Dark Undertakings

by Rebecca Tope

  He tried to explain it to Karen, knowing that she was deliberately refusing to understand his terror of history repeating itself. ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice,’ she told him. ‘And anyway, they told you the baby would probably have died, whatever you did. He had much more wrong with him than they realised. The post-mortem showed that.’

  Words did nothing to change what he knew. He couldn’t ever tell her how it had really been. How he had been afraid of waking the baby up in case it cried, afraid of being told off for making a fuss and calling in an exhausted houseman. How small fears could make you commit large sins.

  And now the dilemma was visiting him again. It was as if he was being tested, given a chance to get it right this time. He could no more sit back and let Lapsford be cremated than he could watch another baby lose colour and warmth until it died before his very eyes.

  He had, in the course of the long night just over, come up with a plan. It might be risky, or doomed to failure, but he was determined to follow it through.

  In the notebook he had written: Gerald Proctor. David Lapsford. Roxanne Gibson. Other girlfriends? Jim’s workmates? Means. Motive. Opportunity. An arrow traced a path down the page, from Means and under it he wrote, Poison. After deep thought, he added, Lethal injection. He couldn’t think how else it could have been achieved; not without any signs of violence or a struggle. Staring at the page, he realised helplessly that he had no idea of any motive, apart from the suggestion that Mrs Lapsford might have been carrying on with the dentist, and therefore possibly not too unhappy to have her husband out of the way.

  It would be easiest to start with Proctor. Already he had phoned the surgery and pretended to have toothache. An appointment had been made for four-thirty, and he was going to lie to Daphne, saying he wanted to go with Karen to the doctor about a problem they’d been having. Let her assume it was a fertility matter, he thought; that was bound to gain him some space as well as sympathy.

  There was, of course, a much more direct route he could take. He could telephone the Coroner’s Officer, anonymously, and suggest to him that he should be taking an interest in the sudden death of Jim Lapsford. He promised himself that if he had failed in his various investigations come Monday morning, then this is what he would do. The mere thought of it frightened him. His voice would be recognised, he would somehow give himself away, he would lose his job and be humiliated. At worst he could be arrested for wasting police time. And then, with no evidence, they might not even bother to pursue the matter at all. They might assume he was a crank or someone with some kind of grudge.

  There had to be evidence. He had to find someone who wanted Jim Lapsford dead, and had means and opportunity to commit the deed. If only Lazarus could turn up something at the laboratory, everything would be so much easier. But Lazarus was a faint hope, given his limited access to all the materials necessary to test for a dozen different poisons. It would be folly to rely on him. Worse than that, he realised, with Lapsford now embalmed, there was much less hope of finding supporting evidence in the body tissue.

  There was, of course, also the body of the dog. The knowledge that it might contain inside it the whole solution to the question of Means was acutely frustrating. He could not work out a way of getting it examined, without landing himself into deep trouble. If he took it to a vet, they’d ask a lot of awkward questions, and probably take far too long to supply any results. If he took it to Lazarus, his friend would laugh in his face, assuming he’d gone crazy. There might possibly be some laboratory in Woodingleigh which would hasten a swift analysis, but short of slipping them a hefty sum of ready cash, he didn’t know how he would persuade them to co-operate. Even private clinics would probably want some kind of authorisation before affording him their services.

  He left for work in a gloomy mood.

  A hand-delivered envelope lay on the mat inside Sarah and Dottie’s front door. Sarah picked it up, bending easily at the waist, noting with pride how supple she still was, compared to Dottie.

  ‘It’s from Monica,’ she said to the empty hall.

  ‘Did you say something, dear?’ Dottie’s voice had a hint of impatience in it. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  Sarah went back into the living room, where Dottie was on the couch with the local newspaper and the mug of coffee which comprised her breakfast. ‘A note from Monica. Listen to this. I’ve decided to have Jim brought back here on Monday, so he can spend his last night at home. If you’d like to come and see him, please just call in during the evening. What do you make of that?’

