by Hazel Holt
“Hello, Sheila,” he greeted me. “Quite a good turnout. I’m so glad—Norma’s had to work very hard to get this chap. He’s reckoned to be one of the finest exponents of Liszt in the country.”
“How splendid,” I said. “And how clever of Norma to persuade him.”
“Of course, we can’t afford his usual fee, but Norma explained it was for charity and such a good cause.”
“I’m sure Norma was very persuasive.” He looked pleased, so I went on. “I can’t think how she manages to fit in so many things—though, of course, she’s so very well organized.”
He positively beamed with pleasure at this. “Of course, you see her at work in the charity shop—Norma often speaks of you.”
I didn’t pursue that remark since I didn’t think Norma went in much for praise of her fellow workers. Just then Norma herself appeared and, giving me a cursory nod, addressed herself to Marcus.
“Don’t forget, I need you to stack the chairs and put them away afterwards. James should be doing it, but he’s got to drive this man to catch his train. Oh yes, and make sure you lock the storeroom door after you’ve put the chairs away and bring me the key.” She caught sight of a new arrival. “Oh, there’s Councilor Martin—I need to speak to him about the rubbish collection. The men left several bags of rubbish the gardening committee put out last week, after I’d specifically arranged for them to be collected. Now remember, do the chairs straightaway after the recital because I need to have everything locked up before ten forty-five.”
I’d been discreetly perusing my program while this was going on, not wishing to embarrass poor Marcus by witnessing this interchange. But he seemed perfectly unconcerned and said, “Isn’t it marvelous the way she thinks of absolutely everything!”
Fortunately the pianist now made his appearance, and I was spared the need to reply.
Marcus was in the storeroom the following week, moving boxes of books to go for disposal. He greeted me cheerfully. “Norma asked me to pop in to shift this lot—they’re a bit heavy for you ladies, even with the trolley.”
Just then Desmond came in. He disapproved of non–staff members being on the premises—the dreaded health and safety thing and something called employers’ liability, terms he made great play with. I felt he was about to say something unpleasant to Marcus, so I hastily went into the shop. Marcus didn’t reappear, and I assumed he’d gone out the back way, into the alley. After quite a while Desmond came out, and he and Norma had a low-toned conversation at the back of the shop that went on for some time and appeared to please neither of them.
After he’d gone I went back into the storeroom where Jean was struggling to open a large cardboard box.
“Greeting cards,” she said to my inquiry. “It’s the only thing we buy in.” She fumbled ineffectually at the fastening. “This wretched tape’s impossible; these scissors are useless. I’ll have to get a knife out of the kitchen.”
She disappeared into the little cubbyhole where the kettle was kept along with a small fridge where people could leave their sandwiches for lunch and a cabinet with shelves for cups and plates and a drawer for cutlery.
“Let’s see if this will do it,” she said, brandishing a large kitchen knife and attacking the recalcitrant tape with vigor.
“Don’t let Desmond see you with that,” I said. “Think of the health and safety!”
“Bother Desmond! Anyway, it’s done it now. There.” She went on unpacking some cards, and pushing a pile of garments to one side, she spread them out on the table. “They’re rather nice. Tasteful. I like this one of a bluebell wood and this one of the roses—I might as well get a couple while I think of it. This is a terrible month for birthdays.”
“They are rather nice,” I said. “I’ll get that one with the spaniel for Thea. She’s got a birthday soon, and this is just like their dog Truffy. How much are they?”
“One pound twenty-five—but don’t forget your ten percent discount!”
Desmond came back just after lunch and really surpassed himself. It was a slack afternoon, and he gathered us all together in the storeroom and gave us a lecture on how useless we all were about selling and how we weren’t “making sales” and how our turnover was down on last year and how compared with the other charity shops in the town (he’d got comparative figures, which he read out with great relish) we were way behind and how this was a commercial enterprise and not a social gathering or a mothers’ meeting where ladies stand about chatting…. After a while I gave up listening and amused myself by looking at the faces of the others. Predictably Wendy was listening intently—no doubt she’d be questioned about his “little talk” when she got home. Jean appeared to be intent on examining her colorless nail varnish, picking at a bit that was chipped and yawning from time to time. Norma was absolutely bursting with fury—you could see what a tremendous effort she was making not to say anything. When Desmond finally finished and went away, saying that he’d be back to go to the bank with the takings, Norma, who was quite red in the face, gathered up her coat, said she had a headache and was going home, and swept out of the shop.
“Well!” Jean said. “What a carry-on!”
Wendy looked very distressed. “Oh dear, poor Norma—I’m sure Desmond didn’t mean anyone to take it personally. It’s just that he’s so anxious that the shop will do well….” Her voice trailed away.
Seeing how miserable she looked, I said, “I’m going to put the kettle on. I’m sure we’ll all be much more efficient when we’ve had a cup of tea.”
Jean gave a snort of laughter and went back into the shop.
The rest of the afternoon passed peacefully. We made a few sales, which I hoped might please Desmond. What with one thing and another I was quite late leaving, and I was on the point of going home when he came in to collect the takings. He seemed annoyed when he heard about Norma, although Wendy tried to say tactfully that she’d had a headache all day.
