Tommy Gifford had left Foxes’ Run for work about an hour earlier, but Tilly still sat at the kitchen table, still not dressed, and sunk deeply in thought. There was no surgery in Steynham St Michael, as this morning was home visits only, and the answerphone would take care of it if she was a bit late arriving.
She’d not felt herself since the arrival of that dreadful letter and, as she remembered it, her hand moved unconsciously to the pocket of her dressing gown, where it still resided. Pulling it out and smoothing it out on the table top, she read it again, her expression puckered in distaste and with just a hint of fear:
‘Anyone would think you had never heard of medical confidentiality the way you gossip to your cronies. You are going to end up in court one of these days if you do not learn to control your tongue,’ she read.
Who on earth would send something like that to her? She never talked about anything that went on at the surgery, or anything that she learned from her work there – except for a few very close friends who wouldn’t breathe a word, knowing that what she said had been told in confidence.
And it couldn’t be one of them, surely. She thought that they treasured their position as confidante to someone ‘in the know’. If she hadn’t believed this, she would never have said anything to anyone. None of them would behave like this, would they? And what if they did something about it? What if they identified one another, and made a complaint of breach of confidence. She’d lose her job, and that would be a catastrophe, as belts were being pulled in where Tommy worked, and he couldn’t be certain of a job for more than six months, when the management would review the situation again.
Placing the letter back in her dressing gown pocket, as unconsciously as she had removed it, she rose slowly from her chair, her mind given furiously to think. Had she fallen out with anyone lately? Had she said anything that might be considered censorious or hurtful to any of her inner circle? She couldn’t remember doing so, but she’d have to have a good long think, to see if this might be a spiteful little prank, to pay her back for some ill-advised remark.
She’d have to get a move on to get to the surgery and man the phone for anyone requiring an appointment, but there would be little else to do apart from a little filing, and she would have plenty of time to mull over her recent conversations while she worked.
IV
Next door, at Badger’s Sett, an almost identical scene was taking place. Quentin Raynor had left the house to open the estate agency that he ran with his wife, leaving Monica behind to tidy up a little. Household chores had got rather neglected over the festive season, but Quentin was sure his wife would get things sorted out and back to normal, lickety-split.
Unfortunately, his wife lacked her husband’s confidence in her domestic abilities, and looked about her in despair. Every surface in the kitchen was covered in dirty plates, pots, and pans. There was dirty crockery and cutlery still left on the dining table from a couple of nights ago, and she knew that there were numerous dirty glasses and nibbles dishes in the sitting room from last night, waiting to be collected, washed, and put away.
Their bedroom was a sea of clothes that had been discarded, either worn and needing laundering, or tried on and considered not suitable for whatever occasion was being considered. The bathroom was also unfit to be seen by an outsider, there being soap and toothpaste stains all over the basin, and a veritable brown ring round the bath where it had not even been wiped out after use, let alone cleaned, for some considerable time.
She just couldn’t manage with the business and their busy social life, and keep the house immaculate as well. It was far too much for one person, but Quentin just said it would get done in its own time, and not to worry – she just needed to put her mind to it, and everything would be show-home tidy in no time at all.
Snarling out loud at the stupidity of the man, she went over to her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She had promised to give up at New Year, but then Quentin had promised over Christmas that he would help her get the house back to normal before they went back to the office. And he hadn’t. And what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, she thought, as she inhaled hungrily then blew the smoke out through her nostrils with an expression of pure enjoyment.
It had been all right when old Potty Pounce came round three times a week. Everything had run like clockwork, then. And then they’d had that silly little disagreement at her going to Hermione’s for a few hours a week and changing her hours here slightly, and off she’d flounced. And Monica had just stood there, smug that she would not notice her absence – and the effort she put in – three days a week, and had blithely let her go, over a silly point of principle about the hours she worked.
She’d be willing to pay her twice the money she was on before, now, for half the hours. She needed the woman’s services, and she’d have to go crawling back on her hands and knees to her, and be ever so nice and smiley and ingratiating, and suck up to her sickeningly. Damn it!
And now this! Removing the letter from her dressing gown pocket, where it had remained since she opened it, she read it one more time. How could anyone know about that property deal that was just the teensiest bit iffy – well, very iffy – in fact, probably illegal? They’d been living in the West Country until three years ago, and that deal had been done nearly a decade ago. There was no one here who could possibly have the slightest idea of what they’d done. But someone did know, and she was just going to have to find out who that person was, and deal with them.
Viciously stubbing out her cigarette in her saucer, she steeled herself for speaking to Potty Pounce – begging for the favours that she had once taken for granted. Life was an absolute shit sometimes.
Leaving the kitchen in the same condition that she had found it upon waking, she went back upstairs to get dressed. If she couldn’t talk old Hilda round, then Quentin would either have to clean the place himself, or get in touch with an agency who supplied domestics. She simply couldn’t carry on living like this.
She knew she’d get a lot more done in the house if she wasn’t so worried about the business all the time, what with every sale needing so much time, so much chasing, and for such a small return in these difficult financial times that it hardly seemed worth it. If things went on the way they had been going, estate agents would soon become a thing of the past.
