Hand of Death

by Margaret Yorke

  Perhaps she was expecting him to call. He’d be let in, all right. He lived in Orchard House, not a bungalow in Tellingford. He went to London every day and didn’t keep a shop. He drove a Rover, not a shabby van. The stuck-up bitch! But he’d been good enough for her ladyship on Friday evening, when she was feeling randy and was all set to make a spectacle of herself in the Plough.

  Such behaviour! It was quite disgusting.

  He couldn’t go straight home; Nancy would know something was wrong. He drove about for an hour, heedless of where he went, round lanes and by-ways, cursing aloud some of the time, more angry and distressed than he ever remembered being in his life.

  When at last he turned into Sycamore Road he saw a couple standing under a tree near his own bungalow. They were tightly clinched, but drew apart as the headlights of the van fell upon them. The girl, the boy’s arms still round her, turned her face, and Ronald saw that it was Lynn. His heart gave a lurch. That was Peter with her, he supposed, a boy, still a schoolboy, who was sometimes waiting for her on a Saturday, when he brought her back from the shop. Hilda and Keith approved of him, Ronald knew, and let Lynn go out with him; yet look at the pair of them now, carrying on for all the world to see.

  It was everywhere, all around; even that lovely little Lynn knew all about it. Only he, Ronald Trimm, had been sold short.

  But Lynn was just a child.

  Ronald made a business of locking the garage door before entering the bungalow, to give himself time to calm down. Nancy would notice if he seemed upset.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lynn was saying to Peter, in the road. ‘It’s only Uncle Ron.’ She kissed him again, lightly, on the mouth, and then ran in to her own home. They’d been at a rehearsal for the school production of The Tempest, in which she was involved with the scenery and stage-management. Peter, with homework to do, had no time to come in this evening for a cup of tea, as he often did when he brought her home.

  She thought no more about it.

  Nancy took care of the shop the next day while Ronald went to an auction. It was an executor’s sale held in a large old house some miles beyond Fletcham, the county town, and he had marked down some furniture likely to go cheaply, as well as several boxes of oddments, the sort of things with which Nancy had begun her stall and which could still be sold profitably as individual items. Now that stripped furniture was so popular, he bought chests, chairs and cupboards that were unsuitable for dipping in a caustic bath because they were made of oak, which would discolour, or were glued and so would fall apart. He paid Valerie Turner a fraction of what it would cost to have them dipped to strip these things by hand.

  It was hard work, as Ronald knew; he had done it himself until Valerie came into the shop one day with a plated teapot she wanted to sell. She had been disappointed at the price he offered, and he had realised that she needed money badly. At the time she came in, he was waxing a newly stripped chest; she admired it and a few minutes later she had agreed to take over the work. At first she was very slow, but that did not worry Ronald since he paid her by the item. She had two young children and wanted work that she could do at home and in her own time; there was a brick garage, once a stable, at Primrose Cottage, where she lived on the outskirts of the village, and that became her workshop. Ronald’s own time was better spent visiting dealers or sales than stripping furniture.

  Driving to Fletcham in time to view the items he had marked in the sale catalogue, Ronald still burned with anger at his treatment from Dorothea the previous evening. He’d heard young men in the Plough talking about bored young wives on housing estates. You had a fine time if you were a well-set-up young representative, calling in the afternoon; you could take your pick, he’d learned. The young men would laugh about it, and Ronald had joined in, trying to show camaraderie, declaring envy. Not all the eager ladies were so young, he’d been told, slyly.

  It was the truth. And if Dorothea Wyatt could behave like that, so could others.

  He enjoyed the sale. He always did. There was a thrill in bidding quietly, up to his limit, not a penny more, and finding his judgement so precise. He had a feel for things, there was no doubt of that; Nancy had said so, all those years ago when she first tutored him. The auctioneers knew him now and were ready for his bids. At first he’d driven straight home, eager to show Nancy what he’d bought and win her approval, but then he found other dealers would stop off for a beer on the way back, and he began to do it too. He liked snatching time when he was accountable to no one. Nancy never went to sales with him, for she had to be in the shop.

