Ann bent over a corner of the desk, copying the three names from the rough list she had made in the studio.
‘There, that’s done,’ she said, and began to struggle with the parcel. ‘Oh, thanks awfully … that sticky brown tape stuff’s much quicker than string… I’d better write something on the outside, I suppose… Just ready, Mr Torrance.’
‘Good evening,’ came Clive Torrance’s voice from the door … that same voice which had murmured unimaginable things just now… ‘So sorry to rush you like this, but I’m disgracefully late for my weekend date. That’s fine… I must dash… Goodbye.’
He bowed slightly to Joyce Kitson, and took the parcel from Ann. They hurried out to his car, which was standing by the front door.
‘I didn’t see your parking notice,’ he said, swinging into the driving seat and slamming the door. ‘Till Thursday, then.’ He pressed the self-starter.
‘Till Thursday,’ she answered, conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment as he shot off. She watched the car until it paused at the gates, turned right, and vanished.
Returning to the entrance hall, she stood irresolutely until her eye fell on the grandfather clock … nearly twenty to nine … she must hurry… Bert Heyward would be wanting to lock up School Wing… As she came out into the Quad two girls materialised.
‘Can we help you clear up the studio?’ asked Rachel Rivers.
‘Thanks,’ said Ann. ‘It’s nearly all done, as a matter of fact, but I’m trying to get away quickly to pack.’
As they went across the grass together she sensed their interest and curiosity. Damn the children, she thought, they never miss a thing…
‘Have the competition pictures been chosen, Miss Cartmell?’ asked Nicola Stainsby.
‘Chosen and sent off, Nicky. Mr Torrance came and helped settle it this evening. I expect you saw him.’
‘We did see you with a male escort,’ Nicola replied demurely. ‘He’s awfully good-looking, isn’t he?’
‘He was our pin-up Saturday evening lecturer of the year,’ Rachel informed Ann.
‘I must tell him. He’ll be honoured. Now look here, these screens must be stowed away, and I haven’t cleared out the rough paper drawer yet. Could you get on to that while I collect my own stuff?’
‘O.K., Miss Cartmell.’
Ann retrieved her painting satchel from a corner, and rearranged its contents to make room for the oil colour-box. She wondered if canvases and sketching-blocks would be expensive in the States, and decided to take two of the latter. She gathered up a soiled painting smock to be laundered at home.
‘Finished?’ she asked.
‘Just about,’ said Rachel Rivers, shutting the drawer and helping to stuff debris into the waste-paper basket. ‘Can we carry that down for you?’
‘Aren’t you feeling madly thrilled about going to America?’ asked Nicky, as they descended.
‘I can still hardly believe I’m really going,’ said Ann. ‘Perhaps it’s because I haven’t started packing seriously yet.’
‘Nine o’clock,’ remarked Rachel as the clock over the Hall began to strike. ‘Nicky, my old pal, do you realise that in twelve hours’ time the happiest days of our lives will be over?’
Rather touched by the girls’ unexpectedly warm farewells, Ann drove out of the parking-ground and instantly forgot them, her thoughts flying to her new and almost unbelievable happiness. Turning into the main drive she saw the tall, ungainly figure of Madge Thornton, and felt a pang of remorse at having fled from her earlier in the evening. It must have been pretty grim to come back from your mother’s funeral and have to muscle in to end of term and Festival…
‘Like a lift back?’ she called.
Madge Thornton’s large, weather-beaten face peered in at the window.
‘Oh, thank you so much, Ann, but I’m calling in at — er — Applebys, first. So nice of you to offer, all the same.’
Ann realised that Madge was embarrassed at having to refer, even indirectly, to Beatrice Baynes.
‘Right,’ she said, letting in the clutch. ‘I hope someone else will come along later. Goodbye.’
In the driving mirror she could see Madge resuming her progress. Everyone knew how that bloody old woman bullied her… Pity she was so dreary… Perhaps that was why…
Halting at the gates, she turned left into the road. As she swung round and passed Applebys, a young man in a green shirt emerged from the porch. She wondered vaguely who he was.
