Copyright & Information
Dead In The Morning
First published in 1970
© Margaret Yorke; House of Stratus 1970-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Margaret Yorke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755130154 9780755130153 Print
0755134680 9780755134687 Kindle
0755134796 9780755134793 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Born in Surrey, England, to John and Alison Larminie in 1924, Margaret Yorke (Margaret Beda Nicholson) grew up in Dublin before moving back to England in 1937, where the family settled in Hampshire, although she now lives in a small village in Buckinghamshire.
During World War II she saw service in the Women’s Royal Naval Service as a driver. In 1945, she married, but it was only to last some ten years, although there were two children; a son and daughter. Her childhood interest in literature was re-enforced by five years living close to Stratford-upon-Avon and she also worked variously as a bookseller and as a librarian in two Oxford Colleges, being the first woman ever to work in that of Christ Church.
She is widely travelled and has a particular interest in both Greece and Russia.
Margaret Yorke’s first novel was published in 1957, but it was not until 1970 that she turned her hand to crime writing. There followed a series of five novels featuring Dr. Patrick Grant, an Oxford don and amateur sleuth, who shares her own love of Shakespeare. More crime and mystery was to follow, and she has written some forty three books in all, but the Grant novels were limited to five as, in her own words, ‘authors using a series detective are trapped by their series. It stops some of them from expanding as writers’.
She is proud of the fact that many of her novels are essentially about ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary situations which may threatening, or simply horrific. It is this facet of her writing that ensures a loyal following amongst readers who inevitably identify with some of the characters and recognise conflicts that may occur in everyday life. Indeed, she states that characters are far more important to her than intricate plots and that when writing ‘I don’t manipulate the characters, they manipulate me’.
Critics have noted that she has a ‘marvellous use of language’ and she has frequently been cited as an equal to P.D. James and Ruth Rendell. She is a past chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association and in 1999 was awarded the Cartier Diamond Dagger, having already been honoured with the Martin Beck Award from the Swedish Academy of Detection.
FRIDAY
I
The only sound in the room came from an ornate clock on the mantelpiece as it marked the passing seconds with sharp, relentless clicks.
It was twenty minutes to three.
Mrs Ludlow sat fidgeting in her chair. Everyone else was out, except Mrs Mackenzie the housekeeper, who had wheeled her into the lift and transported her downstairs after her daily rest; now she was in her room, doubtless writing today’s instalment of the fat bulletins she posted twice a week to her married daughter in Winnipeg. It was a marvel how she found so much to say.
There was nothing to do. Irritably, Mrs Ludlow fumbled with the knobs of the portable radio that stood on the table beside her, among a heap of books, playing cards, photographs and letters. A droning voice filled the room, and some moments went by before Mrs Ludlow understood what the monotonous tones were describing: the joys of making tomato chutney, seasonable now that it was too late for the fruit to ripen out of doors.
“Ugh, twaddle,” said Mrs Ludlow, who had never made a pot of any preserve in her life. She switched off the radio and drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. Whom could she ring up? Who was at home now to answer if she dialled them? She frowned, staring out of the window. It was a sunny day in late September, a day for the garden; presently Mrs Mackenzie would wheel her out, with a rug tucked over her thin old knees, for a little air before tea, but meanwhile there was nearly an hour to occupy.
Where was Phyllis? Mrs Ludlow couldn’t remember. She tried to recollect what day of the week it was. Her own routine never varied; only that of the other members of the household changed from day to day.
Yesterday, Mrs Mackenzie had gone to London, so it must have been Thursday, her day off. She always went to visit her son who had a tobacconist’s shop in Clapham. Today was therefore Friday, and Phyllis must at this moment be in Fennersham having her hair done, for that was how she spent every Friday afternoon, and a great waste of time and money too, thought her mother; she always came back with her grey hair tinted a ridiculous ashen shade, and her face and neck flushed brick red by the drier.
Cathy was out playing tennis. It was just as well to have the child kept busy today, thought Mrs Ludlow, at last admitting what was on her mind. She picked up a letter from the table and read it for the twentieth time. She could see perfectly without spectacles, but seldom subjected her eyes to strain, for one of Phyllis’s duties was to read to her for hours at a time, often late at night after everybody else had gone to bed. Mrs Ludlow enjoyed biographies of eminent Victorians, whilst Phyllis’s own taste ran to historical novels, which she lapped up one after the other in her bedroom, burning her light into the small hours. Her mother knew this, as she slept with her own curtains wide, and if she were wakeful could see the light from Phyllis’s room shining across the garden, for the house was built in the shape of an L. She knew, too, that Phyllis’s literary likes had not changed since she was a girl, a large, lumpy creature who spent hours lying in the garden immersed in a lot of romantic nonsense. Mrs Ludlow had found her an unsatisfactory child, and was scarcely surprised that she had made a disastrous job of her adult life.
