Mrs. Malory and a Necessary End (Mrs. Malory Mystery)

by Hazel Holt

  “She looks so unhappy—Sophie, that is—when she comes in the shop. Jean says she’s looking for something to steal and perhaps she is, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her. And for her parents, too, of course.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair. They’ve given both those girls the same love and attention, but then one turns out like that—there’s no accounting for it.”

  “Goodness,” I said. “It makes you realize just how lucky we’ve been.”

  “Count your blessings—that’s what Mother is always saying when I complain. Mind you, the only things Mother counts are other people’s defects.”

  Chapter Three

  Why is it that when a day starts badly, it always gets worse? I’d overslept, and when I got down to the kitchen I found that the animals had upset their bowl of water and Foss (a careless eater) had scattered half his food in the resultant mess. Tris, impatient for his breakfast, was pushing his food bowl around (making things worse) while Foss was weaving round my ankles as I tried to clear up, complaining about the delay in that particularly plangent Siamese wail. Unfortunately I wasn’t wary enough, and he managed to nip my ankle (to make his point clear), so I had to spend precious time looking for something to stop the bleeding.

  After that it was all downhill. Burnt toast, spilt coffee, laddered tights, mislaid car keys and, finally, my usual parking place unavailable because they were digging up the road. And, of course, when I did eventually arrive at the shop, late, out of breath and cross, I found Jean and Wendy ostentatiously busy at the front of the shop, Norma guarding the till and Desmond, who doesn’t usually come in the morning, prowling around with his camera. I muttered some sort of general apology that he chose to ignore and went into the back room to take my coat off.

  I was then confronted by the task I’d abandoned the previous day—a large black dustbin bag, half emptied on the floor. It may be the association of black bag and rubbish that causes some people to dump what is palpably rubbish on our doorstep as a so-called contribution. This lot was particularly useless: broken electrical equipment, chipped china and dog-eared books and magazines, together with a few crumpled, not-too-clean garments. I was just nerving myself to deal with this unsavory task when Desmond came in.

  He looked with distaste at the pile on the floor and said coldly, “If you could kindly clear a little space so that we can get through.”

  “I was just going—” I began but he moved past me and started taking photographs of the locks on the window and the back door. Then he opened the door and photographed the guttering and the paving of the yard and the double doors that led out into the alley beyond. As he turned to come back in, I hastily put on some rubber gloves and began to sort out the unpleasing objects before me. Fortunately he continued on into the shop and I was able to bundle everything back into the dustbin bag, take it outside and throw it into one of the large bins that stood in the yard.

  When I came back, feeling slightly guilty, Jean was there filling the kettle. I told her what I’d done, and she said, “Best place for it. I wish people would stop treating us as a dumping ground for their junk.”

  “Why on earth is he photographing all those locks and things?” I asked.

  “Oh, something to do with the maintenance of the premises—I haven’t the faintest idea what that is all about.” She switched off the kettle. “Do you want a coffee? I’m just making one for his lordship.”

  “No, thanks,” I said regretfully. “I’ve only just got here. I’d better go and help Wendy.”

  I’d really got into the way of going to the shop and felt almost sorry that Monica would be coming back quite soon.

  “I thought I might volunteer to help on a regular basis,” I said to Rosemary. “I’m quite enjoying it.”

  “No way,” Rosemary said vehemently. “Think of having to put up with Norma and horrible Desmond forever more! Anyway, your volunteering has been a bit of a hindrance you must admit—we haven’t had a day out for ages.”

  Michael was equally emphatic. “You’d hate it after a bit—you know you would. Day after day. Anyway, you’ve got quite enough on already—Brunswick Lodge and the Hospital Friends and all the other stuff.”

  I knew they were right, but still, I was quite pleased to get a phone call from Monica saying that she wouldn’t be back for several weeks more.

