Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder

by Hazel Holt

  ‘Goodness, no, I’d never be able to think of a plot.’

  Roger rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

  I went over to the sideboard and took a bar of chocolate from a dish.

  ‘Put that in your pocket,’ I said, ‘in case you don’t get any lunch either.’

  ‘Now I know why Michael always looks so well fed,’ he said, smiling at me.

  ‘Well fed, or fed up? I do rather go on about proper meals and things.’

  ‘It’s always nice to know that people care,’ he said. ‘I shall be just the same about Delia!’

  When Roger had gone I realized that I felt much better, as if, in talking to him, I had been able to purge my mind of the horror and retain only an intellectual interest. I suppose it wouldn’t have been possible if I had actually liked Adrian, but since no emotions were involved, I would have been less than honest if I denied that I found the mystery intriguing.

  I suddenly felt full of energy and went upstairs to change my bed. As I was engaged in my usual Laocoan struggle, trying to change the duvet, the telephone rang. It was Will to see how I was.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, ‘back to normal. Ashamed of making a fuss. Think of poor Enid. I must ring her at Geraldine’s’

  ‘I rang this morning. She had a good night, I gather, but she’s still very shaken (those are Geraldine’s words not mine) so she’s staying there for a bit. Have the police been to see you?’

  ‘Yes, Roger’s only just left.’

  ‘Of course, I forgot, he’s practically a relation, so his visit won’t have left you frail and exhausted.’

  ‘He’s very thorough and highly intelligent,’ I said reprovingly. ‘If anyone can get to the bottom of this awful business he can.’

  ‘Have the police got anywhere yet, do you think?’

  ‘It’s early days,’ I said cautiously, not knowing how much of what Roger had told me was confidential. ‘And there were so many people milling about before the concert, which, I suppose, is when Adrian was killed. Though, come to think of it, it could have been during...’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Will said briskly. ‘Surely he was killed by someone who knew him quite well. It wasn’t casual robbery, and an itinerant homicidal maniac seems unlikely. And we were all in the Hall listening to those lovely madrigals.’

  ‘And all through that beautiful music Adrian was lying there, like that.’

  ‘Stop it, Sheila!’ Will said sharply. That’s self-indulgent and you know it!’

  I laughed shakily. ‘Yes, Will.’

  To change the subject I said, ‘How is the final draft of the play?’

  ‘Finished and with the producer. Actually, that’s why I’m ringing now. I’ve got to go up to town and wrestle with him about one or two changes he wants me to make, and I wanted to see how you were before I went. Also – are you going to be up there yourself in the next few days? Because I rather want to see the new Bennett play and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see it with than you.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do want to see that. I can certainly arrange to do a little quiet research in the British Library this week. It’s very handy having Michael at home just now, I can go off at a moment’s notice and not worry about leaving the animals.’

  ‘Having left Michael enough food to see him through a long drawn-out siege, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed. ‘So, yes, please. Leave a message for me at my club about which evening. I’ll really look forward to it.’

  I went back to my bed-making in a more cheerful frame of mind. Then, finding Foss had got inside the duvet cover and was curled up fast asleep, I abandoned the whole project for the time being and went downstairs to make a chocolate mousse for Michael’s supper.

  Chapter Six

  Enid phoned the next day, brisk and apparently her old self.

  ‘I’ll be staying on here with Geraldine for a little while longer,’ she said. ‘I feel I need the time to re-evaluate my life.’

  There didn’t seem to be an answer to that so I made general murmuring noises and Enid continued, ‘I’ve been in touch with Adrian’s publishers and I have arranged to take over his work on Laurence Meredith – the collected letters and the biography. I’m sure that is what Adrian would have wished and I feel I must put aside my own work until what he had started is completed.’

  I was absolutely stunned by Enid’s pronouncement – after all there is quite a difference between doing a major literary biography and collecting recipes (though in some cases, I must admit, one would rather read the recipes than the biography).

  ‘Had Adrian done much work on the Meredith papers?’ I asked.

