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The third part in the Bretherton village mysteries trilogy
A Christmas tale

An ancient and beloved villager has died and the stench of financial scandal is rising like a miasma, clouding the crisp winter skies.

The attached song is a sample from an original Christmas song entitled 'Christmas past' by Mickeyray.

Artist: Undefined
Album: Undefined
Title: Undefined
Download this song here.

The late autumn sunshine spangled the frosted grass of the little churchyard on the morning they buried old Charlie Cotter. “Amen” said the fresh faced young curate, closing his prayer book.
“Amen” replied the little group of mourners assembled at the graveside, then each tossed a little of the rich, red Bretherton soil into the grave.
Margaret Richardson, swaggering to the very edge, then discreetly wiping a tear. “God bless you, you daft old bugger!”

[More:]

Then Dr Crobus scooping a double handful of earth.
“Rest in Peace my old friend…You’ve earned it.”
And Polly Abbott her face creased and tear stained.
Quite unable to utter a sound she scattered a little soil then hurried from the churchyard.
Finally, Audrey Parsons stepped forward.
In life Charlie had been Audrey’s ‘grounding rod’.
He a simple country fellow, she the daughter of Sir Archibald Parsons QC, but no mentor could have guided her more wisely, no coach could have offered truer counsel.
“Oh Charlie!” she murmured.
“I can’t feel sad…I’m trying…but I can’t…You’ve had a long and mostly healthy life in this wonderful place…and this spot, well, it’s beautiful isn’t it? ...You were always there for me Charlie. Right from the day I was born…and you will have flowers Charlie, all your favourites, as long as I live.”
Carefully taking a little of the dark topsoil from the heap Audrey sprinkled it gently upon the coffin lid then left the grave to be filled by the O’Rourke twins from Clunch Bottom Wood.
Muscular, copper headed farm hands, the boys set to the task and Audrey smiled as the sound of their jovial banter and the ring of their shovels sang of the obstinacy of life laughing in the face of death.
At home the little red lamp of Audrey’s ancient answer phone was winking.
Reggie Snelgrove was manager of the Bolsingham branch of the ‘Shires and Counties mutual building society’ and a demon on the bowling green. Audrey smiled at the sound of his voice. Reggie’s distinguished posture and authoritative charm endeared him to the ladies and Audrey was not alone in believing that her admiration was reciprocated.
“Hello Audrey, look I’m sorry to trouble you, today of all days, but, well, something’s come up. Could you pop in this afternoon? I’ll have the coffee on and we can open the ‘Bath olivers’…see you later.”
A puzzled frown replaced Audrey’s smile. An invitation to attend the branch in person meant financial business, and yet it was well known that Reggie Snelgrove never initiated business matters with a telephone call.
“Take my advice Audrey, if there’s money involved, always write a letter and keep a copy”. That had been Reggie’s counsel on so many occasions.
It was nearly four as Audrey parked her car. The sparkling morning had yielded to a grey and damp afternoon and now the light was fading. The window of the ‘Shires and Counties’ was filled with cut out photographs of smiling people demonstrating the benefits of this mortgage or that car loan and all brilliantly illuminated for emphasis.
Audrey pressed a polished brass bell push beside the door. Inside a girl at the desk looked up. There was a click and an illuminated sign read “Enter”.
Audrey approached the girl. She wore a badge indicating that her name was Emily.
“Good afternoon…err…Emily…I have an appointment to see Mr Snelgrove.”
The girl produced a large diary.
“Certainly madam, what name is it?”
Audrey noticed that Emily was running her manicured and polished finger down a double page entirely blank except for the words ‘Audrey Parsons pm!’
“Parsons…Ms Audrey Parson…from Bretherton.”
The girl paused “Let me see, Parsons…Parsons…ah yes, here we are Audrey Parsons. I’ll just see if Mr Snelgrove is free.”
Indulging the farce a little longer, Audrey allowed the girl a brief exchange on the telephone.
Reggie, perfectly groomed and fragranced with fine cologne, showed Audrey into his office. The coffee and biscuits were delightful as were Reggie’s reflections upon last summers bowling fixtures, but eventually his face became serious and he fell silent.
Audrey broke the spell.
“What is it Reggie…you haven’t called me over here to talk about old times…has my pension gone bottom up…don’t tell me my guano shares have plummeted!” she laughed nervously.
“No Audrey, it’s not that, heaven knows, it’s not you at all…”
“Then why am I…”
“It’s Charlie, Charlie Cotter.”
Audrey stood up.
“Well that’s just fine…Charlie Cotter died with not a soul depending on him and, very wisely if I may say so, he left very little of his own wealth unspent, so you just sort out what’s left over and I’ll see that it goes to a good cause.”
Reggie was visibly perspiring.
“Audrey sit down will you.”
Audrey sat.
“It’s not Charlie’s money I’m concerned about…You are the executor for his will and I know that you will take care of all that.”
Reggie paused.
“But Charlie…had access to other money…other people’s money!”
Peering now over the top of his spectacles Reggie continued.
“Look Audrey, there’s no easy way to say this, but it looks very much as though Charlie Cotter was enjoying the high life, spending the money entrusted to him by the members of the ‘Bretherton 500’ Christmas club!”
The words left Audrey dizzy and gasping but she fixed the banker with a frosty gaze.
“Reggie Snelgrove you will take that back this instant or you may rest assured that you will find no welcome in my house nor at the Bretherton bowling green so long as I have breath!”
Reggie shrugged.
“Audrey, I am so sorry, but look, here is the statement of account for the ‘Bretherton 500’. These are the receipts coming in during the year, and as you can see, regular transfers were made to the account of C.Cotter also at this branch. He was clever, I give him that. If he hadn’t upped and died he would have passed right under the radar and probably had it away on his toes well before Christmas!”
Audrey whispered.
“What is the current balance on the 500 account?”
Reggie inspected the statement.
“Well, assuming there were no further transfers since last Thursday, the day Charlie died, then the balance stands at thirty eight pounds and nineteen pence plus of course any outstanding interest, so let’s say forty quid!”
Audrey was dumbstruck. At this time of year the villagers were preparing to withdraw their savings. The balance of account should be approaching twenty thousand pounds.
The bank manager continued.
“Of course, we know where the money went. The records are quite clear. Charlie Cotter’s personal account should be brimming with the funds transferred and any magistrate would happily set the ball rolling for me to recover the cash.”
Audrey perked up.
“But Reggie, I’m a magistrate, if there has been something going on can’t I authorise a court order or something?”
Reggie sighed.
“Well yes you could old thing, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You see Charlie’s personal account isn’t brimming, in fact it’s empty!”
“Empty?” Audrey could not believe what she was hearing.
“Well yes, all except for a little small change. Not enough to fill a piggy bank!”
Reggie placed a sympathetic hand upon Audrey’s arm.
“Look, I’ll be completely frank with you Audrey. Which ever way you look at this, things look bad, but we don’t have to be hasty here. You go to work on Charlie’s estate and let us see exactly what he was worth. I’ll keep the missing money under wraps as long as I can…and who knows, maybe a miracle...”

