The Save the Donkey collection had been very satisfactory: the total amount the highest ever. Miss Butler wondered if she could prevail on the dear colonel to help with the Red Cross collection coming up in May. He was so reliable – quite unlike Major Cuthbertson.
She swept the green once more with the binoculars. The snow was melting fast – larger and larger areas of muddy grass reappearing. Soon, it would all be gone and she would not be sorry to see January go as well. One way and another, it had not been a good month. February had the advantage of being short and it meant that winter was coming to an end at last. She liked to think of the year as clock-shaped with December at twelve o’clock and the other months spaced out accordingly. Once you got to two o’clock, spring was only just around the corner.
Thursday did not appear to have stirred from his place on the sofa but his food bowl was empty, licked clean, and he appeared in the kitchen when the colonel was refilling it. The usual critical sniffing went on, but less protracted than usual and he left the cat to a chopped chicken and liver feast and went upstairs to unpack his overnight case. That done, he went downstairs to the sitting room where he lit the fire, drew the curtains and sat in the wing chair for a while with his thoughts. He had let Lois Delaney down. Like Magda Dormon, he had done his best, and, like the agent, his best had not proved to be adequate. The lilies had been a kind of propitiation for his failure. He had laid them on her grave with his regrets and apologies.
There was no chance of proving anything against Bruce King because there was no proof. His theory remained, in the tycoon’s very accurate words, only a theory. And possibly a ridiculous theory. It could have been a product of his imagination, springing from some unbalanced reaction to the discovery of the actress’s body. Lois Delaney had, as her sister had shrewdly observed, exerted a powerful fascination on people and she had done so on him. Even after death. He had been a moth still drawn inexorably to an extinguished flame. Or, to put it less poetically, a mesmerized old fool.
He put on his Mikado record and listened to Yum-Yum singing her beautiful solo in the beginning of the second act. It stopped him thinking about Lois Delaney and he thought, instead, of Laura. The Mikado had been her favourite Gilbert and Sullivan and she had loved this particular song.
The sun, whose rays
Are all ablaze
With ever-living glory,
Does not deny
His majesty –
He scorns to tell a story!
He don’t exclaim,
‘I blush for shame,
So kindly be indulgent.’
A loud banging at the door broke the magic spell and brought him back to reality; he went to open the front door to Naomi. The fur hat had been replaced by what seemed to be a lumberjack’s tartan cap with ear-flaps, and the red cape by a long waxed cotton coat which reached to her ankles and her white trainers. The coat had a large collar, many pockets, a long brass zip and several leather straps secured by buckles. They both struggled for some minutes to remove it.
‘Damned Australian thing,’ she said, stepping out over one of the still-fastened straps and revealing her purple tracksuit, like a colourful insect emerging from its dull cocoon. ‘The daughter-in-law brought it over as a Christmas present. Apparently, the Aussies wear them when they’re riding around in the Outback during what they call “The Wet”. I haven’t ridden a horse in years and I’ve no intention of doing so again, so it’s not much use to me.’
‘Is the cap Australian, too?’
‘No, Canadian,’ she said, dragging it off. Underneath, her grey thatch stuck up like a scrubbing brush. ‘I found it in the same trunk as the wolf-fur hat. My grandfather did a stint in the Rockies when he was young. Hideous thing, really, but it keeps the ears warm.’
The colonel hung the colonial garments up on the coat stand and led the way into the sitting room. Yum-Yum’s solo had finished and she was singing happily with Pitti-Sing, Nanki-Poo and Pish-Tush about her wedding day. He turned off the record. Thursday was summarily dislodged as Naomi claimed the fire end of the sofa and rubbed her hands at the blaze.
‘Good trip to London, Hugh?’
He sat down in the wing-back chair. ‘How on earth did you know I’d gone there?’
‘You can’t go anywhere without most people in the village knowing about it. Especially not to London. The platform is under constant surveillance by our local KGB. How was it?’
‘Good in parts, like the curate’s egg. I had lunch with my daughter and I bought some new shirts in the Jermyn Street sales. And I also bought two ties – not in the sales.’
‘What about the bad parts?’
‘We don’t talk about those.’
She nodded. ‘Fair enough. Anyway, I’ve got something really good to tell you. I went round to the Manor this morning – to give Ruth a hand – and guess what I saw in one of the greenhouses?’
‘I’ve no idea. Some special plant flowering?’
‘No. Nothing to do with plants.’ Naomi was looking positively triumphant. ‘Try again.’
‘A rare butterfly?’
‘Wrong.’
‘A hedgehog?’
‘Wrong again.’
‘Then I give up.’
She slapped her purple knee hard with one hand. ‘I saw Ruth and Tom Harvey in a clinch.’
He smiled broadly. ‘That’s a very old-fashioned word.’
‘I’m an old-fashioned person. Luckily, they didn’t see me and I scarpered PDQ. What do you think about that?’
‘It sounds promising.’
‘It can only mean one thing, in my view. Neither’s the type to play fast and loose.’
‘Clinch? Fast and loose?’ The colonel chuckled. ‘Not many young people today would have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Naomi.’
