by Ann Granger
Mrs Brissett rubbed a reddened work-worn hand over her face. ‘Mr Simpson said Miss Needham’s cousin would be in touch with me. What would you like for your breakfast?’
‘Oh, but I can get—’ Meredith broke off. The poor woman obviously wanted something to do. Her distress at Harriet’s sudden death had in no way diminished and as for Meredith herself, the regular pattern of her life was important to Mrs Brissett. ‘Why, how kind – just a boiled egg. I like them boiled hard, really hard. Like golfballs.’
‘Right-o, Miss, I’ll see to it. Don’t you let that tea get cold now.’
Mrs Brisset plodded out and down the stairs. Oh dear, thought Meredith. Poor Mrs Brissett. What a rotten business it all was. She sipped at the tea thoughtfully.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Brissett had laid out a breakfast place at the kitchen table and the kettle was hissing cheerfully. Toast, neatly cut into triangles, was already wedged in the toast rack, butter had appeared in a glass dish and the egg was knocking noisily against the side of its pan.
‘You did say hard,’ said Mrs Brissett, removing it carefully, spooning it into the eggcup and finally crowning it with a knitted hat very like the ones she wore but in miniature. ‘Like concrete, this one.’
‘I really do like them like that. Thank you.’
‘I did just go across,’ said Mrs Brissett, running water into the egg pan. ‘To Miss Needham’s – and call in to tidy round, before her cousin come.’
Meredith looked up quickly, eggspoon in hand. ‘Tidy up?’ Her heart sank. ‘You, um, didn’t throw anything away – wastepaper, that sort of thing?’
‘No, Mr Simpson said to leave everything. But I just put a duster round to make it decent. Mind you, I was there on Thursday, the day that poor Miss Needham – I tidied then. It was all just as she’d left it to go hunting that very day. I washed up, cleaned the kitchen, made the bed, that sort of thing.’
‘Was there a lot of washing-up?’ Meredith asked, she hoped artlessly.
‘Usual!’ said Mrs Brissett abruptly.
Meredith took the rebuke meekly and ate her egg. Mrs Brissett clattered about the kitchen with a determined energy. It was obvious there was something more on her mind. Eventually Meredith ventured to ask, ‘Is there something worrying you, Mrs Brissett?’
Mrs Brissett swung round. ‘Yes, there is! And it’s no good, I’ve got to talk to someone about it. I talked to Fred, my ’usband, of course, but he just says, fuss about nothing. But it’s not, I know it. And I knew Miss Needham!’
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Meredith invited. ‘And have a cup of tea. There’s plenty in the pot.’
The cleaner collected a cup and joined her at the table. Leaning her brawny elbows on the cloth, she leaned forward and said confidingly, ‘It’s on account of what Mr Simpson asked me.’
‘The solicitor? Was it – would he mind your telling me?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. It will be public knowledge anyroad, as soon as the inquest is held. Wicked!’ snorted Mrs Brissett suddenly.
‘The inquest?’
‘No – what’s being said. Mr Simpson, he asked me – did Miss Needham take them tranquillisers often? Of course, I said, no – never! She never took no medicines. She had a friend once as died, something to do with the wrong medicine or too much – I don’t rightly recall. Anyroad, she never had so much as an aspirin in the house and I told Mr Simpson so. So he says the post mortem – nasty thing, cutting up poor Miss Needham – he says, the doctor what done it, he found she had tranquillisers in her blood and there was drink, too. Now, Miss Needham, she did like a drink. It’s no secret so I’m not telling tales. But take them pills, never! I said, that’s wrong – he’s got it wrong that doctor. And Mr Simpson said, “I assure you, Mrs Brissett, the doctor is quite firm on that point”. But I say, doctors can be wrong, can’t they?’ Mrs Brissett stared defiantly at Meredith across the toast rack.
‘Well, it’s possible – but I shouldn’t think that the doctor who conducted the post mortem is wrong on that point. You are quite sure, Mrs Brissett?’
‘Course I am!’ insisted the cleaner. ‘I cleaned for Miss Needham for three years and she never took no pills of any kind in all that time. What she used to do, was have a glass of brandy. Cure anything, she reckoned. Mind you, she was a lady! She held her drink like a lady and all – you’d never know she’d had a few.’