  Dottie considered. ‘Well, it’s what people always used to do. I remember my Gran in the front room, candles all round her, flowers everywhere. I was about fourteen, and thought it was lovely. She looked very contented, I remember. As if she’d finally got what she wanted. She was never a very easy person to please when she was alive.’

  ‘But these days – well, it seems ghoulish, somehow. How will Monica sleep with a body in the house? I’m not sure I like the idea of being next door to one, either.’

  ‘As for sleeping with a dead body, it seems she’s already done that, and survived. Funny the bit about his last night. I mean, he’s already had that, don’t you think? But it’s a nice gesture. I’ll certainly go round on Monday and pay my respects.’

  Sarah made no reply. The letter in her hand was making her feel agitated, as if it called for some immediate action. Such a reaction was unusual for her, which only compounded the disturbance. Should she go and speak to Monica now? Should she ask if they could help with the funeral in some way? The trouble was, they had little social contact with the Lapsfords. She glared at the top of Dottie’s head. This should be something they discussed and agreed on. Instead, they seemed to be all at odds about it. Dottie had been quite cross with her for the way she’d tackled that young funeral man yesterday, going on about slander and a lack of evidence. As if that mattered, in the circumstances!

  A car drawing up outside with a violent squeal of brakes attracted her attention, and Dottie lowered the paper. Both peered out of the window and watched a young man jump out and stride up Monica Lapsford’s front path.

  ‘It’s her David,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Early bird, anyway. Maybe she’s just told him about the plan to bring his dad home, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t look too happy.’

  ‘Very likely,’ agreed Sarah, more for the sake of harmony than genuine sentiment. She had barely exchanged five sentences with David since living next door to his mother, and would make no claims to predicting his reaction to anything. He had struck her as a somewhat effete young man, with his bony limbs and floppy hair. The older one seemed to have more backbone.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing in the paper,’ Dottie announced, dropping it onto the floor beside her. ‘I don’t know why we bother with it.’

  Sarah gazed at her in surprise. ‘This isn’t like you, Dottie, being so tetchy. What’s brought it on?’

  Dottie shook her head. ‘I’m not quite myself this morning. This has always been a restless time of year for me, ever since I retired. September always meant a new term, new courses to study, fresh beginnings with another intake of children. And instead of that we drift along here, and the man next door has to go and die like that. And we seem so helpless, when I’m sure we should be doing something.’

  Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘I must say it’s good to hear you acknowledge that Jim’s death might have more to it than meets the eye, at last.’

  Dottie sagged suddenly. When she spoke it was with a mixture of apology and resignation. ‘Oh, take no notice of me. I’m in a bad mood. I didn’t sleep properly last night.’

  ‘No wonder,’ Sarah said with a burst of compassion. ‘We’ll go over on Monday, then, shall we?’ She flourished Monica’s note.

  ‘Oh, I suppose we’ll have to. We owe it to Monica, poor woman.’

  ‘I’m not sure that we should waste too much sympathy on her,’ said Sarah, slowly. ‘That boyfriend was round again yesterd
ay, just after supper. I didn’t mention it to you at the time. Carrying a huge bunch of chrysanths. Don’t know how he’s got the nerve.’

  Dottie gave her a reproving look. ‘Now don’t go making any more hasty judgements. We don’t know he’s her boyfriend. That’s just jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘It isn’t, Dottie. You know it isn’t. When we’ve both got the evidence of our own eyes.’

  Monica’s pleasure at seeing her younger son lasted barely a minute. He began shouting at her before he was properly inside the house. Dottie’s guess had been accurate as to the nature of his complaint.

  ‘Philip phoned me last night. He says you’re having the coffin here on Monday. How could you, Mum? That’s so disgusting. You must have gone mad.’

  Monica stood her ground, and waited for him to stop. Then she turned round and led the way into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’ she asked, in a strong, cool voice.

