Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  The kettle boiled. Emmy put two bags in the pot – she liked her tea strong – and poured in the hot water. And where was the doctor? Her chest was tight with worry. All she could think of was Darren Evans, poor boy, lying there in all that blood. It was enough to turn one’s brain. She’d told the surgery it was an emergency. She needed something strong to make her sleep. What with this wind and rain battering the house, and being all alone, apart from Mrs Smithson, who didn’t count, she just knew she’d never sleep a wink unless she had a tablet.

  She stirred the tea and poured a cup. Then had a brainwave. It was almost nine o’clock. Surely, if she took Mrs Smithson along a cup of tea she would open the door. She couldn’t ignore such a good-natured gesture, and they could have a little chat. But to Emmy’s frustration she was ignored. Classic FM was being played loudly on the radio. It was Wagner. Emmy’s knowledge of classical music was limited, but she knew what it was because the announcer had just introduced the piece. She knocked and waited. There was no response.

  ‘Well, you can be unfriendly if you want,’ muttered Emmy, ‘but no one can accuse me of not doing my best to be a good hostess.’ She put the cup down outside the door, carefully placing the saucer on the top so that the tea would stay warm for a while, then made her way back to the kitchen. Above the whistle of the wind she suddenly heard a lower sound – the roar of a car engine. Thank God, the doctor at last.

  The tide was high and the waters of the Stib lashed the foreshore of the gravel hard, the waves splashing right over the road in some places. Lizzie cursed Mrs Matthews and her panic attacks but reluctantly admitted that all this was her own fault. She shouldn’t be so damned conscientious. She should have phoned as Dick had suggested.

  The House by the Hard, although two storeys, was a low house. What it lacked in height, though, it made up for in length, and it stretched away into the darkness at the far end of the shore.

  As Lizzie drew up she noticed that only the nearest portion of the house was lit; the front porch had a lamp in it, and several windows either side had lights shining behind closed curtains. The rest of the house appeared to be in darkness, apart from one window at the far end where there was a light on. As Lizzie parked the car a sudden movement attracted her eye. It was the curtains of the far lighted window. Caught by the wind they were billowing out into the night. The sash window was pushed up about a foot. Someone must be very fond of fresh air, thought Lizzie, and shivered. Personally, she was having too much fresh air tonight for her liking; to be at home in front of a log fire with a gin and tonic would be preferable by far.

  She rang the front door bell and wondered what she could accurately or even inaccurately call Mrs Matthews’ panic attack when writing up her notes. That was one problem with computerized records: a coded nomenclature was required. Lizzie was finding her way through the system and becoming relatively expert; Dick Jamieson on the other hand was always having his diagnoses spat back at him by the computer as Error – not recognized.

  Emmy Matthews opened the front door. ‘Oh, Doctor,’ she said. ‘You don’t know how pleased I am to see you. It will be lovely to talk to someone.’

  ‘I’m not on call to come out and talk to people,’ said Lizzie sharply. ‘But to try to cure patients of their ailments. What is wrong with you, Mrs Matthews?’

  Much later that night, after she’d handed over at eleven o’clock to the Medicare Duty Doctor, and when she was finally sitting down with a drink, Lizzie felt ashamed of her acerbic outburst. But some patients would try the patience of a saint, and Lizzie accepted the fact that she was no saint. The trouble was that patients did not fit into diagnostic categories, or very rarely did. But then, she thought wearily, no member of the human race fitted neatly into any sort of category. Just when you thought you’d pigeon-holed someone they developed another, totally unexpected characteristic.

  The central heating had switched itself off and she was chilly. She switched it back on but still felt shivery, and looked longingly at the empty grate. A log fire would have been lovely, but it was too late for that now. She’d have to make do with a hot water bottle instead.

  The phone rang. It was Louise. ‘Hi. How are you, Mum?’

  ‘Tired,’ said Lizzie. ‘How are you? It sounds as if you are at a party.’ A tremendous racket was ricocheting down the phone line. ‘It sounds as if someone is having a plate-smashing session.’

