now stuffed in my pocket. I thought about confessing the theft, but then I recalled those spears mounted on the wall upstairs and the savage expressions on Lancelot and Julian’s faces a few moments ago. And I remembered Toulouse, lying dead in the outside toilet. I promised myself that I’d keep the certificate nice and safe in my pocket until we escaped from the manor. Then I’d take it to a nice, secure police station, and show it to a nice, kind policewoman.
The vicar had now reached the bottom of the bag. He up-ended it and two more items dropped out: a torn section of newspaper and a postcard.
The newspaper was a Canadian one. It gave a brief account of the accidental death of a female tourist in the Arctic Circle – she’d been on an ill-equipped hiking expedition and had died from exposure and loss of blood. It didn’t mention the woman’s name or that she’d been on honeymoon so it hardly counted as evidence of the secret marriage. Lancelot began to look slightly smug.
The postcard was more interesting. There was a photo of a polar bear on the front and on the back was a Canadian stamp postmarked three months ago. A message had been scrawled in French.
“I’m sorry,” said the vicar, scanning it quickly, “I’m a bit rusty. Not sure I’m up to translating this.”
“Here, let me.” Joe smiled. “I’m French Canadian – bilingual,” he explained to the crowd that had gathered around as the rucksack drama unfolded. “It says:
My dearest brother, I have a big surprise for you – I’m married! Don’t be angry with me for not telling you sooner – it happened so fast I can scarcely believe it myself. I’ll tell you everything when I next see you and then you can meet my darling husband. But right now we’re on a polar bear safari! You would laugh to see me wearing walking boots, sleeping in a tent, washing in a puddle – in fact, you probably wouldn’t recognize me. I hardly recognize myself. I’m so happy!
The sad, poignant last message to her brother was signed simply “Camille”. There was no surname; no husband’s name: nothing whatsoever to incriminate Lancelot. He was off the hook and he knew it.
“I dold you,” he said to the room in general. “Id’s god nuding to do wid me.”
Joe handed the postcard back to Reverend Bristow. “It’s kinda strange,” he said, more to himself than anyone else but Julian pounced on his words.
“What is?”
“Oh … well, this Camille woman going to look for bears at that time of year. Why not wait until later? They gather round Churchill in the fall, waiting for the sea to freeze. They’re a dime a dozen then. In the summer, mostly all you’ll see if you go walking is bugs. The mosquitoes are enough to drive you crazy! Can suck a man dry if he’s not careful.”
No one replied. The fire crackled and the candles flickered. Thunder pealed and lightning flashed and silence reigned in the drawing-room.
But then the vicar looked at me and said awkwardly, “I hate to intrude, but didn’t you have something in your hand just now? I thought I saw a piece of paper.”
“Erm … yeah… Sorry. I forgot.” There was no point denying it. Feeling literally hot under the collar I pulled the certificate out of my pocket and shamefacedly handed it to the vicar.
He examined it by candlelight and held it out for the cousins to see. After that all hell broke loose.
“You did marry her! This proves it! That’s your signature!” Julian yelled at Lancelot.
“Bud I didn’d sign id! I never med her! I’ve never even been do Canada!”
Lancelot was beside himself, laughing hysterically at the absurdity of Julian’s accusation, ready to thump anyone who believed it. He had no alibi, he admitted reluctantly. He’d been away from home at the time of Camille’s death: hill walking in Scotland, he said. No, he couldn’t produce any witnesses. But he didn’t need to! The certificate was a forgery, a fake, he insisted; it was all one big
The vicar had now reached the bottom of the bag. He up-ended it and two more items dropped out: a torn section of newspaper and a postcard.
The newspaper was a Canadian one. It gave a brief account of the accidental death of a female tourist in the Arctic Circle – she’d been on an ill-equipped hiking expedition and had died from exposure and loss of blood. It didn’t mention the woman’s name or that she’d been on honeymoon so it hardly counted as evidence of the secret marriage. Lancelot began to look slightly smug.
The postcard was more interesting. There was a photo of a polar bear on the front and on the back was a Canadian stamp postmarked three months ago. A message had been scrawled in French.
“I’m sorry,” said the vicar, scanning it quickly, “I’m a bit rusty. Not sure I’m up to translating this.”
“Here, let me.” Joe smiled. “I’m French Canadian – bilingual,” he explained to the crowd that had gathered around as the rucksack drama unfolded. “It says:
My dearest brother, I have a big surprise for you – I’m married! Don’t be angry with me for not telling you sooner – it happened so fast I can scarcely believe it myself. I’ll tell you everything when I next see you and then you can meet my darling husband. But right now we’re on a polar bear safari! You would laugh to see me wearing walking boots, sleeping in a tent, washing in a puddle – in fact, you probably wouldn’t recognize me. I hardly recognize myself. I’m so happy!
The sad, poignant last message to her brother was signed simply “Camille”. There was no surname; no husband’s name: nothing whatsoever to incriminate Lancelot. He was off the hook and he knew it.
“I dold you,” he said to the room in general. “Id’s god nuding to do wid me.”
Joe handed the postcard back to Reverend Bristow. “It’s kinda strange,” he said, more to himself than anyone else but Julian pounced on his words.
“What is?”
“Oh … well, this Camille woman going to look for bears at that time of year. Why not wait until later? They gather round Churchill in the fall, waiting for the sea to freeze. They’re a dime a dozen then. In the summer, mostly all you’ll see if you go walking is bugs. The mosquitoes are enough to drive you crazy! Can suck a man dry if he’s not careful.”
No one replied. The fire crackled and the candles flickered. Thunder pealed and lightning flashed and silence reigned in the drawing-room.
But then the vicar looked at me and said awkwardly, “I hate to intrude, but didn’t you have something in your hand just now? I thought I saw a piece of paper.”
“Erm … yeah… Sorry. I forgot.” There was no point denying it. Feeling literally hot under the collar I pulled the certificate out of my pocket and shamefacedly handed it to the vicar.
He examined it by candlelight and held it out for the cousins to see. After that all hell broke loose.
“You did marry her! This proves it! That’s your signature!” Julian yelled at Lancelot.
“Bud I didn’d sign id! I never med her! I’ve never even been do Canada!”
Lancelot was beside himself, laughing hysterically at the absurdity of Julian’s accusation, ready to thump anyone who believed it. He had no alibi, he admitted reluctantly. He’d been away from home at the time of Camille’s death: hill walking in Scotland, he said. No, he couldn’t produce any witnesses. But he didn’t need to! The certificate was a forgery, a fake, he insisted; it was all one big
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