Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

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  Wake the Dead

  An Inspector Thanet Mystery

  Dorothy Simpson

  To Margaret and Brian,

  whose courage and devotion were

  an example to us all.

  ONE

  They were all three pretending to watch television while they waited. It was a sitcom, but none of them was laughing.

  Thanet glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. Enough was enough. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’

  Ben jumped up with alacrity. ‘Good. I’m starving.’ He followed Joan into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll open the wine.’ Thanet crossed to the window for one last glance down the empty street before going into the dining room where the bottle of 1986 Chablis Leclos which he had been saving for just such an occasion stood in the cooler on the festive table. Snowy-white tablecloth, best cutlery and crystal glasses had been brought out for this special meal to celebrate the end of Ben’s O level examinations. Where on earth were Bridget and Alexander, this new boyfriend of hers they’d heard so much about?

  By now anger at their lateness was beginning to give way to anxiety. They should have been here long since – between seven and eight, Bridget had said. How safe a driver was Alexander? On a Friday evening the motorway from London was always crowded, but surely by now the traffic should have eased. Thanet hoped the meal was not spoiled. Joan had taken so much trouble over it. With Bridget a newly fledged Cordon Bleu professional cook working in the directors’ dining room of a firm of London stockbrokers, her mother always felt she had to try to match her daughter’s standards on occasions such as this.

  The phone rang. Thanet got there first.

  ‘Dad? It’s me. Alexander’s only just arrived, he got held up at the office. We’re leaving now, so we should be there between half past nine and ten. Thought I’d better let you know, in case you were worried.’

  ‘Right.’

  Something in his tone must have alerted her. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? Dad?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  But try as he might the note of false assurance came through. And Bridget, of course, knew him only too well.

  ‘You haven’t waited supper for us, have you? Oh, don’t tell me Mum cooked a special meal!’

  Thanet knew he shouldn’t say it, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘Well, Ben took the last of his O levels today …’ There was no need to say any more. Bridget, he knew, would immediately envisage the whole scenario.

  ‘Oh, no … Dad, I am sorry.’

  ‘We should have told you. But you were so sure you’d be here between seven and eight …’

  ‘And of course, Mum wanted it to be a surprise.’

  Thanet now felt guilty at having made Bridget feel guilty. It wasn’t her fault, after all. He tried to ignore the small, critical voice which insisted, She could have rung earlier. ‘Never mind. As long as you’re all right. We were just beginning to get a bit concerned, I must admit.’

  ‘Oh Dad, I’m sorry, I really am. I should have rung earlier. It’s just that I thought there wasn’t much point until Alexander actually got here.’

  ‘Not to worry. We’ll keep something hot for you.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. It’ll be so late. Alexander said we’ll pick up something on the way.’

  ‘Right. See you later, then.’

  Thanet recounted the conversation to the others.

  ‘She could have let us know earlier,’ grumbled Ben.

  ‘She realises that now. She said so.’

  ‘And why couldn’t Alexander have rung her, if he knew he was going to be late?’

  ‘Food!’ said Joan, whisking plates into the dining room.

  The prospect cheered them all up, the reality completed the process. Joan had excelled herself and Thanet couldn’t help wishing that Bridget had been here to appreciate the fact: home-made pâté with wafer-thin curls of crisp melba toast; baked salmon stuffed with monkfish mousse in lobster sauce; bite-sized new potatoes in their jackets; mangetout peas, fresh broad beans and a delicious mélange of peppers, courgettes and mushrooms; then, to crown it all, a summer pudding stuffed with raspberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants, served with that most delectable of forbidden delights, fresh cream. And the wine was, they all agreed, superb.

  By the time they heard a car pull up outside the mellowing process was complete.

  ‘There they are.’ Ben jumped up and went to the window. ‘Wowwwww,’ he breathed, his eyes opening wide in astonishment and admiration.

  Thanet and Joan looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Ben was at an age when it was considered sophisticated to remain unimpressed by more or less everything.

  ‘What?’ Curiosity drove them both to join him at the window.

  Ben was still gaping. ‘A Porsche! She didn’t tell us he had a Porsche!’

  Thanet blinked. Ben was right. There it was, a sleek red low-slung schoolboy’s dream, parked incongruously in their suburban drive behind the modest Astra provided for Joan by the Probation Service. And just getting out were Bridget and the much-vaunted Alexander. Thanet had no more than a fleeting impression of someone tall and fair before Joan tugged both him and Ben away from the window. ‘Come on, stop goggling, you two! Your eyes are sticking out like chapel hat-pegs!’

  They all went into the hall to greet them and a moment later the two young people came in in a flurry of apologies.

  Hugs all round from Bridget and introductions made, Alexander handed Joan the tall gift-wrapped package he had been carrying in the crook of one arm. ‘I’m terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mrs Thanet. Brig tells me you cooked a special dinner.’

  A plummy accent, Thanet noted, as Joan’s eyes lit up with surprise and pleasure. And ‘Brig’! Thanet suppressed the irrational spurt of indignation that this boy had already coined a special nickname for Bridget.

