by Hazel Holt
He held his wallet out to me like a small child asking nanny to help, and I managed to find his ticket and gave it to the inspector, who glanced at us both severely, punched the ticket and withdrew in an atmosphere of disapproval.
‘He thinks I’m drunk,’ Oliver said. ‘That chap thinks I’m drunk.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly sober,’ I smiled. ‘It must have been a very good lunch!’
Oliver embarked on a circular conversation about the lunch, the agency people, television commercials, and the lovely money, which I didn’t really listen to. Fond as I am of Oliver, I really can’t be doing with people when they’ve had too much to drink. I began to wish that I’d settled for the rampaging children.
‘Need lots of money for Sally,’ Oliver was saying, ‘for Sally’s bloody horses – do you know how much a horse eats? – for Sally’s bloody winter sports, for Sally’s bloody Caribbean holidays...’ He was now embarked on a litany of Sally’s extravagances, which I (and all his friends) had heard before. I could have pointed out that his own life style (good food and wine, travel, expensive cars, the very best guns and fly rods) was equally expensive, but I knew that once Oliver was embarked on this theme he didn’t even notice interruptions.
‘Costs a bloody mint, the whole thing. Take that great house – a fortune to heat it, always needs painting, like the bloody Forth Bridge, believe me, two gardeners eating their heads off ... Sally has to have–’
He broke off and gave me a conspiratorial glance.
‘Got to keep her sweet, though. A very difficult woman, my wife. Well, you know that. Clever woman like you, you know these things. Jealous, that’s what she is. Jealous as hell. Never caught me out, though! Never!’
He laughed triumphantly. ‘Not for want of trying, but never caught me out.’
His mood suddenly changed.
‘That bloody little bastard Palgrave, he tried to do the dirty on me. Don’t like Palgrave. No,’ he said forcibly, ‘I don’t like Palgrave. I hate the little sod. Hate! No,’ he corrected himself, ‘hated. He’s dead now – good thing, too. Do you know what the little swine was going to do? He was going to tell Sally about Karen. There now, what do you think about that! Did you ever hear of such miserable’ – he sought for another word to convey the enormity of the action and couldn’t find one – ‘such miserable behaviour. Had a little difference over that script – all his fault, stupid little bastard, a lot of bloody nonsense about social and moral values. Moral values’ He gave a loud snort of laughter. ‘I told him, “You’re the last one to be talking about moral values, chum,” I said. And then we got into a silly sort of slanging match, bloody stupid, shouting at each other like kids. He got on his high horse – you know how he did – affected bastard – and said it was his duty, his duty mind you, to let Sally know about Karen. Said she had a right to know. Don’t know how he found out. I do, though, bloody BBC gossip. Knew all about that trip to Rome and everything. Bloody gossip.’
He laid his hand on my arm and looked at me earnestly.
‘I can tell you these things, Sheila, because you’re a friend and you’re understanding and dis – discreet. You wouldn’t tell Sally about Karen? No, of course you wouldn’t, you’re discreet. And you’re a bloody sensible woman. You know that a bloke’s got to have a bit of comfort when he’s married to someone like Sally. You understand, don’t you, Sheila?’
He leaned even further towards me and peered up into my face.
‘Course you do. Peter was a damned lucky chap. Fine woman like you. He didn’t need any comfort...’
His voice trailed away and he flopped back in his seat, shifted around a couple of times and was suddenly asleep. I looked at him with distaste. His mouth had fallen open and a lock of his sparse hair hung down over his round face, that was now red and glistening with sweat. I wondered how Karen – she sounded quite young – could bear to look at that face first thing in the morning. Since Oliver showed a distressing tendency to lean towards me and rest his head on my shoulder. I moved to the other side of the compartment, opened my book, and tried to ignore the snorting noises that came from his recumbent figure.
As the train was running through the Somerset Levels, nearing Taunton, I got up and shook his shoulder.
‘Oliver, wake up, we’re almost there.’
He opened his eyes and looked at me Wearily.
‘Sheila? What’s the matter?’