  ‘A certain amount, but of course there will be a great deal still to do.’

  ‘There will be a lot of research...’ I ventured.

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied sharply, ‘though naturally I am used to research. When I was writing Lampreys and Lovage I spent many long hours in the County Archive.’

  ‘Yes, of course; I replied humbly, overwhelmed as I always was by Enid’s peremptory manner.

  ‘It is possible,’ Enid continued, ‘that there may be certain technical matters about which I will need to consult you – that is why I am telephoning – but I am sure there will be no difficulty.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, ‘I’m sure there won’t be.’

  ‘If you were to come round here tomorrow I could put you more fully in the picture.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Enid,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid I have to go to London tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it important? Can’t you put it off? I am very anxious to get started and I need your help in drawing up a schema for the work.’

  ‘No,’ I replied firmly, ‘I have several appointments that I must keep. I’ll only be gone a few days. I’ll ring you when I’m back.’

  ‘Very well,’ she replied grudgingly, ‘I suppose that will have to do.’

  After a little more conversation along these lines she rang off and I stood with the telephone receiver still in my hand fuming.

  ‘Well, really’ I exclaimed to Foss, who had wandered into the room on the off chance that I might be going to open a tin of something. ‘That woman!’

  Foss regarded me enquiringly, wailed sympathetically, and sprang up on to the telephone table. I slammed the receiver down and he looked at me reproachfully.

  ‘I mean,’ I continued, ‘I’m sorry about Adrian and all that but she really is the utter limit!’

  Rosemary echoed my sentiments when I saw her in the supermarket later that day.

  ‘You mean she had the absolute gall to expect you to help her write this book.’

  ‘Not help, dear,’ I said, ‘nothing as grand as that! I imagine she sees me as a sort of dogsbody, permanently on call!’

  ‘Anyway, whatever makes her think she can do a real book?’ Rosemary demanded. ‘She doesn’t even write proper cookery books, I mean, like Elizabeth David or Jane Grigson, with actual writing not just recipes. And, really, some of her recipes are a bit much. I tried the one for beef in old ale. I used one of the bottles of that special beer that Jack says is so marvellous – he wasn’t at all pleased when he found out! – I followed the recipe religiously and it tasted like a piece of old blanket in brown gravy!’

  ‘Was that an Elizabethan one? They really are quite disgusting, and some of the eighteenth century ones are almost as bad. I can’t imagine how life went on, since if Enid’s recipes are anything to go by, everyone must have suffered from terminal indigestion! No, I’m not just being bitchy, but I honestly don’t think Enid’s capable of writing the Laurence Meredith book and I must say I dread having anything to do with it.’

  ‘How did she persuade Adrian’s publishers to let her do it?’

  ‘I expect she just said that she was going to, and given the awful way Adrian died and all that, I suppose it would have been a bit difficult to say no to her. Anyway, they probably think they can give it to one of their editors to tidy up. It’s a pity –
I couldn’t stand Adrian as a person, or even as a poet, but he was a pretty good biographer and he’d have made a splendid job of it.’

  ‘You ought to be writing it.’

  Rosemary is a very loyal friend.

  ‘Bless you, it’s not my period, though I certainly would like to have a look at the papers. Meredith was a fascinating man and he knew absolutely everyone in the thirties. But, knowing Enid, I doubt if I’ll be allowed a glimpse! Never mind, I’m off to London for a few days tomorrow. A bit of research in the British Library and dinner and a theatre with Will.’

  Rosemary bent down and rearranged the tins of dog-food in her shopping trolley.

  ‘I often wonder about you and Will,’ she said tentatively. ‘You have such a lot in common and you seem to enjoy each other’s company

  ‘And that’s really it,’ I said. ‘Nothing more. Just good friends, as they say. Well, perhaps, just a little more – what is it the French call it? A sentimental friendship? Very fond ... but we’ve each made our own lives since we’ve been on our own.’

