by Hazel Holt
But, of course, I couldn’t get out the papers and start looking straight away. The animals, resentful at my absence, persecuted me unmercifully, gulping down their food and then asking (vociferously) to go out and then, when they saw that it was still raining (at every door), asking for more food, and, when that was gone, demanding my undivided attention.
When I’d finally got them settled (putting an extra bar of the electric fire on in the sitting room and bribing them with handfuls of dried food, which I knew they’d scatter far and wide, so that I’d be vacuuming it up for days) and I was just about to get out the briefcase with the papers in, the telephone rang. It was Janet, asking if I’d had the notice about going to the inquest on Bernard. Mine had arrived a few days ago and I’d pushed it to the back of my mind and almost forgotten it.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I assumed they’d want you there too but I wasn’t sure if you’d be well enough to come.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine now – my arm’s still strapped up though so I can’t drive, but Christine insists on coming too.’ There was a slight undertone of irritation in her voice. ‘So she’ll bring me.’
‘Let me see now, it’s at eleven o’clock. Will you both come back here for lunch?’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I think Christine wants to get straight back to Bristol – some important meeting she needs to go to.’
‘What a pity, it would have been nice to have a chat.’
‘Actually, the other reason I rang was to see if you’re still all right about coming to the funeral. We – that is, Christine has arranged it for Friday. It’s eleven-thirty at the crematorium and then back here afterwards. I do so hope you can come, it would mean a lot to me.’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘Luke won’t be there of course – well, it would hardly be – well – suitable really. So I’d be glad of your support.’
‘No, that’s fine. I’ll be there.’
‘The crematorium is at Canford, that’s Westbury on Trim, can you find it?’
‘That’s all right. I know where it is.’
‘Oh good.’ Janet paused for a minute then said tentatively, ‘I wonder if you’d feel like staying the night. To save you the journey back the same day. And,’ she added, ‘it would be so nice to have that chat.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I really don’t think I can leave the animals. But I’ll stay on afterwards and we can talk then.’
‘Oh good. Well, I’ll see you at the inquest then. I do hope it won’t be too awful – I’m really dreading it.’
‘No, I think it’ll be quite straightforward – at least that’s what I gathered from Roger – just explaining how we – how we found Bernard. That sort of thing.’
‘Well,’ Janet said, ‘I won’t feel so bad if you’re there too.’
The inquest, as Roger had said, was really only a matter of form. The coroner did refer to ‘some unusual circumstances’ but didn’t go into any sort of detail and pronounced the death to be ‘from natural causes’. I was pleased to see that the young man who does the court cases for the local paper didn’t seem to be there so I hoped that the whole business would escape notice in the press. Janet had made her statement after me. She spoke in a low voice but seemed to be quite calm, although I thought Christine looked rather nervous while she was speaking. Afterwards I hardly had time to have a word, before Christine, with a brief, perfunctory apology, took her away again.
‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ Janet said, as Christine shut the car door.
I waved them off and stood for a moment outside the rather dismal red-brick building that housed the magistrates court and the police station trying to take in the fact that it was all over.
‘So that’s that, then.’ Sergeant Harris came out of the court and joined me. ‘Funny sort of business altogether,’ he said.
‘It certainly was,’ I replied. ‘So that’s it, is it?’
‘Well, of course, there’s still some paperwork to do – but then when isn’t there!’
‘But you won’t be investigating anything else?’
‘Like the coroner said, it was death from natural causes. There is the question of the break-in, but, honestly, Mrs Malory, since nothing seems to have been stolen, I don’t think there’s much we can do about it now.’
‘No, of course not. Well, it will be a great relief to Mrs Prior to have it all over.’
‘Yes, poor lady, it must have been a dreadful experience for her – well, you too, if it comes to that, finding him like that – but she seems to be the sort of lady who would be easily upset, if you know what I mean.’
I agreed with his estimate of Janet’s character and thought ruefully that I obviously didn’t give the impression of equal sensitivity.
He moved towards the door of the police station. ‘I’d better be getting along,’ he said. ‘Like I said – all that paperwork.’
‘“A policeman’s lot is not a happy one”,’ I quoted. He looked at me blankly and I hastily added, ‘Gilbert and Sullivan, Pirates of Penzance.’
His face cleared. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The wife and I went to see it in Taunton last year.’ He hummed a few bars. ‘A really good evening out! Oh well, back to my constabulary duties,’ he said with a jovial emphasis, and went in.