  Ronald wore a muffler today that Nancy had knitted. She always had knitting on hand to do when not otherwise busy; she had made Ronald several warm garments and had a small stock of gloves and caps and scarves for when she was asked for donations by organisers of charity bazaars. Ronald knotted his muffler and tucked it into his jacket after writing his cheque to the auctioneer. Then he began loading the van.

  There was a woman in a dark green leather coat at the sale; she seemed to be a dealer, but Ronald had not seen her before. She bid against him several times, and bought a small oak chest with a damaged back that Ronald had been after, outbidding him by only two pounds. He, however, had outbid her for a walnut veneered writing box. If they clashed again, it might be worth their while to get together. Ronald saw her packing the disputed chest carefully into her Cortina brake.

  She came up to him just as he was about to start the van, and mentioned the writing box. She wished she had gone on. She smiled, saying this. She was a small woman with very fair hair worn rather long.

  ‘Well, I’m open to offers,’ said Ronald.

  She named a price which would give him a small profit.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But it’s packed in one of the chests I’ve got in here. It’ll take me a few minutes to unload the van.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said.

  A week ago he would never have done it, but the new Ronald had more nerve and this was an attractive woman.

  ‘Why don’t we stop and seal our bargain over a drink?’ he suggested. There was a pub down the road where some of the buyers had gone for lunch, though Ronald himself had sandwiches made by Nancy, and his flask of coffee.

  The woman hesitated and looked at her watch.

  ‘Is it really right inside the van?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to get everything out,’ said Ronald.

  Vans and cars were moving all round them as the sale packed up; the auctioneers had almost finished. Her Cortina was already blocking the way for another car.

  ‘Do you go through Fletcham?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you mind stopping off at my place, then? It’s only just off the main road. I’ve got to get home,’ she explained.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Ronald. ‘Shall I follow you?’

  ‘Please,’ said the woman.

  She got into her car, and Ronald, who was ahead of her, drove slowly off, pulling into the side of the drive to allow her to pass when she came up behind him. She drove rather fast, and he had to push his old van to keep on her tail as they travelled along the twisty lane towards the main road.

  She turned off at traffic lights on the outskirts of Fletcham and he followed her through several residential streets until she turned again, this time into an estate of small new houses, where she stopped outside one of them. Number Seven, Ronald noticed. He had expected to be led to her shop. Maybe she didn’t have one, but operated from home. Plenty of dealers did.

  ‘I’ll go ahead – you come in when you’ve got the box out,’ she said, and hurried up the path to the house.

  By the light of a nearby street lamp, Ronald took out most of his load, found the box, and replaced everything else. Then he walked to her front door, which he found on the latch.

  It was a clear invitation to enter, which he did, with the box.

  The narrow hall was carpeted in dark green, the carpet continuing up the stairs. There was a small Rege
ncy mirror on the wall, over a folding-top mahogany card table. Ronald saw framed prints above the staircase.

  ‘On your right – go in – I won’t be a minute,’ called the woman. Her voice came from upstairs.

  Ronald went into a sitting room which, though tiny, reminded him of Mrs Wyatt’s. There were long apricot-coloured curtains at the window and good rugs on the floor. He saw a mahogany Pembroke table and two nice rosewood chairs. There were more prints on the wall. He was looking at them when she came in.

  ‘Sorry about all that,’ she said. She had taken off her coat and was wearing a white polo-necked sweater. She bent to switch on an electric fire in the grate. ‘The heating’s come on but it hasn’t really warmed up yet. Now, that cheque. But a drink first.’

  She crossed to a bow-fronted cupboard from which she took two sherry glasses and a bottle of Harvey’s Amontillado. When she had poured each of them a glassful, she took a cheque book and ballpoint pen from her handbag, and sat on the small velvet-upholstered settee which faced the fireplace.

