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

by Margaret Mayhew

  He looked over her shoulder, seeing some classic Naomi spellings – spagetty hoops, beefbergers, chicken nugets, fruit yoggurts, frozen stake and kidney pie.

  ‘I thought you disapproved of all that sort of junk food, Naomi?’

  ‘I do, but this is an emergency. You’ll have your hands full looking after that boy, keeping him out of mischief. No time to spend fiddling around in the kitchen, and no point if he’s such a fuss-pot.’

  ‘What about lunch tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s what the steak and kidney’s for. Your son will need feeding too after driving all that way, and he won’t want the kids’ stuff.’

  ‘Supposing Eric won’t eat it?’

  ‘Then the little perisher can go without.’ She took another swig. ‘Now, things to do.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘You’ll have to entertain him, Hugh. Keep him amused. Snakes and ladders, puzzles, Lego, colouring books, crayons. Have you got any of those?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, you’ll need to get them. Woolworths toy department in Dorchester is the place to go. And, you’ll have to take him out.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Of course. You won’t want to stay cooped up in the cottage all day and the roads aren’t too bad now. There’s the cinema in Dorchester – if there’s anything suitable on. And you could take him to the Military Museum, though he might find looking at uniforms and medals a bit boring at his age. And you could go over to Maiden Castle. It’s a good place for kids to run around and let off steam.’

  The colonel said suddenly, ‘There’s always Bovington.’

  ‘Bovington?’

  ‘Tanks,’ he said, brightening considerably. ‘Army tanks. There’s a museum there too.’

  There was no time to lose, Jeanette decided. Bruce could send people to clear out the flat at any time, or he might come back himself. She went downstairs and rang at the Barnes’s door.

  Mr Barnes opened it. Mrs Barnes had, apparently, taken the bus to Dorchester to do some shopping, which was a piece of luck because he would be much easier to deal with.

  She smiled brightly at him. Would it be possible to borrow a tin opener – just for a few minutes? Hers had just broken. He went away to fetch one from the kitchen. The keys were exactly where she remembered – hanging in a row on the wall in the hallway and clearly numbered. She took No. 2 off its hook and put it in her pocket before the caretaker returned with the tin opener.

  ‘I’ll bring it back soon, Mr Barnes, I promise.’

  ‘No need to rush, miss,’ he said. ‘Take your time.’

  Miss Quinn wasn’t at her snooping post for once, and there was nobody else about to see her let herself very quietly into the flat. The scent that Lois had always worn still hung poignantly on the air. She stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering why she was doing this and what on earth she would say if she were caught.

  The curtains in the sitting room were half-drawn, the light dim, but she dared not risk turning on any of the lamps. She went straight to the bookcase and found the set of albums – there were six of them and they were heavy. She unfolded the black bin liner she had brought with her, put them in and moved some of the other books along to fill the gap. Then she went around the room, collecting up framed photographs – mostly of Lois but some were of Rex. There were more in the bedroom and she snatched those up too. She left some behind – a clean sweep would have been too obvious and too risky.

  The door to the bathroom was ajar and she couldn’t help peering inside and looking at the bath where Lois had died. The Wiberg’s pine essence that she had always sworn by was on a shelf. She shivered.

  She carried the bin liner out of the flat and upstairs to the attic. Luck was with her again. No Miss Quinn appeared, nor did anybody else.

  As soon as she had dumped the bin liner, she went back down and returned the tin opener. More luck: Mrs Barnes was still out shopping.

  ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,’ she said to the caretaker. ‘But could I possibly take a look at your local phone book while I’m here? I can’t seem to find mine anywhere.’

  While he was gone she put the key back on its hook and when he returned with the phone book, she pretended to look up a number.

  ‘Shall I write it down for you?’ he asked helpfully. ‘No, thanks. I can remember it.’

  Back in the attic, she sat down and took some deep breaths to steady herself. It had been easy – much easier than she had expected. Nothing had gone wrong and no one had seen her.