I thought a little sea air would dispel the depressing atmosphere of the inquest, so I drove down to the harbour and stood for a while watching the sea. A little way out a determined (or perhaps foolish) windsurfer was battling with a stiff breeze, sometimes making good progress towards the shore, then the sail would tip over and he’d be in the sea, and I watched anxiously as he scrambled back onto the board again. Time and again it happened, just as he seemed to be all set for the beach the wind would upset him and he was struggling in the water again. A bit like my ‘investigations’ I thought. A lot of effort leading nowhere. Oh well, it was all over now, the case (such as it was) was closed and it really didn’t matter (did it?) who had struck that blow. I could put it out of my mind. But, as I stood there watching the wind-surfer, I knew that I’d go on (determined or foolish), like him, not because I had to, but for my own satisfaction. And, as I watched, he finally made it to the shore and stood for a triumphant moment, looking out at the sea he’d emerged from, before making his way cautiously across the stony beach, back to his car.
Because I’m not very good at finding my way anywhere I always leave plenty of time, so I was very early at the crematorium on the Friday morning. I found a good parking place not too far from the entrance and sat quietly for a while listening to some nice soothing Elgar on the car radio. Gradually the other mourners began to arrive. Mostly middle-aged, colleagues perhaps. As far as I could see, there were no other relatives, though given the circumstances that was not surprising. About ten minutes before the service was to begin I got out of the car and went in.
Like all crematoriums this one was bright and airy, with a great deal of light wood everywhere in both fittings and furnishings. There were several large and impressive flower arrangements designed, perhaps, to draw attention away from the curtains behind a kind of altar, though, of course, one’s eye was inevitably, if reluctantly, focused upon them. There was a lectern with a microphone and what appeared to be recorded music permeated the whole space – a careful combination of the religious with the secular, an attempt to be all things to all men, trying to offend no one, even if, in the end, no one was truly satisfied.
The service itself was a little like the crematorium – parts of the prayer book service interspersed with readings and two brief eulogies (praising Bernard’s ‘dedication to education’). People bent over their orders of service trying to keep up, joining in thankfully, back on safe ground, with the Lord’s Prayer. The service proceeded to its ineluctable end and we all trooped outside to shake hands with Janet, Christine and a tall thin man in spectacles who I took to be Christine’s husband.
‘A very nice service.’ I murmured the conventional words as I gr
eeted Janet.
‘You can find your way back to the house?’ she said anxiously.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’m so glad you came…’
Christine interrupted. ‘Dr Fenchurch, Mother,’ she said, indicating an elderly gentleman who had come up behind me. ‘You remember he was so helpful to Father about those census reports.’
‘So good of you to come,’ Janet said dutifully, as quiet and subdued as the old Janet had been, and I moved on, out into the fresh air and back into the outside world. As I was standing beside my car an elderly man came up to me.
‘Sheila? It’s been a long time, but you look so like your father I knew I couldn’t be mistaken.’ It was Fred Prior.
‘Fred, how nice to see you! I didn’t see you at the service.’
‘No, I always sit at the back at these affairs, in case I want to make an unobtrusive getaway.’ He gave me a quick smile. ‘I didn’t know you were a friend of the late lamented.’
‘Not a friend,’ I said, ‘but I wanted to be here for Janet.’
‘Ah, poor Janet. Freedom at last, eh?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, a little disconcerted at his forthright remarks, though I did remember that Fred had always had the reputation (carefully fostered by himself) of being eccentric.
‘Are you going back?’ he asked giving the words an ironic emphasis.
‘Yes, I promised Janet that I would. How about you?’
‘No fear. Not my scene at all. I only came to see old Bernard off.’
‘Oh, right…’
‘It would have been nice to have had a word with you. I always liked your father and your mother was one of the wittiest women I’ve ever known. Next time you’re coming to Bristol give me a ring and we’ll have lunch.’ He looked round. ‘They’re all coming out now, so I’ll make my escape. Don’t forget, give me a ring.’ He gave a wave and got into a dashing Mercedes sports car that I’d been admiring in the car park and drove off.
Bernard’s house – and I’m sure it was always Bernard’s house and not Janet’s – was in a quiet leafy road in Stoke Bishop, a pleasant suburb of Bristol near to Clifton and the Downs. It was a tall, Edwardian three-storey building set well back from the road with a lot of shrubs in front of it and a substantial driveway. There were already several cars parked there when I arrived (having got lost in one of the city’s difficult one-way systems), so I left my car in the road so that I could get out easily if it all became too much for me.
Although there had been a fair number of people at the service there were only about a dozen at the house, mostly, as I had suspected, former colleagues, including the two who had read the eulogies. One of these, a large, bald man with glasses, was holding forth in a loud, pompous manner about the problems of modern education with reference to the total failure of the comprehensive system. This was obviously a familiar theme and the eyes of his listeners had glazed over as they stood there balancing glasses of red wine and plates with vol-au-vents and small triangular sandwiches. My entrance obviously provided a welcome opportunity for them to break out of the circle surrounding him and re-form into small groups where they engaged in hastily improvised conversations of their own.
