by Ruth Rendell
Acclaim for
Ruth Rendell
“The best mystery writer anywhere in the English-speaking world.”
—The Boston Globe
“Ruth Rendell is, unequivocally, the most brilliant mystery novelist of our time. Her stories are a lesson in a human nature as capable of the most exotic love as it is of the cruelest murder. She does not avert her gaze and magnificently triumphs in a style that is uniquely hers and mesmerizing.”
—Patricia Cornwell
“It’s no use trying to read Ruth Rendell’s mind. You can follow her logic, analyze her insights and puzzle out her plots. But she’ll always astonish you … with the emotional depth of her psychological mysteries.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“No one writes with more devastating accuracy about the world we live in and commit sin in today…. She is one of our most important novelists.”
—John Mortimer
“Rendell’s clear, shapely prose casts the mesmerizing spell of the confessional.”
—The New Yorker
“If there were a craft guild for writers, I’d apprentice myself to Ruth Rendell.”
—Sue Grafton
“The appeal of a Rendell novel is in the details and the human observations…. With an unerring sense of how to build a mystery, Rendell proves that time has done no harm to her reputation as one of the leading writers of modern crime fiction.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Rendell may favor the darker side of life, but she is a virtuoso of composition…. Her prose is tantalizing.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Ruth Rendell is surely one of the greatest novelists presently at work in our language. She is a writer whose work should be read by anyone who enjoys either brilliant mystery—or distinguished literature.”
—Scott Turow
“Rendell’s vision of human behavior is intensely moral and often uncompromising. In an age of victimhood, this is as bracing as it is courageous.”
—Sunday Times (London)
“[Rendell] is a master at making the small English village into a metaphor for the world, understanding [its] workings … and how it relates to the violence surrounding us.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“Rendell’s expert plotting will keep you up late turning the pages.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“One of the best concoctors of plots since the early Agatha Christie.”
—Daily Telegraph (London)
Ruth Rendell
One Across, Two Down
Ruth Rendell is the recipient of three Edgar Awards, four Gold Daggers, the Commander of the British Empire Award, and the most prestigious Edgar of them all, the Grand Master Award. She lives in London.
ALSO BY RUTH RENDELL
AVAILABLE IN VINTAGE CRIME / BLACK LIZARD
A Demon in My View
The Fallen Curtain
Harm Done
A Judgement in Stone
The Lake of Darkness
Murder Being Once Done
No More Dying Then
Shake Hands Forever
A Sleeping Life
Some Lie and Some Die
For my son
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, sight, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
I
Blank Puzzle
1
Vera Manning was very tired. She was too tired even to answer her mother back when Maud told her to hurry up with getting the tea.
“There’s no need to sulk,” said Maud.
“I’m not sulking, Mother. I’m tired.”
“Of course you are. That goes without saying. Anyone can see you’re worn out with that job of yours. Now if Stanley had the gumption to get himself a good position and brought a decent wage home you wouldn’t have to work. I never heard of such a thing, a woman of your age, coming up to the change, on her feet all day in a dry-cleaner’s. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if Stanley was a man at all …”
“All right, Mother,” said Vera. “Let’s give it a rest, shall we?”
But Maud, who scarcely ever stopped talking when there was anyone to listen to her and who talked to herself when she was alone, got out of her chair and, taking her stick, limped after Vera into the kitchen. Perching herself with some difficulty—she was a large heavily-built woman—on a stool, she surveyed the room with a distaste which was partly sincere and partly assumed for her daughter’s benefit. It was clean but shabby, unchanged since the days when people expected to see a ganglion of water pipes protruding all over the walls and a dresser and built-in plaster copper requisite fitments. Presently, when the scornful glance had set the scene for fresh propaganda, Maud drew a deep breath and began again.
“I’ve scraped and saved all my life just so that there’d be something for you when I’m gone. D’you know what Ethel Carpenter said to me? Maud, she said, why don’t you give it to Vee while she’s young enough to enjoy it?”
Her back to Maud, Vera was cutting meat pie in slices and shelling hard-boiled eggs. “It’s a funny thing, Mother,” she said, “the way I’m an old woman one minute and a young one the next, whichever happens to suit your book.”
Maud ignored this. “Why don’t you give it to Vee now, she said. Oh no, I said. Oh no, it wouldn’t be giving it to her, I said, it’d be giving it to that no-good husband of hers. If he got his hands on my money, I said, he’d never do another hand’s turn as long as he lived.”
“Move over a bit, would you, Mother? I can’t get at the kettle.”
Shifting an inch or two, Maud patted her thick grey curls with a lady’s idle white hand. “No,” she said, “while I’ve got breath in my body my savings are staying where they are, invested in good stock. That way maybe Stanley’ll come to his senses. When you have a nervous breakdown, and that’s the way you’re heading, my girl, maybe he’ll pull his socks up and get a job fit for a man, not a teenager. That’s the way I see it and that’s what I said to Ethel in my last letter.”
“Would you like to sit up now, Mother? It’s ready.”
