by Hazel Holt
“Oh, that’s Tiger,” Wendy said. “He’s a stray, poor thing. He’s been hanging around here for ages. Desmond always made me drive him away, but he lives here now.” She picked up the flowers and went out of the room.
I sat down beside the cat, who regarded me impassively. “Well, Tiger,” I said. “Fancy that!”
As I stroked him, I looked round the room. It was subtly different. The cushions, for instance, were scattered about anyhow. There were magazines, books and newspapers laid down carelessly. And on the mantelpiece there was an unframed snapshot of a boy (presumably John) with Wendy, laughing on a beach in the sunshine.
Wendy came back into the room with a tray. “I hope you have time to stay for coffee,” she said. “It’s only instant, I’m afraid. Desmond always liked what he called proper coffee, but it takes forever to make and I really can’t tell the difference.” She handed me a cup and offered some biscuits. “Bourbons—you see, I did remember.”
“How are you?” I asked. “Has John come back?”
“No, not yet.”
“But he’ll be back for the funeral?”
“Oh yes. But that won’t be for ages yet because of the inquest—that nice police inspector explained all about it.”
“Of course. It must be a difficult time for you.”
“Sheila, can I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, expecting some question about funeral arrangements.
“You know about animals, don’t you? Do you think I ought to take Tiger to the vet for injections and things? I mean, he’s a stray, and I don’t know if he’s had them.”
“Well, yes,” I replied, disconcerted.
“I mean, he’s been wandering about the streets, poor little thing. Goodness knows what he might have picked up. You should have seen him when he first turned up—so thin! I used to buy tins and put food out for him, down at the bottom of the garden, behind that big escallonia, where you couldn’t see him from the house. Desmond didn’t know, did he, Tiger?” Tiger narrowed his eyes and blinked at her. She smiled. “He understands every word I say! So you think I should take him to the vet?”
“Certainly. He may need to be de-flead, if nothing else,” I said.
“Well, I’ll have to get a cat basket. And—” She broke off. “And I can take him in the car!” I looked at her questioningly. “Desmond would never let me use the car,” she said, “except when he needed me to drive him somewhere.”
“That would certainly be easier,” I said. I paused for a moment. “How are you managing—in general, I mean?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” This time the word had a cheerful sound, not like on my previous visit. This time she sounded as if she really meant it. “No, actually, I’m managing very well. Our solicitor, such a nice man, came to see me. He’s dealing with everything. And the money’s all right because I have a bank account of my own—my family set up a trust of some sort for me years ago. Desmond always saw to that and just gave me the housekeeping money every month. But now, of course, I can take money out and buy things myself.”
“I see. That’s all right, then.” I was feeling slightly embarrassed by all this personal information and wanted to change the subject. “Oh, by the way, I have a cat basket you can borrow if you’d like.”
“That’s so kind of you, Sheila, but I think I’d better buy one—I’ll need to take him to the vet for other things, won’t I? But if you’ve got a book about looking after cats, I’d really like to borrow that. I couldn’t find anything useful in the library.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve got several. I’ll bring them round for you.”
“It would be lovely to see you, but if you don’t have time to make the journey, you could give them to me at the shop.”
“You’re going back there?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I enjoy working there; I wouldn’t want to give it up.”
“But do you think you’ll be all right—I mean, after what’s happened? Are you sure you can face it?”
“Life goes on—isn’t that what they say?”
“Well, yes. But these are—well, exceptional circumstances.”
“You think people might be shocked?” she asked.
“Not shocked exactly, but embarrassed perhaps.”
“I hadn’t thought of that—I wouldn’t want to upset anyone. Perhaps I’d better leave it for a bit. Perhaps I could collect the books from you—I’d love to see your cottage.”
“Yes, do come, anytime.” Suddenly I felt I really wanted to get away. I stood up. “I really ought to be getting on. Thank you so much for the coffee. And it was so nice to see Tiger.”
“Honestly,” I said to Rosemary, “it was really weird! All right, she obviously was completely dominated by horrible Desmond (and, yes, I will speak ill of the dead), but we were all under the impression she adored him. But the extraordinary way she was going on, almost as if he’d just vanished into thin air and wasn’t there anymore. No sign of being upset—almost as if she hadn’t taken in the fact that he was killed. And that flood of conversation. More than I’ve ever heard her say the whole time I’ve known her!”
“Grief takes people in funny ways,” Rosemary said.
“It wasn’t like that. No grieving—well, she was obviously upset that first day when I took her home. Well, no, not upset exactly; more stunned—and worried! But now she’s positively cheerful.”
“Well, perhaps she hated him and is glad he’s dead.”
“No, it wasn’t that either, not really. She mentioned him a couple of times—things he wouldn’t let her do—but there was no emotion of any kind. It was as if she’d completely wiped him out of her life.”
“What about John?”
“Still not there. I really can’t understand that. They seemed so close. I gather he’ll be back for the funeral, whenever that might be, but you’d think he’d want to be there for her.”
“Very odd. She didn’t say if the police have any idea who might have killed him?”
