Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (10 page)

“Tom?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You all right?”

“Fine.”

“Is the do still on for tomorrow?” God, I hoped she hadn’t gone and got unengaged in the twenty-four hours since we’d last spoken. I couldn’t think of any other reason she’d be ringing me so soon after I’d seen her.

“Of course. Actually, I’ve spoken to Mr. Morangie again.” Oh yes. That reason. There was a frustrating pause. Had Mr. M taken out a restraining order banning me from getting within five miles of his precious house? Set up barbed wire and a minefield? “He’s agreed to allow you into his home. We need to have a serious chat about how you’re going to do this.”

“Oh. Right. Nice one, Sis—how’d you manage that?”

“I spoke to his solicitor. A Mr. Wood. He was very reasonable about it all, especially when I explained how your, um,
thing
works, and that you wouldn’t have to rummage through the whole place. Actually, he said he’d quite like to see you in action.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her,
sorry, only Phil gets to see my
thing
in action these days
, but that might just have been a quip too far for dear old Sis. “Tell you what, why don’t we put up a poster and sell tickets? We can donate the proceeds towards Mr. M’s legal fees. Or buy you a really nice engagement present. Matter of fact, you got any ideas on that? Any fish slices or toasting racks you’ve got your eye on, or would Greg be just as happy with a nice bit of roadkill? I saw a fox out by Brock’s Hollow only this morning, looked in pretty good nick.”

There was a pause. God, I hoped she wasn’t seriously considering it. It hadn’t been in
that
good nick, and I didn’t much fancy having it oozing maggoty innards all over the back of my van.

“That’s very kind, but we’re not having engagement presents. We’re asking anyone who feels moved to do so to contribute to the Cathedral’s mission fund instead. Anyway, you’ve made me lose track. Mr. Wood suggested a few times that would be convenient for Mr. Morangie.” She started to rattle off a list.

“Hang on a sec, let me get my work diary.” We eventually settled on a date and time—there were a couple I could have done, but I worked on the principle the sooner the better before he changed his mind again, and plumped for next Monday at ten a.m. I wondered if the solicitor really would be coming along to spectate, and if I’d be able to stop myself from greeting him with a cheery “Morning, Wood!”

Friday night, Phil came round to mine before Cherry’s do so we could share a pizza before we went. There was no telling how much food would be on offer tonight, and I wasn’t going to take any chances. If the cathedral ladies were doing the catering, that could mean anything from a couple of cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off to several truckloads of homemade quiche.

“Are your mum and dad going to be there tonight?” Phil took a bite of Americano.

“Doubt it. Dad’s been feeling his age.” Ever since I’d been born, as I recalled, although he’d only been in his late forties then. “Doesn’t like parties and stuff. Mum might go on her own, but I doubt it. Richard might be there, though.” I chased a bit of coleslaw around my plate.

“That’s your brother, right?” The last of his slice of pizza disappeared. I was going to have to get a move on if I wanted to get my fair share.

“Yeah. God, I haven’t seen him in ages. He’s two years older than Cherry, so we were never exactly close.”

“You must have seen him at Christmas.”

I put my fork down. “There a law about it or something? No, as it happens. We’ve never really done the big family get-together thing. Richard and Agatha always go skiing that time of year.”

Phil huffed. “Wish I could get out of family Christmases. It’s a three-line bloody whip round my mum’s house.”

“Yeah, you said.” Back when I’d finally plucked up the nerve to ask him what he was doing that day. “And I kind of noticed I was eating Christmas dinner on my own.” It was the first time I’d admitted it. He’d asked how my Christmas was the next time I’d seen him, I’d said, “Fine,” and we hadn’t gone into details.

“You were on your own? You should have said.” Phil frowned down at his plate. Maybe he was annoyed with it for being empty. “You’d have been welcome to come along with me.”

“Jesus, could you have said that with any less conviction? Don’t worry, I had Merlin and Arthur to help me eat up the turkey.” I sawed viciously at a stubborn bit of pizza crust holding two slices together.

