by Cleeves, Ann
Outside it was beginning to get dark and the wind scattered the first brown leaves from the sycamore trees in the street. Angela stood up and pulled together the grey nylon velvet curtains. It was an indication that she wanted Patty to go, but Patty refused to take the hint.
‘Do you know who might have killed him?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Angela said. ‘ Of course not.’ Then she added maliciously, ‘You could ask Miss Hunt. She’s a nosy old cow and she never liked him.’
‘How do you know?’
Angela shrugged. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘ from some of the things he said.’ She went to a cupboard under the stairs and pulled out her coat. ‘I’ll have to go to my mother’s. She’ll be expecting me. She’s busy at weekends. None of the staff want to work on Sundays.’
‘I’d better go then,’ Patty said, but still did not stand up. She wanted to be sure that she had asked all the important questions. She knew that the opportunity would not arise again. Already Angela was speaking in her polite, distant voice, as if there had never been any intimacy between them.
‘There’s nothing else you can tell me about Mr Medburn?’ Patty said.
‘No,’ Angela said. ‘He was very secretive about a lot of his life.’
Patty stood up, buttoned her coat, wound the scarf around her neck.
‘I’ll go now,’ she said, ‘and let you get off to your mam’s.’
She waited for the other woman to open the door, but now it was Angela’s turn to hesitate.
‘Why are you asking all these questions?’ she asked. ‘What has it to do with you?’
Patty was going to say that she had no special interest, that she was only being friendly, but she thought that Angela deserved honesty too.
‘Kitty Medburn is an old friend of my father’s,’ she said. ‘He wants to prove that she’s innocent.’
Angela nodded her understanding.
‘I didn’t kill Harold,’ she said. ‘ You can tell your father that. I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him.’
Then she opened the door and let Patty out into the dark street.
Patty walked home the long way, along the footpath by the burn past the old mill. She wanted to be alone to savour the exhilaration of the successful interview with Angela Brayshaw. She had achieved more than she had expected. She had never thought that Angela would speak to her so freely. There was nothing definite of course, nothing which would lead directly to Medburn’s murderer, but Patty thought that Jack would be pleased with her.
On the recreation field by the burn a huge bonfire had already been built in preparation for Firework Night. The bonfire was an annual event in Heppleburn. Patty supposed that they would bring the children to see the firework display, though now it seemed hard to imagine that life in the village would continue as normal. She certainly felt different. Her ability to persuade Angela to talk to her had given her a new confidence. She was determined, as she walked along the windy path, that she and her father would discover the identity of Harold Medburn’s murderer. She needed to succeed at something.
As she walked past the old mill she looked in and even from the road, across the garden, she could see the whole family, like toys in a doll’s house. None of the curtains were drawn. It was a sort of arrogance, Patty thought. It indicated that the family had nothing to hide, that they did not care whether or not the world knew their business. Upstairs Hannah Wilcox was working at a desk by the window. Her face was caught in the light of an anglepoise lamp, and Patty thought she had probably been working there all day. In a large room downstairs the children sat on the carpet in front of the television. The set was on, but they were not watching it. They were squabbling, fighting over a picture book. In the same room, but ignoring the quarrelling children, Paul Wilcox stood by the window and stared out into the dark garden. She hurried past and quickly turned her head away in case he should see her looking in and think she was prying.
In fact he saw nothing. The road was dark and he was deep in thought.
In the big house there seemed to be no contact between the inhabitants. The children fought out of boredom and the adults were concerned with private problems. Patty wondered how she could ever have thought that the Wilcoxes were glamorous. That evening they seemed lonely and rather pathetic. The thought that her own family life was preferable to theirs made her feel stronger, more content. She hurried home quickly to see Jim and the children and to tell her father what had happened. In the village, walking briskly away from her, she saw Ramsay. She almost ran up to him and told him what she had discovered from Angela Brayshaw, but a sense of loyalty to her father, and the thought that the policeman would find her foolish, prevented her.
Angela Brayshaw drove her Mini through the stone gateway and parked in front of Burnside, the house which she had considered her own home since she was a child. When her parents had bought it the place had been a guest house, rundown and shabby, with very few residents. It had been bought cheap. Her father had done all the building, the repair and the plumbing to turn it into her mother’s dream of a nursing home for the elderly. Uncharitable neighbours said that Mrs Mount had killed her husband with her nagging. He had worn himself out with all the work.
It was a square, angular house built of an unpleasant mustard-coloured brick. There were no trees or shrubs near the building. Mrs Mount was afraid of leaves in the drainpipes, roots in the foundations, dirt and expense.
As she locked her car Angela could hear the television. It was always turned up so loud that even the deafest of residents could hear it. She could picture the room, plain and antiseptic, the vinyl-covered chairs against each of the four walls, the silent staring faces.
Mrs Mount must have been listening for the car because as soon as Angela opened the door she was there, smooth and ageless, smelling of disinfectant and talcum powder.
‘Well,’ Mrs Mount said. ‘What’s been going on? I’ve been hearing nothing but rumours all day.’
‘Oh Mam,’ Angela said. ‘Let me in. It’s cold out here and I’m tired.’
