“You could, if you weren’t trying to keep a totally open mind.”
For the rest of the afternoon they were busy with the sort of petty routine that proliferates in a murder case beyond even the day-to-day pettinesses of police routine. Oddie did manage to fax the Anchorage police, hoping to get a message through to Lydia’s cousin and heir, and he phoned Lydia’s solicitor again and eventually managed to get out of him the sums she had been planning to leave to the two boys. Charlie meanwhile checked up on the work of the uniformed men who had been doing door-to-door enquiries in the village. Little seemed to have emerged beyond the fact that Lydia was not a familiar figure in Bly, though the village people had been mildly proud to have her among them. They had been more interested in the visit of Kelly Marsh from Waterloo Terrace, and it was agreed that she and her husband had packed up their car the night before, and had left with their baby son soon after eight that morning.
As they drove back to Bly Mike Oddie said:
“We’ll keep the questions mainly to factual, neutral matters. We’ve got no substantial grounds for suspicion, and we don’t want to put them on their guard.”
“No substantial grounds? You mean beyond the codicil?”
“Beyond the codicil,” agreed Mike Oddie. “Which was never signed, but which should have been signed yesterday. That codicil, by the bye, could give a motive to the father as well as the boys: he may have felt that one way or another he could get his hands on the money, both of them being minors. Even in an age of high inflation ten thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at.”
“I’m not sneezing,” said Charlie. “But did he know about it? Telling your father is not quite the same thing as telling your mates at school.”
“True. Anyway that’s one thing I shall have to bring up, without making a big issue out of it.”
Oddie went thoughtful until, minutes later, Charlie pulled up outside the Bellingham home. Their first ring brought Nick to the door, still shining with sweat and exuding bluffness and eagerness to please. He ushered them through the hall and into the living room. Mike Oddie’s antennae quivered: he had lived alone for some years after the death of his first wife, and he knew the feel of a room hastily and inexpertly cleaned and tidied in anticipation of a visit. This room had it. But then that was very much to be expected, when the housewife/mother had recently been taken off to hospital.
“Sorry about the mess,” said Nick Bellingham unnecessarily. “I’m thinking of getting that Mrs Kegan in, while the wife’s poorly.”
Mike and Charlie were put into a pair of armchairs facing the two boys, seated side by side on a sofa. It was all rather unreal, like a television set for a prestige detective series. The boys’ appearance also struck the two detectives as incongruous: what boy these days wears a necktie around the house after school? Ted and Colin wore flannels and white shirts, and like the room had the air of being newly scrubbed and tidied. They also had an air of sadness tinged, Oddie felt—but wouldn’t it be the same with any boys?—with excitement.
“Ted,” said Nick Bellingham, gesturing. “And Colin.”
“Hello,” the two boys said.
“Right,” said Oddie, settling down in his chair and putting on his friendliest face. “Could you tell me how long you had known Mrs Perceval?”
“Just a matter of weeks,” said Ted.
“How did you meet her?”
“We didn’t exactly meet her. . . . We go up the hill there to practise speed cycling on the open space near the gravel pit. She spoke to us one day, then we stopped to chat to her, then it—well, it went on from there.”
“I see. You seem to have got quite close very quickly. Why do you think that was?”
“We just clicked,” said Colin. “Somehow.”
Mike’s antennae quivered again, but what were they reacting to? Perhaps the tone of the reply: there was a trace of smugness, of the smart-alec, in the voice.
“It was quite natural really,” said Ted. “She didn’t have any children, but she’d been very fond of her nephews. They’d grown up, one of them had died—in the Falklands War, actually—”
“Ah.”
“—so she, well, she didn’t really have anybody.”
“You were sort of replacements for the nephews?”
“Well, in a way. Though it didn’t feel like that.”
“And on your side?”
There was a moment’s silence, then Nick Bellingham spoke, from his upright chair at the table.
“It was their mother, you see. She’d been ill for months and we hadn’t realized it. I blame myself, I make no bones about that. She’d been sort of fading away, and I just got ratty at her. I’d never even heard of M.E.—I’m no great reader. And of course I’m out at work all day—sometimes half the evening too. . . .”
“You mean the boys had had little home life?” Oddie asked, easily.
“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes,” said Bellingham, with his customary fondness for cliché.
“But we liked her,” said Ted eagerly. “She was really interesting, wasn’t she, Colin? She knew such a lot, and it was unusual her being a writer.”
“You felt you learned a lot just being there,” said his brother.
“I’m sure you did,” said Oddie. “And when your mother was taken into hospital she provided a base for you in the evenings?”
“Yes. We got her to the doctor’s last week, and he put her in immediately. That’s when Mrs Perceval made her offer. We went there after school, and she cooked an evening meal for us.”
“And that’s what happened last night?”
“Yes.” A catch came into Ted’s voice. “I can’t believe that just after we saw her. . . .”
“Let’s stick to what happened last night. Did you go up to Hilltop Cottage straight after school?”
“No, we went swimming in the Halifax baths first. We got to the cottage around six, and Lydia—Mrs Perceval—cooked us steak and chips.”
