by Hazel Holt
“Of course,” Judith said, “Mere Barton is a very desirable village—do you know I heard that Pitlands Farm sold for the best part of a million—and there isn’t any land now, just the house!”
“So who gets Annie’s cottage, then?” Maurice said. “If there are no relatives—and what if she didn’t make a will? Does the government get it?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t be fair,” Judith said indignantly, “coming and taking people’s property like that. They couldn’t, could they?”
They both looked at me as if being the mother of a solicitor gave me some sort of legal competence.
I shook my head. “I really don’t know . . . ,” I began, when the door opened and Lewis came in.
We all turned to him eagerly and Maurice said, “Now, here’s somebody who can tell us what’s what.”
“Have they had the result of the postmortem?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes. It’s as we thought—food poisoning.”
“Do they know what caused it?” Maurice asked quickly, anxious, no doubt, for the reputation of the shop.
“It seems to have been some sort of fungus,” Lewis said.
“Oh well!” Maurice said, visibly relieved. “We might have known it! All those toadstools and stuff she used to gather in the woods—”
“I was always nervous about her eating them,” Judith broke in. “Time and again I said to her, ‘Annie, are you sure they’re safe?’ but she never listened to me. Once, she gave me some in a bag, told me to fry them just like proper mushrooms. Well, I thanked her, of course, but when I got home I threw them away, and when she asked me I said they were delicious!”
“It’s strange, though,” I said. “Annie was very knowledgeable about such things; how did she come to make such a terrible mistake?”
“Oh, that kitchen of hers,” Judith said, “very dark, with that tiny window, and she never had the light on in the daytime. Too careful of the electricity, I suppose.”
“Well,” Maurice said, “if she’d been more careful over what she was cooking, this would never have happened!”
“But still . . . ,” I said.
“And her eyesight wasn’t too good,” Judith said. “Half the time she never wore her glasses—and now you see what that led to.”
I turned to Lewis. “I suppose there’ll have to be an inquest?”
“Yes. I saw Inspector Morris at the hospital. He’ll be coming to look round the house. I told him that the cottage was safely locked up and that you, Judith, had the keys, so he’ll be calling on you soon.”
“I’m sure I’ll be glad to hand them over,” Judith said. “Such a responsibility. I wonder: Do you think he’d mind if I just went in with him and watered the plants?”
The inquest was held quite quickly and the verdict (to no one’s surprise) was accidental death. Apparently fungi had been found in the basket in the kitchen, and some of them were discovered to be poisonous. An expert, called in to give evidence, said it was possible that the Lepiota specimens found in the house might have been confused with the Macrolepiota form, which is edible. Expressions of regret were made all round, and warnings of the danger of having insufficient knowledge of the subject would have annoyed Annie very much.
What did surprise everyone was the will. Annie had left everything to a cousin we’d none of us ever heard of, who lived in London.
“Some man,” Michael said when he called to deliver some eggs, “called Martin Stillwell—living in Acton.”
“What’s he like?” I asked.
“He seems like an ordinary sort of person,” Michael said.
“What sort of ordinary?”
“Just . . . ordinary. Well,” he elaborated, seeing my look, “late fifties, medium height, um . . . oh yes, a widower, no children, works for a travel company. He called in at the office and I brought him up to speed on what had happened. Actually, he said he didn’t know Annie at all and only met her once when they were children and her mother took her up to London for a couple of days and they stayed with his family.”
“Goodness, how extraordinary. I suppose she left him everything—I guess it was everything?—because he was the only relative.”
“Yes, I suppose so. And yes, she did leave him everything, except the Welsh dresser in the kitchen; she left that to Judith.”
“Fancy! Judith will be pleased. So how long’s he staying down here?”
“Only a couple of days. He wants to be here for the funeral, of course, but he’s got to go abroad for his firm—Greece, I think he said—almost immediately.”
“Oh. Do you think I could see him? Is he staying at the cottage?”
“No, he said he’d rather not. He’s been to see it, of course, but he’s actually staying at the Westfield here in Taviscombe.”
“Well, he can’t be too badly off,” I said. “The Westfield’s quite expensive. It’s just that I wanted to ask him about those letters Annie lent me and see if he’d mind looking for the other stuff she was going to let me have for the Book.”
“Why don’t you go and see him at the Westfield; he said he’d be in this afternoon.”
Michael was right; Martin Stillwell was ordinary. That is, he looked like any middle-aged, middle-class businessman in a neat gray suit, with what looked like a club tie. I could see no sort of resemblance to Annie. He had a quiet but pleasant manner, and I explained the situation and asked him about the letters.
“Oh, I’d very much like to see them sometime. Let me see—Frank Roberts? My grandmother was a Roberts; she must have been his sister. That’s right; there were two boys, Frank and Bert—they joined up together, but Bert was killed near Amiens—and three girls, Amy, Jane and Lily. Lily was my grandmother on my father’s side. That makes Annie my second cousin.” He looked at me and smiled. “As you’ll have gathered, I’m interested in family history. I knew my grandmother came from the West Country and I always meant to visit and find out some more. I’m really sorry I never knew Annie properly; she could have filled me in on all sorts of things.”
