Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  *

  Sunday was a silver-gilt morning, the fields quilted with frost, spiders’ webs on hawthorn bushes crystallised to white lace. They went for a drive, then coffee at Midham with Robert and his father; it did Helen good to be with them, they were very gallant with her and unfailingly loyal to Reggie.

  Back at Woodside, after lunch, Liz read the papers lazily in front of the fire while Helen rested. They were to entertain friends to tea and when Liz at last roused herself to make preparations it was to discover there was no ice cream. There was everything else: minuscule triangular sandwiches — egg, salmon, cucumber — crustless. Slender wedges of delicious quiche. Scones and raspberry jam and cream. Melting almond slices. The heirloom Richelieu tablecloth, fine as a cobweb, every piece of china transparent as a sea shell. But no ice cream. Helen said it really didn’t matter, but Liz knew how much it meant to her to do everything properly. ‘You know people always expect Bellamy’s ice cream when they come to Hambling. It’s unthinkable nor to at least offer it. I insist on going.’ It would take her no more than twenty minutes, there was plenty of time.

  The early darkness was closing in, shrouded by fog; it was bitterly cold. The lights of Bellamy’s shone warmly across the market square; famous for their home-made ice cream and chocolates, they stayed open on a Sunday all year, even though in winter there were few tourists about.

  Impelled by the thought of guests imminent, Liz rushed in, found herself standing at the counter beside the egregious Melanie Beadnall.

  Liz was damned if she would do more than nod hallo; then there was nothing for it but to stick it out — out of season, no one hurried. Mr Bellamy was in the back, finding something for a patient customer; Mrs Bellamy generally had her leg, served everyone at snail’s pace and went away frequently to sit down. Presumably now.

  At once, Melanie began to talk. She had a quick, soft voice, rushing in and out of giggles; a limpet persistence, pressing ideas, diets, homeopathic remedies, entire modes of life upon people. Rather like Paula. They lived in houses facing across Victoria Square, sat on the same committees, did conspicuous things at the same demonstrations. Loathed one another.

  Liz heard, torrentially, that Mummy was just out of hospital at last, you can’t keep a good girl down — and we’re just on our way now to Pamela’s — she’s having the kiddies — school, you know — then Trevor and I are off to spend a few days with Mummy, soothing the invalid’s fevered brow...

  Liz was by now accustomed to people being embarrassed in her presence; Reggie’s name (Murderer! Suicide!) shrieked unspoken.

  ‘... and of course, daren’t go without Bellamy’s chocs. More than my life’s worth...’

  Perhaps because Liz yawned; perhaps because time waited excruciatingly to be filled and Melanie had exhausted the minutiae of her family’s doings... Amongst a rush of giggles, Melanie said, ‘Er, it was terrible. I’m sorry about — er — Reggie.’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz said neutrally. She knew the giggles were embarrassment but she could scarcely be expected to join in.

  ‘It was odd — seeing her, but of course, everyone said after he was arrest — when he was — um — that he didn’t know her, so who was I to — You know, DAC.’

  Liz glanced sideways, down at the pink, working face. Did it matter what she was dribbling about? An instinct alerted her: it did.

  ‘You know, the scheme for developing Chatfield and surrounding areas. Paula and I are on the committee — well, were, Paula’s not any more, you know her — always other irons in the fire — ’ An indulgent laugh. ‘Well, it looked like her, from those posters they displayed, but as I wasn’t sure... ’

  Liz was trying to put this into sense; she was beginning to grasp what Melanie was saying. There was a slight commotion of movement from the back of the shop coinciding — from outside — with the pip-pip-pip of a car horn.

  ‘Oh, gosh, Trevor — the kiddies — mother’s chocs — ’ Melanie craned this way and that; the delay was not her fault but Trevor was the kind of man who punished his wife for his own impatience. ‘And, I mean, she hardly looked the type to be interested in civic affairs, but it takes all sorts, I always say. Of course, I couldn’t hear what she was saying but she certainly spent enough time on that fascinating display of — Oh, Mrs Bellamy, thank you — ’

  Fumblings, purse, money, while Liz’s mind crashed into gear. Last summer. The exhibition in the shopping mall in Chatfield. Paula — bossing. Reggie and Wilfred — helpers: carrying, setting up stands... ‘Melanie, do you mean this woman was — you saw her with Reggie?’

