The Scold's Bridle

by Minette Walters

  ‘She did it because she knew it would excite him.’ She spoke the words with conviction and Sarah wondered about the wisdom of continuing – Joanna’s prejudice against her mother was too ingrained for reasoned argument. But the offensiveness of the statement irritated her enough to defend Jack, if only because she had encountered the same sort of blinkered stupidity herself.

  ‘Jack’s seen far too many naked women to find nakedness itself a turn-on,’ she said dismissively. ‘Nudity is only erotic if you want it to be. You might just as well say that I get a thrill every time a male patient undresses for me.’

  ‘That’s different. You’re a doctor.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘It’s not, but I’m not going to argue the toss with you. It would be a waste of both our times.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘In any case your mother was too incapacitated by her arthritis, and in too much pain from it, to want to have intercourse with a virile man thirty years her junior. It’s important to keep a sense of proportion, Mrs Lascelles. It might have been different if she had been sexually active all her life or even liked men very much, but neither was true of your mother. She once told me that the reason there were so many divorces these days was because relationships based on sex were doomed to fail. The pleasures of orgasm were too fleeting to make the remaining hours of boredom and disappointment worth while.’

  Joanna resumed her study of the garden. ‘Then why did she take her clothes off?’ It was, it seemed, very important to her. Because she was jealous, Sarah wondered, or because she needed to go on despising Mathilda?

  ‘I imagine it was no big deal, one way or the other, and she was interested enough in art for art’s sake to help Jack explore the unconventional side of her nature. I can’t see her doing it for any other reason.’

  There was a brief silence while Joanna considered this. ‘Do you still like her now that she’s dead?’

  Sarah clasped her hands between her knees and stared at the carpet. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I’m so angry about the will that I can’t view her objectively at the moment.’

  ‘Then say you don’t want the bequest. Let me and Ruth have it.’

  ‘I wish it was that easy, believe me, but if I turn it down then you’ll have to fight the donkeys’ charity for it, and I honestly can’t see how that will improve your chances unless, presumably, you can show that Mathilda never intended that will to be her last.’ She looked up to find Joanna’s pale eyes studying her intently.

  ‘You’re a very peculiar woman, Dr Blakeney,’ she said slowly. ‘You must realize that the easiest way for me to do that is to prove that my mother was murdered and that you were the one who did it. It fits so neatly, after all. You knew the will was just a threat to make me and Ruth toe the line, so you killed Mother quickly before she could change it. Once you’re convicted, no court on earth will rule in favour of the donkeys.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘And if you can cajole my husband into testifying that I knew about the will in advance, then you’re home and dry.’ She raised an eyebrow in enquiry. ‘But, as I suspect you’re beginning to discover, Jack is neither so amenable nor so dishonest. And it wouldn’t make any difference, you know, if you did manage to persuade him into bed with you. I’ve known him for six years and the one thing I can say about him is that he cannot be bought. He values himself far too highly to tell lies for anyone, no matter how much of an obligation they may put him under.’

  Joanna gave a small laugh. ‘You’re very confident that I haven’t slept with him.’

  Sarah felt compassion for her. ‘My solicitor phoned last night to say that Jack’s camped out in your summer-house, but I was sure anyway. You’re very vulnerable at the moment, and I do know my husband well enough to know he wouldn’t exploit that.’

  ‘You sound as though you admire him.’

  ‘I could never admire him as much as he admires himself,’ she said dryly. ‘I hope he’s extremely cold out there. I’ve suffered for his art for years.’

  ‘I gave him a paraffin heater,’ said Joanna with a frown. The memory obviously annoyed her.

  Sarah’s eyes brimmed with sudden laughter. ‘Was he grateful?’

  ‘No. He told me to leave it outside the door.’ She gazed through the window. ‘He’s an uncomfortable person.’

  ‘I’m afraid he is,’ Sarah agreed. ‘It never occurs to him that other people have fragile egos which need stroking from time to time. It means you have to take his love on faith if you want a relationship with him.’ She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘And faith has a nasty habit of deserting you just when you most need it.’