‘I see . . .’ Meredith said slowly. ‘I didn’t know Miss Needham well, but what you say certainly seems to make sense to me. Do you mind if I mention this to Chief Inspector Markby? He’s by way of a friend of mine – and I think he knew Harriet, too.’
‘Oh, Mr Markby,’ said Mrs Brissett. ‘He’s a gentleman. They used to live round these parts, Markbys, years ago. Landowners they was. But it’s all gone now. Down where them old folks’ bungalows are – that used to be land belonged to Markbys and a big house. It got knocked down after the war an’ the bungalows built there. ’Course the time I’m talking about, when the Markby family lived there, was well before the last war. Sixty year ago or so, when my mother was a girl. Yes, you can tell Mr Markby, o’ course.’
‘Were you born in Westerfield, Mrs Brissett?’
‘Oh, yes, dear. And Fred.’
‘And Miss Needham – when did she come here?’
‘Let’s see, she come about four, maybe five, year ago,’ said Mrs Brissett. ‘First of all she had Cissie Lumsden clean for her until the arthritis stopped her working and then I took the job on. Miss Needham, she come from the North somewhere. She was ever such a nice lady.’ Mrs Brissett sniffed noisily. ‘To think of her being done to death like that.’
‘I don’t know that “done to death” is quite the expression to use—’ began Meredith, but was summarily interrupted.
‘Well, I do! He killed her, that wicked young man! Waving them posters in front of her horse! Anyone knows you don’t do that in front of horses! Bound to make them jump about.’
‘Miss Needham was a very good rider, though. In normal circumstances—’
‘I know when dirty work’s been done,’ said Mrs Brissett crushingly. ‘And dirty work’s what’s did for Miss Needham. Truth will out.’
Meredith rang Markby when Mrs Brissett had left and relayed the gist of the cleaner’s conversation. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He paused. ‘I don’t quite know where it leaves us, but I’d better have a word with Mrs Brissett. She may have to give evidence at the inquest. What I’d like to do is get hold of the bottle or packet which had the tranquillisers in it. Any sign of Miss Needham-Burrell yet?’
‘Not yet. I keep peering out of the window. I must look a regular nosy-parker.’
‘Keep peering. Ring me when you’ve contacted her. I want a word with her myself. Tell her not to throw anything away!’
Meredith put down the telephone and rubbed a hand over her hair. As she did, the sound of a vehicle drawing up opposite fell on her ear. She dashed towards the window and stared out eagerly. Across the road, outside the gate of Ivy Cottage, a Range Rover was now parked. She was just in time to see a young woman jump down into the road, a young woman so uncannily like Harriet in build and manner that it gave Meredith quite an unpleasant shock. She watched the newcomer walk up the path to the front door of Ivy Cottage, pause, fiddle and then open the door. She had the keys. Fran Needham-Burrell without a doubt.
Meredith sat down and wondered how long she should decently wait before going across the road and making herself known. Too long and Miss Needham-Burrell might have started throwing away what might prove vital evidence. Evidence of what? Meredith stirred uneasily. Truth will out, said Mrs Brissett, Truth about what? Suppose all their poking and prying merely finished with an embarrassing and sleazy revelation of who Harriet’s man friend had been, and Harriet’s personal and very private life in particular? He could be married. Coming and going so furtively it seemed very likely that he was. Meredith pulled on her anorak and walked diffidently
across the road to knock at Ivy Cottage’s door.
‘Yes?’ She was like and yet unlike Harriet, viewed close to hand. She was about the same height and build and had the same assured, free and easy manner and there was a certain facial similarity too. But her long curling hair was com-blonde and she had startlingly beautiful eyes, sea-green and fringed with dark blonde lashes. Meredith managed not to gawp, but only just.
‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’ She found, herself stammering. ‘I live across the road. I thought you must be Harriet’s cousin – I came over to say how sorry I am and to offer any help, if I can help.’
‘Thanks,’ Fran stood back, holding the door open. ‘Come on in. I’m Harry’s executor – you may know that. I’ve got the unenviable task of clearing out her stuff.’
