by Hazel Holt
Chapter Nineteen
I’d had a particularly irritating and exhausting afternoon. Right after lunch Anthea phoned to ask me to do a number of things for which I had neither the time or the inclination, but, because Anthea always tanks over any objections I may raise and (to be honest) because I’m too feeble to stand up to her, I found myself landed with a number of small but tiresome jobs. Probably because of the irritation this provoked, I knocked over a bottle of milk that went all over the kitchen floor, spreading like a tidal wave and needing to be mopped up very thoroughly because nothing smells so vile as decaying milk. This also led to Tris, who was outside wanting to come in, whining pathetically at the back door because I didn’t want milky paw marks all over the house, and Foss, alerted by the sound, sitting on the kitchen windowsill, craning his head to see if there was anything in the way of entertainment going on inside.
When I’d got all that cleared up and the animals pacified with food, I thought I’d better sort out the tins for recycling. Our local council now insists that we separate our tins, wash them out and squash them into a convenient state for collection, a job I hate. Resentfully I was engaged in this task when I cut my hand on the jagged lid of a cat food tin. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it was in an awkward place and bleeding fairly profusely. I held it under the cold tap for a bit and put on some antiseptic cream, but when I reached for the packet of plasters I found it was empty, so I had to trail all the way upstairs to get one from the bathroom cabinet. While I was up there I smelled burning and came down to the kitchen to find that the potatoes I’d put on after Anthea phoned had boiled dry, so I had to throw them away and put the blackened saucepan in the sink to soak.
I decided I couldn’t be bothered to do any more and that I’d just have bread and butter with my lemon sole. After all that I felt I deserved a little rest so I took a bar of chocolate and switched on the television to watch The Antiques Road Show, a programme I always find very soothing. There was the usual collection of people and things, the elderly with objects that they had “found in the attic after Mother died” or that had “been in the family for many years” and the young with things they’d bought at sales or had “been left me by my Auntie”. Small silver objects, not quite right Regency tables, Victorian watercolours, ‘collectables’ (which can mean virtually anything nowadays), with the occasional ‘find’, some rare item of actual value. The owners of these things listened, rather dazed, to the experts pronouncing on their possessions, waiting with suppressed eagerness for the magic moment when an actual price was given.
I was meditating on this when my attention was caught by one of the objects and what the expert was saying about it.
“A dagger of Middle Eastern origin, quite a fine specimen, notice the intricate chasing on the sheath. It is what is known as a jambiyeh and is a high status object, often given as a gift or token. When I take it out of the sheath you will notice the curved blade, very sharp, as you see. You may remember having seen such an object in the film of Lawrence of Arabia…”
I sat there not listening any more. I had certainly seen such an object not so long ago, in a glass case in a drawing room in Taviscombe. For a while I couldn’t take in the implications of this, and then I tried to blur the picture that was forming in my mind. Taviscombe was full of retired people, people, no doubt who had been abroad, who had come back with souvenirs of their time there. Colonel Wilmot, for example, had a collection of ebony elephants and several brass tables that he’d brought back from India; Patrick May had a couple of primitive wooden masks, a reminder of his days as an anthropologist in West Africa. There may well have been others besides Alan Johnson who had come home to Taviscombe from somewhere in the Arab world.
I knew this was nonsense, though. What was staring me in the face was the fact that the weapon that had killed John Morrison – or one like it, though that would surely be too much of a coincidence – belonged to Alan and had been available to any member of that household. It couldn’t have been Alan. He’d always spoken so highly of John, was even now arranging for a memorial to him at the hospital. Of course that could all have been a front, hiding his real feelings, but, then, what on earth would have been his motive? Susan, too, had no reason to dislike him and, although not as overtly enthusiastic as her brother, was equally full of praise for him, especially after he’d been so good over Alan’s heart condition.
That left Fiona. But, there again, what could have been her motive? I could remember her saying several times how good he’d been to her uncle and how he’d virtually saved his life. No, the whole thing was inexplicable. The only thing I knew I had to do was tell Roger about the dagger so that it could be tested for traces of blood or whatever they do to murder weapons. But how could I do that without seeming to accuse my friends?
I spent a wretched night, waking up in the small hours and going over and over the problem in my mind. By the morning I felt I couldn’t bear the burden of it any longer and phoned Rosemary and asked her to come round.
“What on earth’s the matter? You sounded dreadfully agitated on the phone. Are the children all right?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s more a moral dilemma.”
“Oh,” Rosemary said looking relieved, “one of those.”
Briefly I told her what I’d seen on the television and about the similar dagger that Alan had.
“So you see,” I said, “I must tell Roger about it, but then, if I do, where does that leave Alan and Susan?”
“Perhaps someone could have got into the house and taken it,” Rosemary suggested.
“And put it back again? I’m sure they would have missed it if it had gone.”
“I suppose,” Rosemary said tentatively, “it could have been one of them, or Fiona.”
“But why! It just doesn’t make sense. They’re our friends; we’ve known them for ages. What possible reason could any of them have for doing something like that?”
