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Chapter Text

I was surprised when answering a knock on the door one morning to discover the curate standing there.

“May I come in, Dr Watson, I could really do with a bit of advice.”

“Of course,” I said, “although if it’s a medical matter…”

He hastened to raise his hand, “It’s nothing like that.  I would normally consult the vicar, but in the circumstances…”  He tailed off.

“And I’m certainly not the one to ask about spiritual matters.”

“No, no.  This is more, well, village etiquette.”

“Come into the parlour.  Have a seat.” 

We both sat down and looked at each other.  How long this would have continued I’m not sure, but fortunately Mrs Maiden, our housekeeper, put her head round the door and asked if we’d like some coffee.  I hastily accepted and when I turned back to look at Rutherford, he was ready with what he’d come to ask me.

“The vicar has volunteered me to judge the art competition at the school,” he said.  I nodded in sympathy.  This was the sort of task I did my best, with varying degrees of success, to avoid.  “And I’m about the worst person to ask.”  I was about to say I could think of at least one person who would be even worse, namely Holmes, but he continued.  “You see, I’m colour blind.”

“Ah, yes, that is a problem.  Does the vicar know this?”

“I’ve mentioned it to him in passing, but I’m not sure he’s remembered.  And, even if he has, I don’t think he appreciates the difficult.”

At that moment Mrs Maiden brought the coffee in, which gave me time to consider my response.

“And is Mrs Forrester aware?”  Mrs Forrester is the vicar’s wife and a formidable lady.

“I don’t think so.”

“In which case, I suggest you tell her and explain the problem to her.  She doesn’t approve of people shirking their duties, but since this is something you can do nothing about, I’m sure she’ll find a solution.”

“Thank you very much, Dr Watson.  I’ll do that.”

Rutherford stood and we shook hands.

“Why don’t you come and tell us how you get on?” I said.  “Come next Wednesday and join us for lunch.”

I wasn’t sure how the offer would be received, but he smiled and thanked me, saying he’d be delighted to accept.

Chapter Text

Wednesday lunchtime arrived, but there was no sign of the curate.  Mrs Maiden was tutting and about to serve up, saying that she ‘didn’t have time today to wait for tardy curates,’ when Rutherford, rather breathless, arrived.  He apologised profusely to Mrs Maiden and then to Holmes and myself.

Holmes contented himself with saying, “No matter.  Our good housekeeper is quite used to serving up when someone is absent.”  He remained oblivious to said housekeeper’s stony glare, being, of course, the main culprit.

Mrs Maiden, having finished serving, said that our pudding was in the oven, and departed.

Rutherford looked worried.  “I hope I haven’t caused her undue offence, I’ve unfortunately become rather adept at that with the villagers.”

“Not at all,” I replied.  “There is custard on the pie and this is the only way to prevent Wordsworth from helping himself.”

The cat, who was watching us, looked as if he would never think of removing a cloth to enjoy the custard underneath it.

“And thank you for your advice last week,” Rutherford continued.  “I spoke to Mrs Forrester and she accompanied me to the school, therefore preventing me from making any particular errors of judgement.”

“How are you finding village life, now you’ve been here some time?” Holmes enquired.

He pulled a face.  “It’s not what I was expecting.  This is my first curacy and I’ve always lived in towns before.  When I was training I was based in what would best be described as a refined parish, and, although we covered poorer areas, whenever we visited them the emphasis was on doing good, and everyone seemed most grateful.  I have now come to realise this was probably a misunderstanding on my part.”

Holmes and I exchanged a glance.  Rutherford had trained in Oxford, but I doubted that the poorest areas were much different from parts of London which we had both known.

“Coming here has been rather a shock,” Holmes said.

“Indeed.  I was wearing very rose-coloured spectacles when I arrived.  The church is nothing like what I had been led to expect.  And life in the country is not the idyll that I had had portrayed to me.”

“Will you return to town as soon as you can?” I enquired.

“Why do you ask that?  Is that what you think I should do?”

“By no means,” I hastened to reassure him.

“And yet I believe Watson is correct in posing the question,” Holmes said.  “There is something about the town which still attracts you.”

He looked rueful.  “There is a lady who I thought I might have asked to be my wife, but she shows little interest in the country and who would expect an urban parish.  And..”  He tailed off.