Inside, two old people with walking frames were racing for the only vacant toilet. One was a man, tall and skeletal, with bony cheek and hands like claws. The other was a tiny woman. They jostled down the corridor, banging the paintwork with their frames. The race was in deadly earnest; neither spoke or smiled. When the woman reached the toilet first the man howled obscenities at her.
‘Not now, Mr Wilson,’ Mrs Mount said in her nanny’s voice. ‘There’s no need for such a fuss. I’m sure Miss Watkins won’t take long.’
In her triumph Miss Watkins had forgotten to close the lavatory door and they could see her sitting there, her skirt bunched around her thighs, frail legs dangling like a child’s.
‘I hear the police were at your house,’ Mrs Mount said. ‘It is true that Mr Medburn’s dead?’
Angela nodded.
‘Why did the police come to you?’
‘Because I was at the school on the night he died.’ She had been dreading these explanations.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Mount said. Her face was wrinkle-free, complacent. Inside the nursing home it was very hot and her skin glowed, as if she had completed some vigorous exercise. ‘ I’ve been hearing rumours,’ she said, ‘ about you and Mr Medburn. They can’t be true?’
‘Oh Mam,’ Angela said. ‘Of course not.’ She was twelve again, pretending to be good, pretending that it was the other girls who started nastiness, other girls who told lies.
‘Of course not,’ Mrs Mount repeated. ‘I told them: “My Angela’s no gold-digger,” I said. “She might have had financial problems, but we’ve sorted them out now. I’m dealing with her debts and she’s going to help me out in the nursing home in return.”.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘It’ll be like the old times,’ she said. ‘You and I working together again.’
‘Perhaps,’ Angela said evasively. ‘I wish you wouldn’t tell the whole of Heppleburn about my financial problems.’
Mrs Moun
t seemed not to have heard.
‘Come into my room,’ she said. ‘I’ve been looking through those bills you gave me. I’m sure we can sort it all out. Claire’s in with the residents watching the television. They do enjoy her company.’
Mrs Mount led her into the small flowered and scented room which was part office, part parlour, where she presided over her empire. Against one wall was a piano, whose lid had never been opened in Angela’s lifetime. In a cage on a stand a budgerigar slept.
‘Margaret!’ Mrs Mount shouted and a young woman in a white overall appeared at the door. ‘Bring us some tea dear, will you.’
The woman disappeared and Mrs Mount turned to her daughter.
‘Now dear,’ she said. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to start work here? It would be easier, don’t you think, if you and Claire moved back to live.’
‘No,’ Angela said firmly. ‘ Whatever happens we’ll keep our own home.’
‘Only if the mortgage is paid, dear. You know what the building society said … I was happy to settle the arrears but that was a considerable sum even for me to find. I don’t think I’d be able to do it again.’ Mrs Mount smiled but the threat behind the words was clear. ‘ I’ve been lonely here since you married,’ she went on. ‘I would like the company.’
‘In another couple of weeks,’ Angela said, ‘I may have some money myself.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Whatever can you mean?’
Before Angela could answer there was a knock on the door and Margaret walked in nervously, carrying a tray.
‘Thank you, Margaret,’ said Mrs Mount, taking the tray from her, but the girl hovered in the doorway.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Mount,’ she said, ‘ but the nurse is doing Mrs Richardson’s dressing and she can’t find the bandages.’
‘They’re in the cupboard where they always are,’ Mrs Mount said, implying that Margaret or the nurse, or both, were fools.
‘I’m sorry,’ Margaret said. ‘They’re not. They’ve all gone.’
‘Can’t you manage for a moment by yourselves!’ Mrs Mount swept out to deal with the problem, her face still fixed in a smile. Angela sipped weak tea and waited. Her mother was soon back, shaking her head at the extravagance of her staff.
‘All gone,’ she said. ‘It’s ridiculous. There were boxes in that cupboard at the beginning of the month. Now, where were we?’
‘I was saying,’ Angela said slowly, ‘ that I might not need to work here after all. I might be able to find the money to clear all my debts.’
‘Where would you find that sort of money?’ Mrs Mount demanded. But Angela could be stubborn too and refused to say.
Anything would be better than working here, she thought. Anything would be better than bed-sores and bandages and emptying commodes. Prison would be better than that. Harold should have given me the money when I asked him. He would have given it to me in the end. He shouldn’t have been so mean.
‘I’m sorry,’ Angela said. ‘I wouldn’t be any good at this work. I’d let you down. I’m not as patient as you.’
It was as if she had bestowed sainthood on her mother. Mrs Mount beamed and simpered.
‘You’re a good girl,’ she said. ‘A very good girl. But if this money doesn’t appear you won’t have any choice.’
Chapter Four
The next day the school was closed, not as a mark of respect for Harold Medburn, but because the police needed more time there. Irene Hunt was asked to work as usual. She was deputy head and the Education Department at County Hall wanted her to be at the school, though there was little she could do. She would have preferred to be at home. It seemed unfair that she would not benefit from the additional holiday.
