by Hazel Holt
‘Bernard arranged that I should have a small proportion of his pension if he died before me – though I’m sure he imagined he’d outlive me – and he’s left me the house, but everything else goes to Christine. There’s quite a bit: he made some very good investments and he was always very careful with money.’
‘That seems unfair.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, she was the only person he really cared about; I suppose it was to be expected.’
‘Still…’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I expect the house will fetch quite a lot. Some developer will turn it into flats, there’s plenty of room for that.’
‘So you won’t go on living here?’
She gave a barely perceptible shudder. ‘No. I couldn’t. Too many unhappy memories, and, anyway, it’s far too big. It was too big for Bernard and me, but, of course, he wouldn’t move – it was part of his image of himself I suppose.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’re right and it will fetch a good price. Where will you live?’
She smiled happily. ‘With Luke and Yves, of course. I can use the money from the house for them to get somewhere really good, a better position for the restaurant. It will be wonderful.’
‘Have you told Christine yet?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll wait until I have to. Try and catch her in a good mood. Still,’ she went on, an unaccustomed note of defiance in her voice, ‘she can’t stop me. Especially if I’ve got Luke and Yves to back me up. I’ll wait until I’ve sold the house. Though I expect she’ll want to do that as well.’
I thought that was highly probable, since I couldn’t imagine Christine would think her mother capable of doing something so important on her own.
‘You could say your solicitor was advising you,’ I suggested.
‘Oh no, he’d be on Christine’s side. He was a friend of Bernard’s and he’s Christine’s godfather. So I certainly won’t let him know what I’m doing. No, I’ll leave it to Luke. He’s very capable, you know,’ she said, her face lighting up as it always did when she spoke of him. ‘You have to be really practical to run a successful restaurant, and Yves is marvellous at bargaining – the French, you know, always so good with money!’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I do hope everything turns out splendidly for you and Luke.’
She went on for a bit about his plans for the new restaurant and I was only half-listening, wondering when, if ever, she would refer to the circumstances of Bernard’s death. But, when it was time for me to go, she still hadn’t mentioned it and I felt a certain reluctance to do so given the occasion. I did ask if Bernard had ever expressed any wish about having his ashes scattered somewhere in particular.
‘No,’ she said, ‘he never said anything about things like that – I suppose he thought he’d go on forever. Christine thought it would be nice if they were scattered at his school, but they weren’t very keen about that – not surprising, if you think about it – so I expect it will just be here in the garden. Christine will see to it.’
I was slightly shocked at her tone and attitude until I remembered just what sort of life she had led with Bernard.
‘Well,’ I said, getting up, ‘I must get off. Do let me know how things go.’
She gave me a hug and said, ‘Thank you so much for coming, Sheila – it was so nice to know that I had one friend here. And – well – thank you for everything.’
It was getting dark as I set off and starting to rain and, because of that, the traffic on the M5, bad at the best of times, was really awful, so that I had to concentrate hard on my driving and couldn’t go over in my mind the incidents of the day. Only when I’d left behind the motorway and the traffic jams in Bridgwater did I have an opportunity to think about what had happened. One phrase stuck in my mind: Janet had called me her friend. But I wasn’t – I was really sorry for her, of course, and interested in her plans in the way that I was interested in the characters and the plot of a soap opera, but it occurred to me that it wouldn’t worry me if I never saw her or heard from her again. No, not really a friend. I would hear from her again, I was pretty sure of that, she would want to ‘keep in touch’. Oh well, I could manage that.
I was really tired when I got to the outskirts of Taviscombe so I got myself some fish and chips (extra fish to propitiate the animals) to save cooking. Later in the evening, when I was able to relax at last, I thought over the events of the day in more detail. As Janet had said it wasn’t surprising that, having made some sort of basic provision for her, Bernard had left everything to Christine. Interesting that Christine was worried about money – though typical, I felt, that the problem should not have been of her own making. I had a moment of sympathy for poor Jonathan, since I could imagine only too well the contempt with which his wife would be treating him after his unfortunate financial dealings. Money problems would be intolerable to Christine. How lucky, therefore, that she now had the means to put things right and even increase her comfortable lifestyle. Lucky, indeed, that her father died when he did. It was, when you came to think of it, a possible motive for murder.
To clear my head I took up my tray and carried it out to the kitchen. Foss, ever on the lookout for extra rations, followed me, though Tris, surfeited with battered cod, remained supine in front of the electric fire. I scraped the bits of batter from my plate into Foss’s dish and began to wash up my supper things. Money was always a substantial motive for murder, Roger often said so. And I was sure that Christine would have had the resolution to do it. Of course there was the fact that she was her father’s favourite and was said to have been fond of him, but it was just possible her passionate desire to maintain and improve her position might have been sufficient to overcome any qualms she might have about disposing of him.
