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

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? The village needs him. I’d hate to feel responsible for him going.’

  The colonel smiled to himself. Dr Harvey was not above a bit of cunning blackmail. He’d have tried the same in his shoes, if it worked.

  After Ruth had gone he opened up the newspaper bundle. The hellebores sat there shyly and he lifted a flower under the chin so that he could admire its beauty again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he told his newcomers. ‘You’ll soon settle in. I’m going to plant you near the back door so I can keep an eye on you through the window. We can’t have you blushing unseen.’

  It was just as well, he thought drily, that there was nobody, except Thursday, to hear him.

  Around midday the colonel took a walk around the green and stopped in at the Dog and Duck. The pub was almost empty. Sheila, the landlady was polishing glasses and Major Cuthbertson, who must have slipped his leash, was sitting morosely at the bar in front of a near-empty glass of whisky. The colonel said, ‘Good to see you about again, Major. Will you have the other half?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no. Best medicine there is.’

  ‘I quite agree.’

  He ordered two doubles and then raised his glass. ‘Happy New Year to you.’

  The major grunted. ‘Nothing very happy about it so far.’ He tossed back the dregs in his glass and started on the next. ‘Bad business about Miss Delaney.’

  ‘Indeed, it is.’

  ‘Mind telling me what happened, exactly?’ The colonel gave an abridged account.

  Major Cuthbertson took another gulp. ‘Damned unfortunate all those policemen gawping. A woman like that.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Knew you would. I met her once, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Years ago. We had quite an understanding.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word, though.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Marjorie can get pretty jealous.’

  The colonel kept a straight face. ‘I won’t tell her, I promise.’

  The major took another swig. ‘God knows why someone like her would want to do herself in. Doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  No, he thought. It doesn’t.

  ‘Got down in the dumps, I suppose. Like we all do. Felt the same myself. Still, there was no need to go and do a thing like that. Bit drastic, wasn’t it? I mean, there’s no going back. No changing your mind. Damned shame!’

  He bought the major another whisky before he went on his way back to the cottage. As he was nearing the gate, Tom Harvey drove past, slowed his car to a stop and lowered the window.

  ‘How are things, Colonel?’

  ‘Pretty good, thanks.’

  The young doctor was the near-extinct sort of GP who took a real interest in his patients. If he left Frog End it would, indeed, be a sad loss but, somehow he didn’t think that was going to happen. Ruth would eventually give in. ‘I saw you at the inquest, Colonel. Bad luck finding the body. Getting dragged into it. It can be a lot of hassle.’

  ‘It certainly can.’

  ‘I remember I was once travelling in a train, coming back from a medical conference in Wales, and some man in the compartment died. He was sitting bolt upright, stone dead, and nobody seemed to notice. I did, though, and so did three other doctors in the same compartment. I’m ashamed to say we all sneaked off the train without saying a word to anyone. None of us wanted to get involved in all the hoo-ha.’

  The colonel smiled. ‘Perfectly understandable.’

  ‘Very unprofessional though. Don’t tell our Inspector Squibb. He’d have me clapped in irons.’

  He said, ‘By the way, Ruth told me you didn’t think Lois Delaney killed herself. I thought that was interesting.’

  ‘Yes, I remember saying so. But what do I know, Colonel? I’m just a humble GP.’

  ‘I would have thought you knew quite a lot. You’re in the front line. You see it all. Lots of first-hand experience of how people behave.’

  ‘Well, the experts thought she did. We have to assume they know better. Better press on, Colonel. Duty calls.’

  Tom Harvey waved and drove off.

  The colonel went into Pond Cottage thoughtfully; he didn’t assume anything of the kind.

  The helicopter made a deafening racket as it descended towards the lawn. Jeanette threw down her paintbrush and put her hands over her ears. She got up from the stool and went over to the attic window. The helicopter was hovering just above the ground, propellers whirring, snow blowing around in great flurries. As she watched, it finally touched down and the noise died away.

  What horrible machines they were! Noisy, ugly, clumsy with none of the grace of proper aeroplanes. But it had to be admitted that they had their uses in emergencies. Ferrying people to hospital, snatching them off sinking ships and from cliff faces and the tops of mountains and the middle of deserts. And, of course, they made ordinary journeys far quicker and easier. No traffic jams; no being stuck in long tail-backs for hours on motorways. A to B in the fastest time possible, which is why very rich, important and busy people used them.

  After a moment, the helicopter’s door opened and Bruce King climbed out of the pilot’s seat. Lois had told her that he always insisted on flying the machine himself, even though he could have afforded a tame pilot. Some sort of macho thing probably. Lois had flown in it once and never again; she had been scared stiff.

  She watched him walk across the lawn towards the drive and the front door. Walk wasn’t the word: stride was better. He probably strode everywhere, barking out orders to assistants and underlings. She had only met him once during the time she had lived with Rex. Lois had invited them to dinner – which had been a big mistake. Bruce had made no effort to conceal his feelings about Rex and he had barely troubled to speak a word to her. They had left as soon as possible and she hadn’t seen him again until the inquest into Lois’s death.

