Die Like a Dog

by Gwen Moffat

  The term was a cliché; one envisaged an engaging lover, a beautiful woman, a jealous husband, a shot in the night and a wild flight across the moors. The uninvolved person would not have heard Ellen, constant as Chinese water torture, reminding her employer of something which her roses and ordinary people might be helping her to forget. An objective person wouldn’t know that when Gladys was forced to identify her husband, the law had been waived and where the head should have been, there was a cloth; that Gladys had asked the reason for the cloth and been told. Pryce had said that the victims should not be forgotten, but as Miss Pink drove down the valley that hot afternoon she reflected that Gladys was as much a victim as Judson or Evans. More so; she was still alive.

  For a time neither of them spoke. The windows were down, there was a pleasant breeze, they were part of the stream of traffic that drifts along the roads of national parks in high summer, aimless and slow, the occupants half asleep. Beside her Miss Pink could sense her passenger relaxing.

  ‘How much longer do you have at the Bridge?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve been here a week.’

  The words hung in the air. Miss Pink could think of nothing to say that would not be charged with innuendo. This time last week Judson had been alive, and Evans too, although it was unlikely that Gladys was much concerned about Evans. A week ago Seale had been about to hit Dinas. What an appropriate term, thought Miss Pink; metaphorically speaking, it might well have been Seale’s impact on Judson that had precipitated matters – or had given a new twist to an old relationship.

  ‘How is Anna?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen her today.’

  ‘And George Waring?’

  What was George Waring? Crowded by the Press, uncertain of the effects of the publicity on his business, angry with Anna? Resigned?

  ‘He’s taking it in his stride.’

  ‘He would. George is a steady man. Not a lot of feeling there but one can’t have much affection for a commercial concern, surely. I mean, he cares only for the hotel – but he behaves correctly.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Miss Pink was puzzled but Gladys did not elucidate.

  At five o’clock they reached the restaurant, parked the car and started a leisurely amble along the cliff path. This was turfy, level, and way back from the edge so that they had the best of both worlds: space without exposure.

  The air was soft and radiant but after they had walked about a mile Gladys suggested that they sit down. Miss Pink thought the woman looked exhausted and wondered whether she’d done the right thing in suggesting this outing, then she remembered Ellen’s mad monologue and felt that anything was preferable to that. Gladys confirmed the thought.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to go back.’

  ‘Don’t you have a relative who would come and stay for a while?’

  ‘There are some cousins of Richard’s, but it would be difficult. They’d ask questions.’ She grimaced. ‘If I didn’t answer them, Ellen would.’

  ‘Ellen should –’ Miss Pink checked.

  ‘Ellen should have a long holiday,’ Gladys supplied. ‘We ought to go our separate ways after the funeral, for a time at least. The horse must be sold and the house shut up. I don’t know where I shall go.’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Nowhere. Nowhere attracts me. If someone were to say: “We leave tomorrow – for New Zealand or Cape Town or British Columbia”, I’d go like a shot – providing that person were firm enough and made all the arrangements and told me what to do. There’s no incentive left, you know? I’ve never been a very pushy person but I have joined in, once Richard started the ball rolling. We had lovely times abroad – and at home too. I like someone else to take the initiative. I think that must mean I have a lazy mind, but I did enjoy going to different places so long as he did everything for me. Now it’s all gone. I don’t care. Nothing attracts me.’

  ‘Feeling comes back. Or so I’ve heard. It must do. One meets people some years after they’ve been bereaved and they’re taking pleasure in things again.’

  ‘Of course. Even this walk has some kind of positive quality: there’s the smell of thyme, and lovely, lovely air ... You’re the first person I’ve talked to since –’ She stopped in mid-sentence.

  Miss Pink considered this confidence.

  ‘But have you no local friends? Didn’t you entertain?’

  ‘We used to: quite a lot, but I’m not as young as I was; it was rather a strain to give dinner parties with no help in the kitchen – Ellen has no idea of how to cook – and as for going to other people’s houses: when you’re out all day you like to put your feet up in the evening, don’t you?’

