by Hazel Holt
She brushed away the tears and shook her head. “No, really, I’m all right.” She drank some more tea, and I went back and sat down opposite her.
“Is there anyone I can call?”
She shook her head again.
“What about John? Where is he? Does he know?”
“He’s not here—he went back to college yesterday.”
“Oh, I didn’t think term had started yet.”
“He had things to do.”
“Of course.” There was a pause, and then I said, “Will you get in touch with him? I’m sure he’d want to be with you at a time like this.”
“No, no. He mustn’t come back—he’s got things to do and I’m—I’m all right.” She attempted a smile. “It’s just that it’s been a dreadful shock.”
“Of course.” Another pause. “Will you ring him? To tell him what’s happened.”
She became agitated. “No—I can’t—I don’t know what to say….”
“Would you like me to tell him? If you could give me his mobile number.”
“Yes. Yes, that would be best. Just tell him what’s happened. I can’t….”
She got up suddenly and searched in her handbag and produced a piece of paper with a mobile number on it. “I always carry it with me—John says I must—just in case. The phone—the phone’s in the hall.”
I went out into the hall, and she made no attempt to follow me but sat down again at the kitchen table.
I rang the number. There was quite a pause before a voice said cautiously, “Who is it?”
“Is that John Barlow?”
“Who is it?” he repeated.
“My name’s Sheila Malory. I’m a friend of your mother’s. We work together in the charity shop.”
“What’s happened? Is she all right? What’s happened?” His voice rose.
“No, your mother’s fine. It’s about your father.”
“Oh.”
“I’m afraid it’s your father—I’m so sorry to have to tell you. He’s dead.”
“Dead? What happened, was it an accident?”
“No—look, there’s no easy way to say this—he’s been killed.”
“Killed?”
“Murdered.”
There was a long pause. Then he said, “My mother—how is she?”
“Very upset.”
“What has she said?” His voice rose again.
“Not a lot—I think she’s still in shock. The police needed her to identify the body—he was killed at the shop. It must have been terrible for her. I brought her home. If you like I can stay with her until you get here.”
“It may be difficult—right away, that is….”
“Look,” I said. “Your mother asked me to break the news to you—I think she found it difficult—but I do think you should have a word with her now. I’ll go and get her for you.” I put down the phone before he could reply and went back into the kitchen.
“Wendy,” I said. “John would like to have word with you.”
She shook her head.
“I think you should,” I went on. “He’s obviously worried about you. Come along.”
I went with her into the hall and watched her pick up the phone. Then I went back into the kitchen and poured myself another cup of tea. After quite a short time she came back and sat down again.
“Is he coming home?” I asked.
“No, I told him not to.”
“But surely…”
“He has things to do.” She was quite agitated and twisted her hands together. “He has to see people about his course—it’s important.”
“I’m sure they’d understand, given the circumstances.”
“It’s all right—I’m all right.”
“Are you sure? What can I do?”
“No, it’s very kind of you—you’ve been so kind, but I’m all right.”
“Can I get you some lunch or anything?”
“I don’t feel much like eating—but I’ll have some soup or a boiled egg later. No, really, I’m all right. Thank you for everything.”
She got to her feet, and I was obliged to do the same.
“Well, if you’re sure…. Well, look, I’ll leave my phone number and just ring—anytime—if there’s anything I can do.”
I found a bit of paper in my handbag, scribbled the number on it and left it on the table. Wendy went into the hall and opened the front door. I stood for a moment in the doorway.
“I don’t like leaving you all alone like this,” I said. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
“No, thank you very much. I’m all right. I’m quite all right.”
I went out to the car and, like the last time, when I looked back she was standing at the door watching me go.
“Poor soul,” Rosemary said when I told her. “She must be completely lost.”
“Yes,” I said. “Lost. That’s the exact word. Lost and bewildered. I do wish John would come home—I really can’t understand it; they’ve always seemed so close. I know she told him not to, but really…”
“From what you’ve told me, he sounds as flaky as she is.”
“Weak, certainly. But not surprising, given what Desmond was like.”
“It’s a bit odd,” Rosemary went on. “If Desmond was killed last night, then why wasn’t she worried when he didn’t come home? Did she phone the shop?”
“Goodness knows. He did say, when we were leaving, that he’d be late home, so perhaps she’d gone to bed. They seem to have found the body quite early this morning.”
“How? Who actually found him?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it must have been Norma—she’s always the first one there. It must have been a dreadful shock for her. Anyway,” I said, “I don’t suppose anyone is going to tell us anything about it today.”
But I was wrong. Late in the afternoon Bob Morris arrived.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Malory. But as you work at the shop, I do need to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course, come in.” I led the way into the kitchen. “I was just about to have some tea. Will you join me?”
“That would be nice.” He sat down and looked around him. “It doesn’t seem so long ago that I was here with Dad. I see you’ve still got that Christmas cactus—it’s grown a bit since then.”
