by Hazel Holt
‘What’s this?’ I read aloud:
“The wise solicitor requires
To know the gist of Rouse-v-Squires
And also that renowned brain-teaser
Quoted in The Oropesa.
Of these twain, the legal meaning
Is the New Cause Intervening.
You’ll also need a knowledge thorough
Of Lamb-v-Camden London Borough
(Which should not confused be
With Tate and Lyle-v-GLC.)” ’
‘I have to do something to pound all those dreadful cases into my head.’
‘I like this one:
“A maxim based on cases plenty,
Injuria non fit volenti,
Means that should a man consent, he
Gives away his right to sue
(An injudicious thing to do).”
‘You ought to put them all together in a little book and get it printed by one of those law publishers in Chancery Lane. I’m sure generations of law students would rise up and call you blessed!’
‘I did another one this morning, it’s much more fun than revising. Do you want to hear it?’
‘Go on.’
‘ “All of tort is founded on
Donaghue-v-Stevenson:
If you’d plead on Negligence
(Or for the plaintiff or defence)
You must learn its weighty moral,
Treasure it like gold or coral.
Negligence you must know pat:
Negligence is where it’s at.
Yeasty, fizzy, full of bounce–
Believe me, it’s the tort that counts.” ’
I laughed. ‘Oh dear, Pa would have loved that! Still, come along; what do you want to do? Landlord and tenant? Or inheritance?’
I opened the folder and we got to work.
The rest of the summer simply rushed by and Michael went back to London with a case of clean laundry and lots of ticked-off entries in his Good Beer Guide. I settled down to the usual autumnal tasks of making apple chutney with windfalls – the smell of boiling vinegar seemed to permeate the whole house – and washing summer clothes and putting them away in suitcases under the beds because there never seemed to be enough space in any of the wardrobes.
Apart from a few senior citizens on Special Offer Autumn Breaks, Taviscombe emptied of visitors and became a reasonable place to live in again. I met Rosemary in a strangely peaceful Woolworths and said, ‘Isn’t it lovely to have the town to ourselves again! No endless queues in the supermarket, no finding the shelves stripped of bread at weekends.’
‘I know. It’s been worse than ever this year. I wish I was rich enough to go to somewhere like Iceland all summer!’
‘How are Jilly and the baby?’
‘Marvellous. She’s managing very well and dear Roger’s so good, far better than Jack ever was. They came down last weekend, just for the day, to see Mother, who was beginning to make umbrage-taking noises.’
‘I gather she’s back home again now?’
‘Oh, yes. I think the relief was mutual when she left West Lodge! She likes to make brief forays there, but while Mrs Jankiewicz reigns supreme she wouldn’t go in there permanently.’
‘How did they get on?’
‘There was a sort of icy protocol. Throne spake unto throne and all that sort of thing. But I think Mrs Jankiewicz had the upper hand. Her intelligence system is even better than Mother’s and, being Polish, she has the advantage of pretending not to understand anything she doesn’t want to hear. It infuriated Mother.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, I’d back Mrs Jankiewicz against all comers, especially since she has a very highly developed sense of justice which gives her a moral superiority as well.’
‘Still no word of Mrs Rossiter I suppose? I gather Mrs Wilmot is still keeping her room free – another sore point with Mother. But it seems a very forlorn hope now. Poor soul, it really is terribly sad.’
‘I miss her very much. I hadn’t realised what a big part of my life she was. Childhood memories, I suppose, and her being such a friend of my mother...’
‘Have you heard anything from Thelma?’
‘I had a postcard of the Manhattan skyline, so I gather she’s been in New York. But she hasn’t been down here. Or, if she has, she hasn’t been in touch with me.’
‘What about the glamorous young man?’
‘With her in New York, I imagine.’
‘Goodness, what exciting lives some people do lead!’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I don’t think it would suit me. Think of the strain of always having to look your best, even when you’d rather just slump and put your feet up!’
