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

by Hazel Holt

  Jean looked thoughtful. “I get the feeling that there’s something wrong there.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. But like you said, she hasn’t really taken over, has she?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And she’s in and out all the time—and doing what? You can’t tell me that it’s all to do with this place.”

  “She’s on a lot of committees; perhaps she’s finding it difficult to fit everything in.”

  Jean shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that. It’s like—oh, I don’t know—as if she’s worried about something. I went into the storeroom the other day and she was talking on her mobile, so it wasn’t shop business.”

  “And?”

  “She finished her call in a hurry when she saw me come in, but I did hear her say, ‘Don’t do anything until you hear from me.’ She said it quite sharply, as if it were important.”

  “It could be something and nothing.”

  “It didn’t sound like that to me. Oh well, let’s have a cup of tea while we can.”

  I was really quite tired when I got home. The weather had been dull and overcast and the holiday makers, for want of anything better to do, trailed in and out of the shop all day, pulling things out of the racks, taking them off hangers and leaving them all muddled up so that there was a great deal of tidying up to do at the end of the day. Norma was out all morning and a lot of the afternoon, only appearing just in time to collect the takings for the bank. Jean spoke to her quite sharply about our being left alone to cope. Normally this would have provoked an even sharper reply, but Norma just nodded absently, muttered something about “seeing to it” and went off into the storeroom. It did seem that Norma was not, to put it mildly, her usual self.

  The animals were being difficult, too. Although Tris cleared his dish and looked up hopefully for more, Foss was in one of his fussy moods and rejected the food from a newly opened tin, making offensive scraping movements with his paw to show his distaste. I opened a different tin and, although he ate a single mouthful, he turned away and uttered a loud Siamese cry of complaint. Eventually I did what he knew I would do. I took some cooked chicken from the freezer and warmed it up for him. He gave me a look of triumph and ate his way steadily through it, scattering particles of food all over the floor. I gave Tris extra biscuits as a reward for being cooperative and poured myself a gin and tonic as a reward for getting through a tiresome day.

  I was just wondering what I could bear to cook for supper when the phone rang.

  “I hope this isn’t a difficult time for you?” It was Bob Morris. “But I thought you’d like to know what I found today.”

  “From Desmond’s papers?”

  “That’s right. I had a bit of a job getting Mrs. Barlow to open the desk. First of all she said she didn’t know where the key was, and then that her husband wouldn’t like it!”

  “She probably expected Desmond to rise from his grave and forbid it!”

  “Something like that. Anyway, when I insisted, she ‘remembered’ where the key was. She opened the desk and more or less bolted from the room.”

  “Goodness! So, did you find anything useful?”

  “Oh yes, everything was in labeled files, mostly church stuff, but there was a file for George Arnold. Not a lot in there—I got the impression neither of them wanted to put very much down on paper.”

  “But enough to be helpful?”

  “Apparently they worked together on a development in the Midlands, and recently some sort of problem seems to have arisen and there’s going to be an inquiry. From the very guarded references in their correspondence, I gather that Arnold had given Barlow some false information—told him something was OK when it wasn’t—to get the project under way, and now he wanted Barlow to back him up in a lie.”

  “And Desmond, pillar of the church, wouldn’t.”

  “Something like that.”

  “That sounds like a pretty good motive.”

  “It could be. I’ll have to go and see him—try and get some idea of his movements.”

  “Miss Paget said he left before Agnes arrived. That would be before seven. She said he didn’t stay long; presumably Desmond wouldn’t agree to anything. But, of course, he might have gone away to think about it and decided to give it another try.”

  “Certainly. Anyway, I must have a word with him. It would certainly make things simpler if he really has got a strong motive—anything to do with money is so much easier to handle than all this emotional stuff!”

  “I can see that a jury would find Wendy pretty difficult to understand.”

  “Fortunately I don’t think it will come to that,” Bob said. “I took your advice and had a word with her neighbor. She had seen Mrs. Barlow go out that evening. At about a quarter to ten. As you said, she thought it was most unusual.”

  “So she would have taken the ten o’clock bus and Desmond would have been dead long before she got to the shop.”

  “That’s true. One thing bothers me, though. Why would she have taken the bus, and presumably have had to walk all the way home—the neighbor didn’t see her come back—when she could have driven in by car?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. She’s never driven after dark. She told me that Desmond would never allow her to, so now she’s too nervous to attempt it.”

  I could almost hear him groan. “Well,” he said, “I suppose it’s a good thing to have all that business with Mrs. Barlow out of the way. Mind you,” he went on, “I’m far from satisfied with her son’s story. I might stop off in Birmingham and have a word with him when I’m chasing up this Arnold man. Though that can’t be until next week—I’ve got a stack of paperwork that should have been done last month and I daren’t leave it any longer!”

  After all that it seemed simpler to have a poached egg on toast rather than attempt anything more complicated. I’d just settled down with my tray and an undemanding television program when the telephone rang. I tried to ignore it, but, of course, you never can.

  “Sheila, I’m sorry to bother you, but I had to speak to someone!” It was Wendy Barlow, sounding very agitated.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “It’s that police inspector—he’s been round here. He made me open Desmond’s desk!”