  As she sat there, recovering, it suddenly occurred to her how easy it would have been for the Barnes’s to go in and out of Flat 2 at any time they pleased, and with a multitude of excuses: cleaning, maintenance, odd jobs for Lois. She frowned. Everybody believed that Lois had killed herself, but Rex, who probably knew his mother better than anyone, had had no reason to expect it. None whatsoever. That’s what he’d said at the inquest. And Lois had been in such good form on Christmas Eve. She’d waltzed around the room, acting out a scene from Hay Fever and doing it wonderfully. Supposing the Barnes’s had had some sort of grudge against Lois? Supposing she’d threatened to get them fired because of something they’d done? Perhaps they’d stolen something? Or been caught snooping through drawers? Supposing one of them had gone in there, knowing very well she was taking a bath, and then chucked the hairdryer into the bath?

  Jeanette stopped supposing anything of the kind. It was all too far-fetched and ridiculous. The Barnes’s were decent people and they’d both been very upset at Lois’s death – especially Mrs Barnes.

  She got up and went into her bedroom where she’d left the bin liner.

  She sat on the bed and took out the silver-framed studio portraits.

  Beautiful studies of Lois when she had been at the height of her stardom, taken by a famous London society photographer – softly lit and flattering, looking upwards, or with her head tilted, or with her chin resting on a hand. The ones of Rex had been taken by the same photographer and they were pretty flattering too. Rex aged about four, all togged up in satin ruffles as an angelic pageboy; Rex as a teenager in his public school uniform – already promising the good looks and the charm; Rex as a young grown-up man in a Savile Row lounge suit – smiling and impossibly handsome.

  And what about Rex if it came to supposing things? He’d said he was driving up to Scotland for a New Year’s Eve party, but that he’d got stuck in the snow and had to spend most of the night in the car. But supposing he’d lied about it – she’d known him tell plenty of lies if it suited him. Perhaps he’d come back to the Hall? To kill his own mother? That was nonsense, too. He’d adored her. And, besides, what would he want to kill her for? If twenty million pounds was the motive then he’d have waited until after the divorce. He’d pointed that out himself. Made quite a point of it, in fact.

  She took out one of the blue leather albums. Family snaps taken in summery gardens, on tennis courts and croquet lawns, on beaches, on picnics . . . happy days. Jeanette sat there for a long time, slowly turning the pages.

  Ruth was busy sewing seeds in one of the greenhouses when Tom Harvey appeared. There was no chance of doing a bunk because he was standing firmly between her and the door and he didn’t do any beating about the bushes either.

  ‘I’ve come for your answer, Ruth.’

  She straightened up, pushing her hair off her face. ‘I can’t give you one yet, Tom. I’m awfully sorry.’

  ‘And I can’t wait much longer.’

  ‘You mean you’ll leave Frog End?’

  ‘If you turn me down – yes. I don’t want to hang about if you’re still in love with somebody else.’

  She flushed. ‘I’m not . . . not any more.’

  ‘But you’re not in love with me?’

  ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘Why not give it a try?’

  ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind, just at the moment.’ She waved a hand around the greenhouse – at the seed tra
ys, the cuttings, the young plants. ‘Getting going with all this. I can’t think about anything else. I need time.’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever it takes.’

  ‘That’s no good, Ruth. You can’t keep me dangling on the end of a string indefinitely.’

  ‘I won’t. Anyway, after my mother died you said you’d be around. Like the song says.’

  ‘I can’t stay around for ever. Not unless you marry me.’

  ‘You mean you’ll go off to America?’

  ‘Or maybe Australia. I’ve always had a hankering to see what it’s like living upside down.’

  ‘They’re both a very long way away.’

  ‘Yes, they are. That’s the whole point.’

  She looked at him unhappily, not knowing what to say. She had come to depend on him much more than she had realized: used him as a sort of prop, while keeping him at arm’s length – which hadn’t been fair, of course. He’d every right to issue a sort of ultimatum. But Frog End would miss him badly. He was a wonderful doctor – marvellous with children and the elderly, marvellous with everybody, in fact. She’d seen him in action, crouching down to talk to a child at its own level, putting a steadying hand on the shoulder of a young man condemned to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, making a sick old man roar with laugher. It would be dreadful if he left. And it would be her fault.

