Edward guessed that Cathy Herold, when she had gone out to Kenya in her early twenties, must have been stunning. Her hair was dark and rather wild. Her eyes were bold and bright, her nose rather thin but her figure was still boyish. She must keep herself in trim, he thought.
After five minutes, during which he could not get a word in, Edward decided that he must explain why they were there. Mrs Herold had so far not asked that obvious question.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your husband . . .’ he began but Harry cut him short.
‘Take no notice, Mrs Herold,’ Harry joked. ‘He’s not sad at all. The fact is he’s a sort of policeman and he thinks Jimmy might have been murdered.’
Edward looked at his friend and began to expostulate. ‘I say, I didn’t exactly . . .’
‘You see,’ Harry continued remorselessly, ‘he doesn’t think Jimmy – in his state – could have pulled over those hives and they certainly didn’t do it on their own. Then there’s the business of that scrap of paper you found with the quotation from Shakespeare.’
Clearly taken aback, Mrs Herold grasped at this last point. ‘I never knew it came from Shakespeare – “buzz, buzz”.’
‘Nor did I but Corinth is much better educated than either of us and he tells me it’s from Hamlet.’
‘You’re a policeman . . .? Mr Treacher seemed quite satisfied . . .’
‘I’m not exactly a policeman but Inspector Treacher has given me permission to go over the facts . . . I don’t want to upset you. Please don’t feel you have to answer my questions. It’s just that . . .’
‘I’ve got nothing to hide, Lord Edward. Ask me anything you like. I agree about the hives. It puzzled me too.’ She spoke defiantly but Edward thought he saw a glimmer of fear in her eyes. ‘Come and sit down – both of you – and I’ll make some tea. Then you can ask me anything you like.’
Cathy Herold was not quite what Edward had expected. For one thing, she was unashamedly not grieving for her husband – or not in any obvious way that required her to wear black and weep. She did love her husband but, after they had stopped climbing together, his long absences were difficult to bear. She was often bored and lonely. Then, when he was at home, he developed a sudden and, she thought, unhealthy interest in the politics of the far right.
She told them that she became increasingly uneasy about his unquestioning admiration of Hitler and was horrified when he announced in public that he shared Hitler’s view that the Jews were to blame for England’s moral and economic bankruptcy. She could see that her own hero was becoming increasingly deluded. He told her that he believed England had become decadent and needed someone like Hitler to bring back the nation’s self-respect. He said the young needed discipline and hard work. He wanted to start training camps where boys could test themselves in demanding sports such as mountaineering. He wasn’t alone in believing that the youth of England needed hardening if the country was to hold on to its Empire and Oswald Mosley for one, welcomed him as an ally.
If she ever took issue with him over his attitude to race or the infinite superiority of the German people, he refused to listen or dismissed her with a patronizing or pompous remark along the lines that she was a woman and could not know anything about politics. Despite this, she loved him more than she was angry with him for not quite being the man she thought she had married.
When he had his first heart attack, it was almost a relief. It made him more dependent on her and meant he could no longer disappear for months on end to climb far-off mountains. However, after his second, more severe attack, he could do no more than sit in a chair and look out of the window. He became a burden and she admitted that she sometimes longed for him to die. But when he did die, she had surprised herself by being angry. She genuinely grieved for the man she had married – not for the chair-bound cripple – and hated the thought that he had died alone and in agony. Or had he been alone?
Although she could not explain it, she was quite sure that the scrap of paper she had found on his body meant that someone else was involved in his death. It was hard to believe that he had got himself out into the garden when he could hardly stumble into his bed on the ground floor. Something or someone had propelled him outside and set his bees on him. The police would not take her seriously and she took the hint that Inspector Treacher was doing his best to protect her from incriminating herself. She realized he believed that she had helped her husband commit suicide and, if she made any trouble, she would be accused of murder.
She explained that she had no option but to go along with the view taken by the police. It was made clear to her that she should be grateful that her husband’s death would be treated as an accident and at first she had been. It was a relief to have her life back and to be able to do what she wanted. However, a growing sense of unease – of unfinished business – had undermined her pleasure at being rich and single. She was delighted to receive Edward’s telephone call. It was clear she had a penchant for attractive men in the public eye and, if Lord Edward was trying to discover who had killed her husband, she was more than happy to help him.
Although Mrs Herold didn’t say all of this over tea, she spoke frankly enough and Edward was able to guess the rest. He put his slice of Dundee cake back on his plate and looked at her. He saw she was feeling guilty that she had not been there when her husband had died and not been able to protect him. However, that certainly did not mean she was not determined to enjoy her youth while she still had it. She was, he thought, in the mood to do something stupid – perhaps to celebrate her new-found freedom with a rash new relationship – but, paradoxically, she was not stupid.
‘Did anyone come and see your husband in the weeks before he died? Or did he get a letter that disturbed him?’
She did not answer him immediately but sat thinking. After a minute she said, ‘No, I don’t think so. As you know, the police thought he committed suicide – that he got stung to death on purpose.’
‘You don’t think he did?’
