by Joan Aiken
“Oh, did Robin do that—are you sure?”
“Well, of course, being Robin, he never admitted to it, but it figured; Clough said he was hit by a white car, and it was just around the time Robin was here last; that day you turned up.”
“Yes; I remember. Oh, there’s Adnan,” said Lucy, looking along the rain-swept village street.
“He’s a funny one, the little Turk, isn’t he? Has he asked you to join his harem yet? Well, he will. Oh, excuse me; I hear Oedipus squeaking. Call you tonight.” Fiona vanished indoors.
The Alfa drew to a splashing stop beside Lucy.
“Dear Lucy Snowe! So we meet again.”
“Have you come from the Hall?” Lucy drew her duffel coat round her; the rain was beginning to penetrate.
“Indeed I have; I even saw your aunt. She seems very happy. Perhaps you were right, after all, to move her.”
“Tell me, what did you mean last night when you said I should keep my talent for finding out about things in check while I stayed at the Hall?”
“Did I say so?” He looked vague. Today he wore a bottle-green blazer with two bronze buttons over a deep-collared terra-cotta shirt and white silk cravat; he carefully flicked a small speck of lint from his lapel.
“Yes, you did.”
“Oh well, I suppose I meant merely that Mrs. Marsham is not a lady who will permit interference with her matronly ways; she would soon send you packing if you did not toe her line. But then, I think you do not plan to stay long in any case?”
“What about Mrs. Crabtree’s death?” said Lucy abruptly.
Adnan looked startled and reserved; his mussel-plum eyes hooded themselves.
“What about it?” he repeated.
“Was it a natural death? Did you sign the death certificate?”
“Good heavens, my dear Miss Lucy, today you are seeing bogies in every bush! Naturally I signed the death certificate, and, yes, it was a natural death. To die of measles and pneumonia mixed at age eighty-three is in no way remarkable, I assure you. I go now to arrange for an ambulance to fetch this poor old lady to the undertakers.”
“She hadn’t, for instance, been injected with that anti-measles vaccine which had to be withdrawn because it was giving people heart attacks?”
“My dearest girl!” He shot a glance up and down the village street. “You ought to be writing scripts for television, you are wasted in a tranquil little out-of-the-way place like Appleby-under-Scar! No such dark elements played any part in the poor old lady’s death, I do most earnestly assure you! Any part whatsoever!—But I am keeping you standing in the rain, which is unpardonable. Good-bye for the present; we are sure to meet frequently while the epidemic runs its course.”
The Alfa shot away, in a fountain of mud and exhaust.
Lucy, by now fairly damp, ran back to where she had parked little PHO and drove rapidly back to Wildfell Hall. On the way she listened to a recital by Denis Matthews, who was playing numbers 7 to 12 of Book One of the 48 Preludes and Fugues; half her mind listened with serious attention, contrasting his rendering with that of Benovek; the other half was occupied with trying to come to some, any conclusion, about Dr. Adnan. Did he speak the truth ever, occasionally, often, always? She had no means of deciding.
Dear Max, it will be a darn good thing if Mrs. Marsham okays the notion of having Fiona Carados come and help out. Maybe Adnan is right and I am seeing bogies in every bush. But Fiona seems a down-to-earth character; we’ll see what she makes of it all. She’s not likely to imagine things. Though I’ve a notion she could have been wrong about Clough; it needn’t have been Robin who knocked him down. What about that white Rover? Who drove that? Harold Marsham? Or Mrs.? No, couldn’t have been her, she was back at the Hall when it happened.
Mrs. Marsham herself appeared at this point—Lucy was unpacking the stores. Far from being annoyed at the time Lucy had taken, the matron was in an unusually amiable frame of mind, congratulated Lucy on her suggestion of enlisting Fiona’s help, and told her that, as Mrs. Thwaite’s Ann was making lunch, she, Lucy, could have an hour off.
“Thanks; in that case I’ll go and see how Aunt Fennel’s getting on.”
Lucy ran upstairs and found Great-aunt Fennel pottering peacefully in her bedroom.
