A Simple Country Funeral Page 8

“Good heavens, was he really?” I asked.

  “Well, that one can never know for certain, but we can be sure that it is a long-lived tradition here in Brookminster, and everyone looks forward to it each year,” he said.

  I looked around the shop, seeing women bending their heads together, talking excitedly about their selection of ribbons, and another man attempting to find a silk tie that he liked.

  “You think they are all preparing for the festival?” I asked.

  “I thought you were doing the same,” he said, glancing down at my dress. “That’s quite a nice dress you’ve made for yourself.”

  I blushed as he turned, climbing up the ladder. “Thank you very much,” I said, touching the scalloped collar that I had lined with silk ribbons. “I thought I might try something different.”

  “That farm you mentioned…” I said, keeping my eyes on the customers near the front of the store, in case any of them needed me. “Was that the farm you were at earlier this week?”

  “Indeed,” he said, shining his flashlight up into the beams of wood that ran the length of the ceiling, squinting. “The farmer asked if I might be able to help him repair his tractor.”

  “You can repair tractors, too?” I asked. “Is there nothing you can’t do?”

  He spared me a momentary grin. “Well, aren’t you kind? And yes, I actually started discovering I was rather handy when my uncle’s tractor broke down when I was a lad. I was fascinated as he worked on it, and before I knew it, he let me help him and my cousins get it back up and running. From there, I moved onto cars, trucks, other farm equipment…”

  He pressed his fingers up against the boards above his head, his brow furrowing.

  “I’m not pleased with this,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid these might need to be replaced.”

  I sighed, shaking my head. “It’s always something in this house, isn’t it?”

  “Well, you’re certainly keeping me busy,” he said, climbing back down the ladder.

  “Yet you will not let me pay you,” I said, arching an eyebrow.

  He smiled, dimples appearing in his freckled cheeks. “You wait until I bring over every shirt I own and ask you to fix the buttons and the loose stitching on them all. It will be enough work for you for an entire week.”

  I laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain then, should I?”

  “You are always welcome to, though I think that seems rather out of character for you,” he said.

  I smiled. There was something about Sidney Mason that I found very pleasant. I liked the way he so easily made me laugh.

  Even though there was still a great deal about him that I was unfamiliar with, I realized that if he ever wanted to talk about his past, then he would when he was ready to.

  “It must be terrible for a farmer to not have his tractor working,” I said as I picked up an order form from the small stack I had accumulated on the back counter beside the till.

  Sidney bent over his toolbox that he had stashed beneath the ladder, and lifted a pencil out, tucking it behind his ear. “It certainly is making life a bit difficult for him and his family,” he said. “It’s nearing harvest time, and he will be needing it then without a doubt. And with the rations and everyone’s income meager, he can’t afford to come into town to order the new parts he would need.” He slid a hammer into his toolbelt, along with a couple of nails, which he dropped into the small pocket on his hip. “If I’m honest, though, what he needs is an entirely new tractor. I know he knows that as well, but it’s simply out of the question for them right now.”

  “I can imagine…” I said.

  “There is a great deal more pressure on farmers to produce enough crops this year,” Sidney said, climbing back up the ladder to the ceiling. “Not only are they supplying food for the locals, but they’re also under obligation to give a sizable portion to the military.”

  “I suppose that’s not much of a surprise,” I said.

  “Even still, they aren’t being paid nearly what they used to be for their goods, and to top it off, it seems they’ve been dealing with some thieves around their farm,” Sidney said.

  “Thieves?” I asked. “How terrible.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I thought so too…especially when I learned that one of them ended up being that Polish beggar.”

  It was as if I had swallowed a chunk of ice whole. “You’re kidding…”

  He shook his head. “I wish I was. The farmer asked if I’d seen the beggar in town, and I told him that he’d been killed. He seemed surprised, but also not very sympathetic. That’s when he told me that the beggar had sneaked onto his properly in the middle of the night, and the farmer had caught him stealing from his family’s personal store of food.”

  While I had not known the beggar at all apart from our meeting, the news was still somewhat of a shock to me. It took me a moment to realize that just because the man had been killed didn’t necessarily mean that he had been a good man in the first place…as much as I had been believing he was the whole way through.

  “I thought the police were supposed to help the poor beggar?” I asked.

  “I thought so as well,” he said. “I dropped him off there, but you heard how bad his English was. I’m assuming they were either unable to discern who it was he was looking for, or were simply unable to assist him. I would imagine they did their best to help him find a place to stay, maybe someplace where he could get food…”

  I frowned. “Yes, and I think they stepped into a minefield unknowingly.” I looked up at him, my heart sinking. “The innkeeper lost his son recently in the war, and is none too pleased to encounter anyone who is of German descent.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Sidney said. “He’s not the first I’ve met who feels that way. I can’t say I wouldn’t have been wary or concerned if that beggar had, in fact, been German instead of Polish.”

  I rubbed my arms nervously. “Nor I, I suppose.”

  “I can’t be sure what happened next, though. My guess is that when the innkeeper chased him away, he needed to find something to eat. Unsurprisingly, there were many in town who wouldn’t have wanted to help a German refugee, either. How could they have been certain he wasn’t a spy or something akin to one?”

