“Here’s what I think. She may be in mourning — but she can’t be happy with what she learned at Tony’s. We’d be there, after all, about the future of the estate, her future.”
Still furrows.
Not convinced.
“And Jack, if we feel that this isn’t a good time, she’ll at least know we’re there to help. Come back some other time.”
A pause.
“What do you think?”
“Sold. As long as we can be sensitive as possible. That woman spent her entire life with Harry, foibles, and all.”
“Which he apparently had plenty of …”
“So it appears. And now, since we want to kill some time before we pop over … another round of croissants and lattes?”
“Why not? No dinner to make for the kids.”
“I bet someday you’ll miss making those dinners.”
And that made Sarah pause. Was she in fact wishing these days to go by so fast … and then suddenly they would be gone?
And then what?
Kids out of the nest … what’s the future?
Then, shaking the thought away, she raised a hand to call over Lizzie, the long–time server at Huffington’s.
While they waited for a wake — as they must all do — to end.
4. Peggy
Sitting in her car, Sarah felt like she and Jack were spying as they watched people leave the home of Peggy and Harry Platt.
They had started with windows down, but rolled them up when a breeze had kicked up and the skies began to turn from a cloud–streaked blue to, in the east, a deep purple.
“This,” she said turning to Jack, “is starting to feel …”
“Creepy?”
“A little. Maybe we should come back tomorrow. But as you always say …”
“I know,” he said. “Every hour, the facts of any crime grow harder to find.”
“‘Crime’ is it, now?”
“Could be.”
But she knew from their experiences how right that was. Give any event some time and memories shift, evidence can vanish. Time was literally of the essence.
And late nights and dogged attention to detail were all part of this glamorous business of being a sleuth.
Albeit an amateur one.
Though, she had to admit, lately it didn’t feel that amateur at all.
Something else she wanted to talk to Jack about.
“Hang on,” he said. “Looks like the wake’s breaking up …”
Sarah turned, and though they were in silhouette, she recognised some of the figures from the graveside.
The son Geoffrey, Pete Butterworth, and his wife …
Then the Bucklands!
Who wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that they were being spied upon.
But no daughter, and no neighbour, Kirsty Lane.
And still no sign of the carer, Maria Slaski.
A case of no love lost, she wondered?
Now that she has her payday.
Then Peggy — at the door, waving goodbye.
About to be left alone for the first time in a very long time.
And actually, that made the idea of their popping in seem like not such a bad thing.
“Ready?” she said to Jack as the last of the cars pulled away.
He nodded. Not, she guessed, as sure about such things as he usually was.
*
“Yes? Hello?”
The widow was still dressed in black. Her eyes though — clear. A face etched in stone, Sarah thought. Strong, determined.
Maybe not a woman to be easily crushed.
“Mrs. Platt … my name is Sarah. Sarah Edwards, and—”
Of course,” the woman spontaneously reached out and grabbed Sarah’s right hand, clasping it tight. “Michael and Helen’s daughter. I’ve seen you in town.”
Then the woman, a small smile still on her face, turned to Jack who towered in the doorway.
“And this is Jack Brennan, A friend. And well—”
Jack smiled, nodded, saying nothing for the moment.
“Tony Standish asked if we could, well, look into what happened to your husband?”
The woman’s brave smile faded. Eyes lowered, and she looked away.
“So sad. Inevitable, I suppose. Still … I, well, I just don’t know—”
“Mrs. Platt,” Jack said,
But Peggy cut him off: “Peggy will do fine.”
“Peggy. Tony Standish wondered if we might make sure that nothing unusual happened that night.”
The woman nodded, one hand on the door.
“Yes. Dear Tony — always looking out for me and Harry. Um, you’d like to talk?”
“Exactly,” Sarah said. “But we know this has been a hard day for you so we could …”
The woman shook her head.
“No, dear. This is the hardest part. Grieving guests gone, all alone. So, do come in. I’m very glad to talk.”
As she turned, opening the door wide for them to follow, she said, “Would you like some tea? It won’t take a second.”
And just like everywhere in England, Sarah knew no serious conversation could take place without boiling water and teabags.
“That would be wonderful,” Jack said, sounding completely like he meant it.
Because, Sarah thought, he probably did.
*
Peggy sat in a wing-backed chair, leather cracked and frayed. Sarah noted the box of tissues on the small round table nearby, with one tissue crumpled in her hand at the ready.
Still, she seemed pretty steady after what must have been a harrowing few days.
They don’t make them like her anymore, Sarah thought.
“Oh, would you like more tea?”
But there …
There was something a little … off. Peggy had just, moments ago, refilled their teacups and both were still full.
Though she seemed relatively sharp, time and other things were clearly taking their toll.
“Peggy,” Sarah said gently, “I wonder, to help Jack and me, if you could tell us what you think happened?”
The woman’s eyes went wide for a moment as if the question was unexpected, or, worse, silly.
