She aided this by biting the inside of her cheek at the same time. Before her, seated on the sofa and second armchair in the living room of her quaint eighteenth century Elizabethan cottage, were her three best friends and the Reverend Arthur Picket.
Mabel Lethbridge-Smyth, had launched into her story after carefully placing her part finished cup of earl grey on the highly polished oak coffee table.
"Well, I thought at seventy one years of age, my good character and loyal service to the village community would count for more than this. I mean, how could the local constable, that pipsqueak, Brian Davis, his mother used to be in service at the Grange estate, you know, how could he threaten me! me with a night in the cells? Okay I suppose I did manage to kick him on his shin, but I was so upset, so angry."
Maud Monkton, sighed loudly, her ample frame shifting on the settee awkwardly, even at seventy nine years of age her weight of sixteen stone matched an often belligerent posture when anger flushed through her.
"How can you take such an off handed manner, the constable was trying to do his job, and you Mabel reacted so badly. I would have locked you up; it would have served you right!"
Mabel who had been stunned by the attack of her so called friend, whilst in the process of picking up the bone china tea cup, had changed her delicate grip of the cup handle to a fist. The handle then separated with a gritty crack, even a forlorn attempt by Reverend Picket to catch the falling vessel proved in vain as it shattered on the oak coffee table splashing its contents in every direction.
Mabel gasped, her hand covering her mouth, tears streameddown her flushed checks.
"Oh-oh Joan, I'm so sorry."
She got to her feet with the speed of someone a fraction of her age.
"I will fetch a cloth."
Joan resisted the urge to follow Mabel, instead she looked at the others gauging their reaction. Maud looked victorious, very different to her emotions at the summer fete two days before. Elsie Clements sat still as though in a trance not wanting to show any emotion. Reverend Picket got to his feet.
"I will just go and see if Mabel is alright."
Joan noticed Maud's digging elbow into Elsie's side.
"I had better go and help," she said almost in a whisper.
Joan listened to the unsuccessful attempt of Maud to lower her voice.
"Well, you saw what they got up to as well as I did, and him a man of the cloth and married at that, it's his wife I feel sorry for".
Clearing her throat before entering the kitchen, she blushed at her stupidity realising that Mabel and Arthur would certainly not be in a compromising position. Joan patted Mabel on the shoulder.
"There's no harm done, the cups and saucers aren't my best, just forget it, I will make some more tea."
On her own in the kitchen, Joan waited for the kettle to boil, she recalled the scene of the fete. It had started off a wonderful sunny afternoon mainly attended by the more senior habitants of Cleestone village. Ex Colonel James Upridge-Stanley and his wife Clarisse again allowing their cricket pitch sized front lawn of the Tudor hall estate to host the annual event. The colonel was the third generation of Upridge-Stanley's to own the beautiful estate, he was said to be a very wealthy man, having a host of staff in his employ. Apparently the colonel paid them well but was a tyrant to all but his elder by two years, sixty three years old Malcolm Postin, his chauffer. They had served together in Africa, Postin then being a sergeant, and it was said that he had saved the colonels life.
Steam spouted from the kettle, Joan found herself spooning tea into the pot, smiling at the memory of Winifred Turner, and Jessica Fletcher. Neither of these women could be called delicate, but they were usually graceful and impeccably mannered. Their duties at the fete were to make and serve tea and soft drinks to all who attended. At first everything went to plan, but after possibly the first half hour, Winifred rushed around from table to table with a large tray of tea cups, and orange squash. Nobody was missed even if they declined the offer of refreshments; Winifred would not listen, and insisted that everyone had a cup of tea and an orange squash. She appeared to move between tables like a woman possessed. Jessica seemed fine for the moment, and then she joined in the extraordinary sight. She insisted on collecting the still full cups and saucers and glasses seconds after Winifred placed them on the table.
