by Nicola Slade
‘It seems he moved down to Hampshire more than thirty rears ago. after applying for a transfer from a branch of Lloyds bank in Yorkshire, because of a scandal that involved his wife. He said she was suffering from “female troubles” so I assume he was talking about the menopause. Anyway, she got herself had up for shoplifting. It’s a common enough story but in those days the courts weren’t so likely to accept hormonal deficiencies as a plea, so they threw the book at the poor woman and gave her a short custodial sentence. Apparently the magistrate was a real “hanger and flogger” and he said he was making an example of her. When she came out o f jail she tried to kill herself but Tim managed to get her to the hospital in time, then he spoke to the bank about a transfer which was arranged and put through in half the usual time. He reckoned they were glad to be rid of the embarrassment: it had been plastered all over the local papers, of course.
‘That was all he told me, then he suddenly did one of those shifts of his, drifted away, you know how he does. And that was that. But I thought you’d better know, as he was there in your little group of suspects.
Wonder how Christiane Marchant found out about Tim’s wife? Perhaps her husband knew – I suppose he’d have been Jane Armstrong’s family doctor once they moved down here.
‘Anyway, keep your head down below the parapet. I’ll be in touch after dinner tonight.’
Harriet read the letter a second time then folded it and slipped it into her pocket as she went thoughtfully up to her room. She splashed her face with cold water to freshen up and went to look out of the window at the garden below. The feeble burst of sunshine had long since fizzled out and the shadows were closing in as the midwinter darkness fell.
Well, Miss Harriet Quigley, she spoke sternly to herself. This is another fine mess you’ve got yourself into and no mistake. What with Tim Armstrong desperate to keep his wife’s shame a secret – or at least, I assume that’s what it was all about, poor old devil; then there’s Doreen Buchan with her unfortunate family history, terrified that Vic and the children would find out. And as if that wasn’t enough, we’ve now got Ellen Ransom and Fred Buchan to add to the list. They say it’s easy to kill, after the first time.
‘I wonder,’ she spoke aloud, dragging the words out. ‘I wonder if one of those two found it so?’
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
‘Are you sure. Harriet?’ Sam sounded extremely worried when his cousin, after some profound thought, telephoned him and asked him not to call round after dinner.
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Harriet made an effort to sound her usual competent, no-nonsense self. ‘I don’t think I can possibly be in any danger but if it makes you feel better I’ll lock my bedroom door and locate a blunt instrument to tuck under my pillow.’
She laughed out loud at his snort of indignation. ‘Oh, come on, Sam. I’ll be perfectly safe, besides, what could you do? Matron would scarcely let you sleep in my room, after all.’ She allowed her voice to falter slightly, which in any case wasn’t difficult and needed scarcely any acting ability. ‘If you must know, Sam, I’m completely worn out. I want to get a decent night’s rest so I can cope with going home tomorrow. To tell you the truth I could really do without this early start for the funeral tomorrow but I do feel I ought to be there to provide extra support for Alice.’
His silence spoke volumes and she conceded the point with a tired laugh. ‘Yes, I know, I know. I could have got out of it so I’ve only myself to blame. But the fact remains that I’ll be up and about rather early in the morning and I’m terrified the powers that be, in the shape of Pauline Winslow or, perish the thought, the doctor, might spot that I’m dead tired and say I can’t go home tomorrow.’
He grunted but she detected a weakening in his determination, and carried on. ‘Well, I’m going home and that’s that, but I’d rather be relatively fit and able, hence the early turn-in tonight. All right?’
She took his irritable mutter for an assent and wound up the conversation. ‘You’ll pick me up at about quarter to nine tomorrow then? Lovely, see you then. Goodnight. Sam.’
She flicked her mobile shut but not before she had heard him burst out with: ‘Damn!’ A grin flickered across her face as she pictured him standing irresolute, probably chewing at his bottom lip as he always did when perplexed. She shrugged. He’d get over it; he knew, none better, that she was no fool and she had promised to take sensible precautions.
Harriet ate sparingly at dinner that night, then took her coffee into the drawing-room reluctant, in spite of her genuine weariness, to be on her own with her increasingly uneasy thoughts.