“Why, Harry fell down the stairs. That’s most definitely what happened. Then—” she waved her hand on the air “something broke, with his spine, his neck. You know, my Harry was always a strong man. A big, strong soldier — an officer — and then always so handy around the house. I’ve had to do some of that lately …”
She beamed at Jack. “A real man’s man. Until—”
Sarah watched the tissue pulsate in her hand, providing security.
“Then the forgetting. All that … confusion. It was so hard, you know?”
“I can imagine,” Jack said gently.
“As for me, to see it all slipping away …”
She brought the tissue to her nose; at the ready. Eyes glistened just a bit.
Yes, Sarah thought, it must have been sad to see that slow ebbing of the man he was.
It made Sarah think about her parents.
Was that what was ahead for them?
And how would she deal with it?
She moved to another subject since she saw this had shaken Peggy …
…and me too.
“That night, when it happened, you weren’t here?”
“Well, not here in the house. But I wasn’t far away. I was in my little studio, out in the garden. Painting. I love to paint in the evening. Harry couldn’t stand the smell of the paints, the oil. But me, I loved it. So peaceful, you know?”
Sarah nodded.
Then the woman said, “Would you like to see it?”
Sarah looked at Jack.
“Well, yes. We’d love to.”
But then Jack looked at Peggy, “I think … if you don’t mind … I’d like to look around the house. The stairs where he fell. Just to take a look, hmm?”
The widow made an ‘O’ with her mouth.
“Woul
d that be okay? While you show Sarah where you paint?”
“Of course. I—I’d rather not be here, to be honest, when you look. In fact, I’m not too sure I want to stay in this house much longer. Now that he’s gone. All those memories, you know.”
Sarah nodded as Peggy stood up.
“We can get there from the kitchen door to the garden. Just a little shed. Barely fits me, my paints, canvasses …”
She walked with the hobbled gait of someone who has had a hip or two replaced, and could use another before too long.
“Just this way … and you’re sure you two don’t want more tea?”
Sarah looked back to Jack.
Very deftly, he had succeeded in getting some time alone in the house … while Sarah got to see what Peggy was doing the night her husband tumbled to his death.
5. A Nasty Tumble
Jack waited, teacup in hand, while Peggy led Sarah out the back to the garden and her small studio.
Makes sense, he thought. She’s out there, working away, Harry in here, dazed and confused.
Begins wandering, somehow gets to the upstairs steps, and falls.
An accident.
But if Peggy painted every night, if her routine was the same — every night — it would be easy for anyone to know that.
Certainly any of the eager beneficiaries. The son, the neighbour, the carer.
He started walking to the stairs, the carpet just on the steps, exposed wood below; decades old, frayed.
As ancient as its owners.
But why would someone want harm to come to Harry?
Jack knew you didn’t get too far into this business without thinking about motive.
The beneficiaries all had a cut of what turned out to be a surprisingly large inheritance.
Why would anyone send the old guy off early, raising suspicion, maybe jeopardising the whole deal?
Unless that’s what was in jeopardy — someone’s share.
Harry may have had issues with reasoning, touches of dementia.
But he still lived at home. He could have threatened to change the will on any of them.
Now that’s a motive.
Send Harry off to meet his maker before any such change happens.
Jack knew this was all speculation.
But he guessed he could ask Tony if Harry had talked about the will in recent weeks.
At the base of the stairs, Jack saw a small table with an ancient telephone and an old address book.
He picked up the address book and leafed through it. Hundreds of names, written in faded ink, some crossed out many times.
All these people, so many — friends, family — probably now passed away. Just these old numbers in a tattered book.
He put it back down on the table, grabbed the banister, and began the climb up.
Something Harry had done only nights before.
*
The stairs had dry splintery wood underneath the frayed maroon carpeting; the boards creaked with each step.
Jack held the banister much as Harry must have done, taking each step slowly.
The old guy confused. Maybe wondering where his wife was even though she was out doing what she did every evening.
A few minutes of escape.
Jack was nearing the top.
His left land reached for the next section of the banister and—
It wobbled.
He stopped and looked at the fittings that held the railing to the side wall and the steps themselves.
Loose.
Not so loose that it would spring dangerously free.
But if you needed rock-steady support as you tried to pull your body up or down the stairs, it would send a wave of unsteadiness.
Enough to disorient a confused old man?
Have him stop, wobble a bit? Tumble back down?
But now, bending down and looking at the loose fittings, they weren’t so loose than anyone would notice … unless they were grabbing the banister for dear life.
He took another step, and he was at the top of the landing.
Even with that wobble, didn’t seem like enough to trigger a fall. It still could certainly be accidental.
He walked down the hallway, past grim paintings, a dark castle, then a garden with what looked like centaurs and other mythological creatures having a pretty wild picnic.
Open doors showed bedrooms. He walked into each room, looking around carefully, getting a sense of how they were used.