“Christ, you’re touchy. I just didn’t reckon you’d want to go.
I
didn’t want to go. Told you, it’s a bloody nightmare. Everyone gets pissed on cheap sherry, and it’s not Christmas if no one storms out before the turkey’s cold.”

“Sounds like an episode of
EastEnders
. Anyone get divorce papers as a Christmas present?”

“No, but that’s only because the solicitors all close for Christmas.” There was a pause. “Mark always hated it.” Phil glanced up and narrowed his eyes. “And don’t look at me like that. Of course he bloody went. We were married, weren’t we? If I’d turned up without him, Mum would’ve slammed the door in my face.”

“From the way you’ve been talking, wouldn’t that have been a pretty good result?”

He huffed, bulky shoulders moving expansively. “It’s family.”

Like that was an explanation for anything. Still, he wasn’t under any obligation to invite me round to his family get-togethers. After all, it wasn’t like I’d ever asked him to come along and meet my family, was it?

Oh. Wait. What were we on our way to?

Still…

“Come on, don’t we need to get going? Thought this do started at seven?”

When we got to St Leonard’s, we had to park halfway down Cathedral Close. The Old Deanery drive was already chocker with cars, and they spilled out onto the cobbles too.

“Looks like the Rev’s pretty popular,” Phil commented as we got out of the car.

“Either that or one of the cathedral ladies does killer vol-au-vents. Course, they could all be Cherry’s mates.”

Phil shoved his hands in his pockets. Fair dues, it was a bit nippy out. “No offence, but your sister didn’t exactly strike me as the life-and-soul-of-the-party type.”

“Nah, you’re right. God, for all we know there could be half the Church of England in there.”

“Or the Guild of Taxidermists.” He coughed. It sounded a lot like “Posers.”

I grinned. “Hey, nothing wrong with having a guild. There’s a Guild of Master Plumbers, you know.”

“You missed out ‘and Dunnikindivers’.” The streetlamps cast a warm glow over Phil’s face that cooled into menacing shadows as we walked.

“We had to kick the cesspit cleaners out. Couldn’t stand the smell.”

“Who couldn’t? You or them?”

I stuck up a finger and swivelled it in his general direction as we walked through the gateway. We could hear the sounds of the party already, and we soon found out why. There was an open-door policy at the Old Deanery tonight—literally. The heavy front door was wedged open with a proper, old-fashioned wooden wedge. Unlike the last time we’d been here, the hallway was brightly lit, and the door to the front room was wide open.

We trooped inside.

The place was heaving. How many people had Cherry and/or Greg invited to this do? Or had they just rung up Rentamob? All the furniture had been cleared to the sides of the room, and there were tables along the wall nearest the door piled high with food. Greg’s ladies had done him and Cherry proud. There were dainty little triangle sandwiches, sausage rolls of every size, wrinkly cocktail sausages next to them looking a bit embarrassed about sitting there with their kit off, and homemade quiches by the dozen with little handwritten flags in to tell you if they were veggie or not. Plus a few more interesting bits someone had clearly sneaked in from Marks & Spencer. I hoped they were properly ashamed of themselves for letting the side down like that.

A separate table held the sweet stuff: mince pies (which I hoped hadn’t been hanging around since Christmas, but it was probably safer to leave them anyway), heavy-looking cakes and a huge bowl of grapes shining like someone had polished them individually. Of course, that was probably what passed for entertainment around here. St Leonard’s is a nice enough place, but it’s not exactly renowned for its nightlife.

Case in point: it looked like half the population of the place had turned up here tonight, although there was a definite bias towards the older end of the demographic. Lots of middling-to-old ladies in frumpy skirts and sensible shoes, and balding blokes in saggy trousers. In fact, from where I was standing I couldn’t see a single person under thirty. Presumably the ones with young families had all stayed home so the kiddies wouldn’t get nightmares from Greg’s glassy-eyed chums—the stuffed animals, I mean, not his actual mates. I’m not one to pass judgement on people till I actually meet them. They must’ve been cursing their luck at missing the social event of the century.