  ‘I’m in a sushi bar. We decided to come here after the private view. It was a fascinating show. All constructivist art.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Lizzie. ‘Used urinals, beat-up bicycles and piles of dog crap.’

  ‘Mother!’ Louise sounded put out. ‘You really ought to have a more open mind. It’s the way you look at things that matters, not what they are. Anyway, what are you sounding so grumpy about?’

  ‘I’ve been charging around the countryside tonight in a howling gale and pouring rain seeing patients.’

  ‘What kind of patients? Are they very different to your London ones?’

  ‘Too soon to tell, although I doubt it. People are similar the world over. But tonight I had one lecherous old man, and one silly elderly woman.’

  ‘Lecherous!’ Louise laughed. ‘I knew men would be making passes at you as soon as you were on your own. Even Ben (Ben was the latest boyfriend) says you are a very attractive woman, for your age. Of course, it’s difficult for me to appreciate it because you’re my mother.’

  ‘Tell Ben thanks,’ said Lizzie dryly. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be approved of by Ben, who she considered a lazy layabout. He was so laid back Lizzie thought it a marvel that he managed to take a breath. ‘Anyway, this letch didn’t make a pass at me in particular, anyone would have done.’

  ‘How do you know?’Louise sounded puzzled, and Lizzie reflected that for all her daughter’s sophisticated lifestyle, she was still an innocent concerning the nastier side of human behaviour.

  ‘Let me just say that this was one patient who certainly didn’t need viagra.’

  ‘Oh. You mean he had a—’

  ‘Yes, a very noticeable one,’ said Lizzie. ‘Now, Louise, much as I would like to have a natter, I’m tired and to make matters worse the house is cold so I think I’m going to take my gin and go up to bed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Louise sounded disappointed. ‘I wish you were still here in London. I know I didn’t see you that often, but at least I knew you were near. You didn’t have to go running off into the depths of the country. You could have stayed. You didn’t have to run that far from Dad.’

  ‘Louise,’ Lizzie felt irritated. ‘I am not running away from anything or anyone. I wanted a new life, and this is the one I have chosen. In fact, were it not for your father, I would have left London years ago. When we split up it was the ideal opportunity. I like living in the country.’ Outside an extra fierce gust of wind buffeted Silver Cottage, closely followed by a crashing sound somewhere in the depths of the garden. ‘It’s so peaceful,’ said Lizzie, mentally raising her eyebrows. ‘And now I’m going to bed. I’ll ring you in the morning.’

  ‘Okay. But not before lunch time, please. You know I need to get some beauty sleep.’

  Lizzie knew and disapproved of her daughter’s lifestyle. Maybe it was being old-fashioned, but she couldn’t help thinking it a waste of time spending most of the day in bed, and most of the night partying. Louise was twenty-three years old now. Surely it was time she grew up? When she was that age she’d been practising in Whitechapel, was married and had a child, Louise. There’d been no time for fun in those days.

  ‘After lunch, I promise,’ she said, and put down the phone.

  Once upstairs, she slotted Concerto De Aranjuez into the CD player, then with the hot water bottle and a refilled glass she tried to settle down for half an hour’s read. It was a crime novel, but after coming across two gory murders within the space of the first ten pages, Lizzie closed the book. Murder was too close to home for comfort at the moment. Besides, there were things prey
ing on her mind now that she was at home and alone. That motorcyclist for one thing. Who was he, and why did he not use lights? Common sense told her that the lights were probably broken and he’d not bothered to get them fixed. No one seemed to bother unduly about rules and regulations in Stibbington, except the police, and they were in the minority.

  Eventually, exhaustion, the gin, and the warmth of the hot water bottle combined to send her drifting into sleep. The last thing she thought of was the open window at the House on the Hard. Now she realized that it had been closed when she’d left, although the light was still on. That was strange. Who had closed it? The paying guest? Must have done it very quietly, for there’d been no sound, and the windows of the House on the Hard were of the old fashioned, heavy sash variety. The type that slid down and chopped off your fingers if you were not careful. Anyway, why had it been open in the first place on such a terrible night?