  “But why had he wandered all the way out there to the farm?” I asked. “Was there no one in town willing to help him?”

  “That was the farmer’s same question,” Sidney said, taking the pencil from his ear and marking the ceiling where he intended to cut it. “I guess the beggar tried to flee when the farmer caught him in the act, and the farmer took a shot at him with his hunting rifle as he fled.”

  I gasped. “He…what?”

  “The beggar was trespassing,” Sidney said, pulling a tape measurer from his toolbelt, unrolling it, and pressing it against the ceiling. He leaned back and stared at the length, likely discerning its measurement. “What would you do if you found someone had broken into your home in the middle of the night? Politely ask them to leave?” He sighed. “These are dark times we live in, and everyone is on edge. In many ways, we have no choice but to be wary of those we don’t know, and our trust has to become more of a rarity.”

  “That’s a rather sad way to view the world…” I said. “Not everyone desires this war. And there are many parts of the world that are untouched by it, as well.”

  Sidney looked at me, and I was surprised to see a haunted expression in his eyes. “This war has touched us all, each and every person living today. I don’t believe there is a soul alive who doesn’t know someone lost in the war, or who hasn’t had a loved one that was hurt or drafted or forced from their homes…” he said in a low voice. “I understand that my view may be a bit bleak, but I fear the world may never be the same after all this is over.”

  “It will come to an end, though,” I said. “It has to.”

  “That is true,” Sidney said, climbing down off the ladder. “I’m sorry if I upset you. It wasn’t my intention.”

  �
�No, no, it’s quite all right,” I said. “It’s just unfortunate that situations like the one that happened with the beggar have to occur even during times of war.”

  “Some might argue that these atrocities occur more often during times of difficulty,” Sidney said. “We each feel a need to protect those we love, which is exactly why the farmer reacted the way he did.”

  “I suppose I cannot blame him for that,” I said. “And to be honest, it makes me wonder if the beggar was as kind as I kept thinking he might be…”

  “We may never know, honestly,” Sidney said, grabbing a small notepad from his toolbox and scrawling down a few notes on it with measurements he’d taken. “What I do know is that there are people everywhere who need help, and there are still yet those who would like nothing more than to help, but their hands are tied behind their backs.”

  “I wish I knew more about this farmer’s interaction with the beggar,” I said. “Perhaps it would help point us in the direction of who his killer was? Or where he might have been heading afterward?”

  “Well, you are welcome to come with me when I go back there this afternoon,” he said. “I needed to retrieve some tools from home before returning to work on the tractor.”

  “Won’t that seem strange, though? Just coming with you to speak with the farmer about the beggar?” I asked.

  Sidney shrugged. “I suppose you won’t have to be so forthright about why you are there. You’ve helped me on plenty of projects around your own house. I could simply say I thought it wise to bring in another set of hands to work.”

  I pursed my lips. “Sam Graves will certainly not be happy with me. Neither will Irene.”

  Sidney’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  “I promised them I would stop digging around about the beggar,” I said. “But something tells me I’m rather close to uncovering the truth behind this bizarre mystery. And I intend to see it through to the end…for the dead man’s sake.”

  9

  I was still a little surprised that Sidney agreed to let me go with him. I thought for certain that as soon as I’d told him about Sam Graves telling me off for investigating in the first place, he would have urged me to keep my distance. And in many ways, I had almost hoped he would. It would have given me an excuse to stay out of it, and would have perhaps helped me to realize that it wasn’t worth pursuing any further.

  But Sidney’s attachment to the beggar seemed to be very similar to my own. In a way, I wondered if we were the only ones who had tried to show kindness to the man.

  I voiced that thought to Sidney as we drove over in his car later that afternoon, the sun hanging high in the sky above us. “We were the only ones who knew he was Polish, weren’t we?”

  His eyes were fixed on the road ahead of him, but I could see the tightness in his jaw, and the stiffness of his shoulder. “It’s hard to believe, but perhaps we were. As I said earlier, everyone is wary of those they don’t know. And with the war, and our enemies…”

  “I know,” I said.

  “It’s not fair. None of it is. But I suppose what’s done is done, and while I agree that the poor man deserves justice, we may just have to realize that we might never find the answers we are looking for,” Sidney said.

  That was a troubling thought, but he was completely right. No matter how far we followed the trail, there might never be a resolution.

  “Why are you so intent on finding an answer?” Sidney asked. “You hardly knew the man, right? What is so important about solving this mystery?”

  “To be honest…I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “I suppose that this war has taken people from me, and the idea of someone not knowing what happened to their father, or brother, or husband troubles me far too much. I want something to be set right in a world where everything, and every moment, could be turned upside down.”

  “I understand,” Sidney said. “In a way.”

  He turned the car into a narrow, dirt drive that led away from the main road running out of town. We had to have been several kilometers away, as Brookminster had disappeared behind a low lying hill some time ago. We had been enjoying views of sheep grazing in lush, grassy fields, and rows of wheat that was still sprouting from the ground, several weeks from growing into its golden hue.