Audrey Parsons arrived home with no recollection of the journey and now as she absently poured the kettle into the teapot one thought filled her mind. If Charlie Cotter had embezzled twenty thousand pounds and the same sum had been progressively spent from his account why was this largess not apparent in Charlie’s life style? Right to the end of his days Charlie Cotter had lived in joyful poverty, choosing to reject the accoutrements of modern life for the simplicity of an earlier age. He drove no car, although a period of national service had equipped him with a driving licence, and instead he travelled everywhere on a black, roadster bicycle with heavy steel mudguards and a pannier behind the saddle. His little house, although clean, warm and comfortable, was in urgent need of a new roof and the damp proof course was failing. In life Charlie had joked, “Me and this house, we’re just the same. Both losing a bit of thatch and sometimes a bit damp down below!” and then he would fall serious, “Still, reckon we’ll see each other out before too long!”
Sipping her tea Audrey smiled at the memory, recalling that she had frowned at Charlie and called him crude and then embraced him as a tear rose in the corner of his eye.
Audrey Parsons was resolved. Her old friend and guide was not an embezzler, and, since Charlie Cotter could not defend his honour, she would make it her mission to exonerate his memory and to locate and recover every penny of the funds placed in his charge by the folk of the village.
The ringing of the telephone shook Audrey from her reverie. She raised the receiver from its cradle.
“Hello, Audrey Parsons…”
Elsewhere in the village Polly Abbott trembled on the verge of apoplexy, the telephone firmly clamped to her ear. Polly was keeper of the village conscience. Loyal patron of every good cause. A soft touch for anyone declaring themselves in need. It was said of Polly that she would take responsibility for the very sins of the world if she could and now she sensed that dark forces were at hand and coming to demand their ransom.
“Audrey…Audrey…oh damn your dratted answerphone…”
Audrey was perplexed.
“Hello, this is Audrey Parsons speaking…is that you Po…”
“Audrey…now listen, if you get this message…it may…it may be too late…he’s close I know he is…and…oh heavens he’s there…outside…under the street lamp!”
The telephone clicked to silence leaving Audrey baffled and more than a little anxious for the welfare of her confused friend.
Within minutes Audrey stood at the door of Polly Abbott’s cottage. The downstairs rooms shed a warm, welcoming light from the little windows, but a gentle knock upon the front door produced no response.
Following the gravel path to the back of the house Audrey found the back door locked and bolted. Awakened by Audrey’s activities, Juniper, Polly’s elderly neutered tom stretched lazily in the kitchen then emerged, a picture of relaxation, through the cat flap at the foot of the door.
Audrey Parsons bent to stroke the cat.
“Well old Juniper, if you can get out of there with ninety seven cat years behind you, let’s see if I can get in!”
She removed her bulky, waxed walking jacket and her double knit cardigan and then, pushing her handbag ahead of her through the cat flap she made her entrance to the little house. Standing in the kitchen, Audrey reflected for a moment upon the irony that the locks and bolts which Polly trusted to protect her from danger had been so easily frustrated by her fondness for a toothless and somewhat mangy tom cat taking advantage of her generosity.
Calling all the time, Audrey moved swiftly from room to room, but Polly was nowhere to be found. Returning to the kitchen she found Juniper had returned and was now seated upon the warm hood above the solid fuel central heating boiler which stood in the corner. She stroked the old cat.
“Where is she Juniper…eh…where is the silly girl?”
Coal for the boiler was delivered to Polly’s cottage every fortnight and dispensed into a bunker through a small door outside. Polly would then transfer the fuel to the boiler each day during the winter months via a larger door in the kitchen.
A fan shaped patch of coal dust emerged at the foot of the bunker door and was clearly visible spreading several inches across the kitchen floor.
Audrey tapped on the door.
“Polly…Polly for heaven’s sake, are you in there?”
A somewhat muffled whimper seemed to offer a hope of affirmation.
Audrey lifted the latch and cautiously eased the door open.
Inside it was dark with dusty cobwebs hanging all around, but even in the darkness there was no concealing Polly’s pale and terror stricken visage.
“Polly, my dear girl, give me your hand and let’s get you out of there!”
Audrey drew Polly from the fuel store in a rush of sliding coal and a cloud of choking black dust. The cat, startled, rushed from the kitchen and the two old friends clung to each other, Polly sobbing beyond consolation.

