by Gwen Moffat
‘How is she?’
‘Oh, you know Sarah: she can’t take much in by six o’clock in the evening.’ Lucy measured sherry carefully into a pan on the stove. He watched moodily, nursing a large Scotch. ‘I wanted to see her before the weekend,’ he went on. ‘Things aren’t going at all well.’
‘At the factory?’
He nodded gloomily. ‘I don’t think we can keep it up; the bottom’s dropped out of the market. For Christ’s sake, people are economising on their own food!’ He produced a superior kind of pet food. ‘I thought if we introduced more cereals and used less meat, have a publicity campaign stressing how much healthier a cereal-based diet is—’
‘Is it?’
‘I don’t know but I daresay we can find a boffin who will say so. But we need more capital: for new plant and for publicity, so I had to talk to Sarah. . . .’ He stopped.
‘And she wasn’t amenable?’
‘She suggested we sell the factory and start farming.’
‘Oh, Denny!’
‘Well, my sweet, at six o’clock! She’s probably sunk half a bottle since this morning. She said, “I haven’t a penny to spare, love, and with things the way they are, we ought to get out while the going’s good and put the money into something that pays—like sheep.”’ Lucy licked her lips. ‘Don’t look like that,’ Noble admonished. ‘She didn’t mean it; I’ll have another go at her Sunday morning—I’ll take her up to Storms for a drink. Oh, you think that would be indiscreet? I suppose you’re right. But I’ll persuade her to let me have some money, you’ll see. It’s just that any request for cash she sees as a threat to her way of life: less money, less drink. She sees threats everywhere; hallucinogenic, that’s the word.’
‘Threats?’
‘She’s getting hallucinations. I’m terrified she’ll have an accident—she must do sooner or later, but she won’t give up driving. She’s terrified herself. She said the old Escort had a lot of play in the steering, but the steering was as firm as a rock. But she bought this Marina and it’s much more difficult for her to drive; she says she can’t judge its width. Thank God she doesn’t go out except in the mornings when she’s relatively sober. D’you know what she asked me tonight?’
‘No. What?’
‘Would I stand by her if she killed someone.’
‘What on earth was in her mind?’
‘I don’t know. Does the brain soften in these cases?’
‘You’d have to ask a doctor. But one thing you should be thankful for: you haven’t got a quarrelsome wife.’
‘Ah, that is something. Poor Sarah; I don’t think she’s ever said a harsh word to me about you.’
Lucy looked astonished. ‘Of course she wouldn’t; she’s grateful to me.’
‘Grateful?’
‘Darling, Sarah’s terribly middle-class—so are you, of course—but in Sarah’s book you just don’t neglect husbands. In sickness and in health, you know: all that bit. Sarah knows she can’t make a decent home for you now, but I save her from being guilty. I take her place. Well? Don’t I?’
‘You do far more than that, my sweet.’
She smiled, pushed a pan to one side of the stove, and took a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from the refrigerator.
‘We won’t need ice for this,’ she said, ‘we’ll drink it too quickly.’
In the living room they toasted each other and he sat and regarded the fire absently.
‘George Harper called,’ she told him. ‘Zeke sent him down with the eggs. What an ordinary little man he is, and no topic of conversation at all. No manners; I don’t mean he’s rude exactly—it’s that he has no idea of how to behave. He gawked at my dress and at the table, but obviously thought it wasn’t done to compliment me or even to comment on the fact that I was entertaining. I gave him a whisky and he was as nervous as a cat but didn’t know how to take his leave. I had to throw him out in the end.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Very simple. One fits the means to the man. I propositioned him.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘Don’t worry; he’s sitting in Burblethwaite now, burping over his stew and watching telly and wondering if he imagined it. Oh, I’m sure he’ll be thinking that sex lies in the remote past for people of his age, so what on earth—? He’ll think he’s starting to have hallucinations. Surrey, he comes from, doesn’t he? I see him in a semi with a pocket handkerchief garden and a rotary lawn mower—’
‘No.’
‘What d’you mean: no?’
‘He’s not suburban. He says he’s a wholesale tool merchant. I should leave it at that.’