  ‘Oh, I don’t care.’ He was jigging up and down with tension or rage. ‘What does it matter?’

  She put the kettle on, and sat down. ‘It’s at moments like this that I wish I smoked,’ she said, with a tight smile. ‘High emotion, I think they call it.’

  David circled the room once, tapping the fingers of his left hand against all the surfaces, working his mouth as if trying to eat his own lips.

  ‘It isn’t really about the coffin coming home, is it?’ she said. ‘That’s just an excuse.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he muttered, his head bent awkwardly away from her, one shoulder raised.

  Monica was alarmed at his demeanour. ‘David, calm down,’ she ordered, sharply. ‘Sit there and talk to me properly. What did Philip say to you?’

  ‘It wasn’t Philip,’ he corrected her. ‘It wasn’t anybody. I want to ask you about what I found.’

  ‘Found? When? What are you talking about?’ After the previous day’s encounter with him, she had thought there would be a breathing space before he demanded any more of her. At least in his drunken state, he’d been easier to deflect from the subject.

  ‘Adoption papers,’ he said accusingly. ‘Birth certificate.’ He glared at her. ‘How did you think I discovered that I’m adopted? I saw them in his desk, years ago.’

  She sat back, stubbornly uncooperative, a deep frown grooving her brow. ‘David, do you actually remember what happened yesterday? Were you so drunk that the whole thing’s slipped your mind? You agreed to leave this business until we’ve got the funeral over with. I’m perfectly happy to tell you everything, but not while you’re in such a state. And not so soon after … what happened to Jim.’

  His glare intensified. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. ‘But I can’t wait any longer. You don’t know what it’s like. People always think they can keep secrets from their kids. They think it won’t matter, and that living in the same house, growing up calling you Mum and Dad is all that counts. But I’m grown up now, and I need to have it straight. You can see what it’s doing to me.’ He held out a shaking hand, exposing a painfully thin wrist.

  Monica closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but this is much too melodramatic for me. I can’t just splurge the whole thing out, not knowing how you’ll react. It should be done calmly, with someone else here. I’m sorry, Davey. I want to trust you, and come clean with you. But you’re too wrought up, just like yesterday.’

  He dropped into Jim’s chair, throwing his head back. ‘I take it Jim wasn’t my father? At least tell me that much.’

  Despite herself, Monica saw no alternative to answering this direct question. ‘He was your father … officially. We legally adopted you, when you were nearly two. We had you with us from a small baby.’

  ‘Adopted, yes,’ he spat. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Mum. It’s your duty.’

  ‘I was ready to tell you yesterday,’ she said severely. ‘But you got yourself drunk by the middle of the morning, and probably wouldn’t even have understood me. I’m not playing games with you over this. I want to make sure the whole truth comes out properly, when we’re not distracted by the funeral and people talking about poisoning—’

  His eyes widened until she could see clear whites all round the iris. ‘What did you say?’ he choked.

  Wryly, she realised that she had just successfully diverted him from his demands, only to plunge them into even murkier waters. She wished she could tell him everything she knew about his origins – she’d wanted to for years, but Jim would never allow it. Now she didn’t dare.

  ‘Oh, it’s silly,’ she laughed unconvincingly. ‘Cassie died yesterday. Did I tell you?’

  He shook his head muzzily. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said. ‘But go on.’

  ‘Well, I think she just pined away – or she might have been ill before, and we didn’t notice. Anyway, I asked the undertakers to see to her. I thought she could be cremated with Jim.’ David was trying to interrupt, but managing no articulate intervention. Monica carried on. ‘The same young man who came to take Jim away came back, and he tried to suggest that Cassie had somehow got poisoned by licking Jim’s face on Tuesday. It’s stupid, of course—’

  ‘But she did lick his face. You said so.’

  ‘So what? That doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘And now they think somebody poisoned Dad. Is that right?’ He gripped his head tightly between both hands, and pressed inwards. ‘This is ghastly,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll think it was one of us. There’ll be police, and questions and statements. Christ, Mum, you don’t know what it’s like when they get some idea into their heads. They don’t leave you alone until they’re satisfied.’

