photograph taken at Gretna Green in order to refresh her memory.
* * *
As Gabby and the sexton walked across the moors, she was glad she had worn sensible shoes.
"This must be beautiful when the heather is in bloom," she said.
"It is, although it wasn't so beautiful that year. There were so many people who came to see where the murders had taken place that the heather was trampled down and destroyed."
"Were the curiosity-seekers all from the village?"
"No. As word of the crime spread, people came from all over England and as far away as Wales and Scotland."
The two had been walking for more than an hour when the sexton suddenly turned to his companion and pointed his finger.
"See that hornbeam tree there?" he asked. "The bodies were found beneath it."
"What were the vicar and Mrs. Yardley doing way out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"Because of its remoteness, this place had become somewhat of a lover's lane."
"It seems to me that the two of them were a bit old to be necking in such places."
"Don't forget that they were both married. They couldn't very well meet in the village where they would be recognized."
Roughly two meters from the tree, the sexton came to a stop.
"That's where the bodies were."
Gabby looked down on the ground, but time had removed all signs of the murders. As though he were a yeoman warder conducting a tour at the Tower of London, the sexton described what two teenagers had discovered that morning eighteen years ago.
"It was apparent to the police that the bodies had been deliberated posed on the ground. Reverend Eatonton was on the left with his arm around Fannie's neck. She was lying next to him with her hand on his thigh. The vicar's hat was placed over his face, but there was never any doubt as to his identity since the murderer placed one of the vicar's calling cards at his feet."
"I wonder why the killer bothered to cover his face then."
"Probably to hide the gunshot wound."
"What about Mrs. Yardley?"
"While the vicar received a single shot, she wasn't so lucky. Not only was she shot three times in the face, but her throat had been slit from ear to ear. It was later discovered at the autopsy that her tongue and larynx were cut out as well."
Although Gabby shivered with revulsion, she couldn't deny to herself that she was titillated by the gruesome details. She silently and slowly walked the ground beneath the hornbeam tree, getting a "feel" for the murder scene. Then she noticed the sun was no longer shining overhead.
She looked at her watch and exclaimed, "I had no idea it was getting so late! I've got to get back to the cottage before Aunt Minnie begins to worry."
As the sexton led her back to the village, he continued his narrative.
"The murderer also scattered love letters Fannie had written to the vicar over the dead bodies."
"I can see why the local constabulary placed the blame on the vicar's wife. Not only did she have a motive for wanting her husband and his lover dead, but she must have had access to those letters."
"The chief constable knew he was in over his head in solving the murders, so he called in the Yard to assist him. No London detective would ever have arrested the widow on such purely circumstantial evidence."
"But I read in one of Aunt Minnie's articles that the vicar's wife and her two brothers were arrested and charged with the murders."
"They were but only after two so-called witnesses came forward. The first was a local sheep farmer, Cleo Harrold, who the press dubbed the Sheep Lady. She claims to have seen a car pull up with three people inside: two men and a woman with gray hair. According to Cleo, these three people killed the vicar and his sweetheart and then drove away in the car. Naturally, the gray-haired woman was believed to be Mrs. Eatonton."
"What about the second witness?" Gabby asked.
"The chap was married to the maid in the Eatonton household. He claims his wife told him that Lillian Eatonton had discovered the vicar planned on running away with Fannie Yardley and that in a fit of jealousy she decide to kill them both."
"I also read that the defendants were found not guilty. Did these two witnesses testify at the trial?"
"Yes. In fact, Cleo's testimony was quite the show. She was suffering from cancer at the time, and she was carried into the courtroom in her pajamas, bed and all. Oh, the press had a field day with her! And then, of course, the maid's husband's testimony wasn't given much weight because it was deemed hearsay since the maid herself never testified."
"But surely the Sheep Lady's eyewitness account was enough to ensure a conviction."
"Except there were inconsistencies in her story. Even her mother came out and said Cleo was a liar, that she wouldn't know the truth if came up and bit her in the arse—my apologies for my vulgarity."
"That's all right," Gabby said with amusement. "So there was cause for reasonable doubt."
"Yes, and that's why the accused were acquitted. Still, many people believed they were guilty. Lillian Eatonton has had to live in the shadow of doubt for the past eighteen years."
"I can't understand why she would want to stay here," Gabby said.
"Neither can I, but she did," the sexton said.
A few minutes later they arrived in front of Aunt Minnie's home. Gabby thanked the sexton for his time and promised she would acknowledge his assistance in print should her book ever be published.