Seated at the kitchen table, the two ladies hugged mugs of sweet tea, their faces still smudged with coal dust and cobwebs.
“So, let me get this straight” Audrey began. She struggled to control the merest hint of a smile.
“There was a strange man outside?”
Polly nodded.
“And this man was a government agent sent to kill you?”
Again Polly nodded.
“Why?”
At this point Polly’s sobs and howls would have made her response unintelligible were it not that Audrey had acquired considerable experience in cracking this particular code.
“Ah yes, the petition…So, you signed the petition against the closure of the of the sub post office in Wimbellows newsagent in the high street…and so you think that you may have been targeted as an enemy of the state?”
Polly was now nodding furiously. Audrey rested her hand upon her friends quivering shoulders.
“My dear girl, there is not a soul in the village who has not signed that petition and quite right too. So, if that makes you a threat to national security then they’ll have to shoot the whole bally lot of us, not to mention every one of Margaret Richardson’s hens and apparently a Mr and Mrs Michael and Minnie Mouse. Okay?”
Polly, still sobbing quietly, nodded once more and dabbed her teary face with her handkerchief.
Audrey gazed out from the cosy kitchen into the inky darkness.
“Still, you saw a man out there, and if there is a stranger on the prowl then I think we need to talk, he and I.”

Constable Clifford Davis sat at his desk in the tiny office attached to the side of his police house. Friday morning was his day for paperwork and, as usual, this duty required him to meticulously record the total absence of any felonious or criminal activity, any misdeeds or misdemeanours within the precincts of the village or its surrounding farmsteads. The telephone on his desk rang.
“Hello, Bretherton police station, duty constable Davis speaking!”
Silence, then “Come on, come on pick up the phone Davis you great lummox this is an emergency!”
Clifford recognised the voice as that of Ernie Jefferson.
Rendered deaf following a mine clearing accident during World war two, Ernie generally avoided the telephone.
Clifford bellowed into the mouth piece.
“HELLO ERNIE IS THAT YOU? WHAT IS THE MATTER?”
“That you Constable? Right you better get yourself down the village hall, ‘cos there’s smoke comin’ out the roof!”
Clifford Davis slammed down the telephone receiver and ran from the office. The village hall was concealed behind the church nave, but a thick pall of dark smoke was all too apparent, rising and drifting downwind across Clunch Bottom.
Instructing Mrs Davis to call the fire brigade at Bolsingham, Clifford mounted his bicycle and set off towards the hall.
Smoke had now been augmented with tongues of orange flame bursting from beneath the eaves and Clifford arrived to find other villagers, some making ineffectual attempts to douse the fire with pails of water, some simply awestruck by the terrible scene before them.
Soon the Bolsingham fire engine swept into the village.
The well disciplined crew quickly moved the villagers back to a safe distance and then set to the task of bringing the conflagration under control.
The battle lines drifted back and forth. First the fire claimed a section of roof which collapsed sending up a tower of sparks. Then the men saved the cloakroom, driving back the flames with jets of spray.
Eventually the fire was constrained to the kitchen end of the hall and there, finding no further nourishment it died.
The firefighters worked on into the afternoon before the site was declared safe. A fireman emerged from the wreckage carrying a mass of melted plastics and wire which he presented to his senior officer. The men exchanged a few words and shook their heads. The firecrew loaded their equipment back onto their scarlet engine and as the vehicle nosed out onto the narrow lane the officer called to constable Davis from the cab.
“Just put a bit of exclusion tape around the hall would you Clifford? I’ll get an investigation team sent out from county HQ as soon as! See you.”