‘It was hell for him living in a useless body when he had always been the fittest of the fit. He certainly made it hell for those who had to live with him.’ She could not resist adding, ‘But I’ve told you – he couldn’t have overturned his hives.’
‘Did you have any help looking after him – friends, relatives?’
‘A few friends and there was a nurse – Mrs Paria – who came in to bath him. I couldn’t manage it on my own.’
‘Where was the nurse when your husband died?’
‘It was her day off.’
Edward made a mental note to speak to the nurse. ‘What about relatives?’
‘We haven’t a relative between us – well, not so as you’d notice.’ She sounded almost defiant. ‘We are . . . were both only children. Jimmy’s parents died . . . God knows when. Before I knew him, anyway. My mother is in a nursing home in Sussex. I go and see her when I can but she doesn’t recognize me any longer.’
‘That must cost a pretty penny?’ Edward ventured.
‘If you are implying that I might have murdered my husband for his money . . .’
She had immediately seen what he was driving at and, once again, Edward warned himself not to underrate her. ‘No, of course I didn’t mean that,’ he backtracked.
‘We had plenty of money,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t have to worry about that. Jimmy made a lot from his books and lecturing and his parents were well off.’
‘What about you?’
‘I wasn’t rich when we married but I wasn’t poor either. My father had left me and my mother reasonably well off. Still, I’m not denying it made life easier being married to a rich man.’
‘So nothing upset him in the weeks before he died? You said he had no unexpected visitors.’
‘I was thinking about that. As it happens, he did have a letter which seemed to disturb him.’
‘Did you see who it was from?’ Edward asked, excitedly.
‘I’m sorry but I didn’t.’
&nbs
p; ‘You haven’t still got it?’
‘He burnt it, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, that suggests it was something he didn’t want you to see.’
‘It must have been very tough for you looking after Jimmy when he was ill for so long,’ Harry said as they sipped their tea.
‘It was tough for him,’ Mrs Herold corrected him. ‘I loved him – I really did. As I told you, it was no hardship looking after him. Not at first anyway. We thought he might improve. The doctor said it was possible but in fact he went downhill quite rapidly. I don’t pretend it wasn’t a blessed relief when he died but not because I resented looking after him. I didn’t but it was horrible to see him suffer the way he did – hardly able to walk a yard or two without stopping to get his breath. I came to realize what a gift life is. We breathe without a thought. We walk without considering how to take our next step. When that is taken from us, it’s not possible to think of anything else.’ She saw Harry smile. ‘I mean it. Your whole life is narrowed down to the pain and the effort of living one moment more.’
‘Did he talk of . . . of ending it all?’ Edward ventured.
‘Yes, often in those last few months. We talked about the mountains we had climbed and he spoke more and more about Gwynnie and how she’d died . . .’
‘And that made him sad?’ Harry broke in.
‘Not sad exactly. Resigned – grateful for the life he had had. As he said, he could just as easily have died on a mountain and had always considered the risks well worth taking. God or fate had chosen to take him a different way but at least he hadn’t wasted his time on earth.’
‘You said you climbed with him when you were first married?’ Edward asked.
‘He taught me,’ she said simply. ‘I loved it – at least at first. To rest on some peak, exhausted but triumphant, with Jimmy beside me and his arm round me – that was as near to heaven as I’m ever going to get. But the truth is that I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t strong enough – unlike Gwynnie, so he said. I badly frightened myself a couple of times so in the end I gave up.’
‘But you still keep fit?’
‘Yes. I play a lot of tennis and . . .’ she hesitated, ‘and so on.’
‘At Phyllis Court?’
‘Yes.’
Edward looked at her and beneath her short-sleeved shirt he could see how strong her arms were. She would have had no difficulty overturning the hives.
As if reading his thoughts, she asked whether they had finished their tea and would like to go and see the apiary.
‘Are you going to keep the bees?’ Harry asked.
‘For the moment. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I may even go back to Africa. I rather hanker after some sun and this house . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose it hasn’t been such a happy place – with Jimmy being ill . . .’ She tailed off before adding, ‘Who knows? It’s too early to say.’
‘Of course,’ Edward agreed. ‘You have someone to help you?’
‘With the bees?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a boy – he’s probably there now – Bill Watkins. We were lucky to find him. He’s devoted to them. I certainly couldn’t manage without him. He looks after the garden too.’
In the sunshine, the garden looked beautiful – a classic English cottage garden, its borders a blaze of colour. Lavender and rosemary scented the air and, at the far end near the hives, there was a small orchard where ancient apple trees leant for support on stout wooden poles. Roses rambled over the cottage walls and peeped in through the windows. The scent was intoxicating and Edward imagined that many of the flowers and shrubs had been chosen for the bees. Mrs Herold confirmed this.
‘If you want your honey to taste of anything you have to give the bees a cocktail of good nectar plants – nothing fancy – just traditional English garden flowers.’
Edward thought she was making a great effort to remain calm. She couldn’t quite decide how much of a grieving widow to be, he decided. He caught Harry’s eye as they strolled across the lawn. A brief smile signalled that he too thought something was not quite right.