“It’s so nice here, dearie,” she said happily. “Nobody comes and tells you that you ought to be downstairs in the parlour. I do like this place! The bathroom’s perfectly sploshous—big!—and Mrs. Chiddock says there are three or four others—people don’t come banging on the door all the time. Basins in the bedrooms, too!”
“Would you like me to wash your hair and give you a manicure, Aunt Fen? I’ve got a bit of free time.”
“That would be nice, dearie. I’ll get out the lettuce shampoo.”
While Lucy was washing the old lady’s thin, fine white hair, her mind suddenly threw up a memory which the word sploshous had evoked: we were having a picnic by some stream near a station. I can remember water and rocks and a feeling of completeness; everybody was there who mattered. Does that mean mother and father? I suppose so. He—father?—had a harmonica and played on it. Somebody—Aunt Fennel?—said, “That’s a sploshous tune! Play it again.”
“Was my father musical?” she asked suddenly.
“He was never taught to play any instrument,” Aunt Fennel said. “But, yes, dearie, he had a natural ear; could always pick out a tune on the piano, or sing a second part. It was one of the nicest things about him—of course your mother loved it. She was musical too.”
As usual Lucy had a sense of much left unsaid. She would have asked another question but at that moment a massive ginger cat jumped in through the window from the balcony and leapt confidently onto Aunt Fennel’s bed.
“Hey, be off with you!” exclaimed Lucy, and tipped the cat out of the window again.
“Don’t you let matron see you doing that!” warned Emma Chiddock, who came in at this moment.
Aunt Fennel was staring after the cat with a faint frown on her gentle brow.
“That cat keeps making me think of Taffypuss,” she murmured. “Poor Taffypuss got killed by a fox—or so Dill said; she wouldn’t let me look at the body; said it would upset me. She got Colonel Linton to bury it.”
“Much better,” agreed Lucy. “That was sensible of Dill. Look—here’s a proper hair-dryer. Every mod. con. Anyway, I’m sure Taffypuss was a lot nicer than that fat over-fed animal.”
“Bloody cat come in the window again,” said Goetz.
Harbin was on the telephone. “You’ll fix it then,” he was saying. “Yes; well; you have the address. Green Morris estate wagon, CRU 299P. Something simple; act of God stuff. I leave it to you. No rush—unless he starts acting suspiciously. Yes, keep him tailed. What’s that—how much longer am I staying here? A month, maybe—couple of months. Stoker’s getting the place in Palma fixed up? Right. Then you’ll be in touch—good.”
He put back the receiver.
“What’s the idea, having him done?” said Goetz.
“I don’t like loose ends. People who can talk.”
He turned round, saw the cat, and said, “Get that animal out, or there’s liable to be another act of God, here and now.”
Goetz giggled.
“I found an old bow and arrows out in that ornamental summer-house place by the shrubbery,” he said. “The cat’d make a nice target, wouldn’t it—soggy fat brute.” He grabbed it—his hands sinking inches deep into its thick shaggy fur—carried it to the window, and shot it onto the roof, the cat meanwhile struggling and emitting a sort of whining snarl. “Come on, Baby Brother, my ducky; you aren’t wanted here, that’s for sure.”
“Baby Brother,” muttered Harbin. “Judas, what a name. In any case, what were you doing out by the summer-house?”
“All right, all right, keep calm! I’m a legal citizen, I haven’t escaped from any
where, I can go where I like.”
Harbin looked at him for several moments in silence. His pale stare unnerved Goetz, who muttered defensively,
“Anyway it was after dark, pitch dark it was! When you were watching telly night before last; I suddenly felt I’d go crazy if I didn’t get a breath of air. Nobody saw me, nobody, I swear!”
“You do realise,” Harbin said with controlled quietness, “that if anybody who knows about us sees you, they’d just naturally put two and two together and work out that I’m in the neighbourhood too? You do realise that? It’s not going to be necessary for me to fix up another act of God?”
Goetz was frantic. “Look, honest, nobody saw me, but okay, I won’t do it again, if it worries you so. But shan’t I half be glad to get away from this goddam morgue! Anyway, if you’re worried about people putting two and two together, how about Linda? I don’t notice you fixing up any acts of God for her?”