House prices had plummeted so low over the last couple of years, and banks and building societies were reluctant to lend to those without a huge deposit, so there was absolutely no money in property sales because no one was buying. The whole wretched situation was down to the first-time buyers, and as nobody would lend them any money, the property market was practically at gridlock. It was a stalemate with knobs on, in her opinion. They’d already laid off their receptionist, and stood down those they used to conduct viewings. That only left the two of them, and so much leg work to do just to clinch one sale.
But a few people were still moving, weren’t they? They had to move for all sorts of reasons – work, family, deaths. Work was the biggest motivator. If people got a new job, or were transferred to another area, they were more likely to rent now, and to let their old house, until things got moving again.
Perhaps they could develop a lettings agency to boost their income, and keep their business afloat until better times returned, as they surely would. She’d have to have a word with Quentin about it: see what he thought of the idea when she got to the office. It could be an absolute lifesaver for them.
V
Hilda Pounce pedalled her bicycle down the Market Darley Road in the teeth of the easterly wind, which buffeted her sideways and chilled her to the bone, especially her knees, which were fair game, as they led the advance, as it were. She gritted her teeth at the cold and tried not to shiver too hard lest she lose her balance and fall. That would be just about the last straw, after the morning she’d had.
Nobody would believe the amount of old tat and absolute rubbish that that Grayling woman had
shoved in to her sideboards over time, and Hilda’s patience had been tried to its limit when she had opened the last one to find it full of newspaper and magazine articles, cut out and paper-clipped or stapled together.
God alone knew what she was to do with them. Were they things that the author had hoarded for their content, for possible inclusion in some future book, or were they just a whim of hers, stuffed in there without a thought and then forgotten? She’d had one small job to do for herself before she left, and she was already late. Now she would have no time for lunch before going to Mr Pryor’s, so in the end, unable to come to a satisfactory decision about whether to throw them out or not, she had just stacked the yellowing paperwork in little piles on the dining room table, and left a note explaining that she thought Miss Grayling should make the final decision on whether they stayed or were discarded.
As she battled her way across the crossroads with the High Street, she was seething with self-pity at how put upon she was and how tired she felt after just half a day, with, no doubt, another New Year clear-out in the offing in Barleycorn Crescent. Her life had always been hard work and challenging, but today was particularly bad, and she would be glad when it was over, and she could sink down into an armchair in front of the television, and put her feet up with a nice comforting glass of gin.
Wind-battered and chilled to the bone, Hilda Pounce arrived at Barleycorn Crescent, dismounted from her bicycle outside number three, and opened the over-fussy wrought iron gate to park her machine at the side of the house, as she had done scores of times before. She knew Mr Pryor would be at work in the bank, so she headed for the back door, pulling at the string attached to the inside of her battered handbag, where she kept his key for safety.
Once inside, she took off her ancient tweed coat and hung it on the hook on the back door as she always did, and looked around her at the kitchen. A sink full of dirty dishes was the first thing that caught her eye, then the pile of dirty clothes – shirts, socks, and underpants mainly, that sat in a heap on the floor, in front of the washing machine.
She’d have thought he’d at least have had the decency to stick the soiled garments into the machine, instead of leaving them sitting there for anyone to see, and for her to have to handle. She gave a little grimace of distaste at the thought of the underpants. It simply wasn’t decent, leaving them for her to pick up, and him so well brought up in the ways of the Chapel. He ought to know better.
Pushing the pile of dirty laundry through the open door of the washing machine, her nose wrinkling again in distaste, she decided to get the washing-up out of the way before she investigated the state of the rest of the house. He probably needed the bed linen and towels changing, but the machine was over half-full now, so she might as well let that get on with being washed, while she put the kitchen in order and, collecting a pile of plates and mugs from the kitchen table, she emptied the sink of its contents onto a working surface, and began to fill the bowl with hot sudsy water.
The bed linen and towels would have to wait for later, until the washing machine was free again, because they constituted a full load by themselves and there simply wasn’t room. It might help if he managed to do the odd load of washing himself. It wasn’t as if his time was taken up with a brood of family or anything. He lived alone, but never seemed to lift a finger to keep his house in order, leaving it all for her when she came round. Value for money, she expected he called it – not having a dog and barking himself. The bloody cheek of it!
It took her about half an hour to restore order in what was one of the smallest rooms in the house and, wiping her hands dry, she opened the cupboard under the sink to collect dusters, spray polish and glass cleaner. The last sane thing that Hilda Pounce did that day was to open the door to the hall and step through into the main body of the house, at which point she went completely astray of her wits.
VI
Hermione and Dimity had spent a very pleasant couple of hours over several cups of coffee, holding a post- mortem on the various hands of cards played the previous evening. Hermione had joined the players after the first game, when Quentin had very graciously volunteered to stand down. His real motive was to get to the bar and have a couple of pints, but he thought he might as well pick up a couple of house-points for chivalry at the same time.
