by Anne Morice
I did not disillusion her, but in fact my gaping, halfwitted expression was due not to want of comprehension, but to the simple wonder of dear old, conventional Helena having come up with an analysis which so perfectly matched my own, having reached it moreover from a directly opposite approach.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1
Toby had underestimated Ferdy in one respect, for he repaved the borrowed pound as soon as he returned from London on Thursday evening. In fact, he came straight from the railway station to the Methodist Chapel, arriving there just after the final curtain. I must have looked stunned when he handed over the money, for he said soothingly: “It’s okay; it’s been a profitable day.”
“Oh, that’s good. Were you working?”
“Sort of. I’ve been at Lingfield.”
“Oh, I see! Well, congratulations! Don’t you find it a drag, though, Ferdy, trailing round to all these race meetings without a car?”
“Not a bit. Much less trouble to go by train. They mostly run right up to the course and they’re timed to coincide with the first and last races.”
“Really? That must be convenient. I didn’t know.”
“Well, don’t spread it around, or they’ll start closing down the lines.”
“In the meantime, how will you get home tonight? There’s no train service to Farndale.”
“Well, I can always walk, but as a matter of fact I was hoping to cadge a lift from you,” he replied, with his innocent smile, causing me to wonder whether, after all, there had been some method in the madness of repaying the loan.
“Okay, I suppose it wouldn’t kill me, but you’ll have to wait outside while I change. It’ll take me ten minutes.”
“Right. I’ll nip across to the pub. See you outside.”
Two minutes later there was a knock on the door and he was back:
“Terribly sorry, Tessa, but I’m right out. Think you could lend me thirty pence for a beer?”
“Any news?” he enquired, as we drove out of Storhampton. “How’s my old step-ma doing?”
“I haven’t had an up-to-date bulletin,” I told him. “There hasn’t been time for anything to-day, with two performances to get through, but I met Camilla on her rounds yesterday and she said there hadn’t been any noticeable improvement. They were rather depressed about it.”
“Yes, I’d got as far as that. I spoke to Tilly on the telephone last night and she sounded slightly demented. Kept burbling on about how there hadn’t been any more messages. I never found out what she meant by that because the pips went and I’d used up all my change.”
“Presumably, she meant that Edna hadn’t made another attempt to write anything down.”
“Oh, really? How could she do that, though? I thought she was paralysed?”
“Only on one side. She’s able to use her right hand a little and when I was there, and also once or twice before that, she’d tried to write some sort of message on the pad they keep by her bed. You mean, you didn’t know about that?”
“No, but there’s no reason why I should. They wouldn’t have thought it worth bothering to tell me.”
He made this statement with complete matter-of-factness as though recognising the validity of it, so I did not dispute it either and after a pause for thought he said:
“What kind of stuff was she writing then? About feeling thirsty, things like that?”
“No, nothing so coherent. Just wavery squiggles is all she’s managed so far.”
There was another silence and then Ferdy said gravely: “That’s rough, really rough. Don’t you agree? Must be frustrating for her, I mean. Well, thanks for the lift, Tessa. You’ve saved my life all over again. You can drop me at the gate, if you like.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got to turn somewhere, so I may as well deliver you to your door.”
He was a great one for bobbing up again after the farewells were over and this time he came scooting out of the house, waving his arms in the air, as I was backing up for the second time on the awkward shaped gravel patch in front of the house. I switched off the engine and he cantered over to the car.
“Tilly wants you to come in,” he explained. “That is, if you can spare a few more minutes?”
“Oh, sure! Anything wrong?”
“Plenty. Edna is dead and Camilla’s having hysterics.”
2
“Thank heavens you’re still up,” I said, when I crawled home more than an hour later.
“I am only up because I had to come down,” Toby informed me crossly. “Robin keeps ringing up. I have just put the receiver down for the second time since I went to bed.”
“I’m always telling you you ought to have an extension in your room. You’re as bad as old Benjamin Mortimer. Is Robin all right?”
“Fair to middling. Slightly annoyed to find you still out at one in the morning. He hopes you’re not mixed up in something.”
“His hopes will be dashed. I am mixed up in something.”
“You look as though you were. You must tell me all about it in the morning.”
“Not now?”
“No, in the morning.”
“Edna’s dead.”
“Oh, good!” he said, continuing his relentless ascent to his room.
There was nothing to be done with him in that mood and I followed his example and went to my bedroom. Not to sleep, however, because I had also done Ferdy a slight injustice and, while checking through my diary for the morning’s first appointment, I came across his IOU, which he had not asked me to return. Having crossed out £1 and substituted 30p, I turned it over for a last look at the scrawls on the back and something struck me which I had not noticed before. This was hardly surprising, for I was now looking at it upside down; or rather, as my jaded brain eventually grasped, I could equally well be seeing it the right way up for the very first time. The chances were about even because it was now the first line which was faintly legible, whereas the other two were meaningless.
