Recalled to Life

by Reginald Hill

  'The best man at the Westropps' wedding was Ralph Mickledore, who improved the acquaintance of his friend's new wife during the course of many extended visits over the next four years. By then of course the twins had arrived, and with them, Cecily Kohler. How soon her special relationship with "Mick" Mickledore developed is open to speculation, but some old girlfriend of hers dug up by the papers at the time of the trial recalled she had been adamant when she took the job that she wasn't going to work abroad, so clearly something happened to change her mind.

  'These, then, were the actors. Let us move on to the act.

  'The single great pastime of a Mickledore weekend was shooting things. Male guests could expect to find themselves within minutes of arrival standing up to their ankles in mud destroying whatever the law permitted them to destroy at the time of year, even if it were only rabbits and pigeons.

  'Female guests were permitted a short settling-in period, after which they were expected to be as keen for the slaughter as their menfolk.

  'Jessica Partridge was as good a shot as most men and a lot better than my father, who suffered some heavy ribbing for his ineptitude. It didn't help that my mother, though not keen on killing things, had done a lot of skeet shooting in her youth and was a pretty fair shot. It was Pam Westropp who was the real dunce. She had no moral objections but very low motor skills, often forgetting to reload or attempting to fire with the safety on. And when she did get it right she rarely hit anything she aimed at.

  'But not for this was she spared the rigours of the sport. And no one was spared its responsibilities, prime among which was that each guest took care of his or her own weapon, cleaning it after each shoot before replacing it on its chain in the gunroom.

  'At some point after dinner Mickledore would ask in his best Orderly Officer fashion if they'd all done their fatigues. It was no use lying. The last thing he did before going to bed was check the gunroom and if he found anything not in order, he did not hesitate to haul the culprit, regardless of sex or standing, out of bed to put matters right.

  'The gunroom was situated at the far eastern end of the guest corridor on the first floor, and was also reachable by a side stair ascending from the old kitchen hall which was used as a gathering and disrobing point for shooting parties, thus keeping muddy boots and dripping oilskins out of the main body of the house.

  'The same stair continued up to the second floor where the children and their nannies slept.

  'The gunroom was heavily panelled, windowless, and had a double door. Guests were issued with Yale keys for the outer door, while the larger key for the inner mortice lock was concealed on a narrow ledge above the inner door. After cleaning, guests were expected to replace their weapons on the wall rack, and secure them with a self-locking hasp which pivoted to fit just above the trigger guard. Only Mickledore had a key to unlock these hasps. In other words, guests put their guns away but could not take them out again unaided by their host.

  'The weekend had started early, everyone having contrived to arrive by Friday lunch-time. We had all been to Mickledore Hall before, so no time was wasted by either children or adults in learning the rules. The older children spent most of the afternoon having a super time on the lake with Cissy Kohler, while Miss Marsh sat on the bank, knitting and looking after the two infants. The adults too seem to have had a good time if my memory of the atmosphere and Lord Partridge's of the events can be relied on. I should say now that nothing I have read in the lengthy chapter on that weekend in his lordship's memoirs In A Pear Tree is contradicted by my own recollection, though naturally for much of the time we moved in mutually exclusive spheres.

  'For us children, Saturday started where Friday had left off, only better. But for the adults things had taken a downturn. We felt it in our brief contact with them in the morning and, like wise children, we made ourselves scarce. Lord Partridge in his memoirs recalls a sense of fractiousness, of barely repressed irritation, of hidden meanings, with Pamela Westropp at its centre. With hindsight he guesses her real anger was aimed at Mickledore, and, unable to contain it, she did her best to conceal its object by scattering its manifestations indiscriminately, though, as was to be expected, her husband came in for more than his fair share.

  'It was, of course, too early in the year for any serious shooting, but the whole party, male and female, were taken on a tour of the estate and given the chance to blast away at whatever Mickledore designated as vermin. Fresh air and killing things did surprisingly little to improve their spirits. And when they returned to the house in the late afternoon they heard the news that Stephen Ward had died.

  'The previous night, according to Partridge, as if by mutual agreement no one had mentioned the Profumo affair or the Ward trial. Saturday night was different. Pamela Westropp wouldn't leave the subject. She went on about the hypocrisy of the British Establishment which had hounded him to his death. And she said, "Of course, Mick, you knew him pretty well, didn't you?"

  "I suppose I did," said Mickledore, unperturbed. "But then so did a lot of us here, I imagine."

  He looked around as he spoke. Westropp as usual gave nothing away. My father, I would guess, attempted to look as if he'd been a long-time member of the Ward/Cliveden set. Rampling said cheerfully, "Hell, yes, I met the guy, but it was one of your judges that introduced me. I'd have paid more heed if I'd known he was the top people's pimp!" And Partridge himself, who'd met Ward several times but naturally wasn't anxious to advertise the fact in view of recent events, kept quiet and hoped he wasn't being got at.