  ‘Well, she was at your stand and — ’

  Rattling. Trevor rapping on shop door.

  — you utter nerd, why don't you just open it —

  Mrs Bellamy, limping, puzzled. ‘Is it locked? We don’t close till — ’

  Melanie juggled chocolates, handbag, gloves. ‘No, Mrs Bellamy, it’s just my — men are so — aren’t they?’

  ‘Melanie — ’

  ‘Sorry, Liz, must fly.’

  Liz drove back to Woodside trying to make something of it all. Melanie was famously silly, which made it all the more unlikely she would be capable of fabricating the incident. No, it had happened. But what did it mean?

  Back at Woodside the guests had arrived. Tea was a ceremonially social occasion, and a delight to Helen’s heart. It meant a great deal to Liz to be instrumental in it; she put aside her attacks of conscience as she went to the phone time and again, with a medley of excuses, trying to get hold of Paula. She tried after the guests had gone, during supper, when the Dalrymples arrived for whist. At one point she took the opportunity to say to Helen, ‘The weekend’s wonderfully clear of Paula. Do you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘I’m just thanking heaven it’s somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’ Bugger Paula. The only time one had something to say to her she couldn’t be found.

  She went back to the card game, the ivory and gold of the drawing room, the gently enfolding evening. She would try later when she was in her own house. Then, well... she would just have to leave it.

  Twenty

  Recalling Paula’s truculence last time they met, Liz decided to by-pass her and telephone Hunter. It was two days before she could reach him. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance,’ Liz said, ‘but I’ve found out something.’

  ‘Liz, you promised me you wouldn’t do anything.’

  ‘I didn’t, I didn’t. I stood next to a woman in a shop. That’s not doing anything, is it?’

  He laughed, resigned. ‘All right.’

  ‘Her name’s Melanie Beadnall — ’ Briefly, Liz explained Melanie and her circumstances. ‘I saw her on Sunday but she dashed off before I could get anything much out of her. What it is — you know there’s a development scheme for Chatfield and surrounding areas, Hambling included. Last summer there was an exhibition in that big new shopping mall in Chatfield — all sorts of people were represented, historical societies, environmentalists, residents’ associations — ’

  A wave of bafflement, eloquent as words.

  ‘I know this seems utterly irrelevant but honestly, it’s not. Paula was on the committee — well, she's on anything with the word ‘‘action’’ in it. She was mostly concerned with a display to do with Hambling — Hambling as it was, traditions, shops, buildings, businesses — you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hunter said patiently.

  ‘This ghastly Melanie — ’

  ‘You didn’t say she was ghastly.’

  ‘Well, she is — she’s on the committee, too. She was at the exhibition that day and she said Beattie was there.’

  After a momentary silence, Hunter said, ‘Hardly Beattie’s sort of thing.’

  ‘Exactly. What Melanie implies was that she was talking to Reggie, or that she was with Reggie.’

  ‘Hang on, Liz. What was he doing there?’

  ‘Oh, he was always awfully good with all Paula’s demonstrations and things — ’ She had to pause
. The past came hack in a rush: so many times, so many years. Reggie, cheerful and kind and funny — lilting, carrying, setting up, going for sandwiches and coffee, manning stalls without much idea of what he was doing...

  ‘Yes?’ Hunter prompted gently.

  ‘Er — yes. Helping. So that’s why he would have been there, and I’ve been thinking about it, and when it was. Wilfred helped, too. They had rather a mad time, like a couple of schoolboys.’

  ‘Wilfred?’

  ‘An old friend of ours. He lives in Hampshire but he was up here last summer visiting his daughter.’

