Mrs. Malory and a Necessary End (Mrs. Malory Mystery)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR HAZEL HOLT’S
MRS. MALORY SERIES
“A soothing, gentle treat…. The literate, enjoyable Mrs. Sheila Malory is back.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Delightful.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“The book delights at every page…to be treasured.”
—The Sunday Times (UK)
“This is the kind of mystery to reach for after a day spent battling the hordes at the local mall.”
—The Washington Post
“A wonderful heroine—with just the perfect balance of humor, introspection, and vulnerability.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Finely textured…. Sink comfortably with the heroine into a burnished old pub or a cup of tea…full of elegant shadings of place and character and appealing local color…. Anglophiles will delight in the authentically British Mrs. Malory.”
—Booklist
“A delectable treat for cozy lovers, British style.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A delight… warm, vivid descriptions.”
—Time Out (London)
“The fundamental British cozy… first-class.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Interesting…enjoyable…. If you haven’t discovered Mrs. Malory, I highly recommend reading the rest of the series.”
—Mystery News
Also by Hazel Holt
Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder
Mrs. Malory and the Shortest Journey
Mrs. Malory: Detective in Residence
Mrs. Malory Wonders Why
Mrs. Malory: Death of a Dean
Mrs. Malory and the Only Good Lawyer
Mrs. Malory: Death Among Friends
Mrs. Malory and the Fatal Legacy
Mrs. Malory and the Lilies That Fester
Mrs. Malory and the Delay of Execution
Mrs. Malory and Death by Water
Mrs. Malory and Death in Practice
Mrs. Malory and the Silent Killer
Mrs. Malory and No Cure for Death
Mrs. Malory and a Death in the Family
Mrs. Malory and a Time to Die
Mrs. Malory and Any Man’s Death
MRS. MALORY
AND
A NECESSARY END
A Sheila Malory Mystery
Hazel Holt
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-1-101-60469-4
Copyright © Hazel Holt, 2012
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For Geoffrey, who never got to see this one
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
“It’s only for a couple of days a week,” Monica said. “Well, three days actually.”
“I really don’t think—” I began.
“It’s quite fun,” she said brightly. “And such a good cause. I hate to let them down, but Julie really needs me—moving house with a new baby, and he was premature, you know; they were really worried about him, in an incubator for over a week. So you do see….”
“Well, yes…”
“It would only be for a few weeks, a month at the most.”
“Really, I don’t know if I can.”
“Jean and Wendy you know, of course; they’re very nice. They’d be working on your days. And on the other days there’s Margaret and Dorothy. Norma works every day—she’s a bit full on but really splendid.”
“But I’ve never done anything like that before. They may not want me.”
“Oh, they’re absolutely desperate. Anyone would be welcome.”
In spite of this doubtful assurance I finally agreed to take over Monica’s duties at the charity shop, beginning on the following Tuesday.
“You must be mad!” Rosemary, my best friend, was never shy about voicing her opinion. “Tying yourself down like that. Anything might crop up—suppose Michael and Thea need you to look after Alice.”
“Oh, I expect the people at the shop are quite flexible about exchanging days.”
“Don’t you believe it. Not with Norma Stanley in charge; she’s dreadfully domineering.”
“I don’t think she’s actually in charge. It’s Wendy’s husband, Desmond. He looks after things—a sort of supervisor, I think.”
“Well he’s no better—a total control freak. Honestly, Sheila, you’re so feeble about saying no to people. Can’t you get out of it?”
“Not really. Anyway,” I said defensively, “it might be quite interesting.”
Rosemary sighed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”<
br />
Rosemary’s right, of course. I do find it difficult to say no (a reasonably active widow is considered fair game), hence my presence on far too many committees. Still, I told myself, it was only three days a week for a few weeks (well, a month), and the hours weren’t too taxing so there’d be time for other things. Anyway, it would be something different, coming into contact with new people all the time. And as Monica said, it was for a good cause.