Three
‘Meldon is situated within easy motoring distance of London.’
The School Prospectus
A small tradesman’s van drew up with a shudder just short of a crossroads some three miles from Meldon.
‘Yours, chum,’ said the driver, with a wave of his hand to the left. ‘Sorry I can’t land you no nearer, but I’m late tonight. Matter o’ three miles. Might be a farm car along if you’re lucky.’
‘This is fine. Thanks a lot for the lift,’ replied George Baynes, leaping out and extracting a rucksack.
‘O.K. by me. Cheerio!’
The van disappeared round a corner. George glanced at the signpost as he shouldered his rucksack: Trill, 3m. That, if his sense of direction was functioning properly, meant about two and a half miles to Applebys. His watch said 8.20. With any luck he’d make it by nine. Surely the old girl wouldn’t go to bed before then on such a smashing evening? A frown furrowed his brow as he strode purposefully along, a slight figure a little under average height, with a thatch of brown hair and a rather narrow face. He had a faintly Puckish air, enhanced by amused, impertinent eyes and markedly protuberant ears.
It had been one hell of a day, he reflected. He’d overslept after last night’s party, turned up late at the Kensington estate agency where he held a junior post, and got a raspberry from that old stick Blenkinsop. Being single-handed on a Saturday morning rota meant coping with about six people’s work, and he’d made a bish over some keys and upset a client. Too broke for more than a sandwich at lunchtime, he’d stayed hanging round the radio only to learn that he’d backed two losers, one an absolute cert that he’d relied on to put right the couple of quid he’d just had to borrow from the petty cash. Then, returning to his euphemistically-styled service-flatlet, he’d found a stinker from the landlord about his arrears of rent, and a threat of action. That had clinched it: there was nothing for it but a shot at touching Aunt Beatrice. Hell, he’d only be asking for an advance on his birthday cheque, due next month. She’d never failed to cough that up so far. What difference could it possibly make to her, anyway? She was rolling, and instead of making him a decent allowance, doled out a mere couple of hundred twice a year, with a lot of guff about making his own way, and hints that she could leave her money where she liked… All the same, there was something likeable about the old trout. Once or twice he’d managed to wheedle her into getting him out of a hole, and she always liked having him at Applebys. Not that he could stick the atmosphere for long, but a comfortable bed and four good meals a day was quite a thing to have lined up for emergencies, and one could usually manage to slip into Trill for a quick one at the Plough. Important to keep on the right side of her, too… But he didn’t really believe that she’d ever cut him out of her will unless he tripped up badly: too much sense of family.
George Baynes was, in fact, the great-nephew, not the nephew of Beatrice: the grandson of her elder brother Clarence, of whom she had held the poorest opinion from the nursery. Clarence, agreeable and lazy, had lounged amiably through life on a substantial inheritance from his father, meeting progressive inflation by drawing on capital. His only child, Edward, and his daughter-in-law, George’s parents, had both been killed in the London blitz, and from that time on George had been brought up by his grandfather, who had flatly refused to hand him over to Beatrice. Furious letters had gone backwards and forwards, bandying expressions such as ‘pernicious debilitating idleness’, and ‘stifling Victorian spinsterhood’, but George remained with Clarence. When
the latter died in 1951, his assets were found to be little more than his debts, and George, after a brief, exhilarating spell of riotous living, had been obliged to find a job. At twenty-five he had already failed to hold down two, having inherited to the full his grandfather’s aversion to sustained effort, as well as his considerable personal charm. But a streak of shrewdness, perhaps harking back to his great-great-grandfather who had amassed the Baynes fortune, had so far kept him out of any serious entanglements, either financial or feminine.