“And you have not yet met anyone suitable here,” I completed his sentence.  “I think you are right.  Our village young ladies are very much wed to the village and to expect any of them to leave the only home they, and their family, have ever known, would be unrealistic.”

“I’m glad you understand.”  He gave a small laugh.  “Not to mention the fact that I have probably upset one or both of their parents.”

We had finished our dinner and I went to collect the apple pie and custard.  I had left the dining room door open to ease my return and therefore heard Holmes say, “Now that you have removed those spectacles you mentioned, I believe you will find people more forgiving.  I heard one gentleman, whose name I will not reveal, say, ‘’E’ll be okay in time, ‘e’s starting to learn the proper ways.  Give ‘im a few years.’”

I did not hear Rutherford’s reply, but saw his smile as he appeared in the kitchen, closely following Wordsworth, who had smelled the custard.  I gave him the third dish to carry and decided that anyone who had the sense to come to my aid would indeed ‘be okay in time’.

Chapter Text

When there was a knock on our cottage door, I called out to Mrs Maiden that I would answer it, and, on opening it discovered the curate standing there, looking rather agitated.

“Come in, my dear fellow,” I said.  “How can I help you?”

“Well, sir, it’s not really you I’ve come to see, but Mr Holmes, if he were to be available,” Rutherford replied.

“Come on through.  We were about to take coffee in the garden.  Come and join us.”

Mrs Maiden, whose senses seemed to rival those of Mrs Hudson, brought out three cups of coffee.  And shortly afterwards Holmes joined us.

“You have come to consult me, I see,” Holmes said.

Rutherford looked at me and I replied, “He does it all the time.”

Rutherford took a piece of yellowed paper out of his jacket pocket and passed it across to Holmes.  “I wonder if you could tell me what, if anything, I should do.”

Holmes considered the paper and then asked, “Where did you find this?”

“In the back of a cupboard in the vicar’s study, hidden under the lining of a shelf.”  He must have noticed my involuntary movement, and hastily reassured me.  “The vicar had asked me to clear the cupboard out and sort the contents.  There’s a lot of papers which he no longer needs, which he’s planning on burning.  And Mrs Forrester said while I was doing that it would seem sensible to reline the shelves.”

Holmes passed the paper to me.

“It looks like part of a will,” I said.  “I suppose it could be a preliminary draft which was then rewritten, but in which case, why was it hidden?”

“That’s what I thought,” Rutherford said. 

“I will make some investigations,” Holmes said.  “In the meantime, do not worry.  The paper has lain dormant for some years, a few more days will make no difference.”

“There is one other thing you should know.  This morning the vicar mentioned he was going to see old Mrs Benson, as she isn’t long for this world.  And I think Benson is the name on the paper.”

“Nevertheless, I stand by my opinion.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.  You’ve taken a great weight off my mind.”

***

True to his word, Holmes conducted a few investigations.  And true to his character, he told me nothing about what he was doing.  I’m convinced his bees know more than I do on such occasions.

As it was, a few days later, he told me that he’d arranged for Mrs Maiden to provide us with sufficient for an afternoon tea.  We would be having a guest and it was my responsibility to ensure the curate also attended.  His expression told me he had some form of surprise planned.

Accordingly, I took myself down to the village to impress upon Rutherford the importance of his coming for tea.  He seemed a little reluctant, saying he had a number of matters which were occupying his attention, but I stressed the urgency (without, myself, knowing why Holmes wanted to see him) and he agreed.

That afternoon a charming young lady arrived and shortly afterwards Rutherford made his appearance.  I was about to escort him into the dining room, when there was a shout from Holmes of ‘bad cat, give that back to me’, and Wordsworth shot past, half a boiled egg in his mouth.  We both laughed and Rutherford seemed a little more relaxed.

Once we were all seated, Holmes said, “Miss Benson, may I introduce you to Mr Rutherford, our curate.  Rutherford, this is Miss Benson of High Lea Farm in Lower Langley.”  They smiled at each other.  “And now I shall ask Miss Benson to explain what she has told me.”

The young lady looked slightly taken aback, so I hurriedly said, “And please do help yourself to some sandwiches while you do so.  You may, however, prefer to leave the other half of the hard-boiled egg.”

