by Rebecca Tope
‘Shut up,’ said Simmy.
The plan to call Ben was comprehensively thwarted, first by the hassle of unloading a crochety infant from the car, then by Humphrey as predicted by Christopher. The builder tousled his own hair, grinned sheepishly and admitted he had taken it onto his own initiative to decide which way the new door into the third bedroom should open. ‘I know people have their own ideas about that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve made it open outwards – gives you more space inside the room, see. But might not be to your liking?’
‘Couldn’t it have waited an hour or two?’ Christopher asked crossly.
The builder shrugged. ‘Not really. Everything else depended on it. We’ve done the panel, look. And no way could we start painting till the door was sorted. Still haven’t got the proper stones for the fireplace downstairs, and the rest is done for now.’
For now echoed in Simmy’s head and made her feel tired. If the work went on much longer, Humphrey would begin to feel like one of the family, exploited in small ways such as baby-minding and answering the phone. And when he finally left, she would miss him. ‘You don’t have to do all the painting,’ she said, not for the first time. ‘I’d quite like to do some myself. I started the door frames – did you see?’
‘Opening outwards is fine,’ said Christopher, before looking at Simmy and adding, ‘Isn’t it?’
‘What did we decide for the others?’ She went along the new corridor and opened the door to the main bedroom. ‘Inwards,’ she discovered. ‘I don’t remember even thinking about it until now.’
‘Inwards is the usual way,’ Humphrey said patiently. ‘But this is a small room, look. And there’s often trouble with carpets, if you want a nice tufted one. The door can catch it you don’t set it high enough.’
‘It works all right in our room,’ Christopher said. He operated the new door. ‘It does feel peculiar, pulling it instead of pushing. Won’t it be even more of an obstacle like this?’
‘I can change it,’ sighed Humphrey. ‘I had a feeling you wouldn’t like it.’
Simmy forced herself to think about doors and paintwork and carpets, telling herself she ought to find it all exciting and comforting and properly domestic. ‘Does that mean replacing the door frame?’ she asked.
‘No, no. Just a bit of cutting. The door will have to be set higher, see, and new holes made for the hinges, and …’ he tailed off with a helpless expression.
‘Doesn’t look especially arduous to me,’ said Christopher. ‘And I still can’t see why it couldn’t have waited. What have you actually done that’s so dependent on which way the door opens?’
Simmy didn’t wait for any more. Robin was downstairs in his little seat, wanting attention. The men were being all too annoyingly male about the whole business. Humphrey was in the wrong, and everybody knew it, including him. He’d been impatient and cavalier, for no convincing reason. Christopher was right to make him change it, given that they would have to live with the damned door for the next twenty – thirty – fifty – years. Children would burst out of the room sending each other flying when the door hit them. It might even knock them downstairs, since the room was quite close to the top of the staircase. Whatever Humphrey had been thinking, it was wrong. But she didn’t want to listen to her fiancé telling him so.
She had only been downstairs for a minute when someone knocked on the front door. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what the sound was. Then she found herself weirdly wishing they had a dog, which could warn them of impending visitors. ‘I’m a very peculiar person today,’ she muttered to Robin. ‘Had you noticed?’
Four men stood quietly outside, only one of whom she recognised. ‘Sorry about this,’ said Fabian Crick. ‘This is Uncle Ambrose, and these are my cousins Keith and Petrock. They’re Uncle Richmond’s sons.’
‘So all we need now is him to show up and we’ll have the complete set,’ said Simmy. She was cross, curious, suspicious and bewildered all at the same time. ‘Christopher!’ she shouted, much too loudly. ‘Can you come down here?’
In her arms, Robin started to scream, even more loudly than his mother’s shout.
There was nowhere for so many people to sit. Uncle Ambrose was as small as Fabian, and they perched together on the two-seater wooden settle that Christopher had got from the auction house. Keith and Petrock found chairs in the kitchen and carried them through to the main room. Simmy and Robin bagged the only armchair and Christopher had to make do with the bottom step of the staircase. Robin nuzzled and whimpered, wanting a feed. Even Angie, thought Simmy, might baulk at baring her breast in front of a roomful of strange men.