“What did you talk about?”
The boys looked at each other, screwing up their faces.
“I remember we talked about being a vegetarian, and how we didn’t like our steak too red and fleshy,” said Ted.
“Was Mrs Perceval a vegetarian?” Charlie asked.
“Oh no. She was a red meat and fur coat sort of person,” said Colin.
“She was a bit old-fashioned in a lot of ways,” said Ted.
“Did you come straight home after the meal?”
“No, we played Monopoly. Then we said we’d be getting back, and Mrs Perceval said she’d come down with us.”
Oddie nodded, and looked serious.
“Now, you were alone in the house, were you?”
“Oh yes.”
“Quite sure?”
“Yes. Well—unless there was some kind of intruder.”
Ted shivered. This was something he had not thought about before, apparently.
“Right. So you left the cottage. Did Mrs Perceval lock up?”
“Yes, she locked up and put the key in her handbag.”
“Did she say why she was going down to the village with you?”
“To meet Dad,” said Ted.
“And to make sure which house we lived in,” added Colin.
“No other reason as well?”
“I don’t think so. Not that she said.”
“Did anything happen on your way here?”
“Not really,” said Ted, thinking. “We went past her sister’s house, and she commented on her nephew still being here. His car was parked outside.”
“She’d had a row with him over the weekend,” said Colin.
“We don’t know that,” said Ted, turning on him.
“What makes you think it?” asked Charlie.
“We came in when he was up there,” said Colin, still with that rather-pleased-with-himself tone. “There was a sort of atmosphere. She was sort of—well, like she’d lost her cool.”
“Normally she was a very cool person
,” said Ted.
“I think it was what people mean when they say someone is ‘ruffled’,” said Colin. “Later on, after he’d gone, she made remarks—sort of snide remarks—about him.”
“For instance?”
“Like that he’d thrown his chances away, and that he’d married the sort of woman who would drag him down. We thought it was rather exciting that he was in television, and she didn’t like that.”
“She’d have liked it even less if she’d seen you trying to catch a glimpse of Sharon from Waterloo Terrace from our bedroom window on Saturday morning,” said Ted wickedly.
“Well, it’s not often you see telly people in Bly,” Colin pointed out. “And she’s really page three!”
“Right,” said Oddie, “so you came along to this house. What happened?”
“She just said hello,” said Nick Bellingham, seeming rather embarrassed. “The house was in a bit of a mess, couldn’t really invite her in, but she didn’t want that. She just—well, she said hello and went.”
“I think it was just so she knew who Dad was,” said Ted.
“What time was this?”
“Oh—maybe a quarter to ten,” said Ted, after a moment’s thought. “We watched the end of Taggart, and then it was news time. We don’t watch the news if Dad isn’t in, so we switched it off and went upstairs to do our homework.”
“You weren’t in, then?” Oddie asked Nick.
“I slipped out for a quick pint as soon as the lads were home,” their father said. “I’d been doing the firm’s paperwork all evening, and I was parched.”
“But would you agree about times?”
“The boys would be right about that. I’d had my head over account books all evening, so I hadn’t seen any television. I’m hazy about time at the best of times.”
“Did you see Mrs Perceval in the street when you went to the pub?”
“No—I’d spent a minute or two with the boys before I went out, asked them what they’d been doing and so on.”
“But as far as you know,” said Oddie, turning back to the boys, “she went straight back to the cottage.”
“I suppose so,” said Colin slowly. “As we said, she didn’t say she was going to do anything else. I suppose she could have gone to see her sister.”
“Don’t be daft,” cut in Ted. “Not with Kelly Marsh there. She said she’d walk miles to avoid bumping into her again.”
“Is there anyone else she might have visited?”
“There’s her cleaner, Mrs Kegan. She was very fond of her.”
“But why would she?” asked Colin. “She’d been to the cottage yesterday. She was there when we phoned to say we were going swimming. Why do you think she called on anyone?”
“I don’t. I’m just checking. She would only have had time to pop in for a few words at most.”
Colin looked at him, sharp-eyed.
“Does that mean you know what time she was killed?”
“She rang someone just before ten.” Mike Oddie decided to opt for vagueness. Boys’ imaginations could make something nightmarish of that last telephone conversation. “We think it was around then that she was killed.”
“Well, whoever did it, hanging’s too good for them,” said Nick Bellingham, with that heartiness the bluff Britisher always assumes when hanging or flogging is in question. “She’d been wonderful to the boys—a real saint.”
Oddie doubted it, but didn’t share his doubts.
“Well, I think that’s all for now,” he said, getting up and making for the door. “Though there’ll probably be more questions when we’ve got the picture clearer in our minds. I’m sorry to have to do this,” he said turning to the boys. “I realise it must be distressing. You must have got fond of her.”
“We did,” said Ted. “It was good to have someone interested in us and what we did.”
“She certainly seems to have been fond of you,” said Oddie. “You know she intended to leave you both some money?”
The boys responded simultaneously.
“Money?” said Ted.
“Intended?” said Colin.