‘You’re right, of course, but I can’t help feeling that there must be a happy medium. There really ought to be more to life than trailing round Woolworths trying to find where they’ve hidden what used to be called the haberdashery. I mean, should actually finding a card of hooks and eyes and some knicker elastic be the pinnacle of human achievement?’
I went home and tried to justify my own existence by doing some work – making a start on a paper I was supposed to be giving to the Victorian Society on Mary Cholmondeley’s novel Red Pottage – but my thoughts kept straying. For some reason I couldn’t get out of my mind the picture of Mrs Rossiter’s room at West Lodge and her few remaining possessions: the desk, the footstool, the French clock, the watercolour and the ivory gazelle. No, the gazelle wasn’t there any longer. Had it been stolen? Or had Mrs Rossiter taken it with her that day when she went to Taunton? And if so, why? Certainly she could have done. It was small enough to go into her handbag. But what would she have taken it for? Not to sell it, she didn’t need the money. To give to someone, then? Not to Thelma, who would have asked for it if she’d wanted it, as she’d taken everything else she wanted when the Manor House was given up. Perhaps for Alan, then, since it might have African connections. But it wasn’t the sort of object I could connect with Alan – unless it was to pacify him after their previous, unhappy meeting. Mrs Rossiter was all too experienced in pacifying the irate, in making the first gesture, in giving way. Or it could have been a gift to his American friend.
Tris and Tessa burst in through the open French windows after a boisterous game in the garden and lay panting at my feet. Sighing, I got up to get their water bowls. As I tucked Tessa’s ears into her collar so that she wouldn’t trail them in the water, I thought that the gazelle might just as easily have been a gift for Simon, a sweet and affectionate gesture that would have been typical of her. But each of these theories meant that Mrs Rossiter had met either Thelma or Alan on the day that she disappeared and that she had been murdered by one of her own children.
In some agitation I walked up and down the room, the dogs looking at me curiously, as I tried, in a physical way, to shake off such ideas. They were too preposterous, too unthinkable, or, as my mind began to accept the possibility, too unbearable. What was the alternative? Who else could have killed her? Not Marion – I was utterly positive of that – or Van. That left Annie Fisher and her brother, and the possibility that they had persuaded her to go away with them to Australia. It would have to have been planned in secret because of Thelma, who would certainly have put a stop to it if she had known about it. Mrs Rossiter would have had to pretend that she was coming back from Taunton that day, but – and here a bit of the jigsaw seemed to pop into place – she had taken the gazelle with her because it was the only thing from her past life that was portable. I was so pleased with that thought that I found myself looking at the Fisher theory with something like approval. Yes, surely that’s what had happened. No nonsense about matricide. Quite simply, Mrs Rossiter had decided that anything was better than living out the rest of her life at West Lodge, and Annie had at least shown her a kind of affection by her years of devotion. Perhaps Mrs Rossiter believed that Annie was the only person who had ever really cared for her. Soon, perhaps, word would come from Australia – she would need to have money transferred out there – and ev
erything would be made clear.
Resolutely I wrenched my mind away from the problem and went back to my typewriter. The dogs, resting their heads on their paws, resigned themselves to an afternoon of sleep.
Chapter Eleven
We get only one post a day now. It used to be two, and my mother said that before the war there were four, the last one at nine o’clock at night. Still, it could be worse; at least the letters are actually delivered to the door and we don’t have to have those hideous mail-boxes by the front gate like the Americans.
I was sitting idly wondering whether to eat the second slice of toast or give it to the birds when I heard the letters plop into the basket. The basket beneath the letter box is a legacy of the time when Tris was a puppy and each morning saw an exciting race into the hall to see who got to the letters first. He still rushes out when he hears the post but now he is content to sit looking up at the basket waiting hopefully for the letters to drop through the mesh on to the floor. He was in the hall this morning, but Tessa (I could tell from the strange sounds coming from the kitchen) was too busily occupied nudging her bowl around the floor in an attempt to reach the last crumbs of breakfast to join him as she sometimes does.