  ‘Who shall I make it out to?’ she asked.

  Ronald told her.

  The cheque was soon written, and she held it out to him. Ronald took it and put it in his pocket without looking at it. Then, with barely an instant’s hesitation, he sat on the settee beside her, and raised his glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  He posed no obvious threat as she stretched her legs out. She wore dark corduroy trousers and tan boots.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I always enjoy a sale, but it’s nerve-racking. Still, I’m pleased with today. I’m glad I’ve got that box.’

  ‘I think we came out about evenly, all told,’ said Ronald. ‘We seem interested in the same things.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We must have an understanding, if we clash again,’ he said, regarding her over his glass. She was gazing ahead at the electric fire, but she had invited him into her house and they were alone.

  ‘I’ve just moved down here from London,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a shop in the town but I’ve had a bit of trouble getting reliable help for when I have to go to sales and things. My partner has a job and can’t help.’

  ‘I see.’ Ronald saw her partner as another woman like herself, perhaps dabbling in antiques as a hobby before retirement. This woman was older than he’d thought; the fair hair was, in fact, greying, and her thin hands were veined.

  He thought back to last Friday. They had sat on the sofa together, just like this.

  Ronald put down his glass, now empty, and carefully laid his right hand on her thigh. That was how Dorothea Wyatt had begun.

  In less than two seconds she had lifted it off, not roughly but extremely firmly, and was standing up.

  ‘I have to go out now,’ she said. ‘And you must go. Goodbye.’ She looked at him hard, not smiling any more and suddenly looking a great deal older and very stern.

  ‘Well . . . yes . . .’ Ronald’s voice was a croak. His heart thumped and he felt a hot choking feeling in his throat. ‘Goodbye.’

  He almost ran from the room and out of the house.

  Felicity Cartwright closed the front door after him and leaned against it.

  ‘Phew!’ she said aloud and, safe now, began to laugh. Fool, she berated herself, for taking him at face value. He certainly seemed harmless enough. Perhaps it was a compliment to be thought worthy of a pass at her age.

  She finished her sherry, poured another, and went into the kitchen to see how the oven was doing. The automatic timer had gone wrong and that was why she had been in a hurry to get home. A casserole was warming up, and soon her partner, Hugo Morton, whose wife was crippled with arthritis, would be here to share it with her. He had been her lover now for twelve years. She wouldn’t tell him what had happened.

  Ronald had to make several attempts to start the van, he was so put out. She’d seemed as though she wanted it, like the women those other men talked about, but then she’d turned haughty. He was in a very bad temper by the time he reached home and read her name on the cheque.

  6

  Dorothea knew that she had behaved badly, but she had also been inept. Mr Trimm, after all, had good reason to expect a welcome. When he rang the doorbell she had been alarmed, for she was not expecting a caller and did not like opening the door in the dark. It had been an anti-climax to find Mr Trimm on the doorstep and her immediate reaction was anger. The next day she thought it rather comic; he had obviously expected to carry on where they left off on Friday.

  Idly, she played with the idea of an intrigue with Mr Trimm. How the village would enjoy it, and they’d be sure to discover if he parked his van at her door, or even came and went on foot. In fact, two and two would be made into five even if the visits were innocent. But she did not want her name and Mr Trimm’s linked by gossip. Dorothea had a feeling that she had been more than a little sloshed in the Plough that evening; she had been there alone before, when very depressed, but hadn’t overstepped the mark, as far as she knew. Mr Trimm had driven her home in her own car so he may have saved her from disgracing herself. At any rate, he didn’t deserve the treatment she had given him; she’d heard him pounding the door after his dismissal.

  She must make some sort of amends.

  On Tuesday morning, after her usual slow start to the day while her head cleared, she went up the village on foot. She called at the butcher’s and the greengrocer’s, and then sauntered on to the antique shop. Peering through the window, she saw Mrs Trimm, neat in her pinafore, inside. She was polishing something.