Meredith followed her into Harriet’s drawing room, trying not to recall her last visit and to imagine Harriet standing by the drinks cabinet pouring out the sherry. ‘I ought to tell you that Chief Inspector Markby of the Bamford station – he’s a sort of friend of mine and he knew Harriet and he and I were both there when – when it happened – he asked me to pass the message to you that he’d like to have a word sometime.’
‘Oh? What does he want?’ The sea-green eyes were momentarily cool and eyed Meredith appraisingly.
‘Well, amongst other things I think he’d like to have the packet or bottle which held the tranquillisers . . .’ Meredith broke off in embarrassment and hoped her obvious familiarity with the result of the post mortem, ahead of the inquest, would not strike Fran as impertinent. ‘He asked, requested, that you don’t throw anything away. He meant papers and so on.’
Fran was frowning. She put up a hand and pushed back a heavy switch of blonde hair. ‘You know, it’s really odd. I would have sworn Harry would never have taken that kind of pill – any kind of pill, for that matter. It’s just not in character for her.’
That’s what Mrs Brissett – the cleaner – says. She cleaned for Harriet and she cleans for me.’
Fran eyed Meredith again and seemed to make up her mind. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’m going to make a cup of tea. And then I’m going to collect all Harriet’s clothes and take them to Oxfam. You can give me a hand with that, if you like. He won’t object to that, will he, your police pal?’
‘No, I don’t think he meant keep all her clothes. Certainly I’ll help.’
Meredith followed Fran into the kitchen and once again had to make a determined effort to blot out the image of Harriet making coffee here as she watched Fran make the tea. Harriet’s living presence in Ivy Cottage was so recent and still so real that the tragic event of Boxing Day seemed impossible.
‘It seems all wrong, doesn’t it?’ Fran remarked in echo of Meredith’s thoughts. ‘As if we were poking and prying in Harry’s things and making free with her kitchen.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘I don’t think I’d turn a hair if she walked in the door there.’ A nod of the blonde head. ‘It seems all wrong for Harry to be dead at all. I still can’t accept she’s really and truly gone for good. I keep feeling that there must have been a mistake. I couldn’t believe it when Theo Simpson rang through. I was at Klosters. I came back to the hotel and they said there was a call from England for me. I made poor Theo repeat everything. He was distraught. But it was the last bit of news I’d have expected. Harry was – was aggressively healthy, if you know what I mean. That’s why I can’t accept that she took those pills. She led an outdoor life. Always down at the stables – although there might have been an added attraction down there, I suppose,’ Fran added drily.
‘Oh, yes . . .’ Meredith murmured uneasily.
‘Don’t look so shocked. I’m not spilling any secrets. Harry was always quite open about him – you have met Lover-Boy down at the stables, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve met him – but only very briefly.’
‘Keep it that way, if I were you. I used to warn Harry to watch herself with that one. Not that I blame her. Very sexy, our Thomas. But he’s the sort who believes in his women walking ten paces behind and carrying all the baggage, if you know what I mean. That type can cut up very rough if he doesn’t get his own way. Wonder how he’s taking this.’
‘I think Harriet realised that. I got the impression she knew how to keep him in his place,’ Meredith said frankly.
‘Probably.’ Fran fell silent and stood for a moment with two mugs, one in either hand, lost in her own thoughts. Then she gave her hair a shake, put the mugs on the table and said, ‘Well, it hardly matters now, does it? Water under the bridge. Take milk?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Meredith accepted her mug of tea.
‘You say you saw it happen?’ Fran settled down at the breakfast bar. ‘Tell me. I’d like to have a first-hand account. Perhaps I’ll start believing it then.’
Meredith took a deep breath. ‘The horse reared up when the placard was brandished under its nose and she came off. It was a terrific shock to see her fall. Everyone was stunned. I must say, she did seem unsteady beforehand, slouching in the saddle and not looking herself at all. But the young man’s action was inexcusable.’
‘She liked a drink, we all know that,’ said Fran bluntly. ‘That’s what really knocks me out. I mean, if someone said she fell out of the saddle blind drunk, I would have said poor old Harry had lost her control over the hard stuff but I would have accepted it. But drink and pills? Not in a hundred years!’
‘There’s something else, too,’ Meredith said hesitantly. ‘I think Alan – Chief Inspector Markby – wondered if Harriet had received any anonymous hate mail. Some other hunt subscribers have. That’s why he hopes you won’t throw anything away.’