  Her mind slid between sleep and consciousness. Of course, Mrs Matthews must have closed it as she was getting into the car. It had to be her. Neurotic Mrs Matthews had discovered it, and shut it tightly when she was locking the house up for the night. She’d said she was going to check every lock in the house before going to bed, and then she was going to take the pill Lizzie, very reluctantly, had given her.

  Lizzie reached out in the dark and closed her fingers around the comforting cold shape of the brass candlestick. She was all right. Silver Cottage was just as safe, safer in fact, than her old home in Blackheath. A million demons might be on the loose outside in the wild darkness of the night, but she was locked in and had a weapon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Adam Maguire worked most of the weekend with Tess as his sole companion. Not that working all those extra hours progressed the case much further. By the time Monday morning came he felt tired, stale, had a headache, and was beginning to think the mystery of Darren Evans’s death was one which would remain unsolved. It was unlike him to be so defeatist, and he felt angry with himself.

  Steve Grayson coming bouncing into the office, full of good health and general bonhomie did nothing for Maguire’s temper or headache. He fished out a large brown bottle from his bottom drawer, extracted two paracetamol, and swallowed them.

  ‘You ought to take those with water or tea,’ said Grayson.

  ‘That’s your first job. Get me some tea,’ growled Maguire.

  His sergeant disappeared cheerfully, and Maguire felt remorseful for being so churlish. He’d been the one who’d allowed Grayson to go home on Sunday to be with his pregnant wife, and while there, thought Maguire enviously, he’d almost certainly had some good home-cooked meals, whereas he’d made do with pasties and sandwiches from the only shop in Stibbington to remain open on a Sunday, the STOP ’N SHOP. Seven days a week twenty-four hour shopping en masse had yet to arrive in Stibbington, and if the local shopkeepers had their way it never would.

  The sandwiches were his own fault, of course. He could have gone to any one of the numerous pubs which abounded in the area, but chose not to. Sundays were family days. Everywhere was full of families, although in the winter it wasn’t quite so bad, at least then he didn’t have to slink past pub gardens with bouncy castles full of excited tiny tots. But even so he still felt very conspicuous. A lone man and a dog, amidst a sea of people was a pathetic sight, and the last thing he wanted was pity. He had enough of that lugubrious emotion swishing about in the dark reaches of his own soul; other people’s was not welcome. Therefore, Sunday outings were to be avoided.

  Grayson came back with a cup of tea. ‘Well?’ he demanded, ‘solved the murder mystery?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody facetious,’ said Maguire.

  Grayson put a plastic sandwich box on the desk in front of Maguire. ‘Ann sent you this. It’s a piece of game pie. It’s made to a proper old-fashioned recipe, hot water crust pastry. Ann’s trying it out. She’s going to enter the pie competition in next summer’s New Forest Show.’

  Maguire opened the lid. ‘Smells delicious. But won’t it be off by next summer?’

  ‘That’s not the pie, she’s just trying . . . oh, you’re joking.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maguire pulled a wry face. ‘You’ve just confirmed my suspicions. I’ll never be able to earn my living as a comic.’ His sergeant looked confused, as well he might. Grayson was not blessed with an acute sense of humour, and needed warning of a joke, time to get his brain into the right gear. But never mind, Maguire reminded himself, he was a good lad, good at his job. One couldn’t ask for miracles. ‘Thanks for the pie. I’ll have it tonight with a jacket potato. I’m quite good at doing those in the microwave.’

  Grayson hung his raincoat on the peg behind the door and reached into the pocket. ‘And here’s a bone for Tess.’ He handed over a brown paper bag wrapped in plastic.

  ‘Thanks.’ Maguire took the parcel. ‘But put your raincoat back on. I feel like a breath of fresh air. I think we’ll visit the Brockett-Smythes and find out why they’re so keen to pay for Darren Evans’s funeral.’

  Grayson shrugged himself back into the garment he’d just hung up. ‘Do you think it’s suspicious?’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s pretty bloody strange.’ Maguire put his own coat on. ‘You’re more local than me. Do you know anything about the Brockett-Smythes?’