  “Yes?”

  “And he took away some papers!”

  “I’m sure he gave you a receipt for them,” I said.

  “Well, yes, he did, but that’s not the point. Desmond would have been so angry. He never used to let me even dust that desk.”

  “Desmond isn’t here anymore,” I said, rather more briskly than I would have done if my egg hadn’t been congealing and my toast getting soggy.

  “Well, of course, I know that. But even so, is he allowed to take things like that?”

  “If they’re relevant to the case.”

  “But how could they be?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure Inspector Morris will return them to you when he’s finished with them.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “He asked me for John’s address in Birmingham. Why do you think he did that? You don’t think he believes John knows anything about the business. Desmond would never tell John anything….” Her voice trailed away.

  “I expect he has to ask everyone—just routine.”

  The word seemed to satisfy her. “Well, if you think so. He wanted to give me back those stupid pamphlets, but I said I wasn’t going to take them and he should give them back to her.” I spared a moment’s sympathy for Bob Morris. “Anyway, I’ve got enough to do packing up things here.”

  “Have you had any luck with selling the house?”

  “Someone made an offer. It wasn’t the full price but I told the agent to take it—I just want to get away.”

  “And the police are all right with your going?”

  “Why wouldn’t they be? I haven’t done anything wrong. I need to go to Birmingham as soon as I can. I’m sure J
ohn isn’t getting proper meals, and he has to leave Tiger alone all day, poor little thing.”

  She seemed inclined to go on at length about these two subjects, but the mention of meals made me cut her short with vague good wishes for the future. I threw away my ruined supper and settled for a cup of hot chocolate and a piece of Victoria sponge.

  “Apologies for absence,” Denis Painton said at the beginning of the Brunswick house committee meeting the next day. “Mrs. Stanley.”

  “She wasn’t here at our last meeting either,” Anthea said.

  “That’s not at all like her. She’s always so keen, such an asset,” Muriel Mabey said. She’s one of Norma’s few fans on the committee.

  Anthea ignored her. “What’s going on?” She turned to me. “You work with her, Sheila. Do you know what’s the matter?”

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “She’s been in and out of the shop a lot lately. I expect she’s just busy.”

  “Well, it’s not good enough. We’re all busy, and if people can’t be bothered to turn up for meetings they shouldn’t be on the committee at all.”

  “She’s only missed two meetings,” Denis said mildly. “There may be some problem at home.”

  “I don’t see poor old Marcus causing any problems,” Jennifer Richards said. She, too, has had several run-ins with Norma. “No, I expect she’s taken up with all this business of getting the poor chap onto the council—hasn’t got time for Brunswick Lodge now!”

  “I still say it’s wrong that off-comers like him should be on the council at all,” Anthea said, returning to a well-worn theme. “Both of them pushing their way into everything like this. And, anyway, if you do take on these responsibilities, then the least you can do is take them seriously, not just turning up when it suits you.”

  “I don’t see why Marcus Stanley shouldn’t do perfectly well on the council,” Alan Berwick said.

  “He’s got some sound ideas about the new car park. I was having a chat with him the other day….”

  “At one of Norma’s little dinner parties, I suppose,” Anthea said.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact it was,” Alan replied stiffly. “But I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

  “I think we might get on with the meeting,” Denis raised his voice a little. “Has anyone any ideas on who we might get to conduct the sixty/forty auction next month and who will be responsible for organizing the collection of the items donated.”

  I didn’t have the time or the inclination for the next few days to bother much about Norma and the shop and the Brunswick house committee because Tris tore his leg quite badly on some wire when we were out and I was back and forth with him to the vet. He’s an old dog, and there was a worry with him about the anesthetic, but he came through quite well, just a bit dopey for a while. The main problem was trying to make him keep on the sort of lampshade affair he had to wear round his neck to stop him chewing the dressing.

  “He keeps walking backwards,” I told Rosemary when she rang to inquire for the invalid. “As if he could somehow back out of it, poor little thing.”

  “I know, Alpha was the same when he had that accident. There’s nothing you can do about it. In the end I just gave up, took the wretched thing off and left him to it!”

  “But what about the dressing?”

  “He worried at it a bit but I gave him one of those enormous chews and he concentrated on that.”

  “I hate the way they staple the wound together—it seems all wrong! Still, I’ll give it a bit longer, but I expect I’ll take it off. Foss isn’t helping—he refuses to go anywhere near Tris because of the disinfectant smell from the vet, and obviously he resents all the fuss the poor old boy is getting.”

  In the end I did decide to take off the cone-shaped collar, and I’d just got Tris settled with chews that I hoped might distract him from his dressing when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver while trying to keep an eye on Tris and answered it rather irritably.

  “I’m so sorry—is this a bad time?” Bob Morris said. “You sound a bit distracted. Only I did want to give you a piece of news before I have to go out.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, recovering myself. “What news?”

  “It’s about George Arnold. Among all the paperwork that had piled up was something from the traffic division. Apparently, he was picked up by a patrol car for driving while using his mobile phone.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “It was a few miles outside Bridgwater and it was timed at seven twenty.”