  Alexander listened to Joan’s It-really-doesn’t-matter murmurs before turning to Thanet. ‘I really must apologise, sir. Something came up at work and it simply couldn’t wait until Monday.’

  Sir! Thanet couldn’t recall ever having been addressed thus before by the various young men Bridget had brought home over the past eighteen months. His hand was taken in a firm grip and two piercingly blue eyes met his in a gaze of unwavering sincerity. He could see why Bridget was so taken by Alexander. He was tall, well built and undeniably handsome, with regular features, fresh complexion and a thatch of golden curls. His clothes were casual but elegant: designer jeans and Boss T-shirt. He was older than Thanet had expected, twenty-seven or -eight, perhaps. Thanet suppressed a qualm of unease: altogether too experienced and sophisticated for Bridget, surely? He murmured an appropriate response.

  Alexander turned to Ben. ‘I do hope we didn’t ruin your celebration. You took your last O level today, I gather?’

  Bridget waited for Ben’s reply and then said, ‘Go on, Mum, open it!’

  They all watched while Joan removed the wrapping paper. ‘Oh, look!’ she breathed. ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’

  And there was no denying that it was, a handsome deep blue hydrangea with five blooms so perfect that they looked almost unreal.

  Bridget and Alexander beamed.

  ‘I’ve got a plant pot exactly that colour,’ said Joan. ‘It’s in the cupboard under the
stairs.’

  The pot was produced, the hydrangea placed ceremonially in the centre of the hall table and then they all moved into the sitting room. Coffee was poured and they settled down to talk. Over the next hour or two Thanet’s misgivings intensified. Alexander was patently out of their class. He was, as Thanet knew, a stockbroker, and it now emerged that he had been to Winchester and Oxford, having taken a year out (financed by ‘the parents’, as he put it) to travel around the world. You name it and it seemed that Alexander had done it, from crossing the Sahara in a jeep to backpacking in the Andes. Thanet watched Bridget listening to these traveller’s tales with shining eyes and wondered: was this self-possessed and confident young man what he wanted for his daughter? Not, he acknowledged with an inward sigh, that it would make any difference what he wanted. Bridget would make up her own mind and they would have to go along with it.

  Are you kind? he said silently to Alexander. Are you considerate? Would you be faithful to her, good to her when things go badly? What sort of values have you got?

  He confided his unease to Joan later, when they were in bed.

  ‘You’re rather jumping the gun, aren’t you?’

  ‘I can’t help thinking that way, whenever she brings someone home.’

  ‘There’s no reason to believe they’re serious. To be honest, he struck me as the sort of young man who enjoys having a good time. I shouldn’t think he’d be ready to settle down yet. And Bridget is only nineteen, far too young to be thinking about getting married.’

  ‘And that’s another thing. He’s much older than I expected.’

  Joan rolled over to kiss him. ‘Stop worrying!’

  ‘You haven’t told me what you thought of him, yet.’

  She sighed. ‘I can understand what she sees in him, of course, but …’

  ‘So there is a “but”!’

  ‘Can’t we talk about this in the morning, Luke? I’m so tired.’

  He was immediately contrite. Joan had worked all day, then produced that wonderful meal … ‘I’m sorry, love. Of course. At least I haven’t got to go to work tomorrow, so I won’t disturb you getting up early. You can have a lie-in.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ she said sleepily.

  But for once it looked as though his free weekend really was going to be free. They all got up late, had a leisurely breakfast, then Bridget and Alexander announced that they were going to Rye for the day. Ben had plans of his own and Thanet and Joan had arranged to go along that afternoon and support the annual village fête in Thaxden, where Joan’s mother lived. She had made an excellent recovery from her heart attack the previous year and as usual was helping on a stall.

  ‘Wonderful day for it,’ said Joan as they set off.

  And it was. The sky was an unbroken blue and the July sun sufficiently strong for heatwaves to shimmer above the tarmac.

  Thanet nodded. ‘They should get a lot of people there.’

  The Thaxden Fête was held annually at Thaxden Hall, home of the local MP, Hugo Fairleigh. As village fêtes go it was an elaborate affair, and usually raised large sums of money. The previous year over four thousand had been donated to various local charities and this year they were hoping to exceed that sum. Thanet thought they had a good chance; the proposed hospice in Sturenden was a popular cause.

  By the time Thanet and Joan arrived at 2.30 the fête was in full swing. No-parking cones lined the road through the village and a uniformed policeman was directing the traffic into a large field opposite the Hall. Hundreds of cars were already parked there and more were arriving all the time. Families were heading purposefully for the tall gates across the road, where gaily coloured bunting fluttered above a huge sign slung from tree to tree over the entrance. ‘THAXDEN FETE. IN AID OF THE STURRENDEN HOSPICE APPEAL.’ The blaring music of a fairground organ added to the general air of festivity.

  ‘Looks promising,’ said Joan.

  ‘Certainly does. What time did it start?’

  ‘Two o’clock. Jill Cochrane was opening it.’

  Jill Cochrane was a well-known local television personality who was always generous of her time in supporting charitable events.