“No, like I said, she seemed completely uninterested in anything to do with that.”
“Lots of people disliked Desmond, but surely not enough to kill him.”
“I don’t think it was premeditated,” I said. “He seems to have been killed with the knife that was lying about in the storeroom. It looks as if someone just snatched it up and stabbed him in the heat of the moment. Of course, it might have been a robbery that went wrong.” I told Rosemary about the missing money.
“How much would it have been?” she asked.
“It was midweek and out of season, so probably not more than about four hundred. Desmond was complaining about our sales figures.”
“Not a lot to kill someone for.”
“I suppose whoever it was panicked. Anyway, I may hear something more when I go in tomorrow. Incidentally, Wendy was all set to come back herself. I persuaded her to give it a bit more time—think how embarrassed everyone would have been!”
“Really most peculiar.”
“Oh, well. It will give her more time to be with her cat. That seems to be all she cares about.”
But when I went into the shop the following day, no one had heard anything, not even Norma.
“No, the police seem to be making very little progress—as far as I know. Inspector Morris hasn’t seen fit to give me any information, though I would have thought it would only have been polite, considering my position, to have kept me informed.” Then, as an afterthought: “How was Wendy; has she heard anything?”
“No,” I said. “She seems to be all right,” I added.
“Poor soul,” Norma said. “I can’t think how she will manage without Desmond—she was completely dependent on him. It’s always very sad when the wife depends on the husband so entirely. How will Wendy cope when she’s never been used to doing the simplest thing for herself? I wonder,” she said, “if I should go round and see what I can do for her. The funeral, for instance—she’s bound to need help with that!”
; “That won’t be for a while,” I said hastily, “and John will be there to help.”
Somehow I felt Wendy wouldn’t want people (especially Norma) to know that John hadn’t come home, and the last thing she (or anyone else, for that matter) would want would be Norma organizing anything.
“Well, I am very busy at the moment—so much to do, as you can imagine—but I wouldn’t want Wendy to think that I was too busy to help in any way I can. Now, Sheila, perhaps you would be good enough to sort through those piles of T-shirts and put out the inferior ones for disposal.”
I went through into the back room—reluctantly, I must admit—but everything looked perfectly normal. It was hard to think it had been the scene of such a violent act. Jean was there, putting clothes on hangers.
“How’s her ladyship? I came in here to escape—she’s very miffed that the inspector hasn’t seen fit to take her into his confidence.”
“I know—especially ‘in her position.’”
I turned over a pile of T-shirts. “These are all in a muddle—I did sort them last week. I can’t find that rather fancy one with the pheasants. I wanted to buy it for Michael.”
“Perhaps Madam has removed it as being politically incorrect—blood sports and all that. Oh, I meant to ask—how’s poor little Wendy?”
“She seems OK. Quite good, in fact.”
“Oh well,” Jean said. “Perhaps now Desmond’s gone we might get to see the real Wendy at last.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said.
Chapter Seven
I was just leaving Brunswick Lodge when Anthea cornered me and thrust a bundle of magazines into my hand.
“Oh, Sheila, would you mind taking these to Miss Paget? I promised them to her last week but I’ve been so busy.”
“Miss Paget?” I asked, feeling, as I always did, resentful that Anthea never imagined that anyone except herself could be busy.
“Yes, you know her. Nice little soul, used to keep the wool shop.”
“Oh yes, of course. I didn’t realize she was still around. I loved going in there to buy wool—so cozy, it always reminded me of Alice Through the Looking Glass.” Anthea looked at me blankly. “You know,” I said, “the sheep.”
“Oh—well—it’s an estate agent’s now. But Miss Paget still lives in the flat over the shop. She’s more or less housebound, but there’s one of those entry phone things so she can let you in.”
“But I was just…”
“Thanks so much. I must dash!”
Typical Anthea. As it happened there wasn’t really anything I needed to do, so I thought I might as well take the magazines around right away. I don’t greatly care for entry phones or answer phones or any of the technical devices that seem to have taken over life these days, and when I pressed the entry button there was no reply for a long time. Then an anxious voice said, “Who is it?” and I said, “It’s Sheila Malory, Miss Paget. I’ve brought some magazines for you.” Another long wait. Then a click and I was able to open the door and climb the steep stairs and knock on the door at the top. The voice said, “Come in,” and there was Miss Paget, sitting in a chair by the window, a small worktable by her side, where she had just laid down a piece of knitting.
“Oh, Mrs. Malory, this is a nice surprise. I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when. Do sit down and make yourself at home. Forgive me if I don’t get up—I find moving about a bit difficult these days.”
I moved a chair nearer to hers and said, “How are you keeping?”
“Oh, I’m all right, you know—don’t get about much now.”
“I see you’re still knitting,” I said.
“I like to keep something on the go, just to keep my hand in. Fortunately, it’s only my poor old knees that have given way these days. How about you? Did you ever finish that waistcoat with the cable stitch?”
“Goodness!” I exclaimed. “Fancy you remembering that! No, I’m ashamed to say I gave up on it—in spite of all your splendid instructions. I never really got the hang of it.”