‘We won’t stay long,’ said Fabian in a maddeningly Uriah Heep-ish tone of voice. ‘We just thought you might want to meet everyone.’
‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Christopher, who was showing signs of wishing Simmy had slammed the door in all these faces. ‘This is an invasion.’
Humphrey came sliding down the stairs as unobtrusively as he could, stepping over Christopher, and bobbing his head vaguely at the assembled crowd. He was clearly chastened and thoroughly out of his depth. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he mumbled, and fled.
Fabian twitched and stammered out his explanation. ‘No, but – the thing is, we all knew Josephine, and we’ll all be attending her funeral, when it happens, and we all want to help find who did such a terrible thing.’
‘And you’re probably all of interest to the police,’ said Simmy. ‘Except perhaps Ambrose.’ The old man was evidently far too frail to thrust a knife into anybody. He looked confused and daunted by the way events were swirling around him. ‘Why have they brought you with them anyway?’ Simmy demanded of him directly.
‘They wanted me to tell you what I know about Richmond and Hilda. Isn’t that right?’ he appealed, not to Fabian, but to the cousin named Petrock, who was by far the biggest member of the family and looked as if he was probably the most intelligent. He nodded.
‘We know where Richmond is, and how he was keen on Josephine,’ said Christopher. ‘Fabian asked me to act as a go-between, but now I can see that was a ploy to keep me involved. You could easily go and talk to him yourselves if you felt like it. I honestly feel there’s no more to be gained by talking to any of you. Simmy and I are more than happy to leave the whole business in the hands of the police.’ He made a swishing motion, as if wanting to sweep the whole family out of the house.
But Simmy felt entirely otherwise. Of all her initial emotions, she found curiosity rising to the top. Inconvenient and outrageous as this visitation might be, she did want to know more. At first glance, she found old Ambrose to be an appealing character, and the silent Keith seemed to have something about him she thought might be worth discovering. And Petrock was almost charismatic, drawing deferential glances from all sides. Both Fabian’s cousins looked to be at least twenty years junior to him, which hardly fitted with implications that they all grew up together. ‘You’ll have to put up with me feeding the baby,’ she announced, as Robin’s demands grew more insistent. It was five o’clock, she realised – far too many hours since the last feed. ‘I’m not going out of this room to do it.’ She ignored Christopher’s obvious opinion that this made an ideal excuse to eject all the visitors immediately.
She had also underestimated the Armitages. Not one of them even blushed. Keith, who was wearing a suit and tie as if he’d just come from an office somewhere, was the only one who shifted his seat slightly and made a show of looking away.
‘Get on with it then,’ Christopher urged Fabian. He looked to be on the verge of ordering all these men out of his house but did not quite have the balls for it. ‘It’s been a long day and we’ve got things to do.’
‘Aunt Hilda,’ said Fabian. ‘Petrock wants to tell you about her.’
Again, everyone looked at the large cousin – nephew – brother. Simmy was suddenly reminded of Ben’s text, sent hours ago and undoubtedly waiting eagerly for a proper response in the form of a phone call. She was gripped
by an agreeable sense of things coming together, at the same time as reproaching herself for forgetting poor Ben.
‘I’m writing her biography,’ said Petrock in a tone that implied he wanted awe and admiration at such a feat. ‘She was a remarkable woman in every way and deserves to have her achievements recorded.’
Nobody responded to this, but simply waited for more.
‘Her early life in the thirties was typically middle class. Big house, plenty of cash, servants and dogs – all that. She was eleven when war broke out and everything changed.’ He leant down and picked up a briefcase that was propped against his leg. ‘I’ve got the manuscript here, actually.’ He proffered a thick wad of printed pages. ‘I could read a bit, if you like.’
Nobody responded, but he rested his work on his knees, as if waiting for his chance. Christopher spoke first. ‘Fabian told us all about everything going up in flames,’ he said. ‘Tragic.’