Rosemary shrugged. “People do peculiar things. No, I think you have to tell Roger, no matter what.”
“It will be awful,” I said, “especially now when there’s all this bother between Susan and Fiona…” I broke off suddenly. “You don’t think,” I said, “that had anything to do with all this?”
“With John Morrison’s murder? Surely not.”
“But they’ve always been so close; Alan simply couldn’t understand it, and they wouldn’t tell him what the problem was. But if Fiona…”
“But why? And why would they fall out now?”
I shook my head wearily. “Who knows? No, you’re right. I must tell Roger about the dagger and if Alan and Susan never speak to me again so be it.”
But when I tried to phone Roger they said he was in London again and could anyone else help me? I hesitated for a moment and then said I’d ring again when he was back. I kept going over and over all the possibilities of the situation and, eventually, the impossibilities, but I still couldn’t make any sort of sense of it. Eventually, I tried resolutely to put the whole thing to the back of my mind and, as a sort of penance, concentrated on doing all the things Anthea had asked me to do for Brunswick Lodge.
I’d brought back with me a list of people who had to be told about a change Anthea wanted made to the arrangements for an exhibition about Old Taviscombe she wanted to stage – committee members and members of the local history society – and prepared to concoct some sort of circular letter. I made myself a cup of coffee and banished the animals from my study, since they hate me using the computer, and was just settling down to work when the phone rang.
It was Alan and he was very agitated. “Sheila, something terrible’s happened!” He sounded breathless and distressed.
“What is it?”
“It’s Susan – she’s dead.”
“What!”
“It’s really terrible, a dreadful thing…” he broke off, obviously trying to catch his breath.
“Alan, calm down, take it slowly. What’s happened?”
The
re was a pause while he tried to collect himself. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “It’s all been such a shock. I’m at the hospital. Susan was knocked down by a car – they got an ambulance but she was – she was dead when they got her here.”
“Oh Alan, I’m so sorry. That’s really appalling. Is Fiona with you?”
“No, she’s in Taunton and I can’t get hold if her. I hope you don’t mind me calling you, but I couldn’t think who else to ring…” His voice trailed off.
“I’ll come over right away,” I said. “Hold on.”
When I got to the hospital I saw Sandra Bradshaw, one of the Sisters, in the foyer and asked if she knew where Alan was.
“I put him in the consultant’s office, I’ll show you. Poor soul, he’s in shock. He’ll be glad to see you.”
Alan was sitting slumped in a chair, an untouched cup of tea on the desk in front of him.
“Here’s Mrs Malory for you,” Sandra said. “Now drink up that tea, it’ll do you good, and I’ll send Dr Macdonald in to see you as soon as he comes in.”
He really did look awful, old and frail.
“Sandra’s right,” I said, “drink the tea. They’ve probably put masses of sugar in it, but it will help.” Like an obedient child he drank the tea. “That’s better,” I said. “Now can you tell me what happened?”
“It was that crossing at the bottom of West Street – you know, we’ve always said how dangerous it is. A car came round, it hadn’t indicated, you know how they don’t there. Susan must have thought it was going straight on down the Avenue and stepped out right in front of it and it couldn’t stop in time… Several people saw it happen. They called an ambulance, but…” his voice broke, “it was too late.”
I put my hand over his. “I’m so sorry,” I said quietly “so very sorry.”
Sandra came back into the room with Alec Macdonald. “Here’s Dr Macdonald, who’ll give you the details.”
“I’ll go and phone Fiona’s office,” I said to Alan, “and ask them to tell her. Will you be here until then?” He nodded and I went away.
I rang Fiona’s office and told them what had happened and they said they’d get through to their Taunton office and tell her to come back right away.
“Her uncle’s at the hospital now,” I said, “but I’m going to try and persuade him to go home, so perhaps she could go straight back there.”
When I got back to Alan Dr Macdonald had gone.
“He said it was almost instantaneous,” Alan said. “He doesn’t think she would have suffered. I suppose that’s a mercy.”
“A great mercy,” I said. “Look, Alan, I think you should go home. There’s nothing you can do here at present. Her office is going to tell Fiona to go straight home. I thought that was best.”
“Yes, whatever you think, Sheila.”
I drove him home and sat him down in the drawing room with a glass of brandy, trying to make some sort of conversation.
“You’ll stay until Fiona comes, won’t you, Sheila?” he asked anxiously. “I really don’t know how she’ll take it, after the way things have been between them…” His voice trailed off and he sat, nursing his glass and staring at the empty grate.
“Of course I will,” I said.
We sat in silence for a while and I couldn’t help my eye straying to the cabinet. The dagger was still there, sitting innocently beside the other richly decorated objects. It seemed impossible that it could have been used for such a terrible purpose. I tried to divert my thoughts, feeling I shouldn’t be even speculating about it at such a time.
