Major Cuthbertson, seated by the electric fire in the living room of Shangri-La with The Times newspaper held up like a shield in front of his face, gave a grunt. ‘Not my fault. Couldn’t possibly have done it with this damn flu I’ve picked up.’
‘You don’t seem very ill to me.’
‘Well, I jolly well feel it,’ he said in injured tones, turning a page of the newspaper. ‘Asking for trouble to go out in this sort of weather. I’d have got pneumonia, or something. Not that you’d mind.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Roger. Of course, I’d mind. You’d be a perfect nuisance if you were really ill.’
His wife had the constitution of an ox, he thought bitterly.
In all the years that they had been married – and it seemed like a hell of a lot of them – he could only remember her being under the weather a couple of times, whereas he was always going down with some damned bug or other, not to mention the old malaria that he’d picked up in the Far East and which kept coming back like a song. Of course, Marjorie didn’t believe in any of it; so far as she was concerned he was either malingering or he’d drunk too much. Sometimes, he thought wistfully of how nice it would be to have a wife who nursed him tenderly when he was ill, who stroked his fevered brow and spoke to him in a soft and sympathetic voice. He raised The Times a few inches. It was no damn good now they’d made it the size of one of those tabloids: Marjorie could see him over the top easily. And, anyway, most of it was rubbish these days: scandal, gossip, celebrities . . . not a decent article in it. He might as well take the Sun. To think it had once been a newspaper to be proud of, the envy of the world – like the BBC.
He said, ‘I might have given it to other people.’
‘Given what?’
‘My flu.’
She gave a laugh that sounded like a guard dog’s bark. ‘Well, you’ll be sorry you didn’t do this one.’
‘It’s only for donkeys.’
‘I’m not talking about them. Guess who’s living at the Hall now?’
‘No idea.’
‘One of your old pin-ups. Lois Delaney.’
The Times collapsed, crackling on to his lap. ‘Did you say Lois Delaney?’
‘Are you going deaf, Roger? Yes, I said Lois Delaney. She’s moved into one of the flats.’
He stared, goggle-eyed. ‘How do you know?’
‘Leslie told me when I went to have my hair done last time. He’d just heard it from somebody.’
Once a week his wife aimed the Escort at Dorchester to have her hair washed and set in the style that she had worn since the major had first met her.
‘But why on earth would she want to live at Frog End?’
Marjorie Cuthbertson shrugged. ‘Perhaps she wants to be left alone, like that Garbo woman. She’s in the middle of getting divorced, apparently.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Anyway, you’ve missed your chance, Roger. Just think, you could have met her if it hadn’t been for your flu.’
With that parting shot, his wife left the room and the major was left alone with his thoughts, and his regrets. Lois Delaney! He’d been a fan ever since he could remember. Seen her on the stage dozens of times. In his youth – pre-Marjorie – he’d been a bit of a stage door Johnnie and gone round to wait for her to come out afterwards. Once, he’d given her a bunch of red roses and she’d given him a wonderful smile in return. Spoken to him, too. Just a few words and he could never remember what she’d actually said, but it had been something jolly nice. He’d never seen such a beautiful woman before, or since. Of course, she’d be getting on a bit now, but he’d take a bet that she was still a corker. Better not let Marjorie get any inkling about that little episode of the roses. Look at the way she’d cottoned on to him and Ursula Swynford. She’d made a joke of it, of course – roared with laughter, in fact – but he could tell she’d been pretty jealous. Not there’d been anything to be jealous of – someone had gone and bumped-off Ursula before it could happen.
Of course, Lois Delaney was in another class altogether. His heart picked up speed. To think that he might have met her again if he’d gone out collecting for those damned donkeys! He could picture the scene. She’d have opened her flat door and he’d have bowed and smiled in a smooth, man-of-the-world way so she’d have known at once that he wasn’t just some country bumpkin. They’d have got talking and she’d have been flattered and impressed to hear that he had seen her act so many times. He’d have reminded her about the bunch of red roses, which she was sure to remember. And hadn’t Marjorie said she was getting divorced? Who knows, one thing might have led to another . . .