Friday evening was practice night for the Bretherton Ladies choir, but as they gathered in the chancel of the little church the conversation was not about the hymns and anthems for the Sunday services. The rumour mill had been grinding for some hours and speculation was rife.
Edna Griffin reported the words of the senior fire officer as told to her by Amy Warren who had overheard a conversation whilst buying a lottery ticket “The chief fireman said he was going to call the CID and that they were looking for an arsonist!”
Polly Abbott sat biting her lip, rocking to and fro, her eyes tightly shut.
Mrs Ellis from Bolsingham piped up.
“My Julie says that her young man got talking to a plain clothes policeman in the Crown who said that they’ve found an incriminating footprint and that they’re looking for a man who wears a size eight!”
Polly’s face crumpled, she rolled forward to a crouched position before exploding to upright screaming “It’s him…It’s him I tell you…the man from the ministry…he’s come for us, for all of us!”
Wild eyed she fled to the kitchen.
Margaret Richardson glanced down at her outstretched legs and her own size eight feet then discreetly drew them back beneath her chair.
Audrey, despairing of any useful song practice, asked Edna to see to Polly’s welfare and sent the choristers home. Thoughts of Charlie and the 500 club and Polly’s government ‘spook’ drove all enthusiasm for music from her mind. It was more than a week since the funeral and the meeting with Reggie Snelgrove. There were no clues as to the whereabouts of the missing money and at any moment the people could be knocking at her door asking for their investment to be released as they prepared for Christmas. And what of the mystery man...could Charlie have cheated some underworld villain too? But, why would he torch the village hall?

The weekend produced further tales of peculiar happenings Mrs Ellis’s Julie passed on information from her best fried Tracey, the library assistant at Bolsingham. A sinister looking gentleman had spent the entire Saturday in the reference section poring over the registers for Bretherton parish. Mrs Ellis ventured that he was using the register to select his next target. On Sunday afternoon Edna Griffin was giving ‘Tigger’ his daily walkies when she was startled by a man in the graveyard, apparently examining the more recent gravestones. In her words “A shifty looking cove!” Edna had asked the man what he was doing to which he offered only the evasive response that he was “conducting some research”.
Audrey had listened with interest as the choir prepared for evensong, and pondered afterwards as she disrobed in the choir vestry.
The vestry door burst open and Audrey instinctively grabbed the discarded robes to best preserve her modesty. Margaret, Edna and Polly tumbled through the door.
“Did you see him?” panted Edna
“Who?” enquired Audrey
“The shifty cove!” said Margaret.
“The man from MI5!” squealed Polly.
“Here in the church at evensong!” continued Edna.
“Well no, how could I, I spend the entire service facing you as your conductor. I wouldn’t know if the archbishop of Canterbury was in the pews!”
Margaret was apoplectic
“But didn’t you see me raising my eyebrows and winking at you?”
“Yes dear, I did, and very concerned I was too, but you are expecting too much of me to interpret you facial ticks as ‘look out there is a highly dangerous criminal, singing from Hymns Ancient and Modern and he’s standing right behind you.’ But look, is he still here?”
Edna spoke.
“No he left as soon as the benediction was said, but I’ve got a tail on him.”
Audrey was impressed.
At that moment Mrs Ellis came into the vestry, red faced and breathing hard.
“It’s ok, he’s settled in the Bretherton arms. I promised the O’Rourke twins a pint of beer if they would challenge him to a game of dominoes and he’s taken the bait.”
“Right!” declared Audrey
“Margaret and Polly, you get over to the pub and keep a discreet eye on our man. Mrs Ellis you get the bus back to Bolsingham. Edna go and fetch Constable Davies. I’ll get sorted out here and we’ll meet in the bar in ten minutes!”