Miss Hunt liked to be at home. She lived in a small bungalow twenty miles north of Heppleburn on the coast. She had bought it the year before in preparation for her retirement. Everyone who saw it, and many who had never been near the place, said it was quite unsuitable for an elderly lady. It was build next to a farm at the top of a low cliff. The nearest village was two miles away at the end of a lane. She had views of Coquet Island, of ruined castles and bare hillsides, but it was cold and in a wind the draughts rattled under the doors, flapping rugs and curtains. Towards the sea there was an exposed garden, terraced and held back from the cliff by low stone walls. It was too big, her critics said, to be managed by one person. Miss Hunt had great plans for the garden. The bungalow suited her very well. For too long she had worried about what other people thought of her. Now for her last years she deserved to be allowed to live as she pleased.
Harold Medburn had been one of the fiercest opponents of her move from the convenient new house at Heppleburn to the bungalow on the cliff.
‘It’s too far away,’ he had grumbled when she mentioned the move one day in the staff room. ‘You’ll be late and in winter you’ll never get here. You should think again about it.’
She had given up arguing with him years before and ignored him then. When finally she announced that the move had taken place he was astounded. He had been certain that she would take his advice.
Miss Hunt liked the bungalow because of its privacy. She had been entranced by the large windows and the clarity of the light. She had enjoyed painting in watercolour since she was a student and hoped with more time to develop her skill. She would be sensible, of course, about the house – it was no romantic dream. She would have double glazing fitted with the lump sum she received on her retirement. But she was quite passionate about the house. She was determined to end her days there on her own. If ever the time came when she was unable to look after herself, she would take her own life. She knew what it was like to be in another person’s power and refused to contemplate that happening again, even if that power were the institutional kindness of a geriatric hospital or old people’s home.
The police arrived at the bungalow to interview her on the Sunday morning, and early on the same afternoon Matthew came to see her.
He had woken early. It was still dark and he felt ill. He switched on the bedside lamp to see what time it was, but the sudden light hurt his head and he had to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, slowly, he saw his clothes scattered over the bedroom floor and an empty beer can propped on the window sill. He could not remember getting home. His memory of the evening before returned gradually, and with a growing horror he recalled what had happened. Perhaps he was still drunk, because he fell again into a heavy sleep and when he woke up it was light and the milkman was whistling along the pavement outside his window.
He got out of bed and felt sick again. Before dressing, before even making tea, he picked all the clothes from the bedroom floor and stuffed them into the washing machine in the kitchen. It was as if he wanted to clear away all traces of the previous evening. He wanted to pretend that it had never happened. The washing machine was an old one of his mother’s, a present when he had first moved to Heppleburn.
‘I can go to the launderette,’ he had said. ‘I managed before.’ A washing machine seemed a frightening symbol of domesticity.
‘You’re not a student now,’ she said. ‘Besides, I need a new one.’
His mother had been thrilled when he had been appointed to Heppleburn school. It had been her idea that he should apply. She had seen the advertisement in The Teacher and pointed it out to him. ‘Northumberland,’ she said, ‘it’s the most beautiful county in England. If you got that I could come up and stay with you in the holidays.’ Now that seemed a long time ago.
As he remembered his mother, he thought he should write to her. He always wrote to her on Sunday mornings. It seemed important to maintain the usual routine, though he felt so ill. He made tea and toast and sat at the small table in the kitchen while the washing machine churned. He wrote: ‘ There was a Hallowe’en party at the school last night. I think everyone enjoyed it.’ Except me, he thought. I didn’t enjoy it at all.
He addressed the envelope and propped the letter on the mantelpiece, because he could not
buy a stamp until the next day. I’ll take it to school, he thought, and buy a stamp there. He decided to visit Miss Hunt on impulse, because he needed to be out of the house, because she had helped him at the party and because he wanted to find out how the evening had ended. He lived in a flat over a chemist’s shop and his head thumped as he clattered down the concrete steps to the pavement.
Miss Hunt saw him coming from a long way off. She watched him leave the main road and cycle down the lane. It took him longer than it normally would have done, because he was cycling against the wind. She was ridiculously pleased to see him. She watched him from the bedroom window with the pair of binoculars she kept for looking at boats in the bay. His hair was blown away from his face. He was wearing old clothes – a navy jersey and denim jeans with a red patch on the knee. He looked much younger and happier than when he was teaching. Perhaps he would be happy more often now. When he rode into the farmyard, moving quickly because be was sheltered by the buildings from the pressure of the wind, she already had the bungalow door open to greet him. She was holding a black tom cat.
Matthew’s face was red from the exertion of cycling. The farm dogs raced up to him, barking furiously, then started to jump up at him, so his jersey was muddy and even more disreputable than ever.
‘Come in,’ she said warmly.
She was as tall as he was. Her hair was short and well cut. She had style, he thought, despite her age. He propped his bicycle against the low wall which surrounded her front garden and followed her towards the house. The dogs bounced after him to the gate, still barking. His arms seemed very long and bony, bare wrists stretched out of the sleeves of his jersey. He sat on the door mat in the wood-frame porch and took off the suede desert boots with broken laces which she had never seen before. Then he walked into the house. He was wearing odd socks.
Irene Hunt felt very fond of him. He reminded her of the only man she had ever loved.