I quailed at the thought of enduring another one of her interrogations. If anyone could rattle me into making a mistake, it would be Dorothy Peasgood. In desperation, I turned the subject back to the fire. “How does Father Donald know where the fire is?” I had a mental image of Father Donald at the wheel of a bright red pumper truck, driving off in a mad search for smoke.
“Oh, when you call in, the civic address is noted. It’s no problem, unless of course, Donald has to start off by himself. One or two of the others try to make sure that they’re on board before he leaves the hall.” She offered me another cup of the abominable coffee, but I declined, leaving her to finish the rest herself. “Most of the fires are false alarms. Otherwise, in the winter it’s chimney fires, and in the summer, grass fires. Seldom is it a serious blaze, I’m happy to say. People have been educated to take more precautions against fire today. In the past, however, there were many more fires due to careless accidents. Then of course, some of the locals were always trying for a ‘lucky strike’.”
“A ‘lucky strike’?” I queried the unfamiliar term.
Dorothy’s face twisted in disgust. “I regret to say that some people had a reputation for setting fire to their own homes in order to collect the insurance. It’s not so common now, but people will still try. If someone started to remove valuables from their home and then had a blaze a week later, you could be sure it was a ‘lucky strike’.”
“But why a ‘lucky strike’?”
Dorothy sniffed. “It’s a joke—in poor taste, if you ask me. There is a brand of American matches called ‘Lucky Strikes’. The name stuck, I suppose. It seems applicable when someone ends up with a nice new house in place of the hovel they burned down.”
“Surely a ‘lucky strike’ would be investigated?” I pressed.
“Indeed it is. That is why we seldom have these convenient fires any more. Only a very stupid person would try to get away with it today.” Dorothy stood up. “Shall we go into the living room? Donald shouldn’t be long.”
I followed her into a room filled with the kind of antiques that would set a Toronto dealer’s heart beating faster. On an elegant piecrust table beside the door sat a large photograph of Elvis Presley in an ornate silver frame. I read the inscription with unabashed curiosity. “To Dorothy, my faithful fan and president of the Canadian Maritime Fan Club, love, Elvis, 1964.” The pieces fell into place. I could see now that Dorothy’s infatuation with Elvis had roots deep in her past.
I sat down upon an antique horsehair sofa with great care. The surface proved slippery beyond belief. My continual struggle not to slide down in a heap onto the Axminster carpet helped me stay awake, since my intake of food at lunch had put me in danger of quietly dozing off at any moment.
“Well, now, Charles. Do tell me all about yourself.” The only thing missing in the room was a bright light shining into my eyes. I now knew how the most hardened criminals felt when confronted with the top interrogator on the force. My sleepiness vanished under the threat of inquisition, and I began to marshal the facts in my mind.
Before I could muster a reply, the door bell cut off my words. It sounded like the opening notes of the Elvis Presley classic, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Surely not, I told myself. Then it rang again. “Dah dah daaah da da dah”. It was. Dorothy excused herself with a sigh.
I could hear a murmur of voices from the front hall. I pulled myself together, as usual anticipating the worst. I reminded myself that people often called at a rectory. I told myself that I’d have to get used to dealing with life’s everyday little incidents without blowing them out of proportion. At this rate, if I didn’t make these mental adjustments soon, I’d have a nervous breakdown.
Dorothy reappeared with a tiny lady in tow, a delicate woman who looked like everyone’s idea of a sweet grandmother. Dorothy, however, glowered at her as she offered her a seat. I put this down to the fact that our little tête-à-tête had been interrupted.
“This is Charles Trenchant,” she said to her guest. “He’s just moved to Cormorant Harbour. I’ve discovered he’s a writer, and I’m trying to persuade him to lead our little literary group. Donald and I hope he’s going to be the new parish lay reader.” I could feel the noose tightening. “Charles, this is Mildred Barkhouse, the president of St. Grimbald’s A.C.W. and of the Firefighter’s Auxiliary.” A certain tension in Dorothy’s tone gave me the impression that these two were not bosom buddies.
Mildred shook my hand with a dainty air, then perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair with an intricately worked tapestry seat.
“And what brings you to our little corner of the world, Mr. Trenchant?” Despite her sweet and silvery voice, I heard the steel beneath her words and recognized the touch of another top interrogator. My cover story was getting a lot of air time.
“I’m retired,” I told her. “Ex-civil servant out of Ottawa.” This time, the words flowed easily. Perhaps it only required practice to be an accomplished liar.
“My,” she said. “How brave of you to come so far from civilization.” She tittered at her own small joke. “Whatever possessed you to choose Cormorant Harbour?” she pressed. “We’re hardly a centre of culture and refinement, I’m afraid, and I can’t imagine a man such as yourself finding our little bit of the world inviting.” This last she said with an upward inflection. The question had been asked, and I knew I had to rise to the occasion. Mildred Barkhouse hardly posed a threat to me, but I needed to keep my wits about me at all times. I couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. My careless admission of a small part of my past to the Peasgoods had brought me to this pass.
I took a deep breath as I launched into the history I had been coached in. “Well, Mrs. Barkhouse, it is a most interesting little story. One of my colleagues in the Planning Department returned from a touring holiday of Nova Scotia raving about the beauties of the Eastern Shore. I’d always dreamed of a little cottage by the sea where I could pursue my writing. Ten minutes on the web, and I’d found myself a real estate agent, and just weeks later, I was the proud owner of Innisfree.” I sat back and blew out my breath in relief. As far as I knew, I’d got it right. Next time would be easier.
“Innisfree?” Dorothy’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “But aren’t you living in the old Barnes place on Lupin Loop?”
“Well, yes, it is the old Barnes place.” I knew they were picturing the rundown clapboard house surrounded by unkempt lawns on an unpaved side road, but to me, it represented freedom. “I call it ‘Innisfree’. Yeats, you know.” I quoted the first verse for them, raising my voice slightly to convey the beauty of the lines. ‘I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree . . .’ ” I liked the resonance of my voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room, so I continued, “ ‘And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade’.”
The two women looked at me blank-faced.
After a brief moment of silence, Mrs. Barkhouse said, “The Barnes place on Lupin Loop? Why, you must be my nephew Kevin’s new neighbour!”
My head reeled. I couldn’t for the life of me reconcile this delicate little ladylike creature sitting in front of me, her pale pink suit immaculate, her hat a froth of feminine frills, her gloves and purse neatly placed on her lap, with the lout who had accosted me about the clothesline.
“Kevin?” I sputtered. “Kevin Jollimore?”
“Why, yes. Have you met him?”
I nodded.
“A