“Annie wasn’t much of a one for talking about her family,” I said cautiously, startled by this sudden animation.
“Really? What was she like?”
I thought for a moment, wondering how to describe Annie without dwelling on her all too obvious faults. “Someone once said she was the heart of the village,” I said. “She ran most of the village affairs—of course, she knew everyone. She used to be the local district nurse, though they call them something different now. She was a great organizer. This book about the village, for instance, that was her idea.”
“It sounds like a splendid idea, just the sort of thing that every village should be doing. We ought to be gathering memories of the past before they’re gone forever. I’ll really look forward to seeing it. And, of course, anything I can do to help—well, I’d be delighted.”
“Thank you so much,” I said gratefully. “Perhaps we could meet at the cottage before you go back and I could give you the originals of the letters and, if you wouldn’t mind looking among her papers and so on for the things she thought might be useful . . .”
“As I said, I’d be delighted. Tomorrow, then, about eleven, if that’s all right with you.”
When I arrived at the cottage he was already there. Although he’d put on an electric fire the place felt damp and miserable and had a bleak, empty feeling that made me very aware of the fact that Annie was no longer there. He had some papers spread out on the table.
“She didn’t seem to have a desk, but I found these in the drawers of the sideboard. I haven’t looked through them yet, but I don’t think there’s anything there that you might want. They’re mostly receipted bills and papers about some sort of trust she was involved in.”
“Oh yes, I know about that. My son, Michael—I think you met him—is another of the trustees.”
“I haven’t looked upstairs,” he said. “Shall we go up and see if there’s anything there?”
It felt strange going int
o Annie’s bedroom. I hung back at the door, feeling I had no right to be invading her privacy, but Martin Stillwell was standing behind me, so I had to go in.
It was a typical cottage room, with a sloping ceiling that minimized what space there was, almost filled by a large old-fashioned double bed covered with a heavy white bedspread. There was a small table beside the bed with a lamp and a book standing on an embroidered cloth. I was curious to see what the book was, but didn’t like to examine it while someone else was there.
A built-in cupboard and a small chest at the foot of the bed completed the furnishings. There was no dressing table and no mirror. It was an austere room, its plainness relieved only by the unexpected pale blue carpet and curtains, but they were faded and may well have been her mother’s taste. Martin Stillwell opened the cupboard that held clothes—garments I’d seen her wear over the years.
“Nothing there,” he said. “Perhaps the chest?”
We both edged round the end of the bed and he opened the chest. It was full of papers, some in files, some in broken-sided cardboard boxes, some loose.
“Good heavens,” he said. “It’s going to take a very long time to go through that lot!”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” I agreed.
“There’s no way I can go through all that while I’m down here now. But you knew Annie, you’re an old friend, and I imagine you’d really like to get on with this book. So, how would it be if I gave you a spare key—I’ve got one here—so you can come in and see for yourself if there’s anything that might be useful to you?”
“Well,” I said cautiously, “I’ve certainly known Annie for some years, though I’d hardly call myself a friend, and I suppose it would be the simplest thing to do, if you’re sure that’s all right with you. I’ll return the key to you as soon as I’ve looked through the papers.”
He smiled. “That’s fine by me.” He closed the lid of the chest. “Is there anywhere round here where we could get a cup of coffee? I don’t exactly fancy using anything there might be in the kitchen!”
“There’s the hotel,” I said, “down the road.”
Enid was surprised to see us. “Annie’s cousin, is it? I heard you were down here. Are you staying long? Such a tragedy it was—we all miss her, everyone in the village . . .”
She bustled about getting the coffee, chatting as she went. When we were finally alone he said, “I was wondering, Mrs. Malory, if you’d very kindly help me with something?”
“Yes, of course, if I can. And do say Sheila, please.”
“Thank you, and I’m Martin. Well, the fact is, I have to make arrangements for the funeral and I haven’t the faintest idea of what would be suitable; there was nothing about it in the will. The clergyman here, Father something, I didn’t catch his name, seemed to take it for granted that there would be a service in the church and a burial in the churchyard. Would that be what she would have wished?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure she would.”
“And what about hymns and so forth—” He broke off and I saw that he was staring at someone who’d just come in. It was Phyll.
Chapter Eight
Phyll came towards us. “Hello, Sheila,” she said. “Enid told me you were in the lounge.” She turned to look at Martin, who had got to his feet when she approached. For a moment she didn’t say anything; then she put out her hand. “Martin,” she said, “how nice to see you.”
“Do join us,” I said. “I gather you two know each other.”
“Yes,” Phyll said. “We met some years ago—fancy your being Annie’s cousin.”
I looked inquiringly at Martin and he said, “It was in Madeira; Phyllis was there with her father and I was with a tour—I was standing in for one of our reps.”
“I’ll just go and ask Enid to bring some more coffee,” I said, and left the room reluctantly, curious to know what they would have to say to each other after such a long time. Enid maddeningly detained me with chatter about coincidences, so that when I got back and Enid had brought some more coffee, their first greetings were over.
