by Hazel Holt
– she’s just had her first baby and Moira, that’s Moira Bradford, wanted to be out there with her—’ ‘That will be fine,’ I broke into Anthea’s usual monologue.
‘The same time, then?’
‘What? Oh, yes, seven for seven thirty.’
‘Lovely. See you then.’
I replaced the receiver and said to Foss, who was sitting on the arm of my chair, ‘Well, Foss, what do you think of that? Isn’t it splendid! Now I can see if I can find out anything from this Bradford man quite naturally. Isn’t that lucky!’
But Foss was staring, in that disconcerting way that cats have, at some fascinating but invisible object in the far corner of the room, and paid no attention at all to what I was saying.
The following day brought a summons to the inquest. It was to be held at the local coroner’s court in ten days’ time. I felt very apprehensive at the idea of having to tell my story in public. My reasons for going out to Plover’s Barrow would sound pretty feeble. And I would have to be careful what I said. For instance, I couldn’t say that I knew Lee had an appointment there because Carol really shouldn’t have shown me the appointment book and I didn’t want to get her into trouble. Oh what a tangled web we weave ... as Peter would have said.
Furthermore, I was not looking forward to seeing my name all over the front page of the Echo: ‘LOCAL WOMAN FINDS MURDER VICTIM’ or even, to make it a bit more classy, ‘LOCAL WRITER FINDS BODY’ – it would all be very distasteful. I was glad that Michael was away at Oxford, though when I had telephoned to tell him all about it, he had begged to be allowed to come home to ‘do a bit of Sherlock Holmesing’, an offer I had firmly declined.
I buttered myself another piece of toast, spreading the butter much thicker than usual, and topped it with some of Andrew’s honey. Comfort eating, I told myself, and, indeed, I did find myself in need of comfort. I felt depressed and unsure and very much alone. If only Peter were here, I thought, he would know what to do. If Peter were alive, common sense told me, I would never have got mixed up in all this. After two years’ grieving, you may think you’ve done with that first, sharp, painful misery, but it’s always there, waiting for just such a moment as this, and then it comes back as strongly as ever, sweeping over you in waves.
I sat at the table for some time, not really thinking of anything but just having what my mother used to call ‘a good wallow’. A ray of winter sun, shining on to the sideboard, made me get up and fetch a duster and that broke the mood, and I pulled myself together and did the washing up, thinking how lucky women were to have so many little tasks that simply come under Marjorie Fraser’s critical gaze) and some shortbread and found a few snowdrops in the garden to put in my favourite little Victorian china basket. Spurred on by this burst of energy, and while the sun was shining, I bathed Tris. We both dislike this so much that I usually do it on the spur of the moment, when neither of us is expecting it, like this morning. I rubbed him dry and mopped up the kitchen floor, decided against using the hair-dryer on him because he hated the noise, and left him on a rug in front of the sitting-room fire looking clean but martyred. Foss, who had disappeared at the first sign of the plastic bath, suddenly materialised and sat on the window-sill delicately washing his paws and casting scornful glances at the poor creature who had to be washed by human beings.
Rosemary came nice and early, bringing with her a heavenly bunch of freesias.
‘You sounded as if you needed cheering up,’ she said, ‘and no wonder when you come to think of it. You’ve had quite a time.’
‘Roger bought me lunch at the Brewhouse yesterday,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t that sweet of him? I do like him. Lucky Jilly!’
‘Oh yes, certainly lucky Jilly. It’s all working out very nicely. They’ve got their mortgage – it doesn’t seem to matter whether you’re married or not these days.’
‘He wanted to talk to me about the case, of course. And, oh Rosemary, it is all so confusing! I simply must tell someone all about it...’
I cut us each a piece of sponge and poured the tea and, with occasional excited exclamations from Rosemary, I told her absolutely everything that I had found out, from whatever source.
‘So you see how complicated it all is – you must promise not to tell anyone at all – even Jack.’
‘Of course. Fancy Ma not telling me about Jamie Hertford and Lee!’