  It was a mystery why Lois had ever married him. The obvious reason was for the money but she didn’t think that had been the case. Lois had certainly liked spending it, but she’d been no gold-digger. Neither of her first two husbands had been well off and it had been Lois who had earned the real bread in those days. Perhaps when she’d stopped earning as much, it had been a relief to hand over to somebody else with bottomless pockets.

  Bruce King had disappeared around the corner, out of sight. Presumably, he would have come to see about Flat 2, to go through everything and arrange for it to be put back on the market. He was a businessman, first and foremost, as he had declared at the inquest, making no bones about it. Miss Quinn, of course, would be hanging over the banisters like a vulture, waiting to see what went on.

  She went back to the plate and the painting of two bluebirds on a branch. She’d had to look them up in her Illustrated Birds of the World book because there were no bluebirds in England, in spite of the old wartime song about them being over the white cliffs of Dover. They were North American birds – quite big ones, seven inches long, with a blue back and blue tail feathers and a reddish breast.

  She went on working for an hour or more before she heard the helicopter start up again. There was another deafening racket and, from her stool, she saw it rise up slowly past the window and fly away.

  She had finished the plate by the end of the morning and was washing her brushes when the flat doorbell rang. When she opened the door, Rex was standing there. He stuck his foot quickly in the gap before she could shut it again.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, Jeanie. I promise not to stay long.’

  He was leaning his whole weight against the door, as well as keeping the foot in the gap. She shrugged and let go.

  ‘You may as well come all the way in.’

  He did, and stood looking down at her. In spite of herself, she felt the old attraction. The look was just as heart-melting, his pet name for her just as affecting.

  She said coolly, ‘What the hell are you doing here, Rex?’

/>   ‘I came to see if I could get into Mama’s flat.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to loot the place, so there’s no need to look at me like that. She happened to have albums of old family photos that I’d quite like to have – pictures of her with me as a child – that sort of thing. Sentimental value. And some rather good studio portraits of her in her younger acting days which I rather like.’

  ‘Well, they belong to you now, don’t they?’

  ‘I have a moral right to them, you could say. Unfortunately, I can’t get into the flat to remove them.’

  ‘Mrs Barnes will let you in.’

  ‘No, she won’t. Brucie has left strict orders that nobody is to go in there, especially not me. She said she’s very sorry but those were his instructions. Poor woman, she was quite upset about it.’

  ‘He was here a while ago. Came in his helicopter.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Barnes told me. I’m probably too late.’

  ‘But surely he’d let you have the photos? They’re not worth anything to him.’

  ‘Not a hope. He’d sooner bin them, shred them or send them off to the dump. You know how he feels about me.’

  ‘What about your mother’s will? She might have left them to you specifically. She’d have wanted you to have them.’

  ‘She never made a will. Couldn’t bear the thought of doing one. Much too morbid for her. And she was still married to Bruce, so he gets everything. Not that she had much cash left in the bank, but, as I say, it’s the photos that I really mind about.’

  She knew him well enough to see that he was telling the truth. He did mind. And she could understand it perfectly. Photographs of people you loved, or had loved, were beyond price and irreplaceable. If your home burned down, you could always get new carpets and televisions and furniture with the insurance, but you could never replace the photographs. They were gone for ever. When her mother had died after a horrible, lingering illness, her father had re-married within a year and her stepmother had thrown out all the precious old family photos, including a lovely studio portrait of her mother. It still hurt to think about it. Still made her furiously angry.

  She said slowly, ‘Would you like me to try and get them, Rex? I might be able to persuade the Barnes’s to let me in . . . to think of some excuse.’

  ‘No chance. It’d be more than their job’s worth, Mrs B said. Bruce would have them out on their ear.’

  ‘We certainly wouldn’t want to risk that.’ She frowned, thinking. ‘I might be able to get hold of the key. The Barnes’s keep them on hooks in their hallway. I’ve seen them there.’

  He looked at her for a moment and then smiled. ‘Would you really do that for me, Jeanie?’

  ‘Not for you exactly, Rex. I just don’t like the thought of your stepfather throwing the photos away. It wouldn’t be fair. Tell me where she kept the albums.’

  ‘On the bookshelves in the sitting room. There are about six or more of them – all bound in blue leather. She always used to buy them from the same place in Bond Street.’

  ‘And the studio ones?’

  ‘Dotted all over the place. Silver frames mostly.’

  She nodded. ‘I remember them. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He took a step forward and she took two back.

  ‘Well, what else did you want to talk to me about, Rex?’

  ‘Anything I could think of. To see if there was the slightest chance of us getting back together again.’

  ‘None at all, Rex.’

  ‘That’s a great shame.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s a very good thing. I’ve got my life together now and I don’t want you around any more.’

  ‘Harsh words, Jeanie. As a matter of fact, I was going to tell you that I’ve been getting mine together too. Rather well actually. I’ve just landed a part in a new TV cop series.’

  ‘PC Plod?’

  ‘Nothing plodding about it. I’m the star detective. You know the type – divorced, ruthless, rude to everyone, lives on his own, drinks too much. They think I’ll turn-on all the female viewers.’