When he’d been served with his pint of best bitter (in his own pewter tankard that lived behind the bar, of course) he found that Charles had already left and gone home, but he was quite happy to sit and chew the fat with good old Vernon. With all the worries about the business on his mind, he didn’t feel up to the complicated mathematics and tactics necessary to tackle their regular game tonight, and was happy just to pass the time in idle conversation.
Hermione had triumphed in her four, having very few points at the end of the first game, and having foiled Craig Crawford’s plot of going misère in the no trumps hand, leaving him with nearly all the points in that round to his discredit. She had never played so well, but had been gracious enough to congratulate him on his daring at such a brave manoeuvre at such a late point in proceedings, changing his mood from black despair to not-quite-triumphant heroism.
Autopsy over, the corpse of the previous evening metaphorically before them, cut with sharp tongues and wits into neatly incised pieces, Dimity asked Hermione if she would care to stay for lunch. It was only cold salmon and salad, but if she didn’t mind taking pot luck, she was more than welcome.
Hermione was loath to deprive herself of such a delicious treat, the price of salmon being what it was (she might be relatively wealthy, but that didn’t stop her being mean about petty things), and Dimity was adamant. ‘It’s not like you haven’t snatched an even tastier morsel from my grasp before, is it?’ she asked, but she twinkled as she said it, and winked at her old friend before leaving the room, now suffused with a miasma of old, unhappy memories, which Hermione had rather hadn’t been brought up so casually and so unexpectedly.
There was little time for her to dwell on this, however, for at that moment she became aware of a sort of siren wail coming along the Market Darley Road in the direction of Spinning Wheel Cottage, and then of a furious banging on the front door, while the siren wail resolved itself into a scream, and continued to sound, as the knocking continued without break.
Everything got rather louder as Dimity pulled the door open to see what dreadful banshee had landed on her doorstep, only to find Hilda Pounce, her face pallid and shocked, her hair blown to kingdom come. As the door reached the fully open stage, Hilda ceased to scream and had only the breath left to mouth at Dimity, ‘It’s your cousin. It’s your cousin. Dead! You’ve got to come.’
Hermione arrived behind Dimity at that moment, which was lucky as Dimity’s knees showed signs of giving way. ‘Which one?’ she asked, panic in her voice. ‘Patience or Noah? Which one, woman? For God’s sake tell me!’ But Hilda Pounce had still not recovered sufficiently from her madcap dash from Barleycorn Crescent, for speech, and just continued to mouth at them, in ironic mockery of the piscatorial treat that now lay neglected on their plates on the dining room table.
Dimity was so frustrated with anxiety that she grabbed the cleaning woman by the shoulders and began to shake her, shouting, ‘Which one, damn you? Which one, woman?’ Hermione gently pulled her away and escorted Mrs Pounce into the house, so that they could question her in a more civilised manner. Shouting and shaking on the doorstep was no example to set to the neighbours, after all.
After being pushed down into an armchair in the sitting room and given a glass of water, Hilda managed to gasp out, ‘Neither of them. It’s Mr Gabriel.’
‘Gabriel?’ queried Dimity, shocked that he should not be at his place of work on a weekday. ‘Whatever’s happened to him?’
Draining her water glass, Hilda held it out for a refill and continued, as if in a trance, ‘He seems to have hanged himself from the top of the staircase, Miss Pryor. Found him about ten minutes ago when I’d done the washing-up.’
‘You didn’t just leave him there, did you?’ Dimity shouted in disbelief. ‘Surely you can’t have calmly got on with the washing up while he was … just hanging there?’
‘Of course I didn’t Miss Pryor. I did the kitchen first. It was when I went through the door to look at the rest of the house that I found him.’
‘Have you called the police or an ambulance?’ Hermione was feeling a little left out of the drama.
‘No, I haven’t. I got straight back on my bike and high-tailed it up here to tell you. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew you would.’
Dimity’s knees were in danger of withdrawing from the field of action again, and Hermione led her gently to a sofa and sat her down. ‘Both of you stay here while I phone for help, then I’ll make the two of you a nice cup of hot, strong tea. We’ll get this sorted out, don’t you worry.’ Command was Hermione’s forte, and she rushed eagerly into the hall to dial 999.
Chapter Six
Mis-Deal
Wednesday 6th January– continuation
I
DI Harry Falconer and DS Davey Carmichael sat on opposite sides of the inspector’s desk looking at a fresh selection of photographs from Carmichael’s New Year’s Eve wedding, Falconer now at ease, because he realised he had not disgraced himself in any way, and was, in any case, fascinated at the size and number of the members of his sergeant’s family, now revealed before him.
There were three brothers, all named after Shakespearian characters, as was Carmichael himself, and all of almost identical build to their policeman sibling. There were also two sisters, only slightly smaller in build, and a gargantuan mountain of a woman who proved to be the mother of the brood.
Falconer had always assumed that Carmichael’s mother was a widow, and was therefore puzzled by the presence in so many of the photographs of a tiny, wizened man, dressed as a gnome or dwarf or something similar. He must be a close relative to appear in so many of the photographs. Rather than risk a badly worded question, he just pointed to the little fellow and raised his eyebrows at his colleague, hoping that his face conveyed the convivial interrogative conjecture he had attempted.
Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3) Page 6
