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

by Hazel Holt

  I often find the best way to cope with Anthea is simply to talk right over her. It always throws her and it sometimes shuts her up.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said grudgingly and went off, presumably to find Norma and “have it out” with her.

  Once again I smiled at Marcus, and this time his smile was almost a grin.

  “He really is quite nice,” I said to Rosemary, “when you get him on his own and when he’s not banging on about Norma. I think if it hadn’t been suppressed by her, he might have had a perfectly good sense of humor.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “And his childhood sounds pretty miserable. Parents abroad, boarding school from very young and holidays with that dismal aunt—you remember old Mrs. Seaton.”

  “Yes, Mother knew her for a bit, but she couldn’t be doing with all that bridge. Pots of money and lived alone in that enormous house, very straitlaced and forbidding. It can’t have been much fun for poor little Marcus.”

  “Yet he spoke about the holidays (well, about being down here) with great affection. I suppose it was the only sort of home life, if you can call that home life, he knew. I expect that’s why he married Norma, to have a family of his own—though there don’t seem to have been any children.”

  “Just as well; think of having Norma for a mother! And she presumably grabbed him because of the money. Do we know where it came from?”

  “He said something about his parents having business interests in the Middle East, so perhaps he went into the family firm. And he said something about his work being very demanding so that he couldn’t get down here very often. But I think it’s most likely that Norma didn’t get on with his aunt and he thought it was better to keep them apart.”

  “Especially if he was going to inherit! Have you seen the house now that Norma’s given it a makeover?”

  “No. I think they give select little dinner parties for the great and the good of Taviscombe, to which, naturally, we peasants are not invited. She’s on more committees than I ever knew existed. The money helps, of course, but she’s managed to bulldoze her way into every level of what you might call Taviscombe society!”

  Rosemary laughed. “Oh, the horror of it!”

  “She’s getting really sure of herself now; not so long ago she trod more cautiously. She wasn’t quite sure how to handle Desmond; she kept quiet far more often then than she would now. I think it really rankled with her that she couldn’t get the better of him at the shop. They were both bullies, and I must say it was great fun to see them walking round each other like that. If things had gone on I think there’d have been an almighty bust-up. But, of course, now Desmond is no more, she’s queen bee at last.”

  “Hmm,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “A good reason to get rid of him, do you think?”

  “Murder? Norma? Not very likely—I’m sure she’d have got the upper hand some other way. Besides, she went home early with a migraine that day.”

  “Oh, come on! Nothing’s easier to fake than a migraine. She could easily have come back later and done the deed. I’m sure the wretched Marcus would have given her an alibi if asked.”

  “True. And come to think of it, I thought at the time her going home was more because of a huff than a migraine. But, really, I don’t think it’s Norma’s style. She’s so sure of getting her own way eventually that she wouldn’t think it necessary!”

  “That’s as may be,” Rosemary said, “but I’ll still think of her as a likely suspect. Oh, by the way, what I wanted to ask you—and with all this Marcus thing I forgot—would you be an angel and come to Taunton with me on Monday? Mother wants me to get her a couple of new nightdresses, and I know she’ll hate everything I bring back, but if I say you chose them then she might—just might—approve. I tried to suggest she should order something from a catalog, but she says catalogs are ‘common,’ even the very superior ones. So do say you’ll come. I’ll stand you lunch at the new place in the Precinct.”

  I ran into Bob Morris in the library, in the gardening section. He looked up when I greeted him.

  “My dad wants a book on tomatoes. I don’t think there’s much here. I did offer to buy one for him, but he said it might not tell him what he wanted to know and would be a waste of money.”

  I smiled. “Very sensible. How is he?”

  Bob shook his head. “Not very happy. This damp weather doesn’t do his hip any good.”

  “Such a pity he won’t have the operation,” I said.

  “Betty and me, we’re still trying to persuade him, but you know what it’s like.”

  “We all get more obstinate as we get older. Anyway,” I said, “how are things going with the case?”

  “Not very well, as a matter of fact. I’ve been trying to chase up stuff about George Arnold. I wanted to check through Desmond Barlow’s business papers before he gets to look at them.”

  “But?”

  “But I can’t get hold of Mrs. Barlow. I’ve called around a couple of times and phoned repeatedly, but she doesn’t seem to be there. It looks as though she’s gone away.

  “I wouldn’t have thought that was very likely,” I said thoughtfully.

  “I did ask her not to leave Taviscombe, but she didn’t seem to take much notice.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought she’d go away and leave Tiger.”

  “Tiger?”

  “Her cat.”

  “Well, it’s all a great nuisance. Oh well, I’ve got a few other lines of inquiry to follow up, so I’ll have to get on with them. There’s still the theft of the money from the till—we haven’t got far with that.” He paused. “You know how it is, when you feel that whichever way you turn you’ve finished up in a dead end!”

  “I’m sure you’ll get a breakthrough soon,” I said comfortingly. “Meanwhile,” I said, plucking a book from the shelves, “how would this one do? The Complete Tomato Handbook. He can’t say what he wants isn’t in this!”

