THREE SILENT THINGS a cozy murder mystery (Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Margaret Mayhew

  There was an audible intake of breath in the courtroom. ‘And what did she say to that?’

  ‘She said it would be too late. The money was needed immediately or the chance could be gone. She couldn’t bear it if that happened. I felt very sorry for her, but I’m a businessman and I thought the play was too old-fashioned and bound to flop. In any case, she wasn’t up to acting on stage – not with her depression and her addiction to alcohol. I’d lived with her for nearly ten years and I’d seen at first-hand what she was like. She was beyond reason, though. In the end, I’m afraid I just walked out and left her.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘I’m not sure – around six o’clock, I’d say. I hadn’t stayed long, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Did it occur to you that she might try to take her own life – as she had done once before?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid it didn’t. She often made dramatic scenes and, to be honest, I was fed up with them. With hindsight, I see I should have played things along and I regret it very much now. Our marriage had failed but I still admired my wife; she was a very beautiful and extraordinarily talented woman.’

  ‘You heard your wife’s son, Mr Farrell, testify that his mother seemed in very good spirits when he left her at midday on New Year’s Eve – as she had been while he was staying with her over Christmas. Do you have any comment to make on that?’

  ‘Yes, I have. My wife had been alone for more than five hours by the time I arrived. It was plenty of time for her to change moods, not to mention drink a good deal. Mr Farrell knows that as well as I do. And he knows exactly what his mother was like.’ Bruce King didn’t trouble to conceal contempt for his stepson. ‘He’s well aware that she’d been treated for severe depression for years and that she had a big problem with alcohol. And my wife was also an actress. She was very good at concealing her feelings if she chose to. Mr Farrell knew that, too.’

  The colonel drove home slowly through the snow. The road surface was treacherously slippery, especially on the back lanes, and the old Riley he’d had since the Fifties kept slithering and sliding. It was temperamental at the best of times and he supposed that he really ought to trade it in for some new and modern car. One that started first go, that had a heater that worked, electric windows, convenient central locking, that ran for miles on diesel and had spare parts that were easy to order. But he didn’t want to. The Riley had character. It had a soul. It was quite unlike all the identical runabouts with meaningless names, easy-to-pronounce in any language. Besides, he had driven the Riley with Laura sitting at his side and she had loved it too.

  By the time he reached the village green, it was dark, the lights from the other houses twinkling away across the snow. Miss Butler’s sitting room curtains were drawn, he noticed, so she would be off-watch, so to speak. Poor Miss Butler! He had believed her poignant little story completely, as he had believed her before about the diamond brooch. Living her humdrum life, she had made a brave bid to consort with glamour and fame only for it to end in ignominy. There had seemed no need whatever to breathe a word to Inspector Squibb, and there was even less need now.

  The coroner had been satisfied that Lois Delaney had taken her own life. She had committed suicide while the balance of her mind had been disturbed. Condolences had been expressed to the family. The case was closed.

  Thursday was fast asleep on the sofa but he came into the kitchen and wound himself round the colonel’s legs. It was time for supper and he was prepared to show some affection to get it. The colonel opened a tin of best quality tuna chunks and mashed them up in the china pet dish which bore the word DOG on the side. Since Thursday couldn’t read, this hadn’t seemed to matter when he’d bought it. The old cat approached the dish with caution and sniffed at the contents.

  ‘If you don’t like it, it’s too bad,’ the colonel told him firmly, not prepared to indulge in cat fads. ‘That’s all you’re getting.’

  He went into the sitting room and with the aid of a firelighter and some kindling, the logs in the inglenook were soon blazing away. He poured a whisky, put one of his Gilbert and Sullivan records on the player and sat down in the wing chair to listen. The tunes generally lifted him out of a low mood.

  Take a pair of sparkling eyes,

  Hidden, ever and anon,

  In a merciful eclipse –

  Do not heed their mild surprise –

  Having passed the Rubicon,

  Take a pair of rosy lips . . .