“I know—I keep repotting it and I’ve divided it a couple of times. There’s a cutting there on the windowsill, if you’d like it—or would that be bribing the police? Though, since it was your father who gave it to me in the first place, I suppose it would be all right.”
He smiled. “That would be very kind. Dad would like to see it. He’s still interested though he doesn’t manage to get outside at all now.”
I made the tea and cut him a slice of chocolate cake (“It used to be your favorite”), aware that I was chattering away because I somehow didn’t want to have to talk about the shop and, especially, about Wendy.
He ate the cake and then said, “How was Mrs. Barlow?”
“Not good—she was still in shock, I suppose. She didn’t say much and, really, I didn’t feel I could either. I offered to stay, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“She has a son, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, he’s away at university. I expect he’ll come back soon to be with her.”
I cut him another slice of cake and one for myself. “Who found him?” I asked. “Mr. Barlow, I mean.”
“It was early this morning—well, about six o’clock. One of the constables was on patrol. As he went along that alley at the back he saw the yard gate was open and there was a light on. When he went to investigate, he found the back door of the shop open as well. Mr. Barlow was in the back room.”
“You don’t know when he died?”
“We haven’t had the forensic report yet, but as far as I could judge, he must have been dead for some hours. Do you have any idea what he was doing in the shop yesterday evening?”
“He often stayed on
after the shop was shut, looking at the stock, checking the books—that sort of thing. He was very—very hands on, as they say.”
“I see.”
“Actually, as we were leaving—I was giving Wendy a lift home—he did say to her that he would be late home.”
He nodded. “I see,” he said again.
Looking at him, a small, neat, self-contained man, I remembered an eleven-year-old, small, neat, self-contained boy sitting quietly and patiently at the same table, eating his cake and listening with apparent interest as his father and I discussed early flowering clematis and overwintering dahlias. I could see how that quiet manner and patient listening would be invaluable in his present career.
“There are a couple of things about the shop,” he said. “I had hoped to ask Mrs. Stanley, but apparently she’s not well.”
Norma’s migraines, I thought. Well, there was every reason for her to have a migraine now.
“It’s about the money,” Bob continued.
“Oh yes. Well, Desmond usually came in in the afternoon and bagged up the cash in the till and took it to the bank. No one else was allowed to do it. So if he couldn’t, then the money was taken out of the till and put away in a safe place at the back of the shop. You always had to leave the till open so that anyone looking in would see that it was empty.”
“Did he go to the bank yesterday?”
“No, he arrived too late.”
“And do you know where the safe place was?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t. I think only Norma knew—or possibly Jean Lucas; she’s been there longest.”
“That would explain why the till was empty.” He paused as if to file away that information before he went on to the next question. “The other thing is—I saw there was a sort of kitchen out at the back. Were any knives kept there?”
“Knives? Well, yes, there are several.” I stopped suddenly and looked at him. “Was that what was used to kill him?”
He looked at me inquiringly.
“Wendy said he’d been stabbed,” I said.
“We don’t know what the weapon was—it had been taken away—but it did occur to me that if there was one on the premises…”
“Jean used one from the kitchen to open a package yesterday afternoon. It was quite a large one—we used it to open packages, like I said. I don’t think she put it back so it would have been just lying there.”
“I see. Well, that’s been very helpful.”
“If there’s anything else you want know….”
“I may take you up on that, seeing as how you know the setup, so to speak.”
He got up, and I went over and fetched the Christmas cactus.
“Hang on a moment,” I said. “I’ll put it in a bag for you. You won’t want to take it into the station like that.”
He smiled. “No, that’s all right. They’re used to me turning up with plants of all sorts. Dad will be really pleased to see this—it’s quite an unusual variety.”
When he’d gone and I was preparing vegetables for supper, I went over in my mind what Desmond had actually said to Wendy as we were leaving. “Don’t wait supper. You can get me something when I get in.” That didn’t sound as if he intended to be very late—even Desmond would hardly expect Wendy to get up and make supper for him if she’d gone to bed. And there was something else—he’d said he wanted to speak to John when he got home. So John would have been expecting him. Why weren’t either of them concerned when Desmond hadn’t come back home when they expected him? I remembered the voices I’d heard—one of them must have been John. So when did he go back to university? And why was Wendy so anxious that John shouldn’t return?
The knife slipped as I was chopping the last bit of an onion and I cut my finger. As I sprayed it with iodine and put a plaster on, I reflected that it was not a good idea to try to assemble my thoughts on a murder when I had a knife in my hand.
Chapter Six
It was several days before we were able to go back into the shop. I had a phone call in the morning from Norma (rather subdued, not surprising in the circumstances) saying that she hoped to open up the next day but she wanted us all, the complete staff, to come in after lunch that day for a short meeting. She added that we should use the shop entrance—the door would be locked, but if we rang the bell she would open it.
