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

by Hazel Holt

  “Yes, hasn’t he? So, do you think you could have a chat with him, tell him what you’ve told me? I’m sure he’d be very grateful.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “You really think it would be a help?”

  “Oh yes. It’s something Bob really needs to know. It would be a great help.”

  “Well, I’ll do it then. But how do I get in touch? I couldn’t phone the police station!”

  “It’s all right. I’ll tell Bob you want to speak to him.”

  “But you’ll be here, too?” she asked anxiously.

  “Well, yes, of course, if that’s all right with Bob.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do anything official, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure your name would never come into it,” I said reassuringly.

  She finished her tea. “Fancy Grace’s son being an inspector—she’d have been so proud of him. I remember him coming into the shop with her sometimes when he was quite a little boy. It only seems like yesterday—where does the time go to?”

  I called in at the police station on my way home and was lucky enough to find Bob Morris there.

  “I thought you really ought to know what Miss Paget saw,” I said.

  “It all happened quite a few days ago; are you sure she remembers exactly what she did see? After all, she is old. She must be well over eighty. Nice old soul—she was very good to my mother. I remember her when I was quite a boy.”

  “She remembers you, too,” I said. “And your mother. As for her memory—well, she even remembered a knitting pattern I gave up on at least ten years ago!” He laughed, and I went on: “No, she sits at that window every day and I’m sure she could tell you what she saw there six months ago. Actually, as it happens, the fourteenth was her father’s birthday so she remembered it particularly.”

  “Well, in that case, it sounds promising. Don’t tell me what she said to you. I’d like to get it fresh from her, if you see what I mean.”

  “Of course. There is one thing, though. She was a bit apprehensive about it—I think that somehow she didn’t want people to think that she was spying on them, and she only agreed because she knew you and was fond of your mother. And she did say that she wanted me to be there when she spoke to you. Would that be all right?” He looked a bit doubtful, so I said, “I could be in the kitchen making the tea, if you like. Just as long as she knows I’m there. I’m sure once she gets used to the idea and you’ve had a bit of a chat about the old days, she’ll be fine.”

  We arranged a time for the following day. I rang Miss Paget and told her I’d certainly be there, too. Actually, once we were there and she saw Bob Morris (“I’d have known you anywhere—you’ve got a real look of poor Grace”), she was quite happy so I was able to retreat into the kitchen and leave them to it.

  After a while he put his head round the door, gave me a nod and a smile and said, “We’re ready for that tea now, Mrs. Malory.” I took the tray in and was pleased to see that Miss Paget was quite relaxed and happy to treat it as a social occasion. I thought again how good Bob was with people and was amused to see how well he took Miss Paget’s inclination to treat him as the small boy she’d once known.

  When we had left the flat he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Malory. That was a real help. Not just who she saw going in and out that particular day, but the general setup, you might say.”

  “There certainly seems to have been quite a bit going on, presumably every day. I can quite see why Miss Paget was interested—it was like one of her television soap operas!”

  He laughed. “She certainly followed it all with interest. I see what you mean about her memory.”

  “I meant to ask you,” I said. “Did you find that knife at the shop?”

  He shook his head. “No sign of it, and no one seems to have seen it.”

  “So you think that was the weapon?”

  “It’s a strong possibility.”

  “You don’t think you’ll find it?”

  “It could be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel,” he said. “On the other hand, people don’t always behave rationally—the murderer may have kept it. You never know.”

  “I can see how she’d like it,” Rosemary said when I told her all about Miss Paget. “All that coming and going. I just hope that when I’m old, if I’m ever stuck in a chair all day I’d be able to see things going on outside. I always remember going to see my cousin Doris when she was in a home. It was a gorgeous place, right out the other side of Dulverton, wonderful country views, and I was saying to her how beautiful and peaceful it all was and she burst out, ‘I don’t want peaceful. It’s so boring—sometimes I just wish that cow out there would explode!’”

  I laughed. “I know what she meant. Anyway, Miss Paget at her observation post may have done Wendy a favor.”

  “Wendy?”

  “Yes. I suspect the young man she saw was Wendy’s son, John. And if other people went into the shop after he’d gone, then he couldn’t have killed his father.”

  “You think that was a possibility? Surely not.”

  “I’m sure Wendy thought so. She was so very keen to say that he’d already gone back to his university at Nottingham that day. But I heard Desmond say he wanted to talk to John when he got home that evening, so he assumed John wouldn’t have gone back by then.”

  “You spoke to him on the phone when you took Wendy home the next morning. Would he have had time to get to Nottingham by then? It’s a very roundabout journey to get there from Taviscombe—bus to Taunton first and then a couple of changes….”

  “I spoke to him on his mobile—he could have been anywhere!”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’ve just thought of something. You know I told you Wendy was so upset—well, numb, really—when I took her back that morning after she’d seen the police? Then the next day when I called she was bright and cheerful. I put that down to all the business about Tiger. But it occurs to me she wasn’t upset about Desmond’s death but instead was worried because she thought John might have done it. I think she knew he was going to see his father and she was afraid….”