  “And Desmond was still alive then, talking to Agnes.” I thought for a moment. “I suppose he might just have turned round and gone back to Taviscombe.”

  “Unlikely. He seems to have gone on and joined the M5 on his way back to Birmingham.”

  “So you won’t have to go and see him.”

  “No, but I shall send that correspondence to the West Midlands police. It might help the inquiry.”

  “Oh well, there’s one perfectly good suspect gone,” I said. “What about John Barlow, then?”

  “Yes, I must talk to him. He hasn’t got any sort of alibi and I can’t rely on anything his mother says….”

  Tris seemed perfectly happy with his chews and did no more than sniff at the dressing the whole evening. Foss, on the other hand, prowled restlessly around the house, complaining bitterly about the unequal division of treats until pacified by a slice of the cold roast lamb I was keeping for supper.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Glad you could come to lunch,” Rosemary said. “We’ve been given a whole side of smoked salmon, and Jack and I will never get through it on our own. Anyway, I hardly ever see you now you’re at that shop, not to mention all the time you’re helping the police with their inquiries. Is everything all right with Bob Morris?”

  “Oh, we’re fine, now we’ve sort of cleared the air.” I took another sandwich. “This smoked salmon is really special. Anyway, how about you? You’re looking a bit under the weather.”

  “I’m worried about Mother. Mrs. Wilson has just died.”

  “Oh yes. I saw that in the paper last week. She was a good age.”

  “That’s the trouble, really. There aren’t many of Mother’s old friends left. Only a couple, and they’re housebound or in a home; there’s nobody left to come to tea anymore, no one to chat to about old times. She feels lonely—you know she was never one to make friends with a younger generation—so she’s got very depressed.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I go in every day, and Jilly and the children are very good, but they’ve all got such busy lives. Still, it’s a bit of a strain. Of course, we’re so lucky she’s got Elsie, though she’s well into her seventies now.”

  Elsie, usually referred to by Mrs. Dudley as her housekeeper, is much more than that—cook, cleaner, full-time caregiver and, really, a good friend.

  “Goodness, yes. She’s a marvel.”

  “Mother doesn’t seem to take an interest in anything. I got her CDs of some of the Dick Francis novels because she can’t read for very long now, but she’s hardly played them. Says she can’t manage the machine, which is nonsense—she managed it perfectly well before Mrs. Wilson died.”

  “Would it help if I went round?” I said. “I want to ask her about Edith Seaton—she was Marcus Stanley’s aunt, you know, the one who brought him up.”

  “Splendid! That should perk her up. Can you manage Monday? That’s always a gloomy day for her.”

  When I arrived at Mrs. Dudley’s, Elsie whispered to me in the hall, “She’ll be so glad to see you, Mrs. Malory. She’s been very down lately. I know you’ll cheer her up.”

  Certainly, when I went into the sitting room I was shocked to see how much frailer she looked.

  Knowing how critical she always was about my choice of flowers, I’d been in despair until I found some freesias. As I proffered them to her, she gave me one of her rare smiles and said, “Thank you, Sheila dear. I’m very fond of freesias;
I had some in my wedding bouquet.” She touched the petals gently with the tips of her fingers and handed them to Elsie with precise instructions as to which vase she should put them in.

  “Well, Sheila, it’s good of you to come and see me when I know how busy you are with that shop of yours.”

  “Actually it has been busy this last week or so,” I said. “Poor Wendy Barlow hasn’t been in, of course, and Norma—you know Norma Stanley; she’s the new manager—hasn’t spent much time in the shop either.”

  “Ah yes, poor Mrs. Barlow. I hear she’s moving away—Birmingham, isn’t it? It seems an odd sort of place to go to.”

  “Her son is at the art school there.”

  “I was surprised she felt able to make such a big move; I seem to remember she was quite a helpless little thing.”

  “Not now,” I said, and I noticed that, from being slumped in her chair as she was when I arrived, she was now sitting upright.

  “Really?” Her voice was much stronger.

  So I told her all about Wendy’s amazing transformation, and by the time Elsie came in with the coffee and cake and the freesias in their special vase, she was quite animated.

  “And you say she didn’t murder that husband of hers? Well, I’m not surprised someone did. Such an unpleasant man. I remember one of the antiquarians’ expeditions—quite local, Brakeley Court. He held forth at great length about the house and the family. I stood it for as long as I could—you know how I hate making a fuss—but eventually I had to correct his inaccurate rubbish. When he had the impertinence to contradict me, I pointed out that I had lived here all my life and was personally acquainted with the family and he, as a newcomer, was unlikely to be better informed than I was.”

  “Good for you!”

  Mrs. Dudley bowed her head in acknowledgment. “I didn’t have any more trouble with him, then or on any subsequent occasion. If that wretched little wife of his had stood up to him—but there, some people are born helpless.”

  “A bit like Marcus Stanley,” I said.

  “Marcus! What nonsense. He was christened Mark—a good Christian name. I suppose it was that wife of his who made him change it. And why? may I ask.”