“Think we should say hi to Greg and Cherry, or just dive in?” I asked, raising my voice so Phil could hear me over the din. I couldn’t see Cherry right at the moment, but Greg was over the other side of the room, gesturing wildly in a way that was going to have someone’s eye out any minute as he spoke to a couple of equally tall, churchy-looking types. “Reckon the church has a minimum height requirement?” I wondered aloud.

Phil grunted. “Why, fancy yourself in a dog collar, do you?”

“Nah, I never got into all that kinky stuff. No, it’s just, how many times have you ever seen a short vicar?”

He glanced over at Greg and his chums. “They’re not that tall.”

“Depends on the angle you’re looking from, doesn’t it? Want to check out the sausage rolls?”

He shrugged. “Not that hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” I wound my way over to the table and grabbed a paper plate.

“Do have some of the quiche, dear,” a reedy voice quavered by my elbow. “I made it myself.”

I looked around—and down: I could swear they were making little old ladies smaller these days, and smiled at the wrinkled-apple cheeks of the old dear who’d spoken. “Is that the bacon and leek, or the”—I peered at the spidery script—“mushroom and tomato?”

“Oh, the bacon. Young men like you need a bit of meat inside them.” If it was a cheeky innuendo, she had the deadpan down pat.

“I’ll make sure I remember that. Cheers, love,” I said and took a big slice.

When I turned round to ask Phil if he wanted some, he’d disappeared—and when I turned back to old Mrs. Quiche, she’d doddered off to fuss with the sausage rolls.

Brilliant. I was on my own in a roomful of people who all seemed to know each other. At least now I had something to do with my hands. And Mrs. Quiche’s bacon and leek was pretty tasty.

I could do with a drink, though. I scanned the room. The drinks table was over in the far corner of the room—and guess what? That was where Phil had disappeared to. I looked at the heaving mass of chattering people, and then back at my plate. No way were both of us going to make it through that crowd unscathed. Ah, well. It seemed a bit disrespectful to scarf down the rest of the quiche in a couple of large bites, but I could always go back for seconds.

Sod’s law, by the time I got through the crush to the drinks table, which involved a lot of ducking and weaving and apologising for jarred elbows, Phil had buggered off again. Maybe he was just annoyed there wasn’t any beer on offer. I poured myself a glass from an open bottle of plonk and turned to survey the scene, trying to look like a seasoned partygoer considering where next to bestow my wit and charm.

I soon realised standing by the drinks table, I just got in everyone’s way. Maybe that was why Phil had disappeared. Frowning, I managed to locate him over in the corner. I moved back into the throng and found myself facing a dapper old bloke in a tweed jacket and violently red corduroy trousers.

“Ridiculously crowded in here,” he snapped, looking me up and down. I got the distinct impression that if he’d had his way, riffraff like me would have been turned away at the door.

“Oh, I dunno,” I said, raising my glass of wine. “Nice to see a good crowd here.”

He sniffed. “More like a mob. I haven’t seen
you
at Sunday services,” he added pointedly.

“Nah, I’m not local. St Albans is where I’m based.”

He was tall but stooped, with hunched, rounded shoulders, so I found myself getting a sympathetic backache the longer I spoke to him. But at least I didn’t get a crick in my neck trying to look him in the eye. “Let me guess,” I said and gulped down a mouthful of plonk. “Church warden?”

“Lay reader, actually.” He seemed mildly offended, which was a great start. Still, maybe it was just my manners. “And you?”

“Plumber.”

He relaxed at that. Clearly the labouring classes couldn’t be expected to know any better, so no insult had been intended. He held out a hand, and I was half expecting him to use it to point out that the drains were
that
way, but after a mo I realised I was supposed to shake it, so I did. Probably leaving a whole load of quiche pastry crumbs in his dry, bony grasp, but hey, he started it. “Morgan Everton.”

“Tom Paretski. So, is that, like, a full-time job, this lay reading?” What the bloody hell was a lay, anyway? Something to do with minstrels? And how much reading did they need? I wondered if he might have meant ley lines, but he really didn’t look the hippy druid type. Then again, neither do I, and I’ve got this weird finding-things gift. Maybe we could swap psychic stories.