‘Why, darling, you’re not jealous of George Harper?’
He shook his head seriously. He looked very tired and the fatigue was in his voice. ‘No, I’m not worried about Harper. What’s that delicious smell?”
Lucy changed gear smoothly. ‘Which one? We’re having kidneys in sherry for starters, a carbonade to follow, and grouse. There’s a bilberry flan if you can manage it.’
‘Now that’s unfair: all my favourites in one night.’
*
By the time they reached the grouse, he was rather drunk and his beefy face was a dangerous red. Lucy said casually as she served him, ‘That fire’s too hot on your back; move round to the side and take off your jacket.’
He obeyed, scraping his chair. ‘Had a bit too much to drink,’ he said apologetically.
‘The food will act as blotting paper, and you’re not driving.’
‘Blotting paper!’ He regarded his grouse with reverence and giggled. ‘One thing, you’ll never be one of the millions of unemployed; you could get a position any day as a chef.’ He returned to his plate. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Quite perfect.’
‘Have some watercress; it’s good for the blood.’
‘You do take care of me, Lucy.’
She shrugged and helped herself to salad. She had no grouse. She leaned one elbow on the table and her arm, in the red velvet, made a pretty line in the soft light. Noble’s eyes were held by her colour and sparkle but his concentration was on the food. They ate in a companionable silence for a while before she asked: ‘Has Miles Mossop been in court yet?’
‘Yes; while we were in town. I saw Hendry at lunch-time: the C.I.D. inspector. The magistrates refused to give Mossop the benefit of the doubt. I’m not surprised; he wouldn’t make a good impression on the court. He’s an uncouth bugger.’ Lucy said nothing. Noble chewed stolidly, staring at a candle flame. At length he said, ‘Curious about that crate of Scotch; a chap in his position doesn’t have to buy the odd crate that fell off the back of a lorry, but it was stolen all right, and just the one.’
‘Could someone have planted it in his cellar?’
‘Would they? I doubt it: too expensive a gesture. But he’s a fellow without principles; perhaps someone had it outside in the boot of a car and offered it to him at a discount. He’d know it was stolen, of course. Point is: who else knew? Someone was after Mossop’s blood. Hendry told me: the police got a tip-off about that whisky.’
‘Who from?’
‘Anonymous. You’d expect it to be a waiter or someone else who’d left under a cloud, but he hasn’t sacked anyone for six months.’
‘It’s someone who’s still there then, who hates him quietly. That must be an unpleasant thought for him.’
‘There’s no staff at Storms during the winter. It’s the person who tipped off the police who’ll be having a bad time now: wondering if Mossop suspects him, and what he’ll do if he finds out.’
The latch of the back door clicked. She glanced up quickly but Noble, crumbling a roll, had heard nothing. The inner door was flung open and a girl stood there, a girl with short yellow hair and a vapid little face which was now sharp and ugly. She wore a huge bottle-green coat and her head was sunk between her shoulders as if she had no neck. Her eyes were quite mad.
Lucy’s face was blank. Noble looked up, followed her glance and froze. The girl’s face didn
’t change. She stared at him with unbearable intensity. Her hands were hidden in her wide sleeves and she shivered spasmodically.
‘Why didn’t you call back?’ Her voice rose, almost out of control.
Noble was speechless and it was Lucy who responded. ‘Come in and shut the door; both doors.’
Noble turned to her and said, with the elaborate diction of a drunk fighting to get a grip on himself: ‘What would you like me to do?’
Lucy said with the faintest smile, ‘If Peta won’t, perhaps you would close the doors.’
He got up carefully, holding the edge of the table and testing his legs.
Peta Mossop repeated tonelessly, ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’
‘I didn’t tell him,’ Lucy said, and took a sip of her claret. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
Noble had stopped in the centre of the room. ‘What didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s bitterly cold with both doors open,’ Lucy reminded him tightly.
He jerked into action, blundered past the girl and slammed the outer door. Lucy’s chin rose a fraction. He closed the living room door with exaggerated care. Peta made no move to sit down. He glanced at Lucy and drew out the chair that had its back to the fire.