She smiled. “Such a pity—it was a very popular pattern. Your mother was a very good knitter, I seem to remember.”
“Yes, she loved it, until the arthritis got too bad. I always remember a knitted dress she made for me when I was quite small—it was lovely, with openwork panels in the skirt.”
“And you don’t do much yourself now, then?”
“I’m afraid I never seem to have the time. I would have made something for my granddaughter, but girls don’t really like hand-knitted things now.” I laid the magazines down on one of the many small tables. “Anthea asked me to bring these along,” I said. “She’s sorry she wasn’t able to come herself.”
“She’s always in a rush,” Miss Paget said. “Always in a hurry, never stays for a cup of tea or anything—such a busy life she leads! Now, you’ll stay for a cup, won’t you? It’s a real treat to see a new face.”
“That would be lovely,” I said. “Can I do anything to help?” I added as Miss Paget heaved herself with some difficulty out of her chair.
“No, my dear, I’m all right. It’s just getting up—there now, I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
While she was in the kitchen I went and looked out of the window. Miss Paget’s sitting room was at the back and looked out over the network of little alleys that connected a lot of the streets in the center of Taviscombe. At this time of day there was quite a lot of activity, people coming and going. To my surprise I saw Norma going through one of the gates and into the yard beyond and I realized that I was looking at the back entrance of the charity shop. Miss Paget called out from the kitchen, and I went in to help her carry the tray of tea things into the sitting room. When she had poured the tea (“I’m sorry it’s in a mug, dear, but it’s easier when you’re on your own”) and was sitting down, I took my tea and went over and stood beside her by the window.
“You’ve got a very good view of what goes on from here,” I said.
She laughed. “Oh yes—I call it my window on the world. I can’t get out much nowadays but I do like to see all the people going by. I sit here most of the day. Do you know, I can sometimes tell what time it is by what’s going on. The children coming and going to school, and some of the deliverymen always deliver at the same time—a couple of them always look up and wave to me!”
“It must be very interesting.”
“It is—people used to say to me, Wouldn’t you like a nice cottage in the country? But I always said to them, no, I like watching people, not cows and sheep! No, as long as I can look out of my window in the day and watch my programs in the evening, I’m perfectly happy.”
“I hadn’t realized that you can see the back of the charity shop from here,” I said. “I’ve been working there for a while.”
“Yes, I often see people going in and out from there. But what a dreadful thing that was, that poor man. I read all about it in the Gazette. It must have been very upsetting for you all.”
“It has been most upsetting.” I finished my tea and put the mug down. “I don’t suppose you happened to notice anything special that day?”
“What day would that be?”
“It was a Thursday, the fourteenth. I don’t suppose you remember?”
“Oh yes. The fourteenth was my dear father’s birthday, so I always have some little treat—it was some very nice raspberries a kind friend brought me. She knows I like to have a little celebration, as you might say—and some cream to go with them. Wasn’t that kind!”
“How lovely. But were you watching in the afternoon—after four thirty, say.”
“After four thirty,” she said slowly. “It’s usually quite quiet then—the children have gone home after school and people don’t seem to shop much in the late afternoon, do they—or if they do they go to the supermarket outside the town.”
“So did you see anyone going in and out?”
She drank a little of her tea. “Well now, let me see. There was a young man round about then. I remem
ber him specially. He hung about outside for a while before he went in—I thought that was a bit odd—and he wasn’t in there very long and then he came out in a great hurry and rushed away. I wondered at the time what that was all about—you do think about the unusual things you’ve seen, don’t you, especially when you’re on your own all the time.”
“And was he the only person who went in?” I asked.
“Oh no, dear. A while after that there was a gentleman, very smart in a business suit. He didn’t seem sure of the right door—he was counting the doors in the alley to make sure he’d got the right one. I’d never seen him before, although, now I come to think of it, I do remember seeing the young man once or twice.”
“Did he stay long?”
“Longer than the young man, but not what you’d call a long time.”
“And that was all?”
“The last person I saw was the lady—but she used to be there often.”
“You mean one of the ladies who worked there?”
“I don’t think so—I only ever saw her in the late afternoon.”
“What did she look like?”
“Oh dear, let me think. Tall, dark haired, neatly dressed.”
“About how old?”
“Not young, more or less middle-aged.”
“And how long did she stay?”
“She was usually there quite a while. But I don’t often see her go because it’s time for my program—I don’t like to miss that.”
I went back and sat down beside her. “Miss Paget,” I said. “I do think you ought to tell the police everything you saw that day.”
“The police—oh no, dear, I don’t think I could do that. I wouldn’t want to get anyone into trouble.”
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t be doing that. But it would be such a help for Inspector Morris to know who was there.”
“Inspector Morris? Bob Morris? Grace Morris’s son? I remember her very well. She was always in the shop. A lovely knitter—you remember I used to sell made-up garments sometimes? Well, she used to do some of them for me—between ourselves, I think they needed the money. Such a nice woman, so sad she died quite young. Well, fancy young Bob being an inspector—I knew he’d gone into the police force. Hasn’t he done well!”