‘Come and join us, dear lady,’ boomed the Colonel, with a welcoming smile. With a feeling of relief, she sauntered over to his corner while he fussed about, rearranging his harem of ladies to make room for her.
‘How was your day out, Colonel?’ she enquired politely.
It turned out to be the perfect conversational opening gambit. A gentle stream of inconsequential chatter ebbed and flowed around her as the Colonel, a relative newcomer to Hampshire, bubbled over with enthusiasm about his day’s sightseeing trip, accompanied by his lady friends. He proceeded to give her a lecture, a run down on the day’s excitements.
‘We took a little drive into the New Forest,’ he told her, beaming at the memory. ‘I simply had to have a look at the Rufus Stone, of course. Did you know that it marks the spot where King William Rufus met his death by an arrow?’
He pressed the question and she gave in. ‘Er, yes, I had heard that,’ she said, managing not to roll her eyes. You couldn’t live in Hampshire she thought, and not know about the New Forest, surely?
‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded with a smile. ‘Well, I bet you didn’t know that there’s a connection with that event, right here in Chambers Forge, did you, dear lady?’
She swallowed and pretended ignorance. He meant no harm and getting irritated with the old bore was a million times better than sitting alone in her room and brooding about murder, or worse – the possibility of a murderer on the prowl.
‘Yes, indeed.’ He grew expansive, happy to be instructing the weaker sex. ‘They brought Rufus’s body right through Chambers Forge on the way to the Cathedral at Winchester. That’s where King’s Road gets its name, they say.’
She let his voice wash over her, as he waxed lyrical about the cream tea he and his ladies had enjoyed in Lyndhurst on the way home. She opened her eyes at that, admiring his cast-iron digestive system; she had been slightly awed, sitting opposite him at dinner, to see the amount of food he tucked away, and that on top of scones and jam and cream and almost certainly cake as well.
People talk to you, a friend had once told her, and she knew it was true. She was a good listener and other people brought her their troubles in the hope that Miss Quigley would make it all better. Even the Colonel, she thought, he’s maundering on because he’s got a new audience, and then there are those wretched life histories that have been forced on me in the last twenty-four hours. No, she thought with a frown. That’s not strictly true, nobody forced me to hear them and I wasn’t reluctant to listen – until I heard them, that is. I suppose you can’t pick and choose what to let people tell you, if you practically invite their confidences.
Tim Armstrong was nowhere to be seen but Ellen Ransom was sitting alone in a corner, her forbidding silence as eloquent as a sign hanging round her neck. Matron tended not to encourage visitors on Sunday evenings though it was not uncommon to see the occasional son or daughter exhibiting the customary mixture of guilt and gratitude, but tonight the residents were alone. Fred Buchan was glued to the television though what he made of the nostalgic comedy drama set in the 1960s was hard to detect.
Weariness got the better of Harriet in the end and she rose, offering the Colonel an apologetic smile. ‘Time for bed, I believe,’ she murmured, nodding pleasantly to her companions. ‘No, Colonel, don’t get up, please. Goodnight, everyone, pleasant dreams.’
Pleasant dreams? Now what on e
arth made me say that, she sighed; must have been trying for the power of positive thinking, I suppose. Her feet dragged a little, in spite of herself, as she made her way along the landing to her room. The last time, she thought, a small surge of excitement reminding her that this time tomorrow she would be in her own home, able to relax in her own way and not obliged to maintain her bright, social smile whenever she encountered anyone. I can sulk and slob, shout and cry, and be thoroughly miserable if I want, she thought, her face brightening.
A sudden footstep close behind her gave her a hideous shock, the jolt causing her spine to judder painfully.
‘Ohh! Tim! You made me jump,’ she panted accusingly, putting out a hand to steady herself against the wall. ‘I nearly had a heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry, Harriet.’ His voice sounded grave. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you all right now?’
She nodded, swallowing and letting her panic subside when, to her astonishment, he gave her a tiny awkward bow. Can I escort you to your room, madame?’
