All the same, at the village telephone box Patrick stopped and dialled Ellen’s number. This time she answered promptly. He told her that he had booked her room at the Randolph for the next weekend and said he would meet her at the station if she would let him know which train she would be on. She promised to send a postcard, thanked him, and seemed anxious to end the conversation. Patrick knew she was not alone, and just as certainly he was sure that David Bruce, known not to be in Meldsmead that evening, was with her.
He stopped at the garage, which was still open, and filled up with petrol. The owner was chatty. Patrick discovered that he did the maintenance for almost everyone in the village. They talked for some minutes and then Patrick drove up the lane to the vicarage. Mr. Merry had suggested he should call when he was in Meldsmead; it was to be hoped that tonight was not Mothers’ Union night, or the time appointed for Confirmation class.
It was not. Mr. Merry himself opened the door and recognised Patrick at once.
‘Come in, come in,’ he cried warmly, and called over his shoulder, ‘Meg, my dear, we have a most welcome visitor.’
His wife appeared almost immediately beside him, small, smiling, rather like him, the very personification of her name. A most appetising smell was coming from the inner regions of the house, and Patrick, who fully intended to cadge a meal if invited, nevertheless felt shame as the vicar introduced them.
‘What a terrible time to call,’ he said. ‘You’re about to have dinner.’
‘You shall share it, you shall share it,’ said Mr. Merry. ‘Meg had only just said that we should go out into the by-ways and pluck someone in, as we had an abundance. We were going to pluck Paul Newton, in fact; he’s sure to be in the Meldsmead Arms, but here are you, delivered up instead.’
‘We’d invited Carol Bruce, but she isn’t well and can’t come. We’ve plenty of food,’ beamed Mrs. Merry.
Patrick needed no more urging. They all had a glass of sherry. ‘Gift of Paul Newton – a most generous man,’ said the vicar, and Patrick was told again about his sad situation.
‘He blames himself for his wife’s death,’ said Mr. Merry. ‘He’s rather a perfectionist – very neat about the house, likes old furniture and good food, and is a connoisseur of wine – hence this excellent sherry. His wife was rather a slapdash soul – charming, but she couldn’t achieve the polish she thought he wanted from her. She was untidy, and very unpunctual. She was driving home much too fast from visiting some friend or other when she was killed – hurrying home to get Paul’s dinner.’
‘How tragic,’ Patrick said. For how many years would Paul carry his burden of guilt? And perhaps they had parted for the last time on a tiff; what a terrible thing to reach the end without a chance to make amends. ‘He has a family, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. A very nice daughter who’s pony mad at the moment, and a boy who’s a medical student, but I gather is thinking of giving it up,’ said Mrs. Merry.
‘Is he?’ The vicar looked surprised.
His wife nodded.
‘Yes. Paul’s very worried about it.’
‘He hasn’t mentioned it to me,’ said the vicar.
‘He will. He doesn’t know what to do; it may be just a whim, or it may go deep,’ said Meg Merry.
‘Did the boy really want to do medicine, or was he pushed into his father’s footsteps?’ Patrick asked.
‘I think he was still hesitating when his mother died. Then he made up his mind,’ said the vicar.
‘You mean he may have felt one blow was enough for his father – he couldn’t disappoint him after that happened?’ Patrick said.
‘I’m afraid it may have been something like that. I did wonder at the time,’ said Mr. Merry. ‘But he’s passed all his exams and done quite well so far.’
‘Lionel was very good with Paul after his wife died,’ Mrs. Merry told Patrick as they went into the dining-room. ‘You know the sort of thing – the funeral details, and so on, and they spent hours and hours talking together. Paul was always good to us, but he’s been even more generous since then. Never comes to church, though.’
‘She’s buried here?’
‘She was cremated, but we had the service here first. She was a faithful member of the church; she had a lovely voice. She was always late, though.’ Meg smiled at the memory.
Dinner was excellent – home-made soup, roast loin of lamb, and peach flan, with a mellow Beaujolais, another gift from Paul Newton.
