Letter from Libby Williams�formerly
of 21 Graham Road�dated 1982
Southampton
Octobers, 1982
Dear M,
Thought the enclosed might interest you. 1 went up to see some old friends in Richmond and happened upon the Rich. & Twick by chance. Skullduggery abounds, it seems, and there won't be much love lost between cloth and stethoscope following the Rev's libelous remarks! I remember him from Annie's funeral�a fat little bloke with sweaty palms�but don't think I ever came across the doctor. Jock and I had a man with a huge mustache.
All goes well here. I'm into my final year and after numerous attempts�a girl has to do what a girl has to do if she isn't to make the same mistake again!�I have finally met a winner. Sweet guy by the name of Jim Garth. Watch this space, as they say!
Love,
Libby
Local Doctor Denies Neglect
Dr. Sheila Arnold, 41, a partner at the Cromwell Street Surgery, Richmond, denies neglect after Frederick Potts, 87, was discovered close to death earlier this week in his flat in Charming Towers. Mr. Potts owes his life to his neighbor, Mrs. Gwen Roberts, 62. "I heard Fred banging on the party wall," she said, "so I phoned the police."
Police described Mr. Potts's condition as "shocking." He had been unable to get out of bed for several days and was in severe pain from untreated ulcers on his legs and back. He was also dehydrated and undernourished. Dr. Arnold was questioned by police following alleged claims from neighbors that she had refused to arrange nursing care for Mr. Potts because "he had been abusive to carers in the past." Dr. Arnold denies the claims.
Parallels are being drawn between this case and the case of Ann Butts, 42, an untreated alcoholic with a history of mental illness, who was also a patient of Dr. Arnold. Following Miss Butts's death in November 1978, the coroner described the conditions in which she had been living as "disgraceful." "It is the responsibility of health and social workers to protect the most vulnerable members of our society," he said. Dr. Arnold denies that the coroner was referring to her, claiming she was in America when Miss Butts stumbled in front of a truck after a drinking spree and suffered fatal head injuries.
According to the Reverend Peter Stanhope, 45, vicar of St. Mark's church, Mr. Potts will be offered a flat in sheltered accommodation as soon as he's well enough to leave the hospital.
"There's no excuse for this kind of neglect," the Reverend Stanhope said. "Lessons should have been learned following Ann Butts's death so that the same mistakes could not happen again."
Richmond & Twickenham Times�Friday, June 18,1982
Southampton
12 February 1983
Written in haste. This is the follow-up to the doctor/vicar saga. 2nd round to the Doc, I think, although the piece is so tiny 1 doubt anyone bothered to read it!
Love,
Libby
Doctor Cleared by BMA
Dr. Sheila Arnold, 42, of the Cromwell Road Surgery, Richmond, was cleared of neglect during a brief hearing at the British Medical Association yesterday. Written evidence was submitted to show that Mr. Potts, 87, was registered with another practice at the time of the alleged incident and had not been a patient of Dr. Arnold since May 1980.
Richmond & Twickenham Times�Friday, January 28,1983
*5*
An immediate pall fell over our little party when Sheila told Larry that I was planning to look up Peter Stanhope to see if he knew what had become of Annie's possessions. Neither of them seemed remotely interested that he had never been inside her house, and couldn't possibly know what possessions she had. His name alone spelled depression.
Larry didn't like the idea at all and watched me warily from behind his wineglass, while Sam flicked worried glances around the three of us, clearly wondering who Peter Stanhope was and why his name should cause Larry concern. Sam became rather loud as a result�he always hated finding himself at a disadvantage�and, in an unkind way, I took pleasure from his embarrassment. He had only himself to blame, after all, for it was he who had imposed a silence on the whole subject.