  “That he might have snatched up a knife and killed him?”

  “Yes. And that’s why she was so insistent that he’d already gone back to Nottingham.”

  “I suppose so. Mind you, from what I’ve seen of John Barlow, he doesn’t look the sort of person to kill anyone. Far too feeble,” Rosemary observed.

  “Desperation perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. But I think you’re right about Wendy.”

  “And come to think of it, I saw she’d put a photo of her and John on the mantelpiece when I went the next day. She wouldn’t have done that, would she, if she still thought he’d killed his father? I mean, she wouldn’t have wanted to draw attention to him in any way.”

  “True.”

  “I think she must have got in touch with him after I left and he told her where he was and what he’d been doing, and when she knew he hadn’t killed his father she was all right.”

  “You mean she wasn’t upset about Desmond’s death at all?”

  “Well, it was a shock, of course, but I don’t think she grieved for him. No, John is the only person she cares about.”

  “And Tiger.”

  “And Tiger, of course.”

  “I suppose,” Rosemary said thoughtfully, “just because she was so meek and docile with Desmond we assumed she adored him.”

  “When, in fact, she was frightened of him and probably hated him in the end.”

  “You don’t suppose she murdered Desmond?”

  “No—well, I don’t know. Just because I gave her that lift home doesn’t necessarily mean that she stayed at home. She could have gone back to the shop again if something happened—” I broke off. “I’ve just remembered something. That first time, when I brought her home—when she went out to make the tea I thought I heard voices and then a door slamming.”

  “John?”

  “It must ha
ve been. She didn’t mention anyone being there—well, she wouldn’t if it was John—so he may have told her something that—”

  “That made her go back to the shop and murder Desmond?”

  “No, something that made her think that that’s what John was going to do and that’s why she was so upset!”

  Chapter Eight

  I’d just taken the washing out of the machine and was wondering if the sun was going to last long enough to make it worthwhile putting it out on the line when the doorbell rang. It was Wendy.

  “Sorry to drop in on you like this,” she said, “but you did very kindly say you’d lend me those cat books.”

  “Of course. Do come in.”

  “What a lovely cottage—really Old World!” she said as we went into the sitting room.

  “It’s sixteenth century mostly, though bits kept being burnt down because of the thatch, so parts were added later.”

  “Sixteenth century—my goodness!”

  “Do sit down. Would you like a coffee, or tea if you’d rather?”

  “A cup of tea would be lovely.” Tris, who always feels it is his duty to greet any visitor, came in and sat at her feet, looking up at her expectantly. “Oh, I didn’t know you had a dog as well as a cat,” she said. “Isn’t he sweet?”

  She bent down and made a fuss of him until Tris, having done what he felt was required, went back into the kitchen, where he had been occupied with the remains of a very old bone. Foss, who likes to make an entrance in his own time, advanced towards Wendy, allowed her to stroke him briefly, then turned and leapt onto the windowsill, where he sat bolt upright, his back to the room, apparently absorbed in watching a magpie, an old enemy, though I knew, from the occasional twitching of his tail, he was critically aware of what was going on inside the room.

  I found the books and left her to look at them while I got the tea. Somehow I had the feeling—something in her manner—that the books weren’t the real reason she’d come. As I poured the tea and cut slices of coffee sponge, we exchanged remarks about Foss (“So beautiful—I don’t really know much about Siamese; they say they’re more like dogs than cats, don’t they?”) and Tiger (“He’s settled in so well, you’d think he’d lived with me always.”), but I found myself waiting for what she really wanted to say.

  “How’s John?” I asked. “Is he home yet?”

  She put down her cup and leaned forward. “I’m so worried, Sheila. He’s coming back today—the police rang and said they wanted to talk to him.”

  “Well,” I said. “I suppose it’s only natural….”

  “He had nothing to do with it—he wasn’t here,” she said quickly.

  “Actually, Wendy,” I said, “the police have a witness who saw him going into the back entrance of the shop after we’d all gone.”

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “It can’t be—they must have been mistaken.”

  “No. The police are quite certain.”

  “But he had nothing to do with—he just wanted to talk to him!” She was becoming so agitated I felt I had to say something to calm her.

  “It’s all right, Wendy. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but they do know Desmond was alive when John left.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She burst into tears. “Oh, I’m so sorry—it’s such a relief. I’ve been so worried. I knew he couldn’t have done such a thing. I didn’t even have to ask him. But people don’t understand….”

  “Tell me about it if it would help,” I said. “I’ll just go and fill up the teapot and we’ll have another cup.”

  I spent a little while in the kitchen to give her time to recover herself. Foss, discomposed by Wendy’s human emotion, had followed me into the kitchen and seized the opportunity to demand and get a handful of cat treats.

  “There we are,” I said brightly as I went back into the sitting room. “Now then, what happened?”

  “They never got on,” Wendy said, “even when John was a little boy—he was shy, you see. He took after me. Nothing he did was ever right for Desmond. He did quite well at school, nothing special—well, we moved round the country a bit because of Desmond’s job, so poor John never had time to settle properly in one school or make friends. He wasn’t any good at games either. He hated them. Desmond never understood that either. I suppose what he wanted was a son like himself. That was never going to happen, but he wouldn’t believe it. He thought that if he kept on at John he could change him.”