In the first three rooms he saw no sign of recent visitors. Beds stripped back to bare mattresses, drawers empty, no tell-tale glass by the side of the bed.
One door was closed. He opened it — and immediately knew this was Peggy’s room.
Paintings on every square inch of wall. A vase of flowers on a side table. A big bed, cushions and pillows piled high. On one side of the bed, a box of tablets by a reading light, medicines, ointments, glasses. Books.
At the foot of the bed, a TV.
No sign of Harry in here. This was just Peggy’s room.
So Harry did sleep downstairs.
Because he could no longer climb the stairs?
Jack gently shut the door and walked back out onto the landing. Beyond the stairs he could see an upstairs bathroom. And to the side of that, one final door leading to what had to be a loft filled with their life’s treasures and memories.
Then he turned.
Looked at the stairs again.
*
Peggy pulled open the small wooden door of what really was a shed.
A small lamp sat in one corner, but there was still enough late afternoon light coming through a small skylight that Sarah could see the inside of Peggy’s studio.
Easels, a table with paint pots, brushes, frames, tools. An old tattered chaise longue. Rugs.
“My sanctuary,” she said. “Not much, but …” she took a breath, “…I love it.”
“It’s wonderful,” Sarah said.
“Used to be Harry’s shed,” she said. “Until he got a bit too …”
The sentence hung in the air. Sarah looked back up the long garden to the house, the windows just visible through the shrubs and trees.
She could relate to having a place like this. A refuge. It would have been useful all those years ago when things started to really get bad with her husband — his cheating emerging in all its gory details, the tension filling the air until Sarah knew she had to take the kids and just leave …
She often thought: I would have loved somewhere to hide away. Just for a bit.
Peggy stepped inside, and Sarah followed her. She saw a stack of paintings to one side away from the current canvas of a still life on Peggy’s easel.
“And these, are they all yours?”
“Yes. Not much, I know. But I love them.”
There was a simple, clear quality to the paintings. Seasonal flowers in vases, and grasses, all with muted colours.
“I think they’re beautiful,” Sarah said.
“You’re very kind.”
Peggy stood there for a moment and Sarah had to wonder if she was thinking back to the night Harry fell.
When she was out here.
Lost in her painting.
“So, Peggy … the night it happened. You were here. And Harry — what was he doing?”
“Oh, he’d had his supper. A nice little plaice fillet. On a tray. Then I got him sitting quietly. Brought him a cup of tea, not too hot. I knew … well, he’s become so careless these days.”
“So he was nice and settled,” said Sarah, leading Peggy gently.
“Yes. Settled.”
“And the carer — Mrs. Slaski — was she there too?”
“No, as soon as she’d made Harry’s meal she was off. They don’t stay long, you know, always rushing off to visit someone else.”
“Then you came out here …”
“Yes. Out here. Like I said, I paint every evening. Harry likes to have a snooze, you see, after he eats. I mean — he used to. Or watch
the telly, you know.”
“So, there was nothing unusual, that night?”
“No. I plumped up his cushions. And out I came.”
“And you were here for, what, an hour or so?”
Sarah wanted to get some idea of the timings of that fateful evening — what had happened when …
“An hour? I don’t know really. I usually come in when I start to feel cold.”
“Maybe less than an hour? Was it getting dark outside?”
“Dark? Hmm, I don’t know.”
Sarah waited while Peggy seemed to be thinking of that night. The next questions were going to be difficult.
“Then you went back in, Peggy? I suppose it was almost bedtime?”
“Yes. Bedtime. Always in bed by nine.”
“When you went into the house, did you see Harry? Did you wonder where he was?”
“Well, no. I knew, now didn’t I?”
Sarah didn’t understand. “What do you mean — you knew — Peggy?” she said gently.
“Geoffrey told me. He said.”
“Geoffrey? Your son?”
“Yes. He came out here and got me, took me in, made me sit down.”
“Geoffrey found Harry? After his fall?”
Peggy’s eyes had taken on a faraway look. “Hmm?”
“You didn’t find your husband. That night.”
“No. No, of course not. That was Geoffrey. He came in, he found Harry.”
Sarah realised that she and Jack had made an assumption about what had happened. This was clearly more complicated.
And now, suddenly, she had a lot more questions to ask.
Questions she knew Jack would also want to ask.
“And why did Geoffrey drop by? Was that a regular thing? Did he often just … pop in?”
The question seemed to confuse Peggy. Sarah guessed that she might not be far behind Harry in the forgetting department.
“Well, no. I mean, he would check up on us from time to time. But not too much. He was never that type, if you know what I mean. Sons, hmm?”
Sarah wasn’t sure that she did know. Still …
“That night … your son came in, found your husband—”
“It must have been terrible for him,” Peggy said.
“Yes. And then he came out here, found you … told you?”
A nod. And Sarah thought this might be all too much for the woman. Strong, yes.
But also brittle.
A Death in the Family Page 3
