by Diane Janes
‘Excuse me, Mr Chairman, but when a member dies, there is normally a brief obituary—’ Jean Robertson began.
‘Not in this case, I think.’ Hugh cut straight across her. ‘I’ve also had a word with Marcus Dryden. It has all been most upsetting for the Dryden family, and of course it is not at all good for their business. I am sure none of us would wish anything that happened at a Barnaby Society event to have a detrimental effect on the Dryden family and Furnival Towers. Now Mr Dryden mentioned some time ago that the displays in the Barnaby Room are getting a little tired and the magic chair itself needs re-gilding. Under the circumstances, I think it would be appropriate for the society to make a grant out of its funds.’
‘Oh, what a good idea, Mr Allonby,’ gushed Sarah Ingoldsby, as if this was the very first she had heard about it, which Fran knew instinctively it was not.
‘Hold on,’ said Tom. ‘I think we need to tread very carefully on this. Surely we shouldn’t be offering money from the society’s reserves to a private commercial undertaking?’
‘You seem to forget Mr Dod,’ boomed Ruth Winterton, who addressed any meeting as if it were a two-hundred-strong school assembly, ‘that there is a unique connection between Robert Barnaby and Furnival Towers.’
‘Which doesn’t alter the fact that Furnival Towers is a commercially run hotel.’ Tom spoke calmly and politely, but Ruth Winterton looked as outraged as if he had blasphemed in church.
‘The Dryden family have been very good to the Robert Barnaby Society over the years,’ Hugh said. ‘We have derived considerable benefit from being able to hold many of our meetings there.’
‘We also pay normal commercial rates to do so,’ Tom said. ‘The Barnaby connection is their big selling point; lots of people go and stay there because of it. I’m not sure that society money should be—’
Tom got no further. ‘I suggest we put the matter to the vote,’ said Hugh. ‘Do I have a proposer that we financially support some restorative work to the Barnaby displays and the magic chair? Thank you, Mrs Ingoldsby. Mr Lowe, will you second? All in favour of making a grant to the Furnival Towers? That’s everyone except Mr Dod and Mrs Black. Thank you, everyone.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think now might be a good time to break for tea and sandwiches.’
At the mention of food, Gareth Lowe immediately bounced out of his chair and began to gather his papers together. Fran glanced sideways at Tom. His face appeared to be slightly flushed, but it might have been the warmth of the room.
Two separate tables had been set aside in an otherwise deserted dining room for them to eat their plates of ham and tomato sandwiches. Tom, Fran, Jean Robertson and John James took one table while the other five made up the second.
‘I heard that you went to represent the society at Mrs Dexter’s funeral.’ Jean Robertson addressed Fran. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’
‘Mr Dod came as well. I’m glad we went, particularly as some people appear to be intent on expunging her from the society’s history as swiftly as possible.’
Miss Robertson lowered her voice and glanced sideways at the occupants of the other table. ‘I’m not entirely happy about there being no obituary,’ she said. ‘Whatever the circumstances, Mrs Dexter loved Robert Barnaby’s books and she was a loyal member from the very outset, but of course Mr Allonby has the society’s interests at heart and I daresay he is looking at it solely from that perspective. At the end of the day, we sometimes have to put our personal feelings aside and decide the best way for the society. That’s what the membership have elected us to do.’
‘But surely there’s no harm in putting some sort of announcement in the journal,’ said Fran. ‘Just to say that we regret her passing. Linda Dexter was quite well known among the active members and lots of them will get to hear about this, even if they weren’t actually at the conference. Complete silence just seems strange and … and disrespectful.’
‘I reluctantly have to agree with Allonby,’ John James interposed. ‘Equally, there must be lots of members who have never met Mrs Dexter and aren’t aware of what happened. Why upset them? This isn’t the sort of thing they joined the society to read about. I probably see it a bit differently to you because I never met her myself, so I don’t have to put my personal feelings aside.’
‘What I would like to know,’ Tom said, ‘is what on earth Allonby means about the poor woman being unbalanced and having funny ideas? She always seemed to be perfectly normal to me.’
‘I suspect that Mr Allonby is exaggerating a wee bit,’ said Jean. ‘He’s among the greatest living experts on Robert Barnaby and I think that sometimes makes him a bit inclined to ridicule anyone else’s interpretation of things if it differs from his own.’
‘What ideas did Linda Dexter have that differed from his?’ prompted Fran.