  Pausing for a moment to admire the gaudily painted organ which stood just inside the gates, they strolled up the drive towards the front of the house, whose originally classic Georgian façade with five windows above and two either side of the porticoed front door below had, in Thanet’s view, been spoiled by the later addition of two wings of unequal size at each end. He said so, to Joan. ‘If it were mine, I’d have them down.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you would, you know. Very few people will actually sacrifice existing space, unless they have to.’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know … Look at that!’

  In front of the house a lovingly restored World War Two Spitfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd. Its owner stood alongside, answering questions. Two old metal fire-buckets stood nearby and people were tossing coins into them. Thanet admired the plane for a while, added his contribution, and then he and Joan began to work their way around the stalls and sideshows which encircled both lawns on either side of the drive and spread around the back of the house.

  ‘Look, there’s Mum.’ Joan waved and headed for the WI stall, where Margaret Bolton and two other women were doing a brisk trade in home-made cakes, biscuits, jams and chutneys.

  ‘Just as well I saved one for you,’ she said, bending down to pick up a luscious-looking chocolate gâteau. ‘We’ve practically sold out of cakes already.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Joan. ‘Makes your mouth water to look at it, doesn’t it, Luke?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Thanet was abstracted. He had just spotted Hugo Fairleigh, who was clearly fulfilling the host’s duty of escorting Jill Cochrane around the fête.

  ‘She looks stunning, doesn’t she?’ said Joan, following his gaze.

  Jill was wearing a beautifully cut sleeveless linen sheath in a pale cucumber green.

  ‘Yes.’ Thanet’s reply was automatic. Eye-catching though she was, it wasn’t Jill who had captured his attention. He was wondering why Hugo Fairleigh was looking so – what was the word? – disconcerted, yes, that was it. The MP was watching someone or something intently and Thanet tried to work out who or what it was, but it was hopeless, there were so many people milling about.

  Joan was handing over money for the cake. ‘Could you hold on to it for me, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘See you afterwards, then.’

  They had arranged to go to Mrs Bolton’s house for supper.

  Half an hour later Thanet was trying his hand, unsuccessfully, at the coconut shy.

  ‘Inferior biceps brachii,’ murmured a voice in his ear, just as he released his last ball.

  It went wide of its mark.

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ he said, turning around. He knew who it was, of course.

  Doctor Mallard, the police surgeon, and Helen his wife were standing beside Joan. All three were smiling.

  ‘I challenge you to do better!’

  Mallard shook his head. ‘I’m past it, I’m afraid. Twenty years ago I’d have taken you up on that. But now, well, a nice cup of tea would be more in my line. What do you say?’

  Joan and Helen consulted each other with a glance, smiled and nodded. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Good.’

  The small marquee where the teas were being served had been erected on the back lawn, presumably so that water was readily available from the Fairleighs’ kitchen, and tables and chairs had been set up in front of it.

  ‘Looks as though we’ll have to wait,’ said Thanet. ‘They’re all full.’

  ‘No, look.’ Joan pointed. ‘Those people there are just going. And the table’s in the shade.’

  ‘We’ll go and sit down,’ said Helen. ‘You get the tea.’

  ‘What would you like to eat, love?’ said Mallard.

  ‘Oh, just a scone, I think. What about you, Joan?’

  ‘The same.’
She grinned. ‘But you two men can indulge yourself in cakes, if you like.’

  There was a short queue and Mallard insisted on paying. ‘My invitation, my treat.’

  They carried the tea tray across to the welcome shade and settled themselves with the women. Mallard took an appreciative sip. ‘Ah, this is the life,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Beautiful day, beautiful surroundings …’ He glanced from Joan to Helen. ‘Beautiful women …’

  ‘My word, you are in a good mood today, James,’ said Joan, smiling.

  ‘And why not? What more could I want, I ask myself?’ He patted Helen’s hand and they exchanged smiles.

  So did Thanet and Joan. They never ceased to marvel at the transformation in Mallard since his second marriage. During the years following the death of his first wife from a slow, lingering cancer, they had wondered if Mallard would ever recover. The cheerful, dapper little man who sat with them this afternoon was scarcely recognisable as the testy, scruffy figure who at that time seemed certain to live out his life entrenched in a bitterness from which nothing could save him.

  Until Helen had come on the scene, that is. Thanet, who had known Mallard since childhood, would always be grateful to her for rescuing his old friend – and grateful, too, for what she had done for Bridget. Helen Mallard was a well-known writer of cookery books and throughout Bridget’s adolescence had helped and encouraged her in her ambition to follow a career in cookery.

  It was as if she had tuned in to his thoughts.

  ‘How’s Bridget?’ she asked.

  Thanet noticed Hugo Fairleigh come out of the house and hurry on to the lawn, looking about him purposefully. He seemed agitated.

  It was Joan who answered. ‘Home this weekend, as a matter of fact. With the latest boyfriend.’ Joan pulled a face. ‘Luke’s not too keen.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mallard. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘Too –’ He broke off. Fairleigh’s gaze had focused on Mallard and now he was coming towards them.

  Mallard, Helen and Joan turned to see what had captured his attention.

  ‘Doctor Mallard …’