‘We’re almost at Taunton,’ I said. ‘You’ve been asleep.’
He tried to pull himself together and put his hand to his head.
‘God! I feel awful!’
‘I think you had rather a lot to drink,’ I said.
‘God, yes, that lunch! Can’t remember all that much after they put me in a taxi! Hope I didn’t make a nuisance of myself...’
‘No,’ I said, ‘you talked a bit and then you fell asleep.’
‘Thank God for that. Sorry, Sheila, old love. I’ve had a bit of a week, actually...’
The train drew into the station and I said, ‘How are you going to get home from Taunton? Is Sally meeting you?’
‘No, I’ll get a taxi.’
‘I’ll run you back,’ I said. ‘I left my car at the station.’
‘That’s good of you, Sheila. But do you mind if we just slip into the buffet so that I can get a cup of coffee and take an aspirin? What was it Dorothy Parker said about her head feeling like something left over from the French Revolution?’
The coffee seemed to do him good and on the drive home he was more or less his old self. I wasn’t sure if he had any memory at all of what he had told me, so I kept up a flow of innocuous chatter about the play I’d seen and the theatre in general and, refusing an invitation to go in for a drink, dropped him off at the bottom of his drive.
I arrived home just after Michael.
‘Hello, love, is that a kettle just by your hand? Bless you, I really do need a cup of tea. I’ve had the most exhausting couple of hours!’
I told him, in graphic detail, about my journey from Paddington.
‘What extraordinary things seem to happen to you, Ma,’ Michael said, pouring out a cup of tea and pushing it towards me.
‘It was a maddening waste of a first-class ticket,’ I said resentfully, ‘having to listen to Oliver going on like that.’
Michael ripped open a new packet of Bourbons and bit into one thoughtfully.
‘Of course, if Adrian Palgrave was going to tell the dreaded Sally that Oliver was playing away from home, and if she was going to take it very hard, like divorce, even, then I suppose your friend Oliver had a motive for murdering him.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ I said. ‘I mean, I think Oliver would be quite glad to be rid of Sally – she really is an absolute pain. And then he could settle down with little Karen, or whoever.’
‘Aren’t you the dear old naive thing, and after having been married to a solicitor for all those years! If there was a divorce, Sally could take him to the cleaners – half the sale price of that big house, the horses, cars, and whatnot. I know Oliver earns a pretty good whack but I don’t think he could manage to support that extravagant life style on what he’d have left when she’d got at him. We’ve got a client at the moment who’s in just that position, poor devil.’
I smiled to myself at the proprietorial ‘we’ and said, ‘Yes, of course, how silly of me. Well, I suppose it does give him a motive. But’ – I thought of the fat, foolish face relaxed in sleep – ‘not Oliver. He couldn’t have!’
‘Well, somebody did,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Are any of the others more likely murderer material.’
I considered the matter.
‘Oh dear, how would one know? There’s Robin, I suppose. He’s a bit unbalanced and Adrian was pretty beastly to him. I suppose he might...’
I broke off and went to the sink to rinse out my cup.
‘No, I’m not going to start speculating. Let Roger sort it out. It’s his business, after all. Now then, what can we have for supper th
at I can cook in half an hour?’
Chapter Seven
I woke up the next morning feeling rather depressed. It was a gloomy day, heavy, overcast, and definitely chilly. In the kitchen I found Foss sitting with ostentatious pathos in front of the unlit Aga. He gave a faint wail, to indicate that he was barely surviving in such Arctic conditions, and I dutifully switched on the electric fire. He stretched luxuriantly in front of it and was immediately joined by the two dogs, who jostled for position behind him. I resisted an impulse to crouch down on the floor beside them and got on with the breakfast.
After the excitement of my little jaunt to London I felt disinclined to settle to the various household tasks that awaited me, including, I noticed as I slid the pan with Michael’s bacon under the grill, cleaning the cooker.
After Michael had gone I stuffed clothes into the machine, secure in the knowledge that I could now say to myself that I had Done the Washing (this is a form of conscience-salving every woman is familiar with) and could now go out and potter round the shops.