Still extremely shaken, Harriet suppressed an insane desire to quote her late, much-loved headmistress and reprove Tim with the words, ‘You can, but the question is, may you.’ Sam’s wife – dear Avril – would have shrieked with laughter at the memory, the pair of them having had that particular rule of grammar dinned into their heads at school, but no … it was scarcely appropriate here. So Harriet nodded silently and he walked her to the end of the landing. At her door she paused in the act of reaching out for the handle. The door was very slightly ajar.
‘Tim?’ It was the faintest thread of a whisper, accompanied by a frantic pointing. The two of them advanced cautiously, listening with all ears. There were faint sounds of movement inside the room. They stared anxiously at each other.
Tim, who for some strange reason actually seemed to be enjoying himself, showing no sign of one of his increasingly common lapses, put a finger to his lips and looked round the landing, obviously searching for something. On a small polished side table stood a tall, rather ugly vase, glazed in shiny reds and blues and containing a bunch of dried bulrushes and pampas grass. With a dapper flourish Tim removed the grasses and presented them to Harriet with another, more practised bow and a grin of genuine mischief on his frequently bewildered, careworn face.
For a moment Harriet’s heart sank. Oh no, don’t let Tim go doolally, not now when I need him, but she realized that he was alert and excited by the situation. Astonished but amused, Harriet accepted the improvised bouquet with a graceful curtsy. Maybe I can tickle the intruder into submission she decided, making a face, then her wry amusement disappeared as she realized that Tim had hefted the heavy stoneware vase in his right hand and was slipping noiselessly into her dark bedroom.
The next few moments passed in total confusion as Harriet brought up the rear, armed with her dusty bouquet and pausing only to shut the door behind her and turn the key. Snapping on the light she was stunned to find that Tim had taken the intruder completely by surprise and had brained him with the big vase. It was a tribute to the ingenuity and workmanship of Victorian pottery workers, Harriet decided, feeling slightly hysterical, that the ugly great thing had bounced back unscathed.
That was more than could be said, however, of the intruder who had proved less fortunate and lay groaning on the floor, his head cradled tenderly in his hands.
‘Here, let’s get a look at him.’ Harriet surged forward, dropping her grasses on to the dressing table while wondering how on earth she and Tim were going to restrain the young thug. I wonder why the average convalescent home for the elderly isn’t equipped with handcuffs and rope, she thought, still on that slight note of hysteria. I suppose retired bondage freaks would make that a number one requirement. She felt a bubble of laughter begin to rise and bit her lip. Get a grip, you daft old biddy, she gave herself a stern scolding. This isn’t a game.
‘Good God!’ She had, by now, managed to get a good look at the skinny boy, clad in black leather writhing on the floor. ‘It’s Ryan, Gemma’s ex boyfriend.’
‘Gemma?’ Tim peered short-sightedly at his groaning victim.
‘You know Gemma,’ Harriet tugged at her dressing gown cord. ‘The little dark girl who helps Mrs Turner in the kitchen and around the house. Here …’ She bent to whip the cord neatly round Ryan’s wrists, giving him a brisk shove on to his front with the aid of her foot, (no heavy lifting, she grinned to herself) and yanking the cord up round his ankles as well. ‘There we are, trussed up like the Christmas turkey.’
‘Gemma?’ Tim was still one or two steps behind then, to her surprise, a slow smile of pure, red-blooded masculine lust spread over his face. ‘Oh I know, you mean the one with the enormous—’
‘She’s certainly a well-built girl,’ Harriet interrupted in reproof, frowning primly. For God’s sake. Did men never, ever stop thinking about sex? Even when they were over eighty?
She unlocked her bedroom door and looked out, casting a swift glance up and down the corridor. ‘Nobody about, thank goodness; let’s take a look at what we’ve caught.’
They stood there silently gazing down at him, watching the expressions chase themselves across Ryan’s face. He was easy to read. Uppermost was incredulity, that two stupid old buggers should have caught him so easily. There was also a tiny germ of fear. Harriet could see that he was worried, and that Tim’s fierce onslaught with the heavy vase had set him off balance. He was probably wondering whether they were quite sane. After all, she thought with a philosophical shrug, he’s only a kid, I wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks this is some kind of asylum.
