by Hazel Holt
She walked briskly away, Wendy trailing behind her.
“Oh dear,” Rosemary said. “Poor Wendy, exchanging one tyrant for another! ‘Everything went off very well’! Just as though she arranged it all.”
“Typical Norma,” I said. “Still, I somehow don’t think Wendy will come back to the shop, and Norma has too many other irons in the fire to bother with Wendy if she’s not under her eye. Anyway, let’s get out of here. Come back with me and we’ll have a proper cup of tea.”
I fed the animals, let them out into the garden and made the tea.
“I wonder what that man Arnold wanted,” Rosemary said, “that time we saw him before.”
“I think he must have been the man Miss Paget saw going in to see Desmond after John had left.”
“But if this Agnes person went in after he left, then he couldn’t have killed Desmond—well, not unless she found the body and stayed there to keep a vigil over it!”
“Yes. Very funny. No, but even if he didn’t kill Desmond, he may know about something they were both mixed up in that might have been the reason for his death.”
“Well, I get the feeling he’s frightened about something,” Rosemary said. “Well, nervous, anyway. All that smarming over Wendy and offering to look over Desmond’s business papers. That wasn’t just a helpful gesture. No, he thinks there may be something there….”
“What sort of something?”
“I don’t know—something illegal, perhaps, that they were both mixed up in.”
“I don’t see Desmond being mixed up in anything illegal somehow.”
“Well, dodgy somehow. Are you going to tell Bob Morris about him?”
“I think so. And I can tell him about Agnes at the same time.”
“I suppose she was the mysterious female?”
“Oh, I’d think so. Wouldn’t you? Unless Desmond had two lady friends.”
“It’s a great pity Miss Paget went to watch her program and didn’t see her leave. Then we’d know.”
“Know what?” I asked. “Oh, surely you don’t think Agnes killed him!”
“Well, you never can tell with odd people like that. She may have been jealous….”
“No, really! But I suppose we can’t be positive it was her. ‘Tall, middle-aged’—it could have been anyone.”
“Someone from the shop? Miss Paget said it was someone she’d seen before.”
“Well, Norma’s tall, and so is Margaret, but I can’t imagine what reason either of them would have to kill him. I know Norma never got on with him, but still…. Anyway, she went home early with a headache—at least that’s what she said, though I think she really went off in a huff.”
“How bad a huff?”
“Not bad enough to murder him!”
“Wendy’s quite tall.”
“Oh, come on! Poor little soul!”
“Driven to desperation?”
“Possibly. But she was at home—I drove her there myself.”
“She could have got a bus back after you’d left. The time would fit in.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted reluctantly. “It is possible. Oh, I don’t know—I’m all confused now. I’ll simply tell Bob Morris about Agnes and the Arnold man and he can speak to them and find out if they were there.”
I telephoned the police station and left a message. Bob came round the next afternoon. We seemed to gravitate naturally to the kitchen, and I automatically put the kettle on and got out the cake tin. He listened carefully to what I had to tell him about Agnes and George Arnold and asked a few questions.
Then he said, “Inspector Eliot always used to say how much he relied on you to fill him in on details. About people especially—he said you noticed things.”
I laughed. “I expect he also mentioned my insatiable curiosity,” I said.
“He didn’t put it quite like that, but he did say how helpful it was.”
“Well, I suppose people are always extra careful what they say to the police, even when they’re off duty—a sort of invisible barrier. They’re more relaxed with someone they chat to more or less every day. And, of course, I’ve lived here all my life so I know a great many people—I’ve watched a lot of them grow up.”
“That helps.”
“Well, it means you’re more aware of the relationships between them, if you know what I mean. Mind you, I really don’t know that much about Desmond Barlow. We only had a sort of nodding acquaintance before I went to work at the shop.”
“I think you had him pretty well summed up.”
“If you mean did I feel that he was an unpleasant control freak—well, I think that was the impression of everyone who came into contact with him!”