But there was another fact, and one that made me reluctantly abandon my theory. She had a perfectly good alibi. Luke had telephoned her that night. At home in Bristol, and at a time when it would have been impossible for her to have travelled to Taviscombe to do the deed. There was no reason for Luke, who had no cause to like his sister, to lie for her. So she simply couldn’t have done it. Which was a pity, since she was such an unpleasant person she would have made an acceptable suspect. For a moment I considered the possibility that Jonathan had been despatched to eliminate his father-in-law, but a moment’s thought made me realise how impossible that would have been. Even if he’d been capable of such a thing (which he palpably wasn’t), there’s no way Christine would have trusted him with something so important. With a sigh I tipped away the washing-up water and abandoned my theories.
The next morning Michael called in on his way to work. The light bulb on the landing had gone and I couldn’t reach it to put in a new one. For years I’ve been meaning to have the light fitting moved, but somehow I’ve never got round to it. I stood on the landing peering anxiously up at Michael as he leant precariously over the banisters to put the new bulb in.
‘Thank you so much, darling,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you.’
‘No trouble. Anyway, the bulb up here only goes phut once every couple of years.’
I followed him downstairs and he stopped at the bottom.
‘Ma,’ he said, looking upwards, ‘you really must get some new stair carpet, look at the state of it!’
The carpet certainly was pretty bad, worn thin in places and elsewhere reduced to a sort of loosely looped bouclé.
‘I know it looks awful, but, honestly, there’s no point in renewing it, Foss will only claw the new one to pieces.’
‘That’s as maybe, but it really isn’t safe. Look, there are actual holes in it in places. No, really,’ he said firmly, ‘you must do something about it.’
‘All right, darling, I’ll go to the carpet place today, I promise. Now then, have you got time for a cup of coffee?’
‘No, thanks. I must be off, I’ve got a nine-thirty appointment. Don’t forget about that stair carpet!’
A little later in the morning, when I found Foss at the top of
the stairs, busily clawing away, I looked more carefully at the carpet and decided that Michael was right. So I went down to see Mr Davis at the furniture and carpet shop, explaining that I wanted something very hard wearing. He pointed me in the direction of various carpet samples and I was busy studying them when Anthea suddenly materialised behind me.
‘Ah, Sheila – so glad I bumped into you, I was going to ring you. We need a steward for Brunswick Lodge next Wednesday. Mary Thomas has got the appointment for her knee replacement at last so we need someone to cover for her. Can you do it?’
I really didn’t feel like standing about all morning at Brunswick Lodge so I decided that only a downright lie would do.
‘I’m so sorry but I can’t manage that.’
‘Oh?’ Anthea is used to people falling in with her plans. ‘Why not?’
‘Um.’ I thought quickly. ‘I’ve got to go to Bristol that day.’
‘Oh well.’ Anything away from Taviscombe is recognised to fall outside Anthea’s jurisdiction. She regarded the carpet samples I’d been looking at with a jaundiced eye. ‘It’s no good buying anything that isn’t pure wool,’ she said. ‘A false economy in the long run.’
‘I just want something that’s resistant to cat’s claws,’ I said hopelessly.
‘Oh, well, if you will insist on filling your house with animals,’ she said as she moved away.
I chose something that looked as if it might stand up to a feline assault and went in search of Mr Davis.
‘Right you are, Mrs Malory. I’ll order it right away – shouldn’t take too long to come through. I can’t send Denzil round to measure up until the end of next week. One of our busiest times of the year, everyone wanting things for Christmas.’ He noticed my air of bewilderment (why would people want to celebrate a Christian festival by ordering soft furnishings?). ‘Christmas holidays – friends and family coming to stay.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘No, the end of next week will be fine.’
‘That’s good then. Denzil will give you a ring about the time.’
I had intended to go home for lunch but I ran into Rosemary who inveigled me into having a sandwich at The Buttery.
‘Mother’s driving me absolutely mad about this Ruby Wedding thing,’ she said, picking the cucumber out of her ham and salad sandwich. ‘I do so love cucumber but I really daren’t risk it. Anyway, she’s still going on about a grand dinner at The Castle in Taunton – apparently Jocelyn Forsyth’s daughter had her Silver Wedding “do” there and, you know what Mother’s like, she can’t bear to be upstaged by one of her friends.’
‘You’ll have to give in the end,’ I said. ‘She always wins.’
‘No,’ Rosemary said firmly, ‘this time I’m not letting her tell me what to do. I said to Jack, even if it means we have to get divorced I’m not going to do it!’
I laughed. ‘And what did Jack say?’
‘Oh you know what he’s like. He just said everything would be fine and went and shut himself in his study. Men!’
‘You’ll think of something,’ I said soothingly. ‘Just book somewhere and present her with a fait accompli.’
‘I suppose so,’ Rosemary said reluctantly, ‘but it’s not what I really want.’
‘What do you want?’
She laughed. ‘That’s it – I don’t know! Something different, I suppose, but I don’t know what. Still, that’s enough of my troubles. How did you get on at the funeral?’
I told her all about it and then I said, ‘I know it should have been a sort of – what’s the word? – closure, but somehow it wasn’t. I still feel there are all sorts of loose ends.’
‘Well, you don’t have to tidy them up.’
‘No, I suppose not, but it’s irritating somehow.’