‘You mustn’t let her know that I told you, else she’ll never speak to me again.’
‘Lucky you!’ Rosemary said.
‘No, seriously. I wish you could see them though. It’s an extraordinary set-up.’
‘Do you think Marjorie Fraser is really in love with him?’ Rosemary asked, fastening, as I knew she would, on the inessentials. ‘Perhaps she murdered Lee,’ she suggested frivolously, ‘so that she could marry Jamie!’
‘Poor Marjorie – I don’t believe Jamie really notices her at all. They’ve shut the outside world out altogether, those two, that’s the only way they can feel safe.’
‘Goodness! When you think.’ Rosemary exclaimed, ‘how gorgeous he used to be. I was always frightfully jealous of you, being with him and Jeremy all the holidays...’
‘The trouble is, I do see how it must look to the police. I mean, you could hardly ask for a stronger motive, and then there’s the bit about the horses.’
‘I hate horses,’ said Rosemary irrelevantly. ‘Those awful big feet, and the way they toss their heads at you.’
‘And then there’s all this business about Charles and the property.’
‘Oh well – you know what Charles is like about business!’
‘Yes, but he’s never been mixed up in anything shady.’
‘I suppose you get pretty ruthless working for a multinational, whatever it is he does.’
‘I’ve never known exactly – something about petrochemicals.’
‘Well, there you are then.’
‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but it is rather different from land speculation in the heart of the West Country. I suppose it’s legal, but definitely sharp practice, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well, that wouldn’t surprise me about horrible Lee,’ Rosemary declared, her mouth full of short-bread. ‘I never liked her, from that first moment when Charles introduced us. Nor did you.’
‘No – but she did have a sort of charm. You’d never have guessed that she was so absolutely foul and coldbloodedly cruel.’
‘And greedy! I mean, she was going to have all Charles’s money...’
‘And all the money they were going to make on this development thing...’
‘Yes. And still she wanted poor Jamie’s little bit as well.’
‘I wonder how she got hold of the news of that development. Do you think this man Bradford approached her?’
‘He’s a slimy toad,’ Rosemary said vigorously. ‘Jack says he’s been in on some very shady things. And that poor wife of his, she looks pretty down-trodden. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had some little popsy tucked away somewhere, he’s just the type—I say!’ she said excitedly. ‘You don’t think that there was anything between Lee and him...’
I stared at her. ‘Of course! I’m sure you’re right. That would explain all sorts of things...’
‘Do you think Charles knew?’
I thought about Charles’s trip to London in January.
‘I wonder.’
I put some more water in the teapot and stirred it energetically.
‘Ronnie had better look out, accountants can’t be too careful who they associate with.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s actually business. Anyway, I’ll be able to see him and judge for myself, and, who knows, I might be able to ferret something out about Lee. I don’t think the police have enough evidence against anyone to do anything definite before the inquest.’
‘Oh, the inquest! I hadn’t really thought about that. You’ll have to give evidence, I suppose. Oh, poor Sheila, it will be awful for you. When is it? Jack and I will come with you,
of course...’
‘Bless you, that would be a comfort. I must say I am rather dreading it. I’m trying to put it out of my mind until it actually happens.’
‘Have you got a hat?’
‘Yes, I thought I’d wear my black funeral one, you know...’
‘Oh yes, good idea. I suppose Jamie will be there. I expect he’s the only next of kin she’s got. It will be fascinating to see him. You know, I really can’t bear to think that he killed Lee. Do try and find out something about the horrible Bradford man. I wouldn’t mind it being him at all.’
Chapter Twelve
I arrived at Anthea’s dinner party just after seven o’clock to find that Philip Bradford was already there. He had a glass of whisky in his hand and it didn’t look like his first. Ronnie was always very generous with his drinks.
‘Come on in, Sheila. Nice to see you. G and T isn’t it?’
‘Just a small one please, Ronnie, not one of your super-specials if I’ve got to drive myself home.’