Her thin hand, the back mottled with large brown pigmentations, shook a little as she laid the letter back on the table. She was upset, and somebody else must be made to share her disturbance. She thought of Betty, her daughter-in-law, who lived five miles away on the other side of Fennersham, and who was sure to be out in the garden now, ferreting about among the weeds in the shrubbery or somewhere. It would be very annoying for Betty to hear the telephone bell and have to come indoors to answer it, doubtless scattering mud from her shoes as she hurried to the summons. She would naturally hear it, for an outside bell had been fitted for this very reason, so that Mrs Ludlow might never call unanswered.
There was plenty to discuss. She could ask Betty about her sons. Tim was sure to be worrying her in one way or another, either by failing more exams, or by going about with long shaggy hair, garbed in fancy dress. Oxford seemed to be doing him no good at all. And Martin, Betty’s elder son, had last year married an alarming girl with very short skirts and boot-blacked eyes, who was bound to be leading him a dance by now, altogether.
Betty could be given a bad half-hour on the telephone before Ge
rald’s letter need be mentioned. By the time all available topics for conversation had been exhausted, Mrs Mackenzie would be ready to take her out in her chair, and if Betty were too down-hearted by then to go back to her garden, that was of no account.
Mrs Ludlow stretched out her hand for the telephone.
II
Helen Ludlow gazed from the window of the Alitalia plane through gaps in the clouds at her first sight of England.
“It’s like a patchwork, so neat,” she said. “Aren’t those meadows just tiny?”
The plane’s engines changed their note as the run-in towards Heathrow began.
“You might see Windsor Castle, if you keep looking,” said her husband. “It’s a splendid curtain-raiser to this island.”
Helen peered out at the doll-sized fields and houses spread below. Roads and rivers threaded them like ribbons, and match-box cars and lorries moved like marching ants.
“We’ll soon be coming down,” she said. “What time will we get to Pantons, Gerry?”
“About half-past nine, if the customs don’t hold us up,” said Gerald. “Nervous?”
“A little, I guess,” Helen admitted. “What’ll they think? After this long, your family will have had a real surprise. And Cathy may resent you getting married again. Supposing she doesn’t like me?”
“She will, darling,” Gerald said. He took her hand and clasped it firmly. “And everyone’s had time to get used to the idea by now. We’ve been married three whole weeks, do you realise that?”
“I know it’s wonderful weeks,” Helen sighed. “Incredible, too.”
“It will go on being wonderful,” Gerald said. “This is just the beginning.”
He sat relaxed as the plane slowly descended. This moment in a flight always made him think, not altogether incongruously, of the line from Deuteronomy: “Underneath are the everlasting arms”, so aware did he become of the power of the machine in which he was travelling. He leaned back in his seat, holding Helen’s hand, quietly content.
He had never expected, at his age, to have another opportunity of finding personal happiness. In the ten years since Cathy’s mother died, he had managed well enough, dividing his time between the flat in London and Pantons, where he had a weekend cottage converted from the former stables. Cathy lived in the big house, cared for by her aunt Phyllis and criticised by her grandmother, while Gerald carried on two distinct lives. In the country his existence was calm and uneventful, in London much more hectic, marked with transient diversions; there had always been women, but he had never been able to feel more for any one of them than a physical attraction occasionally reinforced by some casual affection.
Then he had met Helen, and the miracle had happened.
“I still marvel about coming into that shop just when you were in trouble over Cathy’s present,” Helen said. “What if I’d been a little sooner? Or a half-hour later?”
“I expect it was in our stars,” Gerald said with a smile. “Mrs Van Doren would say that.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Helen still felt that she was living in a dream. So much had happened, so fast, that it was hard to catch up with the reality of events. She had met Gerald in the spring. He had gone to Milan on business, and had taken a few days off to visit Venice, where he had never been. Helen was there with the rich American widow who was employing her as secretary, lady’s maid and companion during her travels around Europe.
Gerald quickly fell captive to the magic of Venice, walking for hours along the narrow streets, pottering in and out of the churches, gazing from the bridges at the murky water below, and simply watching what was going on around him. Like every tourist, he wanted to take presents home, and he went into a jeweller’s shop off the Piazza San Marco in search of something for Cathy. The high-powered salesmanship of the shopkeeper was obscuring his judgement when Helen came into the shop.
Gerald asked the padrone to attend to her, since he needed time to make his choice, and freed from the flood of effusive persuasion, he turned with relief to inspect in peace the trinkets set out on the counter.
Helen thanked him, and then launched into a torrent of rapid Italian. The shopkeeper treated her with deference, and produced a large parcel which she had come to collect. Flowery remarks passed back and forth during this exchange. Gerald was only vaguely aware of all this going on as he held a gold mesh bracelet in one hand and a necklace in the other, debating their relative merits.