  ‘Michael won’t be with you for ever,’ Rosemary said, ‘and you might be very lonely.’

  I gave a little laugh.

  ‘No one can be lonely with a houseful of animals, as you very well know. Anyway,’ I changed the subject, ‘is there anything I can get you in London?’

  She was instantly diverted.

  ‘Oh yes, if you would be an angel and see if you can get me that skirt in size sixteen. You know, the pleated one I got from the Taunton M & S that was too small, they hadn’t got the larger size. But you might be able to get it in the Oxford Street one.’

  A loaded trolley inexpertly guided by two small children clashed into mine and we moved into a more peaceful area behind a piled-up pyramid of special-offer tins of fruit salad.

  ‘Is Enid still staying with Geraldine?’ Rosemary asked.

  ‘Yes, for a bit,’ I replied. ‘In spite of her business-as-usual manner, I think she’s still very shaky, not surprisingly!’

  ‘Goodness, no. Who on earth could have killed Adrian? I mean, he was a bit of a pain and not a very nice person, but to kill him!’

  ‘I know. I’ve been going over that evening in my mind, you know, thinking about where everyone was...’

  ‘You mean, you think it was one of the committee?’

  ‘Roger seems to think so,’ I said evasively.

  ‘I suppose so – though there were so many people milling about at the concert. If Adrian had an enemy, someone in the BBC, or something,’ she said vaguely, ‘it would have been quite easy for them to mingle and then slip away afterwards.’

  ‘In theory. But think about it, a stranger wouldn’t have known about the old dairy. It’s a bit out of the way if you don’t know the house. Adrian must have gone along there with the murderer or met him there by appointment. We – that’s the committee – all know our way round Kinsford pretty well.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Rosemary said slowly, ‘but it’s a pretty horrifying thought,’ She gave me a grin. ‘Of course, it might have been Enid, panting to get her hands on a proper literary effort!’

  ‘You mustn’t say such things.’ I laughed. ‘Poor soul, she must be dreadfully upset.’

  ‘Only because she’s not the wife of an Important Literary Figure any more.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I’m sure she loved him in her own way. She was very possessive. You know how fierce she always looked if she thought anyone was monopolizing him at parties and things. She was always at his elbow.’

  ‘Well, he did stray a bit, and he had a pretty roving eye. He tried to chat up Jilly once, but fortunately she thought he was practically antediluvian and was in shrieks of laughter when she told me about it.’

  ‘Goodness! I never knew that!’

  ‘I never let Jack know – he would have wanted to give him a good hiding.’ She broke off suddenly.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘perhaps that was it. Maybe he did stray on to someone else’s territory, as it were, and the jealous husband ... well, he might not have intended to kill him, things might have got out of hand.’

  ‘I wonder who it could have been?’ Rosemary said thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s only a vague possibility,’ I said hastily. ‘We don’t really know anything.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Still ... Goodness,’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look at the time and Jack said he’d be home for lunch today. Oh well, it’ll have to be tuna salad again.’ She reached up and took a tin from an adjacent shelf. ‘Must dash. Let me know if you have any ideas about who it might have been. Oh, and have a lovely time in London with Will.’

  I opened my mouth to say that I wasn’t actually going to London with Will, but she had gone. My friend Rosemary is an incurable romantic.

  As I was carefully folding my clothes and packing them in a suitcase I thought about the possibility of Adrian’s having been killed by a jealous husband or lover. There didn’t seem to be a suitable candidate among the committee members, most of whom were women anyway. As far as I knew. Robin didn’t have any sort of girlfriend, Father Freddy was too old and, in any case, known to be celibate. And Will. Will was a widower.

  ‘So that’s no good, Tris,’ I said to the small white figure who was watching my packing activities with a reproachful gaze. The dogs always come and sit looking miserable as soon as a suitcase is brought out of the cupboard on the landing, trying to make me feel guilty. Which I do. Every time. Tris made a small whining noise which I chose to interpret as encouragement.