‘Righty-ho. Now, do you know Philip? Philip, have you met our old friend Sheila Malory?’
Philip Bradford gave me a slightly puzzled look.
‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ he said uncertainly.
It was plain that he had a vague memory of my face, but he couldn’t quite place me. I hoped that my appearance was quite different from that time when we had met by the lift in Lee’s apartment block. Indeed, I’d made a special effort for this evening. I was wearing my black velvet skirt and white lace evening blouse (almost a uniform for Taviscombe dinner parties) and had put on some eye-shadow and even had my hair blow-dried into a different and, I hoped, more fashionable style.
‘No, we’ve never met,’ I said, ‘though of course.’
I added irrelevantly, ‘I’ve seen your photo in the Echo quite often. It was in last week, wasn’t it? You must be very busy with all that council work.’
He preened himself – he really was a thoroughly objectionable man.
‘Yes, that’s right. Service to the community – and doesn’t do me any harm, if you know what I mean!’
I gave a little laugh. ‘Oh well, why not?’
He sat down in the chair beside me. He was the kind of man I really dislike, the kind who leans confidentially and puts his hand on your arm whenever he wants to make a point. He obviously fancied himself as a ladies’ man and I wondered how I was going to get through the evening without a feeling of nausea. I don’t mind old-world gallantry, like old Mr Welsh at the Stroke Club who bows from the waist and calls all the helpers ‘dear lady’, but this kind of slimy (Rosemary was right) attention was quite different, since it sprang not from a natural courtesy, but from the man Bradford’s perception of himself as a charmer.
He embarked on a long story of how he had helped to rehouse an elderly couple who had suddenly found themselves homeless. It was very complicated and designed solely to show what a splendid and generous-hearted person Philip Bradford was. I sat there wide-eyed, saying, ‘Did you really, how marvellous!’ at intervals. This seemed to be sufficient to keep him going because he embarked on a second story, this time to illustrate his brilliant business acumen and sharp commercial mind. My face was beginning to set in a dreadful false smile when Anthea mercifully shepherded us in to dinner.
I noticed that she obviously thought Philip Brad-ford was an important guest, because she was using her best dinner service and we had a fish course as well as the smoked salmon pate and the Stroganoff. Like Rosemary, I hoped that Ronnie hadn’t got his eye on a business connection with Bradford.
‘When’s Moira coming back?’ Anthea asked him.
He seemed a little put out by the reference to his wife, but answered easily enough, ‘Oh, in about ten days’ time. They haven’t arranged the flight yet.’
‘And how do you fancy being a grandfather?’ she persisted. I couldn’t help smiling at his distinct displeasure at this image of himself.
‘Oh, how lovely; I gushed. ‘I long for grand-children.’
Automatically on cue, as I knew he would, he said, ‘Oh, but you’re far too young to be a grand-mother!’
With difficulty I managed a simper. ‘Oh, Mr Bradford! How sweet!’
‘Not Mr Bradford – Philip.’
The conversation flowed back and forth along the usual lines – the weather (cold but seasonable), the number of unemployed in the town (young lay-abouts who don’t want to work), the new repairs to the harbour wall (necessary for the tourist trade, but should have government funding not soak the poor old tax-payer) – and I didn’t see any opportunity to pop in a question that might connect up with Lee.
Then Anthea said, ‘Oh, talking of tourists, Philip. Are you still renting out that holiday cottage?’
‘Oh, have you a cottage?’ I asked. ‘What a marvellous investment! Where is it?’
‘Oh, it’s very remote.’ said Anthea, answering for him. ‘Miles away in the middle of the moor, just outside Brendon.’
I couldn’t believe my luck. ‘Which side of Brendon?’ I asked.
‘The Taviscombe side. It’s about a mile from the village. People seem to like to get right away on holiday, back to nature and all that. I never have any trouble letting it. Booked up all the summer and right on into late October last year.’
A little more probing and I had a pretty clear idea where the cottage was. It was less than a mile from Plover’s Barrow.