A farmer born and bred, Margaret Richardson had a peculiar weakness for London crime drama and delighted in every opportunity to practice the casual slang employed by the actors on the television. As the pair approached the Bretherton arms Margaret briefed Polly on what to expect.
“Now listen Poll, we don’t know this slag! He could be tooled up he might even be packin’ a shooter so we’ll have no heroics okay?”
With no such intentions in mind Polly shook her head.
“Good!” continued Margaret “Now, the mark has never clocked my boat before church tonight, so he won’t know that I’ve marked his card. I’ll try and get close just in case he’s singing to the O’Rourkes. You stay well out of sight, we know he’s eyeballed you before and we don’t want him getting lairy before the filth shows up!”
Grasping only the gist of Margaret’s instructions, Polly Abbott peered cautiously through the glass panel in the pub door. The bar was empty except for the two lads playing dominoes with the man. She quivered at the sight of him, then selected her place of choice. A low stool at a little round table adjacent to the door to the lavatories. The pair entered the pub. Polly scurried to her stool while Margaret strode to the bar and ordered a pint of ‘Foskett’s Early Bath ale’. She positioned herself on a tall bar stool from where she could observe the domino game taking place by the log fire, close enough that any normal exchange of conversation between the O’Rourkes and the mystery man would be clearly audible. They talked of cars and fishing, of poaching pheasants and of winning at dominoes. Tiles were placed against tiles and soon the two boys sat back in their chairs smiling still, but theirs was a losers smile, the man had won. Clayton O’Rourke left the table. The man leaned towards Danny O’Rourke and spoke in a conspiratorial tone.
“Now listen my friend. Don’t you go telling tales on me, but sitting here by the fire, with all the smoke and everything. Well, I’ve got to go and see a man about a dog or some such, if you get my meaning.” He winked at the young man and set off across the bar towards the toilet. Polly’s eyes glazed and her face froze, petrified in terror in anticipation of the assassin’s coup de grace. She felt the breeze of his passing and as the toilet door closed behind him she allowed her head to sink to the table.
Margaret was still frantically unscrambling the coded message “Fire, smoke, dog, man…shit! The bastard’s going to torch the boozer!”