  “They’ve found dry rot in the new house,” she said. “Would you believe it—after they had a survey and everything? I said to Julie, ‘I hope you’re going to sue that surveyor, with all the upset he’s caused!’ Anyway, they’ve had to make arrangements to stay on in their old house while it’s being fixed—well, you can imagine how awkward that was. Fortunately the people they’d sold it to didn’t want to move in straightaway—he had to go abroad for his job for a couple of months and she couldn’t move on her own—wasn’t that lucky. So you see, Sheila, I couldn’t possibly leave them in the lurch now, especially with little Daniel still so delicate. I’m sure you understand….”

  I assured her that everything was fine and I’d be happy to fill in for her for a while longer.

  “How are you getting on with Desmond?” she asked. “He can be a bit difficult. And Norma, too. But I’m sure you’ve been coping beautifully.”

  I told her that I was enjoying working at the shop.

  “Well, they’re a nice crowd, by and large. I was sure you’d get on all right with them. I must go. I can hear Daniel crying and I don’t want to disturb Julie. She’s having a little lie-down, poor girl—a lot of broken nights…. Thanks so much.”

  So that was that.

  To pacify Rosemary I said we’d visit a stately home, one quite a long way off in Devon so it would be a whole day’s outing.

  “If we leave nice and early,” I said, “we can have a good look round before we have lunch. It’s a National Trust property, so there’s bound to be a food place there, and then you can be back in time to get Jack’s supper and I won’t have to leave the animals for too long.”

  It was a lovely early summer day, sunny but not too hot, and the hedgerows were decorated with campions, foxgloves and the first dog roses.

  “‘Unkempt about those hedges blows / An English, unofficial rose,’” I quoted to Rosemary, as I do every year, merely, I suppose, for the pleasure of saying it.

  She smiled. “It is all rather perfect, isn’t it. Now, isn’t this better than being shut up in that stuffy shop surrounded by the detritus of a hundred homes?”

  “It’s not as bad as that,” I protested. “But you’re right. It is nice to get out for a bit.”

  The stately home was very fine and full of beautiful objects and interesting furnishings, but I always find it sad and unsatisfactory when such a place is uninhabited and turned into a sort of museum. There’s such a different atmosphere when the family’s still in occupation. What Rosemary and I most enjoy are the personal possessions—the modern novel, spectacles beside it, left casually on a Sheraton table; the photographs (family, not royalty and nobility); a half-finished piece of embroidery laid down on a chair; the dog basket (with scruffy blanket and rubber bone) lying cozily beside the ornate marble fireplace—reminders that these grand houses were originally meant for people to live in.

  Because we were quite early, there weren’t many other visitors there, and we were able to make our way comfortably through the succession of rooms. In general we don’t buy a guidebook, which I think makes you plod round conscientiously examining objects you are supposed to admire. We both belong to what Rosemary calls the Darting About School, moving around erratically as different things catch our eye. We may miss some of the more important objects, but we agree that it’s much better (and more fun) to get the feel of the place.

  “Goodness, what a disagreeable man!” Rosemary said, standing in front of a full-length portrait of an eighteenth-century gentleman, the elegance of whose silver-trimmed velvet coat, satin breeches and silver buckled shoes did little to mitigate the unpleasantness of his contemptuous gaze.r />
  “Perfectly horrid,” I agreed. “Actually, he has a look of Desmond—the way he is looking down his nose in that particularly sneering way. I wonder if his wife was anything like Wendy?”

  “That’s her,” Rosemary said, moving to the adjacent portrait of a young, round-faced woman with two small children standing beside a large dog in the foreground. “Poor soul,” Rosemary said, looking at the plaque at the side of the picture. “She died young—only twenty-two. In childbirth, I suppose.”

  I joined her in front of the picture. The round face looked as if it was made for laughing, but the expression was wistful and the eyes were sad. She seemed constricted not only by the stiff formality of her elaborate dress but by something more intangible. It was not difficult to imagine a melancholy life—even the children (boys, young enough to be still in petticoats) stood apart from her, more attached to their dog than their mother.

  “I wonder if he married again?” Rosemary said.