  There was a long silence. ‘Did you talk to my mother like this?’ Joanna asked at last.

  ‘Like what?’

  Joanna sought for the right words. ‘So – easily.’

  ‘Do you mean did I find her easy to talk to?’

  ‘No.’ There was a haunted look in the grey eyes. ‘I meant, weren’t you afraid of her?’

  Sarah stared at her hands. ‘I didn’t need to be, Mrs Lascelles. She couldn’t hurt me, you see, because she wasn’t my mother. There were no emotional strings to be arbitrarily plucked when she felt like it; no shared family secrets that would lay me open to her vituperative tongue; no weaknesses from my childhood that she could exploit into adulthood whenever she felt like belittling me. If she’d tried, of course, I’d have walked away, because I’ve had all that from my own mother for years and there is no way I would put up with it from a stranger.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. Is that what you came to find out?’

  ‘I came to find out if bridges could be built.’

  ‘For your benefit or mine?’

  ‘Both, I hoped.’

  Joanna’s smile was apologetic. ‘But I’ve got nothing to gain by being friendly with you, Dr Blakeney. It would be tantamount to admitting Mother was right and I can’t do that, not if I want to contest the will in court.’

  ‘I hoped to persuade you there were other options.’

  ‘Every one of which is dependent on your charity.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘Is that so terrible?’

  ‘Of course. I served forty years for my inheritance. You served one. Why should I have to beg from you?’

  Why indeed? There was no justice in it that Sarah could see. ‘Is there any point in my coming here again?’

  ‘No.’ Joanna stood up and smoothed the creases from her skirt. ‘It can only make matters worse.’

  Sarah smiled wryly. ‘Can they be any worse?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said with a twisted little smile. ‘I might start to like you.’ She waved dismissively towards the door. ‘You know your way out, I think.’

  DS Cooper was gazing thoughtfully at Sarah’s car when she emerged from the front door. ‘Was that wise, Dr Blakeney?’ he asked as she approached.

  ‘Was what wise?’

  ‘Bearding the lioness in her den.’

  ‘Do lionesses have beards?’ she murmured.

  ‘It was a figure of speech.’

  ‘I gathered that.’ She observed him with fond amusement. ‘Wise or not, Sergeant, it was instructive. I’ve had my anxieties laid to rest and, as any doctor will tell you, that’s the best panacea there is.’

  He looked pleased for her. ‘You’ve sorted things out with your husband?’

  She shook her head. ‘Jack’s a life sentence not an anxiety.’ Her dark eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘Perhaps I should have paid a little more attention when my mother was making her predictions for our future.’

  ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure?’ he suggested.

  ‘More along the lines of “She who sups with the devil needs a long spoon”. Which I, of course, countered with “The devil has all the best tunes”.’ She made a wry face. ‘But try forgetting “Hey, Jude” or “Twenty-four hours from Tulsa”. Like Jack they have a nasty habit of lingering in the memory.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m more of a “White Christmas” man myself, but I know what y
ou mean.’ He glanced towards the house. ‘So, if it’s not your husband who’s set your mind at rest it must be Mrs Lascelles. Does that mean she’s decided to accept the terms of the will?’

  Again Sarah shook her head. ‘No. She’s convinced me she didn’t kill her mother.’

  ‘And how did she manage to do that?’ He looked very sceptical.

  ‘Feminine intuition, Sergeant. You’d probably call it naïvety.’

  ‘I would.’ He patted her arm in an avuncular way. ‘You really must learn not to be so patronizing, Doctor. You’ll see things in a different light if you do.’

  ‘Patronizing?’ echoed Sarah in surprise.