Major Cuthbertson clutched at his throat. He needed a drink badly. Something to steady him. Medicinal, of course.
It wouldn’t do to get all het-up in his weakened condition. The ticker needed watching at his age – though, of course, there was plenty of life left in the old dog yet. After all, an old fiddle was more in tune, autumn was just as nice as spring, and an old flame still had lots of sparks.
Marjorie had gone off to the kitchen and would be banging pots around doing what she always called ‘something about lunch’. He hoped to God it wouldn’t be yesterday’s supper reheated: it had been bad enough the first time round. They’d always had someone to cook for them abroad and when they finally came home to Blighty the old girl had never seemed to get the hang of it. She’d be out of the room for quite a while so, if he was quick and quiet, he could have a stiffener.
He laid down The Times quietly and tiptoed across the living room to the musical cocktail cabinet which he had been given on his retirement from the regiment. The damned thing played the same bloody tune every time it was opened. He had never found out how to disconnect it but he’d learned to get the whisky out faster than Wyatt Earp drawing his gun. He lifted the lid, grabbed the bottle by the neck and shut the lid again, cutting Drink to me only with thine eyes off short. A decent slug in the glass and the bottle was back again with only a few more notes played. Major Cuthbertson sat down again, took a gulp and leaned back with his eyes closed. Lois Delaney all those years ago . . . the red roses, that wonderful smile she had given him when he’d been a dapper young blade, foot-loose and fancy free. He sighed. By Jove, those were the days!
The colonel walked on towards the bungalows beyond the green. When he had been looking for somewhere to live in Frog End he had almost bought one of them – aptly named Journey’s End. They all had rust-free plastic guttering and plastic down-pipes, rot-proof metal-framed windows and very small, easy-maintenance gardens. Instead, he had chosen the near-derelict Pond Cottage with all its expensive shortcomings and its acre of impenetrable jungle.
As he entered the horseshoe-shaped cul-de-sac, Dr Harvey, the local GP was driving out. He lowered his car window.
‘Don’t go and break a leg, Colonel. It’s very slippery.’
‘I hear there’s more to come.’
‘Heaven help us . . . this is bad enough.’
Tom Harvey waved and drove on, his car crunching slowly through the snow. Naomi’s nice young doctor who had helped him through the black dog days when he had first come to live at Frog End, warning him off the addictive sleeping pills and pointing out that he still had a useful life ahead of him. And he had discovered that he did have his uses when he had helped to clear up the mystery of Lady Swynford’s murder at the Manor fête. He hoped that her daughter, Ruth, would eventually come to her senses and realize what a worthy suitor she had.
The bungalows were mainly occupied by people who were, indeed, coming to the end of their journey through life: retired couples who had chosen to move to the country, to live on one convenient level and cultivate a very small and very flat garden. The houses were more or less identical – same shape; same windows; same size gardens, front and back; small up-and-over garage to one side; sunburst iron gates and a concrete pathway leading up to the front door, flanked by narrow flower beds. The only differences were in the individual paint colours and in the gardens themselves. Some, he had observed, walking by on o
ther occasions, were weed-free models of order; others were brave attempts, and one or two were downright neglected. At the moment, of course, they were all covered uniformly with a heavy layer of snow, except for the red top of a gnome’s hat poking up through the white. No children, no shrieks of merriment, no fat snowman taking form.
He made his way round anticlockwise, starting with the one ironically called Tree Tops. A pleasant, elderly woman answered the door and fetched her handbag. He wondered whether the bungalow’s name had been her personal choice? A childhood spent in Kenya, perhaps? Or Rhodesia? Or South Africa? A wooden house built high in the trees beside a water-hole or overlooking the grassy veldt?
Net curtains twitched as he opened more sunburst gates and he knew that he was being watched. Out of the next five bungalows only two answered the ding-dong chimes at the door, though he was fairly certain that everybody was at home. One old man who opened his door declined to do the same with his wallet.
‘Donkeys? That’s the RSPCA’s job, isn’t it? And they’ve got enough money already. What about ex-servicemen? Nobody cares about us. The army pension’s a disgrace.’