  'But clearly it was Mickledore who was Pam's chosen target.

  '"I suppose you think he deserved everything he got?" she pursued.

  ' "I think he broke the one law of the tribe he wanted to belong to," said Mickledore.

  '"Which was?"

  'And Mickledore laid his finger across his lips.

  'Some time later, it was certainly after eleven for they all remember having heard the stable clock strike, Mickledore made his usual inquiry about "gun fatigues". Pam Westropp said defiantly that no, she hadn't cleaned hers, and was she expected to wash her own dinner dishes too? Nevertheless, after another couple of drinks she said she supposed she'd better get it over with, and stood up. Her husband rose too, rather unsteadily, having stuck doggedly to Mickledore's coat tails during a wide-ranging tour of the delights of his cellar. It took a hard head and a pair of hollow legs to keep up with Mick when he was in the drinking mood. According to Westropp's later statement, he went upstairs with his wife, offered to help her clean her gun, was told she was quite capable of performing her own menial tasks, staggered into his bed- room, got undressed, fell into bed and knew no more till awoken by the disturbance later on.

  'Downstairs, Jessica Partridge was ready for bed too, but her husband said he was looking forward to a game of billiards with Mickledore. Warning him not to disturb her, Jessica left accompanied by my mother, Marilou. My father, who liked to claim he needed less sleep than ordinary mortals, said he fancied a stroll around the estate with his pipe, a mode of behaviour he probably picked up from the novels of Dornford Yates.

  'Scott Rampling asked if he could phone the States and Mick told him to use the phone in the study which was in the East Wing. According to his statement, confirmed by Mickledore's phone bill, Rampling was in conversation with America for the next hour and a half at least.

  'Meanwhile my father claimed he had been tempted by the fine moonlit night to walk further than he intended. He took no heed of time, except that he heard the stable clock strike midnight not too long after he set out on his perambulations. This clock, incidentally, had - presumably still has - the loudest bell I've heard outside Westminster. Mickledore through long usage was untroubled by it, but weekends of haggard faces over the breakfast table had finally persuaded him to fit a device which switched the chimes off between midnight and eight A.M. So, it wasn't till he got back to the house that my father, who never wore a watch on the grounds that he made time work for him, was ab
le to confirm that it was after one.

  'He met Mickledore and Partridge coming out of the billiard room. Mickledore, who'd sent Gilchrist, his butler, to bed after dinner, went off to check the house was secure, while the other two went upstairs together.

  'Outside Partridge's bedroom they paused to finish off their conversation. Mickledore appeared at the far end of the same corridor, having ascended the side stairs, and opened the outer door of the gunroom. After a few moments he approached them, looking concerned. The key to the inner door was not in its customary place on the ledge. He had his own personal key, of course, but when he tried to use this, it would not go far enough into the hole to turn, and when he peered through the keyhole, he could see another key already in the lock from the inside.

  'The other two went with him to the gunroom to check. Mickledore was right. They could see the key quite clearly. Back along the corridor Jessica Partridge emerged to ask what all the row was, in tones loud enough to rouse my mother. Scott Rampling appeared on his way to bed. Soon they were all gathered outside the gunroom, all except the Westropps. Mickledore went and banged on their door but had to go in through the dressing-room before he could rouse Westropp. It took some time to penetrate his alcoholic torpor, but when he realized his wife was the only person on the guest floor unaccounted for, he flung himself against the gunroom door in a vain effort to break it down. But his efforts must at least have loosened the key in the inner lock, for now when he seized Mickledore's key and thrust it into the hole, he was able to turn it and the door swung slowly open . . .'

  The phone shrilled like an owl in a haunted tower. Pascoe, startled as if he too had been dragged from deep sleep, grabbed it, said, 'Hello, this is . . .' and couldn't remember his number.

  'Peter, are you all right?' It was Ellie's voice, close and concerned.

  'Yes, fine. Hang on.' He switched off the tape. 'Sorry, I was listening to something. How's things? How's your mum? Your dad? Rosie?'

  'Rosie's fine. I tried to ring earlier so she could have a talk to you, but I couldn't be bothered to talk to that bloody machine. She's asleep now. If you ever get home early enough, maybe you could ring . . .'

  He could sense the effort not to sound reproving.

  He said, 'Of course I will, I promise. And your mum, how's she?'

  There was a silence. He said, 'Hello? You still there?'

  'Yes. She's . . . Oh, Peter, I'm so worried . . .'

  'Why? What's happened?'

  'Nothing really . . . except . . . Peter, I'm terrified it's all happening again. I thought it was just physical, you know, the strain of looking after Dad, and she's always had these circulatory problems, and the arthritis, and I thought that once things settled down . . . Well, in herself, physically I mean, she doesn't seem too bad . . . but she's started forgetting things . . . she'd forgotten we were coming though we'd just spoken on the phone that morning . . . and this morning I heard her calling Rosie Ellie . . .'