Vera helped her mother into a chair at the dining room table and hooked her stick over the back of it. Maud tucked a napkin into the neckline of her blue silk dress and helped herself to a plateful of pork pie, eggs, green salad and mashed potato. Before starting on it, she swallowed two white tablets and washed them down with strong sweet tea. Then she lifted her knife and fork with a sigh of sensual pleasure. Maud enjoyed her food. The only time she was silent was when she was eating or asleep. As she was starting on her second piece of pie, the back door slammed and her son-in-law came in.
Stanley Manning nodded to his wife and gave a sort of grunt. His mother-in-law, who had temporarily stopped eating to fix him with a cold condemning eye, he ignored. The first thing he did after throwing his coat over the back of a chair was to turn on the television.
“Had a good day?” said Vera.
“Been up to my eyes in it since nine this morning.” Stanley sat down, facing the television, and waited for Vera to pour him a cup of tea. “I’m whacked out, I can tell you. It’s no joke being out in the open all day long in weather like this. To tell you the truth, I don’t know how long I can keep on with it.”
Maud sniffed. “Ethel Carpenter didn’t believe me when I told her what you did for a living, if you can call it a living. A petrol pump attendant! She said that’s what her landlady’s son does in his holidays from college. Eighteen he is, just a student doing it for pin money.”
“Ethel Carpenter can keep her nose out of my business, the old bag.�
�
“Don’t you use language like that about my friend!”
“Oh, pack it up, do,” said Vera. “I thought you were going to watch the film.”
If Stanley and Maud were in accord over one thing it was their fondness for old films and now, having exchanged venomous glances, they settled down among the tea things to watch Jeanette MacDonald in The Girl of the Golden West. Vera, a little revived with two hot cups of tea, sighed thankfully and began clearing the table. Altercation would break out again, she knew, at eight o’clock when Stanley’s favourite quiz programme conflicted with Maud’s favourite serial. She dreaded Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Of course it was only natural that Stanley, with his passion for puzzles, should want to watch the quizzes that took place on those nights, and natural too that Maud, in common with five million other middle-aged and elderly women, should long for the next development in the complicated lives of the residents of “Augusta Alley.” But why couldn’t they come to an amicable arrangement like reasonable people? Because they weren’t reasonable people, she thought, as she began the washing up. For her part, she couldn’t care less about the television and sometimes she hoped the cathode ray tube would break or a valve go or something. Certainly the way things were, they wouldn’t be able to afford to get it seen to.
Jeanette MacDonald was singing “Ave Maria” when she got back into the living room and Maud was accompanying her in a sentimental cracked soprano. Vera prayed for the song to end before Stanley did something violent like bringing Maud’s stick down on the table with a thunderous crash, as he had done only the week before. But this time he contented himself with low mutterings and Vera leant her head against a cushion and closed her eyes.
Four years Mother’s been here, she thought, four long years of unbroken hell. Why had she been so stupid and so impulsive as to agree to it in the first place? It wasn’t as if Maud was ill or even really disabled. She’d made a marvellous recovery from that stroke. There was nothing wrong with her but for a weakness in the left leg and a little quirk to her mouth. She was as capable of looking after herself as any woman of seventy-four. But it was no good harking back now. The thing was done, Maud’s house sold and all her furniture, and she and Stanley had got her till the day she died.
Maud’s petulant angry wail started her out of her half-doze and made her sit up with a jerk.
“What are you turning over to I.T.V. for? I’ve been looking forward to my ‘Augusta Alley’ all day. We don’t want that kids’ stuff, a lot of schoolkids answering silly questions.”
“Who pays the licence, I’d like to know?” said Stanley.
“I pay my share. Every week I turn my pension over to Vee. Ten shillings is the most I ever keep for my bits and pieces.”
Stanley made no reply. He moved his chair closer to the set and got out pencil and paper.
“All day long I was looking forward to my serial,” said Maud.
“Never mind, Mother,” said Vera, trying to infuse a little cheerfulness into her tired voice. “Why don’t you watch ‘Oak Valley Farm’ in the afternoons when we’re at work? That’s a nice serial, all about country people.”
“I have my sleep in the afternoons, that’s why not. I’m not upsetting my routine.”
Maud lapsed into a moody silence, but if she wasn’t to be allowed to watch her programme she had no intention of allowing Stanley uninterrupted enjoyment of his. After about five minutes, during which Stanley scribbled excitedly on his pad, she began tapping her stick rhythmically against the fender. It sounded as if she was trying to work out the timing of a hymn tune. “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind,” Vera thought it was, and presently Maud confirmed this by humming the melody very softly.
Stanley stood it for about thirty seconds and then he said, “Shut up, will you?”
Maud gave a lugubrious sigh. “They played that hymn at your grandfather’s funeral, Vera.”
“I don’t care if they played it at Queen Victoria’s bloody wedding,” said Stanley. “We don’t want to hear it now, so do as I say and shut up. There, now you’ve made me miss the score.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” said Maud with heavy sarcasm. “I know you don’t want me here, Stanley, you’ve made that very plain. You’d do anything to get rid of me, wouldn’t you? Grease the stairs or give me an overdose?”