* * *
Despite the Christmas holidays, Gabby made a good deal of progress on her book during the month of December. More for her great aunt's sake than her own, she gave up writing on December 25th to prepare a Christmas meal for the two of them. After they finished with dessert, she read from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol as Aunt Minnie roasted chestnuts in the fireplace.
I suppose I ought to be grieving since this would have been my first Christmas with Paddy, she thought, but although I'm sad that he was killed, I'm not crippled by an overwhelming sense of personal loss.
In her reflective mood, she wondered what Lillian Eatonton felt after the death of her husband. Was she overcome by grief or did some part of her believe he had gotten what he deserved? Was her sadness—if she felt any—tinged with a sense of triumph? Gabby imagined that depended on whether or not she was actually responsible for the murders.
Bright and early on Boxing Day, the aspiring writer was sitting at the kitchen table working. Since she had no access to a typewriter, she was forced to resort to pen and paper. While this slowed the writing process down considerably, it by no means inhibited her creativity. She described with amazing skill the tragic tale of the vicar and the choir singer, using information she had obtained from the newspaper articles and the sexton, as well as details from Aunt Minnie's somewhat cloudy memories.
On Sunday afternoon, December 30, Gabby was busy at her task when she noticed Aunt Minnie come out of her bedroom in her best dress and wearing the string of pearls her late husband had given her on their wedding day.
"What are you all dressed up for?" she asked.
"They're having a special service at St. Mary's," Minnie answered. "I thought I'd go. Want to come along?"
"You know I'm not much of a churchgoer."
"It's not going to be the usual type of service. Mainly, everyone will gather in the church and pray for an end of the war in 1941."
The war. Since leaving London, Gabby had not given it much thought. While she had been out walking the moors and thinking about an eighteen-year-old crime, people were dying and bombs were being dropped on England. If there was any power in prayer, she ought to add her voice to Aunt Minnie's.
"Give me a minute to get changed," she said and headed for her bedroom to put on something more appropriate.
Aside from some potted Christmas flowers on the altar, St. Mary's looked the same as it did when Gabby sat in the pew that day in November when the sexton had given her an impromptu tour of the village. The white-haired vicar, who had served as chaplain during the Great War, bore no resemblance to Ronald Eatonton, his predecessor.
He doesn't look like the sort of man who would be carrying on a dalliance with anyone, she thought.
As Gabby was singing Henry Francis Lyte's "Abide with Me" along with the choir and congregation of St. Mary's, she noticed fewer and fewer people were singing. Within a matter of moments, the voices had stopped completely. She turned and saw an elderly woman walking up the aisle, looking for an open pew. A well-mannered young man then stood up and gave her his seat.
"Who is that?" Gabby whispered to her great aunt.
"That's Lillian Eatonton. I can't imagine what she's doing here. She rarely ever leaves her house."
Once the villagers got over the shock of seeing the acquitted murderer, the service continued, but people cast furtive glances in her direction until it was over.
As Gabby exited St. Mary's, Lillian's driver approached her.
"Excuse me," he said. "Mrs. Eatonton would like to speak to you. She was wondering if you might come to her house."
"Now?"
"If it is convenient."
Gabby immediately agreed, and after dropping Aunt Minnie off at her cottage, the car continued to the wealthy widow's three-story home.
"You have a lovely house," she said, as a maid brought in a silver tea service and a selection of biscuits, cakes and sandwiches.
"It's a little late for tea," Lillian said, "but I'm hungry, and I don't like to eat anything heavy at night."
"Is there something you wanted to speak to me about?" Gabby inquired, anxious to learn the reason behind the unexpected invitation.
"Yes. Word through the village grapevine is that you're writing a book. It isn't difficult to guess what the subject will be."
Gabby kept her eyes on her teacup, unwilling to look the older woman in the face.
"Before you do, I'd like you to hear my story. Then you can decide for yourself what you want to put into your book."
"Did you kill your husband and Fannie Yardley?" she finally found the courage to ask.
"No, I didn't. Neither did my brothers."
"Forgive me for saying so, but the case against you was a strong one. Take the crime scene, for instance. Your husband was shot only once, and his face was covered by his hat as though the killer couldn't bear to see the dead eyes staring back at him or her. On the other hand, Mrs. Yardley was savagely murdered. I'm no psychiatrist, but it seems to me that the killer exhibited a good deal of rage toward the choir singer."