  ‘Congratulations. But you don’t turn me on any more, Rex. So there’s no point coming here again.’

  ‘Well, it was worth a try.’

  ‘So, if that’s all, I’ve got work to do.’

  He went to the flat door and opened it. ‘Do you realize, Jeanie, that if my beloved Mama had topped herself after the divorce and settlement, I’d have collected twenty million pounds as her sole heir? Whether my stepfather liked it or not.’

  ‘You still wouldn’t have turned me on, Rex. And the money would have been the ruin of you.’

  He grinned. ‘You’re probably quite right. But just think how it would have pissed old Brucie off.’

  * * *

  The colonel switched on the record player and settled down comfortably in his wing chair to listen to The Pirates of Penzance.

  With cat-like tread,

  Upon our prey we steal;

  In silence dread,

  Our cautious way we feel.

  No sound at all!

  We never speak a word;

  A fly’s foot-fall

  Would be distinctly heard . . .

  Blast it! He still couldn’t get Lois Delaney out of his head. She was in there, interfering with his enjoyment of the music, distracting him from the simple pleasure of the familiar words. He ejected her firmly.

  The chapter was closed. There had been a police inquiry, an inquest, a verdict, a funeral, an end to it all. Any crazy idea he had had about her wanting to communicate something to him had been entirely fancy – the overactive imagination of a foolish old man.

  He went on listening.

  So stealthily the pirate creeps,

  While all the household soundly sleeps.

  The phone rang suddenly and he sighed and got up to turn down the volume and answer it.

  ‘Dad? Thank God you’re there!’ His son’s voice sounded desperate.

  ‘What is it, Marcus? Has something happened?’

  ‘I’ve just come back from the hospital. Susan was rushed there in an ambulance. It’s a threatened miscarriage.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It doesn’t look too good at the moment. So far she’s held on to the baby, but they’re keeping her in and they say she’ll have to be in there for several days – maybe a week or more. She was in quite a state, as you can imagine.’

  Yes, he could. ‘I’m sure everything will be all right, Marcus. Try not to worry too much. They’ll save the baby if they possibly can.’

  ‘The trouble is, Eric has to be looked after. Our neighbour’s been taking care of him today but I can’t leave him with her any longer – she has to go to work tomorrow. And I can’t take much time off myself – we’re terribly busy at the office. We’re launching a new kind of pasta next week. Big promotion, national press, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘It is, and I’ve simply got to be there.’

  ‘Is there anyone else who could look after him? A friend? Another mother?’

  ‘Not really. The trouble is we haven’t lived here very long so Susan hasn’t made any real friends yet, and she doesn’t like leaving Eric with people she doesn’t know well. Do you think you could have him, Dad? Just for a few days? I could drive him down tomorrow – the main roads are more or less clear now. I’ll bring all his kit – clothes, toys, books and everything.’

  The colonel felt his heart plummet. He had tried, since his grandson had been born, to care about him but, so far, he had failed. The child wasn’t responsible for inheriting his mother’s looks – the pale skin, wispy hair and gooseberry eyes – but they were not helped by his constant whingeing and whining and his frequent temper tantrums. His daughter-in-law maintained that the boy was highly strung and had taken him to a psychologist to prove it. Allowances, apparently, had to be made, though his own fingers had of
ten itched to administer a sound slap instead.

  ‘Would that be OK, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’d be delighted to have him. Glad to help.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Marcus sounded relieved. ‘I’ll bring him tomorrow morning. We ought to be with you around lunchtime. How are the local roads?’

  ‘Still snowy but passable. You’ll need to take care. Watch out for patches of ice.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘By the way, what would Eric like to eat for lunch, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Anything you’ve got.’

  He put the phone down, his heart still at boot level. He could remember the violent arguments at meal times, food flying, spoons flung to the floor, shrieks and wails. After a moment, he reached for the phone again and dialled Naomi’s number. When she answered he said simply: ‘SOS.’ She came round at once, tipped Thursday off the sofa, took his place and accepted a large glass of Chivas Regal with a small splash of water.

  ‘So, what’s all the panic, Hugh?’

  He told her, ‘I’m not sure I can cope.’

  ‘When does the little bugger arrive?’

  ‘Around lunchtime tomorrow. What on earth am I going to give him to eat? He’s extremely picky.’

  ‘We’ll think of something.’ Naomi took a gulp from her glass. ‘How old did you say he was?’

  ‘He’ll be five later this year.’

  ‘Hmmm. Not an easy age. Well, you must start as you mean to go on, Hugh. No good pandering to him. You’ve got to take the upper hand from the word go.’

  ‘Easier said than done; he’s very spoiled.’

  ‘You’re an army man, Hugh. You’ve commanded grown men. Given them orders and generally bossed everyone around.’

  ‘I’m not in the army any more, Naomi. I’m a grandfather who doesn’t have the faintest idea how to look after a small child. Laura always dealt with all that.’

  She gave him a grim smile. ‘Time you learned, Hugh.’

  As with the garden, Naomi resorted to paper and pencil to make one of her plans of action.

  ‘Shopping list: baked beans, fish fingers, oven chips, ice-cream, frozen peas . . .’