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

by Hazel Holt

  Now more than ever I wanted to get hold of Bob Morris to tell him about Wendy as well as my news about Sophie. I felt her going away must have had something to do with John. Could she have gone to Birmingham with him, and would she ever come back? The fact that she’d taken Tiger with her did indicate that she was planning to be away for some time. As she was now, I don’t suppose she even thought about letting the police know that she was going or leaving them her address. As Bob had said, she didn’t seem to care about her husband’s murder—too excited, I suppose, about her new life. Extraordinary. Presumably the college of art in Birmingham would have an address for John and Bob could trace her through him. Not that I thought she had anything to do with Desmond’s murder, but still…

  Foss’s insistent demand for food made me think about Tiger. His comfort would be a major concern for her, so she wasn’t likely to take him with her to a hotel and she certainly wouldn’t have put him in a cattery. Tris now joined Foss, adding short peremptory barks to the Siamese wailing. To pacify them I uncovered the remains of the fish and fed them. In the blissful silence that ensued the phone rang. It was Bob Morris.

  “Sorry I was out when you rang.”

  “I’ve got some news for you,” I said. “Two pieces of news, actually.”

  “And I have news for you. The Randalls have had a call from the Royal Infirmary in Bristol. Their daughter Sophie is in there. She’s taken an overdose and they don’t know if they can save her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For a moment I couldn’t take in what Bob was saying. I’d seen Sophie so recently; it seemed impossible she should be close to death.

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “One of the things I was going to tell you was that I saw her in Bristol last Saturday. I thought she might have been the person who took the money from the till….” My voice trailed away. Somehow it seemed wrong to be thinking of it now.

  “That was something I’d been following up,” Bob said. “Her parents had reported her missing the day after Desmond Barlow was killed, so it seemed there might be a link. Anyway, the hospital phoned them last night and they went there straightaway.”

  “Poor souls—they’ve had a horrible time. What sort of overdose? Did she take it herself, or was it accidental?”

  “I don’t know the details yet.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I had thought,” he went on, “that if we could find her and she was the one who took the money, then she might be able to fix the time of the murder. But now, of course… The hospital will let me know how things are going.”

  “Yes. We must just hope she recovers—for everyone’s sake. They can do such wonderful things now. I’m sure they can save her.”

  We were both silent for a moment. There seemed nothing else we could say. Then Bob said, “There were two things you were going to tell me.”

  “Oh yes—though it hardly seems important after all this.” I told him about my visit to Wendy’s house and what her neighbor had said. “It sounds as if she’s planning to stay away for quite a while, though she’ll have to come back to see to the house—if she’s going to sell it, that is.”

  “And you think she’s gone to Birmingham?” Bob asked.

  “That seems most likely. I know it’s maddening that she’s gone, but she has made a statement; do you need to see her again?”

  “Even though we don’t know the exact time of death, it seems that neither Mrs. Barlow or her son had any sort of alibi for the whole evening. And quite frankly, from what I’ve been able to find out, they were the ones who had the strongest motive for murder.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Mrs. Malory,” Bob began. He paused, then went on. “Mrs. Malory, I know you think she couldn’t have killed her husband. Obviously you know her better than I do and have had more of a chance to, well, sum up her character. You may well be right and, of course, I do consider all that very carefully. I really appreciate all you’ve done and found out—things I probably couldn’t have found out as you did. But, when all’s said and done, I have to work with the facts. That’s my job.”

  “Of course it is,” I said. “I’m sorry. I do get carried away sometimes. It’s very good of you to let me know what’s happening. I do appreciate it.”

  “And I appreciate all you’ve done to help. Like I said, you’ve been able to get people to talk in a way I never could and I hope you’ll go on doing it, but the bottom line is getting the evidence, all the boring, plodding bit—well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that!”

  “Of course,” I repeated. “And I do realize you can’t let Wendy just disappear. I suppose you could get an address for John from the college of art. She’s bound to be with him.”

  “Yes, I’ll get onto that right away. And I’ll let you know,” he said, “what news there is about Sophie Randall.”

  I put the receiver down with mixed feelings. I’d been put in my place—in the nicest possible way—by Bob Morris, and he’d been right to do so. I was only an inquisitive amateur; he was the professional. It was (as he reminded me) his job. And he was good at it. He’d been very polite, grateful for my help, and had promised to keep me in touch with his investigations, but I realized that my relationship with him was quite different from the one I’d had with Roger Eliot when he was investigating things. Roger was Rosemary’s son-in-law, the husband of my goddaughter Jilly—of course it was different.

  “I felt—not embarrassed exactly, disconcerted, I suppose,” I said to Rosemary when I rang her, as I always do when I have a problem. “Awkward, really. I’m not sure now how much I can tell him if I do find anything out, or if I should be trying to find out anything at all. If I should just leave it alone. It’s so difficult!”

  “It was very sensible of Bob to clear the air like that. As usual you’re making a fuss about nothing,” she replied. I can always trust Rosemary to bring me down to earth with her usual common sense. “And there’s no way you’ll leave it alone! No, he says he wants your help—and you do seem to have done jolly well so far. He wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t meant it. But it is his job and he’s better placed than you are to make judgments—you can’t base a case on feelings, however strong they are.”

