by Hazel Holt
She put the kettle on and got out the mugs.
“By the way, Sheila, did the inspector ask you about that knife I was using—you know, the one I had to open that box of cards?”
“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.”
“He asked me a lot about that—I don’t know if he asked Norma; she didn’t deign to tell me if he did—and he turned the place upside down looking for it. I suppose he thinks that was used to kill Desmond.”
“It certainly looks like it.”
She shivered. “It gives me a sort of creepy feeling. You know—the next person to pick it up was a murderer!”
“Try not to think about it,” I said soothingly.
“And another thing, when they find it my fingerprints will be on it!”
“Well, they’re not going to think you killed him.”
“There were times when I felt like it,” Jean said vehemently. “And right now I’d like to do the same to Madam!” She caught herself up. “No, I shouldn’t say things like that—not after what’s happened.” She put the tea bags into the mugs and poured the water onto them. “Help yourself to milk. Sheila, you know this inspector what’s-his-name…Morris. What does he think about it?”
“I don’t know, I’m afraid. It’s early days yet, and I suppose they have to eliminate everyone who might have had a reason to kill him.”
“Like poor little Wendy, or that son of theirs. Not that they’d have the nerve to do it.”
“There may be all sorts of people—we don’t really know much about him or who he might have upset.”
“That’s true. Actually, there was a gentleman in one day last week asking for him. A stranger—well, I’d never seen him before.”
“Really? What was he like?”
“Well spoken, some sort of businessman, he was wearing a suit. At first I thought he might be here to value those pictures, but he wasn’t the usual person.”
“What did he say?”
“He just asked if Desmond was here. I said he wasn’t at the moment but he’d probably be in late afternoon.”
“Did he ask for Desmond or Mr. Barlow?”
“I can’t remember—yes, I can. He asked for Mr. Barlow, so I thought at the time he probably wasn’t a friend and that’s why I wondered about the pictures.”
“Did you tell the inspector about him?”
“No, should I have done? I hadn’t thought about him until this moment.”
“I think he ought to know, especially if you think he was a stranger.”
Jean put two spoonfuls of sugar in her mug and stirred it vigorously. “Well, I’ll tell him if he comes in again—I expect he will. I can’t be bothered to go traipsing all the way up to the police station.”
Norma came into the storeroom, pointedly ignored our mugs of tea, and said, “Perhaps one of you could spare the time to come and take over in the shop. I have to go to the printer to see if that new poster I ordered is ready—they should have delivered it yesterday and I need it for the new window display.”
I put down my mug and followed her into the shop.
“I believe you are in touch with Wendy,” she said. “Has she said anything about when she might be coming back?”
“She hasn’t said, but I wouldn’t think until after the funeral. It will be very distressing for her.”
“Naturally, and normally I wouldn’t inquire, but we have been very busy lately—morbid curiosity in some cases, which, of course, I deplore, but that doesn’t alter the fact that we need a full staff to cope with things.”
“Well, she has her son back home now and they will have all sorts of things to arrange….”
“I quite understand that, but I would be grateful if, when you are in touch with her next, you would inquire—tactfully, of course—if she does intend coming back. If not, then I do feel we must replace her as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, I have a very suitable person in mind. She has only just come to Taviscombe but she has had a great deal of experience in the retail trade.”
“Really.”
“She ran a very successful antiques shop in Malvern, so she would be invaluable to us for valuing the china and porcelain.”
“Why did she leave Malvern for Taviscombe?” I inquired idly.
Norma gave me a cold look. “Her husband has relatives down here, I believe. He plays golf with Marcus, and we have been to dinner with them several times.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can find out what Wendy wants to do….”
“Excellent. One more thing. I imagine Inspector Morris has spoken to you about that knife. He consulted me about it, of course, and I told him how distressed I was that Jean had left it lying about like that. Quite inexcusable. Even if this dreadful thing hadn’t happened. I can’t think what the health and safety people will say. I haven’t said anything to Jean myself—no doubt the police will have told her how reprehensible it was and how, in a way, she is responsible for this whole sorry affair.”
“Oh, I don’t really think—”
“Right, well, I’ll be off. I’ll leave you in charge. I won’t be long.” She put on her coat, picked up her handbag and swept out. As the shop door closed, Jean put her head round the door.
“Has she gone? Here’s your tea—it had got a bit cold but I hotted it up in the microwave.”
“Oh, thanks. She’s gone to the printer to get that poster she designed for the window.”
“She couldn’t wait to change the window display, could she? Desmond barely cold in his grave—not that he is in his grave yet. Have you heard anything about the funeral?”
“No. They’ll have to wait until the police can release the body.”
“I suppose Wendy will have to see to all the arrangements. I wonder how she’ll cope with that?”
“At least she’ll have John to help her,” I said.
“I wouldn’t think he’d be much use, from what I’ve seen of him.”
“I think she has a nice solicitor. I expect he can see to things.”
“I suppose we’ll be expected to go—to the funeral, I mean.”
“I think Wendy would appreciate it.”