The young man who tended the bees was tongue-tied with shyness but when Edward got him on to the subject of the damage done to the hives he became almost loquacious.
‘So many bees killed, so much waste! It took me most of that day to tempt them back. I had to rebuild the bases of the hives and . . . I don’t know, it was a bloody marvel it weren’t worse.’
‘Why weren’t you here the day Mr Herold died?’
‘I sent him to Reading to pick up the new mower,’ Mrs Herold answered for him.
‘And when I got there I found there’d been a mix-up and it wasn’t ready for me to collect,’ Bill added, still annoyed at the memory of an afternoon wasted. ‘There’s so much to do at this time of year. Not just the bees . . .’
‘So what had happened?’ Edward asked with mild curiosity, turning to Mrs Herold.
‘I telephoned Hale’s in Reading and ordered a new Hayter. I said I would send someone over to collect it and, when Bill arrived, they pretended they had never got my message.’
‘You don’t remember who it was you spoke to?’
‘At Hale’s? No. I realize now that I ought to have taken a name but it never occurred to me.’
‘And when you got back, Bill, did you find your bee clothes had been moved or were they just as you had left them?’
‘No, they were on the floor of the shed in a pile. My hat had been badly dented and the veil torn. I couldn’t find my wellington boots.’
‘And you’ve still not found them?’
‘No, Mrs Herold had to buy me another pair.’
‘May we see them?’
‘My clothes? Yes, of course, they’re hanging up in the shed.’
They walked over to a garden shed behind the beehives. It was full of machinery and buckets, funnels and other bee-keeping equipment.
‘Have these been cleaned since Mr Herold’s death, Bill?’ Edward asked.
‘No, they weren’t dirty so why should they be cleaned?’ Light dawned. ‘You think they were worn by whoever it was pulled over the hives?’
‘It seems likely,’ Edward said, examining the clothes. ‘Presumably you needed them to recapture the bees?’
‘Yes, when I got back from Reading I found poor Mr Herold had been . . . you know.’
‘So the police had been and gone by the time you got back?’
‘Yes,’ Bill looked at Mrs Herold apologetically. ‘All I could do was set about clearing up the mess and try to get the bees to come home. It was a day I’ll never forget, that’s for sure.’
Edward thanked him and apologized for disturbing him. He thought it odd that there had been no mower to collect at Hale’s but, if she had wanted him out of the way while she killed her husband, surely she would have made sure there was a mower for him to pick up. Perhaps it was just one of those things. The shop either never got the message or mislaid it.
When they returned to the house they sat on the terrace on some ancient-looking garden chairs. ‘Better than being inside on a day like this,’ Mrs Herold said apologetically. ‘It’s been so hot . . .’
‘Do you go on the river?’ Harry asked suddenly.
‘No, I never have.’
‘I’m getting a small party together for the regatta. A picnic – a launch to watch the races from . . . I would so much like it if you could come. There’s so much to talk about – the good old days . . .’
‘Oh, I . . . I’m not sure. It’s so soon after . . .’
‘I’ll telephone you.’
Edward wanted to go over everything one final time. ‘So, forgive me,’ he pressed, ‘can I just get this straight. The day your husband died, you telephoned Hale’s in the morning?’
‘Yes, about ten and then about eleven I went shopping in Henley.’
‘Your husband was all right when you left him?’
‘No, he was worse than usual. It had been gett
ing very bad – his breathing. He had an oxygen cylinder but it didn’t seem to make much difference. I knew he couldn’t go on very much longer so the cliché about his death being a blessed relief is true.’
‘You’ll miss him?’ Harry asked.
‘Of course! I told you, I’ll miss the man he was. When I first met him, he was a marvellous man. So handsome and such a sportsman. He could shoot and climb and swim. Well, you remember, Lord Lestern. He was everything I thought a man ought to be.’ She grinned. ‘My hero.’
Harry made a moue of pretended hurt. ‘He was a good man. I never pretended to be his equal.’
‘But you’re alive and he isn’t,’ she said roughly.
‘Getting back to the timing,’ Edward said quickly. ‘You returned from your shopping when?’
‘About twelve. I had a cup of coffee with a friend.’
‘Oh yes, a Miss Latimer?’
‘How did you know that?’ Mrs Herold looked surprised.
‘Inspector Treacher gave me permission to read his notes. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ she said slowly.
‘And, when you got back, you found your husband on the lawn . . .?’
‘Dead,’ she said grimly, ‘and still covered in bees.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘You must know if you’ve read what I told the Inspector.’
‘Forgive me, but would you mind going over it again? I don’t mean to upset you but . . .’
‘I screamed, dropped my shopping and went over to him. I could see the bees covering his face like a mask. I tried to brush them away but I couldn’t. I think they had attached themselves to him with their stings and died with him. It was terrible . . . disgusting but, in the end, I . . . I’ve come to realize it was for the best. The doctor said it would have been instant . . .’ She looked doubtful.
Something Wicked Page 14
