An Air That Kills

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Shall we be seeing you and your good lady at the dance?’ Fuggle enquired.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Thornhill said, wondering how the reporter had discovered that he was married.

  Fuggle glanced at the clock behind the bar. ‘Oh, dear me, is that the time? I really must fly. You’ll excuse me, gentlemen?’

  In the space of a few seconds, he had finished his drink, slipped on his overcoat and left the room.

  Newton smiled at Thornhill. ‘Mrs Fuggle is said to be something of a tartar. Let me get you another drink. Same again?’

  He beckoned the barman who scurried across to their table. Thornhill reflected sourly that when he tried to summon waiters or barmen with that casual assurance they generally pretended not to see him – unless they knew what he did for a living.

  ‘Sad business, really,’ Newton said a moment later, after ordering the drinks.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Thornhill’s mind had wandered off to Jill Francis: he was speculating about the reason for her being at the Bull without either of the Wemyss-Browns.

  ‘The bones at the Rose in Hand. Do you feel pretty sure that Victorian murderess was responsible?’

  ‘Amelia Rushwick? It seems the most likely solution. What happened to the Rose in Hand after her parents’ tenancy ended?’

  ‘That’s what Fuggle was asking me.’ Newton began to fill a pipe. ‘I looked up the records yesterday after I’d seen the article in the Gazette. The Rushwicks left in 1891. Then there was someone called John Farndale. He was there for three years. After that, the place was taken by a Mr and Mrs Jones who ran it as a temperance hotel. They lasted less than eighteen months and had to be evicted for unpaid rent. Then the Rose more or less gave up the ghost.’

  The barman brought their drinks over.

  ‘Cheers,’ Thornhill said, sipping his sherry. ‘How do you mean, “gave up the ghost”?’

  ‘Simply that it was no longer a paying proposition. The Estate couldn’t find a tenant for the pub, or not the sort they wanted. Reading between the lines, the whole of Templefields was going downhill – a bit of an albatross – so they decided to let it rot. They did the minimum of maintenance and split up the pub and outbuildings – leased them out for whatever they could get, commercial or residential. That was the situation when they took me on.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘In 1937. By that time the pub was empty, practically derelict. I remember we tried to let the yards separately. Major Harcutt was quite interested at one stage – you know he had a coal merchant’s business in those days?’

  Thornhill nodded. His attention was distracted by movement near the door. The man he had seen with Jill Francis came into the room and perched on one of the bar stools.

  ‘Of course Harcutt’s interest may have been historical rather than commercial,’ Newton went on. ‘He sold up a few months afterwards.’

  The man ordered a dry martini in a carrying voice which, unlike his face, had a familiar quality.

  ‘Has the Estate any plans for the rest of Templefields?’ Thornhill asked.

  ‘Not really.’ Newton grinned, and his face looked ten years younger. ‘Not unless the council make us an offer we can’t refuse. Tell me, how are you liking Lydmouth?’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘Takes a while to settle in, doesn’t it? I found that. It’s still a very close-knit community. After a while they begin to accept you. But unless you’re actually born here, they’ll still call you a foreigner until the day you die.’

  ‘In some ways it seems a very old-fashioned place.’

  ‘To look at it,’ Newton said, ‘you’d think the clock stopped in about 1923 and everything will always be the same. But it’s changing. Most people don’t realise how much or how fast.’

  They talked for another ten minutes. Thornhill offered to buy the next round but Newton glanced at the clock behind the bar and declined.

  ‘I’d better go. Wouldn’t do to be late for dinner, though my wife’s not in the same league as Mrs Fuggle.’

  Thornhill left as well. To his surprise, he found himself wishing that the conversation with Newton could have lasted longer. On his way out, he noticed Jill Francis’s friend ordering another dry martini. In the hall, he paused to have a word with Quale: Carn still hadn’t returned. Thornhill said he would call back later in the evening and Quale’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

  He went outside. It had started to rain again. He lingered in the shelter of the porch to button his coat. Talking to Newton seemed to have cleared his head. It was time to go home to Edith and the children, wave an olive branch and have some supper. He had been behaving like a sulky schoolboy.