  But he found himself thinking of Lois Delaney – of the beautiful green eyes wide open in surprise and now unmercifully eclipsed, and the red lips that had been silenced for ever.

  Eight

  ‘Hellebores,’ Naomi Grimshaw said. ‘Beautiful things and coming into flower now so they’re just the thing to cheer you up, Hugh. You’ve been looking a bit down in the mouth lately and we can’t have that.’

  She was wearing her fuzzy white tracksuit – the one that made her look rather like an escaped polar bear – surmounted by the wolf-fur hat. A strange animal mix.

  ‘You could plant them in that bed by the wall near the back door. They like some shade, so it’d suit them down to the ground. My favourite’s Helleborus argutifolius – evergreen leaves and sort of lime green flowers. But Ruth’s got other kinds she could let you have.’

  She had plonked herself on the sofa where, for once, Thursday had vacated his seat and gone off somewhere in the garden. The colonel listened politely while his neighbour delivered a stern mini-lecture.

  ‘That herbaceous border of yours is still a mess, Hugh. We must make a proper plan of action. The trick is to divide it up into blocks, leaving spaces for the birds to fly through. Have you got a piece of paper and pencil handy?’

  He fetched both and sat obediently beside her as she sketched with quick, blunt strokes.

  ‘You want to get some plants that’ll keep flowering all through the summer – otherwise, if you’re not careful you’ll be left with nothing but green when the earlier ones have finished. Green’s a lovely colour, of course, but you want other colours as well and you need to work out where you need them most. For instance, you could plant asters here and double cranesbills there, and scabious over here and the bronze-coloured euphorbia. They’re all long-flowering. And how about good old cat mint along the front? Thursday would like that – not that one’s asking him – and it starts flowering in May and goes on all summer, particularly if you give it a haircut in June. White’s a wonderful colour too, don’t forget – specially against dark leaves.’ She went on, filling in the blocks and suggesting more things. ‘I’d go for some Erysimum – that does purple flowers from spring to late autumn, and Astrantia major Roma would look good in the middle here.’

  It was interesting, he thought, that, unlike other words, Naomi seemed to get the spelling of plants exactly right – or as far as he could tell. The pencil paused.

  ‘And, by the way, Hugh, you ought to do something about making a terrace at the back of the cottage.’

  ‘A terrace? Do I really need one?’ he said doubtfully. ‘Yes, you do. Somewhere nice to sit out and look at the garden. Not one of those fake stone horrors, of course. Real old flags. You can find them in that reclamation place outside Dorchester. They’ll cost a bit, but it would be worth it and Ruth’s gardener chap, Jacob, will lay them properly for you and not charge you a fortune. Pay him cash, of course. You get the sun coming round there for most of the day until it goes down. Just the place to sit with a drink on a nice warm evening and watch the sun go down.’

  It suddenly occurred to the colonel that Naomi was probably thinking more about her sundowners than his personal summer enjoyment. He smiled inwardly.

  ‘I’ll certainly give it consideration.’

  ‘It’s a jolly good idea of mine.’ Naomi rose to her feet. ‘Well, I must be off. The dogs need a walk.’ Her two Jack Russells, Mutt and Jeff, occasionally came with her into his garden where they kept a respectful distance from Thursday’s claws. At t
he cottage front door, she paused. ‘I meant to ask you about the inquest. How did it go?’

  ‘The verdict was suicide.’

  ‘Yes, I read that in the newspaper. Do you believe it?’ He said cautiously, ‘The evidence pointed to it.’

  ‘Huh! If I was going to be handed twenty million pounds on a plate, like she was, the last thing I’d be planning would be suicide.’

  He watched her stride away down the snowy path. Suicide would indeed be the last thing Naomi would ever contemplate – with or without the twenty million – he thought wryly. His neighbour was too well-equipped to withstand the buffetings of life; a sturdy oak compared with the frail reed that had been Lois Delaney.