  That can happen to anyone,' said Pascoe confidently. 'I've done it myself. As for forgetting things like phone calls, if I don't make a note of everything instantly, that's it, gone for ever.'

  The silence again. Then: 'I hope you're right. Maybe I'm over-sensitive because of Dad.'

  That's right. Have you seen him?'

  'I went today. I'd forgotten how awful it is, looking into a face you know, being looked at by eyes that don't know you ... I came out feeling like ... I don't know . . . like it was all my fault somehow . . .'

  'For God's sake! How do you work that out?' demanded Pascoe, dismayed to hear such fragile uncertainty in her voice.

  'I don't know . . . using them as an excuse, maybe . . . that's what I've done, isn't it? Saying I thought I should come down here for a few days because I wanted to make sure Mum was coping . . . doing the concerned daughter bit when all I was really looking for was a place to lie low . . . like getting out of something by saying you've got the 'flu, then really getting the 'flu like it was a judgement, only far worse . . . not thinking about her at all really . . .'

  'Well, let's think about her now, shall we?' said Pascoe sharply.

  Again silence, the longest yet. Her voice was calmer when she finally spoke.

  'So I'm doing it again, you reckon? Getting in the spot-light instead of sticking to my bit part. Yes, you could be right.'

  'Forget right,' said Pascoe. 'Only in this case, maybe you should just go for best-supporting-actress for a while. Look, why not get your mum to come up here for a while? Or I could steal a couple of days' leave and come down there.'

  She thought for a while, then said, 'No. Mum wouldn't come, I know that. Remember I tried to get her away after Dad went into the home and she wouldn't budge. She knows it's hopeless but she thinks she's got to stay close.'

  'So, shall I come down?'

  'Peter, believe me, I'm tempted, but I don't want to get things all mussed up together. I've used them once as an excuse to get away and I don't want to find I'm using them as an excuse again to step back . . . Look, I know I'm putting this badly but we both know we've reached an edge, OK, so it's dangerous, but at least the view is clear . . . God, even my metaphors are . . . what's the opposite of euphemistic? Look, I'd better go now. I can promise Rosie you'll ring early enough to speak to her, can I?'

  'Cross my heart and hope to die,' said Pascoe. 'Take care. Love to your mum. And Rosie. And you.'

  'Peter, Christ, I'm a selfish cow, this has been all about me and I've not asked anything about you, how you're coping, what you're eating, all the wifely things. You're not living off those dreadful pies at the Black Bull, are you? You'll end up like Fat Andy. Incidentally, I see they've released that poor woman your mob fitted up nearly thirty years ago. Plus ca change and all that.'

  'Plus ca change,' echoed Pascoe. 'I'll prepare answers to satisfy your wifely curiosities next time. After I've finished eating this pie. Good night, love.'

  He put the phone down. His mind was wriggling with thoughts like an angler's bait tin. He poured a long Scotch and took it out into the garden where he watched scallopedged clouds drift across the evening sky like thought bubbles in some divine cartoon, but he couldn't read the message.

  Old troubles, other people's troubles, were better than this.

  He went back inside, ran the cassette back a little, and started listening once more.

  SEVEN

  'It is extraordinary to me .. . that you people cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is ever in the way.'

  '. . . and the door swung slowly open.

  'Westropp had clearly feared the worst and the worst was what he found. His wife lay sprawled beside a fallen stool with a gaping hole in her ribcage. In front of her on the table was a shotgun. Properly speaking this table was a workbench, fitted with a vice. Mickledore liked to fill his own cartridges, do his own repairs. The others scarcely had time to register that a loop of wire had been passed through the trigger guard of the gun with its loose ends locked tight in the jaws of the vice before Mickledore had manhandled Westropp out of the room.

  '"Noddy, get the women out of here. Scott, take care of James. Tom, you come with me."

  'And drawing Partridge after him, he went back into the gunroom and closed the door.

  'We have a first-hand account of what took place then from Lord Partridge's memoirs. In A Pear Tree, published last month.

  'The dislodged key was lying on the floor. Mickledore stooped to pick it up. Partridge went to the workbench. On it lay a scrap of paper with a note scrawled on it in Pamela Westropp's unmistakable hand.

  'It read: . . . it's no good - I can't take it - I'd rather destroy everything.

  'The following exchange then took place.

  PARTRIDGE: Oh God, what a dreadful business.

  MICKLEDORE: Yes. Time for maximum discretion, I think. You know what the Press can make of an accident like this.

  PARTRIDGE: Accident? How can you call it an accident when . . .

  M
ICKLEDORE: (taking the note from him and putting it in his pocket) Because accidents are merely tragic, while suicides are scandalous, and we must protect James and his family, and I mean all of his family, from any hint of scandal.