‘Won’t you take your coat off?’ he asked, then frowned at himself. Peta sat down, still staring at him.
‘I rang earlier. She said she’d tell you. I should have known she wouldn’t.’
Noble asked helplessly of Lucy, ‘What ought we to do?’
She stood up, collecting the plates. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
He picked up a dish and followed her out to the kitchen. ‘What shall we do?’ he whispered urgently. ‘Is she drunk? What did she ring about?’
‘She was hysterical—like she is now. A brandy might calm her down, then I’ll get rid of her. She’s out to make trouble.’
‘Shall I ring Miles to come and fetch her?’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, darling.’
She looked up. The girl stood in the doorway, and now there was feeling in her eyes. She regarded Lucy malevolently.
‘I know you’re talking about me—’
‘We could hardly talk in front of you,’ Lucy said reasonably. She advanced on the other with the coffee tray. ‘You’ll stay and have coffee with us before you go?’
Peta stood aside and followed her back to the table. Lucy took a bottle of brandy from the cupboard and poured a generous measure for the girl.
‘Sit down; you look cold. Did you walk here?’
‘Yes.’
Peta tasted the brandy and then drank half of it. Noble gave her a cigarette. He lit it and she leaned back, sighing and exhaling smoke. Her eyes were calmer, too calm.
‘I shouldn’t have come.’ No one responded to that. ‘Although,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘brandy and a smoke couldn’t make me relax in the flat; I know: I tried it. I flipped. It’s all right now, at this moment, even with you there—’ She looked across the table at Lucy whose expression was coolly attentive as she poured coffee. Noble sat down carefully, halfway between the two women. ‘But when I get back to the flat,’ Peta went on, ‘and start waiting for the telephone to ring, I can’t stand it—and I shan’t sleep even with the pills. . . .’ She looked round the room. ‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ she told Noble. ‘You’ve got it made; you’re all so sure of yourselves, even your wife.’
‘My wife!’
Her lip curled. ‘Oh, we’ve spoken—occasionally. She doesn’t care about anything, does she? An alcoholic, money to burn, and hard as nails. What’s she got to lose? Why should she be afraid of me?’
‘Why should anyone?’ Lucy asked.
The girl looked at her with hatred. ‘Someone sent me a letter.’
‘Oh.’ Noble stiffened and turned to Lucy. ‘D’you think—?’ She shook her head at him. ‘What did it say?’ he asked, turning back.
A shutter came down over Peta’s eyes and she drank the rest of her brandy. ‘It’s not just the letter,’ she said, not answering the question. ‘There are telephone calls.’ She looked at him deliberately. ‘The caller never says anything, just holds the phone and after a while he puts it down.’ She shuddered.
‘There were telephone calls before,’ Noble said sternly, ‘weren’t there?’
‘Not really.’ She was apathetic. ‘I imagined them.’ Her head sank into her shoulders again, like a rabbit waiting for the stoat.
‘Has anything ever been said on the telephone?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing happens?’
‘Just breathing.’ She sighed loudly. ‘No, maybe I made that up, about the breathing. I can’t be sure. Silence,’ she went on. ‘He never speaks. It’s driving me crazy.’ She put her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. Noble and Lucy exchanged glances. He indicated the brandy and she shrugged. He half-filled the girl’s glass, spilling some.
‘And these anonymous letters?’ he pressed, ‘what did they say?’
Peta raised her head and stared at him, then looked meaningly at the other woman.
‘Have you brought them with you?’ Noble asked.
‘I only had one. I lost it.’
‘You lost it.’ His tone was heavy with irony.
‘I put it in my handbag and it disappeared.’
He opened his mouth to expostulate but thought better of it. ‘Have you told Miles?’
‘You’re mad!’
Suddenly he had a revelation. ‘Have you told Quentin?’
She had been pale when she entered, had recovered some colour sitting close to the fire, but now the blood drained out of her face and her eyes were stark with something like fear.
‘But I think he’s just the person,’ Noble protested. ‘He’s your doctor, and a good one; he knows your history—I mean, we all have a history, don’t we? How about going to Quentin first thing tomorrow, eh?’ The tone was avuncular.