“She’s wanted to run this place, isn’t she,” Harbin said reasonably. “Time enough to tidy up Linda after we leave. Anyway she’s changed her name and it was all years ago; no need for anyone to connect her with that business. Besides—”
“Watch it,” said Goetz suddenly. They could hear footsteps on the landing outside the closed door. Goetz quietly shot the new brass bolt. A moment later there were three taps; relieved, he opened the door and Mrs. Marsham came in with a tray of food.
She looked less calm than usual; her hands shook a little as she put down the tray, and there was the hint of a flush on her prominent cheekbones.
“I believe I’ve got something,” she said.
“Mince again!” Goetz peered at the food disgustedly.
“On what?” Harbin’s pale eyes met those of Mrs. Marsham.
“On Fred.”
“Old one-track Linda,” sighed Goetz, helping himself to a large portion of the mince and starting to gobble it. “Don’t you ever think of anything but your lost love?”
Harbin said, “What have you got?” Mrs. Marsham helped him to food, but he did not touch it; he moved his gloved right arm restlessly.
“This Culpepper girl, the one who’s just arrived with her aunt; she had an uncle called Wilberfoss Culpepper who emigrated to America about twenty years back from Liverpool; family originally lived in this village.”
Harbin sat looking at her in silence. Goetz, however, burst into a guffaw, and nearly choked on his mince.
“Wasn’t she the one you didn’t want here? Pardon me if I laugh, but that’s really rich, that is!”
“Where is the uncle now?” said Harbin.
Lucy answered the telephone when it rang, as Mrs. Marsham seemed to have disappeared.
“Fiona speaking. How’s the epidemic?”
“Running its course. Mrs. M. says your coming here is a fine idea and when can you start?”
“Tomorrow if she likes. Mrs. Thwaite at the post office is going to mind young Oedipus. And I can probably hitch a lift up in the mail van.”
“Grand. We’ll see you then. I’d better ring off now—I was in the middle of dealing out the mince.”
As she hung up Lucy suddenly remembered with a pang of guilt that she had promised to call the police and tell them if Aunt Fennel turned up. She had never done so. She darted back to the dining-room, where the old people were patiently waiting, doled out mince and vegetables on to plates, and then returned to the phone.
“Is that Kirby Police Station? Oh, my name’s Culpepper—I was in your office yesterday reporting that I’d lost my aunt. Well—I’ve found her again; I’m just ringing to tell you.”
“When did you find her, miss? And where was she?”
Feeling abashed and guilty, Lucy related the circumstances of Aunt Fennel’s recovery.
“And why did you not report the matter sooner, miss?”
“I’m terribly sorry—what with one thing and another I guess I just forgot,” Lucy said humbly.
“You’ve given the police a lot of unnecessary trouble, miss. We’ve put out search calls and made inquiries and added her name to our Missing Persons list—”
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry! There’s a crisis going on at the moment, you see, with a measles epidemic where we are now—”
“Where is that?”
“Appleby Old Hall-Wildfell Hall old people’s home.”
She could hear him repeat the words as he wrote them down.
“Very well, miss. Thank you for calling. But do remember that if you waste our time with false alarms we aren’t so likely to believe something’s wrong another time.”
“No, I do see,” said Lucy, thinking, You weren’t exactly falling over yourself to believe me yesterday, friend. “Well, thanks a lot. I do know how busy the police are.”
“Anyway she’s not likely to come to any harm at Appleby Old Hall.”
Lucy hung up and turned to find that Mrs. Marsham had come into the office.
“There you are, Miss Culpepper. They are all waiting for their pudding; I couldn’t think where you had got to.”
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” said Lucy, wondering why the matron suddenly seemed so annoyed; damn it, the old things hadn’t been left for more than four minutes, they could hardly be finished yet; “I’ll go and see to them right away.”
X
“Dill and I used to do this for each other,” Aunt Fennel said comfortably. “When you’re old, you know, dearie, it gets harder and harder to reach your feet. That does feel nice.”