‘You speak as an auctioneer of antiques,’ said Petrock understandingly. His accent had a hint of American or Canadian, which only enhanced his appeal for Simmy. Something oddly formal in his delivery also piqued her interest. She would not at all object to a short reading from his opus. He went on speaking. ‘The first chapters go back over earlier family history, to give a proper context,’ he explained. ‘It wasn’t only the material possessions that were lost. Her father – our grandfather – became very mentally unstable. Bipolar, in all probability. His mother was German, you see. Throughout the First World War she was ostracised and tormented, but clung on and prospered in the following years. But it left scars that bled down the generations, so when another war broke out, it was a personal catastrophe for our family.’
‘Did you know her? Your German great-grandmother?’ Simmy asked, keen to get as much of the picture as she could. On the stairs, she heard her fiancé sigh.
‘No, no. She died before I was born. But of course Hilda and her brothers did.’ He waved at Ambrose.
‘And her sister,’ said Fabian stiffly. ‘You always leave my mother out.’
‘Sorry, Fabe. You have to admit she is a bit shadowy.’
‘Stick to the point,’ said Keith.
‘Right. Yes. Except there isn’t precisely a point, is there? I just want these good people to understand that our intentions are honourable, and that it’s little more than coincidence that they’ve become involved in our story. It’s a chain of connection, so to speak, from Josephine to them, with us Armitages in the middle.’
‘There is a point,’ Keith argued. ‘Explain about what Josephine was saying.’
‘Oh, that.’ Petrock turned his chiselled features towards Simmy. ‘I believe Keith means me to tell you that my aunt left all her papers to Josephine, along with the house. Thousands of old letters, notebooks, one or two diaries, along with financial statements, theatre programmes. It’s mainly the letters, though.’
‘Filing cabinets!’ said Simmy suddenly.
Petrock blinked. ‘Well, yes. Four of them, to be exact. We helped her move them to her house. You wouldn’t believe how heavy they were.’
‘She died beside them,’ said Simmy, enjoying the sense of a picture coming together, despite the horror of a violent attack on an innocent woman.
Again, nobody spoke for too many seconds. Robin made a particularly embarrassing slurp, which drew at least two pairs of eyes to her breast.
‘Did she?’ said Keith.
‘Is it possible she was trying to protect something in them?’ Christopher asked. ‘Was there anything of actual value inside?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Petrock with a sigh.
Simmy was visualising the pattern as more of a circle than a chain. One of Ben’s flowcharts would probably give it a different shape again, with side-shoots and satellites and big question marks. ‘Well there’s certainly no sign of a point yet,’ she said, easing Robin off the nipple and switching him to the other side, without any conscious thought. It was no more of a process than kicking off shoes would have been or rubbing an itch. Her lack of self-consciousness made it all the easier for the men to accommodate it. But she was faintly aware that it put her in competition with Petrock as the focal point in the room. As the only female, she knew she possessed a definite power.
‘If there is a point, then it’s the family papers,’ said Keith. ‘All those letters. Even Petrock doesn’t know what’s in most of them.’
Petrock shook his head. ‘I’ve seen the ones that matter. I’ve quoted them in the book.’ This appeared to be his cue, and with no further invitation, he flicked through until somewhere close to halfway through the typescript. ‘Here – listen to this.’ Taking a breath, he began to read. ‘“Hilda’s thirty-fifth birthday was spent on the golden sands of the historic island of Santorini. She was accompanied by three friends, all of whom shared her passion for sunshine and good food. Indeed, the hotel invoice still exists, which makes it plain that regular cocktails were consumed prior to three-course dinners, frequently involving shellfish and other expensive fare. That same month she enrolled on an art appreciation course in Hampstead, but only attended three lectures before dropping out. It was believed in the family that this was due to one of the class drawing attention to her identity as the main individual in a recent – and wholly spurious – story in the media concerning her past. Hilda felt bitterly towards this treacherous classmate for many years afterwards.”’ He stopped, looking round brightly, as if at a class of eager pupils. ‘You see how rich a life she led. And almost every week has some sort of written record. It’s taken me two years so far, and it’s far from complete.’