“Thank you so much,” Helen said to him, preparing to leave the shop with her parcel. “That was kind of you.”
“Oh, not at all. I shall be here for ages,” Gerald said despairingly. “I can’t make up my mind what to buy.”
For the first time, he really looked at her, and on impulse said, “Perhaps you would help me?”
“Well, surely, if I can,” Helen said. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m trying to find something for my daughter. She’s nearly eighteen. I thought perhaps a bracelet, like this one? Or a necklace? I can’t decide which she’d prefer.”
Helen promptly set down her parcel and picked up the bracelet.
“It’s pretty,” she said. “What does your daughter look like?”
“She’s small and dark,” Gerald said, and added, looking at her, “a little like you.”
“Well, then.” Helen held out her wrist, and the shopkeeper, delighted, fastened the bracelet round it. “This is beautiful,” she said. “Any young girl would think it just lovely.”
It certainly looked perfect where it was.
“The necklace is more sophisticated,” Helen said. “Your daughter might not be able to wear it so often, but she could use the bracelet all the time.”
“You’re right,” Gerald said, greatly relieved. “I’ll take the bracelet. You think that one’s the nicest?”
They tried on several others, but in the end chose the first one. Gerald paid, and picked up Helen’s parcel. They left the shop together.
“You speak very good Italian,” he remarked. “Where did you learn it?”
“In college,” Helen said. “I majored in modern languages. I thought I’d forgotten it after so long, but it’s coming back. I certainly do enjoy being able to speak the language of the people.”
“I envy you,” Gerald said. “I’ve got just a smattering, enough to get by at a pinch, but I don’t get much chance to improve. I come to Italy quite often for my firm, but my Italian colleagues are better at English than I am at Italian, so you can guess what we speak.”
“You should practise,” Helen told him with a smile. “It’s a pretty language.”
“Yes,” Gerald said. “But they talk so fast I find it very hard to understand. Do you travel a lot? Europe seems to be very close to America now.”
“It’s closer to Boston than the Rockies are,” Helen said. “I haven’t been over before, but my employer knows Italy well. We’ve been touring Europe for the past six months.”
“How very pleasant,” Gerald said. “I thought the usual American way was to cram all the N.A.T.O. countries into three weeks.”
“I guess that is the normal pattern, but Mrs Van Doren is very rich, and she can take her time,” Helen said. “She likes to get the atmosphere. And of course she buys souvenirs everywhere; that’s what’s in this parcel.”
“Do you enjoy working for her?”
“Very much,” Helen said. “She’s a thoughtful person, and I’ve loved visiting all these different countries. We spent Christmas in Paris, just imagine.”
In a sudden burst of confidence, she added, “Mrs Van Doren’s a great believer in what the stars foretell, and some days we have to get through a heavy programme because her horoscope’s encouraging, and other days we don’t stir out in case of disaster.”
“What’s today’s forecast?” Gerald asked. “A good day?”
“Steady progress may be made today,” Helen said demurely.
“Oh, good,” Gerald said. “Let’s help it on by having a drink, sh
all we? Have you time?”
Helen looked up at the great clock on the ‘Torre dell’- Orologio above their heads.
“I guess so,” she said, laughing. “Mrs Van Doren rests till her martini at six.”
So they sat at a table in the huge square watching the fluttering pigeons and the strolling crowds, sipping Cinzano and listening to the rival orchestras vying with each other as they played nostalgic tunes on either side of them.
Gerald stayed in Venice for three more days, and in that time he met Helen on several other occasions, by appointment and by chance. She and Mrs Van Doren were in the Basilica staring in appropriate wonderment at the Pala d’Oro while he did the same; he saw them admiring Mantegna’s St. George in the Gallerie dell’- Accademia that afternoon; and the next day, in the cool interior of Santa Maria della Salute, he heard Mrs Van Doren say, “Why, I declare, there’s that good-looking Englishman again. I wonder who he is?”
Helen’s reply was inaudible. She gave no sign of recognising him on these encounters, and though he took his cue from her, Gerald was disappointed. He thought their sight-seeing would have been enriched by being conducted a trois, but perhaps Mrs Van Doren’s stars did not favour converse with a strange Briton that week. Helen agreed readily enough to meet him when she was free; on his last night Mrs Van Doren had a dinner engagement at the Gritti Palace; he and Helen ate fritto misto in a little trattoria, and then took a gondola trip around the city. As their long, black vessel with its curving prow moved smoothly down the canals, rounding the corners with a melodic cry from the gondolier, neither thought the experience corny.
Before they parted, Gerald asked her if Mrs Van Doren’s trip would bring them to England.
“I don’t know,” Helen said. “Maybe in the fall. She hasn’t fixed on what we’re doing after Greece. We go to Athens next month.”
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