“It must be frightful,” said Lucy, trying to imagine the helplessness of not being able to cut one’s own toe-nails. She carefully pumiced a corn, anointed it from a mysterious little bottle of dark green celandine lotion, and laid in place the small cotton-wool shield with a hole in the middle.
“My corns have never bothered me though,” Aunt Fennel went on, “but Dill’s used to give her a lot of trouble. Specially in the summer when we did the teas.”
“Did you do a lot, Aunt Fennel?”
“Quite a few at week-ends, dearie. We had a ‘Teas’ sign, down at the bottom of the beck, and of a Saturday or Sunday we’d have a dozen or two, quite often; Dill’s baking was so good, you see, people got to know and came back. That was how That Other One managed to come to the place.”
Lucy sat back on her heels and regarded the old lady with interest, but she did not ask any questions. During the ten days since she had come to Wildfell Hall, Aunt Fennel, apparently feeling more secure in this large, well-appointed place, had been slightly less unforthcoming about That Other One, but questions were still liable to make her close up and lose confidence.
“He came along pretending to be one of those foreign tourists, wearing a little hat with a feather, and dark glasses and foreign-type shoes and accent—that was before I got so deaf, of course,” she broke off to say quickly.
Lucy waited.
“Dill used to carry in the teas; we had three or four little tables in the parlour. I didn’t always see the people. But I went in that time with more hot water and I saw him, sitting by himself. I know that face, I thought, though he’s changed and has a beard and glasses, which he never used. But he’s no foreigner. Even before he spoke I was certain in my mind because—”
There were quick footsteps outside the door.
“Postman’s been; here’s a couple of letters for you, Miss Culpepper,” Mrs. Marsham said, coming in.
“Oh, is the mail strike ended, then?”
“Yes, it was mentioned last night on the TV news. I suppose it’ll take them at least six weeks to get all the back-log sorted.”
Lucy studied her letters with curiosity—who would have written to her? One was typed, with a York postmark; Aunt Fennel’s bank, possibly? It looked uninteresting. The other, she saw, with a leap of the heart, came from Coulsham, Surrey, and was addressed to her in an unusually beautiful handwriti
ng, shapely and chiselled, if a little shaky.
She had an impulse to hoard it until she was alone.
“Here are your slippers, Aunt Fen; I’ll just pour away the water and tidy up.”
She whisked up bath-mat, basin, nail-scissors, towel, and file. Mrs. Marsham was putting clean linen into a large closet in the hallway.
“Oh, by the way,” Lucy asked her, “have you heard when Nora’s likely to be coming back?”
“Nora? Probably at the beginning of next week. Why?”
“Well—” Lucy was slightly surprised, “as my stay here was only temporary, to tide you through the measles and Nora’s absence, and as the epidemic’s on the wane and you’ve got Fiona now too, I imagined you wouldn’t want me much longer?”
The matron seemed equally surprised.
“Please don’t feel you have to rush off, Miss Culpepper! Your work is quite satisfactory”—I’ll say it is, thought Lucy, fourteen hours hard every day—“and I’m sure we don’t want to lose you, if you’d like to stay a while longer, until you are quite sure that your aunt is happily settled.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Lucy said, deadpan. And quite a different tune from what you sang when the notion was first raised. Flattering, of course, but let’s be honest, I’m not so dear to you as all that. What’s the game now?
“Anyway, think it over,” Mrs. Marsham said, smiling the tight smile which carved her thin cheeks into diagonal folds. “To be candid, I’d rather lose Mrs. Frazer than you—she is inclined to be just a little bit feather-brained.”
Frazer, it had turned out, was Fiona’s real name (the Mrs. was a courtesy appellation added by Mrs. Marsham and ungratefully received); Carados Fiona now rejected with scorn, saying that it reminded her of a part of her life she proposed to forget without delay.
“Oh well, if you’re sure—” Lucy said vaguely. The vague tone covered an internal conflict: she felt a desperate urge to get away, to go south and make a start on her studies with Benovek, on her own life. Aunt Fennel seemed comfortable, well cared for, happy as a clam. But was this really a suitable place in which to leave her? If only one could be sure.