‘Well, you know perfectly well, don’t you?’
‘Yes, and I hope you’re right.’
‘Just think, Hugh. A wedding in Frog End, instead of a funeral. Wouldn’t that be nice?’
The grandfather clock, tick-tocking away quietly in its corner, struck six with quick, silvery chimes. Naomi pricked up her ears like Pavlov’s dog and the colonel rose dutifully to his feet.
‘Time for a whisky. Will you have one?’
He was already moving towards the decanter tray, without waiting for her answer since he knew it well. She took the Chivas Regal – a good three-finger slug with just a splash of water, no ice – and raised the glass to him.
‘Let’s drink to them, Hugh. To Ruth and Tom.’
‘I’ll second that,’ he said.
When she opened the door, he was standing there and smiling his quirky smile. He was wearing a foreign-looking overcoat that had probably cost a small fortune, the collar turned up around his ears, hands thrust deep in his pockets rather like the famous photo of James Dean walking through New York.
She said coldly, ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages, Rex.’
‘I know. I heard the messages. Sorry, I’ve been in Prague, shooting that TV series. Bloody exhausting it was, too. I only got back today. Drove straight down hot foot to see you.’
‘You’d better come in.’
He strolled into the flat and went over towards the trestle table where she had been sitting. ‘Busy with the plates?’
‘Don’t sneer. They pay.’
‘I’m not sneering.’ He bent over the table. ‘Hallo, what’s this one? I thought you always did birds and flowers?’
‘It’s a tank.’
‘I can see that. Bit of a departure for you, isn’t it, Jeanie?’
‘A retired colonel commissioned it for his grandson.’
‘Not the one who found Mama?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’
‘I liked him. Typical old soldier. Just the man to have beside you in a tight spot. A dying breed, I fear.’ Rex bent lower, examining the plate. ‘This is very good, Jeanie. You should do more of them. What kind of tank is it?’
; ‘A Challenger. The British Army’s latest.’
‘I’m amazed we’ve still got any. I thought they’d all been scrapped. How did you get it so accurate?’
‘The colonel lent me books and drawings. It wasn’t too difficult. How was Prague?’
‘Bloody cold. It’s been snowing there, as well. Nice old city, though. Bags of atmosphere. Rather like Vienna. Very Third Man. Thank God we didn’t have to go splashing about in the sewers.’
‘Did the filming go all right?’
‘The director seemed to think so. He thinks it’s going to be a big success. That I’ll wow the housewives with my mean and moody cop.’
‘I hope you do.’
‘Thank you, Jeanie. It’s nice to know you care. It means a lot to me.’
He had turned round to look at her – slowly and deliberately – and she clenched her fists. Don’t let him work the old charm. Don’t fall for it. Not any more.
‘I got the photographs for you, Rex.’
‘I gathered as much from your cryptic messages. I’m very grateful. You’re an angel.’
‘I’ll go and get them.’
She went to the bedroom, came back with the black bin liner and handed it to him. She watched while he took out the studio portraits and the six albums and placed them on the table.
‘I left a few of the framed pictures behind, Rex. Someone was bound to notice if they all disappeared.’
‘Smart thinking.’ He was turning the leaves of one of the albums. ‘Talk about a trip down Memory Lane. It’s wonderful to have these. Bless you for it.’
She said, ‘Your mother was very lovely.’
‘Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Right to the end. Life isn’t going to be at all the same without her.’
He had said it casually, but she knew that he really meant it. She could hear it in his voice. ‘You weren’t a bad-looking child either.’
‘I was much too pleased with myself. Still am.’ He smiled at her. ‘As you well know, Jeanie. You know all my sins, don’t you?’
He was incorrigible, she thought, knees weakening. The TV series might, or might not, be a success. And even if it was, he might get bored with it or find it all too much like hard work. Too exhausting, like it had been in Prague.
‘Well, you’d better be getting back to London.’
‘I hoped you might offer me supper.’
‘I haven’t got anything except eggs.’
‘That suits me fine. You could make those fluffy omelettes you always did so well. The ones where you whip up the whites first. I always used to love them.’
‘If you promise to leave straight away afterwards.’
He held up his hand stiffly, thumb bent across like a boy scout. ‘I swear I will.’
He wouldn’t, of course. They’d open a bottle of wine and he’d make some excuse about being over the limit. And, God help her, she’d probably be fool enough to let him stay.
‘What’s the matter this time, Craig?’
‘Nothing.’
‘There very obviously is. You’ve been brooding away in that chair for the best part of an hour. You’re not still thinking about Lois Delaney, are you? Imagining that I killed her off – en passant, as it were? Popped in and out of her flat and did the deed in a flash?’
‘’Course not.’
‘I swear to you that I did nothing of the sort. I’m the mildest of creatures. I wouldn’t harm a fly. You know that perfectly well.’
He did know it and he felt ashamed of what he’d been thinking. It seemed silly now. ‘It’s the weather,’ he said. ‘It’s been getting me down. We’re stuck in here day after day and I’m fed up with it.’
‘You’ve got the January blues, dear boy. That’s all.’