  ‘We can always call it something else. Intellectual snobbery or self-righteousness, perhaps. They cloak themselves just as happily under the guise of naïvety but, of course, naïvety sounds so much less threatening. You’re a very decided woman, Dr Blakeney, and you rush in where angels fear to tread, not out of foolishness but out of an overweening confidence that you know best. I am investigating a murder here.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I don’t pretend that I would ever have liked Mrs Gillespie because I’m rather inclined to accept the established view that she was an evil-minded old bitch who got her kicks out of hurting people. However, that did not give anyone the right to strike her down prematurely. But the point I want to stress to you is that whoever killed her was clever. Mrs Gillespie made enemies right, left and centre, and knew it; she was a bully; she was cruel; and she trod rough-shod over other people’s sensibilities. Yet, someone got so close to her that they were able to deck her out in a diabolical headdress and then take her semi-conscious to the bath where they slit her wrists. Whoever this person was is not going to make you a free gift of their involvement. To the contrary, in fact, they will make you a free gift of their non-involvement, and your absurd assumption that you can tell intuitively who is or who is not guilty from a simple conversation is intellectual arrogance of the worst kind. If it was so damned easy – forgive my French – to tell murderers from the rest of society, do you not think by now that we’d have locked them up and confined unlawful killing to the oddities page of the history textbooks?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I seem to have exposed a nerve. I’m sorry.’

  He sighed with frustration. ‘You’re still patronizing me.’

  She opened her car door. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I left, otherwise I might be tempted to return the insult.’

  He looked amused. ‘Water off a duck’s back,’ he said amiably. ‘I’ve been insulted by professionals.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said, slipping in behind the wheel. ‘I can’t be the only person who gets pissed off when you decide to throw your weight about. You don’t even know for sure that Mathilda was murdered, but we’re all supposed to wave our arms in the air and panic. What possible difference can it make to anyone if I choose to satisfy myself that Mrs Lascelles hasn’t disqualified herself from a cut of the will by topping the old lady who made it?’

  ‘It could make a lot of difference to you,’ he said mildly. ‘You could end up dead.’

  She was intensely scornful. ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you made a will, Dr Blakeney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In favour of your husband?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So, if you die tomorrow, he gets everything, including, presumably, what Mrs Gillespie has left you.’

  She started the car. ‘Are you suggesting Jack is planning to murder me?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I’m rather more interested in the fact that he is – potentially – a very eligible husband. Assuming, of course, you die before you can change your will. It’s worth considering, don’t you think?’

  Sarah glared at him through the window. ‘And you say Mathilda was evil-minded?’ Furiously, she ground into gear. ‘Compared with you she was a novice. Juliet to your Iago. And if you don’t understand the analogy, then I suggest you bone up on some Shakespeare.’ She released the clutch with a jerk and showered his legs with gravel as she drove away.

  ‘Are you busy, Mr Blakeney, or can you spare me a few minutes?’ Cooper propped himself against the doorjamb of the summer-house and lit a cigarette.

  Jack eyed him for a moment, then went back to his painting. ‘If I said I was busy would you go away?’

  ‘No.’

  With a shrug, Jack clamped the brush between his teeth and took a coarser one from the jar on the easel, using it to create texture in the soft paint he had just applied. Cooper smoked in silence, watching him. ‘Okay,’ said Jack at last, flipping the brushes into turpentine and swinging round to face the Sergeant. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Who was Iago?’

  Jack grinned. ‘You didn’t come here to ask me that.’

  ‘You’re quite right, but I’d still like to know.’

  ‘He’s a character from Othello. A Machiavelli who manipulated people’s emotions in order to destroy them.’

  ‘Was Othello the black bloke?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Iago drove him into such a frenzy of jealousy that Othello murdered his wife Desdemona and then killed himself when he learnt that everything Iago had said about her was a lie. It’s a story of obsessive passion and trusts betrayed. You should read it.’

  ‘Maybe I will. What did Iago do to make Othello jealous?’

  ‘He exploited Othello’s emotional insecurity by telling him Desdemona was having an affair with a younger, more attractive man. Othello believed him because it was what he was most afraid of.’ He stretched his long legs in front of him. ‘Before Othello fell on his sword he described himself as “one that lov’d not wisely but too well”. It gets misused these days by people who know the quote but don’t know the story. They interpret “lov’d not wisely” as referring to a poor choice of companion, but Othello was actually acknowledging his own foolishness in not trusting the woman he adored. He just couldn’t believe the adoration was mutual.’