‘I should think it’s a bit of a headache in the winter.’ I said. ‘I mean, I expect you have to keep an eye on things, to see that it doesn’t get frozen up – burst pipes and all that.’
‘Yes, it’s a nuisance sometimes, but I get over there most weeks.’
I wondered if he had been there on the day that Lee was murdered, and decided to do a bit more fishing and mentioned the inquest, trying to sound suitably nervous and fluttery. Bradford seemed rather anxious about the idea of an inquest. I suppose he was afraid of what might come out about his business dealings. We talked around the subject of Lee’s death for a while and then, to my delight, Anthea asked Bradford, ‘Did you ever meet her, Philip?’
Again, there was a certain edge of unease.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did. I bought the cottage through her firm.’
Sensible, I thought, to admit something that could be checked.
‘We didn’t like her, did we, Ronnie? Not at all the type of person that Charles would ever have been happy with.’
‘Charles?’
‘Our friend Charles Richardson – did you ever know him? No, well, he left Taviscombe quite a long time ago, probably before you came here. They were going to be married.’
I had the impression that Charles’s name was not unknown to him, but he still seemed very much taken aback. His smooth manner vanished and he asked sharply, ‘When was all this arranged.’
‘Well, Charles was over here just before Christmas, and then she went over there – that’s right isn’t it, Sheila? And they arranged everything then.’
He made no comment but sat there, obviously thinking furiously. Anthea appeared not to notice and went on.
‘We never thought that she was a suitable person for Charles. Well, he had that first unfortunate marriage – those poor little children – he doesn’t seem to have much sense when it comes to women.’
I dropped another stone into the pool.
‘But you must admit that she was very attractive. Didn’t you think so, Mr Bradford – Philip?’
He hesitated, and then the smooth manner returned and he said, ‘Oh, quite a charmer – a pleasure to do business with a charming lady!’
I had the impression that he wanted to make further enquiries about Charles but didn’t want to seem too interested.
‘Did you say that he – this man – lives in America? Were they going to live there?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Anthea replied, ‘Charles said that he wanted to come back and live in England, but I don’t know.’
‘
He’d find it pretty small beer after gadding all over the world for that firm of his,’ Ronnie said. ‘Martenco – petrochemicals,’ he explained. Brad-ford looked very thoughtful.
‘A multi-national?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said enthusiastically, ‘very high-powered. Charles was very much the local goy who made good, you know. Frightfully rich.’
Anthea got up and fetched the puddings from the trolley.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘raspberry Pavlova or lemon mousse?’
I made those exclamations of delight and admiration that all women make when confronted by the fruits of long and complicated culinary labour on the part of their hostess, and chose the lemon mousse. I had a sudden idea and turned to Bradford.
‘I’ve just though, Philip.’ I said. ‘Your cottage sounds just what some friends of mine are looking for to stay in for the Easter holidays.’
‘What friends?’ Anthea asked with interest.
‘Freda Benson – do you remember her? She went to teach modern languages at a school in Sheffield. She wants to come down with a couple of friends. They’re mad about bird-watching,’ I invented, hoping that Anthea wouldn’t remember Freda Benson. Fortunately she was occupied with a recalcitrant portion of Pavlova that was in danger of shooting off the serving dish, and wasn’t really listening. I turned and gazed earnestly at Bradford.
‘That’s why it sounds so ideal. Right in the middle of nowhere – masses of birds and the moors all round. They’d love it!’
‘I’m not sure about Easter—’
‘Oh, it doesn’t have to be actually over Easter,’ I said hastily. ‘You know what marvellously long holidays schoolteachers have.’
‘Well, yes, that would be all right I should think.’
‘Do you have anyone to pop in to do a bit of cleaning and get some milk and things in?’ I asked.
‘There’s a very good woman in the village who comes in a few days a week.’
‘That sounds wonderful. I’d like to have a look at it before I write to Freda. Would that be all right?’
He hesitated again.
‘I’m not quite sure when I can manage a day to take you over there.’