"Believe me or not," Lillian explained, "I didn't harbor any jealousy or anger toward Fannie Yardley. I admit I didn't like her as a person. In my opinion, she was nothing more than a vain, foolish, empty-headed woman, but I truly felt sorry for her after she was killed. She was only thirty-two and a mother, at that."
"Surely you were angry at her for having an affair with your husband?"
A sad smile appeared on the elderly woman's face.
"Not all marriages are founded on love. I know Ronald was attracted more to my money than to me. I own a mirror; I know I wasn't exactly a beauty. Furthermore, I was seven years his senior. What people find hard to believe is that I wasn't interested in him in a romantic sense either. Back then, a girl lived under her parents' roof until she was married. My father was a hard taskmaster who dictated how I was to behave, where I was able to go, what I was allowed to wear, the books I was permitted to read. What I wanted most out of the marriage was my freedom."
"Are you telling me it didn't bother you at all that your husband was unfaithful?"
"When I moved to this village, for the first time in my life, I was content. I had my own home, and I was free to make my own decisions. It mattered little to me if Ronald preferred Fannie's company to mine."
"Even if what you say is true—and, forgive me, but I find it hard to believe—who else would have wanted your husband dead? Who else had access to the love letters Fannie sent him?"
"Ah, you're no doubt referring to the letters found at the crime scene."
"Yes."
"You might want to learn more about the evidence presented at trial before drawing any conclusions in your book. In the three weeks before he was killed, my husband was attending a conference of ministers in Oxford. Fannie wrote the letters to him while he was away, but she never mailed them."
Gabby was confused.
"Then how ...?"
"Ask yourself where those letters had been prior to the murders. And then think about who else might have felt rage toward Fannie."
"Her husband. Ed Yardley, I believe his name was. But he had an alibi."
"Yes, he was working at the school that day. He was seen there in the morning and again later in the afternoon, but the school was only a twenty-minute walk from the spot where his wife was killed. He had more than enough time to go to the field, commit the murders and return to the school."
"But he would have been covered with blood."
"As a janitor, he could have easily washed it off."
"And his clothes? Could he have laundered them as well?"
"Ed Yardley wore a uniform to work. It's not hard to imagine he had a spare one. Believe me, I've had eighteen years to think about these murders, and I've come to the conclusion that Ed Yardley found his wife's letters at their house and decided to kill her."
"Why didn't the Scotland Yard inspector pursue him then?"
"Because my brothers and I were the most likely suspects, thanks to the testimony of that sheep farmer and my maid's ex-husband—neither of which was true, mind you."
"What motive did the two of them have for lying?"
"My maid's husband attempted to blackmail me with his lies. I refused to pay, and he made good on his threat of going to the police with his concocted story. As for the Sheep Lady, I can only assume she wanted the attention the investigation brought her. She was somewhat of a celebrity after telling her tale. Either way, neither of these false witnesses swayed the jury."
"Didn't Ed Yardley have the reputation of being a shy, gentle person, one not likely to resort to violence?"
"That's putting it mildly," Lillian replied with a soft chuckle. "He was a henpecked, mousy little man who let his wife walk all over him for years."
"And yet you think he acted out of character and killed her?"
"I knew Fannie Yardley, although I would hardly number her among my friends. She was, simply put, a shrew. She was ceaselessly haranguing her husband and often belittled him in public. I can only imagine what a hell his life must have been before her death. And I'm sure things were much worse after she took up with my husband. I imagine a handsome, worldly man from London would have been the answer to her prayers. Poor Ed never stood a chance after that."
"I can't imagine he never suspected that his wife and your husband were involved."
"Suspicions are one thing; proof is another. You can talk yourself out of believing painful gossip, but when you find concrete proof, it's hard to ignore. I believe when Ed found the letters Fannie had written to Ronald, something inside him cracked. Years of being her whipping boy must have driven him to shoot her three times and then slit her throat."
"That might also explain why he cut out her tongue and larynx," Gabby theorized. "He hoped to silence her once and for all."
* * *
The following day, Gabby sat at her table with pen in hand yet unable to write. She had originally intended to relate the facts about the murders, the police investigation and the trial, expressing no opinion on Lillian Eatonton's guilt or innocence.
I ought to write about Ed Yardley since he is clearly a suspect in the case.
However, there was the distinct possibility that Lillian's tale was less than truthful. She might only have told it to Gabby to cover her own guilt.
If I could only corroborate what she told me.
While she could have questioned Aunt Minnie, Gabby felt there was a much more valuable source of information in the village. She got up from the table, went to her bedroom and put on a coat.