  Hunter recalled the name, the photograph at Woodside — and hadn’t Annette said he was at Reggie’s funeral? ‘But Melanie didn’t specify who Beattie was talking to? It could have been Paula, or Reggie, or Wilfred.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been trying to work it out. We know why Reggie wouldn’t mention it. And Wilfred, not being local he would never have seen those posters you put out after Beattie’s death, and if he didn’t know her name... But Paula... ’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of her on Sunday, and to be honest I haven’t tried since. Last time I met her she behaved appallingly, I don’t see why I should lay myself open to that again. I think the best way to approach this is through Melanie. Will you... will you go and see her? Ask her about it. Please?’

  ‘Liz, this is pretty thin stuff.’

  ‘I know, I know. But it’s the only thing that’s surfaced and — and it might lead somewhere.’

  He didn’t ask where. ‘She might have made a mistake. She might have invented it.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘People do.’ A world of cynicism. ‘And why did she tell you?’

  Liz didn’t have to think much about that. ‘I’m sure she was just awkward, stuck next to me. I’ve got used to it over these months — people either go to any lengths to avoid mentioning Reggie or can’t stop talking about him. I think she just said whatever came into her head and it was something that had actually happened.’

  ‘All right. I’ll drop in on her, I can’t say when, and don’t get your hopes up. I’ll try and phone you Friday evening.’

  ‘I’ll be at Woodside, it’ll be too difficult to say much.’

  ‘Oh, well. I’ll leave it till Saturday. At least I’ll know you’re with your aunt, not rushing around doing anything daft.’ He gave her his private number — ‘in case you want to talk. And... I see Melanie, there’s a trade-off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I take you out Saturday evening.’

  She thought he was never going to get round to asking.

  *

  The Beadnalls’ house in Victoria Square was gleamingly well-kept. Melanie looked at Hunter as if he had done something nasty in the porch, read his warrant card slowly, her expression pained. ‘What do you want with me?’

  Everything in her attitude told him she had been expecting him and he was the last person she wanted to see; she peered beyond him, avoiding his eyes. ‘Just a few words, a matter of remembering something that happened in the summer. It would help us a great deal if you could spare a little time, but if you’re busy I can come back later — perhaps when your husband’s in?’

  Alarm? Liz had the husband down as a total dork; Hunter wondered if he was bully, too. Melanie Beadnall said, ‘Oh, very well.’ She took him through to the kitchen where she busied herself unfolding a pile of ironing, refolding it garment by garment, carrying each separately to another part of the kitchen. This kept her continually on the move, too distracted by the importance of her task to give him more than minimal attention. As a defensive — or diversionary — tactic it had no effect on Hunter. He sat himself immovably at the kitchen table, ignored her comings and goings and took his time. The big country-style kitchen had all the appurtenances of contemporary living; Melanie was obviously a woman who safely did what everyone else did; had 2.4 children, a high fibre diet, the correct wallpaper, pictures on the corkboard of baby seals being clubbed to death.

  She faltered in her increasingly frantic activity to glance at him; he gave her a pleasant smile, saying nothing. She snapped, ‘I can’t think what I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh, can’t you?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s about last summer’s exhibition in the new shopping mall in Chatfield.’

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘I’m on the action committee, but if it’s anything to do with policy you’d better see our chairperson.’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing like that. I understand that on one occasion during the exhibition, you identified the woman who in October was found — ’

  She moved out of his sight. He sat unmoving; her voice came to him, muttering. ‘It’s that Liz Farrell, I suppose. It was so embarrassing standing next to her in that shop. And she won’t speak. Just stands there, absolute lamp post, looking superior... And all anyone can think of is that idiotic uncle of hers killing... I mean, I didn’t say anything about identifying anyone. I just thought — she seemed to bear a resemblance — ’

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit down and tell me all about it, and then I’ll go away,’ Hunter said comfortably.

  She came cautiously into sight, crumpling something that looked like a vest in her restless hands. She knew when she was beaten. She sat down, sideways, on the edge of a chair, fixing a distraught gaze on the Aga.

  ‘You were there, helping out on the stand... ’

  ‘Giving out leaflets, explaining what would happen if we let these bureaucratic vandals have their way, getting signatures for our petition... And this woman comes along. She was just looking as she passed, out of idle curiosity, not any sort of commitment. Anyone could tell civic awareness didn’t come high on her agenda.’