What kept me awake long after I had gone to bed and switched off the light was the endless and futile struggle to decide whether Edna’s last message had really contained the word, or part word “ell”, or the beginning of the word “will” and, if the latter, whether Tilly’s initial presentation of it had been by accident or design.
3
“Very well, you may tell me about it now, if you insist,” Toby said, when he had fortified himself with eggs and coffee. “I won’t suggest that you begin at the beginning because that might be rather dull, and also it would take far too long. Pick out some of the highlights. How, for example, did you come to be there at all at that time of night?”
When I had explained this, he asked:
“Why was Camilla having hysterics?”
“Because it was all her fault that Edna had died. Or so she said. Even when she’d calmed down a bit, she still managed to make a big production of it. Insisted on going alone to Edna’s room, to ask forgiveness and say her last goodbyes in private. Did you ever hear of such affected nonsense?”
“No, but I congratulate you! That’s what I call a highlight. More than one, in fact.”
“Of low candle power, however, because she didn’t confess to having waltzed around as a phantom, dressed up in granny’s mink. What it boiled down to was a small case of neglect on her part.”
“How small?”
“Well, you see, the nurse went off duty at six and then Tilly took over until nine. They’d arranged that after that Camilla and Bernard should share the watch until midnight, either together or in turns. Tilly was going to be on duty for the rest of the night. They’d rigged up a camp bed for her, so that at least she could lie down, but you can see that, as usual, she was taking the lion’s share, and that’s why Camilla feels so rotten about letting her down. Or so she says.”
“You don’t seem to place much reliance on the poor girl’s word.”
“Well, hers is the line which anyone would be well advised to take if their conscience was trou
bling them, and it might be true and it might not. She’s got Bernard to back her up in parts of her story, but I don’t set much store by that, do you?”
“None whatever, but I’m regretting that I didn’t ask you to start at the beginning, after all. It is now dawning on me that, as well as being rather confusing, this way may take even longer.”
“It began at nine o’clock last night, when Camilla reported for duty. She and Bernard had dined together and Tilly had hers on a tray. Then Bernard slunk off to watch a television programme, telling Camilla that he’d be up fairly soon to keep her company. There’d been no change in Edna’s condition and no flashes of awareness, so it was just a matter of sweating it out during each shift. Tilly wasn’t in the mood for television, so she went to her room to write letters, and poor Camilla naturally got very bored all on her own and forbidden even to read because of having to keep the room in darkness; and what with all that torture and also being so absolutely exhausted after her hard day’s work, she pretty soon fell asleep.”
“Or so she says?”
“Or so she says. She also says that she woke up in a fearful fright, absolutely convinced that there was a third person in the room. As a matter of fact, I’ve often had that sensation myself, haven’t you? Camilla says it was so strong this time that it took her a while to snap out of it and get herself together again. When she’d done so, she went over to the bed, but there seemed to be nothing going on there, and it was while she was groping her way back to her chair that she realised the door was shut and that really threw her.”
“Oh, do tell me why?”
“Well, it’s always left open, you see; for several reasons, actually. One is that it’s a creaky old door which makes a hell of a noise when you open it, another that it makes it easier for anyone who’s looking after the patient to call for help in an emergency, but I think the main one is that it does provide a little indirect light from the landing, but not enough to upset Edna.”
“I see; so what did Camilla do next?”
“She opened the door and went out on to the landing, but there was no one there, so she concluded the draught must have blown it shut. She knew she wasn’t supposed to leave her post for an instant, but, having gone so far, she simply couldn’t resist the impulse to tell Bernard about her nasty fright, only unfortunately that resulted in her getting a much worse one. When she reached the top of the stairs she distinctly heard the click of the front door.”
“Or so she says?”
“Quite so. It gets more bizarre by the minute, doesn’t it? She knew it couldn’t have been Bernard going out because she could hear the television going, although what that’s supposed to prove I really couldn’t say.”
“It could have been Tilly, I daresay; making a trip down to the pillar box with all those letters?”
“No, because Tilly was having a bath. Camilla could hear the water running. That bit, at least, was true because it was the element which added so much to the chaos and mayhem when the hysterics began; Tilly trying to calm her down, I mean, while dripping wet and wrapped in a bath towel.”
“Am I to understand that Camilla went into hysterics because her governess was having a bath?”
“No, on the contrary, that seems to have cheered her up a lot; everything nice and normal again. So much so that she began to think the rest of it had been part of a dream and that it was probably high time she returned to her charge, before anyone discovered her skipping about on the landing.”
“But too late? The patient had been gathered, I take it?”
“Correct!”
“Very distressing, I can see that, but was there really any need for such violent reaction? They must all have been expecting it?”