Presently the road forked, and a second signpost indicated Trill, 1¼m. It was a warm evening, and George stopped for a moment to mop his face with a handkerchief, and ease the straps of the rucksack on his shoulders. He swung round hopefully at the sound of an approaching car, but it took the other fork. He swore, and began to plod on again. He’d had rotten luck with lifts all the way… A bloody nuisance that Aunt B. had been out when he rang up to say he was coming. If she’d gone away he’d be completely sunk. Unlikely, though. Too keen on the garden. Why women who could afford to pay someone to do the donkey work spent their time sweating over flowerbeds…
The landscape became vaguely familiar. George glanced at his watch again, and judged that he was making good time. Aunt B. would be livid if he turned up after she’d gone to bed — or even near her bedtime. Not a hope of touching her if he stepped off on the wrong foot like that. She flew into stinking tempers if anything put her out, though to be fair, these didn’t usually last long… Absolutely fantastic to go to bed so early, and then get up at some ungodly hour and expect everybody else to do the same…
Striding on, George breasted a hill. To his relief he saw the buildings of Meldon below, and the next moment picked out Applebys. He exchanged goodnights with a yokel pushing a bicycle, and hurrying down a long slope came out at last into the road which ran along the valley. Five minutes later he arrived at the School gates. He read the notice about parking, and deduced that a do of some kind must be in progress. With dismay he remembered that they had some kind of reunion at the end of the summer term. He’d heard Aunt B., who was crackers about her old school, natter about it, and how the whole set-up was going down the drain because of the new Head… Blast! She’d come back tired, and be furious at finding him there without any warning… Crossing the road, he went in at the garden gate at Applebys and tried the front door. It was locked. He rang the front door bell just on chance, and listened. There was no reply, not even the unwelcome sound of a bedroom window being flung up… She might just conceivably be in the garden, he thought. As he came out of the porch to investigate, a small car driven by a girl came out of the School gates and went off towards Trill.
There was no sign of life in the garden, which lay on the far side of the house. George peered through the windows of the empty drawing-room and dinner-room, debating his next move. Before he could come to a decision, the click of the gate sent him to ground behind a handy clump of rhododendrons… He simply must have time to think … it might be possible to see what sort of a mood the old girl was in…
After a brief pause, he was astonished to hear the front door bell ring. Who on earth would be calling at Applebys at this hour? In the still evening air he could hear the faint grating of the scraper under somebody’s feet. Then footsteps sounded on the path leading round to the garden. He moved back to better cover, and watched through a convenient gap in the branches. The next moment Madge Thornton appeared, and stood irresolutely, looking up at his great-aunt’s bedroom window.
Annoyance and mystification contended in George’s mind. He disliked Madge, finding her an appalling bore, but even more as a potential rival in the matter of his expectations. Her frequent appearances at Applebys during his own visits and what he considered her kowtowing to her godmother had aroused his misgivings. However, he had a shrewd appreciation of Beatrice’s mentality, and sensed that Madge’s doormat propensity irritated her even more than his own casualness and spendthrift habits. All the same, he had decided to watch his step: some people carried the godmother racket to absurd lengths.
Madge’s appearance at this particular moment could hardly have been more unwelcome. His mind moved quickly as he watched her peering in at the ground floor windows as he himself had just done… She was stepping back again now, and looking upwards… Where the heck was Aunt B.? Surely, if she was over at the School at some Old Girls’ binge, Madge would know? It must mean that she’d gone out to supper with some of her buddies.
‘Aunt Beatrice!’ Madge suddenly called up at the bedroom window.
Quite a pleasant contralto… of course, she taught music…
There was no reply. After hesitating for a few moments longer, Madge turned away and slowly retraced her steps. George listened for the sound of the gate shutting, and then ventured out and sat down on a garden seat.
He suddenly realised how hungry and thirsty he was; he hadn’t had a decent meal all day. Oddly enough, Aunt B. liked feeding hungry males. Visited by a sudden idea he went round to the kitchen window, and found it open at the top. Taking off his dusty shoes, he pushed up the window sash and swung in easily over the sill.