  ‘By “this woman” you mean the woman who was found drowned at Miller’s Bridge — you recognised her later from the posters we put out?’

  ‘Well... I can’t be sure. It could have been her. I didn’t take much notice, I was talking to a rather nice family who were very keen to support the protests, they had a couple of kiddies the same age as ours — I think it’s so important to let kiddies know from a really early age that their voice counts in the community, don’t you? Anyway, I was occupied but I couldn’t help noticing she just came to a full stop further down the stand, just staring.’

  ‘At what?’ Hunter prompted, when Melanie paused. ‘The display?’

  ‘I — I couldn’t really tell. Then Paula has to put her oar in. Miss Ego Trip. Ready to bore anyone to death with her family snaps.’

  ‘Family snaps?’

  ‘Well, all sorts, old Hambling... I mean, everyone contributed from their own collections. Lots of people have photographs of their forbears, it’s very important to record social history in memorabilia like that. There was just about everything from around Hambling since photography was invented, people at their work, their leisure; weddings, funerals, family groups. And things like old bills and advertisements, pamphlets... all kinds.’

  ‘And do you know what Paula’s contribution was?’

  ‘Huh, I wasn’t interested. Not much as far as I could see. Some of her father’s optician’s shop on the High Street — I don’t know what’s so distinguished about being an optician. Some of the house as it used to be in the twenties or something, all the old codgers of relatives. But can you think of anything more naff than slipping in one taken recently — just because everyone’s dressed in Edwardian clothes, tea in the garden or something. I think she was trying to pass it off as the real thing, only you could tell it wasn’t because it was in colour. Everyone posing about dressed up in those clothes Liz Farrell makes for the dramatic society. Well, I know the Willoughbys are well off, but material possessions don’t give anyone value, do they? As for Helen Willoughby, I’ve never heard such an affected voice in the whole of my life. Paula mimics her, you know, she’s very cruel. And Reggie — good grief — straight out of a nineteen-thirties farce — and look what he’s done. Not that I know any of
them, I mean, they’re not friends — but everyone knows about the Willoughbys — especially now.’

  ‘So this woman started talking to Paula, did she?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what about, I wasn’t standing close, and I was busy with those people, then some friends of theirs came along, so we were all talking. Oh, I don’t know.’ Petulantly, she shrugged off the effort to remember.

  ‘Was anyone else there? Reggie? Their friend?’

  ‘You mean that older man. A real eye for the ladies that one. Well, they were round about but... Oh, I know — Paula and this woman moved away round the side of the stand so they could all have been there for I know. Then Paula pops her head round and says, ‘Cover for me, will you, Melanie? I won’t be long.’ And off she went. I was furious, she’s always doing things like that. And she knew well enough I had to get back to pick up Fiona from her ballet class — ’

  ‘Do you mean she went off with this woman?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about with. I told you they’d gone round the side of the stand and I only saw Paula pop her head round — whether they both went off together — how would I know?’

  ‘Did she say anything when she came back?’

  ‘Came back? You don’t know Paula. When she says “Cover for me,” it means she’s gone for good. Oh, she never came back; just when it was getting desperate Reggie and that other chap turned up, so I could get away. I never stopped to ask anything. Why should I be interested, anyway?’

  ‘Not interested enough to say anything about this when you recognised her from the posters.’

  ‘I didn’t, I never claimed to recognise her. I just thought, later, long after the whole business, that there might be a resemblance. And my husband said I wasn’t to — he told me — I mean, we talked it over and agreed that it’s really nothing at all to do with us. We’re not having the kiddies associated with murder — and suicide — If I thought Liz Farrell would go to the police, I’d never said — I daren’t tell Trevor. You won’t come back, will you? I mean, what does any of it matter now, anyway... ’ Floundering, sheep-like face suddenly twisted, Melanie said, ‘Listen, just because Paula is an acquaintance it doesn’t mean I have anything to do with her family. Let them shit on their own doorstep, they’re not doing it on mine.’