‘Phew!’ said Simmy. ‘Two years sounds like very good going. Do you have to juggle it with a job as well?’
‘Indeed I do. Luckily, I find I can work on the train. I have a fifty-minute commute twice a day.’
‘Wouldn’t you say he’s rather too free with his adjectives?’ said Uncle Ambrose in a mild tone.
‘I didn’t notice,’ said Simmy diplomatically. ‘I was too involved in the story.’
‘He’ll never find a publisher for it,’ said Keith. ‘Can’t see why he’s bothering, personally. Fabian thinks the same.’
‘Well, if that’s all,’ said Christopher, standing up, suddenly looking much more forceful. ‘We really have quite a lot to do.’
‘We haven’t talked about Richmond,’ bleated Fabian. ‘I thought that’s what we came for.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ asked Keith, who seemed to be speaking for everyone, while revealing little of himself.
‘Oh, we know plenty about him already,’ said Simmy, feeling reckless. ‘I gather he wanted to marry Josephine?’
The effect was gratifying. Fabian twitched feverishly, Keith took a long deep breath and Petrock put a dramatic hand to his chest. ‘Who told you that?’ he demanded.
‘Why? It’s not a secret, is it?’
‘It’s old news, anyway,’ said Keith. ‘He’d given up years ago.’
‘It would be interesting to meet him, all the same,’ said Simmy, still enjoying a sense of mischief.
‘We’ve lost sight of Hilda again,’ said Fabian irritably. He looked round at all the faces. ‘The simple fact is that Petrock needed Josephine’s help with his book. She knew how to find archive stuff on the Internet and kept proper notes for him.’
‘And me,’ piped up the aged Ambrose. ‘I understand archives as well, don’t forget. Better than anyone, including the wretched Miss Trubshaw. Not that anyone ever asked for my help,’ he added bitterly.
‘It wasn’t a matter of archives,’ said Petrock. ‘We only wanted to get back to the sixties and seventies – not the Dark Ages.’
‘So – who killed her then?’ asked Christopher loudly and suddenly. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here – to persuade us that it was none of you lot? Or are you oh-so-subtly trying to point the finger at the absent Richmond? Is that what all this is about?’
Nobody said anything, until Robin detached himself from his mother a
nd emitted one of his prodigious belches.
Chapter Thirteen
It was a shameful seven o’clock before Simmy managed to find time for a proper conversation with Ben. He had texted again by then, clearly losing patience. A whole day had passed without any communication between them, and for him, in the middle of an absorbing murder, this was intolerable.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he began, like any controlling husband.
‘Where do you think?’ she flashed back, irrationally and unfairly.
‘Sorry. But seriously – you haven’t just been at home all day washing nappies, have you? You told me you’d gone to Keswick.’
‘Nobody washes nappies any more. At least, I don’t. We did go to Keswick, as it happens and had lunch with Oliver, and saw one or two people who work at the auction house, and when we got home we had a deputation led by Fabian to try to persuade us that none of them killed Josephine.’
There was a short silence, then, ‘Right. Okay. I see. Busy day.’
‘Yes.’
‘So – did any of them kill Josephine?’
‘Hard to say. Right at the end, Fabian said, “Well, we can’t vouch for Uncle Richmond, of course, but it does seem extremely unlikely that he could be the one.” He was trying to sound all casual and offhand as he said it, but it was very obvious that they wish we’d find a way to meet him.’
‘So who came? Go back to the beginning.’
She did her best to identify and describe the four men who had barged into her unfinished home. She found herself remembering disappointingly few significant details. ‘Petrock’s by far the most substantial one. He’s writing a book about Hilda. He even read us a bit from it. I didn’t think it was bad, but Chris says it’s a mess. Keith was the quietest, didn’t seem at all sure why he was there in the first place. And Uncle Ambrose is sweet. A right old pet. He’s an archivist and says Petrock uses too many adjectives. You’d like him.’
‘This isn’t useful,’ Ben told her sternly. ‘I need to see you really to put a better picture together. And what happened in Keswick? Don’t forget that’s where the murder actually happened. It could easily be the most important area to investigate.’