I think we were all glad not to have to use the back entrance, and I noticed that the door between the shop and the back room was firmly shut. We greeted each other with a kind of muted sympathy, as people do after a funeral.
“Thank you all for coming,” Norma said. “Wendy won’t be with us, of course. I thought we might all contribute for some flowers to be sent to her with our good wishes.” There was a murmur of approval. “Meanwhile, the police have said that we can open the shop again tomorrow, and”—she paused, perhaps for effect—“I’m sure that’s what Desmond would have wanted us to do.”
There was another murmur of agreement, though I heard Jean mutter something about sales figures. “I believe,” Norma went on, “the police have spoken to some of you about what happened on that day, and I’m sure we all want to do everything we can to assist them.” Another murmur. “Now, I don’t know if there are any questions?”
“There is one thing,” I said. “Inspector Morris was asking about the day’s takings, since Desmond hadn’t arrived in time to take them to the bank. Were they put away safely as they usually are?”
Norma looked annoyed at my question. “As it happens, they weren’t. I would normally have done so but, you may remember I—I had to leave a little early. I naturally assumed Desmond would do so—he was, as you know, most meticulous about such things.”
“But he didn’t?” I asked.
“Apparently not,” Norma said shortly. “No doubt he intended to do so before he left, but, of course…”
“So the money is missing?”
“It would seem so.”
The murmuring this time was quite different.
“You mean somebody stole it?” Margaret asked.
“That appears to be the case.”
“But if Desmond was here—” Margaret began, then stopped suddenly.
“What Margaret was trying to say,” Jean said in her forthright way, “is that someone must have come in and seen Desmond’s dead body but went right on into the shop and took the money out of the till.”
“And didn’t call the police?” Margaret asked, her voice trembling a little.
“Not likely, is it,” Jean said, “if they’d just robbed the shop?” A series of exclamations of surprise and horror. “I know—it doesn’t bear thinking about it, even if he was actually dead. Though I suppose he might not have died instantly.”
“Yes, well,” Norma said hastily. “I am sure the police have all that in hand. The other thing I wanted to say to you all is that I’m afraid—human nature being what it is—we may have some customers who will be here not to buy anything, but prompted by curiosity. I’m sure I needn’t tell you that it would be most improper for any of us to discuss the situation in any way, and I’m sure that none of you would ever do so.”
“So who’s in charge now?” Jean asked.
Norma regarded her coldly. “I have been asked to take over as manager. I am sure we’ll all pull together as a team, especially in these difficult times.”
Jean looked as if she was going to say something, but Norma went on. “I’ve put this bowl on the counter for any contribution you may want to make for poor Wendy’s flowers, and I’ve written a card sending her our best wishes.”
“Could we all sign the card?” Dorothy asked tentatively. “I mean, if we’re all contributing.”
“Yes, of course,” Norma said smoothly. “I’ll leave it on the counter by the bowl.” She turned and went into the back room.
We all watched her in silence, as though she was entering another world. Then a buzz of conversation broke out.
“I don’t see why she should be manager,” Margaret said
. “Jean’s been here much longer.”
“That’s right,” Dorothy agreed. “So have you, and I have, too, though I wouldn’t ever want to be manager. Too much responsibility!”
“And paperwork,” Jean said. “Not to mention having to come in every day. No, I wouldn’t want to do it either, but I must say I do resent the way she swans in here and takes over everything.”
I went over to the counter and put some money in the bowl, and the others followed suit.
Margaret picked up the card. “She’s just taken one of our cards—the ‘Deepest Sympathy’ one—off the rack. I hope she put the money in the till.”
This was felt to be a remark too far. We all signed the card, and Jean put it in the envelope.
After a few minutes Norma came back into the shop and people began to disperse. As I was about to leave, Norma called me back.
“As you’re not in tomorrow, Sheila, I thought it might be a nice gesture if you would get the flowers and take them personally to Wendy.”
“Yes, of course.”
Norma emptied the money in the bowl into a large envelope, added a five-pound note, and handed it to me. “Thank you so much. And now I must get on—there’s a great deal to do before we open tomorrow.”
The next morning I went to get the flowers. A nice big colorful bunch, not funeral flowers like lilies or chrysanthemums. I wondered if I should phone first, but I thought it might be easier for Wendy if I simply turned up on the doorstep and handed in the flowers. Then she could invite me in or not, depending on how she felt. As it turned out she seemed glad to see me.
“Sheila, how kind. Do come in.” She led the way into the sitting room. I handed her the flowers and the card.
“We all wanted you to know that we’re thinking of you,” I said inadequately.
She held the flowers awkwardly, as if she didn’t know what to do with them, and fumbled with the card. “How kind,” she repeated. She put the flowers down on the table and read the card. “‘Deepest Sympathy’—how very kind of everyone. I’ll just go and put the flowers in water. Do sit down.”
I turned to sit down on the unyielding sofa and, to my surprise, I found it occupied by a large tabby cat.