Margaret Richardson burst through the door of the gentlemen’s toilet pushing the stranger into the cubicle where she restrained him with a hand to his throat and her knee poised over his groin. Clayton O’Rourke was relieving himself at the urinal.
“Aye, aye, steady on missus you stopped me flow there!” he laughed, but after a long evening of beer and dominoes, the swaying Clayton soon turned his attention back to the porcelain.
The door to the toilet opened again. Constable Davies entered.
Seeing the uniform Clayton excused himself and left.
Polly Abbott now stood on the threshold, desperate to see what was happening, but quite unable to breach this sanctum of masculinity.
The policeman attempted an evaluation.
“Alright then Maggie. What’s going on here?”
“What’s going on! What’s going! I’ll tell you what’s going on Mr Plod. This is the muppet who torched the village hall and he’s come in to the bogs to do the same to the Bretherton Arms!”
The man was trying to speak, but the pressure on his throat reduced his utterances to hoarse grunts.
PC Davies ordered Margaret to release the man. For a moment it seemed she might not, but slowly she softened her grip and the man slid down the wall until seated upon the lavatory.
“Now Maggie, you reckon that this fella is the arsonist…why’s that then?”
Margaret was angry now.
“Clifford are you blind as well as stupid? Look at him! He’s sitting there on the bog and he’s still holding a box of matches and one live match ready to strike!”
The man now somewhat recovered, saw his opportunity to join the discussion.
“Erm, if I might interrupt. Yes officer, the lady is at least partly right I am afraid. You see I was about to strike fire, and technically I was about to commit a misdemeanour!”
Margaret was ecstatic.
“A confession, take him downtown Cliff!”
The man continued.
“Well perhaps. You see, it’s pouring with rain outside so I came in here to light this.”
He drew an elegant meerschaum pipe from his pocket.
Polly called a warning from the threshold.
“Look out Margaret it probably shoots a lethal dart tipped with cyanide!”
The man continued.
“Oh I know it’s a filthy habit and at home my wife makes me smoke in the garage, but I’ve been working away from home for a week now, and I do so enjoy a smoke.”
Margaret checked the man’s feet. Tiny, no more than a five, encased in elegant leather soled, bespoke shoes.
From the bar came a new sound.
“Let me through…excuse me…let me through I say…young man I am a magistrate and unless you wish me to explore just how young you are you will let me pass!”
Soon Audrey Parsons appeared at the toilet door.
“I know that man!”
The man on the toilet raised his trilby in recognition.
Polly screamed and flung herself to the floor for fear that the hat might have a razor sharp brim capable of separating head from body.
“Mrs Parsons, how nice to see you again.”
Audrey Parsons turned to address the policeman
“Clifford, this gentleman was at Charlie Cotter’s funeral. We spoke after the service. He said he was a friend of Charlie’s. He gave his name as Andrew Partington.”
Again the man tipped his hat and again Polly dived for cover.
“Yes, well, again I have to confess a small subterfuge. My name is indeed Andrew Partington. Here is my card.”
Partington drew a business card from his pocket.
“I regret however, that I cannot claim the honour of being a friend of the late Mr Cotter. Indeed, much as I am filled with admiration for the gentleman in the light of what I have learned in recent days, we met only once when I was a child.”
Clifford Davies read aloud from the business card in his hand.
“Andrew S. Partington, Amchester associates. So Mr Partington, since you say that you’re not planning to burn down the pub, what exactly is your business here in Bretherton?”
Margaret Richardson raised herself to her full six foot then turned suddenly waving her index finger menacingly in the man’s face.
“Yeah, you’d better sing Partington, what’s the caper?”
Andrew Partington winced in pain and shifted his position.
“Look, do you think we could continue this discussion in the bar, over a small sherry perhaps?”
Margaret flushed livid with fury at the impertinence. The policemen looked around for guidance, having no experience of the protocols for dealing with such matters. Audrey Parsons came to the rescue.
“Now that sounds like an excellent idea. Polly, go and tell Tom behind the bar to open up the snug!”
Soon Mr Andrew Partington, Margaret Richardson, Constable Davies, Edna Griffin and Audrey Parsons were comfortably seated in the little snug. Polly Abbott drew her chair close to the door “In case he’s got a phial of nerve gas!”
Audrey opened the proceedings.
“So Mr Partington, what have you to tell us?”
Partington reached into his inside pocket and drew out a notebook
Polly raised her handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth.
The man examined a page in the book then turned to Audrey.
“Miss Parsons, you knew Montague Charles Cotter, well, all your life?”
Audrey smiled
“We met the very day I was born, but I have never heard him called Montague.”
“No quite!” the man continued “But Mr Cotter being already an adult at the time of your birth, he had enjoyed quite another life before yours had even begun…a life in the commercial world of the city of London…if I may?”
He drew a small and rather worn, monochrome photograph from the notebook and passed it to Audrey.
Two gentlemen in Cricket whites stood with their arms around each others shoulders. One rested on a cricket bat held in the free hand while the other man cradled a baby.
Margaret, Edna and Clifford drew close, even Polly craned to view the image. Audrey smiled.
“It’s Charlie, the man with the bat is Charlie, but he can’t be more than twenty two, twenty three perhaps?”
“That would be about right.” Said Mr Partington
“The other gentleman is my father Reginald Arthur Partington founder of Amchester associates and the child…is me!”
Everyone admired the photograph, Clifford ventured that he could recognise Andrew Partington in the baby, but Margaret Richardson said that was impossible because all babies looked like monkeys.
Partington spoke again “Montague was not only an excellent opening bat he was also my father’s business partner in a thriving brokerage until, following a most unhappy love affair he decided to leave city life and return to his childhood home, becoming a small farmer here in Bretherton. As farmer Cotter he discarded the name Montague and adopted his middle name of Charles, Charlie to you, but he always maintained a passing interest in the world of finance, and more significantly, the skill to risk the occasional investment.”
Clifford Davies was incredulous.
“So you’re saying that old Charlie who never had more than the price of a pint in his pocket used to be some sort of city slicker?”
Partington smiled
“Indeed he was, and I consider myself privileged to have managed his little fiscal excursions since Dad passed away in the early seventies!”
Audrey was deep in thought
“This is all very interesting Mr Partington, but I don’t see why an elderly man’s little flutters on the stock markets should give you reason to come snooping around the village.”
Andrew Partington looked genuinely hurt.
“I was, as I shall endeavour to demonstrate, conducting essential enquiries relating to Mr Cotter’s investment portfolio, he being not just an elderly gentleman but, very importantly, deceased!”
The villagers were mystified.
“You see” he continued
“When Charlie died and you Mrs Parsons did your duty as executor to his will, you despatched a sealed letter according to the old chap’s instructions, addressed to a post office box in London. A facility which I maintain for the benefit of our more… sensitive clients. The letter authorised me to access a number of discrete bank accounts where, to my surprise, I found deposits of substantial sums of money. Strangely the money was allocated in traceable bonds each tied to a named individual. Many of the deposits had been made in the last ten months, the last being placed in October. The authority which my letter afforded allowed me to investigate the history of these accounts and it quickly became clear that they had all seen continuous cash flow for at least thirty five years.”
For the one and only time in her life, Audrey Parson, only child of Sir Archibald Parsons QC, felt that she was about to faint. Her face burned, her hands quivered as she leaned upon the bar for support. Margaret Richardson’s strong arms supported her as Polly Abbott rushed forward to offer her chair. Tom produced a glass of brandy which he tilted carefully to Audrey’s lips. Audrey coughed and spluttered back to vitality.
Soon, with Audrey now tight lipped and ashen, Mr Partington was ready to continue.
“Now, where was I, Oh yes, well it didn’t take me long to link the names on the bonds to villagers in Bretherton. So I came down to the village with my list to see who was still living and to identify relatives of any deceased.”
Audrey was speaking
“He was a good man, a kind man…he didn’t steal the five hundred club!”
The constable, Polly and Margaret turned to face Audrey, now with her face upon her knees sobbing.
Andrew Partington stood up smiling hugely.
“Steal…I should say not! Charlie Cotter was not just a good and a kind man he was also a very clever one! Every single one of the named bonds in the accounts represented a very sound investment and many comprised annual reinvestments accumulating huge profits…My investigations here in Bretherton show quite clearly how, year on year the old man would collect the money from the five hundred club members, invest it and pay out for Christmas with a small profit.”
Clifford scratched his head
“Sounds very dodgy to me!”
“Well strictly speaking!” continued the man
“What Charlie was doing was illegal, hence his discretion, but no doubt he considered it to be for the greater good…but there’s more. In very good years the profits on the bonds would be large enough to allow Charlie to reinvest a little in his birth name of Montague Cotter in order to underwrite a little dream project of his own.”
Margaret Richardson turned to Polly Abbott
“Here we go Poll…here comes the scam!”
Audrey, her attention fixed on Mr Partington’s next utterance, waved Margaret to be silent.
Partington turned a page in his notebook.
“Charlie loved this village and he wanted to do his bit to secure the future of the community after he had gone.
He set up a trust and called it ‘Bretherton Forever’. The capital investment was only small, but with interest, occasional input of funds and skilful share dealing, the account has grown considerably.”
Margaret, her eyes aglow with anticipation asked
“How considerably?”
Mr Partington flicked a few more pages in the notebook before drawing a pocket calculator from his pocket. He prodded at the buttons making periodic reference to the notebook before announcing
“Well, I can’t be sure to the nearest penny, but based on the state of the markets at close of business yesterday I would estimate the account to contain at least ninety seven thousand pounds, let’s call it near enough one hundred K.”
The dull thud of flesh on floor told of Polly Abbott’s collapse in a dead faint, overwhelmed by the revelation of such largesse.
Clifford Davies rolled the unconscious woman into the recovery position then turned his attention back to the money man.
Audrey raised her hand and spoke
“And this money belongs to the village community to be spent as we the villagers see fit?”
Partington now opened his brief case from which he removed a sheaf of paperwork
“Well, not quite. In fact Charlie nominated an administration tribunal reporting to me as trustee to ensure that his investments were not squandered and he specifically requested that you Audrey should chair the tribunal which will have executive powers to spend the fund to support capital schemes within the village bounds…I understand that your village hall was all but destroyed in the fire last week!”