“It’ll be at that church of his—there’ll be all that crowd.” She finished her tea and put down her mug. “It’s just occurred to me. Norma’s such a one for doing things by the book—do you think she’s put Desmond’s death in the accident book!”
Chapter Nine
Wendy’s “nice solicitor” turned out to be Nigel Forest, one of Michael’s friends in another practice.
“You know Wendy Barlow, don’t you?” Michael asked when he came to bring me some more eggs. “Doesn’t she work at that charity shop of yours?”
“Yes, I know Wendy. Why?”
“Poor Nigel’s having a difficult time with her.”
“I’d never have called Wendy difficult,” I said. “She’s far too poor-spirited!”
“Not difficult like that, but Nigel’s trying to settle her husband’s estate, and whenever he asks her even the simplest question she just says, ‘Oh, Desmond did all that.’”
“Well, he did. Dealt with everything. He just doled out the housekeeping money every week or whenever, and that’s all she ever knew about it. Apparently there’s a sort of trust.”
“Indeed there is,” Michael said. “I gather she’s a very wealthy woman.”
“Good heavens!”
“Nigel couldn’t believe that anyone in this day and age could know so little about their financial situation.”
“If he’d ever seen them together he’d have understood. But he must have known Desmond and seen what a control freak he was.”
“Well, yes, but even so…”
“He’d got her to the state where she didn’t have a mind of her own.”
“She’s got no idea of anything—Nigel’s having to arrange the funeral and everything.”
“Presumably Desmond left a will?”
“Oh yes—he couldn’t do anything about the trust, of course, but h
e left a couple of quite substantial legacies to people outside the family.”
“Who… I don’t suppose you can tell me?”
“No. But I can tell you that Nigel was surprised that he left nothing to his son.”
“He really was a loathsome man!” I said.
Michael gathered up the empty egg boxes I’d put aside for him. “Oh, by the way, Thea says some of the eggs are from the new bantams. They’re quite small, but the yolks are proper size; it’s just the whites that are smaller.”
“So they’ve fixed the funeral then,” Rosemary said. “I suppose all you lot from the shop will be going?”
“We thought we’d like to support poor Wendy.”
“I’d like to tag along, if you don’t mind. I wanted to have a word with her, but I didn’t like to call or ring.”
“Well, there’s the usual ‘do’ afterwards in the church hall, so you can have a word then.”
St. Mary’s church was almost full. Most of the parishioners had come to pay their last respects; some, perhaps, with a slightly guilty feeling of relief. Most of our group from the shop (and Rosemary) sat modestly at the back of the church, but I noticed, with some amusement, that Norma and Marcus firmly seated themselves in one of the front pews, though Marcus looked rather embarrassed. After a while they were joined by a middle-aged woman dressed in black who sat a little apart from them.
“Who’s that?” Rosemary whispered. “A relative of some sort?”
Jean, who was sitting next to us, shook her head. “No, that’s Desmond’s lady friend from St. Mary’s.”
Rosemary was obviously longing to inquire further, but just then the coffin was carried in, followed by Wendy and John, who stood uncertainly in the aisle until they were shepherded into their front pew by Nigel, who seemed to be in attendance. It was a good service, and thanks to the large congregation, the hymns were given full value in energy and volume, which is not always the case. The vicar paid a handsome tribute to “a man who has contributed so much to this parish,” and everyone felt, I’m sure, that things had been done properly.
After the committal we all trooped into the church hall, which was pleasantly overheated after the chill outside. There were plates of food spread out on the trestle tables, and the urn and the cups and saucers were laid out in rows. In fact, it looked just like it did on our last visit for the produce sale. There was the same hum of conversation, not noticeably different in volume and animation. Indeed there was a positive absence of the usual hushed tones and mumbled expressions of sorrow.
Jean attached herself to Rosemary and me (Margaret and Dorothy were talking to Wendy, and Norma had buttonholed the vicar) as we all went to get our sandwiches and coffee. After we were settled at a table, Rosemary turned to Jean and said, “What did you mean about Desmond’s lady friend?”
Jean shrugged. “Oh, it’s no secret. Edna says everyone knew about Agnes Davis and Desmond.”
“You mean they’re having an affair?” I asked.
“No one’s ever worked that one out. I mean, it wouldn’t be easy. He’s married and she lives with her elderly mother. Anyway, can you imagine a cold fish like Desmond going in for anything as passionate as an affair! No, I think it was all on a high intellectual plane, long discussions about the Prayer Book Service and Series Three.”
“Did Wendy know about it?” Rosemary asked.
“Oh yes.”
“And she didn’t mind?”
“She certainly wouldn’t have the courage to say anything if she did,” I said.
“She was probably grateful to Agnes,” Jean said, “for keeping him occupied and out of the house in the evening.”
“The evening?”
“Agnes sometimes used to come round to the shop after we were shut. I found out about that when I forgot my umbrella and had to go back for it. His Lordship was very put out and muttered something about her bringing him some parish magazines, but she obviously couldn’t have cared less—gave me a very haughty stare, daring me to think anything!”
“She’s talking to the vicar now,” I said, looking at the black-clad figure. “It’s funny really—she’s in deepest mourning and Wendy is just wearing her usual tweed coat.”