“Dr. Craig helped me out of a very difficult situation,” Martin said. “I’d taken a party to see some rather special gardens, and one of the group, an elderly gentleman, was taken ill—it turned out to be a heart attack, though I had no idea at the time. But, being a doctor, he very kindly took over and identified the problem and went with us to the hospital while Phyllis”—he turned to her and smiled—“very kindly took over in her turn and organized the rest of the day and got them all back to the hotel. A brilliant exercise in logistics!”
“Oh, that was nothing compared to taking the lower fifth on a school trip!” Phyll said. “Are you still with the same company?” she asked.
“Yes, I am, but now I check out new resorts and hotels and they send me out as a sort of troubleshooter if there’s a problem.”
“I should think you’d be good at that.”
They seemed to be very much at ease with each other, though that didn’t surprise me because Phyll usually got on well with people, and I suppose he had to in his particular job.
“I was just asking Mrs. Malory—Sheila—for help with the funeral service,” Martin said. “What do you suggest?”
“Oh, I think Annie would want something conventional,” Phyll said. “Don’t you think so, Sheila?”
“I’m sure she would.”
“And certainly the proper prayer book service—that’s what Father William always uses, and the King James Bible. I know how annoyed she was whenever he was away and the locum used that modern version and the New English Bible!”
“Well, that’s settled, then,” Martin said, “except for the hymns and the psalm.”
“Oh, the twenty-third psalm,” I said. “Though if we have that, then I suppose we can’t have the George Herbert hymn.”
“We could have ‘Abide with Me,’ ” Phyll suggested. “Or do they sing it at football matches now?”
“They used to have ‘Rock of Ages’ when I was a boy,” Martin said. “Would that be too old-fashioned?”
“What about ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’?” Phyll said. “Most people know that. I mean, you’ve got to have hymns people know, else the singing sounds so thin.”
“There’s the other George Herbert hymn,” I said. “ ‘Teach Me My God and King’—it’s one of my favorites, and I’m sure Annie would like the bit about sweeping a room. Or we could have ‘Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven’; that’s pretty safe.” It suddenly occurred to me that we were turning it into a sort of parlor game. “Anyway,” I said, turning to Martin, “I’m sure Father William will have some suggestions. When are you going to see him?”
“This afternoon. I really need to get the arrangements made as soon as possible because I have to get back to London pretty soon.”
“If you’re going to see him this afternoon,” Phyll said, “why don’t you come and have lunch with us? I’m sure Rachel would love to meet you.”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
I looked at my watch. “Goodness, is that the time? I must be moving.” As I got up, Martin pulled a key ring from his pocket and detached a key.
“Here’s the spare key,” he said. “Keep it as long as you want.”
“Oh, I won’t need it for long,” I said. “I can give it back to you after the funeral. And you’ll be coming down again, I expect, so that I can return the papers to you when I’ve finished with them.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I’ll hope to be coming down as soon as I get back from Greece.”
As I got back to my car I thought with some amusement of how Phyll hadn’t included me in the lunch invitation, though I was pretty sure she would have done if I’d been on my own.
I wondered whether there had been some sort of holiday romance between them—though that didn’t seem like Phyll, especially if she’d been there with her father. No, obviously they had just got on well together and it was nice that they had met again so fortuitousl
y, and if something more developed, that would be nice too.
More or less all the village turned out for Annie’s funeral. People don’t send flowers nowadays, so there was only one wreath (presumably Martin’s) of white lilies on the coffin and a plate at the back of the church for donations to the local hospice. The altar flowers were particularly fine—more lilies and great heavy-headed chrysanthemums. “Judith did the flowers,” Phyll had said as we came in. Father William spoke the service beautifully, his mellifluous voice seeming to soar up to the barrel roof with its carved finials, so that I found myself listening to the sound, as if to a piece of music, rather than to what he was actually saying. I did catch snatches of his eulogy: “. . . an irreplaceable loss to the village . . . ,” “. . . her untiring work . . . ,” and “. . . an unusual and refreshing personality.” Rosemary nudged me at this. And then it was all over and we were in the village hall and there were refreshments, so that I was reminded of how, such a short time ago, we’d been gathered together here on another occasion.
“Marvelous food,” Rosemary said to Rachel, who with Phyll and Captain Prosser had joined us. “Who did it?”
“Oh, we all rallied round,” Rachel said.
“It was a splendid turnout,” I said.
“Well, we had to give the old girl a good send-off,” the captain said, and I thought what a withering put-down Annie would have given him at such familiarity. “Excellent service—no Series Three nonsense. You can rely on Father William to do a proper job.”
“There wasn’t a plot in the churchyard next to her mother,” Phyll said, “so they had to put her in the new bit, at the back, but, as Martin said, it’s a peaceful spot, and there you get the view all down the valley.”
I wondered who would enjoy the view, since Annie could not. Perhaps Martin would come and visit her grave occasionally. He joined us then and I introduced him to Rosemary.