‘I suppose in a village as small as this it’s still possible for everyone to know each other,’ Patrick said. ‘Where my sister lives, although it’s still a village and not a town, it’s too large for that. There are whole sections of the community who never meet unless they’re involved in some joint activity.’ Jane, he knew, had met most of her friends through the play group where Andrew spent two mornings a week.
‘We are growing,’ Meg said. ‘Some of the newer arrivals in the village don’t mingle much. Lionel always calls when anyone fresh comes, but they’re afraid he’s going to start praying over them or something, so they regard him with suspicion. But of course that’s a generalisation. It doesn’t apply to everyone. Some of the newcomers are much more community-minded than people who’ve lived here for years.’
‘I’ve met the Bruces. They’re new, aren’t they? You said Mrs. Bruce is ill,’ Patrick said.
‘Oh yes. Poor thing, she’s been most unlucky since they moved in. I had quite a shock when I went to see her yesterday,’ said Mrs. Merry.
Patrick was told once more the story of the doctor’s car being seen approaching Abbot’s Lodge.
‘There she was, in a huge four-poster bed in the room where poor Hesther died, looking just like Hesther, except for the hair. Hesther’s was long, and when she was ill she braided it. Carol wears hers quite short. She’d been sick and had an awful headache. Fortunately I was able to fetch the prescription the doctor ordered for her,’ said Mrs. Merry.
‘She’s better today though, isn’t she, dear?’ asked the vicar.
‘Yes, much. She must have picked up some germ, or eaten something that disagreed with her.’
‘I suppose David can cook for himself and look after her. Most men can, these days,’ said the vicar.
‘Well, he’d have been all right last night. I made Carol some tea, and naturally looked into the fridge when I got the milk. There were some chops in it, and some blackberry and apple pie. The pie was still there when I went up this morning, though the chops were gone.’
‘Perhaps David doesn’t like blackberry and apple pie,’ suggested the vicar.
‘Would Carol make it, then? Surely not,’ Mrs. Merry said. ‘Anyway, it had gone this afternoon. Carol must have decided to throw it away. She’s certainly not up to eating it herself – she’s still at the bread-and-milk stage. She’s not really up – just pottering about in a dressing-gown.’
They went on to talk of other things, and some time later, after what had been a very pleasant evening, Patrick took his leave, making a mental resolution to invite them to some Oxford gathering that might be of interest to them.
He was very fond of his white Rover, but tonight he began to wish he owned a car that was a less conspicuous colour. He took the loop road that led away from the village and by which, he supposed, you could eventually find your way towards Basingstoke. After travelling half a mile or so out of the village he pulled into a gateway, hoping that the ground, though wet, was still firm enough to support the weight of the car without the tyres sinking into it, and by the feeble glow of the interior light he studied an ordnance map of the area. This showed that there was a footpath from the lane where he was now, across the fields to the bridge over the stream where he and Ellen had found the body of Rufus. Could he, he wondered, find his way along this route in the dark and the wet? He could not risk meeting any of his new acquaintances by going through the village past Mulberry Cottage down to Abbot’s Lodge, especially as Valerie was here for the night. Well, at least he could try this
cross-country venture. Thank heaven for a country-dwelling sister, he thought, getting his gumboots out of the car and putting them on. He tucked his trouser ends well in and set off, torch in hand.