  Chapter Twelve

  We caught a fairly early train to Bristol. Thea and I were taking Alice and her friend Hannah to see their first proper ballet—The Nutcracker, of course. The matinee wasn’t until two thirty, but Alice was determined to squeeze every last drop of entertainment out of the day and had insisted we should have pizzas at a special place that Hannah had once been to with her parents. The theater was full of little girls, many of whom had persuaded their mothers to let them come in their tutus, something Alice and Hannah obviously regarded with disapproval as babyish. But as they sat, leaning forward, their eyes shining, the bags of sweets forgotten on their laps, they too were completely lost in the magic.

  We came out into the real world, all of us still half dazed by the swirl of the music in our heads and the colorfulness of the settings and the costumes still vividly before our eyes. It was a particular shock, therefore, to be nearly knocked over by a couple young people rushing past, almost pushing us off the pavement. They were a disreputable-looking pair, scruffily dressed, who looked as if they’d been sleeping rough. The boy was tall and loutish and seemed to be arguing with the girl whom he had by the wrist, pulling her along after him. She was very thin and, from what I could see of the expression on her face half hidden by the tangled hair, she was reluctant to go with him. Although there was no actual violence, it was a disagreeable moment, made worse by the fact that the girls were upset and a little frightened.

  “For goodness’ sake!” Thea cried after the couple. “What do you think you’re doing!”

  But they’d gone, turned down a side alley, and we were left feeling furious and frustrated. The contrast between the fairy world of the ballet and harsh reality was particularly distressing. Fortunately I saw a taxi approaching, hailed it and bundled the others in.

  “We’ll have a drink and something to eat at the station,” I said. “Is that all right?”

  Thea nodded gratefully and the girls, diverted by riding in a taxi (a novelty for children usually driven about in cars), seemed enthusiastic.

/>   “Can we have hot chocolate?” Alice asked.

  “I don’t know if they have it,” I said. “But if they do, you can.”

  In the train, the girls, who seemed to have shrugged off what had been a nasty experience, had got out their programs and were living the magic again.

  “That tree! The way it suddenly grew!”

  “Those mice!”

  “The snowflakes and the flowers!”

  “And the dresses!”

  Thea and I sat back in our seats, watching them affectionately but really too tired to say anything. I was thinking about the unpleasant incident, grateful for the resilience of children. Something was nagging at me—something at the back of my mind wanted my attention.

  “Of course,” I said out loud. “Sophie Randall!”

  “Sophie Randall?” Thea echoed. “What about her?”

  “That girl. I only got a glimpse of her face, but I’m sure that’s who it was.”

  “I didn’t really see her,” Thea said. “I was hanging on to the children in case they got pushed into the road—all that traffic!”

  “I’m sure it was her.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s very wild, I believe.”

  “Gran,” Alice said, looking up from her program. “Hannah’s going to be a ballerina when she grows up.” Alice seemed to have established herself as the means of communication between her friend (a silent girl who rarely expressed an opinion) and the adult world. “Because she’s good at ballet. Madam says so. I’m not good enough—you have to be super good to be a real ballerina—but I’m going to do all the costumes and the scenery because I’m good at drawing and painting.”

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  I told Rosemary about Sophie Randall when we happened to meet in the Buttery next day.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “She went off to Bristol last time when she was living in that squat.”

  “Have her parents heard from her?”

  “I wouldn’t think so—she never contacted them before.”

  “Do you think I ought to let them know? I mean, they must be desperately worried. I’m really positive it was her. The thing is, I don’t really know them—I mean, I wouldn’t want them to think I’m interfering.”

  “I’m sure they’d want to know—we would!”

  “Well, of course.”

  “I’ll ring Mrs. Randall if you like. I’ve got her number because she once asked me if I could pick up Daisy from school when I fetched Delia. Then she can ring you if she wants to know any more.”

  “Oh, would you? That would be the best thing. Thinking about it, I’m really worried about the poor girl. She looked dreadful, and I didn’t like the way that awful young man was dragging her along like that.”

  “The poor Randalls,” Rosemary said soberly. “You try to bring your children up properly, you give them love and security and then something like this happens. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “We’ve been lucky,” I said. “So far.”

  “So far,” Rosemary echoed. We were silent for a minute; then Rosemary went on: “At least if the Randalls know she’s in Bristol, they may be able to find her—that’s something. Come on, let’s have another Danish pastry to cheer ourselves up.”

  Next day I asked Jean when she’d last seen Sophie in the shop.

  “Goodness, I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “Just before Desmond died, I think.” I noticed how we all used the word “died” about Desmond—“killed” or “murdered” was too explicit.

  “Come to think of it, she was hanging around here the day before. I remember now; Norma spoke quite sharply to her and Sophie was very rude to her.” She laughed. “She used language I don’t suppose Norma had ever heard before. Why do you want to know?”

  I explained how I’d seen her in Bristol and was worried about her.

  “What can you do!” she said. “Young people nowadays—no idea how to behave, no respect for anyone or anything.”

  “Not all of them!” I protested.