I took the post back to the dining room and poured myself another cup of coffee. It was a varied collection. There was a postcard of Delphi from my cousin Lorna, an invitation to a conference on Nineteenth-century Historical Novelists, a note from my optician to say that my new reading glasses were ready, and a letter from Michael. This last item was so unusual (he favours the telephone as a means of communication) that I pushed the others to one side half-read and tore it open.
Dearest Ma,
I Take Up My Pen to tell you about Something Very Odd Indeed.
To begin, as they say, at the beginning. I had to go to the Dark Tower (the Law Society Library to you) to look something up in Tolley on Inheritance – some Swine has made away with the College Library copy. As you know I hardly ever venture through those dreaded portals. Actually, I nearly didn’t make it this time, because they don’t let you in unless you’re wearing a tie. Fortunately I remembered in time and nipped into that rather grand gents’ outfitters just round the corner and bought myself a nice little striped number – I think it’s the Brigade of Guards or something because the porter at the Dark Tower was quite civil for once and didn’t even go through my tatty old briefcase with a fine-tooth comb as he did the only other time I ventured in there.
You know what libraries are like. I had to wait ages before they got Tolley for me and while I was waiting I leafed through the odd journal – not very riveting – the London Gazette (published by Authority, whoever that may be) doesn’t seem to have any film reviews. It’s mostly lists of bankruptcies, windings up of companies, lists of wills – general death and disaster, not much there of what you might call Good News. They have a list of people who’ve died and the solicitors acting for them and I was just casting my eye over them to see if Pa’s old firm was doing any decent business these days when I came across an entry that read: ‘Edith Mary Rossiter (née Westlock) died October 15th. Solicitors: Cowley, Grey and Thomas, Coleford, Glos.’ It must be the same one, don’t you think? But what on earth was she doing in Gloucestershire and with new solicitors, too!
Anyway, for what it’s worth, there you are. Poor old Mrs R. I hope you manage to find out what happened. I suppose Messrs C.G. and T. will be in touch with Horrible Thelma – that is, if she didn’t change her will – so you should hear why on earth Mrs R. ended up there on the edge of the world. Let me know – I’d like to hear the end of the story.
Better get on with some revision, I suppose – exams next week. Though first, since cousin Hilary’s off gallivanting again, I must go down and feed Tish, Tosh and Tush.
Love from your Afft. Son, Michael
At first I couldn’t take in what Michael’s letter had said and I had to read it several times before I accepted the fact that Mrs Rossiter was undoubtedly dead. Coleford. The name rang a bell. Years ago when Peter and I stayed for a few days at Monmouth, we had driven through the Forest of Dean and I seemed to remember we stopped at Coleford to find a post office to buy some stamps for our postcards. A small town, workaday, unremarkable, with no noticeably picturesque features – I could think of no reason why Mrs Rossiter should have visited it.
And why should she have made a new will? At least I supposed it was a new one, since they were new solicitors. My thoughts flew to Thelma. If Mrs Rossiter had died nearly three weeks ago then presumably Messrs Cowley, Grey and whatever had got in touch with her by now. And if Thelma had been told about the will then she would now know the circumstances of her mother’s death, so why hadn’t she telephoned to tell me about it? Of course, if she hadn’t been left anything in a new will, then she might not have heard anything at all.
I got up from the table and went to get my handbag. As I rootled about in its depths to find Thelma’s card with her office telephone number, I wondered briefly and maliciously what Thelma would do if she had been cut out of her mother’s will.
I dialled the number and was put through to Thelma’s secretary – no, Personal Assistant – whose bright efficiency made me stumble over my enquiry.
‘Mrs Douglas isn’t here right now. Can I help you?’
‘It’s a personal matter,’ I said rather stiffly. ‘When will she be back?’
The voice relented slightly and became more human. ‘Well, actually, Mrs Malory, she’s had to go back to New York. She’ll be there for about six weeks.’