  ‘I’ll think harder about it, I promise.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He turned to open the greenhouse door. ‘By the way, you’ve got dirt all over your forehead.’

  She rubbed at it with her hand. ‘I always get filthy working.’

  He smiled. ‘You’ve made it worse now.’

  He was worth ten of Ralph, she thought, staring after him through the greenhouse glass. No, not ten – twenty. No – thirty, forty, fifty at least, and probably a great deal more.

  Eleven

  Marcus arrived at Pond Cottage just before two. The colonel had progressed from being vaguely uneasy about his arrival to starting to worry in earnest, when his son’s car drew up outside the front gate. He hurried out to greet him.

  ‘Sorry, Dad. Some of the roads were pretty icy and the traffic on the motorway was hellish. And then Eric was sick so I had to stop and clean him up. I’m afraid he’s still in a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll deal with it. Glad you’re here safely. That’s all that matters.’

  He peered in through the car window. Eric was strapped in his child’s seat in the back, his pale face even paler and blotched unattractively with tears. His red anorak was smeared with vomit and he was clutching his toy rabbit tightly by the ear.

  The colonel said encouragingly, ‘We’ll soon have you out of there, old chap.’

  His grandson snivelled as Marcus unstrapped him and lifted him out of the car.

  ‘Could you take him inside, Dad? I’ll bring all the stuff.’

  ‘Come on, Eric.’

  Eric scowled and turned away. Remembering Naomi’s words, he took hold of the child’s hand firmly and, more or less, dragged him indoors. When he tried to remove the sick-covered anorak, the zip stuck halfway but he managed to get it off over Eric’s head and past the rabbit, still attached to Eric’s hand, down one sleeve. There was more vomit, he noticed, over Eric’s trousers. His grandson started to howl as Marcus appeared, laden with suitcase and plastic bags and bundles and the car seat.

  ‘He’s in a bit of a state, one way and another. You can’t blame him.’

  ‘Of course not, the poor chap. I expect he feels rotten. What can I do to help?’

  ‘Well, I think the best thing would be for us to get him to bed for a bit. If he sleeps, he’ll feel better.’

  Between them they got Eric, the rabbit and the suitcase up the stairs and into the small spare room. Surprisingly, the boy lay down without any argument and shut his eyes. They went downstairs.

  ‘You’ll have some lunch, Marcus? It’s ready.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Dad, I think I’ll push off straight away. I ought to get back so I can go and see Susan. She’s pretty upset. I’ll grab a sandwich when I stop for petrol.’

  ‘Will Eric want anything to eat, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’d leave him to sleep as long as possible. He might fancy something later.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, fruit. Cereal. Nothing rich.’

  When Marcus had gone, the colonel put the anorak and the trousers into the washing machine and sat alone, eating his steak and kidney pie and peas. After a few mouthfuls, he pushed them away.

  Susan phoned from her hospital bed in the evening, sounding very weak.

  ‘How is Eric, Father? I’ve been so worried about him.’

  ‘He’s fine, Susan. He’s sitting watching television at the moment.’

  A game of snakes and ladders had ended in sulky tears when Eric had gone down the longest snake near the end, right back to the beginning, and an attempt at a jigsaw puzzle had failed equally dismally with pieces being thrown about the sitting room – some of them deliberately aimed at Thursday, who had hissed and spat furiously from the sofa. In desperation, the colonel had turned on the television.

  ‘I don’t ever let him see anything scary. It could give him nightmares.’

  ‘It’s only The Simpsons.’

  ‘Oh, dear . . . he’s not supposed to watch that. I think it’s an awful programme. Very vulgar.’

  He looked across at his grandson, whose eyes were fixed on the screen. ‘I won’t let him watch it again.’

  ‘He ought to go to bed soon.’

  ‘He’s all ready for it. He’s had a bath and he’s in his pyjamas and dressing-gown.’