She felt a slightly shamefaced delight in his unease. Let the little scrote be afraid of someone else for once, she thought, while she took a comprehensive look round her room. No sign of anything missing, no obvious damage either.
‘Let’s have a look at you, Ryan,’ she announced briskly. ‘Turn out his pockets, Tim.’
They netted quite a haul. Ryan had so far only been in one room but it had been the room occupied by the Colonel’s chief lady friend who was a great one for flaunting what she called her bits and bobs. Although guests were asked to deposit valuables in Miss Winslow’s safe, the Colonel’s lady tended to forget and wore her jewellery in rotation. God only knows, thought Harriet in despair, why the woman brought real stuff with her, it’s quite unsuitable, but although tonight had been an outing for the impressive sapphires, Ryan’s pockets still yielded a glittering collection: a diamond ring and brooch, a pair of ruby earrings and an emerald bracelet. More money than sense, sniffed Harriet, and not a shred of taste either.
‘Were you just in the one room, boy?’ Tim asked sternly, brandishing the lethal pot with a casual flourish when Ryan hesitated. An urgent nod was the reply, accompanied by a groan as the movement made his headache smart.
‘How on earth did you think you were going to get away with it?’ Harriet wondered out loud. Jumpy as a cat in case anyone spotted her, she had stealthily crept into the next room, left unlocked as casually as it had been strewn with precious stones. She had scattered the jewellery on to the untidy dressing table, taking the precaution of giving the pieces a rub with her handkerchief. I don’t know much about fingerprints, her face creased in a frown, but a quick wipe won’t hurt. I don’t really want the brat arrested. ‘You know Gemma and Kieran would give you away, they’d crumble as soon as a policeman spoke sternly to them. What did you hope to gain?’
‘I wasn’t going to stick around,’ he muttered sulkily. ‘I was going to pinch a car and go to London. I’m pissed off with Gemma and my mum’s always nagging at me. I thought I’d be able to trade the stuff when I got there.’
‘No doubt you would.’ Harriet sighed, looking at his dark, thin face. There was no question, she admitted, he was a sexy-looking little runt, in spite of a slight ferrety look about the eyes. I wonder why that is? As always she was happily sidetracked by trivia once more. You always get spivs and villains portrayed in fiction with their eyes set too close togeth
er, or having a weak mouth. She found herself sneaking a peek at Ryan’s mouth. Hmm, no sign of weakness about that one, she sighed, only a tight, mean little trap.
‘All right,’ she decided. ‘We’ll make a deal with you. I’ll let you go free now provided you go away and leave Gemma and Kieran and Firstone Grange alone. In fact, you’ve got to leave Chambers Forge altogether. Have you got an aunt or a grandmother or somebody, somewhere in another part of the country?’
He looked hopefully at her, through narrowed eyes, measuring her. Surely the stupid old bat wasn’t that gullible?
She watched him with amusement as she read his expression though his mental description of her was probably a lot less ladylike than ‘bat’. Or ‘stupid’, come to that.
A happy thought struck her and she went to her suitcase, packed and almost ready for tomorrow’s departure. She rummaged inside it. ‘Photos; of course. Now where…? Ah, here we are.’ In her hand she held her mobile phone which she switched on as she walked back to where he lay trussed on the rug. ‘Let’s see now. Smile. Ryan! Lovely. And again?’ She took half a dozen photographs of him from different angles, smiling as she showed Tim her favourite. which clearly illustrated Ryan and his predicament.
‘Well, Ryan?’ She grinned maliciously at him. ‘I’m sure Kieran and Gemma would have a good laugh if they saw these pictures, don’t you think? And I imagine the police would think it was even more amusing. Come to think of it, I could post it on You Tube for the whole world to see – that’d give everyone a laugh. So be a good little thug and stay away. Now, where will you go?’
Sulkily, he gave the matter some thought.
‘My mum’s sister lives in Taunton,’ he offered. ‘My Aunty Maureen. I could go and stay with her I expect. She hasn’t got any kids of her own so she always used to like buying me sweets and treats and stuff like that.’