“Well, apparently, it wasn’t one of those nice gentle deaths; sweet old lady slipping away with an expression of deep peace, or anything of that kind. This one had her eyes wide open and her mouth stretched into a kind of snarl. So it can’t have been very pleasant for the poor girl, but if you ask me she was laying it on a bit strong mainly to escape the awkward questions. After all, if someone is bawling and moaning that it’s all their fault, even if you’re inclined to agree and half suspect her of telling a bucketful of lies, it usually ends with patting her on the head and insisting that she has nothing to reproach herself with. At any rate, that was certainly Tilly’s reaction.”
“Whereas you, lacking such a charitable nature, question whether she fell asleep at all? You think it more in character for her and Bernard to have held a pillow over Edna’s head?”
“God knows, Toby, and even if He were to tell us, it wouldn’t help much. How right you were to warn me that if there were any sharp practice involved in this one there would never be a hope of proving it, far less of finding out who was responsible.”
“To which, if I remember, you retorted with some rather high flown sentiments about beauty being truth, truth beauty.”
“There now! Did I really? I never knew I had such stuff in me. Well, perhaps I should make an effort to live up to it. After all, the story isn’t finished yet, is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Certainly not. We still have to find out what becomes of all the money. Who can say what new fields may be opened up for us when we learn about Edna’s will?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was unremarkable in every way except one. Every moral and family obligation had been faithfully discharged, an exactly suitable sum bequeathed to the most respectable of local and national charities, and the single surprise lay in its being so just and fair, which was something which no one who knew her would ever have looked for in Edna.
The essence of the matter was that Tilly and Alice each received a lump sum, Alice getting an added bonus in the form of jewellery and personal belongings, the residue being divided equally between Ferdy and Camilla.
This much was known to everyone in the Mortimer circle within forty-eight hours, but I heard the details a day or two later from Vi and Marge, when I visited them at the Art Exhibition, which was housed in the Town Hall basement. We were by then half way through the second week of the Festival and of the ninety or so paintings and sculptures on display less than a third had been sold. Most of the remainder were to be returned to their owners, but a handful of the artists concerned had consented to their works being auctioned off on the closing day, from which they were to receive ten per cent of the price, the rest going into the Festival kitty. Out of this lot, one painting had been set aside for first prize in a raffle, inevitably organised and operated by Vi and Marge, and they had invited me to attend the closing ceremony, when I was to pick a ticket from the drum and, after a hushed pause, hand the prize over to the lucky winner.
It had not struck me as being a particularly complicated or demanding task, but Tara Goodchild, who was never one to over-estimate other people’s abilities, had considered it desirable that I should be primed and rehearsed in advance.
She was sitting between them when I arrived, behind a trestle table which was set out, in rather optimistic fashion with books of tickets and large tin cash boxes, and she was wearing a flimsy, washed out mauve and green sari, under a thick brown, handknitted cardigan. It was both dank and sombre in these nether regions and she had managed to reflect the prevailing atmosphere to perfection.
The prize painting was on an easel beside the table. It was a view of the river from Storhampton bridge, in water colour, and I was about to remark that, far from being a lucky winner, only a lunatic would have invested the price of a single ticket in such a monstrosity, when it occurred to me just in time that it had most likely been selected for the honour by Tara herself, if not indeed executed by her. The river was depicted as muddy grey, all the trees a limp and pallid green and the church steeple sticking up through the middle of them was dark brown, the whole effect being extremely fuzzy and depressing.
Needless to say, business was not brisk and they offered me some coffee, to fortify me for the run-through of the prize giving
routine. I could not imagine where it would come from, so accepted out of curiosity, whereupon Tara dived into a shopping basket and brought out four cardboard cups, a jar of instant coffee, milk, sugar, and spoons and a thermos of hot water, all proof of her amazing, highly praised efficiency. She also handed me my speech of congratulation to the winning entrant.
As I had expected, it consisted of the conventional trite phrases, with a couple of feeble jokes thrown in, but there was one allusion in it which mystified me:
“Who is this celebrated local artist, A. Dilloway, to whom we express our sincere thanks for this most generous gift?” I enquired. “I never heard of him in my life.”
“Oh yes, you have,” Marge said, “and it’s not a him, it’s a her.”
“Oh? Still doesn’t help, I’m afraid.”
“Well, think of all the people you’ve been hearing about lately whose names begin with A.”
I struggled to do so, but could only produce one:
“You wouldn’t be referring to Edna’s sister, Alice?”
“Right first time!”
“You don’t tell me! I never heard her surname before; and I didn’t know she was . . . artistic.”
“Well, you know now,” Marge said with a heavy wink. “And, of course, these days she can afford to give her wares away to charity, frames and all.”
I stood up to get a better view of the painting, which turned out to be more hideous still at close quarters. I gazed at it in mute horror, until Tara said:
“Do you admire this picture so much then?”
“What? Oh well, you know, I mean, it’s unusual, isn’t it?”