When I got home I decided to vacuum the sitting room and, as I was moving the furniture, I came across Bernard’s briefcase that I’d put down behind the table. I remembered I’d meant to see what research Bernard had made into Fred’s family, so I unplugged the Hoover, put it away, sat down at the table and opened the briefcase. After shuffling through a lot of stuff I finally found Fred’s family tree and saw that there were indeed some notes paperclipped to it. I read them and then looked carefully at the family tree and decided that there was something there that, although not really a motive for murder, was certainly worth considering. Certainly worth taking up Fred’s invitation to lunch.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fred suggested Wednesday for lunch so I was able to turn my white lie to Anthea into the truth. He’d suggested we should meet at a country house hotel on the outskirts of Bristol and as I drove through Henbury I was wondering how to introduce the subject I wanted to talk to him about. There seemed no immediately obvious way so I decided to leave it to chance and see how the conversation went.
It was a very pleasant place and Fred was obviously an old and valued customer because we were welcomed with enthusiasm and given the best table – by the window overlooking well-kept parkland that even at this time of the year looked very pleasant.
‘Shall I order for us both?’ Fred asked. ‘I’ve worked my way through the menus here many times and I think I know which are the chef’s special dishes.’
‘That will be lovely,’ I said.
When the waiter, who’d been hovering solicitously as we took our seats, had taken the order Fred continued, ‘So sorry Estelle couldn’t be here today, but she’s in Antibes opening up the apartment.’ He smiled at my questioning look. ‘I really can’t face an English winter any more and I certainly can’t face an English Christmas and New Year these days.’
‘What about Charlie?’ I asked. ‘Does he join you?’
‘Sometimes, but this year he’s in Los Angeles.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, he’s a theatrical agent now in partnership with his friend Geoffrey Bailey – they have quite a few well-known clients. Charlie’s in LA to fix up a movie deal for one of them.’ He mentioned a popular film actor even I had heard of.
‘Goodness, he has done well!’
‘Well, he’s got his head screwed on – he realised pretty soon that he was never going to make it as an actor, but he had all the contacts and – even if I say it myself – he’s inherited my business sense, so he’s done pretty well. It helped that Jessica has a lot of theatrical friends of course and he met most of them when he was living with her. Mothers do have their uses. Ah, here’s the terrine – I think you’ll enjoy this.’
It was certainly delicious and so was the exquisitely cooked turbot that followed it. All through the meal Fred kept up a flow of interesting conversation and anecdotes about well-known personalities that he seemed to be on friendly terms with. When the pudding arrived (‘There’s nothing quite like a perfect crème brulée, don’t you agree?’) he began to talk about my mother and father – stories of their younger days – and how much he admired them both.
‘I was much younger than them, of course,’ he said, ‘and really a boring young idiot in many ways, but they always treated me as an equal, in experience and intelligence. I watched you and Jeremy grow up and envied you your parents.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘My mother died when I was quite young so I was more or less left to nurses and housekeepers. I didn’t see much of my father. He was a wonderful man, but he was totally absorbed in the business and wasn’t home much. Then, of course, I was away at school – I enjoyed it really, I’ve always found it easy to make friends. But, of course, it wasn’t the same as family.’
‘Your father,’ I said tentatively, ‘he was very successful, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. My grandfather built the business up from nothing – engineering, you may remember – and both my father and his younger brother worked for him. But my uncle wasn’t that interested so, when their father died, my father bought him out and he went to New Zealand to keep sheep or some such thing.’
‘I never knew there was a brother,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember him from Berna
rd’s family tree.’
Fred pushed back his chair and regarded me quizzically. ‘Oh, you’ve seen that, have you?’
‘He did one for each branch of the family and, actually, when he died, Janet passed his notes and research things on to me.’
‘I see. So you’ve seen the notes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling rather embarrassed now that it had actually come to the point. ‘I looked through all the notes and things. For all the branches of the family,’ I added hastily.
Fred smiled. ‘So you discovered our particular skeleton?’ I hesitated and Fred continued. ‘Oh, come on, you can’t have missed it. My father being born out of wedlock, as they used to say. He was two years old when my grandparents married. Trust Bernard to dig that out!’
‘He seems,’ I said, ‘to have managed to find out something about every branch of the family that they’d have preferred to keep hidden.’
‘Not your branch?’
‘Well, no, as it happens, and not Hilda’s – you know what she’s like, she sent him away with a very sharp warning not to meddle – but practically everyone else.’
‘He really was a nasty little creep.’
‘Did it upset you,’ I asked, ‘finding out like that?’
Fred laughed. ‘Oh, we’d all known for ages, part of the family legend. It’s rather a touching story and quite unusual for that time. My grandmother’s father was a widower, a very eccentric man, and she was his only daughter. He was suffering from consumption and obviously hadn’t long to live. In those days daughters were expected to live at home and look after their invalid parents and my grandmother was very fond of him, but she was in her thirties when she met my father and not surprisingly they felt that time was going by – but her father wouldn’t agree to their marriage. Even though they promised to live with him and look after him he was adamant about it. I suppose he had a superstitious feeling that if there was an actual ceremony he couldn’t be sure that she’d stay. Stupid, really, but that’s the way he felt. The amazing thing was, he suggested that my grandfather should move into the house and live with my grandmother as if they were married.’