  He walked quickly back to headquarters and collected his car. The sherry had given him an appetite. He drove up to the High Street and turned right. The rain was growing heavier by the minute, the drops of water bouncing off the roadway and thrumming on the roof of the car.

  After fifty yards, he stopped at a zebra crossing: two girls teetered across on their high heels, moving at suicidal speed. He glanced idly through the car’s nearside window and saw a woman sheltering from the rain in the doorway of a men’s outfitters, her pale face clearly visible in the light from a streetlamp. He recognised her and on impulse rolled down the nearside window.

  ‘Miss Francis, can I give you a lift?’ Suddenly he realised that she might not be able to see who it was. ‘It’s Richard Thornhill.’

  She hesitated. For a moment, he thought she would refuse. Then she walked quickly across the pavement. He opened the door from the inside. She climbed into the car.

  ‘You’re going back to Troy House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Caught in the rain? Not a night for walking.’

  ‘No.’

  He let out the clutch and the car moved off.

  ‘It’s kind of you to give me a lift,’ she said in a rush.

  ‘Not at all.’

  The conversation languished. Thornhill felt mildly aggrieved – after all, he was doing the woman a good turn. Perhaps she reserved her conversation for the favoured few, like the well-heeled gentleman – Yateley? – in the lounge of the Bull Hotel. He drove automatically, his attention focused on his passenger. At one point he glanced at her as they were passing a streetlamp: there was enough light to see that she was staring through the windscreen; she might have been alone.

  Thornhill pulled up outside Troy House, leaving the engine running. She fumbled for the door handle and couldn’t find it. Probably she expected him to get out, walk round the car in the pouring rain and open the door from the outside; but he wasn’t in the mood for courtly gestures. Muttering an apology, he leant across her and opened the door. For the first time he saw her face clearly.

  ‘You’ve been crying,’ he said before he could stop himself. He sat up sharply, chilly with embarrassment. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’re quite right.’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  After a few seconds had passed, he said, ‘Do you want a handkerchief? I’ve got a clean one.’

  ‘Thank you. I forgot to take one. So silly of me.’

  He gave her the handkerchief and looked away while she blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

  ‘I’ll have it washed and give it back to you,’ she said. ‘Thank you again. Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  She got out of the car. Thornhill watched her walking up the path to the front door of Troy House. He felt puzzled and also a little flattered that she’d deigned to take not only a lift but a handkerchief from him. She opened the door, half turned to give him a wave and disappeared into the house. A moment later, he drove away.

  Chapter Ten

  Dr Bayswater stared down at Mrs Meague. Her eyes were closed and she was gasping for air.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘She took a turn for the worse around tea time,’ the sister murmured.

  ‘Does the son know?’

>   ‘Unfortunately not. He was in at lunch time and she seemed much better then. We’ve phoned the pub near their house and left a message.’

  ‘He’d better hurry,’ Bayswater said, ‘or it may be too late.’

  The sister was called away. Bayswater grunted angrily and sat down on the chair beside the bed. The old woman’s red, work-roughened hand was lying on the blanket. The fingers twitched. The lips were moving. He bent nearer to her.

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘He’s coming,’ Bayswater said gruffly.

  ‘Charlie.’

  Gingerly, he touched her hand. Her fingers wrapped themselves around his.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said again. ‘Poor Miss Tony. But it wasn’t you, was it?’

  Bayswater said nothing.

  The thin body twitched under the blankets. The head moved a fraction on the pillow and the weak fingers gripped Bayswater’s a little more tightly. ‘It wasn’t you, Charlie, was it?’

  ‘No,’ Dr Bayswater said firmly. ‘It wasn’t.’