  Monica went white. ‘Then we must make sure they’re not called in, mustn’t we?’ she said faintly but firmly. ‘And that means no more nonsense from you.’

  He laughed harshly. ‘You don’t have to remind me that I’m the unstable one around here. And can you blame me, when I don’t even know who my real parents are? Don’t you think that little fact explains rather a lot?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve always hoped that wasn’t true.’

  ‘You mean you hoped that if nobody said anything, I would just fit in as if I was your own natural child. I assume that Philip wasn’t adopted too? You really think you’ve ever behaved as if I was just as good as him? As much a part of the family? Get real, Mum.’

  ‘I think you’d better go home, now, and see if you can salvage your job. How many days have you missed? This must be the fourth.’ The steel in her voice shifted him, and he stood up obediently. ‘And,’ she added, ‘let me just say this. Jim might not have been your natural father, but he was as close to it as a man can get. He loved you as much as any father could. When we first had you, he loved you more than Philip.’

  David’s lip curled. ‘You’ll never get me to believe that,’ he sneered. ‘Not the way he treated me ever since I was nine or ten.’

  ‘He did his best,’ she insisted, almost pleading. ‘You were such a difficult child. You would never show us any affection, pushing us away – especially Jim. Oh, I know—’ She put her hands up to interrupt him as he drew breath. ‘I know you couldn’t help it. But at the time it just felt as if you hated us, after all we’d tried to do for you. It never occurred to us that you might have something physically wrong with you. In those days nobody ever suggested anything like that. Now, they’d probably label you right away.’

  He walked the length of the room restlessly, a scowl on his face. ‘And that would have been better, would it?’

  ‘I’m not sure that it would,’ she admitted. ‘We’d still have had to live with you and your tantrums and bad behaviour at school.’

  ‘I tell you something,’ he burst out. ‘It might have been better if you’d told me – and everybody else – that I was adopted. That might have settled me down. I always knew something wasn’t right. I knew I was some sort of freak. Didn’t it ever occur to you that might have been at the back of it all?’

  Monica stared at him, remembering the impossible
little boy, possessed by some inner demon which forced him to scream and kick and then sulk for hours in his room. She shook her head. ‘I don’t see how you work that out. We knew you from the start, even though you were two when you came to us permanently. Jim was there when you were born. You were as close to being his as can be.’

  Tears gathered in David’s eyes, and his mouth twisted. ‘Don’t say he loved me now,’ he choked. ‘For God’s sake – that’s the last thing I want to hear, now he’s dead.’ And shaking his head, he stumbled to the door.

  ‘Mind how you drive!’ she called after him, from long habit. A parental mantra, designed to keep him safe.

  Lorraine had waited with growing urgency for Frank and Cindy to leave the house. She threw breakfast at them, hustled them into jackets and shoes, and promised Cindy she’d be at the school gate promptly to collect her at three o’clock. She kissed them both absently, and tried to ignore the persistent taste of metal at the back of her mouth.

  She knew where Roxanne lived. Everybody did. There’d been a fuss when she set up home in a field, with the Council objecting to her putting her caravan there without planning permission. She’d moved it around, from one field to another, until they got tired of her. She said she had her rights and wasn’t hurting anybody. Lorraine had actually felt rather favourably disposed towards her; it was a stand against bureaucracy. Why shouldn’t a person live independently, in their own caravan if they wanted to? It wasn’t as if she was using services paid for by others – she had to collect water from someone’s outside tap, and cope without any electricity. The farmer who owned the field didn’t mind, so long as his cattle weren’t upset.

  She stood up. This had to be faced. She couldn’t carry on without knowing the truth. It would eat away at her, and without being able to demand to know from Jim himself, the only option seemed to be to go directly to the woman in question. She’d know from the look in Roxanne’s eyes whether or not the rumour was true.