  He sat down for a moment and thought about what Naomi had said – not about the planting plan, although that had sounded inspiring, or about the sundowner terrace – but about the twenty million pounds. It was certainly a very large sum indeed but he was not so sure that Lois Delaney cared all that much about money. Her son had stated in court that the only thing his mother had really cared about had been the theatre. And he should know.

  Nine

  The funeral of Lois Delaney took place the following week. Arrangements had been made for her to be buried in the churchyard at Frog End and it was rumoured in the village that her tycoon husband had made a substantial contribution to the church fabric fund in order for the grave to be sited prominently near the front instead of stuck out of sight round the back. Several coaches had been laid on for mourners to travel from London and the twelfth-century church which normally had a congregation of around seventy – Christmas and Easter excepted was full to overflowing. The pathway leading up to the west door was lined with expensive bouquets and wreaths and, inside, the altar and the aisles had been decorated with masses of pure white flowers. The pale oak coffin – lying in its solitary state in the chancel – was adorned with an enormous cross of lilies.

  The colonel had found a seat at the end of a side pew, next to a blonde dressed in cherry red. Few people wore black clothes to funerals these days – not even black ties which seemed a pity, he thought. The dead deserved some outward show of respect. He didn’t know the blonde’s name but her face was vaguely familiar. So were other faces in the congregation and several of them were famous.

  Inserted at the end of a stiff service sheet was an open invitation to refreshments afterwards at the Chilcote Hotel. The colonel had never been there but he had heard that it was the ultimate in country house luxury. An eighteen-hole golf course; floodlit tennis courts; indoor and outdoor heated swimming pools; jacuzzis; whirlpool baths in every suite; saunas and massage parlours; fitness gymnasium . . . everything the stressed and jaded and very rich could want or need. Naomi had, predictably, deemed it the last word in vulgarity. Like the Hall, it had once been a private house, but far larger and grander – a very stately home to one family for several hundred years who had eventually fallen on hard times. Apparently, Bruce King had snapped it up when they had fallen to their lowest ebb and turned it into the luxury hotel.

  The new young vicar, Naomi’s happy-clappy type, seemed overawed by the size and importance of the congregation, as well as by the occasion, and kept stumbling over his words. Fortunately, he had left his guitar behind and the village organist, Miss Hartshorne, had been ousted by a pale and long-haired stranger from London who coaxed a miraculous sound from the wheezy old instrument.

  They sang beautiful hymns: Dear Lord and Father of Mankind, The King of Love My Shepherd Is and Abide With Me. A very famous actor gave a moving eulogy, praising Lois Delaney’s great beauty and talent and the pleasure she had given to generations of theatregoers. A radiant light had gone out, he said, with just the right touch of suppressed emotion in his voice, and it could never be rekindled.

  The colonel completely agreed with him.

  The coffin was borne out into the snowy churchyard and the mourners gathered around the open grave – extras to the final starring role of Lois Delaney. The colonel stood at a distance, listening to the solemn words carried on the chill air in the vicar’s rather nervous voice. I am the resurrection and the life saith the Lord . . .

  He wasn’t sure why he had come to the funeral of a woman he had never actually met. Perhaps a polite wish to pay his last respects given that, in a sense, he had been a part of her death, if not her life? But it was rather more than that, he thought. There was still the nagging feeling that he owed her something more than respect; a feeling of complicity with her. He had been the one to find her, the one to whom she had seemed to want to speak.

  From his vantage point on a slight rise in the ground, he could see the chief mourner at the graveside: a grim-faced Bruce King and, next to him but several feet apart, the son, Rex Farrell. A woman in grey stood beside the son, her face expressionless. No tears being shed there but there were plenty flowing among the theatrical crowd, playing their bit parts to the full. Any director would have approved.

  Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live . . . he cometh up and is cut down like a flower . . .

  Lois Delaney had certainly died before her time. She could have had a good many years ahead – years of useful life, as Dr Harvey had once told him firmly when he had first come to Frog End as a widower and had been feeling pathetically sorry for himself. She might have made a big comeback in Hay Fever – audiences were beginning to appreciate the old plays and recognize their worth. Bruce King might have been proved totally wrong in his prediction and Lois Delaney might have found a whole new career opening up before her. Except that, like the flower, she had been cut down.