  The fingers relaxed their grip a little, but they tightened again in a moment when the breathing grew even more laboured. Since he had last seen Mrs Meague, her face had become bluer and more swollen. She disliked him, he thought, and was probably afraid of him.

  Dr Bayswater sat beside the bed. There was a crick in his neck and he wanted to empty his bladder and have a smoke. He watched the clock on the wall of sister’s office. He was still sitting there when she came back fifteen minutes later.

  ‘She doesn’t know you’re there,’ the sister said, surprised to see him.

  ‘I know.’ Dr Bayswater scowled at her. ‘I’m not a bloody fool.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie swaggered through the public bar as if he owned it and leant against the counter. Gloria was serving a customer in the lounge bar; neither her husband Harold nor her stepdaughter was in sight, which suited Charlie very well.

  While he waited he examined the back of her, taking his time and dwelling on the curves and hollows with a relish which was both nostalgic and anticipatory. Then and now, she was beautiful and desirable; but freshness had given way to a gorgeous ripeness. He guessed from the way she held herself that she was conscious of his eyes. At last she finished and sauntered across to him.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ she asked as she was pulling his pint.

  ‘She’s better. Saw her dinner time – I reckon she’s turned the corner.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘So I’ll have a Scotch with that. I’m celebrating, aren’t I?’

  Avoiding his eyes, Gloria put down the pint glass on the counter and turned away to fetch his whisky. He thought she was angry with him. It was crazy – she kept a pub and she didn’t like a man drinking. But when she came back with the whisky, she leant on the counter, her head close to his and her perfume strong in his nostrils. He smiled, delighted by his own power: she couldn’t keep away from him.

  ‘There’s a copper in the other bar,’ she said quietly.

  His pleasure vanished. He lowered his voice to match hers: ‘Working, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s a detective sergeant, name of Kirby. Comes in here for his dinner sometimes. He’s with a girl, but that doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Not that it matters, of course. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Charlie was aware that Gloria’s eyes were anxious; her concern irritated him because it implied that he was vulnerable. He wanted admiration, not help. He heard a door opening behind him and sensed that her attention had switched away from him. His irritation increased: it seemed that any passing customer took precedence over him.

  ‘There’s your friend again,’ Gloria said coldly. ‘I expect you’d like to buy him a drink. It’s usually that way round, isn’t it?’

  Charlie turned. Genghis Carn was standing a couple of feet away from him. He smiled impartially at the space between Gloria and Charlie.

  ‘How kind. A pint of best please and a large Scotch.’

  Gloria’s lips tightened into a bright red line. She shrugged and picked up a clean pint mug.

  ‘And how’s Mrs Meague today?’ Carn enquired.

  ‘Better, they say,’ Charlie said shortly.

  ‘Glad to hear that. Takes a man’s mind off his work when there’s sickness in the family – in my experience, anyway.’

  Gloria banged the mug down on the counter. A little of the beer slopped over the rim. Carn thanked her and lifted the mug to his lips. ‘Here’s to you.’

  Automatically Charlie drank. Gloria brought the whisky. While Charlie was paying for both sets of drinks, Carn wandered across the bar to a table in the corner furthest away from the dartboard. Charlie followed him, and they sat down with their backs to the wall.

  ‘Gloria says there’s a copper in the other bar,’ Charlie muttered. ‘A detective sergeant – I don’t know whether he’s on duty or not.’

  ‘And why should that concern me?’

  ‘Listen, Jimmy, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘When’s your mother coming out of hospital?’

  Charlie hesitated, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. ‘I don’t know. It could be some time yet.’

  ‘I imagine she’ll be in a delicate state of health for some time. You must be careful not to let anything upset her.’

  Charlie drank in silence.

  ‘Rather an attractive young woman,’ Carn went on, flicking his eyes towards the bar and then back to Charlie’s face. ‘If you like that sort of thing. Known her long?’

  ‘Since we were kids.’

  The silence lengthened between them. Charlie began to roll a cigarette to give himself something to do. His fingers were clumsier than usual.