The rain had stopped, and a fitful moon appeared now and then through the clouds. Patrick found the stile that marked the start of his journey, climbed it, and embarked across a very soggy field, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Rustlings and grunts in the field indicated the presence of beasts; he made out the dark humps of them in the brief moments when the moon shone: steers, he supposed. He did not want to shine his torch; there was no explanation he could possibly give for his presence here, if challenged. On he blundered, guided by the intermittent shafts of moonlight that filtered past the mass of nimbus in the sky, and at length he met the stream. He had only to follow it now to reach the bridge, and this was easy enough, though there were several wire fences to cross. But his legs were long and he stepped over them easily. He came to the bridge, crossed it, then went on to the hedge that bounded the grounds of Abbot’s Lodge. This was the way he had walked with Ellen. Tonight he did not open the gate that led into the garden; he could see a light burning in an upstairs window: Carol’s bedroom, where she lay in her four-poster recovering from her malaise. He skirted round the hedge and slipped in through the main gate. Here he risked a brief flash from the torch and soon saw the dustbin by the back door. It was one of a kind issued by many councils now, a solid wire frame with a hinged lid, with a plastic bag attached ready for neat removal by the refuse disposal men. Because the lid was made of rubber he was able to raise it silently and examine the contents; he had to shine his torch, but he quickly found a newspaper parcel containing a large slice of blackberry and apple pie. With his penknife he shaved off a thin sliver, put it in an old envelope he had in his pocket, wrapped up the parcel again and restored it to the squalid interior of the dustbin. Then he set off on the return journey back to his car by the way he had come.
This time he glanced at Mulberry Cottage as he walked along beside the stream. There he had consoled Ellen about the dog’s death only five days before while they listened to Verdi on her transistor radio. Now all was dark. Valerie must keep early hours.
He had acquired several pounds of mud on either boot by the time he reached his car again, but his eyes had grown used to the darkness and the return journey was easier than the outward one. It was lucky there were cattle in the fields, whose hoofmarks would obliterate his tracks. He hoped he had left no traces of mud around the yard at Abbot’s Lodge.
As he drove back to Oxford he reflected on the lucky chance that decreed Meldsmead’s dustbins should not be emptied on Thursdays. He managed to banish from his mind the conviction that David Bruce was with Ellen in her flat until he had wrapped up and labelled the slice of blackberry and apple pie neatly, ready to give it to a friend of his the next day to be analysed.
PART FIVE
I
‘I can’t get this business of the dog out of my mind,’ said Patrick. It was the following Sunday evening, and he had spent the day with Jane and Michael. Young Andrew was in bed, and they had just had soup, cold pork, baked potatoes and salad, and cherry flan, sitting by a log fire in the living-room. ‘Mike, you’ll be portly when you’re middle-aged if Jane feeds you like this.’
‘I’m getting portly already,’ Michael said, though in fact he was not.
‘Think of all those poor lonely dons’ wives with their tomato soup on their trays and the Sunday film on the box, while their husbands dine in hall. What a dreary life,’ said Jane.
‘I wouldn’t dine in hall on Sundays if I was married,’ said Patrick. ‘Notice that I’m not there now.’
‘You would if you had four argumentative brats,’ said Michael. He grinned at Jane. ‘We haven’t reached that stage. It’s still peaceful when you can make them doss down at a suitable hour.’
‘How’s my niece?’ asked Patrick.
Jane patted her stomach. ‘Active,’ she said.
‘There are too many aunts and nieces in this whole affair,’ said Patrick. ‘Old Amelia and her niece Valerie, and then Ellen.’
‘Yes, Ellen,’ said Jane and exchanged a glance with Michael.
‘Why is all this so much on your mind, Patrick?’ Michael asked. In the past Patrick’s fantastic speculations and theories had proved to be not as far-fetched as they seemed at first, and he had a great respect for his brother-in-law’s judgement, but he thought him insulated from reality, tucked away in his academic fastness among the dreaming spires. ‘After all, life is full of inexplicable things and strange happenings.’
‘I know it is. But two old ladies, two respected spinsters, die suddenly, within a couple of months of one another, both by falling down rather special stairs, and both were friends. Then a dog drowns.’
‘O.K. So the two old girls fell down the stairs. That’s an odd coincidence, I’ll allow you that. But you saw the first old lady fall yourself, and knew it was an accident. The second old lady was depressed and sad, perhaps, and she had a weak heart. Delayed shock may have caused her death. Anyway, what a splendid way to die.’
‘Falling down the stairs in the British Museum? I can’t agree,’ said Patrick.
‘I really meant the suddenness of it, and the other one, the one who died on the Acropolis,’ said Michael.
‘It wasn’t splendid, Michael,’ Patrick said. Once again he saw the thin limbs crudely exposed, and the shocked Greek policeman swiftly covering them.