  “No, you’re right, as usual. I have been—not trying to take charge exactly, but, well, pushing my opinions too much. Oh dear, I hope I haven’t been patronizing!”

  “You mean because his father used to be your gardener? No, I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, he’s always sort of deferential, which, of course, is basic good manners. But I would hate him to think…. The fact is, I’ll always think of him as a little boy. And actually, it’s not just Bob. Michael has a college friend, Will Hornby, who’s a very eminent barrister, going to be a judge any day now. But even if he were sitting up there on the bench in his red gown and a judge’s wig, I know I’d still see that scruffy young man with the knee out of his jeans, wolfing down my apple cake and asking for seconds, and I’d think he couldn’t pass judgment on anyone!”

  “I know. I find myself asking Roger if he’s really sure he’s left enough time to catch his plane when he’s off on one of his important trips abroad, and he’s about to become an assistant chief constable! But, as you say, I still see him as that shy awkward boy Jilly brought home from university one summer, who didn’t know how to play Monopoly.”

  I laughed. “Goodness, yes, I remember, and it only seems like yesterday. I suppose,” I went on, “I’ve been too full of myself. While I’ve been poking about I’ve completely forgotten that Bob has been working away methodically doing all the important things and keeping track of the big picture.”

  “Hold that good thought,” Rosemary said. “Meanwhile, how do you feel about coming out to lunch at that new place in the Avenue—my treat.”

  “You mean to say,” Norma said, “that she’s gone away! Without telling me! It’s not only inconsiderate, it’s bad manners.”

  “She has been under pres
sure over a lot of things,” I said placatingly.

  “Like her husband being murdered,” Jean said.

  “Well, of course, I understand that. But nevertheless, there are ways of doing things.” She turned to me. “You think it will be for some time?”

  “It looks like it,” I said. “Unless the police make her come back.”

  “Is she a suspect then?” Jean asked.

  “Well, I don’t know about suspect….”

  “She certainly had a pretty good motive,” she said. “Poor little thing, the way he treated her—and that pathetic son of theirs, too. He’ll be glad to be rid of his father.”

  “I don’t think this is the time or the place to go into things like that,” Norma said. “The fact remains, if she isn’t coming back—back here, that is—then I must see about replacing her. I’ll have a word with Alison Rider, my friend from Malvern, and see how she’s placed. She did say she’d be interested but I don’t imagine she will be able to come straightaway—she’s still settling in—so we’ll all have to do that little bit extra until she does come. I’m sure,” she said, with what she intended to be a pleasant smile, “we’ll all pull together.”

  “What does she think we’ve been doing all this time?” Jean said sourly when Norma had gone off on one of the mysterious and unexplained errands that seemed to necessitate her absence from the shop from time to time. “And I haven’t noticed her doing anything extra.” She leaned on the counter and said confidentially, “What do you think? Did Wendy do it?”

  “I don’t really think she’d be capable of harming anyone. She’s such a gentle soul, not very bright perhaps, and she’s been kept down for so long I can’t see her doing anything violent—seriously though, can you?”

  “Oh, everyone’s got their breaking point. What is it they say? Even a worm will turn if it’s trod on.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “She wouldn’t do it for herself perhaps, but if it was something to do with John….”

  “She’s certainly devoted to him. I think she’s gone to Birmingham to look after him.”

  “There you are, then. I suppose they might say it was justifiable manslaughter; is that what they call it? I’d give evidence like a shot about how awful he was to her.”

  An elderly lady, one of Jean’s friends, came into the shop wanting to try on a coat in the window. In the confusion of extracting it and dismantling half the display (“Just as well Norma’s not here to see it”), the conversation lapsed.

  But it left me feeling uneasy. When I got home I thought about it again. John had been desperate, was going away. Wendy knew that if that happened, Desmond would never let her see him again. I was sure the idea of leaving Desmond herself never occurred to her. She, who never dared to cross him in quite trivial things, would never have been brave enough to take such a bold step. But… but if she’d spoken to John and realized that she’d lose him forever, she might have gone back to the shop (Desmond had said he’d be late home and perhaps she couldn’t wait) to beg him to change his mind about John. And then, when he angrily dismissed her, tried to browbeat her contemptuously in his usual bullying way, perhaps something did snap and she snatched up the knife, not, perhaps, with any intention of killing him, but almost as reflex action.

  It seemed plausible. Up till now I’d been so carried away by the idea of meek little, downtrodden Wendy—just a surface judgment, really—that I hadn’t thought it through. And her placid acceptance of Desmond’s death was unusual, to say the least of it. It was all very confusing. I felt that, after all, I’d be glad to leave the whole Wendy thing to Bob, who would have a clearer picture, not clouded by irrelevant feelings about stray cats.

  “Did you know that Marcus Stanley is standing for the council?” Anthea demanded.

  “Council? What council?”

  “The local council,” she said impatiently. “I would have thought that Norma would have mentioned it—she’s very full of it just now; not surprising, I suppose, since obviously she was the one who pushed him into it.”