  Carn picked up the matchbox beside Charlie’s tobacco tin and took out a fresh match. He broke it in two, ensuring that the wood splintered into a long, diagonal fracture. Breathing heavily, he used half of the match as a toothpick. He deposited a pale shred of meat on the side of the ashtray.

  ‘She’s the landlady?’ he asked.

  ‘Husband manages the pub for the brewery. Well, it’s his name over the door, but I reckon she runs it.’

  ‘Responsible job. Shouldn’t care for it myself, the licensed trade. So many things can go wrong, can’t they?’ There was a pause while Carn dug out another scrap of his supper and placed it next to the first. ‘And, let’s face it, when a man’s had a few drinks, he doesn’t always behave very rationally.’

  Charlie’s fingers were damp with sweat and the cigarette paper clung to them unexpectedly. Tobacco cascaded on to the table. ‘Why don’t you just say it straight out?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want what’s mine.’

  ‘You’ll have it, Jimmy. I promise. I’ve got it all arranged, I—’

  ‘I was going to tell you last night,’ Carn cut in, his voice soft and nasal, ‘but you were too drunk to remember your own name. I can’t wait, you see – I want it now.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Antonia made their supper with bad grace – undercooked boiled eggs and burned toast. She refilled her father’s glass twice during the meal.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Tony,’ he said after the second time, sounding surprised.

  Had he forgotten everything, she wondered? Or was he able to pretend to himself that none of it had happened? She could not understand how anyone, least of all her father, could be so stupid. She kept her head down as she chewed the charred toast. She knew he was looking at her.

  ‘Tony? I want to go to the service tomorrow. You’ll come too, won’t you? Hate to ask, but the thing is, I may need a bit of help.’

  Still chewing, she nodded. She did not want to speak to him.

  ‘Well, that’s all right then. Knew you would. I won’t be able to march with the chaps beforehand, of course. If we had a wheelchair, you could push me. But there it is, eh? So you’ll phone for a taxi, then? First thing in the morning.’

  His voice trailed away. She had forgotten his gra
celess way of demanding and receiving favours as though they were his of right. It had always made giving him anything a difficult and unpleasant process. Thank God for small mercies: none of the busybodies had thought to provide them with a wheelchair. The local Legion headquarters was at least a quarter-mile from the church: she would have had to push his dead weight uphill, and it would probably have been raining.

  After the meal, he smoked a cigarette and stared at the hissing flames of the gas fire while she cleared away. She washed up in the kitchen, which felt like a haven because he wasn’t there. The meal had done little to warm her – she felt cold, physically and emotionally.

  When she had been a child and her mother was still alive, Antonia had been convinced that there must be more to her father than met the eye. She had made up stories about him – little fantasies, designed with love and crafted with care, the sole purpose of which had been to permit him to reveal his love for her. ‘Love’, of course, in those days, had been a word with many shades of meaning, all of them innocent. In the hypothetical case of her father, love had manifested itself in many, deeply gratifying ways, such as sensitivity towards her feelings, appreciation of her latent qualities and admiration for her achievements (which were, as even she had been forced to admit, as yet unachieved).

  The trouble with life, Antonia thought as she dumped the crockery into the sink, was not that dreams didn’t come true, but that they came true in such unexpected and bloody awful ways. She chipped an egg cup and, with a gratifying sensation of wickedness, tossed it into the dustbin outside the back door where it joined the remains of the clock her father had broken earlier in the day.

  Leaving the plates to drain, she went quietly back to the living room. Her father was slumped in his chair with his eyelids closed and the air whispering and rustling through his nostrils. She stared at him, cataloguing the features of his ugliness to feed her hatred.

  It was, she thought, as good an opportunity as she was likely to get. After all, he slept in this room and since the accident he had only left it to use the lavatory down the hall. ‘Father,’ she said quietly. She could not bring herself to call him Daddy. ‘Father?’ she repeated, this time more loudly.