‘But there can’t be any connection with the dog. Maybe he had a weak heart too.’
‘Another coincidence? Maybe.’
Patrick did not want to tell them about Ellen and David. To say it aloud would be to force himself to admit it. The first time he had seen them together, in the field, could have been innocent, but there was no mistake about the way they had looked at one another that morning in the British Museum. Circumstantial evidence, he told himself sternly, unsupported by the facts needed for the true researcher.
‘I went to Meldsmead on Thursday,’ he said abruptly. ‘I hadn’t got the feel of the village – I wanted to try to sense the atmosphere. I had a drink in the pub and met a man there whom I’d spoken to before. He told me Carol Bruce had been ill. Some sort of stomach upset.’
‘Gastric flu. There’s a lot about,’ said Jane.
‘Or else there is some sort of curse on that house, as everybody says. Ellen thinks so,’ he said.
‘Patrick, just what are you afraid of?’ Jane demanded, putting down her knitting and looking at him. ‘You don’t really want to go on with this, do you? Yet usually you’re looking for mysteries in the most normal events. Are you afraid that Ellen is involved in something sinister? Do you think the dog was killed on purpose, as a warning, perhaps?’
‘I think that someone doesn’t want Carol Bruce at Abbot’s Lodge,’ said Patrick. ‘She put her foot through the floorboards of a room that had been re-floored. She slipped on some steps that were perfectly dry except for where I found a trace of fine oil. She scratched her arm doing a household repair, and her dog has died mysteriously. And now she’s ill. Oh, and her car had a puncture.’
‘She’s just accident-prone,’ said Jane. ‘And people do have punctures all the time, even with tubeless tyres.’
‘I went to the garage at Meldsmead on Thursday for some petrol, and got talking to the owner. Carol’s so-called puncture wasn’t one. There was no trace of a hole in it when the wheel was brought in for repair. It must have been let down. Deliberately, I mean.’
‘How? Couldn’t it have been the valve?’ Michael asked.
‘The flat tyre was found after the Bruces had been out to a party. It was completely flat – right down on the rim. It couldn’t have been just a leaky valve – that would have gone down slowly and might have taken twenty-four hours or more to lose all its air.’
‘Some hooligan boys let it down,’ Jane said promptly.
‘In a remote lane, well away from the vil
lage? Where there’s no other house, just the Bradshaws’ market garden?’
‘Certainly the car couldn’t have been driven on a really flat tyre without it being noticed,’ Michael said. ‘Who did spot it?’
‘David. He was going to drive it home, but he noticed the car sagging – you know how they do when one tyre is really down. They had no pump and he changed the wheel.’
‘But this is fanciful in the extreme. Why should anyone want to get Carol Bruce to leave Abbot’s Lodge?’ Michael demanded.
‘It’s been empty for ages. Maybe some gang had got it earmarked as a hideout. Maybe something is hidden there – thieves do dump stuff and collect it later, even after years, when they come out of gaol,’ said Jane.
‘Well, all right, let’s accept that, however unlikely it seems, as some sort of reason. It still doesn’t connect up with your old ladies,’ said Michael.
‘Supposing we could find a link?’ Patrick said.
‘There can’t be one.’
‘There’s Meldsmead.’
‘Do you believe that Miss Amelia saw someone like the train robbers hiding their loot at Abbot’s Lodge and they did her in? Nonsense,’ said Jane. ‘If there was anything odd going on there and she knew about it, she’d report it at once – her duty, you know. Don’t forget the Slade House motto – “Virtue in all I do”.’
‘No. Miss Amelia’s death was an accident. That youth jostled her and she fell. It could have happened to any old lady who happened to be standing where she was at that moment. It was her own fault for not being in a better position. She happened to be standing above a sheer drop – short, but sheer. She fell and bowled down the stairs below. A younger person would have retrieved their balance somehow – clutched at someone, maybe had a broken leg, but might not have been killed.’
‘She hadn’t found some ancient archaeological prize she was about to smuggle back to England in her reticule?’ suggested Michael.
Grave Matters Page 8
