The Silent Killer

by Hazel Holt

  “Right then, I’ll give you a ring and let you know when I can come.”

  I went back into the kitchen and began to take the remaining things out of the tumble drier. So much seemed to have happened since I’d begun this boring task that I felt could hardly take it all in. I stood for a while mechanically smoothing out a pillow case and then, pulling myself together, I folded the remaining garments and put them in the laundry basket. I really didn’t feel like starting the ironing, so instead I poured myself another cup of tea (now rather cold) from the pot I’d made for Brian and, sitting down at the table, finished off the biscuits.

  I was having dinner with Michael and Thea that evening and so I told them about Brian’s visit.

  “I know he sort of told me in confidence,” I said, “but I thought you ought to know. I mean it clarifies things about the will and so on, and, anyway, you won’t be telling anyone else.”

  “I simply can’t believe that Sidney could have done such things!” Thea said.

  “I know. It’s absolutely out of character for the Sidney we knew – or, thought we knew. But I’m really positive that everything Brian told me was the truth. You should have seen his face when he was telling me about his mother, it was heartbreaking.”

  “And having to make this decision about his girlfriend. It’s too cruel!”

  “Would there be enough money – from the will, I mean – to keep his mother in a good nursing home?” I asked Michael.

  “Oh yes, especially if he were to sell the cottage.”

  “Well, I think he ought to do it,” Thea said. “I like Brian and I think he deserves to be happy. I wonder what this Margaret is like?”

  “I think I’ve seen her,” I said, suddenly remembering the garden centre. “She looked nice.”

  “I still can’t get over Sidney,” Michael said. “What was he really like? He can’t have been all bad. I mean, everyone liked him.”

  “We liked what he seemed to be,” I said. “Perhaps it was all a sham. How does it go? ‘Whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones’.”

  Thea shuddered. “Don’t!” she said. “It’s too creepy.”

  “And what about David?” Michael said. “What did he make of Sidney?”

  “He was always chivvying his father into doing things,” I said. “He certainly seemed to be in charge. It’ll be a real surprise to him when he finds out about Sidney’s other family! It’s bound to come out because of the will. Have you spoken to him?”

  “We’ve only communicated by letter, but he will be coming into the office sometime next week.”

  “He did look awful at the funeral,” I said. “I suppose he knew about the will then. And he hasn’t asked you about the legacy and the cottage?”

  “Not yet. But he is perfectly capable of putting two and two together.”

  “Can he have known?” Thea said. “I mean, how can you live with someone all those years and not know what they’re like?”

  “Lots of people do,” I said. “You’re forever reading in the papers about someone having a second family tucked away somewhere and keeping it secret for years and years.”

  “Yes, I can accept that,” Thea said. “But if Sidney behaved in such a brutal way to Brian’s mother – and to him too, if you think about it – then how can he have been the sweet and gentle person we thought we knew. And did David know that?”

  “And what about Joan?” I asked. “After all, she was his wife and she was absolutely devoted to him. No, really, in spite of this business with Brian and his mother, I can’t believe he was all bad.”

  “Well,” Thea said, getting up, “if you’ve finished your drink, would you like to come up and say goodnight to your grand-daughter before we have supper?”

  As I exchanged loving greetings with the small pyjamaed figure bouncing up and down excitedly in her cot I reflected on the intense pleasures and the desperate tragedies of family life and thought, not for the first time, how lucky I am.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Foss must have been feeling exceptionally bored in the night because, when I went to let him out, I found he’d opened one of the drawers and hooked out most of the miscellaneous contents (rubber bands, freezer bag ties, rolls of sellotape, small fuses) and then batted a lot of them under the fridge, where he was sitting, regarding them suspiciously as if they might be trying to escape, while Tris’s air of smug innocence, when I remonstrated with his feline friend, made me wonder if he, too, might have been party to the deed. I was down on my hands and knees trying to retrieve the objects with a long-handled wooden spoon, when the telephone rang. Rather creakily I got to my feet and went and answered it.

  “Sheila, sorry to ring you so early.” It was Roger. “It’s just that I’ll be more or less passing your door about eleven o’clock and I wondered if I might call in and have a word.”

  “Yes, of course. Business or pleasure?”

  “A bit of both. Sorry, I have to go now. See you then.”

  I went slowly back into the kitchen. “I wonder if it’s to do with Sidney?” I said to Tris, but he was standing by the back door whining to be let out so I was left to speculate on my own.

  When Roger called I had the coffee ready and a plate of home made macaroons (one of Roger’s favourites) laid out in the sitting room.

  “Are you wearing your policeman’s hat?” I asked as I poured the coffee and pushed the sugar basin towards him.

  “Sort of – though this is entirely unofficial. I must say these macaroons are good. No I just wanted to have a little chat about Sidney Middleton. I only met him briefly once or twice, but I believe you were great friends.”

  “Not great friends exactly,” I said. “My parents knew him and he’s been part of my life forever, really.”

  Roger took another macaroon. “You know there’s been an enquiry into his death,” he said. “It isn’t certain that it was an accident.”

