by Rachel Malik
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or you could ride the bike. And I could ride the scooter. We’d look a bit silly, I suppose, but it would be fun.’
‘I don’t know.’ Elsie looked awkward.
‘Elsie, what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t think we should be talking like this.’
‘Oh, Ernest wouldn’t mind, I’m sure. What’s it to him?’
Elsie smiled, a little nervously, and Rene continued half to herself: ‘I’m not doing a proper funeral, just a burial, there’s no point. A funeral costs too much; no one would come down here anyway.’
‘You wouldn’t have it in Manchester?’
‘Goodness, no.’ Rene sounded surprised. ‘I’m not doing that. I don’t want to draw it out, I want it over.’
Elsie seemed relieved, she smiled and stretched again; Rene poured the last of the brandy out slightly clumsily and the glasses clinked together.
‘Now, Elsie, it’s time to decide about tomorrow. Tomorrow is our day. No scooters, no bikes. A walk, a good long one over to Coate’s Wood. We haven’t been there together for such a long time – the paths should be all right. We could set out early. And then we could have the rest of the stew for lunch, or if it’s fine we could take sandwiches. And there’s that concert on in the evening, or we could make a start on the new puzzle.’
Rene was in her stride now, thinking ahead, making plans.
‘Elsie, what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know, it doesn’t seem quite right.’
‘Elsie, you can’t feel bad – you said it yourself. And I don’t think either of us should feel sad either. We did what we could – more than that, we did our best. And besides, he wasn’t … he wasn’t a nice man. I don’t think he was a good man. There was something mean-minded about him, Margaret said we … said he was mean-minded. She saw it too.’
‘Margaret?’
‘She met him too, remember?’
But that wasn’t what Elsie was thinking about.
‘You told Margaret about Ernest?’
‘Not like that. I wouldn’t. But there were a few things he said, and that time he kicked Jugger, I told her about that.’
‘Oh.’
For Elsie hated the idea of anyone else knowing about Ernest, knowing what it had been like; it rubbed off on them, on her. She still hadn’t told Rene about the chickens, the blood and the feathers, wiping his mouth, him spitting and coughing, spit and feathers on her, the blood on her cardigan. She mustn’t think about that. She must try to concentrate on Rene.
‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway,’ Rene was saying, ‘Margaret said she thought we were a pair of saints. Lord, I’m so hungry. It must be the brandy. If I don’t eat something soon I’m sure I’ll fall over.’
Elsie followed Rene to the kitchen, very willing to be diverted. But she didn’t feel happy about Margaret. A pair of saints, Margaret had said, but she was a Methodist, and they didn’t have saints. How could Margaret know? She had thrown the cardigan away. It had just a trace of blood on it, she could probably have got the mark out, but she couldn’t even bear to wash it.
The next two days were glorious. They took long walks on both mornings and quite exhausted Jugger, throwing stick after stick for him in Coate’s Wood. Back to Wheal Rock by eleven, when Rene would make her telephone calls. After lunch they settled (as far as it was possible to settle) on the sofa in the sitting room, just them. Just them, alone with no one to interrupt them – they had quite forgotten the habit of it. They played Patience as they had done for so many years – each with a tray on a stool in front of her – and together they made a start on the new puzzle. It was strange to be playing in the daylight, but it was also luxurious – Thursday afternoon, Friday afternoon – and they were on the sofa, idling. In the evenings, there was a new serial – it was nearly a week in but they caught up easily enough with no Ernest to distract them. On the Friday evening, Elsie brought out a bottle of ancient, vinegary sherry that she had hidden in their bedroom and two spindly glasses. They drank half of it – making faces as they did so at the bitterness – and played a silly game of dominoes. Nib watched them curiously from the windowsill and Jugger thumped his tail whenever they laughed. And when they had run out of silliness they made tentative plans for the following day. If the weather was fine they would make the long-delayed trip to Gunwalloe – on the scooter – Elsie had agreed. And they would get fish and chips in the village – it was too early in the year for a picnic.