I spent half an hour that evening trying to locate the Reverend Peter Stanhope through directory inquiries, but no one of that name was listed in Richmond and the operator refused to look for Rev P. Stanhopes in other parts of England. Nor was there a listing for St. Mark's Church and, as I didn't know the name of the present vicar, I couldn't obtain the number of the vicarage either. It would all have been a great deal easier if Sam hadn't stood over me while I did it�I could have suggested the operator try Stanhopes in Exeter, but I wasn't ready to show my hand quite so blatantly. In the end, and half-jokingly, I suggested Sam phone Jock Williams, a confirmed atheist, and ask him to drive to St. Mark's Church from his house on the other side of Richmond to see if the new vicar's name was printed on the board outside. To my surprise he agreed.
"He wants to know what's up," Sam said on his return to the kitchen where I was doing the washing up.
"What did you tell him?"
"That the boss would have my guts for garters if I didn't help her track down 'Mad Annie's' missing valuables." He gave a quirky grin. "He thought you were 'round the bend twenty years ago. Now he thinks we've both lost it. He asked me why anyone would think an old tramp like Annie had valuables."
I propped a plate on the drain board. "What did you say?"
"Repeated what Larry told us about jadeite. It gave him a bit of a shock, as a matter of fact ... said he didn't think Annie had two brass farthings to rub together."
"I expect he'd have been nicer to her if he'd known," I said tartly. "Jock always responds better to the chink of money."
"Mm, well, he's now advising me to put my huge gains from Hong Kong into some offshore fund he's operating out of the Isle of Man. He's got a wheeze for avoiding tax and he's prepared to cut me in on the deal if I'm interested."
"Knowing Jock, it'll be illegal."
"Unethical certainly," said Sam cheerfully, "but then he doesn't believe in a welfare state. Says it's against Darwin's theory of evolution. The sick, the lame and the poor are supposed to die. That's how natural selection works."
I held up a fork to examine the prongs. "He'll get his comeuppance one day," I said. "Arrogant, self-serving bastards always do. That's the unwritten law of natural selection�old bulls die painfully." I eyed him suspiciously. "I hope you told him where to stuff his tax wheeze."
"Not likely," he said. "The only reason he's driven off to St. Mark's on a Sunday evening is because he thinks I'm going to swell his coffers with megabucks." He straddled a chair. "How come you and Jock know each other so well? As I remember it, you used to avoid him as much as possible."
The question took me by surprise. "What kind of 'knowing' are we talking about?"
"I've no idea. That's why I'm asking."
I tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Are you hinting at the biblical kind?"
"Maybe."
I snorted laughter through my nose. "That's funny."
"Why?"
"He's a boring little squirt with a power complex," I said. "Even his wife didn't fancy him, so I don't know what makes you think I would."
"It was just a question," he said huffily.
"What brought it on?"
"He wasn't surprised when I told him you'd taken up Annie's cause again. He said he'd been expecting it."
"So?" I asked curiously.
"He seems to know you better than I do. I thought you'd forgotten all about her. You haven't mentioned her name in twenty years."
"You asked me not to."
"Did I?" he said with a puzzled frown. "I don't remember."
I wasn't sure how genuine the frown was, so I changed the subject. "You shouldn't believe everything Jock tells you," I said. "He's needling you, just as he's needling you about how much money he has. He enjoys making you squirm."
"Why?"
I shook my head at his naivete. The trouble with my husband, I sometimes thought, was tha
t he was too ready to take people at face value. It should have been a disadvantage to him in his career, but oddly enough it worked the other way because people responded positively to his easy acceptance of the image they wanted to present. When I first knew him, I thought he was using a peculiarly sophisticated form of reverse psychology, but as time passed, I came to understand that he genuinely had no conception of the sides that exist in most people's natures. It was his most attractive quality ... It was also the most irritating...
"Jock's a stirrer," I said lightly. "He resents other people's happiness ... particularly where relationships are concerned. He's only ever known disasters ... divorced parents ... a brother who killed himself ... a failed marriage ... no children." I pointed a pan scourer at Sam's heart. "He wouldn't be needling you at all if you'd told him about your coronary and hadn't lied about how much money you've made. As far as he's concerned you've got everything. Health. Wealth. Happiness. Early retirement. A faithful wife. And sons."