  Miss Pink, who was active until late every evening but who had never suffered from the activities of a neglectful husband, agreed.

  ‘I was quite happy at home,’ Gladys insisted. ‘I don’t like crowds.’

  Miss Pink smiled. ‘Wales isn’t terribly crowded in the winter months.’

  ‘I should have made the effort. Richard liked going out.’ She sighed. ‘One couldn’t restrain Richard.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was a combination of circumstances, you see.’ There was no emotion in her voice; Gladys was stating facts, as she saw them. ‘I fed him well, and he liked good wines, but you can’t drink wine by the glass in a bar so, after dinner at home, he’d go to the Bridge for his brandy. The bar was a substitute for company at his own table. It was a dull life for someone who’d been brought up as Richard had been. Women adapt much more easily, don’t they? After dinner there’s the washing-up, breakfast to be laid, then television. They say the standard is very low but you don’t have to think; you can watch or go to sleep. Richard got very cross with television but he had an active brain. That was the trouble.’

  ‘It was?’ Miss Pink observed, seeing some comment was expected of her.

  ‘You met him,’ Gladys pointed out. ‘If we’d been living in the shires there would have been outlets for his energy; he’d have hunted and shot, he’d have had the companionship of men like himself.’

  ‘Didn’t he have high blood pressure?’

  Gladys met her eye and looked guilty. She agreed that Richard had suffered from blood pressure. ‘Poor Richard,’ she sighed.

  ‘He lived how he wanted to.’

  ‘Oh no.’ His widow was surprisingly firm. ‘Everything he did was on a small scale; it was a substitute for how he would have liked to live: all that hacking round the Reserve, an hour in the pub in the evening listening to the village people and the trippers! Richard was a frustrated man.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking: that I’m a silly woman, even blind. That I can’t come to terms with that cottage on the moors even though Superintendent Pryce has told me all about it, so it has to be true. But the cottage was one of the substitutes: part of a fantasy life, something private and exciting that he had to keep from me, like a little boy with a secret cave where he plays cowboys and indians. You do see?’

  ‘But the little boy is playing a solitary game and no one gets hurt. Your husband’s activities involved real people.’

  Gladys shrugged. ‘The women knew what they were doing, I take it they haven’t suffered. You saw Anna and Maggie Seale that evening after the girl showed her slides. I don’t think either of them is malicious but they’re both selfish women, aren’t they?’

  ‘You could be right,’ Miss Pink said, amazed that Gladys had seen this in Seale.

  ‘Maggie, of course, was the substitute for the daughter he never had.’

  ‘Oh, come!’

  Gladys didn’t elaborate and now Miss Pink started to wonder what fantastic notion the woman would put forward next, for it was obvious that she had built an edifice on the basis of the intelligent small boy who had been misunderstood by casual adults. Sadists always had their masochists. Resignedly, she guessed what was coming.

  ‘Don’t think I blame myself,’ Gladys assure
d her. ‘If I’d served him less rich food and less of it, he’d have gone to Lucy for his meals – and there was no way I could have stopped him stocking his cellar; I didn’t even try. But I did encourage him to get out all he could, and I was pleased in a way that his horse was young. Richard never had a quiet ride on that horse. Anything, I thought, to keep the arteries open, but it was a losing battle. And I’m afraid my concern must have showed. I’m a poor liar.’

  ‘I’m sure you did all you could.’

  ‘I was frightened. He kept that gun loaded.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘For burglars, he said.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that – what happened at the cottage was an accident?’

  Gladys shook her head. ‘I’m not implying anything, just talking. You don’t know what a relief it is to talk. What happened is immaterial. He’s gone now, and how he went is unimportant.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  They faced each other, Miss Pink distressed, Gladys the one who attempted to offer reassurance.