When I stopped at the garage to fill up, my wretched petrol-locking cap stuck, as it often does, and I wrestled with it feeling stupid and embarrassed as people at the other pumps looked scornfully on. There was a roar and an enormous motorbike, black and menacing with a low-slung seat and great tall handlebars, pulled up behind me and a large, heavily built figure, wearing black leathers and a spaceman’s helmet, got off.
He removed the helmet, revealing a touchingly youthful face.
‘Having trouble, love?’ he asked.
‘Yes, the tiresome thing seems to be stuck. I can’t turn it.’
‘Here, let me.’
He leaned over and gave it a quick twist.
‘There you go.’
‘Thank you very much, that was kind of you.’
I looked at the motor bike.
‘That really is a splendid machine. A Harley-Davidson, isn’t it? My son always longed for one, but they cost the earth!’
His face lit up.
‘Yeah – she’s brilliant! A 1000cc sportster. Post-’82. Fabulous torque – you can go from forty to one hundred and ten without changing gear. And stable! You can take a tight corner and grind all the chrome off the pegs!’
We smiled at each other in pure pleasure at such a paragon and his delight in her and I went on my way inexplicably cheered by the encounter.
Half-way down Fore Street I caught sight of Enid on the other side of the road and, rather meanly, dived into Boots to avoid her. I really didn’t feel that I could face a long session about the Meredith book and hoped she would think that I was still in London. To kill time until I felt it was safe to go outside again I wandered round, trying out the new perfumes and idly wondering if a brightening rinse to bring out the highlights would produce a newer, better Me. As I rounded the Baby Care shelves I ran into Rosemary anxiously surveying the jars of baby food.
‘They don’t seem to have any of that strained pear left,’ she said. ‘Actually, Delia’s really eating ordinary things now, but she still loves that squashed-up pear.’
‘Are they still with you?’ I asked.
‘Jilly and Delia are, yes,’ she said. ‘And Roger’s back and forth between here and Taunton. It’s lovely to have them, but of course Mother’s carrying on about my not spending so much time with her. You can’t win! I really feel like a wrung-out rag sometimes.’
‘Come and have a cup of coffee,’ I said. ‘You’ll feel much better after a nice sit-down.’
‘I shouldn’t really,’ Rosemary said, ‘but what the hell.’
I paused in the doorway of Boots and scanned the street cautiously but Enid was nowhere in sight. Nor, thank goodness, was she lurking in the recesses of the Buttery. Rosemary and I sat with our coffee and comforting doughnuts both feeling definitely cheered.
‘Small, simple pleasures,’ Rosemary said. ‘It doesn’t take much to make us feel better.’
‘Women are luckier than men,’ I agreed. ‘They seem to need much more!’
‘Yes, they are gloomier on the whole.’ Rosemary considered the problem. ‘All the troubles of the world on their shoulders?’
‘Poor things!’ I said and we both laughed.
‘Mind you,’ Rosemary suddenly looked serious. ‘Something rather upsetting has happened and Jack’s very worried about it.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Robin’s gone off somewhere without saying anything to anyone, and no one seems to know where he is.’
‘Good heavens, how extraordinary!’
‘He didn’t come in to work at all this week so Jack sent someone round to his flat.’
Robin worked for Jack’s firm, which is why Rosemary has always taken an interest in him.
‘And he wasn’t there?’
‘Not a sign of him, and the papers cancelled at short notice. I asked at the newsagent.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, well, we couldn’t help wondering. He did get terribly upset that night – he was talking quite wildly after the committee meeting, all about how Adrian was out to get him and how he hated him. I didn’t take a lot of notice at the time, well, I just thought he was a bit agitated. But you know he did have that break-down not so long ago.’
‘But surely Robin wasn’t violent; I said.
‘No,’ she agreed, ‘but you never know how these things are going to take people. Robin was quite obsessive about Adrian. It was almost a persecution complex.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said again.