  “No, she hasn’t said anything to me.”

  “Mind you, I think they’ve been keeping it quiet up to now. I only found out from George, who got it from Walter Barrett, who’s on the council, and he said it had been talked about for quite a while and they’ve only just decided.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, considering the Stanleys have only been here for such a short while, there was a lot of opposition, but Norma’s been getting at people, having these cozy little dinner parties—undue influence, if you ask me.”

  “I imagine that’s how most people get on the council,” I said.

  “There’s been this vacancy ever since Robert Berridge died,” Anthea went on, ignoring my cynical attitude to local government. “But a lot’s been going on behind the scenes.”

  “There’s no reason,” I said, “why Marcus shouldn’t make a very good councilor—he’s an amiable sort of person and very well off, so there’d be no point in trying to bribe him.”

  “Really, Sheila! It’s a serious matter. The town is being taken over by these off-comers. People who’ve been born and bred here aren’t getting a look in!”

  “At least they’re willing to do things—it would be hard to run Brunswick Lodge without them. You must admit they have their uses.”

  “They always want to change things. Norma Stanley’s forever making suggestions at committee meetings—well, you’ve heard her!”

  “Yes, I know she’s maddening. But it does us good to be shaken up sometimes.”

  Anthea gave a sort of refined snort and returned to her previous grievance. “I’m surprised she didn’t put herself up for the council, but I suppose she’s got too many other things. And now, of course, she’s running that charity shop of yours. She was determined to get her hands on it, and with Desmond Barlow out of the way she’s moved straight in.”

  “I don’t think even Norma would resort to murder for the sake of running a charity shop,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sheila. You know perfectly well what I mean. But it’s just an example of what I was saying. Soon they’ll be running the whole town!”

  “I suppose she could have,” Rosemary said when I mentioned Anthea’s remarks in passing.

  “Could have what?”

  “Murdered Desmond Barlow.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” I said. “Like I said, she left early that afternoon because she said she had a migraine, but we thought she was just in a huff because of being absolutely furious with Desmond.”

  “What about?”

  “Goodness, I can’t remember; there were so many things. Let me think. Oh, I know—Desmond was giving us one of his lectures about how badly the shop was doing, the general implication being that it was all Norma’s fault. She was absolutely boiling mad but didn’t say anything. Then, when he’d finished, she rushed off home. We thought it was rage rather than migraine, but I suppose one could have given her the other.”

  “Well, then, she could have come back after you’d all gone.”

  “But she wouldn’t have known there’d be all these other people coming after hours. It would have been quite late.”

  “She might have been waiting for Marcus to go out or something. Unless he knew what she was going to do.”

  “That’s not very likely. Come on, Rosemary. It’s all impossible; and, really, wanting to run the shop is hardly a motive!”

  “There might have been something in her past. After all, although we know about Marcus we don’t know anything about her life before they came here.”

  “No. Positively no. I refuse to think of Norma with a knife in her hand—think of the health and safety implications! Meanwhile, let’s be grateful it’s Marcus on the council and not Norma—think what havoc she could wreak there!”

  After Rosemary had gone I nerved myself to tackle a job I’d been putting off for ages—clearing out the cupboard where I keep some of my pots and pans. I resolutely s
hut both animals outside (since they are convinced that any activity in the kitchen requires their input), fetched a low stool (I can no longer kneel and crouching down is not an option either) and set to work. It’s amazing what extraordinary things one accumulates over the years, oddly shaped tins for baking goodness knows what, baking trays bent to one side from years of use, metal sieves and graters with sharp edges, enormous cast-iron Le Creuset roasting pans almost impossible to lift and a vast preserving pan that would make enough jam to feed a regiment.

  I pulled them out of the cupboard and spread them across the floor. Apart from one or two cake tins and the Le Creuset pans (which, since they were too expensive to throw away, I intended to bestow on Thea, who is a good, strong girl), I decided to dispose of the rest. This meant going outside to the woodshed, where I keep the big cardboard boxes, which, of course, meant unintentionally letting in Tris and Foss, who had been keeping vigil outside the back door. I got the boxes and went back into the kitchen just as the phone began to ring. Picking my way carefully among the hardware and the animals, I answered it.

  “Mrs. Malory.” It was Bob Morris. “I do hope I’m not ringing at an inconvenient time?”

  “Not at all,” I said, removing Foss from the arm of the sofa and sitting down.

  “I thought you’d like to know—we’ve got the knife.”

  “Really! How?”

  “A couple walking their dog on West Hill. They’d left the road and were going along one of the paths that lead down to the combe—right off the beaten track. They saw the dog scratching away by a large gorse bush so they went over to have a look. They didn’t see anything at first and called the dog off, but it wouldn’t come. Then they noticed something, right in the middle of the bush. Fortunately the man was wearing a heavy jacket and gloves so he was able, with the help of his walking stick, to pull it out. It was a knife wrapped up in some sort of material, and the material was stained with blood. So they brought it in to us.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “So I was wondering if you’d mind coming in to the station and seeing if you recognize it.”