“I expect she sees herself as Desmond’s real widow. Come to think of it, she’ll probably miss him more than Wendy will.”
Just then Edna Palmer came up to speak to us.
“You managed to get here, then—quite a good turnout. Pretty well everyone—except those he’d offended, of course. I thought Reverend Nicholas spoke very well, considering. I mean, you can’t tell me he isn’t glad to have his parish to himself again. And poor little Wendy—I bet she feels she’s been let out of prison!”
“Agnes will miss him,” Jean said.
Edna gave a short laugh. “Oh, she’ll miss him all right. Just look at her done up like that—I’m surprised she hasn’t got a veil, the lot! I see she’s making up to the reverend now. She didn’t have a good word to say for him when her precious Desmond was alive. How he didn’t appreciate all the hard work that dear Desmond was doing, how he was always off on these exchanges and so forth. As if he ever got a look in with that man always pushing himself forward.”
“Poor Mr. Nicholas,” Rosemary said, “if she’s got her sights on him.”
“Oh, the reverend’s no fool. He’s very good at offloading overenthusiastic parishioners, very diplomatically, of course. No, I expect she’ll go to All Saints; they’ve got a young vicar there who won’t know how to shake her off!”
Rosemary got up. “I just want to have a quick word with Wendy. Then we must be off.”
I joined her and left Jean and Edna to enjoy their chat.
Wendy, who had been saying good-bye to some of the parishioners, was standing by herself near the door. She seemed to be deep in thought, and for a moment we hesitated to disturb her, but then Rosemary went forward and said the usual things about loss and sympathy and so on. Wendy seemed to collect herself and greeted us both warmly.
“It’s so good to see a friendly face,” she said. “No, I don’t mean that exactly—everyone’s been very kind, but they”—she gestured towards the people in the hall—“are only here because of the church, if you see what I mean, because it’s the right thing to do.”
“It was nice to see the church full,” I ventured. “I’m sure Desmond would have been very pleased.”
“Oh he would.”
“Where is John?” Rosemary asked. “You must be so glad to have him here at this time.”
“Oh, he had a headache so I sent him home,” Wendy said. “He can see to Tiger—I don’t like leaving him alone for too long.”
“Is John going back to Birmingham?” I asked. “And will you go with him?”
“It’s all right for John to go, but Mr. Forest said I ought not to go, too, until the police have found out more about who killed Desmond. So it will be just Tiger and me.”
“It’s nice for you to have company,” Rosemary said, but Wendy seemed impervious to any hint of irony.
“Yes, well, animals are better than humans sometimes, aren’t they?” she said.
Rosemary suddenly nudged me and indicated a man farther down the hall. It was the man we’d seen at the produce show.
“Wendy,” Rosemary said, “who is that man, over there talking to the vicar? His face seems familiar.”
“Oh, that’s George Arnold,” Wendy said. “He used to work with Desmond. Fancy him being here.”
As we spoke he caught Wendy’s eye and came over.
“My dear Wendy,” he said. “I was so distressed to hear the sad news. You must be devastated. I can hardly believe it—I saw him quite recently in this very place. We had such a splendid chat….”
His voice went on, smooth as his manner, and I felt we should really be moving tactfully away. But Rosemary stood firm, nodding her head sympathetically from time to time, indeed showing more response than Wendy.
“Well,” he said, taking Wendy’s hand a
nd holding it in both of his. “Do please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you—any of Desmond’s business papers that need sorting—anything at all I can do to help. You have my number. Do ring, and I’ll be in touch soon to see how things are going.” He let go of her hand, which she allowed to fall limply at her side, and he gave a slight nod to us. “So nice to have met you….” And he went away.
“Did he work with Desmond for a long time?” Rosemary asked.
“George? Oh yes, they go back a long way. I wonder how he knew about Desmond.”
“Perhaps Nigel—Mr. Forest—put a notice in the Times or the Telegraph,” I suggested.
“That will be it,” she said. “He’s been so kind.”
“Well,” Rosemary said. “We must be off.”
“How will you get home?” I asked.
“Norma said—” Wendy broke off as Norma came up to us.
“Well, then, Wendy, I think you might leave now. Most people have gone or will be going. It should be all right if you just have a word with Mr. Nicholas—just a word to thank him. Then we can drive you home.”
Wendy, who had been quite animated when speaking to us, became the subdued, docile creature she was when with Desmond. “Yes, of course,” she said meekly. “If you think that will be all right.”
“Well, I think everything went off very well,” Norma said as Wendy went over obediently to speak to the vicar. “Quite a good congregation, and the vicar spoke most suitably. Marcus and I will just see her back home and make sure everything is as it should be.”
“John is at home now,” I said.
Norma smiled condescendingly. “I’m sure he is very devoted to his mother, but I hardly think he is a great deal of practical help. Now, then,” she went on as Wendy came back. “Have you got your hat? You didn’t wear one? Oh well, never mind; we’ll be off. You will be in tomorrow as usual, Sheila? That’s right. Come along, then. Marcus is just fetching the car—so difficult parking here.”