After what seemed like an age I heard the sound of the front door opening and Fiona came into the room. She came in slowly, as if reluctant to face what she already knew had happened. Alan got slowly to his feet and held out his arms to her. For a moment she seemed to hesitate and then she clung to him, silently, no tears, but her face over his shoulder was twisted with grief.
I went out into the kitchen. There seemed nothing I could do except the conventional thing of putting on the kettle and making tea. When I took the tray into the drawing room they were sitting side by side on the sofa, Fiona’s arm around his shoulder. He was in tears, but she was not.
“I thought you might like some tea,” I said inadequately. I poured them each a cup. “I’ll leave you alone now, but please do call me if there’s anything at all I can do.”
“Thank you so much, Sheila,” Fiona said. “That’s very good of you.”
When I got home I phoned Rosemary to tell her the news.
“Poor Susan. How dreadful! We always said there’d be an accident there, but what a horrible way to be proved right! How’s Fiona taking it?”
“She seems very calm – strangely so, considering how close they were.”
“I don’t suppose it’s really sunk in yet,” Rosemary said.
“I sort of wondered, after the trouble between them…”
“Whatever it was, Susan was her mother after all. She’s bound to be really upset. How about Alan?”
“He just seemed bewildered at first. It must have been the most awful shock to him, happening so suddenly like that. But he broke down when Fiona got back. She was very good with him.”
“It’s a blessing they’ve got each other.”
“Yes, family’s very important at a time like this.”
We were both silent for a moment, considering this.
“I suppose you haven’t phoned Roger – you know, about the dagger?” Rosemary said.
“I did try but he’s away for a few days and now, of course…”
“I know. It hardly seems the time, does it?”
“It was awful,” I said. “When I was with Alan, I couldn’t help looking at the wretched thing in its glass case. I wish to goodness I’d never seen that television thing.”
“I wonder,” Rosemary said slowly, “I wonder if…”
“What?” I asked.
“Susan, if it wasn’t an accident.”
“You mean, did she do it deliberately?”
“It’s possible – that is if she did kill John Morrison.” She stopped short. “Oh dear, it’s awful to be talking like this. Still, you can’t help wondering.”
I found I was doing quite a bit of wondering myself, speculating about what might have happened, and then pulling myself up short and thinking of what Alan and Fiona must be going through. The following day I phoned Alan to see how they were.
“Fiona’s gone to work,” he said. “I wanted her to stay at home, but she said she’d be better doing something.”
“How is she?”
He sighed. “I really don’t understand it – she hasn’t cried once. She seems quite calm, but not really here, if you know what I mean.”
“I suppose she hasn’t really come to terms with what’s happened.”
“In denial? Is that the phrase they use nowadays? Honestly Sheila, I could cope with it better if she did break down.”
“I know. I suppose,” I said, “that there’ll have to be an inquest because it was an accident.”
“Yes, the police have been in touch. Actually, because it’s all quite straightforward – there were several witnesses, you know – I may be able to go ahead with actually making the arrangements. Though, of course, we can’t fix a date yet.”
“That would be a good thing. As Fiona says, it does help to have something to do.”
“Poor Susan,” Alan said, “I’m going to miss her so much. You know it seemed like a miracle when she came back, after all those years, and with Fiona too. I still can’t believe she’s gone.” His voice broke and with a brief goodbye he put down the phone.
Whatever I tried to do that day, I found my mind constantly going back to Susan and Fiona and John Morrison – and the dagger. I wished Roger would come back so that I could lay at least part of my burden of worry on him.
The following morning Alan phoned. He sounded very agitated and for a moment I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Then he collected himsel
f.
“I’ve just been into Morgan and Phillips, you know, the undertakers, and something very peculiar has happened. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, Sheila, but could you come round right away?”
Chapter Twenty
When I drove up to the house I saw Alan standing by the window, waiting for me to arrive. He ushered me quickly into the drawing room.
“Something very peculiar’s happened,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Well, I told you the police said I could see about the funeral, so I went to see Mr Phillips this morning. He’s very helpful and nice, he did the arrangements for poor Mary when she passed away.”
“Yes, I know him quite well.”
“I wanted to have a word straight away to let him know that it would have to be a burial, not a cremation – which is what we had for Mary and what I want for myself as a matter of fact. The thing is Susan had a pacemaker and apparently they explode if the…the body is cremated.”
“Yes, I had heard that. But I’d forgotten that Susan had one.”
“She was very sensitive about it – goodness knows why. You know they put them in on the chest, that’s why she always wore high necks. She used to go up to Taunton to the hospital every three months to have it checked and adjusted.”
“They’re amazing things,” I said, “they seem to keep people going wonderfully well. It must have been difficult for Susan, problems with her heart.”
“It runs in the family. Our father and our grandfather both died of heart conditions and our mother’s sister and her brother. I had a long conversation with Dr Morrison about it once – you know he was a specialist in genetics – and he was most interested. Anyway,” he continued, “I was explaining all this to Mr Phillips when he brought me up short by saying that Susan didn’t have a pacemaker.”
“Good heavens.”