  ‘Hang on, though, what about Oliver? Not committee, certainly, but he knew Adrian better than most of us and he’d been to Kinsford enough times to know his way around. Yes, come to think of it, Eleanor took us all round to show us the kitchen courtyard and the outbuildings when we were doing that pageant thing that Oliver helped with. They stored the props in the old dairy. It might have been Oliver – I bet Sally would have given Adrian quite a bit of encouragement, since he was fairly famous. She’s such a little bird-brain, she’d have been flattered if someone she thought of as intellectual fancied her. She’d have buttered him up and told him how marvellous he was, I’m sure. And I suppose she’s still quite pretty in a way – if you like that sort of thing.’

  Tris gave a loud sneeze and rubbed his nose with his paw and I gave my mind to the matter in hand and got on with my packing.

  I had a lovely time in London. I did some good, solid work in the British Library, which is something I always enjoy, and my theatre trip with Will was splendid. The play was marvellous – so much so, in fact, that Will was moved to exclaim ‘Oh yes! Perfect!’ quite loudly at the beginning of the second act and was vigorously shushed by the people in front. We had supper at the Savoy afterwards (Will said that he’d won the battle with his producer and we ought to celebrate), something that doesn’t happen to me very often.

  In the taxi going to Paddington, though, I realized that I had done it again. I’m always early for everything, not just punctual, but very early indeed. It is something that I have passed on to Michael, something, he maintains, that has shortened his life.

  ‘The time I spend waiting about, Ma,’ he says, ‘I could have not just read War and Peace – I could have written it!’

  I am particularly early for trains and this time I realized that once again I had arrived in time to catch the train before the one I’d reserved a seat on. Naturally frugal, I didn’t like to think of having wasted a booking fee, but on the other hand Paddington (which now has a new roof, but still nowhere to sit down) is not the ideal place to pass a whole hour. The train was about to depart and, making what I felt at the time was probably the wrong decision, I leapt on board.

  As always the train was very crowded, more so than usual since the school holidays had just begun. As I struggled through compartment after compartment, I was jostled by waist-high figures already on their way to and from the buffet with cans of cola and hamburgers. Harassed mothers were beseeching little D
ebbie or little Jason to sit quietly and colour in their nice book or listen to their Walkman, and there was a continuous rustle of crisp packets and the sound of chocolate bars being unwrapped. I was forcibly reminded of Robert Benchley’s remark that there are two kinds of travel: first class or with children. This decided me. Much as I begrudged the expense, I decided to travel first class and pay the extra.

  I made my way through into the blissful quiet of the first-class carriages. Even these were quite full, some occupied by middle-aged businessmen deeply absorbed in the contents of their briefcases. Some (which I avoided) had younger men ostentatiously busy on portable phones. I was passing by a carriage with a single occupant, a plump man who turned, recognized me, and beckoned me in. It was Oliver Stevens. I was a little put out, because I do like to have a nice, peaceful read on railway journeys, but it would have been churlish to have ignored his signal so I smiled and slid open the carriage door. As I sat down beside him I realized with dismay that he had had rather too much to drink. He wasn’t aggressively drunk, but his speech was slurred and his manner was even more expansive than usual.

  ‘Sheila, my old love, come on in. Lovely to see you. Been up to the Smoke for a little fling? Who’s the lucky chap?’

  He half rose to his feet as I heaved my case up on to the rack but flopped back into his seat again like a large gasping fish.

  ‘Hallo, Oliver,’ I said, ‘No, please don’t bother, I can manage perfectly well.’

  He gave me a vacuous smile.

  ‘Had rather a good lunch. Some agency – wants me to make a telly commercial. Lots of money. Lot of crap, but lots of money.’

  The ticket inspector came in and I paid him my extra fare.

  Oliver was struggling to get his wallet out of his pocket.

  ‘You should let me do that Sheila, love,’ he said, ‘a privilege to have the company of a charming lady ... Lots of money

  ‘It’s very sweet of you, Oliver, but it’s done now. Can I help you find your ticket?’