  Grayson pulled a face. ‘Not much. Although they have lived here for ages. They bought the big house, and then, so Ann says, renamed it Brockett Hall. Used to be called Fox Hill House.’ Grayson sniffed. ‘Brockett Hall! Pretentious rubbish. Got fancy ideas if you ask me. Not that it’s done them much good. They’ve got a daughter with some mental illness. She used to be okay, went to the local primary school, but no one ever sees her now. Gossip has it that she howls in the night. Never heard it myself, but then I never go over that way.’

  ‘Howls in the night?’ said Maguire irritably. ‘What is she, some kind of werewolf?’

  ‘I’m only repeating what I’ve heard, sir.’

  ‘Huh!’ Maguire picked up the sandwich box and the parcel containing the bone. He would pop in and let Tess out on the way back, he decided. ‘It sounds as if the local inhabitants have been watching too many horror movies.’ He threw a bunch of keys at Grayson, who fielded them. ‘You can drive,’ he said. ‘I want to think.’

  Tarquin Girling got up early on Monday morning, as soon as it was light. Nine o’clock, maybe not early for most people, but it was very early for him.

  His mother was in the kitchen, still wearing the same wrap-over pinny she’d been wearing the previous week. She was standing at the stove stirring a grey mass in a dented saucepan. ‘Want any porridge?’ she asked.

  Tarquin looked in the pot. The porridge was lumpy. ‘No thanks. I’ll just have tea.’

  ‘It’s no use,’ said his mother. ‘I can’t cook on an electric stove. I shall never get used to it.’

  Tarquin let out a breath of exasperation. Sometimes he wanted to shake his mother, she was so useless. ‘You’ve been cooking on that stove for the last twenty odd years, ever since we moved into this house.’

  ‘Yes, and I shall never get used to it,’ his mother replied stubbornly. ‘When we lived in Stibbington I had gas. My cooking was all right then.’

  Tarquin didn’t argue. There was no point. He couldn’t remember what his mother’s cooking had been like when they’d lived in Stibbington, but he couldn’t help thinking that twenty years was long enough to learn how to master an electric stove. But that was her problem. She’d never mastered anything. Never mastered finding herself a husband for one thing. She was the epitome of the perennial downtrodden woman and single mother. Neither he nor Wayne knew who their fathers were. He felt bitter. He’d had a good education thanks to the Walshes, and would have gone on to university if things had turned out differently. But one thing. That was all it had taken. Just one thing, one moment of madness, and everything had been ruined. And now here he was, stuck with his mother and younger brother; his brother who was permanently ill. It never occurred to Tar
quin that the instrument for change might be himself, or just occasionally if it did, he soon rejected the thought. Initiating change took discipline and determination, and Tarquin was sadly lacking in both. It was much easier to do nothing, blame others and wallow in self-pity. One thing, yes that was all it had been. His mind ricocheted off the thought; one thing, plus the fact that he was different. But he didn’t allow himself to think about that these days. It frightened him. He couldn’t cope with not knowing who or what he was. Much safer to live in his own little world of self-imposed sterility.

  He poured himself a cup of tea, dark reddish brown, very strong, and put in three heaped spoonfuls of sugar. ‘I’m going out,’ he announced. ‘All day.’

  ‘I was going to ask you to get us fish and chips for our dinner.’ Mrs Girling’s voice took on a plaintive whine. ‘With Wayne being ill I’ve got nothing in the house except bread and baked beans.’

  ‘Have those at dinner time then,’ said Tarquin. ‘I’ll bring in the fish and chips for tonight. What do you want? Cod or haddock?’

  ‘The cheapest,’ said his mother. ‘Just for you and me, and get some frizzits for Wayne. He can have those instead of chips, and I’ll give him a bit of my fish.’ The local fish and chip shop sold frizzits, the small pieces of fried batter which dropped off the fish into the fat, a few pence for a big bag. A bag of pure, unadulterated, cholesterol-raising rubbish thought Tarquin, but Wayne liked them, and his mother didn’t care about healthy eating.

  Tarquin drank the rest of his tea. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you this evening.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mrs Girling poured a molten mass of grey, lumpy porridge into a chipped bowl.

  ‘To do Dr Browne’s garden amongst other things.’