She laughed, put two of the sandwiches on her plate and began, “Mr Holmes showed me the document you found, Mr Rutherford.  I can assure you nothing untoward has taken place.  My grandmother, who is now ailing, came from your village originally, and retains some links, which is why Mr Forrester visited her the other day.  When she married my grandfather, who died nearly ten years ago, she brought with her two heifers.”

When Rutherford looked blank, she hastened to explain, “Two cows who had not yet had their first calf.  The wedding had been organised in a bit of a hurry,” Miss Benson blushed slightly and Rutherford nodded, “and my grandmother’s father was not entirely happy with her choice of husband, a fact which he made clear.  Anyway, he demanded that in the event of his daughter’s death, the heifers should be returned to him.  My grandfather, as can be imagined, was not happy about this, and decided to write his will in such a way that the heifers should never be returned.  He had a copy made which he delivered to the vicar who was here at the time so there should be no question about it.”

Holmes took up the tale.  “The vicar would have decided to put the document somewhere for safekeeping and over the years forgot about it.”

“Have you known this story long?” I asked.

“Oh no,” Miss Benson replied.  “I work in the town library and when Mr Holmes came in and asked to look at the documents we held I suggested I could make enquiries at home.  My grandmother is physically ailing, but she is still very sharp, and she delighted in telling me all about it.”  She smiled round.  “And I enjoyed hearing her story.”

“Thank you so much for coming and telling us the tale,” Rutherford said.  “It was really very kind of you to give up your time.”

“And now,” Holmes said, standing up, for we had finished our tea, “I have arranged for Austen to take Miss Benson back to Lower Langley.  I wonder, Rutherford, if you would mind walking her down to the village, to save Watson or myself the walk back up the hill.”

“But of course, it would be my pleasure.”

I looked over at Holmes, but his face remained as impassive as ever.  It appeared he had taken up matchmaking as his latest interest.

Chapter Text

It was about two weeks later that Mrs Maiden said, “I see the curate is walking out with Eliza Goodman’s granddaughter.”

“Good heavens,” I exclaimed, “surely not?”

“Why, what is the problem?”

“The two unmarried Goodman granddaughters are still little girls at school, and the other granddaughter married Harry Green less than two years ago.”

Mrs Maiden laughed and shook her head.

Holmes, who had overheard our conversation, said, “I believe you will find that Eliza Goodman is now known as Eliza Benson.”

I snorted and departed for the garden.  It was there that the curate found me when he came to call.

“I understand you are courting,” I said.

He smiled, with the expression I recognised from when I first met my dearest Mary.  “It seems to be common knowledge.”

“News travels fast in a village.”

“And how is the news being received?  Although I rather dread to ask.”

“As far as I can gather from Mrs Maiden’s attitude, for she was the one to tell me, there is no criticism.  I would ask you how you regard the young lady, but I fear I would not get an unbiased opinion.  Yet I do recall your doubts as to the suitability of a village girl as a curate’s wife.”

“Miss Benson is not like other young ladies from the village.  She is educated.  She works in the town and we are able to discuss matters that I have rarely been able to speak of this past year.”

“In short, she is a paragon of virtue!”

The look Rutherford gave me said that I could not possibly understand his feelings.  I could, but there was no point is saying so.

Fortunately he continued.  “I was wondering whether I should try to write some poetry for her.  She is fond of several poets and I would like to give her something she would treasure.”

“My dear chap, as someone who was once in your position, and yes, I do realise this may sound very strange to you, I would not recommend that course of action.  Miss Benson appears a very practical young lady and were you to send her what would undoubtably be purple prose, she might well find it difficult not to laugh.  Rather I suggest you find a small volume of poetry by her favourite poets and give it to her as a present.”

He pulled a somewhat rueful expression, but had the grace to admit he had been rather afraid that would be her reaction.  “I could do that, but my means are limited.  Do you think a second hand volume would be acceptable?  There is an excellent second hand bookstore in the town.”

“I know it well and have frequently bought from there myself.  If you were to choose wisely I am sure Miss Benson would be most happy with your gift.  You could even,” here I paused and smiled, “include a note with a verse or two of your own inside.”

“That is an excellent suggestion, Dr Watson.  I am most grateful to you.” 

With that he departed, whistling.  I am not sure it is considered appropriate for a curate to whistle, but, in the circumstances, I do not think anyone would complain.