  ‘I see you’ve never lost a person who was very close to you,’ she said. ‘It’s the loss that dominates: a great void where someone was before. How it happened has nothing to do with the situation as it exists now. If he had an accident with a loaded gun, or did it deliberately, or was careless – which could amount to the same thing, even if – someone else was responsible –’ she shook her head helplessly, ‘– it doesn’t matter. Pryce asked if I didn’t think the person responsible should be punished. He said “the murderer”. It sounds unutterably melodramatic. Punished? Why should I want that? It won’t bring Richard back. I haven’t got any room for revenge; it would seem contrived to make room for it. I can envisage continuing to live in this village with Anna or Maggie Seale or Lucy without any trouble at all. I have no feelings about them.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Miss Pink grabbed at something firm in this slippery jungle.

  ‘A wonderful cook. Richard preferred her cooking to mine.’ Gladys gave a rueful smile. ‘Poor Richard; the only thing I didn’t know about was the cottage. That went with the estate, once, but I thought he sold it when we came here: fifteen years ago. I’d forgotten all about it. Learning about it did surprise me – at first, but then I realised that it fitted in with this idea of the small boy playing games. I suppose in today’s jargon I was a mother-figure.

  She smiled genuinely then and in her eyes there was the memory of happiness.

  ‘He always came back to me,’ she said softly.

  Miss Pink hardly heard; she was wondering what explanation Gladys might have for what she would surely maintain was the suicide of Handel Evans – but she was too compassionate to ask.

  Chapter 14

  ON THE RETURN Miss Pink came to the decision that she would leave Dinas tomorrow; she would telephone Ted Roberts and try to persuade him to join her for a week’s climbing in the Lake District, or even Glen Coe. She said as much to Gladys; they had to talk about something and it was a safe topic of conversation. Gladys wasn’t surprised; she thought that in the circumstances the valley must seem claustrophobic. Miss Pink agreed. She did not add that there was a murderer loose in the area and that her curiosity had died. For the first time in her life she wanted to get away from an unsolved crime. I’m getting old, she thought.

  When they turned into Parc’s drive they saw two cars on the forecourt.

  ‘Lucy’s here,’ Gladys said casually, ‘but I don’t recognise the other car. Do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do. It belongs to a reporter called Tudor Davies. He was questioning Lucy at lunch-time – although she was standing up to him pretty well. She sent him away with a flea in his ear. It looks as if he’s caught up with her again. Perhaps,’ she said, forgetting who she was talking to, ‘he’s picked up something.’

  Alerted by the sound of their tyres, Ellen appeared in the hall and Gladys sighed.

  ‘Do you think you might –? You’ve been so kind, I hate to ask more of you.’

  ‘You want me to stay? To get rid of them for you?’

  ‘Well, the reporter. You’re so confident. I don’t mind Lucy, of course, but Ellen and a reporter ... Can you imagine?’

  ‘I can’t; it’s beyond imagination – but I’ll see what I can do. A firm hand is what that gentleman needs; I think I can manage him.’

  ‘You’ve got visitors,’ Ellen said superfluously as they came up the steps. ‘I’ve put them in the drawing room. That one has been here half an hour and the man came soon afterwards. They’ll be leaving together. What can you expect?’ She gave a thin smile.

  ‘And them two boys have disappeared.’

  ‘Which boys?’ Gladys asked wearily, with a glance at the drawing room door that was pushed to but not closed.

  ‘That one’s lad, and Dewi Post. She’s not bothered.’

  The woman jerked her head towards the drawing room and grinned. Tudor Davies appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Seeing you is a load off my mind,’ he announced by way of greeting. ‘The two boys gone, and then you two ladies: it was incredible; we’ve been imagining all kinds of horrors, particularly Mrs Evans here.’ He leered. ‘I’m delighted to see both of you. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

  ‘If you would allow’ Mrs Judson into her own drawing room –’

  Miss Pink was ironical. She hung back, expecting Davies to step out and join her in the hall but he turned and preceded Gladys into the room. Miss Pink followed, trying to control her anger. Lucy was standing in front of the open french windows, looking more awkward than relieved.

  ‘Ellen rang the hotel,’ she said, and halted in embarrassment. Ellen had joined the party.

  ‘And said we’d disappeared?’ Miss Pink asked.