  “I was talking to Reg – Reg Burnaby, you know – who does all our chimneys,” I said, “and he certainly doesn’t think so. He’s absolutely positive that there was nothing blocking the chimney of that stove in Sidney’s kitchen.”

  “So I gather. We’ve had our own people checking it and there certainly seemed to be no sort of obstruction, which makes it strange that he should have died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Is that why the inquest was adjourned?”

  “It did seem that we should make further enquiries.”

  “And have you heard what Reg said about the inspection plate?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. I gather from him that it was you who saw the soot round the plate and told him about it.”

  “And you checked it?”

  “Sergeant Lister went round and had a look.”

  “So? “

  “From what your friend Reg says – and he’s an expert in such matters – the removal of the plate would certainly explain the presence of carbon monoxide even though the chimney itself was clear.”

  “And?”

  “And, since it would have been possible for someone to have tampered with the plate from the outside, then we must consider if this death was an accident.”

  “Murder?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, that’s certainly what Reg thinks.”

  “The only thing is,” Roger said, “that there seems to be no possible motive for anyone to kill him. From what I’ve gathered Sidney Middleton was universally liked and respected, hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

  “Mm.” I thought for a moment, then I said, “Actually, that may not be the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s beginning to look as if Sidney wasn’t quite the sort of person we all thought he was.”

  “In what way?”

  “It seems he behaved very badly towards a couple of people – I can’t give you the details because I was told in confidence. But
the fact is he did some pretty awful things in the past.”

  “Awful enough for someone to want to kill him?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t believe he – this person – would kill anyone.”

  “Sheila, you do realise that, confidence or not, if this does turn out to be a murder enquiry, you must tell me what you know.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Roger absently took another macaroon. “You know it’s all very peculiar. Such an odd way to kill anyone.”

  “Clever, though,” I said. “It could so easily have been taken to be an accident. I mean, if Reg hadn’t had that stove to pieces so recently and swept the chimney, and if I hadn’t seen that soot and Reg hadn’t put two and two together”

  “Yes, well.” Roger finished his coffee and brushed a few macaroon crumbs from the front of his jacket. “I must be getting on. Thanks for the information and for the splendid refreshments. I’ll let you know how things are going and please keep me up to date on anything else you may uncover!”

  As I washed up the coffee cups and emptied the percolator I was brooding about Sidney and what he was really like, and it occurred to me that there was only one thing to do. I must go and see Rosemary’s mother, Mrs Dudley, who knew all about everybody, from way back, and never hesitated to speak her mind or give her opinion (however unwelcome) on any subject or any character. Since one never “dropped in” on Mrs Dudley I needed an excuse and one came to hand almost immediately in the shape of Lorna Shepherd.

  “Sheila, could you help me out?” An agitated voice on the phone. “I’m supposed to be delivering the parish magazines and I suddenly realised I’ve got to go to Taunton today – something I really can’t get out of – so I was wondering if you could possibly… Oh, that’s so kind. I’ll drop them off in about half an hour, if that’s all right.”

  Before I went out to deliver the magazines I telephoned Mrs Dudley. As I had hoped, I got Elsie, still referred to by Mrs Dudley as ‘my maid’ and by everyone else as ‘her slave’.

  “Elsie,” I said, “I’m delivering the parish magazines this afternoon and I wondered if Mrs Dudley would be up to having a little chat when I bring hers.”

  Elsie came back to the phone with her instructions. “Mrs Dudley says she’ll be having her rest after lunch but she’ll be pleased to see you at four o’clock for tea.”

  It was nearly five past four (delivering parish magazines usually means a great deal of chat on the doorstep) when I arrived and, as I entered the sitting room, Mrs Dudley glanced pointedly at the clock but didn’t comment on my lateness.

  “Do come in Sheila, and sit by the fire, the weather is very seasonable.”

  In addition to the central heating there was a log fire burning in the grate (“I do like to see a proper fire”), but, fortunately I knew of old how overheated the room would be so I’d dressed accordingly. Mrs Dudley, elegant as always and with her hair carefully arranged, stretched out a thin hand and waved me to a chair beside her. She was getting rather deaf now, but refused to admit it (“Absolute nonsense. I can hear perfectly well when people don’t mumble – in my day we were taught to speak properly”) so she now preferred one to one conversations with her interlocutor close at hand.

  “It’s very good to see you,” she said. “I know how busy all you young people are. I hardly ever see or hear from Rosemary these days, she’s always busy, off on some ploy or other.”

  This was a black lie since I knew for a fact that Rosemary visited her mother frequently and spoke to her on the telephone every single day. Mrs Dudley was perfectly aware that I knew this, but we both politely ignored the fact in the interest of promoting Mrs Dudley’s view of herself, something that we had been doing for as long as I could remember.

  I put the parish magazine down on the little side table beside her.

  “Why are you delivering the magazines?” she asked sharply. “Lorna Shepherd always does that, and they’re usually several days late. So inefficient.”

  “She had to go to Taunton today.”

  “Oh really. What for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mrs Dudley was obviously disappointed in me as a source of information but she said graciously, “Well, it’s good to see you. We can have tea now.”