There was a long silence during which Peta looked round the room and avoided Lucy’s gaze. Once or twice she opened her mouth as if to say something but didn’t.
‘You have to think of yourself,’ Lucy told her.
The girl stood up and said spitefully, ‘I’m sorry I intruded. Don’t get up; I’ll let myself out.’
Noble was still struggling to his feet as she opened the door. When they heard the latch click into place he turned to Lucy in horror. ‘She’s round the bend!’ She nodded unhappily. ‘What’s she after? Attention, sympathy?’
‘Or you?’ But she wasn’t joking; she was preoccupied.
‘Could be,’ he agreed without self-consciousness, and shivered. ‘Quentin will deal with her. After all, he had her before—treated her, I mean, when she had that first breakdown. He’ll send her back to the same specialist. Wonder why she’s gone like this again? You know, if she’s made it all up—I mean, we know the phone calls are imaginary, so the anonymous letter—? There was the one you had. . . . It looks as if she’s writing them, doesn’t it? You don’t lose anonymous letters; you keep them or you burn them, but they’re far too valuable—or incriminating—to lose.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Such a pretty girl too; how she’s spoilt herself. I blame Mossop for a lot of it. She hasn’t a penny to spend on herself; has to go to him on her knees for the price of a pair of tights.’
Lucy said coldly, ‘Well, if she goes on her knees. . . . But that slit-sided number she had on at my party, the night she did the Mata Hari act with you, cost all of fifty quid, even made in Hong Kong.’
‘Oh yes, she told me it cost a bomb, but he paid for it. He likes to see her well dressed, says it’s an advertisement for the place.’ Lucy stood up and started to stack the coffee tray. ‘Of course, they should have had children,’ he went on. ‘Makes all the difference.’ He beamed vacuously at his brandy. ‘I’ll have a word with Quentin tomorrow. He should know about this because she may not go to him unless she’s pushed, and I feel a certain respons . . .’ He checked and threw a startled glance
towards the kitchen, then got to his feet heavily. ‘It’s a pity,’ he said, ‘a great pity.’
Chapter Four
‘I had a rough night,’ Jackson Wren told Rumney, ‘I couldn’t eat me breakfast.’
‘You can eat it when we get back,’ Rumney said sourly. ‘We’re late starting as it is.’
They were taking some sheep down to winter on the doctor’s meadows. At this hour of the morning there was no sun in the bottom and the fields were white with frost. The sky held a pallid glare but it was hardly bright enough to warrant Jackson Wren’s dark glasses. He was a large brawny fellow with fair hair cut short, a deep tan and a scrubby moustache. He could have been a warrant officer from a good foot regiment. He was dressed in breeches, navy socks with white snowflakes, lightweight boots and an immense scarlet padded jacket. He walked with a lurch, his hands in his pockets and his head low.
Beside him Zeke Rumney had the same hunched stoop though his came not from any studied imitation of hard men but from carelessness. All Arabella’s insistence on good posture passed over her uncle’s head. Seen in the daylight Rumney was a powerful man in his sixties, more than six feet tall, taller than Wren who was half his age. Wisps of grey hair stuck out from under his battered cap but his eyebrows were dark and heavy, the eyes a blue from which most of the colour had gone. Despite the bitterness of this November morning he wore an ancient jersey under bib-and-brace overalls, and a decrepit jacket with the elbows gone, of a shade between earth and dung. It had no buttons and it had been made for him when he was up at Oxford. Now he eyed the other’s duvet jacket thoughtfully.
Wren was immediately aware of the interest. ‘Same as they wear on Everest,’ he said casually, extending an arm. ‘Thirty-five quid.’
‘It looks like it. You could have bought a pony for that.’
‘I’ve got no cold-weather gear. For rescues, I mean.’
Rumney turned back to his sheep: hoggs, and young gimmers which wouldn’t be breeding this year. He thought that the animals had gone back a bit; there was no grass left for them on the tops—but they’d pick up on Quentin Bright’s meadows.