  “Well, perhaps not all, but when I think of what this town used to be like—you’ll remember it, too. And now there’s drugs—in a small town like Taviscombe!—and young people drunk in the streets….” She shook her head. “That Sophie always looked such a mess, her face pierced like that, and I’m sure she never took a brush to her hair. She could have been such a pretty girl. I mean, you’re only young once, aren’t you, and it doesn’t last that long, the chance to look nice and wear pretty clothes. Such a waste.”

  “Well,” I said. “Now her parents know where she is. I hope they’ll be able to find her and bring her back.”

  I was still thinking about Sophie when I got home, and it suddenly occurred to me that she might well have been the person who took the money from the till the night Desmond was killed. While I was cooking some fish for the animals, I decided that I really ought to let Bob Morris know what I thought. He was discreet and would question the Randalls tactfully—they might, anyway, have already reported her as a missing person. But it would be helpful to know when she ran off to Bristol. And if she had been in the shop, it would be important to know what time. In fact, it suddenly seemed urgent that I should ring him right away. Leaving the fish in the microwave, where Foss couldn’t get at it, I rang the police station, only to be told that Bob Morris was out of the station for the day and would ring me in the morning.

  But having got this idea into my head I was very restless and cast around for something I could do about it. The only thing I could think of was to phone Rosemary.

  “Yes, I did phone Mrs. Randall and she was very grateful; they’d already been to the squat in Bristol where Sophie was before, but there was no sign of her and no one there knew where she was—at least they said they didn’t. But she said at least now they know that Sophie’s still in Bristol. I didn’t tell her about the man dragging her along—I thought it would upset her. I just said she was with a young man. I suppose he was the one she was going around with here. You didn’t recognize him, I suppose?”

  “No, it all happened so fast. But I am going to tell Bob Morris about it.” I told her my theory about Sophie having taken the money and she agreed it was very likely.

  “Oh dear, the poor Randalls! There seems to be no end to it. Awful for Daisy, too. She’s just at that age….”

  “Let’s hope what’s happened to Sophie will keep her on the straight and narrow.”

  The next morning I still couldn’t get hold of Bob Morris. But as I was driving past the end of Wendy Barlow’s road, I thought I’d go and see if there was any sign of her. The house had that shut-up look homes develop when they’ve been empty for a little while. Still, I rang the bell and went round to the side gate, which was, of course, locked. I was trying to peer in through the front room window when a voice behind me said, “She’s away.”

  I turned round in some embarrassment and saw a woman who had just emerged from the house next door. She had her coat on and a shopping bag in her hand.

  “Oh—yes—I just wanted a word. I work in the charity shop with her,” I said hastily, wanting to establish my credentials. “We were trying to get in touch with her—about coming in—she hasn’t been answering her phone and, of course, after what’s happened, we did worry—not that there was any reason to, I’m sure—but you never know, do you….”

  I’d made my way to the front gate, and she came forward to meet me.

  “No, she went away a while back,” she said. “Canceled the milk, the milkman told me—left a note—till further notice.”

  “Goodness!” I said. “It must have been sudden—I mean, she didn’t let us know and she’s usually very reliable. Still, I suppose now…”

  “That’s right. Not herself at all, poor soul. Well, you can’t wonder at it. Such a dreadful thing.” I noted with satisfaction the sudden animation in her voice. “You wouldn’t believe such a thing could happen, not here, not in Taviscombe! Mind you”—she came nearer�
�“I never liked him. Not a nice man at all. He was very unpleasant about our fence, and most unhelpful about that tree—completely overshadowed our rose bed. Too fond of his own opinion, if you know what I mean. And that poor little woman, couldn’t call her soul her own. If you ask me, it was a merciful release for her, and for the son, though he was a bit of a drip, as my husband used to say. Still, you wouldn’t be surprised, would you, with a father like that.”

  “I wonder when she’s coming back,” I said. “And what about the cat?” I asked suddenly.

  “Oh, that cat! Quite soft about it, she was, but then, she’d never had an animal before, poor thing. I couldn’t live without my Charlie—he’s a spaniel, getting on a bit now….”

  “They’re lovely, aren’t they? So affectionate. But what about the cat?”

  “Oh, she had it in a cat box—saw her loading up the car and went out to have a word with her. Well, you need to know if your neighbors are going away, don’t you, leaving the house empty, especially nowadays. No, she had quite a lot of stuff in boxes and a couple of suitcases. Filled up the boot. The cat box was in the car—such a racket the animal was making. As a matter of fact I only had a few words with her—said she was going away and would I keep an eye on things—but before I’d had a chance to ask her where she was going and for how long, she was distracted by that cat and said she had to go.”

  “Well, that is inconvenient,” I said. “It doesn’t look as if she’s coming back to the shop, but I do wish she’d told us. We’ll have to try and find someone to replace her. It’s the holiday season and we’re always busy then, so we do need a full staff.”

  “Yes, there’s a lot of tourists about—everywhere gets very crowded.”

  “Well,” I said, “I mustn’t hold you up—you’ve been most helpful.” I looked at her shopping bag. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  “No, thanks. I only want a few things so I’m just going to the shops in the Parade—not worth getting the car out. And I always say a nice walk does you a lot of good.”