Sam laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. "He never got over his brother's death," he said.
"So you always say, but you never explain why."
"I didn't want you jumping to conclusions."
I frowned at him. "How did the brother kill himself?"
"Hanged himself from a tree one day. There was no suicide note so the police thought it was murder and most of the suspicion fell on Jock because he took some money from the kid's bedroom after he was dead. In the end the coroner accepted that the boy had been depressed about his parents' divorce and came down on the side of suicide, but it wrecked the entire family, according to Jock. They all ended up blaming each other."
"That's sad," I said, meaning it. "How old was he?"
"Sixteen. Three years younger than Jock."
"God, that really is sad. What happened to the parents?"
"Jock lost all contact with them after the divorce. I don't think he even knows where they are anymore ... whether they're alive ... or whether they still care about him. He claims it doesn't worry him, then spends every waking hour trying to prove he's a man to be reckoned with." Sam lowered his eyes to look at me. "It doesn't stop him being an arrogant, self-serving bastard but it probably explains the reasons behind it."
It explained a lot, I thought, as I promised to make a point of being pleasant when Jock came back with the name of St. Mark's vicar. What it didn't explain was where Jock had found the extra money that had allowed him to trade up his share in 21 Graham Road for a more impressive, and expensive, property near Richmond Park.
It was Wednesday before I was able to speak to Peter Stanhope in person. My previous calls had been answered by a recorded message and it seemed unreasonable to fill his tape with long explanations of who I was and why I wanted to talk to him. His new parish was in Exeter, about sixty miles west of Dorchester, and I was about to begin a letter to him when he answered the phone on Wednesday morning.
I had spoken to him only once when we lived in Richmond, and I wasn't confident that he'd remember me as well as I remembered him. I gave him my name and said I wanted to talk to him about Annie Butts, "the black woman who was run over by a truck."
There was a long pause and I had time to recall Libby's description of him as "a fat little bloke with sweaty palms." I was beginning to wonder if the reason for the silence was because the phone had slipped from his hand, when he suddenly barked, "Did you say Ranelagh? Any connection with the woman who claimed Annie was murdered?"
"That's who 1 am," I said. "I didn't realize the name would mean anything to you."
"Oh, goodness me, yes! You were quite famous for a while."
"For all of fifteen minutes," I agreed dryly. "They weren't the most pleasant fifteen minutes of my life."
"No, I don't suppose they were." A pause. "You had quite a tough time of it afterward."
"Yes."
He clearly didn't like one-word answers and sought for a change of subject. "Someone told me you and your husband went abroad. Did that work out all right?"
I guessed it was his polite way of asking me if I was still married, so I assured him I was, gave him a thumbnail sketch of our twenty years away, mentioned my two boys, then asked him if I might pay him a visit. "To talk about Annie's neighbors," I explained, wishing I could put a little more enthusiasm into my voice at the prospect of seeing him again. I was relying on his sense of duty to agree to the meeting, but I didn't believe he had any more relish for it than I did.
A more noticeably guarded edge crept into his voice. "Is that wise?" he asked. "Twenty years is a long time, and you seem to have done so well for yourselves ... stayed together ... made a family ... put the unpleasantness behind you."
"You remember our little chat then?" I murmured. "I didn't think you would."
"I remember it well," he said.
"Then you'll understand why I want to talk about Annie's neighbors."
I heard his sigh down the wire. "What good will it do to rake over dead ashes?"
"It depends what you find," I said. "My father put a log on the fire once and a gold sovereign dropped out of it as it burnt. Someone had obviously hidden it in the tree and a couple of centuries later my father reaped the reward."
Another pause. "I think you're making a mistake, Mrs. Ranelagh, but I'm free on Friday afternoon. You're welcome to come any time after two o'clock."
"Thank you." It was my turn to pause. "Why am I making a mistake?"
"Revenge is an unworthy ambition."
I stared into a gilt-edged mirror that was hanging on the wall in front of me. It was old and cracked and, standing where I was then, it produced a lengthened image that made my face look thin and cruel. "It's not revenge I'm after," I said with studied lightness. "It's justice."