“That does seem to be the general opinion. But seriously, Mrs. Malory, it would be a help if we could have a chat from time to time, just to compare notes, you might say.”
“Of course. My son says I’m always delighted to give my opinion on anything, even without being asked.”
Bob laughed. “And talking of sons, I was wondering if you’d mind calling in on Dad sometime. I’ve mentioned that I’ve seen you recently, and he was inquiring after you. I know he’d really appreciate a chat if you could spare the time.”
“Of course, I’d love to. When would be a good time?”
“Well any day, really. He doesn’t get out much, only to the doctor and so on nowadays. Mornings are best; he usually has a rest in the afternoon.”
“How about Tuesday morning—about eleven, if that’s all right?”
“That’s fine. He’ll be looking forward to it.”
“And so will I. Now, the kettle’s boiled. How about that cup of tea?”
Chapter Ten
I was shocked to see how much worse poor Reg Morris had become. He now moved slowly and leaned heavily on a walking frame. He led the way along the hall, through the dining room and into a small conservatory.
“I usually sit in here in the mornings,” he said, “to catch the sun.”
“It’s beautifully warm,” I replied. “And how lovely all your flowers are!”
“Well, I can’t do anything out-of-doors, but I potter about in here—it keeps me going.”
“Those glorious begonias—such wonderful colors. Oh, and look at that amazing standard fuchsia! Did you train it yourself?”
“It takes a bit of patience, but it’s come on a treat. Come and sit down.” He gestured to the two easy chairs that, with a small table, took up a lot of the floor space, the rest being dominated by a large workbench that ran round one side.
I laid some magazines down on the bench and said, “Just a few gardening magazines—I hope you haven’t got them already.”
“That’s kind. I’ll like looking at them. Reading and the wireless, that’s what I enjoy—not this old television. There’s nothing there for the likes of me—all this young stuff.”
“Not even the gardening programs?”
“Not what I call gardening,” he said scornfully. “A lot of fancy nonsense—you never see them get their hands dirty. No, Gardeners’ Question Time on the wireless and proper music—those big bands, like we used to have in the war, that’s what I like.” He sat down in the other chair and indicated the tray on the table. “Betty made some coffee and put it in a flask. If you’d pour it—my hands aren’t too steady these days.”
I poured the coffee and passed a cup over to him.
“Now, you try one of those flapjacks. Betty made them. She’s a proper cook; Bob’s been very lucky. And they’ve got two little ones, a boy, Jimmy, after her dad, and a girl, Gracie, after Bob’s mother—you remember her.”
“Of course I do—that’s really nice.”
“She’s a good girl, Betty. Looks after me, bless her; calls in every day. I always say without her and Bob I’d be stuck away in one of those homes.”
“That’s really good to hear. But Reg, I’m sorry to see you so disabled. What is it, arthritis?”
“It’s a bit of what old Dr. Dark used to call
the screws, but it’s mostly my hip. They say it’s gone.”
“Couldn’t you have a hip replacement? They’re very good; I know several people who’ve had them.”
“Bob and Betty are always on to me about it, but I say I’m too old for that sort of thing.”
“Now, that’s nonsense. Lots of people older than you have had them most successfully. Come to think of it, the Queen Mother had hers done when she was nearly a hundred.”
“It’s all very well for them. Mind you, I’ve got a lot of time for the royals—though I wouldn’t want their job, not for a thousand pounds—but there’s all the looking after when you come out. I wouldn’t want to be a burden on Betty, and Bob’s always busy with his job.”
“I’m sure you could go into a care home—the council has several places in Taviscombe—until you were fit to come home. And then,” I said, “you’d be able to do so much more for yourself.”
He looked unconvinced. “I’m not sure about those places. When I was able to get about I used to go to this day center.”
“And what was it like?”
“Them as ran it were all right and the food wasn’t bad—they gave you your midday meal—but some of the helpers I couldn’t be doing with. Wanted you to do exercises and join in singsongs and play bingo. All right for a lot of old women, but not for me!”