Edna Griffin and Audrey Parsons strolled down the frozen lane from the public house towards the cluster of cottages on the little green, arm in arm. Edna all a twitter with recollections of Mr Partington’s revelations. Audrey saying little, but with a contented smile and a heart overflowing with love for Bretherton and its people, past and present. Headlights on a vehicle cresting the little rise in the lane spread long shadows in front of them and in a few moments a bus drew to a halt beside them. The doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and Mrs Ellis alighted.
“Ah Miss Parsons I am so glad to see you, good evening Edna!”
Audrey struggled to find a response.
“Mrs Ellis! What are you doing? How did the bus? The driver isn’t allowed!”
Mrs Ellis laughed
“It’s alright Miss Parsons!”
She gestured to the driver, a man in late middle age sporting a mass of silvery whiskers which burst from beneath his olive green driver’s cap.
“This is Tony. He and I go line dancing at the community centre in Bolsingham!”
In his cab the driver slapped his thigh and shrieked “Yeeee haw!”
Mrs Ellis continued.
“We have an important message to pass on to you.”
Edna was anxious.
“But Mrs Ellis, this is a bus, public transport, and this is not a bus route…what about all of the other passengers!”
Tony leaned on the open window of his cab and tilted his cap back in the manner of a gun slinger in western movie.
“Easy maam!” he drawled
“See this bus is empty right now, just like it is every other Sunday and apart from Peaches here” Mrs Ellis giggled and blushed “That’s the way it will stay all the way to Bolsingham. Lady, there ain’t no other passengers!”
Audrey spoke
“Thank you err, Tony, now Mrs Ellis you have a message?”
Mrs Ellis laughed again
“Indeed I do, we do, You see Tony here isn’t just a bus driver, oh no. This man is one of our heroes. See that little box he wears round his neck? That’s what they call a pager, and if that starts flashing and buzzing Tony has to put his foot down and get across to Bolsingham to drive the fire engine. That’s what firemen call a shout!”
Tony tipped his cap with his fingers held pistol fashion. Audrey and Edna nodded in acknowledgement, Mrs Ellis giggled.
Audrey frowned
“So Mrs Ellis…your message?”
Mrs Ellis continued
“Oh yes, well you know my daughter Julie who works in the office at the school? Well this little lad got his head stuck in the railings in the playground last Friday so my Julie had to call the fire brigade. Can you imagine?”
Tony joined the telling
“When me and the boys showed up the young galoot was howlin’ like a coyote in a bear trap!”
Audrey interrupted.
“Mrs Ellis, Tony, I do hope that you have not negotiated this very narrow lane with a very wide bus just to pass on gossip about a silly boy and his re enactment of a very old comedy situation!”
Tony and Peaches looked somewhat crestfallen. Tony continued, abandoning his mock American accent in favour of his native Wiltshire twang.
“Anyway, thing is, I was driving the engine and we got one of them fax machines in the cab. Well all of a sudden it starts a chunterrin’ and the officer in charge tears of the sheet and reads the message. ‘Hey, listen up you lads’ he say ‘it’s the report from the F I team about the village hall over Bretherton’…Well, when I heard Bretherton my ears pricked up. It seems that your blaze was caused by the electric. All them old wires should have been replaced years ago…of course you won’t hear official like until the reports all typed up, but that’s what it says!”
Tony started the engine and called to Mrs Ellis
“C’mon now missy…it’s time to saddle up and mosey into town!”
Mrs Ellis settled into the front seat and waved from the window as the bus pulled away.
Audrey and Edna looked at each other mouths agape.
It was Audrey who spoke
“So Edna old thing. There’s no missing money, there’s no secret agents and now we don’t even have a lunatic arsonist to pursue. Does nothing exciting ever happen in Bretherton?” The pair laughed.