‘I quite agree,’ he said amicably. ‘I’m an army man myself. But that’s rather up to the Government, isn’t it?’ He gave the tin a good rattle. ‘Some donkeys don’t have much of a life. And every little helps.’
Reluctantly, a few coins were fished out of a trouser pocket and slid into the tin in the furtive way that Miss Butler had described.
The colonel raised his cap. ‘Thank you, sir. Very generous of you.’
The next three – all women – were quite sorry for the donkey and the tin grew heavier. The last of the ten bungalows was Shangri-La – residence of Major and Mrs Cuthbertson. He hesitated for a moment before ringing the bell, bearing in mind that the Major was ill, but it was unlikely that even Mrs Cuthbertson would have attempted to drive in the snow and so she would be there to answer the door. It was opened, in fact, by the major himself – not lying on his sick-bed but fully dressed.
‘Good to see you, old chap. Come on in.’
‘I don’t think I’d better – not with these boots. Your wife might not be too pleased.’
‘Nonsense . . . Marjorie won’t mind. Anyway, she’s busy with lunch.’
He stepped over the threshold and into the narrow hallway. Shangri-La was an even less appropriate name than Tree Tops. There was no suggestion whatever of the mystical or exotic about its sombrely furnished interior; no hint of an idyllic and hidden paradise discovered at last, no fragrance of blossom or sandalwood. Only a smell of something burning wafting from the kitchen.
He rattled the tin gently. ‘I just wondered if you’d like to make a contribution.’
‘Of course. Glad to help the donkeys. Damned good cause, if you ask me.’ The major foraged in his pocket and dropped several noisy coins into the tin. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Pretty well. I’ve still got the Vicarage and the Manor to do, then I finish up at the Hall.’
‘As a matter of fact, old chap, I was going to ask if you’d like me to take over? I’m feeling a lot better this morning. I’d be glad to.’
The colonel shook his head. ‘There’s no need. I’m rather enjoying it, to tell you the truth. And it wouldn’t do your flu much good.’
‘Nonsense. Could do with a bit of fresh air. Stretch the old legs. Change of scene, and all that. So, if you’d like to hand over the stuff I’ll see to the rest.’
The colonel said firmly, ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. And I don’t think your wife would either.’ He moved the collecting tin up out of the major’s grasp and opened the front door behind him. ‘I’d stay in the warm, if I were you.’
As he went down the path he wondered why on earth the major had suddenly been so anxious to do his bit. A guilty conscience, maybe? He obviously wasn’t very ill. Or perhaps he just wanted a break from Mrs Cuthbertson – you couldn’t blame him for that – and the chance to nip into the Dog and Duck? That was the trouble with faking sickness, there was usually a penalty to pay. He’d never tried it himself, but he’d come across men in the army who’d made a career out of malingering. As he reached the gate, he realized that he had forgotten to give out a donkey badge. It was too late, though, the door to Shangri-La had shut.
The major sat down again by the fire. Dammit, he’d made a complete hash of it. He should have been more forceful. Grabbed the tin out of his hand and the tray off his neck except that the colonel was a tall chap, so it wouldn’t have been easy. And he hadn’t reckoned on him being so keen. Odd, that! He couldn’t stand the collecting job himself everyone hiding behind the curtains or slipping in two pence. Every time Miss Butler asked him to do it for some damn thing or other he tried to think of some excuse, but she had a way of getting round him. Just this once, Major. It would be so kind of you and it’s for a very good cause. It was always a good cause, according to her, but he’d drawn the line at collecting for bloody donkeys. A fellow had his limits, after all, and that had been one of his.
Hang on a tick! The unwelcome thought had suddenly entered his mind that the colonel might have heard about Lois Delaney living at the Hall – which would explain why he was so hell-bent on going there himself. There was no denying that he was a younger man – not by much, of course – and taller, too, and he’d kept all his hair which was always an advantage. He outranked him, as well, unfortunately. The ladies always seemed to like the fellow, he’d noticed. Furthermore, he was a widower, so there was no wife in the background to put a spanner in the works, so to speak. The major ground his teeth. No question about it, the colonel could get a head start on him and there was no way he could think of to head him off at the pass.