  “Poor little thing,” I said. “I suppose that one was an arranged marriage—land or something—so I expect he did.”

  We stood for a moment looking at the two portraits.

  “We’re probably quite wrong,” Rosemary said, “carried away by the resemblance to Desmond. For all we know, he was madly in love with her and pined away and died himself. Perhaps we ought to buy a book and see what it says about him.”

  “But it won’t,” I said. “They never do tell you the things you really want to know. Anyway, it’s almost lunchtime. Shall we go and get something to eat before it’s too crowded?”

  There weren’t many people in the café. We chose our food at the counter—National Trust quiche (which never seems to vary from one stately home to another) with the obligatory salad leaves, chocolate gateau for me, a coffee one for Rosemary, and sparkling water because Rosemary was driving—and looked around for a suitable table. Rosemary started off towards the back of the room, but I motioned her to move towards the window. I’d seen Wendy at the farthest end of the room in earnest conversation with her son, John.

  We put our food on the table, and Rosemary complained, as she always does, that there’s never anywhere to put your empty tray.

  “Fancy seeing them,” I said. “I wonder how they got here. I know Wendy doesn’t drive and I’m sure John hasn’t got a car.”

  “I expect they came by bus,” Rosemary said. “It’s not that far to walk up from the main road. Did you see any salad dressing on the counter? Oh well, I suppose I can do without.”

  “But it is rather odd,” I persisted.

  “I don’t see why they shouldn’t be having a day out, the same as us.”

  “Somehow I don’t connect Wendy with days out,” I said. “And they seem very deep in a serious conversation—they don’t look as if they’re enjoying themselves. Perhaps this is the only way they can get to talk to each other without Desmond overhearing what they’re saying.”

  “It seems a bit extreme. No, I think it’s just a little treat, and goodness knows they’d certainly need one now and again, living in that household. This pastry isn’t very nice. How’s yours?”

  “It’s a bit hard.” I glanced over towards them. “Perhaps it’s something special that they can’t risk him knowing about.”

  “It seems a long way to come for that.”

  “Maybe Wendy just wanted to give him a nice day out, before he goes back to college. Oh, they’re leaving now.”

  As they moved towards the door, Wendy suddenly saw us. For a moment she looked shocked and surprised. Then she gave us a little nervous smile and a sort of half wave in recognition, but made no attempt to come over and speak to us.

  The next time I saw Wendy in the shop, I didn’t say anything about our having seen her and she didn’t refer to it. I thought she looked even more anxious than usual and said to Jean, “Wendy looks especially worried today. Is anything wrong?”

  Jean stopped putting clothes hangers on a rack and said, “Not that I know of. Just his lordship being more difficult than usual, I expect. It’s always worse when John is at home.” She pushed the rack nearer the wall. “I wish to goodness Norma didn’t insist on having these large racks over here where we all keep tripping over the feet—I mean, look at the way they stick out. I’ve told her about it several times, but she never listens to anything she doesn’t want to hear. Oh well. When someone falls over them and breaks something, she’ll have the health and safety people onto her—and see how she likes that!”

  Jean never missed an opportunity to criticize Norma. It was one of the games she enjoyed playing, finding small, irritating niggles to confront her with. Usually Norma rose above it, smiling loftily as if Jean’s opinion wasn’t really worth having. Just occasionally some shaft would go home, and then she gave Jean what I’m sure she thought of as One of her Setdowns, which, although it didn’t subdue Jean, doubtless gave Norma some sort of satisfaction.

  “Do you want to have a go at a couple of these dresses?” Jean asked. “If you feel like tackling the steamer.”

  “I don’t know,” I said nervously, looking at the poster on the wall giving a blow-by-blow description of how not to use it and dire warnings about how dangerous it was. “It all looks a bit complicated. Norma says…”

  “Oh, you don’t want to listen to her. She always tries to make out that she’s the only one who can manage anything—look how she is about the till, and you’re fine with that now.”