The approach to Christmas brought the usual round of celebrations, the tree on the green was garlanded by the children of the Sunday school, The choir toured the village and local farms singing carols, and after nightfall on Christmas Eve the people surrendered to that glorious anticipation that promises Peace on Earth and goodwill to all mankind.
Audrey Parsons sipped a glass of sweet sherry and reflected.
Every single conscious year of her life Charlie Cotter had been at her Christmas table and every single Christmas he had presented her with the same simple but heartfelt message of love and reassurance.

Once when she was still a child he had secreted a twist of beautifully ornamented paper in her cracker, on another occasion he had engraved a silver three penny piece with the precious words and hidden the coin in her portion of the Christmas pudding. One snowy Christmas morning with the drifts piled high against the walls in the lane, Charlie had risen early and, taking a bag of soot from his potting shed he had written the text in letters ten feet high across the hillside, still maintaining the careful calligraphic hand for which he was so well known. Audrey had joked that the words “Rejoice, rejoice, Immanuel God is with us!” could be read by the angels if they were to peer over the parapet of heaven. But there would be no message this year.

Christmas dawned to the bluest and brightest of winter days. Frost sparkled silver on every bare branch, icicles hung on the wires and the day itself seemed both beautiful and fragile.
Audrey led the choir through the morning service and everyone said how joyful the singing had been. Audrey warmly embraced the vicar at the porch and walked alone to Charlie’s grave. Audrey Parson’s spoke to her friend and guide as she removed a few brown leaves that had blown onto the plot since her last visit.
“I saw the draft plans for the new village hall the other day Charlie. The architect has done a wonderful job. They’re going to use green oak and cedar from Clunch Bottom wood for the frame and the building contractor is going to get recycled ‘London stocks’ for the brickwork. He says it will look like it’s been there for two hundred years and that it will last for five hundred more.”
Audrey fell silent for a moment, then whispered.
“Charlie, I’m going to pull rank on the others in the tribunal…I know that I should be democratic…but I am going to insist…the new hall will be called the Montague Charles Cotter hall!”
A voice caused Audrey to spin around in alarm
“It’s alright I ain’t no grass, and anyway I agree, the MCC, he would like that!”
Margaret Richardson was standing under a yew tree smiling, holding a wicker basket
“Aud, I’ve got a bit of a problem...”
She placed the basket before Audrey and lifted the lid to reveal a sleeping puppy, about seven weeks old and with the characteristic incongruency of the mongrel.
Audrey bent to stroke the pup’s ear, it stirred and yawned.
“You see Audrey my lovely labrador bitch ‘Jenga’ got a bit too friendly with ‘captain’ my border collie back in the summer and this, plus his two sisters is the result. He’s no use to me Aud, I mean look at him. The collie in him makes him far too active for gun work and the labrador part makes him too nosy to herd sheep. I’ve palmed his sisters off on the O’Rourke twins as ratters, but, well, will you take him Audrey? As company?”
Audrey was touched by Margaret’s feeble attempt to conceal her kindness and utterly smitten by the bundle of paws and ears that was now attempting to escape the basket.
Margaret turned and strolled back towards the church. She turned to see Audrey Parsons now cradling the pup at the graveside.
“Oh, by the way!” called the lady farmer,
“The pup, he has a name!”
Audrey looked up, Margaret smiled
“It’s Monty!” She said.