The Past Never Dies: A Miss Riddell female amateur sleuth historical cozy mystery by James P.C

Author:James, P.C.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The James Gang
Published: 2022-06-23T00:00:00+00:00

19

PAULINE AND THE PROTESTERS

After finishing her sherry, Pauline walked from the pub to the cathedral. If the protesters were still there, she might learn something new. It was a bad night to be outside, Pauline thought, as she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck in an effort to stop the icy rain running down inside her clothes. Before she arrived at the cathedral, she was puzzled to hear singing. Men’s voices singing an old folk song and women singing a hymn. When she realized what she was listening to, she laughed.

Rounding the corner and entering the cathedral grounds, she saw what she’d expected. Dressed in a motley collection of rainwear, old fishermen’s waterproofs of the kind called ‘sou’westers’ predominating, the bearded, nationalists were indeed singing old local songs while the church ladies were rivaling them with hymns. At least it’s all amicable, she thought as she approached Theresa, the church women’s leader, who was conducting the woman’s choir with extravagant arm flailing.

“Good evening,” Pauline said, approaching her.

“Miss Riddell, how nice to see you again. Wait one moment, we’re almost at the end.” With a final flourish, she and the women ended with a solemn amen.

“If you could persuade the gentlemen to join you,” Pauline said, “you’d have a winning choir, I think.”

Theresa grinned. “They’re heathens, sadly. Not even Protestants. They only know working and fighting songs, and also some songs we don’t care to hear.”

“Still no poverty activists tonight?” Pauline asked.

Theresa shook her head. “They’re only here when there’s a likelihood of the press showing up. I think they’re frauds.”

Now that the women were no longer singing, the men had stopped too and the only sound to be heard was the hum of traffic on the roads around the cathedral. It was a cold evening with a sky of heavy, fast-moving clouds dropping sudden showers, and an almost full moon appearing briefly when there was a break in them. The cathedral’s bulk loomed above them, lit by nearby streetlamps and the dim lights inside seen through stained glass windows.

By comparison with the men’s wild mix of waterproof clothes, the women were an orderly group clothed in Burberry mackintoshes, rubber wellington boots, and sheltering umbrellas.

“Who starts the singing?” Pauline asked.

“Originally, we started it by singing hymns to keep our bodies warm and our spirits up,” Theresa said. “The men took it as a challenge. Now, either of us can start and the other answers the challenge. It’s quite fun.” She smiled, looking wistfully over at the bundled-up figures across the lawn.

“When the Gospels return to London, you should make it a memorial event,” Pauline said, laughing.

“We could, couldn’t we,” Theresa said. “Stranger things have become local traditions in the past.”

“I came to ask if any of your group knew Harry Common,” Pauline said.

“As I mentioned when we spoke, I didn’t see him,” Theresa said. “Ask the others, if you have a photo or if they saw his photo in the paper maybe they’ll recognize him.”

None of the women remembered Harry, they assured Pauline.

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