‘When did she go?’
‘Nearly a month ago.’
‘I see.’
Thelma could have gone, then, before the solicitor’s letter arrived. But Gordon would surely know something.
‘Can I speak to Mr Douglas, then?’ I asked.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Malory, but he’s in Milan and won’t be back until next week.’
‘I see. Oh well, it will have to wait until Mrs Douglas is back, then.’
‘I’ve made a note of your call, Mrs Malory, and Mrs Douglas will have it the moment she gets back. Meanwhile if there’s anything I can do, please do ring on this extension and ask for Trish.’
So I was no further forward. All day I turned over in my mind theories, some prosaic, some wildly fantastic, as to how Mrs Rossiter had ended up in Coleford. By the evening I knew what I was going to do. The very next day I was going to Coleford to find out somehow how Mrs Rossiter had died.
I rang Michael and told him what I had decided. ‘I know the solicitors won’t be able to tell me anything about her affairs,’ I said, ‘but surely, if I explain the very unusual circumstances, they might give me an address or something.’
‘If it’s quite a small firm,’ Michael said, ‘and if you can find a young assistant solicitor who’s still wet behind the ears, and you do your middle-aged female in distress act, then I daresay you might get something out of them.’
‘Well, Thelma and Gordon are both away and goodness alone knows where Alan is, so I’m practically next of kin. Anyway, I’ll have a good poke around while I’m there. Who knows what may turn up.’
‘Good luck. And Ma’ – Michael hesitated and then said, ‘do be careful, won’t you? After all, she did disappear in very strange circumstances, so what I’m saying is, don’t take any chances.’
‘No, of course not. You know me.’
‘I know what you’re like when your curiosity’s aroused. You just go plunging in.’
‘I’ll be careful. You go back to your work. What is it tonight?’
‘A little light consumer protection and then a bash at company law.’
‘Poor you. Have you had anything to eat?’
‘I’ve just had an enormous pizza so you may set your mind at rest. Good luck with your sleuthing. Report back.’
The next morning was one of those brilliantly fine late autumn days. I got up very early and left a lot of food for Foss. Packing some biscuits and water for the dogs an
d putting them in the back of the car, I set off as soon as it was reasonably light. Because I had left so early, of course, I ran into the Bristol morning rush-hour at the Almondsbury intersection of the motorway and there was a longer than usual wait to get on to the Severn Bridge. I always hate driving across long suspension bridges and keep looking nervously at the fragile-looking supports. Safely across and past the first road signs in Welsh, I felt that I had come a very long way (right into another country, in fact) so that I really deserved a break for coffee in Chepstow. I parked in the Castle car park and stood for a while looking at the noble ruin towering above me, perched on an eminence, keeping watch over the steep, muddy banks of the river below.
Working on the principle that wherever there is an ancient monument there is usually a cafe, I was delighted to find the Belvedere Tearooms just across from the car park. It was, I was glad to see, an old-fashioned, traditional teashop with small, slightly rickety tables and wheelback chairs, willow-pattern china and a large table at one end on which were laid out plates of very home-made looking cakes. I sat down at one of the tables and looked about me. I had been slightly surprised to find it open out of the season, but now I saw that it was full of locals and was obviously their morning meeting-place. A middle-aged woman, rather surprisingly wearing a hat, brought me coffee and a selection of cakes. After careful consideration I chose a rather chewy date and walnut slice, which seemed less rock-hard than the others on offer. But the coffee was very good and I was drinking it gratefully when a voice behind me exclaimed, ‘Good Heavens! It’s Sheila Prior!’
I turned and saw a large, round-faced woman in a tweed suit who certainly looked familiar. I was also conscious of a slight sinking of the heart, though I didn’t know why. I was groping for a name to put to the face when she said, ‘Ruth Barnes – though I’m Ruth Gibson now.’
‘Of course!’
I knew now why my heart had sunk. Ruth Barnes had been our college bore. A nice girl. Good-natured. But terribly boring.