Rosemary fished in her bag and produced a tissue to wipe her jammy fingers.
‘Actually,’ she said slowly, ‘Jack did have to tell Roger. We felt rather awful about it, but Jack thought he ought to know.’
‘Yes, of course, you had no choice. And Roger’s so very understanding. I mean he wouldn’t immediately assume that Robin was the murderer...’
‘Oh, Sheila, he couldn’t be, surely not. Not Robin’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought so, but as we said, you never know how people like that are going to react.’
‘If it was Robin, who, you know, killed Adrian – and I don’t for a moment think it is,’ Rosemary added hastily. ‘But if it was, then poor Eleanor is going to be very upset. It really looks as if she’s taken him under her wing and it would have been so splendid for both of them.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking that night, the night of the concert. He was very much “son of the house”, I thought.’
‘Yes. Oh dear,’ Rosemary sighed, ‘I do hope everything’s all right.’
‘The awful thing is,’ I said, ‘that one likes Robin much more than one liked Adrian.’
‘Have you seen anything of Eleanor, since the concert?’ Rosemary asked.
‘No, I keep meaning to phone, but I’ve been away, of course’ and the time just seems to whizz by.’
‘Don’t I know it! Where has this year gone?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘We’ll soon be into the hell of Christmas shopping! And Mother’s being particularly demanding. As I said, she resents any time I spend with Jilly and Delia. Which reminds me, I must go and take her fish for lunch or my name will be mud.’
‘I’ll pop round and see her one afternoon,’ I said. ‘I feel a bit guilty. I haven’t been to see her for ages.’
‘You see!’ Rosemary said triumphantly. ‘She does it to you as well and you aren’t even related to her! Still,’ she continued, ‘it would be nice if you could spare the time. I never thought I’d feel sorry for her, but so many of her friends – well, contemporaries, she doesn’t actually have friends – have died, and she does miss talking about the old days. There aren’t many people left now who remember.’
‘Yes, of course I’ll go. And I’ll phone first.’
Mrs Dudley’s acerbic attitude to people who ‘dropped in’ was well known.
‘Bless you.’
‘And do let me know if you have any news of Robin. I’ll ring Eleanor – perhaps she may know something.’
/>
Later that afternoon Roger telephoned.
‘Just to say that the inquest will be next week. I thought I’d better warn you, just in case you have to give evidence about finding the body. But we’ll be asking for an adjournment so I don’t expect it’s very likely. How are you feeling? Quite recovered, I hope.’
‘Oh yes, fine. Still rather embarrassed at nearly passing out like that, but it was the smell of the blood that did it. I never could bear it.’
There was a short silence at the other end of the line, then Roger said slowly, ‘Did you say the smell of the blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘You could actually smell it?’
‘Yes. Why, what’s the matter?’
‘It’s just that if the blood was so fresh that you could smell it, then the murder must have taken place no more than an hour before you found him.’
‘I see.’
‘We’ve had the pathology report, of course, but they couldn’t be exact about the time of death because it was so cold in there. And by the time I went in the smell had gone...’
I tried to think.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the first half of the concert lasted about half an hour, so Adrian must have been killed either during the concert or in that last half-hour...
‘When everyone was milling about. It’s a period when it’s very difficult to pin down where people were,’ Roger said.
‘Yes, let me think,’ I said, trying to remember. ‘I certainly didn’t see Adrian in the Hall and Enid came in with Geraldine and Evelyn, then, a bit later, Father Freddy, then Oliver. Sally was already there. Oh yes, and then Will.’
‘What about Robin?’
‘Ah yes, Robin. Rosemary told me that he’s gone off somewhere. Surely you don’t think...’
‘Keeping an open mind, as they say. When did he come into the Hall?’
‘Oh, he was with Eleanor,’ I said, ‘greeting people and generally chatting.’
‘Did you see him all the time until the concert started?’
‘Well, no, I suppose, not all the time. There were so many people there and a lot of coming and going. Well, you saw for yourself what it was like. Eleanor will be able to tell you, though.’