“It’s extremely tiresome,” he said. “I was held up at a meeting that went on too long, so now it’s too late for the bank.”
Since he never allowed Norma to see to the takings herself, I didn’t see why his being late for the bank was her fault. Still, Desmond never really required any sort of logic when it came to finding someone to blame.
“Well, I’m off,” Jean said. And with a cheery wave to me and to Wendy, but not to Desmond, she left.
“Are you coming back now?” Wendy approached her husband tentatively.
He looked up from the papers he’d taken out of his briefcase. “No,” he said brusquely. “I shall be some time—I have things to do here. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Don’t wait supper. You can get me something when I get in. Oh, and tell John I want to speak to him when I come in.”
We both got our coats and handbags and Wendy collected the numerous small parcels she always seemed to be burdened with. Desmond unlocked the shop door to let us out. As I looked back, I saw that he’d gone into the storeroom again and I wondered what were the “things” he had to do—more targets for us, no doubt.
“I do hope Norma wasn’t too upset,” Wendy said. “Like I said, Desmond doesn’t mean these things personally. Oh I know he put things—well, you know, a little strongly—but that’s just his way….” Her voice trailed off, and I wondered how often she’d tried to placate people he had offended. She looked very weary and, on an impulse, I said, “Can I give you a lift home? You seem to have so much to carry.”
“Oh no, it’s all right. I can get the bus.”
“Come on,” I urged her. “Look, it’s starting to rain, and here’s the car. Hop in.” I opened the doors. “Put your parcel on the backseat.”
“Well, that is very kind. Thank you so much. I’m afraid I’ve missed my usual bus and the next one will be quite a while….”
The Barlows lived on the outskirts of town, and we didn’t talk much on the way. Wendy looked exhausted, and I couldn’t really think of anything to say. I pulled up outside the house—it was a
large, modern house, set in a well-kept garden.
As she got out, Wendy said tentatively, “Would you like to come in for a drink or a cup of tea?”
I was quite taken aback by the invitation, the last thing I expected. But the opportunity to see inside the house was irresistible. “That would be lovely,” I said, and followed her up the path. I held some of the parcels while she fumbled in her bag for the key, and we finally went inside. The hall was spacious with a handsome staircase, and I got the impression of highly polished parquet flooring everywhere. Wendy led me into the sitting room (more parquet with some expensive rugs). Although the room still held the late-afternoon sunshine (windows on both sides) and the furniture was modern in light wood, the general effect was cold and clinical. Apart from a formal arrangement of large flowers, there were no personal touches—no books, pictures or photographs—only a neat pile of copies of Somerset Life on a coffee table. It seemed unlikely that anyone actually lived in the room; in its way it looked like the modern upmarket equivalent of the old traditional front parlor.
“Do sit down,” Wendy said, “and I’ll get rid of these parcels. What would you like to drink?”
“Tea would be lovely,” I said.
“Are you sure? We have sherry and gin and, and things….”
“No, really, tea will be fine.”
She looked faintly relieved, and I wondered if Desmond might have disapproved of her offering this hospitality. I sat down cautiously on the large sofa, trying not to lean back and disturb the carefully arranged cushions. From where I sat I could see, through one of the windows, the back garden, also large and well kept, but also impersonal, more like a park garden tended by a professional gardener; again no personal touches.
Wendy was away for quite a while, and I thought I heard voices and then the slamming of a door. She appeared soon after, bearing a tray with tea things and a plate of biscuits.
“Sorry I’ve been so long.”
She looked rather upset, but she poured the tea and offered me a biscuit. “Do have one. It’s a bourbon—I think that’s your favorite.”
I was touched that she’d noticed how I always chose the bourbon when there was a selection of biscuits at the shop.
“How sweet of you,” I said. “I adore them.” I took a biscuit and tried to make conversation. “Isn’t this a pleasant room—lovely to have windows on both sides. It makes it so nice and light. My cottage has such tiny windows the sun hardly ever gets in, and I have to have the light on even in the summer!”
She smiled. “It must be nice to live in an old house. This was new when we moved into it. Desmond doesn’t like old houses. He says they always need things doing to them.”
“He’s so right,” I said. “I spend an absolute fortune on my thatched roof, the chimneys are in a state of collapse and, of course, there’s the everlasting problem of the septic tank!”
“But you wouldn’t want to live anywhere else?”
“There are times, when yet another thing goes wrong, that all I want is to move into a little modern box—but no, you’re right. I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.”
“I always wanted to live in one of those cottages by the harbor,” Wendy said, “where you can see the sea. But Desmond said they opened up right onto the street and there would be passersby all the time.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “But I do so agree about the sea. Whenever I feel a bit down or want to think about anything, I always go down and look at the sea. It’s a sort of comfort—the waves, I suppose, and that expanse of water. It puts things in perspective somehow.”
Wendy smiled. “My grandfather was in the Navy, so I suppose the sea is in my blood, as they say. But we lived in the Midlands, and it seemed so far away!”
“Did you have to move about a lot because of Desmond’s job?”