  The coffin was being lowered slowly into the ground.

  Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .

  Bruce King stepped forward with a single red rose in his hand which he let fall into the grave. Rex Farrell and the woman in grey scattered handfuls of earth.

  Afterwards, the mourners stood around for a while and some of them threw more earth on to the coffin, rather dramatically. They began to drift away towards the lychgate where the hired coaches were waiting, together with newspaper photographers and a group of gawping villagers.

  ‘I saw you in the church, Colonel. It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?’ Mrs Barnes, from the Hall, came up to him, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a paper tissue. Her grief, he saw, was entirely genuine; she was not playing to any gallery or director.

  ‘Yes, lovely.’

  ‘Will you be going on to the hotel?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’d love to but Stanley wouldn’t come to the service and I don’t like to go on my own. I wouldn’t have the nerve. Not with all these famous people . . . I’ve only ever seen them on the TV. It’s quite a thrill to be seeing them in real life, and here in Frog End. I can’t pretend it isn’t, even though it’s such a sad occasion.’

  He realized that she was as overawed and star-struck as the vicar. ‘Would you like me to accompany you to the hotel, Mrs Barnes?’

  She looked at him gratefully. ‘Would you really, Colonel? That’s very kind of you.’

  He escorted her to a coach and found places for them. ‘The gentleman behind us,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been in Coronation Street. And that one sitting two rows in front does the quiz show where they can win a million pounds. The girl beside him is his wife and she plays a nurse in the hospital soap.’

  ‘Really?’ He strove to look impressed.

  The Chilcote Hotel was twelve miles or so from Frog End and set in many acres. The entrance gates, the colonel noticed, were brand new and similar in style to the gates at the Hall, only larger. The former stately home lay at the end of a long carriage drive – a magnificent Palladian building set against a backdrop of rolling Dorset hills. From a distance it seemed untouched by its transition but as the coach approached closer there were clear signs. The parkland where deer would once have grazed had become a golf course. The colonel could see the tabletop flatness of the greens beneath the snow, the ma
nmade hillocks of bunkers and what looked suspiciously like a man-excavated lake. A helicopter was parked close to the house – a gleaming silver and white machine and probably the preferred means of travel of most of the hotel’s guests.

  ‘That would belong to Mr King,’ Mrs Barnes told him. ‘He pilots it himself. Miss Delaney was terrified of flying in it.’

  Naomi would have deplored both the helicopter and the interior of the hotel, the colonel thought, as they went inside. The designer’s makeover hovered somewhere between the Arabian Nights and a Venetian palazzo. Sumptuous wallpaper, heavily swagged drapes, dazzling crystal chandeliers, thick Turkish carpets on polished marble floors, sofas and armchairs to sink into in front of blazing log fires – real flames this time.

  The wake refreshments were being served in what had probably been a ballroom – an enormous room with very tall windows overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. There were more crystal chandeliers glittering overhead and a deep-pile red carpet on the floor. The colonel fetched a cup of tea for Mrs Barnes from a side buffet. Waitresses came round with silver salvers of sandwiches and cakes, waiters with drinks. He took a whisky. Naomi would have grudgingly approved of the idea but not the rather small measure.

  Among the crowd, he caught sight of Neville Avery with his companion. The doll-maker was chatting animatedly to another couple while the young man was standing a little apart, staring moodily at the carpet and saying nothing. Presumably they had met Lois Delaney at the Hall or elsewhere; Neville Avery struck him as the kind of man who would know a great many people.

  He listened politely to Mrs Barnes pointing out more celebrities and thought how odd it was to see the famous in the flesh instead of on a stage or screen. They looked quite different. Shorter or taller, fatter or thinner, usually much older and more ordinary without the help of professional make-up and lighting. Very few had the stellar quality of someone like Lois Delaney; the special aura that dominated a scene and drew every gaze.