  Dorothea smiled and waved in vague greeting. Mrs Trimm graciously inclined her smoothly coiffured head.

  Dorothea moved on. She could not see Mr Trimm in the background, but anyway it would be a mistake to go into the shop while his wife was there; he might be even more embarrassed. She’d call another day.

  On Wednesdays, Ronald made his regular calls on Will Noakes, the cabinet maker, and Valerie Turner who did the paint-stripping. Sometimes he went further afield to see dealers, and then Nancy would go early to the shop, but if it was an easier day she would come out on the midday bus in time to join him for lunchtime closing. She would bring cold beef and pickles, or a home-made pie of some kind, to make a change from sandwiches, and would brew coffee in the scullery. She liked this time together with him and would catch up on the morning’s news.

  He looked tired today, she noted, inquiring how the morning had gone.

  ‘Someone was asking about that yew dresser,’ Ronald told her. ‘I don’t know if she was really serious. Said she’d ask her husband.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No one I recognised. A young woman with a couple of children.’

  She’d left her children in the car, and they’d shrieked and blown the horn. The woman had been tall, long-legged. Ronald had imagined touching her as she stooped to open the dresser drawers, jeans tight on her slender thighs. She was too lean, too tall, too pert – that was the word for her, he had decided, whilst replying politely to her remarks. She had a wide mouth and good teeth.

  He noticed them all. He could have given an accurate, detailed description of every woman customer, whether he’d made a sale or not.

  He liked the older ones, the ones who were less aggressive, more assured. In the magazines, those exciting young ones with the pouting lips looked as if they might eat you.

  The business with Will Noakes was soon done. Ronald delivered some of the things he had bought the day before which needed attention, and collected what was ready. Will had made a good job of fitting a new leg to a mahogany cupboard. He’d matched a missing strip of inlay on a small table, too. He was a skilled craftsman; it was Nancy who had found him, hearing another dealer talking about him, and had persuaded him to work for them although he was already very busy.

  Valerie Turner, rather less satisfactory, was not one of her discoveries, and she often fell behind with the work.

  Today, a chest for which Ronald already had a buyer wasn’t
ready.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ronald,’ she said. She’d asked him to call her by her first name as soon as she began working for him, and responded the same way. He liked it, though it made rebuking her less easy. ‘Timmy’s had earache,’ she explained. ‘He’s been at home for a week and I can’t really get much done when he’s around.’ The garage was cold, though there was a paraffin heater; some of the materials she used were inflammable and the caustics were dangerous, so the children were allowed in the garage only when she was sanding and polishing and all her other equipment was stacked safely on a shelf above their heads.

  ‘I’ve got a customer for it, Valerie,’ said Ronald. ‘She’s coming in tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll finish it tonight, when the children are in bed,’ she said. ‘I really will, Ronald.’

  Things weren’t easy for her, with the two children to manage and no husband, Ronald reflected.

  ‘I’ll come and pick it up tomorrow, then,’ he said. He mustn’t relent, though he could easily put the customer off for a day or two.

  ‘I’m going to see my parents tomorrow,’ said Valerie. Her mother had recently had a serious operation, and her father had retired early because of a heart attack. They lived in Middletown. ‘I’ll leave the garage unlocked and then you can just come in and take it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ronald. No wonder she never had things done in time if she allowed herself to be deflected by visits to her parents. She wasn’t well organised. He’d been in the house for a cup of tea once, finding it shabby and cluttered up with children’s toys. He’d got jam on his sleeve. ‘I’ve got some more for you,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring it all in.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she said, and pulled off the stained rubber gloves she wore to protect herself from the strong chemicals. The sleeves of her thick sweater were rolled up, and her forearms were white and rounded.

  Ronald looked at them as they laboured together, carrying in the things he had bought at Fletcham, his own hands warm in his leather gloves.