  Cooper ground his cigarette under the heel of his shoe. ‘Topical stuff then,’ he murmured, glancing towards the sleeping-bag. ‘Your wife’s not loving too wisely at the moment, but then you’re hardly encouraging her to do anything else. You’re being a little cruel, aren’t you, sir?’

  Jack’s liking for the man grew. ‘Not half as cruel as I ought to be. Why did you want to know about Iago?’

  ‘Your wife mentioned him, said I was Iago to Mrs Gillespie’s Juliet.’ He smiled his amiable smile. ‘Mind, I’d just suggested that if she were to die an untimely death you would make an eligible catch for someone else.’ He took out another cigarette, examined it then put it back again. ‘But I don’t see Mrs Gillespie as Juliet. King Lear, perhaps, assuming I’m right and King Lear was the one whose daughter turned on him.’

  ‘Daughters,’ Jack corrected him. ‘There were two of them, or two who turned on him, at least. The third tried to save him.’ He rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘So you’ve got your knife into Joanna, have you? Assuming I’ve followed your reasoning correctly, then Joanna killed her mother to inherit the funds, found to her horror that Mathilda had changed her will in the meantime, so immediately made eyes at me to get me away from Sarah with a view to topping Sarah at the first opportune moment and then hitching herself to me.’ He chuckled. ‘Or perhaps you think we’re in it together. That’s one hell of a conspiracy theory.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, sir.’

  He eased his stiff shoulders. ‘On the whole I prefer Joanna’s interpretation. It’s more rational.’

  ‘She’s accusing your wife.’

  ‘I know. It’s a neat little package, too. The only flaw in it is that Sarah would never have done it, but I can’t blame Joanna for getting that wrong. She can’t see past her own jealousy.’

  Cooper frowned. ‘Jealousy over you?’

  ‘God no.’ Jack gave a rumble of laughter. ‘She doesn’t even like me very much. She thinks I’m a homosexual because she can’t account for my irreverence
in any other way.’ His eyes gleamed at Cooper’s expression, but he didn’t elaborate. ‘Jealousy over her mother, of course. She was quite happy loathing and being loathed by Mathilda until she discovered she had a rival. Jealousy has far more to do with ownership than it has with love.’

  ‘Are you saying she knew about your wife’s relationship with her mother before her mother died?’

  ‘No. If she had, she would probably have done something about it.’ He scraped his stubble again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. ‘But it’s too late now, and that can only make the jealousy worse. She’ll start to forget her mother’s faults, fantasize about the relationship she imagines Sarah had with Mathilda and torment herself over her own missed opportunities. Let’s face it, we all want to believe that our mothers love us. It’s supposed to be the one relationship we can depend on.’

  Cooper lit another cigarette and stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip. ‘You say Mrs Lascelles is jealous of your wife’s intimacy with Mrs Gillespie. Why isn’t she jealous of her daughter? According to the young lady herself she got on with her grandmother like a house on fire.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘There’s no evidence to the contrary. The housemistress at her boarding school says Mrs Gillespie wrote regularly and always seemed very affectionate whenever she went there. Far more affectionate and interested, apparently, than Mrs Lascelles who puts in infrequent appearances and shows little or no interest in how her daughter’s doing.’

  ‘All that says to me is that Mathilda was a magnificent hypocrite. You can’t ignore her snobbery, you know, not without distorting the picture. Southcliffe is an expensive girls’ boarding school. Mathilda would never have let the side down in a place like that. She always talked about “people of her sort” and regretted the lack of them in Fontwell.’

  The Sergeant shook his head in disbelief. ‘That doesn’t square with what you told me before. You called her one of life’s great individuals. Now you’re saying she was pandering to the upper classes in order to make herself socially acceptable.’