“Yes, quite a lot. That’s why I was so pleased when Desmond retired and we could settle in one place.”
“What made you choose Taviscombe?”
“Oh, Desmond’s cousin was vicar of St. Mary’s—the previous vicar, not this one—and he knew Desmond was a lay preacher; he had been for some years. So he said, Why didn’t Desmond come to St. Mary’s?”
“So you moved to Taviscombe. Were you pleased? Was it where you wanted to live?”
She hesitated. “Desmond was set on Taviscombe, and really, we’ve settled down here very nicely. There’s so much here for Desmond to do—he likes that. And, of course there’s the sea….”
“Well,” I said. “I suppose I should be getting back.”
“Won’t you have another cup of tea, or a biscuit?”
“No, thanks. I must be on my way. My animals have been in all day so I ought to go and let them out.”
“Oh, do you have animals? What are they?”
“A dog—a Westie—and a very demanding Siamese cat.”
“How lovely. I’ve always wanted a cat. But, of course, moving about as we did, Desmond said it wouldn’t be fair.”
“But you’re settled down here.”
“Well, it’s too late now, I suppose…”
I got up and she came with me to the door.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “It’s been really nice. You must come and see me—and the animals.”
She smiled wistfully. “That would be lovely.”
As I drove away, she was still standing at the door, watching me until I was out of sight.
“Poor little soul,” I said to Rosemary when I told her all about it later. “I don’t believe she’s ever dared to invite anyone back—she only did it because she knew Desmond would be out for a long time.”
“Oh, that man!” Rosemary said vehemently. “He’s abominable. And how does she stand it? In this day and age you wouldn’t credit it.”
“I suppose there’ll always be people like Desmond bullying people like Wendy; it’s human nature and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
“How can that son of hers stand by and let it happen?”
“He’s even more frightened of Desmond than she is.”
“Well, I’ve no patience with either of them. Why hasn’t she left him ages ago?”
“I don’t imagine she has anywhere else to go and probably no money.”
“She could get a job.”
“Not easy at her age.”
“The son could.”
“He’s at university—she wouldn’t want him to give that up. No, I’m afraid there’s no solution—anyway, I suppose she’s used to it by now.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have to be,” Rosemary said. “It’s not fair.”
I smiled. “Whoever said that life was fair?” I replied.
Chapter Five
The next morning, because the animals were more cooperative than usual, I was down at the charity shop nice and early. The shop door was still locked, of course, so I went round to the alley at the back. I stopped short in surprise—there was a policeman standing by the door to the shop’s backyard, and the entrance was cordoned off by police tape. The constable came towards me and said, “Sorry. I’m afraid you can’t come in.”
“But I work in the shop,” I said.
“I’m sorry—there’s been an incident.”
“An incident?”
He seemed disinclined to elaborate further, and I was about to protest when the door opened and Inspector Morris came out. I’ve known Bob Morris since he was a little boy who used to come and help his father when he looked after my garden.
“Bob,” I said, “what’s going on?”
He nodded at the constable, who went back into the yard. “I’m afraid it’s serious, Mrs. Malory.” He thought for a moment and then he said, “I believe you’ve been helping out here?”
“Yes. I’ve been filling in for someone who’s away.”
“Right. Well, I’m afraid we are investigating the death of Mr. Desmond Barlow.”
“Dead? Investigating? You mean someone killed him?”
He paused again. “I w
onder if you could help me. We’ve had to ask Mrs. Barlow to come in and identify her husband and, obviously, she’s very upset. I wonder if you could very kindly take her home?”
“Oh, poor Wendy! Of course I will. She must be devastated.”
“That would be a great help—more comfortable for her to have someone she knows.”
He went back into the yard. After a few minutes, Wendy came out supported by a policewoman. I went over and put my arm round her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Such a terrible thing to have happened. Let’s get you home.”
Again in the car, like last time, neither of us spoke. There seemed nothing I could usefully say, and Wendy seemed stunned by what had happened. There were no tears. She sat beside me, her hands tightly locked together, her face blank and her eyes fixed unseeing on the road ahead. At the house she gave me her keys, and I opened the door and we went inside. She stood silently in the hall, as if waiting to be told what to do next.
“Shall we go into the kitchen,” I suggested, “and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
She led the way down a passage into a kitchen that was as neat and impersonal as the rest of the house. It was a large kitchen with a sort of dining area with a table and four chairs. I pulled out one of the chairs for her and she sat down obediently. I filled the kettle and found the tea, milk and cups and saucers while she watched me as though she was a stranger in a strange house. When I had made the tea, she drank some of it mechanically, still saying nothing. Then she spoke, quietly and without any sort of emotion.
“Someone killed Desmond—with a knife, they said. They’d put a sheet over him, but they uncovered his face.” She drank some more of her tea. “He looked the same, just surprised.” She looked directly at me for the first time. “But it’s true—he is dead.”
I moved over and took her hand. “Yes, it is true. I’m so sorry, Wendy. It’s horrible for you.”
She began to cry. Not sobbing, just tears rolling unchecked down her face. I put my arm round her. “Try to let go,” I said. “Don’t hold it in—you’ll feel better if you let it out.”