"Where are you going?" her great aunt asked.
"For a walk."
"In this weather?"
"I'll dress warmly."
"Well, be sure to bring an umbrella. It looks like it's going to rain any minute now."
When Gabby stepped outside the door, the icy wind made her shiver, but the cold temperature would not deter her from her mission. She pulled her collar around her neck and began walking at a brisk pace toward St. Mary's. As she approached the center of the village, the light-colored stone bell tower stood in stark contrast to the slate-colored sky. In a way, the foreboding image was more frightening than the German bombers that menaced the skies of London. The first raindrops fell as she ran across the lawn.
The interior of the church was less ominous. The Christmas flowers were still on the altar, giving the place a festive air. As Gabby took her seat in the pew and waited, she heard the downpour beating a steady rhythm against the stained glass windows.
Ten minutes later, a man walked out of the chapel and began sweeping the floor of the transept.
"Excuse me," Gabby called. "Could you tell me where I can find the sexton?"
"You're looking at him."
"No. I mean the other sexton."
"I'm the only sexton here at St. Mary's."
"A few weeks ago I met a man who was cleaning the church. He was about fifty years old, graying red hair ...."
"I don't know who you saw, but I'm the sexton here. I have been for the past eighteen years."
A chill not caused by the weather outside made Gabby shiver.
"Eighteen years?"
"Yes. I'm not one to gossip, but it's common knowledge in the village that the previous sexton's wife was murdered. She and the vicar."
"Ed Yardley was the sexton of the church? But I thought he was the janitor at the school?"
"Being a sexton is a part-time job that doesn't pay very much. Most sextons have other jobs to make ends meet."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
"He died about fourteen or fifteen years ago. Officially, it was an accident, but there are some who think it was suicide."
Gabby thanked the man for his time and turned to leave. She was halfway to the door when the sexton called to her.
"Come to think of it, Ed Yardley was a forty-eight-year-old man with graying red hair."
"Th-thank you," she stammered.
She opened the door and stepped outside into a world unlike the one she had just left. The dark, stormy winter day had been replaced by a sunny spring afternoon. What was more disturbing than the sudden, inexplicable change in time and weather was the appearance of the man who stood on the steps, blocking the path between the church door and the road.
"It's you!" Gabby exclaimed when she saw the red-haired former sexton. "You're Ed Yardley, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"But you're ...."
"Dead? Yes. I killed myself back in 1926. I couldn't live with the guilt any longer."
"You murdered your wife and Reverend Eatonton?"
"I had no intention of killing either one of them. I wanted only to confront Fannie and demand she give me a divorce. But she said some pretty nasty things to me, and I ... I ...."
Ed broke down in tears, something men did not normally do in public back in the mid-twentieth century.
"I didn't want to kill Ronald Eatonton," the spirit said. "He was a man of God!"
"He was also a sinner, an adulterer."
"And all the trouble I caused for poor Lillian and her brothers. I should have come forward when they were arrested, but I didn't. I told myself it was because I wanted to protect my children, but I think ... I think it was cowardly of me to hold my tongue for so long. I have to rectify the situation."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"That I want to finally set things straight. Lillian is nearly seventy, the world is at war and who knows what can happen. I want the truth to come out. I want you to tell it in your book."
"First, I don't even know if I can find a publisher for it, and second, I have no concrete proof of your guilt."
"All you have to do is write the story; others will do the digging and find the proof."
"But ...."
Ed Yardley, the late sexton of St. Mary's Church, and the murderer of its former vicar and choir singer, suddenly vanished. No sooner did he disappear from her view than Gabby was catapulted into the cold, stormy world of December 31, 1940. Stunned by what she had seen, heard and experienced, she slowly walked back to her great aunt's cottage in the pouring rain.
After a hot bath, she sat in front of the fire, wrapped in a warm robe, drinking a cup of tea. She realized that in a few hours St. Mary's bells would ring in the New Year and the end of her annus horribilis. Hopefully, 1941 would bring with it the end of the war, Lillian Eatonton's exoneration and peace for Ed Yardley's immortal soul.
The murders in this story are based on the 1922 Hall-Mills murders in my home state of New Jersey. Edward Hall, an Episcopal priest, and his lover, Eleanor Mills, a singer in the church choir, were found murdered in the manner described in this story. Although I moved the location of the murders to England, many of the details are accurate.
One of Salem's favorite stories is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles, set in Dartmoor. It inspired him to write The Feline of the Boston Fens.