“No, I think you are probably better off in your lovely conservatory.”
He nodded. “And that’s what I told them.”
I laughed. “You always were one for speaking your mind.”
“I’m all right as I am. Seeing after my plants; and Betty always stays for a chat when she comes and she brings the little ones sometimes. Gracie’s still a toddler, but Jimmy’s just started school and, mark my words, he’s going to be a bright lad, just like his father.”
“Yes, Bob’s done very well, and I’m sure he’s going right to the top.”
“It’s hard work and long hours and now there’s this case….”
“Desmond Barlow. Yes, it’s an unpleasant one.”
“Yes, well, I used to see him at the day center—he was one of the helpers. A real old-fashioned do-gooder, if you know what I mean; always knew what was best for you. Most of the helpers, the volunteers, were really nice, kind and friendly, but he was—what would you call it?—patronizing. I thought to myself, ‘You’ll be old yourself one day and then you’ll know what it’s like.’”
“I do know what you mean about patronizing,” I said. “I expect Bob’s told you that I do a few days at the charity shop that Desmond runs—used to run—and we all felt the same as you did. Not a nice man.”
“And now poor Bob’s got to find out who killed him. You’ll be spoiled for choice, I told him. Everyone disliked him.”
“But, I suppose, not enough to kill him!”
“No, that’s what Bob said. But you know, there was something a bit fishy about him.”
“Really?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. My next-door neighbor takes me to the garden center sometimes, when he’s going himself. I like to have a bit of a look round, and we usually have a cup of coffee in the café there—it makes a nice morning out. Well, anyway, I needed some special plant food for my fuchsia and some more compost. Dave, that’s my friend, was off outside looking at fruit trees—he wants to do a cordoned pear—and I was in that side bit where they have the packets and bottles of stuff—did you know you can’t buy Bordeaux mixture anymore? Something to do with the Common Market. A lot of stupid nonsense! Like I was saying, I like to look round there—it’s usually nice and quiet. The main part’s always crowded and I do find it a bit difficult with my walking frame. Anyway, I turned the corner and who should I see but that Desmond Barlow talking to another man—very spruce in a city suit. It looked like they were arguing, quite heated. When they saw me they stopped, and Mr. Barlow, he recognized me and gave me such a look! Well, if looks could kill!”
“Good gracious. What did you do?”
“Went and got my plant food, while they stood there and watched me. Well, I’d got as much right to be there as them—more, if you ask me. It didn’t look like they were there to buy anything.”
“Really?”
“Didn’t seem to have been looking at the stuff there.”
“You mean they were there because it was a quiet place where they could discuss something?”
“That’s right. The other man, the one in a suit, he didn’t look as if he was a gardener!”
“So when you’d got your plant food—incidentally, you must tell me the name of it; my fuchsias could do with a bit of a boost—what happened then?”
“Like I said, they just stood there and waited for me to go. I didn’t let on I recognized Mr. Barlow—I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. And I took my time leaving. Well, I can’t move too quickly with my walking frame. They weren’t too happy about it.”
I laughed. “Well done,” I said. “But what an extraordinary thing. I don’t suppose you happened to hear anything they were saying.”
“Mr. Barlow was saying something about it being the other man’s responsibility, and he said something like ‘You don’t get out of it like that,’ and then they saw me and shut up.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said thoughtfully.
“I saw the other man leaving,” Reg said, “when we were going into the café. He got into a big posh car and drove off in a hurry. He didn’t look as if he was from around here—a London type, if you ask me.”
“Did you tell Bob about all this?” I asked.
“You mean it might have something to do with this case he’s so busy with?”
“Well, you think yourself it was all a bit odd, so it might be. It could be very helpful.”
“I might do that, then. He says he’s dropping in this evening. I’ll tell him then and say you think it might be important.”
Bob phoned me the next day.
“Thanks for going to see Dad. He really enjoyed seeing you. And thanks for getting him to tell me about that man George Arnold; it certainly seems worth following up.”