  The car bumped along the uneven road, parts of which were filled with holes and patches of thick roots. I gripped the seat as Sidney did his best to navigate around the more difficult spots, and wondered just how far away from the road the farmhouse was.

  It appeared over another hill, nestled between a handsome barn and a pair of silos. It was by no means the largest farm I had ever seen, but from what Sidney had described, I had imagined a poor, unfortunate little place.

  The lonely, broken tractor was sitting among some untrimmed grass along the side of the house, the green metal that normally surrounded the engine lying on the ground, exposing all of the mechanical bits beneath it. Some rusted tools lay around it, and there was a small ladder leaning up against the body.

  Sidney pulled the car up beside a rickety looking truck, painted a quaint pale blue. The wheel hubs were rusted, though, and the farm’s name, Maple Wood Grove, had faded from the doors somewhat.

  “Don’t be too concerned if Mr. Cooke seems a bit gruff,” Sidney said in a low voice as we made our way toward the front porch of the little cottage with ivy snaking up its stone walls, nearly obscuring the front bay window. “His wife is very sweet, and he’s just difficult to read.”

  I nodded as he raised his hand and knocked on the door.

  It was only a moment before the knock was answered by a kindly faced elderly woman with silvery hair pulled back in a loose bun behind her head. She wore a simple floral patterned dress and a pristine white apron. She smiled, her blue eyes bright as she recognized Sidney.

  “Oh, Mr. Mason,” she said. “I’m pleased you were able to come back so swiftly.”

  “Of course,” he said, tipping his trilby hat to her and grinning his charming grin. “I only had to take care of a few minor things back at home, including helping with Mrs. Lightholder’s ceiling which seems to be leaking.” He gestured to me. “And she has offered to come help me with those last few things I needed to finish on the tractor today. I hope that’s all right.”

  “That’s perfectly fine,” Mrs. Cooke said, smiling at me. “I think it’s always good for a young woman to be able to get her hands dirty once in a while.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Especially in these times.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “Well, I’ll just go get Freddie. He’s been determined to stay in his study for the last week…it’s rather surprising, really, because he has never been one to remain indoors when there is work to be done…” She shook her head. “My apologies. I won’t bore you with our family troubles. Go on out back, he will meet you out there.”

  Sidney gave me a sidelong look as she closed the door behind us.

  “She seems nice,” I said.

  “Yes…” he agreed. “Perhaps a bit more concerned than she was earlier.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked as we made our way around the outside of the house.

  “Her husband was in his study when I arrived this morning as well,” he said. “Said he was reading the papers. Mrs. Cooke told me that he spent a great deal of time brooding over the war. He can’t seem to talk about anything else…”

  “I thought she looked a bit worried for a moment,” I said as we rounded the corner, the tractor coming back into view.

  Sidney began to tell me what precisely needed to be fixed on the tractor, asking if I would be willing to unscrew the face plate of a piece of metal beside the seat, when footsteps sounded on the grass behind us.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” said a rough voice. “Wasn’t expecting you back here so soon.”

  “I suppose I should have let you know before I left that I intended to come back,” Sidney said.

  Mr. Cooke was a thin man, who looked as if he had missed one too m
any meals. His clothing hung off him, and the dark circles beneath his eyes told more about his exhaustion than his tired voice had.

  His eyes drifted over to me, and his gaze hardened. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Helen Lightholder,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about my presence here in the first place. “I thought I could come out here and help Sidney finish your tractor.”

  Mr. Cooke shifted his gaze toward Sidney. “I don’t remember asking you to share our troubles with others,” he said.

  Sidney’s face fell. “Oh…I am sorry, sir. I just thought having more hands might make the work go faster, allow you to get back to using your tractor sooner.”

  Mr. Cooke grunted, folding his arms. “I have plenty of time still. And besides…it’s given me time to catch up on all the happenings in the world.”

  Sidney gave me a knowing look before glancing back at Mr. Cooke. “That’s good, I suppose. Would you possibly have a different sized wrench? I forgot mine back at home.”

  Mr. Cooke nodded. He disappeared a moment later, before returning with a few different sizes, all of which seemed rusted, as if they hadn’t been used in years.

  “Have you heard about what’s happening overseas now?” Mr. Cooke asked, leaning up against the tractor as Sidney dislodged a piece of the engine. “It’s terrible. The Germans are doing a real number on the Russians.”

  “So I hear,” Sidney said with some strain, his fingers pulling the next piece of the engine off. The piece was shattered, with a sizable hole in the side. “I believe this is your problem, Mr. Cooke. But luckily for you, I think with some basic welding, it should be easy enough to fix.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “It’s always good when things work out in our favor, isn’t it? When things are put back in order, or go as they should?”

  “Of course,” Sidney said. “That’s the ideal outcome in every situation, isn’t it?”

  “Precisely,” he said. “That’s why I believe we’ll be the ones to win this war in the end.”

  “I for one am hoping for a swift end to the war,” Sidney said. “I’m looking forward to life returning to some semblance of normalcy. As I’m sure you are, as well.”