  She rang the small handbell at her side and Elsie wheeled in the tea-trolley. In addition to the usual array of cakes (all made by Elsie, of course) there was a plate of tiny triangular tomato sandwiches that I knew from experience would not be flaccid and soggy as my tomato sandwiches always are, but of a perfect texture, the bread, butter and tomato all combining in the kind of perfection that only a real culinary artist can achieve. After I had poured the tea from the heavy silver tea pot and passed various plates of comestibles to Mrs Dudley, who, I was glad to see, still retained her excellent appetite, she said, “Do sit down Sheila – it’s most unrestful to see you bobbing up and down like that!”

  She took another sandwich and launched into a detailed description of her latest battle with her doctor which I listened to on autopilot, as it were (since it was an old battle re-fought many times over) while I enjoyed my delicious tea. I was jerked into attention however when I heard her say, “…and, of course, it was Dr Macdonald who was called to Sidney Middleton, though naturally it was too late for him to do anything there.”

  “That was very sad,” I said.

  “A very peculiar way to go,” Mrs Dudley said disapprovingly. “Those old stoves are very unreliable. I always say it’s false economy not to replace things when they are worn out.”

  “I believe the stove was perfectly all right. Reg Burnaby serviced it quite recently and swept the chimney.”

  “Oh well, if Reg said so it must have been.” Reg was one of Mrs Dudley’s retinue of ‘little men’ who did things for her and so could do no wrong. “In that case I really don’t see how it could have happened.”

  I told her about the inspection plate and what Reg had said.

  “You mean it wasn’t an accident? That he was killed deliberately?” she asked quickly.

  “It seems possible.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” she said. “Sheila dear, will you very kindly cut me a small piece of coffee cake – I said small, dear, not minute. Thank you.”

  “But everyone was so fond of Sidney,” I said. “He was very popular.”

  Mrs Dudley considered this remark while cutting her fair sized piece of cake into small portions. “Oh no, Sheila, not what I would call popular. I never liked the man myself.”

  To those of us who knew her, this meant that, at some point, the person ‘not liked’ had disagreed with her about something, many years ago perhaps, but Mrs Dudley rarely forgave what she took to be a slight and certainly never forgot one. There was quite a list of people who had been cast into the outer darkness in this way, but I hadn’t known that Sidney Middleton had been on it.

  “Really?”

  “Oh no. He may have charmed a lot of people but I saw him for what he really was.”

  “And what was that?” I asked.

  “Oh, selfish. Selfish to the core.”

  “But he always seemed to me to be doing what David wanted. We always thought he was the selfish one.”

  Mrs Dudley gave what in anyone else would have been a snort. “Nonsense,” she said. “That is what he wanted everyone to believe, but he never really did anything he didn’t want to do. And as for that poor wife of his…”

  “Oh, surely! They were devoted!”

  “She was devoted to him, certainly.”

  “But they were childhood sweethearts,” I said.

  “They wouldn’t have been if her father hadn’t been one of the richest men in Taviscombe.”

  “You mean he married her for her money?”

  “And stayed married to her because her father had the sense to tie the money up in a Trust so that he couldn’t get at the capital.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “All that business about Ruby Weddings, a
party and all that silly fuss – absolutely ridiculous! She would never admit that anything was wrong, of course, but then she was a poor little creature, no idea of standing up for herself. But he always had a roving eye, not, I am sure, that she would ever bring herself to believe it.”

  “I never had any idea!”

  “Oh, they kept up a facade, right enough, but I knew the sort of thing that was going on.”

  “Really?”

  “Little Mavis Freeman – do you remember her? Her mother used to do some dressmaking for me – she had her head turned by him. This was years ago. Poor Mrs Freeman came to me in great distress, because she couldn’t get Mavis to see sense. She was afraid the girl might get pregnant and then what would become of her? Of course that was when he’d moved away from Taviscombe and was living in London. Goodness knows what he got up to there!” Mrs Dudley always had the gravest doubts about what went on in London since it was outside her jurisdiction. “He used to come down quite often – he said to see his mother – a thoroughly disagreeable woman, very high opinion of herself, lived in that house on West Hill with the monkey puzzle tree in the garden. But I’ve no doubt he was down here for quite another reason. And Mavis Freeman wasn’t the only one, not by a long chalk.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “I just can’t imagine how we could all have been so wrong about him,” I said.

  Mrs Dudley gave a grim little smile. “Men,” she said, “if they’ve got that sort of superficial charm, they can get away with anything.” Mrs Dudley had an even lower opinion of men than she had of women. There were a favoured few, like my husband Peter and (probably because of him) Michael, but they were the rare exceptions. Her husband, Rosemary’s father, was in a different category, since she had chosen to marry him and that automatically gave him the status of a consort. Besides, he had died tragically in a motor accident when Rosemary was quite young.

  “I suppose so. But,” I said, “what about David? Surely he must have known what his father was like.”

  “They sent him away to school when he was seven and then he was at University, and I’ve no doubt his father kept up appearances when he was at home.”