“I must say I thought it was a bit suspicious, the way he spoke to Wendy and offered to sort through Desmond’s business papers.”
“Yes, I think we might have a look at them—I don’t suppose Mrs. Barlow would object.”
“Wendy? No, she’s much too occupied with selling the house and moving to Birmingham with her son.”
“Moving, did you say?” Bob said sharply.
“Yes—I don’t suppose she thought to tell you. She’s very vague. But now John’s going to the art school there, she says there’s nothing to keep her in Taviscombe. They lived in Birmingham for a while when Desmond was working in the area, and she may still know people there.”
“I’d rather she didn’t leave Taviscombe while the case is still in progress.”
“Can you stop her leaving? Surely you don’t think she’s a suspect.”
“There are still a number of questions I need to ask her. And her son.”
“I see. Well, I expect it’ll take some time to sell the house—this is always a bad time of the year to sell, isn’t it—so she’ll be around for a while yet.”
There was a pause. Then Bob said: “I’m surprised she didn’t tell me she was going to leave Taviscombe. I would have thought she might have been interested to know who killed her husband,” he added with heavy irony.
“Oh dear, yes, you would think so, wouldn’t you. But the fact is that Wendy, while not wishing her husband any ill, is more relieved than sad to be rid of him. And no, I don’t believe for a moment that she had anything to do with his death. It’s just that she’s been living all these years with a thoroughly disagreeable man who bullied and dominated her, made her life pretty miserable and his son’s life so wretched that he was going to run away. So it’s not surprising that she’s relieved and, yes, happy to be free of him.”
“But surely…”
“She seems to have p
ut it all behind her, as if it was another life—as, I suppose it is, to her now. She’s a very naive person. I imagine that’s how she came to marry Desmond; she took him at his face value. He, of course, married her for her money. As I say, she’s very naive, took life as it came, became a doormat to her husband. The only time she ever rebelled (if you can call it that) was over her son, and even there she was never brave enough to speak out, only tried to make things easier for John by concealing things from Desmond. But now it’s all over, as she sees it, she’s moved on so thoroughly that I don’t believe she gives a thought as to how he died or who killed him. It’s all like another life to her. She just wants to begin her new life. Now.”
There was a long pause while Bob tried to take in a concept he found hard to accept. Then he said, “You really think that’s the way she is; she’s not just putting on an act?”
“I’m sure of it. I knew her when Desmond was alive; I saw how it was. Like you, I couldn’t believe she could be so—well—detached. But she is—I do really believe it.”
Another pause. “Well, what do they say? ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk!’”
I laughed. “It took me a while to get used to it, especially since, as I said, I’ve seen her with Desmond, like a frightened rabbit.”
“Anyway, you’ve given me quite a lot to think about. There are still several things I want to ask her, but I’ll bear in mind what you’ve told me when I do.”
“You must form your own opinion, of course. I’ll be interested to know what you think.”
“Right. I’ll be in touch. And I’ll let you know what, if anything, I find in those business papers.” He laughed. “I think I’ll feel on firmer ground with them, more what I’m used to!”
Whenever I go to pick up Alice from her ballet class I always have a strong sense of déja vu. In these very rooms I had, at that same barre, hesitantly gone up on my pointes, practiced my pliés and finally achieved a rather wobbly arabesque, while Madam (Josie Blackwood from Porlock) had continued her endless argument with the pianist (whose name I have now forgotten) about the tempo. The notes of what was probably that same piano greeted me when I joined the group of mothers (and grandmothers) waiting, just inside the door, to collect their budding ballerinas. There was a low murmur of conversation (“What with piano lessons and swimming and now ballet, I spend all my time driving the twins around. And the expense!”), but their eyes followed the movements of their offspring with satisfaction (“Flora is dancing with the older girls in the display this year; Madam says she’s come along so well.”). Josie, of course, is long gone, but Maisie Fletcher carries on the tradition, and so there is still a Madam.