Nevertheless, as I approached the shop I did feel distinctly apprehensive. Monica was there to greet me, and Jean Lucas and Wendy Barlow were familiar and friendly faces. However, when Norma Stanley appeared from the back of the shop, I remembered with dismay that she was the new and difficult member just elected to the committee of Brunswick Lodge, the main center of social activities in the town. Denis Painton, our chairman, had taken me to one side after the meeting and said grimly, “We’re going to have trouble with that one.”
Certainly she was a formidable figure—tall, with the sort of short, impeccably cut gray hair that often seems to indicate a forceful personality. Her voice was not unpleasant but with just that edge to it that indicates a tendency to command. However, she appeared to be in a gracious mood.
“So very good of you, Sheila—I may call you Sheila? We are all quite informal here; we work as a team.” Monica moved forward, preparing to show me round, but Norma continued: “Now, I’ll just give you a brief idea of how things work and then we’ll find you something to do—nothing too complicated for your first day here. Monica will show you the ropes before she goes. Tomorrow I’ll take you through all the health and safety procedures.”
“So, what was it like?” Rosemary was on the phone almost as soon as I got in.
“Well,” I said cautiously, “it’s a bit early to say. It seems quite straightforward—unpacking the stuff that comes in and sorting it. I’m not allowed to use the steamer yet (that’s very health and safety) and certainly not the till, which they seem to regard as something as complicated as the Enigma machine and not to be trusted to anyone without a degree in technology! Norma likes to keep an eye on that herself.”
“Ah, the dreaded Norma. How did you get on with her?”
“She remembered me from the Brunswick Lodge house committee, so she wasn’t quite as patronizing to me as she is to the others. Gracious, you might say. Queen to lady-in-waiting rather than queen to peasant.”
Rosemary laughed. “Dreadful woman. She came across Mother at some coffee morning or other and made the mistake of talking down to her as if she were an elderly person—she soon got put in her place and kept well away from Mother after that.”
“I wish I’d seen it.”
“Mother said, What can you expect from someone who comes from the Midlands?”
“Oh dear. Well, they seem to be very well-off, and then he inherited this large house just outside Taviscombe from his aunt, which is why they moved down here.”
“What’s the husband like—a mousy little man?”
“No, actually, he’s tall and rather distinguished looking. Obviously dotes on her. According to Denis, he jumps to attention every time she speaks!”
“Well, I wish you joy of her. I wonder how she gets on with Desmond Barlow—I bet there’ll be some clashes there.”
“I haven’t seen him in action yet—he came in after I’d left, to collect the money and take it to the bank. I’m sure Norma resents that!”
* * *
I was to work in the shop on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays (which would leave me a lovely long weekend, Monica said brightly), and on the Wednesday Desmond came early while I was still there. Immediately the atmosphere, which had been fairly relaxed in spite of Norma’s bossiness, changed. Jean and Wendy went over to the shelves at the back and began busily rearranging the books and DVDs, and Norma moved across and stood guard over the till as if defying him to come anywhere near it. I pretended to sort through the rack of blouses, keeping my ears open for any exchange.
“Who changed the window display?” Desmond asked brusquely.
“I did,” Norma said, moving even closer to the till. “It was far too crowded with things. What one needs in a window display is one really good object that stands out and draws the attention, with other related objects carefully placed around it. I think you will agree that the new arrangement is very striking.”
“I don’t think you have quite considered what we are here for,” Desmond said smoothly. “I’m sure a degree of sophistication, while admirable in Bond Street, say, is not really suitable for a charity shop in Taviscombe. You see, people are not concerned with the artistic values of a window display; what they actually want to know is what we have inside. So if you could very kindly put it back the way it was.”
I held my breath and waited for Norma’s reply. There was complete silence for what seemed like an age. Then she said coldly, “Very well, if that’s what you want, naturally, since you are in charge, we will do so.”
He smiled smoothly. “Thank you. Now if you have the takings ready, I’ll get them over to the bank.”
They both moved into the back room, and I looked across at Wendy to see how she’d taken her husband’s remarks. But she had her head down, apparently intent on sorting out some paperbacks. As they came back into the shop, Desmond stopped beside Wendy and said, “Did you get my gray suit from the cleaners?”
“Well, no—they weren’t open when I came in, and I had to queue for ages in the lunch hour with that parcel you wanted posted.”