  There had been a big drama over that, too – Eric refusing to get in the bath, then refusing to get out; finally, the colonel had hauled him out bodily, the child struggling and screaming.

  ‘Did you make him put his slippers on?’

  Another white lie. The colonel had forgotten to unpack them. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Has he had some supper?’

  ‘He wasn’t very hungry. I gave him cornflakes and yoghurt. He seemed to like them all right.’ He hadn’t offered anything else.

  ‘Organic yoghurt?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he lied again. No point in upsetting her, not in her condition.

  ‘Because his digestive system’s very sensitive.’

  Eric had eaten three of the luridly coloured and highly inorganic yoghurts, apparently without ill effect, so far.

  ‘He seems quite all right.’

  ‘Marcus should have told you that he only drinks soya milk. Anything else brings him out in a rash.’

  ‘I’ll get some tomorrow,’ he promised.

  ‘You will be careful what you give him, won’t you, Father? I never let him have any of those awful junk foods burgers or nuggets or chips – they’re so bad for children. And chocolate makes him hyperactive.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘And he must wear his hat and scarf and gloves if he goes out, or he might catch a chill.’

  ‘I’ll see that he wears them.’

  Her voice quavered. ‘It’s very kind of you, Father. I’m very grateful.’

  He said gently, ‘It’s no trouble. How are you feeling, Susan?’

  ‘A bit better. They seem to think the baby might be all right, but I’ve got to stay in bed for several more days.’ She gulped. ‘I do miss Eric.’

  ‘Well, you mustn’t worry about him. He’ll be fine. We’re going to do some things together. Go on some outings.’

  He didn’t mention the tanks in case they were banned too.

  The colonel drove over to Bovington through the snow, his grandson slumped sullenly in the child’s seat in the back. There were some icy patches here and there, but he went slowly and carefully. As they approached the museum, a tank, out on exercises, rumbled thunderously across the road in front of the car. In the driving mirror, he
saw Eric sit up and take notice.

  ‘That’s a Challenger,’ he told him. ‘Our main British battle tank. Crew of four – commander, gunner, loader, driver. One of the heaviest armoured and best protected tanks in the world.’

  ‘It’s got a great big gun in front.’

  ‘High explosive squash head rounds,’ the colonel continued, not bothering with any child-speak. ‘Long range, very effective against buildings and thin-skinned vehicles. Gyrostabilized sight with laser rangefinder and night vision. The commander has eight periscopes to see all the way around in a circle and the turret can rotate in nine seconds.’

  Eric had rotated himself to watch the tank rolling away over the snow.

  ‘Wow!’

  The colonel hadn’t been in a tank regiment himself, but tanks were something pretty special in his view. And so were tank crews. He was well aware that the men that served in them were second to none.

  In the museum, they walked around the halls, past the Shermans, the Matildas, the Panzers, the Crusaders and the Leopards. At each one, the colonel paused to give his grandson a brief account: number of crew, armaments, any interesting details – often quite lurid.

  ‘The Germans called the Shermans “Tommy cookers”.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they called British soldiers “Tommies” and when the Germans managed to hit one of the tanks, they often caught fire and sometimes the crew couldn’t get out.’

  ‘So they all got burned?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, poor chaps.’ They walked on. ‘This is a German tank. A Panzer, also known as a Tiger. Lots of firepower and armour but slow and too heavy to go over most bridges. It has a snorkel at the back so it can go through deep water. Crew of five.’

  ‘Did they ever drown?’

  ‘I expect so,’ the colonel said briskly. ‘Occasionally.’

  Wherever there was something for children to push or pull, or listen to or wind-up, he pointed it out for Eric. They sat in a World War One trench and in a World War Two Anderson shelter. Eric went over an assault course, tried on an army helmet and had a go at the rifle range, shooting at targets and making a lot of noise. Then the colonel had a go with the Lee Enfield, too, and his score was pretty good. After that, they both tried the Bren Gun, rat-a-tat-a-tat, and then the PIAT.