‘It’s more than that. I’m getting sick of the bloody country.’
‘Now, now. This is a very nice place to be.’
‘There’s nothing to do and nowhere to go. It’s fucking dreary.’
He didn’t usually swear much because Neville didn’t like it, but he was that pissed off.
‘Well, you could give me a hand with my next project – perhaps that would help. I need ideas. Queen Elizabeth the First is all complete. Who shall I do next? You choose.’
He couldn’t think of a thing. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Come on, Craig. Use your brain and come up with something really good. Another historical figure, perhaps?’
He remembered history lessons at school. The teacher couldn’t keep order and nobody’d paid much attention. He’d only listened if there was anything interesting. He’d quite liked the Tudors. Henry VIII and all those wives – the randy old sod – and chopping off people’s heads whenever he felt like it. The lessons had got boring after he’d died, what with the weedy son next and then that grim old cow, Mary. But after her, Queen Elizabeth had livened things up, seeing off the Spics and everything. Nobody’d got the better of her. Took after her dad – red hair, temper and all. She didn’t take any bloody crap from anyone. Off with their heads!
He said suddenly, inspiration dawning, ‘Mary, Queen of Scots. You could do her next. Then flog them together as a pair – her and Elizabeth.’
Neville was smiling at him, looking pleased. ‘My dear Craig, what a brilliant idea. They never met, of course, but that only makes it all the more piquant.’
‘She was a silly bitch. Got what was coming to her.’
‘I dare say. Some see her rather differently, though. I think we’ll give her a tragic look. Perhaps a dear little dog nestling beside her, half-hidden in her skirts. Like the one she took to her execution at Fotheringay Castle. Come over here and we’ll do some sketches at once. What sort of colour dress do you think she should have?’
‘Royal blue. It’d contrast nice with the red.’
The next hour passed quick as anything while they looked at bits of material and lace and stuff. Then Neville said, ‘As a matter of fact, I’m getting rather bored with the country, too. All this snow and mud. Perhaps you’re right, dear boy. We ought to think about moving back to London.’ Craig perked up even more. He nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘Yes, we ought. But what about your asthma?’
‘If anything I think it’s worse down here. Dr Harvey recommends a holiday, by the way. Somewhere warm and sunny. What do you think of that?’
‘Sounds just the ticket.’
‘I thought so too. The Caribbean perhaps, or Mauritius, or maybe the Maldives. It’ll do us both good. We’ll send for some brochures. Choose somewhere really nice.’
Blimey! He’d never even been out of England, not even on a booze trip to France. Fancy that! A holiday in one of those posh places he’d only ever seen pictures of – blue sea, white sands, waving palm trees, him and Neville dining outside under the stars . . . Come to that, he’d never had a holiday in his life, not of any kind.
They carried on planning Mary, Queen of Scots and her outfit and Craig was chuffed that Neville was treating him like an equal – asking his opinion about everything, listening carefully to what he had to say. After a while, Craig looked at the clock.
‘Shall I go and start the supper now?’
‘Just as you wish, dear boy. What are we having?’
‘There’s the fillet steak I’ve been marinating overnight.
We could have a nice green salad with it and I could do some pommes allumettes. We’ve got some fresh fruit for afters. Would that suit you?’
‘It all sounds perfectly delicious.’ Neville patted his hand. ‘Whatever would I do without you?’
‘How’s your flu coming along, Roger?’
Major Cuthbertson rustled his Times. There was no sympathy or concern that he could detect in his wife’s enquiry but that was nothing new.
‘It seems to be on the mend.’
‘That’s good because Mrs Hunter just phoned. She wanted to know if you’d help put out the chairs for the talk on The Dorset of Old next week. And put them away afterwards, of course.’
He turned a page. ‘Wh
at did you say?’
‘I told her that of course you would. That’s right, isn’t it?’ If there was one thing he absolutely hated doing it was heaving chairs around the village hall and being ordered about by a female like Mrs Hunter, who could teach most sergeant majors a thing or two.
The chairs had to be unstacked – wrenched apart from each other like supermarket trolleys – and then set out in perfect rows while Mrs Hunter marched up and down, measuring the space between them with a long stick.
It also meant – even worse – attending a boring talk that would drag on all evening before everyone finally left and the chairs could be carried away and restacked with as much effort as it had been to unstack them.
‘Don’t think I’m up to it, as a matter of fact.’ The major shook his paper again. ‘Still a bit wobbly, you know.’
He’d been trawling the Deaths column for people he knew, running a finger down the names. Poor old ‘Chalky’ White had just dropped off his perch – same age as himself, come to think of it.
His wife said, ‘I hear the new people from Brook House are going to be there. The Hanburys. We met them at that drinks before Christmas – you remember?’
By Jove, he remembered all right! Just moved in and the wife was a stunner. She’d given him the eye when they’d been introduced – no doubt about it. Tipped him the wink, if he wasn’t much mistaken. The major fingered the knot of his tie. Not quite in the class of Lois Delaney, of course, but still a damned good-looker.
THREE SILENT THINGS a cozy murder mystery (Village Mysteries Book 2) Page 18