  “Well, if you think it’s OK.”

  She filled the apparatus with cold water and told me (in simpler terms than the warning poster) how to use it. “You just have to move it up and down on the garment—you see, like this. I’m supposed to stay with you while you use it, but I’m sure you can manage. The worst damage you can do to yourself is get arm ache from holding the wretched thing up!”

  I eventually managed to take the steamer in my stride (Jean was right about the arm ache). It was quite satisfying to see a garment freshen up under the steamer’s influence, though I never got over the sense of irritation whenever Norma decided to stand over me to see that I did it properly. What I did prefer doing was pricing the garments, though the list we had as a guide was obviously intended for somewhere much grander and more fashionable than Taviscombe, since it included names like Dior and Stella McCartney.

  I was attempting to price some of the clothes that Norma had got from one of her richer contacts (“I find that the personal touch always produces results”). I wasn’t usually allowed to do this, Norma wishing to keep this little treat for herself, but she’d been called away by Desmond for a discussion about some important policy decision (so she said) and reluctantly allowed me to take over. Since I felt as capable as she was to read the labels in the garments, I was quite enjoying the job. There were certainly some rather desirable things, and I was just wondering if I might use my ten percent discount to buy a really elegant blouse (Jaeger) when Margaret came in. I was surprised to see her, since people don’t often come in on the days they’re off duty.

  “Hello,” I said. “Fancy seeing you here!”

  She looked a little disconcerted. “Oh, Desmond asked me to come in.”

  “Oh?”

  “He didn’t say why.”

  Desmond came into the storeroom then and seemed annoyed to find me there.

  “Mrs. Malory” (he never used Christian names), “perhaps you would be good enough to find something useful to do in the shop. I would like to have a word with Miss Curtis.” He held open the door and then closed it firmly behind me.

  Jean and Wendy were checking through some DVDs before putting them on the shelves. You have to do that to make sure they’re not pirated—something I’d never have thought of. Norma was rearranging items of jewelry in the case at the counter. She looked very upset about something, but I suppose a “discussion” with Desmond might upset anyone.

  “Is there anything special you want me to do?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I repeated the question
.

  “Oh, you could take down those ornaments—carefully—and dust the shelves.”

  Her mind was obviously elsewhere, and she kept looking at the closed door of the storeroom. I removed the ornaments (carefully), dusted the shelves (which didn’t need dusting) and replaced the objects. Fortunately a couple of people came in and needed help so that when Desmond came back into the shop, I was usefully employed. He nodded to Norma and went away. After a little while Margaret came out of the storeroom. She didn’t speak to any of us as she went out, but I caught a glimpse of her face and it looked as though she’d been crying.

  Chapter Four

  The concerts at Brunswick Lodge are always pleasant occasions. Nothing elaborate, just piano recitals and the occasional string quartet. They are organized by the grandly titled arts committee. My friend Anthea, who more or less runs Brunswick Lodge, has been locked into a long-standing feud with Julia Morrison, who is the arts committee chairman, so she ostentatiously avoids all their activities. Unfortunately she didn’t learn, until it was too late, that Julia was moving to Canada to live with her married daughter, and when she did find out, Norma had (by a judicious mixture of bribery, blackmail and force of personality) been elected chairman in her place. Such are the Byzantine politics of Brunswick Lodge, and a brand-new feud is now, inevitably, in full force.

  I thought of this when I found myself sitting next to Norma’s husband, Marcus, at a recital the following weekend. I’d met him several times before at various Brunswick Lodge events, and I sometimes saw him when he was stewarding or helping at bring-and-buy sales (presumably press-ganged by Norma). He also came into the shop occasionally to bring or collect various items, was ordered about peremptorily and never thanked for his efforts. “You can’t even feel sorry for him,” Jean said. “He’s just so feeble!” But I suppose, if you dote on someone (as he obviously dotes on Norma), then you’re quite happy to be treated like that by the object of your devotion. Certainly he always seemed quite cheerful—jolly, even.