Marjorie came stumping into the room, rattling the ornaments.
‘Who was that at the door?’
‘Just the colonel, doing the collection. I gave him something, of course.’
‘A decent amount, I hope.’
‘Naturally. I offered to take over the rest of the round for him. He wouldn’t hear of it, though.’
‘I expect he was worried about your flu.’
He ignored the sarcasm. ‘He did mention that. I would have done it, though.’
‘Of course you would, now you know that Lois Delaney is living at the Hall. Honestly, Roger, you don’t imagine that she’d be interested in you, do you?’
He said stiffly. ‘I did meet her once, you know. Years ago. She was very charming to me.’
Another of her barking laughs. ‘She’d be charming to all her fans. But don’t fool yourself – she wouldn’t remember you from Adam.’
While his wife went off to do something else about the lunch, the major took the opportunity to revisit the cocktail bar for another quick pick-me-up. He needed to stiffen the old sinews and summon up the blood if he was going to manage to outpace the colonel.
The Vicarage door was opened by the new vicar’s wife. She looked very young and very tired and very flustered, with a small baby in her arms and a toddler clinging to her leg. The vicar was out, apparently, calling on a sick parishioner. The colonel showed her the donkey tin and she disappeared for a long time before returning with a small handful of coins, several of which she then dropped on the doorstep. As he bent to help retrieve them, the baby started to cry, the toddler to yell and the telephone to ring insistently in the hall behind her.
‘I’m very sorry it isn’t more,’ she shouted above the racket. ‘I couldn’t find very much.’
‘Every little helps. Thank you.’
He raised his cap to her as he left, thinking that she was much too young and inexperienced to cope with the demands of the job. Vicars’ wives needed to be tough to survive.
His next call was at the village Manor, a beautiful mullion-windowed, Jacobean house surrounded by a high stone wall. Walking up the long drive, he remembered the first time he had seen the place. He had taken on the job of Treasurer to the Summer Fête Committee which convened at the Manor –
a job he had suspected quite rightly that nobody else wanted, but it had had the advantage of giving him something to do and, in doing it, of meeting village people. Meeting the Manor’s then owner, the since-deceased Lady Swynford, had not, in truth, been much of a pleasure but her daughter, Ruth, was a different matter.
He reached the front door and tugged at the iron bell pull. It jangled somewhere in the depths of the house. He could hear a dog yapping – Lady Swynford’s black French poodle, Shoo-Shoo. Ruth Swynford opened the door, the dog at her heels.
‘How nice to see you, Colonel . . . do come in.’
He went into the hall, stamping his boots on the mat. The poodle jumped around him, wagging its tail. Lady Swynford had always had the wretched animal clipped into ridiculous pom-pom arrangements but Ruth had left its coat to grow naturally. It was certainly an improvement, though he doubted if he would ever feel warmly towards the creature.
‘I won’t come any further in, Ruth. I’m very snowy.’
She smiled up at him. ‘The flagstones won’t mind, and nor will I. I’m surprised to see you, Colonel. Major Cuthbertson usually does this beat. I suppose he thought up some excuse.’
‘He’s got flu.’
‘Hmmm. Would you like some tea or coffee to warm you up?’
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘In that case, I’ll fetch some money to buy one of your badges.’
She went away and came back with her purse; no coins, this time, but a folded note that she stuffed into the tin.
He handed over her badge. ‘That’s very generous of you, Ruth.’
She pinned the badge carefully on to her navy blue jumper. ‘It’s a very good cause. I’ve always liked donkeys. I used to keep a sweet old thing in the field when I was a child and he’d been rescued from some awful place. He died eventually and I cried buckets. Maybe I should get another one, now that I live down here.’
He looked at her with approval. Dressed in faded jeans and Fair Isle jumper, no make-up, freckles, a simple bob, she was very attractive in his eyes and, more to the point, a very nice person. Honest, intelligent, unpretentious, kind. The very opposite of her late mother. By her invitation, he now called her Ruth, but she still addressed him always as Colonel. No doubt she felt his ancient years required that formality.
THREE SILENT THINGS a cozy murder mystery (Village Mysteries Book 2) Page 3