Inspection of the larder and refrigerator revealed a veal and ham pie, and ample supplies of bread, butter and cheese. Should he fall to at the kitchen table or carry the grub into the dining-room? Which brand of cheek would go down best with Aunt B. when she came in and found him? He wondered if there was any sherry about… Anything stronger would be under lock and key. Peeping into the drawing-room, he spotted four used glasses and a decanter on a silver tray. That was it … she’d had some old pals in for a drink after the show at Meldon, and they’d gone out to supper together afterwards, at the White Horse at Linbridge, probably. Picking up the decanter he went on into the dining-room. The heavy mahogany table shone like glass, reflecting the roses in the centre. His feet sank into the deep, if unattractive Turkey carpet. He sniffed the air, suddenly hankering after affluence and comfort, and strolled over to the window. A neat slip of paper lay on top of the bureau, under a china jug. Idle curiosity made him pick it up. It was a shopping-list, in Beatrice’s clear, old-fashioned handwriting… Bank… Grenville (curtain lining material)… Foster’s (pay bill)…
Bank… George stood motionless, the paper in his hand. Then, with an abrupt movement he tried the second drawer in the bureau, and found it was, as usual, locked. He hesitated again, and then quickly tipped the contents of the little jug into his hand. They included the key which he had so often seen his great-aunt drop into the jug after locking the drawer. It was the matter of a moment to open it and look inside. There was her cheque-book in a leather case, and beside it a great wad of notes secured by a rubber band. He picked them up and flicked with his thumb. Fifty quid at least…
Thoughts went racing through his mind as he stood with his ears straining for sounds of Beatrice’s return. She might turn up at any minute now… Damn it all, she wouldn’t miss the money… She’d probably be leaving it all to him one of these days, anyway. In a flash he revised his plans. Much better not to confront her at all, as things had turned out. If he took some food as well it would look just like a break-in. He’d sleep rough — it was a warm night — and cut down to Whitesands in the morning, mix in with the holiday crowd, and hitch-hike back to Town. Pay that old so-and-so the rent, and slip that couple of quid back into the petty cash first thing on Monday morning.
They’d never get on to him, but hadn’t he better do something about fingerprints all the same? Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the jug, key, bureau and decanter, and returned the latter to the drawing-room. Acting on a sudden impulse he snatched up a Louis Seize snuff-box from a small table and dropped it into his pocket: just the sort of thing a casual breaker-in would do. In the kitchen he hastily made up a newspaper parcel of food, and added a bottle of milk. Leaving by the window again, he wiped the sill, scuffed the gravel for possible footprints, and having retrieved his rucksack made for the summer-house at the bottom of the garden.
&nbs
p; It was half-past nine. Was it safer to make his getaway now, or should he wait until it was really dark, risking Aunt B.s return and a hullaballoo breaking out? Even now, in this half-light, he might cut through the school grounds to the Whitesands road without being noticed…
Four
‘It is regretted that hospitality to Old Meldonians who are staying overnight cannot be extended beyond breakfast on Sunday morning.’
Official Invitation to Festival
It was daylight on Sunday morning before Madge Thornton fell at last into a heavy sleep from which she awoke unrefreshed and startled to find that it was nearly nine o’clock. Dressing hastily she went downstairs to the dining-room of the staff house. This was empty except for two of her senior colleagues who looked up and greeted her sympathetically.
‘I was on the point of coming up to suggest bringing you some breakfast,’ Mary Brenyard, Meldon’s classics mistress, told her. ‘Come and join us instead.’
‘I really don’t think I want any,’ said Madge, feeling sickened by the used crockery and cold ham in the serving hatch.
‘I’m sure you can manage a cup of coffee, anyway,’ Mary Brenyard switched on an electric kettle and slipped a slice of bread into the toaster. ‘Nice and peaceful, isn’t it? All the young things have gone off already — imagine it, after yesterday, and being up half the night packing, too! Still, they were quite reasonably quiet about it.’
Madge murmured something noncommittal and sat down at the table. The coffee cleared her head a little, and presently she began to join in the rather desultory conversation of the other two. The sudden opening of the hatch made her start. The head of Mrs Milman, the housekeeper, appeared.
‘Will you be in to lunch, Miss Thornton?’
Madge hesitated.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter if you’re not sure. It’s a cold meal, I’m afraid. I thought you might be going to Miss Baynes’.’
Death of an Old Girl Page 3