They should have gone to bed early, they were planning to make an early start, but they were too excited. It was partly the trip, so long deferred, but more than that, it was the sheer luxury of being their only company; no threat of interruption, no one to mind or fret about. When they finally went upstairs, they took cocoa and a half-forgotten detective novel that Rene had got from Boots. It was a cold night and they wrapped themselves up close in the extra blanket while Elsie read aloud. It was a poor story, and the killer didn’t seem very clever at all – it was a wonder the policeman didn’t catch him sooner – but they both enjoyed it all the same.
They slept late the following morning and weren’t dressed and downstairs till just before eight. A fine, clear day, and they quietly made their preparations for Gunwalloe; they were both looking forward to the day ahead. It had been so long postponed – Elsie had wondered if it would ever happen.
They were just about to put on their jackets when they heard the sound of a car coming up the lane.
It all happened very quickly. Rene was at the sink and she saw the car through the window. A police car.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said.
‘What is it?’
‘A police car. I hope nothing dreadful’s happened.’
Rene had turned very pale and was rooted; Elsie knew she was thinking about the children.
It was Elsie who opened the door.
Two policemen and a WPC. The two men looked like father and son.
‘Miss Hargreaves?’
‘No.’
‘Miss Boston?’
Elsie nodded.
‘May we come in?’
Elsie nodded again and stood back. They crowded into the kitchen, looking around. Rene was still standing by the window, aloof.
‘Will you sit down?’ said Elsie awkwardly.
‘Thank you.’
The WPC sat down and the two men remained standing.
‘Miss Hargreaves,’ said the grey-haired policeman, addressing Rene.
‘Yes.’ Her voice was little more than a croak, her face as white as chalk.
‘Our visit concerns Mr Ernest Massey. You are the niece of Mr Massey, are you not?’
‘Ernest?’ Rene said. She sounded confused.
‘Dr Evans decided that a post-mortem was required to ascertain the cause of death. You do know what a post-mortem is?’
‘Of course.’ Rene sounded a little hasty, but there was a bit more colour in her face now. Elsie nodded too but no one was looking at her.
‘Well, the post-mortem showed that your uncle died from poisoning.’
‘What?’ It was Rene who spoke. Elsie reached forward to clasp the corner of the table; she was unsteady all over again, just as she had been that morning on the landing. He hadn’t gone after all.
‘According to the pathologist, the cause of death is beyond reasonable doubt. Sodium chlorate poisoning. Sodium chlorate is a key component in many weedkillers. I imagine that you keep weedkiller.’
There was something rude about the way he said that, Elsie thought, but Rene didn’t seem to notice. The WPC looked like she wanted to giggle.
‘He can’t have been poisoned,’ Rene said. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘As I’m sure you will appreciate, Miss Hargreaves, there are a number of possibilities that we will need to consider. Mr Massey may have poisoned himself – deliberately or by accident – or, and we are under obligation to investigate this, he may have been poisoned by another or others at present unkn
own. We’ll need to ask you and Miss Boston some questions. We will also need to have a look around the cottage and take some photographs. We’ll try not to make a mess.’ This last was said in an over-cheerful tone and was addressed to both of them.
Elsie was led into the sitting room by the WPC while Rene remained to be questioned in the kitchen. Elsie heard the sound of heavy feet tramping up the stairs, heard them in Ernest’s room, and then, after a gap of some minutes, in theirs. It was just like before, someone messing in their room, nosing; she could swear she heard drawers being opened. The last two days were as nothing. Elsie felt faint – the blood was all running away from her head. She leant forward on the sofa and put her hands down beside her; they felt shaky. ‘Are you all right, Miss eh Boston?’ the WPC asked; she didn’t sound unfriendly. Elsie nodded, trying to listen to the voices in the kitchen.
She could hear nothing but a mumbling from the policeman, but she could hear Rene’s voice quite clearly. It was her telephone voice and louder than usual. Yes, of course he was happy here, why wouldn’t he be? No, he wasn’t the kind of man who would harm himself. Yes, she knew exactly what was being suggested. She sounded almost rude.
‘Ahem.’ The young policeman appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. He had his hat off and a large camera strapped about his neck. They would have to move now, the WPC said, he needed to take some photographs here. ‘Shall we go outside?’