  Lucy shrugged, her plump face curiously sullen. Ellen said tonelessly: ‘We’ll all be murdered in our beds.’

  Everyone began to speak at once but the women stopped first, leaving Davies saying: ‘– should tell us what you know, Mrs Evans, otherwise you could be in danger.’

  ‘Go and make some tea, Ellen,’ Gladys ordered. ‘Who are you, young man?’

  He wasn’t young but he preened himself. Miss Pink introduced him grudgingly. They all sat down. She glowered at him.

  Gladys said: ‘How can we help you, Mr Davies?’

  ‘Help me?’ He glanced uncertainly at Miss Pink. There was an expectant hush.

  ‘The police have ironed out a few creases,’ he told them. ‘As I read it, Pryce will have the case wound up by this time tomorrow.’

  Miss Pink said grimly: ‘That goes for you, too. I’m going to enjoy speaking to your editor – and to your proprietor.’

  Lucy licked her lips, Gladys looked faintly puzzled.

  Davies said: ‘I don’t understand.’ No one responded and he went on, speaking directly to Gladys: ‘You do want to see your husband’s murderer brought to justice, don’t you? And a double killer, don’t forget. Someone who’s killed twice can kill again.’

  Ellen said from the doorway: ‘I always said there were too many guns in this village.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ Miss Pink’s tone was menacing as she confronted Davies. She was about to get up, not knowing quite how she would effect his ejection, reflecting that the situation might have been eased had she, too, been in possession of a weapon.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s not quite all.’

  ‘We don’t want to hear any more –’

  ‘Why not?’ Gladys was smiling, politely amused at the behaviour of her guests. ‘I’m interested.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘I was bored and rather miserable when Miss Pink came along and carried me off. We’ve had a lovely drive and a superb dinner at The Brigantine – not as good as yours, of course, but well done all the same. I’ve had a few drinks and suddenly I realise that I am interested. Possibly –’ her voice dropped, ‘– it’s a stage between shock and delayed shock.’ She shrugged and said flatly: ‘I want to hear what the man h
as to say. I can hear the kettle whistling, Ellen.’

  Ellen turned woodenly and went back to the kitchen.

  Davies looked like a small child who has been seeking attention from the grown-ups for too long. Acquiring it suddenly he was excited but a little in awe of them, or of the situation.

  ‘This may not be pleasant for you, Mrs Judson,’ he said hopefully, as if he were angling for an escape route.

  Gladys smiled. Miss Pink thought: she’s too much relaxed, like a drugged woman. Perhaps she’d taken a tranquilliser – which wouldn’t mix well with the half-bottle of hock she’d had at dinner.

  ‘Bart and Dewi are safe,’ Davies said on a note of anti-climax, then: ‘Lucy sent them away deliberately. I suppose everyone knows by now that it was them who stole Mr Judson’s Volvo?’ Miss Pink raised her eyebrows at Lucy. ‘No,’ Davies went on, ‘Lucy hasn’t admitted it – and the boys can’t because they can’t be found. Don’t you think it remarkable that everyone should be so bothered by such a trivial offence?’

  He addressed the question to Miss Pink who was watching Lucy’s clenched hands.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, not waiting for an answer, becoming expansive as no threat materialised: ‘No one is bothered about the Volvo, least of all, Pryce – in fact he’d probably drop the charge in exchange –’ and he stopped talking. No one asked what the exchange might be.

  After a while he said politely: ‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a drink. Not the tea that Ellen’s not making.’

  They looked round and saw she had returned and was standing in the doorway. At his words she retreated again.

  ‘Would someone else like a drink?’ Gladys asked.

  Miss Pink and Lucy declined. Ellen returned with a bottle and glasses on a tray. She put the tray on a table beside Davies, poured a generous measure and stood back, watching him. He didn’t like being the only person drinking but he found it difficult to resist, and after tasting the Scotch he started to bloom: unfolding like a cankered flower.

  ‘In exchange?’ Miss Pink prompted.

  ‘Pryce would trade the taking and driving away charge in exchange for their going into the witness box and naming the person who visited Mr Judson that night.’