The vicar gave an unexpected laugh. "I don't think so, Mrs. Ranelagh."
I had no intention of taking Sam to Exeter so I told him it was pointless for the pair of us to go when the lawn needed mowing and the flower beds tidying. He seemed happy enough although I caught him looking at me rather strangely over breakfast. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"I was just wondering why everyone seems to be moving to the west country," he said.
Peter Stanhope's parish was in the St. David's area of Exeter. I arrived too early and sat at the end of the road for an hour, watching the world go by through my windshield. I was on the edge of the university campus, and most of the pedestrian traffic seemed to be students�groups of boys and girls carrying books, or young couples clamped at the hip and shoulder like Siamese twins. I found myself envying them, particularly the skimpily clad girls in bottom-hugging skirts and crop tops, who swung along in the sunshine and radiated the sort of confidence I had never had.
The original vicarage was an impressive Victorian mansion, hidden behind high hedges, with a real estate agent's board outside, advertising a "desirable penthouse flat" for sale. The new vicarage was a cheaply constructed cube, across the road from the church, lacking both charm and character. As I parked outside at exactly two o'clock, I was beginning to wish I'd had the sense to spend the last hour in a pub. Dutch courage would have been better than no courage at all. A part of me thought about driving away with my tail between my legs, but I noticed a net curtain twitch in a downstairs window and knew I'd been seen. Pride is always a stronger motivator than courage.
The door was opened by a tall, cadaverous-looking woman with a beak of a nose, shoulder-length grey hair and the speed of delivery of a machine gun. "You must be Mrs. Ranelagh," she said, taking my hand and drawing me inside. "I'm Wendy Stanhope. Peter's running late. It's his morning at the shelter. Battered wives, poor souls. Come into the kitchen. He told me you were driving from Dorchester. Are you hungry? What about a drink? Chardonnay, do you?"
I followed her across the tiny hall. "Thank you." I looked around the white melamine kitchen which was mind-numbingly uniform and hardly big enough to swing a cat. "This is nice."
She thrust a glass into my hand wit
h long, bony fingers. "Do you think so?" she asked in surprise. "I can't stand it myself. I much preferred the one we had in Richmond. The church doesn't give you much choice, you see. You have to make do with whatever pokey little kitchen they give you." She took a breath. "But there you go." she went on cheerfully, "I've only myself to blame. No one forced me to marry a vicar."
"Has it been a good life?"
She filled her own glass and tapped it against mine. "Oh, yes, I don't have many regrets. I wonder sometimes what it might have been like to be a lap dancer, but I try not to dwell on it." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "What about you, my dear?"
"I don't think I've got the body for it," I said.
She laughed happily. "I meant, has life been good to you? You're looking well, so I assume it must have been."
"It has," I said.
She waited for me to go on and, when I didn't, she said brightly, "Peter tells me you've been living abroad. Was that exciting? And you've two boys, I believe?"
There was so much blatant curiosity in her over-thin face that I took pity on her�it wasn't her fault that her husband was late�and talked enthusiastically about our years abroad and our children. She studied me over the rim of her glass while I spoke, and there was a shrewd glint in her eyes that I didn't much like, I wasn't used to having people see straight through me, not after so many years of growing an impenetrable skin.
"We've been lucky." I finished lamely.
She looked amused. "You're almost as good a liar as I am," she said matter-of-factly. "Most of the time I can contain my frustration, but every so often I drive to a wide-open space, usually a cliff top, and scream my head off. Peter knows nothing about it, of course, because if he did he'd think I was mad and I simply couldn't bear to have him fussing round me." She shook her Lear-like locks in grotesque parody of a lap dancer. "It's quite absurd. We've been married forty years, we have three children and seven grandchildren, yet he has no idea how much I resent the utter futility of my existence. I'd have made an excellent vicar, but my only choice was to play second fiddle to a man."
The Shape of Snakes Page 6