There was no way out except through the kitchen. Rene was sitting with her elbows on the table, hands on her chin – she looked irritable – but she caught Elsie’s eyes and gave her a quick smile as if to say, Please don’t worry. Elsie and the WPC passed outside into the garden; they went up to the gate but no further – it seemed to set a natural boundary. So they stood there in the cold, she and the WPC, and all Elsie could see was weeds. And then Elsie started to get confused. They were called back into the kitchen: it was her turn to be asked questions now. She wanted Rene to sit with her but they didn’t let her stay, said she couldn’t. And then there were questions about saucepans and was he happy and mugs and weedkiller and what were his habits and she tried to answer, tried her best, but it felt as if her hands were getting in the way of her mouth, sticking, sticky as sugar. Upstairs there were more footsteps – this time she was sure they were his. She started to cry and then Rene came running.
‘Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s upset? Can’t you see?’
And then she and Rene were separated again and they were asking Rene some more questions, this time in the sitting room; she heard Rene’s voice saying loudly, ‘Of course we have weedkiller, why wouldn’t we have weedkiller? We have a garden, don’t we?’
And then the older policeman came back and told her that they were taking Rene to Exeter police station to answer some more questions. Something about a box of things they were taking with them. And then Rene was already outside, already gone, looking back at her through the kitchen window. Then she had turned away and Elsie saw the car door open and it looked as if Rene was being pushed in. The car started up and she was gone.
* * *
It was Mrs Cuff who telephoned Elsie, the day after the police took Rene to Exeter. She had never done that before, hardly knew Elsie if truth be told, but Rene had telephoned her from the police station and told her what had happened. She had been arrested, arrested for murder. Rene hadn’t seemed especially bothered about this, she was sure it would all blow over, but she was very worried about Elsie: ‘Please ring her, go and see if she’s all right, please.’
Mrs Cuff rang Wheal Rock immediately but with some trepidation.
‘Rene?’ Elsie’s voice sounded muffled.
‘No, Miss Boston, it’s me, Margaret Cuff from the post-office shop. I was just ringing to find out how you were. This is such a business with Rene, but I’m sure she’ll be back at Wheal Rock soon and –’
‘They’ve taken her, they’ve taken her away.’
Mrs Cuff did her best to reassure her, but Elsie was not in a state of mind to be convinced.
‘I’ll never see her again. I know it. She’ll never come back.’
And so it went on. Until Margaret said:
‘I’d like to call round if I may, Miss Boston – Elsie. I hope you won’t think it’s an intrusion, but I’d like to … I’ll come in the afternoon,’ she finished briskly. It didn’t do to talk too long, it would only make things more complicated.
Mrs Cuff telephoned Mrs Marrack and Miss Penn, and just after five the three of them walked up to Wheal Rock. Neither Mrs Marrack nor Miss Penn had made the journey before, so there was curiosity to be satisfied as well as neighbourliness. They took with them a flask of soup, some milk and cheese, a mutton pie and half a bottle of sherry. They were not sure what Miss Boston might need, or what help they could offer – there was no real precedent for any of them. Seen from a distance with their black shawls and baskets they could have been visitors to a bereaved house, or perhaps, given the slight hesitation of step, well-wishers making a first call on a new neighbour.
Elsie saw them coming through the dusk, Mrs Cuff leading the way, like three witches, but carrying baskets instead of brooms; she had been half expecting something like this. She wished they hadn’t come, but it was kind, very kind. She went out to meet them.
They petted the dog while Miss Boston made tea, and then Mrs Cuff persuaded her to come and sit with her in the sitting room. She wanted to get as clear a picture as possible of everything that had happened. Mrs Marrack and Miss Penn made themselves busy upstairs. It was a sensible distribution of tasks as Elsie was more at ease with Mrs Cuff (‘please call me Margaret’) and Mrs Marrack and Miss Penn could make themselves useful. They folded up some washing and gave Mr Massey’s room a general tidy-up. They peeped into the other bedroom but didn’t linger – neither of them liked a pry. Later, on Mrs Cuff’s instruction, Miss Penn made Elsie a sandwich and sat with her while she ate it (she wouldn’t accept a sherry, which Miss Penn thought was a pity). Mrs Cuff joined Mrs Marrack in the kitchen and they tidied up, washing up some dishes, a couple of cups and a mug.