“Then perhaps,” he said, “you had better go now before they shut.”
Wendy looked appealingly at Norma, who raised her eyebrows and said, “It’s not really convenient, but, of course, if Desmond wants you to…”
Wendy rushed to the door and went out without even putting on her coat. She was back a moment later, saying breathlessly, “Forgot my handbag!”
As the door closed behind her, Desmond gave a theatrical sigh but made no comment.
When Jean and I were getting our things together to go home, she looked around to see if we could be overheard and said, “Honestly, I don’t know how she puts up with it—Wendy, I mean. It’s awful the way he speaks to her, as if she’s some sort of servant! He’s always criticizing her—poor thing, he’s destroyed any bit of confidence she’s ever had.”
“I was rather shocked,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them together before.”
“It’s all right with someone like Norma. She can take it—and dish it out, too. That wretched husband of hers is another doormat. But poor Wendy is such an inoffensive little thing, everyone feels sorry for her. Well, it wouldn’t suit me!”
“Do you know Desmond Barlow?” I asked Michael when he came round to ask me if I’d collect Alice from the riding stables at the weekend.
“I’ve come across him in connection with a couple of charitable trusts—he’s a great one for good works, on all sorts of committees and stuff, and I believe he’s a lay preacher, too.”
“Well, someone ought to tell him that charity begins at home,” I said. “The way he treats his wife is abominable.”
“He does have a great line in sarcasm. Not very pleasant, but he gets things done. An active retired man is always in demand, so people put up with his unpleasant manner.”
“They’re not local—where did they come from?”
“Somewhere in the Midlands, I think. He was some sort of civil engineer, used to laying down the law. Anyway, I’d better be going. I’ve got a site meeting in half an hour.” He put the box of eggs he’d brought on the kitchen table. “Can you take another dozen? Now Thea’s got these other hens, we’re getting a bit overstocked.”
I gradually got used to the work at the shop and (having been instructed in minute detail about the health and safety procedures) was allowed to wheel bags and boxes of contributions on the trolley and was grudgingly shown how to use the till by Norma (“It’s because it’s electronic, you see”), though I was not yet considered suffici
ently advanced to use the steamer (“We have to be very strict about who uses it”). I found it was possible to cope with Norma by agreeing with everything she said, no matter what, and fortunately I had very little to do with Desmond Barlow. Norma did introduce us formally the next time he came in. When he discovered that I was Michael’s mother (Michael being a useful contact), he treated me with a sort of smooth courtesy that I found more disagreeable than his sarcastic attitude towards the others.
Jean, who was very outspoken, had constant arguments with Norma, while Wendy kept her head down and obeyed Norma’s brisk instructions meekly and without comment. She was the one who was best with the customers, endlessly patient and helpful with even the most difficult ones. It was Wendy, too, who noticed if you were feeling tired or stressed and appeared at your elbow with a cup of tea and a word of sympathy.
One day when I came back into the shop from the storeroom, I saw her talking to a young man. I couldn’t hear what they were saying and didn’t like to approach too closely because he seemed very agitated and she looked anxious and upset. I was a bit worried about them—some of our customers can be odd or difficult, and there was no one else in the shop. Norma had gone out (“I have to drive out to Porlock to collect some rather good items that Mrs. Forbes-Grayson has promised us”), so I went back into the storeroom to find Jean.
“There’s a young man in the shop who seems to be upsetting Wendy,” I said. “He’s in a bit of a state. Should we do something?”
Jean came and peered round the door. “Oh no, that’s all right. It’s John, her son. He’s at university—Durham, I think it is, or Nottingham, somewhere like that. I suppose he’s back for the Easter holiday.”
“Are they all right?” I asked. “They both seem very upset.”
“Oh, he’s a bit neurotic, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t get on with his father—well, who would? He sometimes comes into the shop to talk to his mother. They can’t really talk at home, not with Desmond finding fault with every word either of them says!”
“Goodness, how awful.”
“It’s not the way I’d like to live. I’ll go and put the kettle on—she’ll need a cup of tea, poor soul. It’s usually about something unpleasant when he comes in like that.”