“Maybe I would at that. There’s many a true word spoken in jest.”
“You hear what he says, Vera? You heard him say it.”
“He doesn’t mean it, Mother.”
“Just because I’m old and helpless and sometimes I hark back to the old days when I was happy.”
Stanley leapt to his feet and the pencil bounced on to the floor.
“Will you shut up or do I have to make you?”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, Stanley Manning!” Maud, satisfied that she had ruined Stanley’s quiz, rose and, turning to Vera with great dignity, said in the voice of one mortally wounded, “I shall go to bed now, Vera, and leave you and your husband in peace. Perhaps it wouldn’t be expecting too much if I was to ask you to make me my Horlick’s and bring it up when I’m in bed?”
“Of course I will, Mother. I always do.”
“There’s no need to say ‘always’ like that. I’d rather go without than have it done in a grudging spirit.”
Maud wandered round the room, picking up her knitting from one chair, her glasses from another, her book from the sideboard. She could have got all these things by walking behind Stanley, but she didn’t. She walked between him and the television set.
“Mustn’t forget my glass of water,” she said, and added as if she was boasting of some highly laudable principle, as salutary to the body as it was demanding of strength of character. “I’ve slept with a glass of water beside my bed ever since I was a little mite. Never missed once. I couldn’t sleep without my glass of water.”
She fetched it herself, leaving a little trail of drips from the overfull glass behind her. They heard her stick tapping against the treads as she mounted the stairs.
Stanley switched off the television and, without a word to his wife, opened the Second Bumper Book of Advanced Crosswords. Like an overworked animal, worn out with repetitive tedious labour, her mind empty of everything but the desire for sleep, Vera stared at him in silence. Then she went into the kitchen, made the Horlick’s and carried it upstairs.
Sixty-one, Lanchester Road, Croughton, in the northern suburbs of London, was a two-storied red brick house, at the end of a terrace, and built in 1906. There was a large back garden, and between the living room bay and the front fence a strip of grass five feet by fifteen.
The hall was a passage with a mosaic floor of red and white tiles, and downstairs there were two living rooms and a tiny kitchen, as well as an outside lavatory and a cupboard for coal. The stairs ran straight up without a bend to a landing from which opened four doors, one to the bathroom and three to the bedrooms. The smallest of these was big enough to accommodate only a single bed, dressing table and curtained-off area for clothes. Vera called it the spare room.
She and Stanley shared the large double bedroom at the front of the house and Maud slept in the back. She was sitting up in bed, the picture of health in her hand-knitted angora bedjacket. But for the thirty or so metal curlers clipped into her hair, she might well have entered for and won a glamorous grandmother contest.
Perhaps the bottles and jars of patent and prescribed medicaments on the bedside table had something to do with the preservation, indeed the rejuvenation, of her mother, Vera thought, as she handed Maud the mug of Horlick’s. There were enough of them. Anti-coagulants, diuretics, tranquillizers, sleep inducers and vitamin concentrates.
“Thank you, dear. My electric blanket won’t come on. It needs servicing.”
Turning away from her draggled and exhausted reflection in Maud’s dressing table mirror, Vera said she would see to it tomorrow.
“That’s right, and while you do you can ask them to look at m
y radio. And get me another ounce of this pink wool, will you?” Maud sipped her Horlick’s. “Sit down, Vee. I want to talk to you where he can’t hear.”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow, Mother?”
“No, it can’t. Tomorrow might be too late. Did you hear what he said to me about doing me in if he had the chance?”
“Oh Mother, you don’t really think he meant it?”
Maud said calmly, “Stanley hates me. Not that it isn’t mutual. Now you listen to what I’ve got to say.”
Vera knew what was coming. She heard it with slight variations once or twice a week. “I’m not leaving Stan, and that’s that. I’ve told you over and over again. I’m not leaving him.”
Maud finished her Horlick’s and said in a cajoling tone, “Just think what a life we could have together, Vee, you and me. I’ve got money enough for both of us. I’m telling you in confidence, I’m a wealthy woman by anyone’s standards. You wouldn’t have to go to work, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. We’d have a nice new house. I saw in the paper they’re building some lovely bungalows out Chigwell way. I could buy one of them bungalows outright.”
“If you want to give me some of your money, Mother, you can give it to me. I shan’t argue. God knows, there’s plenty we need in this house.”
“Stanley Manning isn’t getting a penny of my money,” said Maud. She took her teeth out and placed them in a glass; then she gave Vera a gummy wheedling smile. “You’re all I’ve got, Vee. What’s mine is yours, you know that. You don’t want to share it with him. What’s he ever done for you? He’s a crook and a jailbird.”
Vera controlled herself with difficulty.
“Stanley has been to prison once and once only, Mother, as you very well know. And that was when he was eighteen. It’s downright cruel calling him a jailbird.”