Christine, who had let me in, took me around introducing me (‘This is Sheila Prior, my father’s cousin’) to the various people. The names, of course, meant nothing to me, or mine to them, and, burdened in my turn with plate and glass, I stood uncomfortably making the sort of small talk one does on such occasions. It became apparent, as I spoke to various people, that the more bizarre aspect of Bernard’s death had not been made public, since everyone made some reference to the heart attack, expressing surprise (‘Never knew Bernard had a heart condition. Just goes to show…’), but I imagine Christine wouldn’t have wanted anything that might have been regarded as scandalous connected with her father, or, indeed, herself, and I didn’t think that Janet would have had any say in the matter. Escaping from the tedious proceedings for a moment, I went over to the table by the window to put my glass down.
‘Hello, I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Jonathan Taylor, Christine’s husband.’
I turned and saw the tall man who’d been standing by Christine at the service holding out his hand.
‘How do you do,’ I replied formally, and went on to make some trite remark about it being a sad occasion.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said in a way that suggested he was used to agreeing with whoever he happened to be speaking to.
‘Christine has organised everything quite splendidly,’ I said. ‘Janet must be very pleased to have it all done so well. It’s always such a difficult time.’
‘Yes indeed,’ he said again, adding after a pause, ‘Christine’s very good at organising things.’
‘She was most efficient down at Taviscombe when her father – died.’ I wasn’t sure how much even Christine’s husband had been allowed to know. ‘Things were quite complicated and she was most helpful.’
He smiled politely but made no comment, possibly because just then Christine came up to us saying, ‘Jonathan, Mr Purvis is going now,’ and led him away.
Gradually the other guests left and, finally, Christine, with admonitions to her mother to leave all the clearing up to the caterers (‘Who will be calling at five’), took her husband away and Janet and I were left alone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Goodness,’ Janet said, ‘I thought they’d never go. Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘No thanks, I’ve got to drive home. A cup of tea would be nice though.’
‘Good idea. Let’s go into the kitchen.’
The kitchen was expensively fitted with dark, solid-looking wooden units which were a bit overpowering, but Janet indicated a pleasant space, near the french doors looking out onto the garden, with a table and four chairs. ‘Do sit down and I’ll put the kettle on.’
I was struck, as I had been before, at the way she could change suddenly from a dispirited, downtrodden victim to a cheerful, lively human being.
‘The service went very well,’ I said. ‘Christine organised everything splendidly.’
‘Yes, she’s been much more herself lately. Just before Bernard died she was very down about something.’
‘Really?’
She brought the tea tray over to the table and sat down.
‘I think it’s Jonathan,’ she said. ‘Her husband. Did you meet him?’
‘Very briefly. We were about to embark on a conversation, I think. He seemed very shy – but then Christine took him away.’
‘That sounds about right,’ Janet said. ‘He is a bit of a cipher; I suppose that’s why Christine married him. Inoffensive and always there – a bit like me and Bernard I suppose.’
I looked at her in surprise and she smiled. ‘Well, I’d have been a total fool if I hadn’t worked that one out.’
The kettle was making bubbling noises and she went over and made the tea.
‘If he’s so innocuous,’ I said, ‘then why should Christine be worried about him?’
‘Money. It usually is with Christine. He’s been making some rather foolish investments that have gone wrong. The stupid boy – he thought that if he could show Christine he could make a fair amount of money, then she’d respect him more.’
‘Oh dear. And it’s gone wrong?’
‘Badly wrong, I’m afraid.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘He talks to me sometimes – fellow feeling, I suppose – and he had to tell someone about it. Anyway, he didn’t just lose his investment, he’s also got himself quite badly into debt.’
‘And Christine doesn’t know?’
‘Oh yes, I’m pretty sure she found out, though, of course, she’d never tell me – she couldn’t bear me to know that things weren’t perfect in every aspect of her life.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble is, they’re very over-extended financially. Christine does like to make a show – you know, big house, big car (two cars, actually), expensive soci
al life – that sort of lifestyle.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I did wonder if she’d approached Bernard for help, but, again, I don’t think she could bear him to know what sort of mess Jonathan had made of things. Bernard never liked him, always thought Christine could have done better for herself, although he rather liked the idea of Jonathan’s family.’
‘His family?’
‘His father was an admiral and his mother belongs to an old county family – Bernard was a terrible snob.’
‘Oh, I see. Poor Jonathan. He looked rather pleasant.’
‘He is. I’m very fond of him. He should have married a nice, quiet girl who would have looked up to him, but, I suppose he was attracted by Christine’s self-assurance, or something.’
‘She’s very good-looking,’ I said. ‘That dark hair and blue eyes are very striking.’
‘Yes. She takes after my father, everyone said he was a very handsome man.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘I can only just remember him. He was in the army – he was killed when I was five.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. I wondered whether Janet had married Bernard because she was looking for a father figure. Not a good idea. ‘So you think,’ I continued, ‘that Christine was worried about money?’
‘I’m pretty sure that was it.’ She suddenly remembered the tea and poured us each a cup. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘she’ll be all right now.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. Bernard’s will.’
I looked at her enquiringly.