In the village, there was shock that such a kind lady could have been whisked away in a police car to Exeter without any warning. In tears she was, apparently (though not handcuffed), and Miss Boston quite hysterical. The three ladies saw no reason to keep all of the detail to themselves. No one thought they could have done Massey any real harm. Miss Hargreaves wouldn’t hurt a fly. Rene had made herself useful, men and women both liked her; Elsie they weren’t so sure of, she kept to the background, not easy in herself or chatty like Rene. She was reckoned to be fragile, despite her size, and Rene protective of her, for it was as a couple of sorts that they were thought of by their neighbours; there was thought to be unhappiness in the past. The village too was protective, even at its margins.
Village kindness did not extend to Ernest Massey. In the early months, he had occasionally come into the post office on Rene’s prompting and mumbled hello to Mrs Cuff; more often, he had lingered outside, twisting his hands in his pockets. As Mr Cardell said, ‘His eyes couldn’t hold your own.’ The general judgement was that he was a little cakey; some also thought he was mean-spirited – pressed for more detail, all they could say was that it was a feeling they had.
The first distinct rumour to gather in the days after Rene had been arrested was that the old man had committed suicide. This was shocking, and some people were quite upset. In the unsettled atmosphere, other rumours: chief among these was that Massey’s death was a self-administered accident. Mrs Cuff and Miss Penn were strongly persuaded of this possibility.
At this stage no one doubted that Rene’s arrest was a terrible mistake, that everything would be resolved, and she would soon be home. When the news came that she had been transferred to Holloway (there was no room for her at Exeter), things began to get more complicated. Mrs Cuff and her two friends were still regular visitors to Wheal Rock: there was still concern for Miss Boston’s health. For others, out of si
ght was out of mind, and the matter half forgotten. But when Mr Prynne was overheard by Mr Marrack saying that there was no smoke without fire and that he didn’t know what to think about that reporter knocking around in the village, Mrs Cuff, Mrs Marrack and Miss Penn took matters into their own hands. They called a meeting at the church hall to discuss ‘recent events, Miss Hargreaves, Miss Boston and what we should do’. On the strength of the meeting – well attended – various letters were written and dispatched and a collection was made. Nearly everyone gave something; a few of the contributions were very generous, one in particular. It came from the only stranger who attended the meeting: a middle-aged woman, very smartly dressed. She sat on her own at the back of the hall. She didn’t say anything during the meeting but she seemed very interested in everything that was going on. Mrs Cuff hoped she wasn’t a reporter.
Mrs Cuff had volunteered to do the collection and as the meeting came to an end she made her way slowly through the hall with her tin. People really were very generous, even the smallest sum was a token of goodwill. She hesitated before approaching the smart woman at the back – it was a little awkward asking a stranger – but she found herself being beckoned forward. The woman had clearly been waiting for this moment because she reached smoothly into her bag and took out a cheque. She put this, unfolded, into the tin. The cheque was for a considerable sum and it had all been written up beforehand. Mrs Cuff didn’t know quite what to do, she was quite taken aback by the amount and she didn’t want to make a fuss. She went back up to the front to help Miss Penn and Mrs Marrack and resolved to thank the woman properly at the end of the meeting. Unfortunately, by the time Mrs Cuff could get outside, the smart woman had slipped into a waiting taxi and then she was gone.
Elsie didn’t come to the meeting – it would have been quite wrong – but she was touched by the kindness of neighbours and quite overwhelmed by the sum of money that was collected. She tried to thank Mrs Cuff, who said that she must call her Margaret and seemed to understand.
Elsie used most of her share to purchase a greatcoat. Some time ago she had seen an advertisement in the Exeter Mail, and now she telephoned Abley’s Menswear to ask them to set one by. By arrangement, Mr Marrack picked it up for her in Helston. It was an extravagance of course – she had never spent so much on a garment – but it was a wonderful coat and it fitted so snugly. And it was not perhaps quite the indulgence it seemed. The trial date had been set and Elsie was making her plans. She wanted a big coat to wrap herself up in.