  “Poor boy.”

  “John did try,” Wendy said earnestly. “He really wanted to please his father. But no matter how much he tried it was never good enough. For some reason Desmond set his mind on wanting John to go in for the law, so there was all this extra coaching to pass exams. The poor boy never had a moment to himself; it was work, work, work all the time, even in the holidays.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “John managed to get into university and you’d have thought Desmond would be satisfied, but no, the pressure still carried on. Honestly, Sheila, I thought he was heading for a breakdown.”

  “It must have been awful for you. I suppose you couldn’t persuade Desmond to ease up a bit?”

  She gave a little laugh. “I might as well have spoken to a brick wall. He never listened to what I said, even for the little things. No, the thing that kept John sane was his drawing. Though I say it myself, he’s got a real gift that way. He never let his father know, of course—Desmond would soon have put a stop to that.”

  “Surely he’d have been proud of something his son did well.”

  “Not if it wasn’t his sort of thing. I remember when John was a little boy at school he brought home a picture he’d done. It was the best in the class, and he was so pleased so he brought it home to show us. All Desmond said was he wasn’t paying school fees to have his son waste time on that sort of rubbish.”

  “Poor child.”

  “Anyway, things came to a head when John had to go back to university this term. There’d be exams and he knew he wasn’t going to do well in them. He was really frightened of his father—we both were—and he felt he couldn’t go on. Anyway, when he was at school in Birmingham (we were there for a time for Desmond’s job), the art master, such a nice man, thought really highly of John’s work. So without telling anyone, even me, John got in touch with this master and, to cut a long story short, he managed to get John into the art school there.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Well, you can imagine how I felt. I really wanted John to take it up, but I knew what a dreadful row there’d be. That day, you may have heard him, Desmond said he wanted to speak to John when he got home—something about extra work before the exams, I think it was—and that was too much for John. He said he was going to have it out with his father once and for all and that he’d go to Birmingham and leave home for good.”

  “John was there, wasn’t he, when I gave you a lift home that day? I heard voices when you went out to make the tea.”

  “I was trying to persuade him just to go, without seeing his father, but he was quite determined. He had a bag and his portfolio already packed. He left them in the yard when he went in to see his father.” She paused. “He said it was terrible—things were said…. Desmond said he could never come back home and he’d make sure John never saw me again, things like that. John couldn’t stand any more—he just left, got the bus to Taunton and the train to Birmingham. He’s staying in a hotel there for a bit. He phoned that night to tell me what happened.”

  “So that’s where he was when I spoke to him on the phone—when I told him about his father?”

  “Yes, he was dreadfully upset—for me, really. He wanted to come home, but I wouldn’t let him—well, if anyone knew about that row with his father, they might think….”

  “But it will be all right now. As long as he tells the police exactly what happened. Like I said, they know Desmond was alive when John left.”

  Wendy got to her feet. “I must go,” she said. “I must go and meet his train at Taunto
n—I can drive there. I must catch him before he goes to the police—he might do that before coming home. Now I can tell him it’s going to be all right.”

  “As long as he tells the police the truth.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.” She was moving towards the door.

  “Don’t forget the cat books,” I said.

  “Well!” Rosemary said when I brought her up to date about Wendy’s visit. “It must have taken John quite a nerve to confront his father like that. Though I suppose there comes a point when you just can’t stand things any longer. Even someone as wimpish as John.”

  “Still,” I said, “everything’s going to be all right for him now. He can go to art college. I wonder if Wendy will move to Birmingham to be near him. I think she’d quite like to get rid of that house.”

  “What I still can’t understand,” Rosemary said thoughtfully, “is even when she’d heard from John about what had happened and where he was, she still doesn’t seem to have been worried when Desmond didn’t come home that night.”

  “She might have gone to bed early so as not to have to face him when he got in—after all that had happened, I mean—and just fallen asleep.”

  “I suppose….”

  “And the police appear to have phoned her very early the next morning.”

  “You may be right, but it still seems pretty odd to me.”

  “Everything about that marriage seems pretty odd,” I said.

  We were a bit short staffed at the shop since Wendy, obviously, hadn’t come back yet, and Norma was in a particularly bossy mood, ordering Jean and me about “as if we’re her paid servants,” as Jean said bitterly. She joined me in the storeroom when Norma was occupied with a customer.

  “I can’t stand much more of this,” she said. “She’s just told me I’ve marked up that latest batch of things from Mrs. Turner—I beg your pardon, the Honorable Mrs. Turner—wrong because they’re mostly designer labels. Well, of course I know that; I’m not a fool. I used the list to check them, like we always do. But oh no, that wasn’t enough for Madam! She gave me one of her Little Talks, you know, all patronizing. Have you noticed how when she wants to make you feel really stupid, she makes you sit down so that she can tower over you to make you feel small!” She moved over to the kitchen. “Well, I’m going to make a cup of tea, and if she doesn’t like it she can lump it.”