CHAPTER 12
MORE people were talking or thinking about Lydia Perceval in Bly that evening than ever talked or thought about her in life. It seemed there was only one possible subject of conversation, and conjecture ranged from the fantastical to the plain ignorant. The people of Bly were on the whole sensible people, however, and they laughed at the woman who, showing an imperfect grasp of the practicalities, suggested that Lydia had committed suicide. And they were sceptical too of the suggestion that she had been the victim of a fatwah: the reasons adduced, that she was a writer, and had written a book on Lawrence of Arabia, they found unimpressive. None of the people who knew her best doubted it was murder or that it had had one of the usual motives for murder. They talked the matter over in tones that were hushed, uncertain, but not, except in one case, grief-stricken.
Over a late-night whisky, their first of the day, Andy and Thea Hoddle mulled over things yet again, alcohol seeming to illumine more sharply the nature of their dilemma.
“I don’t know why we didn’t mention their being here,” said Andy, his forehead creased in self-criticism. “It’s not as though we talked it over and came to a rational decision.”
“We can say they never asked us,” said Thea.
“We can say that. I don’t think they’ll buy it. After all the subject of the boys—our boys—came up, and we just said that Maurice worked for Midlands Television. It would have been natural. . . .”
“Yes . . .” Thea looked down into her glass. It was so seldom that they discussed Maurice. “I suppose it was just the thought that Lydia had been murdered, and Maurice had gone out last night.”
“Yes. He said he was going to see if there were any of his old school-friends in the pub. He didn’t tell you if he’d met any?”
Thea shook her head.
“No. I suppose he did go to The Wheatsheaf?”
“Please God he did. We can hardly go and ask.”
“It may come up in conversation—there’d have been plenty of men from the village in there. . . . Eventually the police are going to be asking.”
“They’re going to be asking about Kelly too.”
“I don’t see that Kelly had anything to do with Lydia. The fact that they disliked each other when they met is hardly relevant, since they only met once. As far as we know she was in bed getting her beauty sleep, as she called it.”
“They’re going to be asking about us too.”
Thea shook her head.
“And that’s going to be just as unsatisfactory. As far as you know I was upstairs reading in bed, at least if she was killed late evening, as the village is saying. And as far as I know you were down here watching the ten o’clock news. We know each other so well we know there’s no possibility of the other lying. But they don’t.”
“The question is,” said Andy, swallowing the last of his Scotch and getting up to pour himself another, “do we go along tomorrow and say: ‘Oh, by the way, we forgot to say our son was staying with us that night’?”
“It’s going to look bad,” said Thea. “It’s going to look as if Maurice being here was—well—relevant. Something important.”
“It’s going to look bad however it comes up,” Andy pointed out. “And it’s my guess they know already they were here. You know what Bly is like. And Kelly being in the village was a five-day wonder even before the murder.”
“Maurice didn’t say anything on the phone?” Thea asked.
“Just ‘Good Lord!’ and later that if he’d been asked he would have said that Lydia would die gracefully at a great age and in full possession of her faculties.”
“But he said he’d come to the funeral?”
“Yes.” Andy grinned. “He also said he thought that Lydia would have agreed to dispense with Kelly’s presence.”
“Well, that’s true enough . . . though it makes public what they thought of each
other.”
“I’m sure everyone in Bly has known that all along. Lydia was not backward in giving her opinion—and neither is Kelly, come to that. . . . It’s what Maurice thought of Lydia that worries me.”
“Yes. It’s not just his having gone out last night, is it? Or the fact that they seem to have had some sort of minor quarrel when he went up there. It’s that sense of . . . of bottled-up resentment I got whenever we talked of her.”
“Yes. Kelly felt it too, you know.”
“I know. She told me he always goes tense when the subject of his aunt comes up.”
“Maybe—I don’t know—maybe it’s a feeling that Lydia used them, him and Gavin. I wish it was something he was willing to discuss. He pretended on the surface to be so relaxed about her—rather cynical and seeing through her. And yet underneath I got the feeling that he . . . well, hated her.”
“Yes. Perhaps that’s how he’s felt since Gavin’s death.”
“Perhaps it’s something he feels on his own behalf.”
• • •
In the bedroom of number six, High Street, which Ted had occupied since the move North the boys were talking in hushed, urgent tones. They had heard the front door shut minutes before, as their father returned from The Wheatsheaf. He had not been able to resist being the centre of attention as one of the last to speak to the dead woman.
“You really blew it,” said Ted scornfully. “You’re a right plonker!” He threw his voice into a bitter imitation of his brother. “ ‘Intended?’ ”
“I don’t suppose he noticed,” muttered Colin.
“Of course he noticed. He’s a policeman.”
“Anyway he was bound to find out that we knew. We’ve talked about it at school.”
“You talked about it. I never cared about the money.”
“Says you!”
“I didn’t! I wished we’d never heard about it. I wasn’t going up there for that.”
“Oh no? Ten thousand quid, and you ‘weren’t going up there for that’.” He produced his own imitation of his brother’s tones. “Who is going to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Well, I was, I tell you straight.”
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