‘Hate mail?’ Fran stared at her across the steaming mug of tea. ‘If she did, she would have chucked it out straight away. I doubt it would have worried her unless it was from an outraged wife accusing Harry of dire adultery with an erring hubbie. Anything to do With the hunt she could have coped with all right.’
‘Well, it’s for the police – I mean, I’m just passing on the message.’
‘Sure.’ Fran put down her mug. ‘Let’s go and take a look in the bathroom. As I told you, I’m curious about it, too.’
They went upstairs. In the tiny bathroom Fran pulled open the door of the medicine cabinet to reveal a predictable range of shampoo, skin cleansers, eye-brow tweezers, mixed make-up items and toothpaste. Also a packet of disposable plastic razors for men. Thoughtful of Harriet, that, opined Meredith silently. The only medical items, however, were a pack of sticky plasters and a bottle of TCP.
‘In the bedroom?’ suggested Meredith.
They hunted through bedside cabinet and drawers which revealed, embarrassingly to Meredith though not apparently to Fran, several packets of condoms together with a couple of paperback novels, handcream and a tube of ointment intended to relieve soreness and sprains.
‘She was a great rider to hounds,’ said Fran, waving the ointment tube. ‘Got plenty of bruises. That’s about it for medicine, though. We won’t find any tranquillisers, you know. Nor will your copper friend. Harry didn’t take them. Don’t care what the sawbones says.’
‘So how—?’ Meredith frowned.
‘Don’t know. Shall we ever find out, that’s the thing? Do you want to help me with Harry’s clothes? Say if you don’t. It’s a bit grim. She left me this cottage, by the way, and all the contents. I don’t know what I’ll do with it. I don’t see myself weekending in Pook’s Common. There’s what you might call a shortage of entertainment on hand. Unless you fancy a roll in the hay down the road.’ Fran was opening the nearer of two wardrobes as she spoke.
‘I had to do all this when my parents had both died,’ Meredith said to her, remembering. ‘I know how it feels. It seems such an impertinence. I felt so guilty about throwing anything out, even rubbish. I felt if they had kept it they wanted it – I had no right . . . Then someone said to me, “a life isn’t about things”. After that, I saw it in perspective more. I
t didn’t seem to be such a betrayal of trust.’
‘Harry wasn’t bothered about things, either!’ came in a muffled voice from inside the wardrobe door. ‘She cared about all animals and some people. I admit she made this cottage decent and she was a jolly good cook and marvelous hostess. But she wasn’t one for shopping. Although,’ Fran backed out of the wardrobe, hair mussed and breathless. ‘For someone who didn’t give a toss about material possessions, she had enough dresses! Someone must have been taking her out on decent dates. I mean, she wouldn’t have needed to dress up like this—’ Fran pulled out a flamboyant brocade evening skirt – ‘just to go and shovel manure with Tom Fearon!’
And Harriet was open about her relationship with Tom, too, thought Meredith. Tom didn’t come and go surreptitiously, parking his car in dark stretches of lane and never appearing in daylight. So who did?
They spent the next hour taking Harriet’s clothes from the wardrobes and downstairs cupboards and sorting them out. As Fran had remarked, there were some beautiful evening gowns amongst them and expensive casual wear which suggested weekending in more luxurious surrounds than Pook’s Common.
‘Lucky old Oxfam,’ said Meredith, reverently hanging up on a hook behind the door an emerald green shot-taffeta on a hooped skirt and having a very famous label in it. She adjusted the plastic tent in which the gown was shrouded.
‘Take it, if you like it,’ said Fran carelessly. ‘It would fit you.’
‘I don’t like to.’ Meredith hesitated, tempted.
‘Go on. Harry wouldn’t have minded. She was always giving frocks away. She and I used to swap them regularly. Well, you can’t wear the things more than once or twice, can you? Everyone remembers them. So we wore each other’s for years. I think I borrowed that one once. It would suit you. It’s one less to jam into the back of the Range Rover.’
The thought of this beautiful dress crammed into the back of the Range Rover clinched it. ‘Thank you,’ said Meredith. After a few moments she said awkwardly, ‘I wanted to ask about the funeral. Will it be family only?’