‘I’ve really no idea,’ said Jean Robertson. ‘Though the night before she … Well, that last evening, on her way to bed, she remarked that she would be setting some long-held assumptions on their heads. I remember the phrase because it made me think of acrobats, for some reason.’
There was a brief silence.
‘How are you finding the membership secretary’s job?’ Tom asked John James.
‘Oh, it’s not really onerous. I’ve been doing it for over six months now and I’ve managed to fit it in with my work, though I never seem to get to any society meetings – you know how it is – with clashing dates. Unfortunately I may not be able to do the job for much longer. There’s a chance that I’m going to be posted abroad and, if that happens, I’m afraid the society will have to find someone else.’
‘Oh dear.’ Miss Robertson made little noises of consternation. ‘Still, I suppose we mustn’t begrudge you an opportunity. Where might you be going?’
‘It’s all very uncertain. No point saying anything at this stage.’
Since Mr James evidently did not want to discuss the matter, Jean Robertson took the hint and, turning to Fran, asked whether she planned to attend the society’s summer picnic.
‘I expect so,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, isn’t it part of the committee’s job to organize it?’
Hugh Allonby did not allow them to linger too long over lunch. The slight awkwardness over the grant of money to Furnival Towers seemed to have been forgotten and the resumed meeting proceeded smoothly until they came to Item 8: Membership Secretary’s Report. After John James had given them the statistics, which demonstrated another small increase in membership numbers, he added, ‘I think I ought to mention formally that I may have to step down. It won’t be for another couple of months at least, but as I was telling some of you at lunchtime, it’s possible that I will be posted abroad in the near future. I thought I’d better give as much notice as possible, so that you have a chance to line someone else up for the job.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Ruth Winterton. ‘That would be a let-down. You’re so efficient and it’s so difficult to get people to do anything these days.’
John James attempted to make light of it. ‘It wasn’t hard to fill the job last time. I saw the notice in the newsletter and volunteered straight away.’
‘But you’re the exception that proves the rule,’ Gareth Lowe said. ‘We usually have to get people in an armlock, or at the very least threaten to set the Black Shadow on them.’
‘You don’t suppose that Jennifer Rumsey would agree to do it again now that she’s had a bit of a break?’ asked Fran, and sensed immediately that she had said the wrong thing.
‘Definitely not,’ said Hugh Allonby. ‘Absolutely not a chance.’
‘I think Mr James has the right idea,’ Ruth Winterton said briskly. ‘As soon as we know one way or the other, we should have Mr Finney put an appeal in the journal. Someone is sure to come forward.’
‘Let’s move on to Any Other Business,’ said Hugh.
This final section of proceedings dragged on interminably. Vivian Blakemore had seen a rare Barnaby first edition advertised for sale and wished to draw the matter to the commi
ttee’s attention, though it was unclear to what purpose. Gareth Lowe had come up with a hare-brained publicity stunt which he had to be talked out of. The suggestion of publicity initiatives sent Ruth Winterton off on a long peroration about whether anything could be done to publicize the society at events such as the Malvern Festival.
By the time they finally filed into the entrance lobby, several people were glancing at their watches and worrying about trains. Tom Dod gave Fran and Jean Robertson a lift to the station so as to avoid the worst of the rain, and as she was getting out of the car, Fran remembered that Tom had never finished telling her what it was that Marcus Dryden had said to him the night before. I can’t say anything in front of Miss Robertson, she thought. I’ll have to telephone and ask him later.
The railway journey allowed her plenty of time to contemplate not only the meeting but also whether they had really discovered anything more about what had happened to Linda Dexter. Were the police convinced that the death had been suicide? That’s what everyone seemed to be saying, but surely the police would be thinking of all the same things that she and Tom were: in fact, they probably had a lot more to go on. Of course, they wouldn’t have told Hugh Allonby, or Marcus Dryden, or Stephen-with-a-ph-Latchford what they were really thinking any more than Sergeant Godfrey, who had given nothing away when she had asked him about Linda’s death.
As soon as she opened the cottage door, she saw that there was a letter on the mat which must have come by second post. She turned it over and, not recognizing the handwriting, tore it open before she had even taken off her jacket. It was from Christina Harper, Linda Dexter’s sister, apologizing for the delay in responding to her own notes and saying that she was generally at home most afternoons, if Fran would like to confirm a time and date when she would be in Kendal again.
Twenty minutes later, Fran was asking the operator for Tom’s number. She was feeling very pleased with herself, having already penned a reply to Mrs Harper, nominating Tuesday for her visit as ‘she happened to be going into Kendal that day’ – a fib on a par with Tom’s needing to pop out of the fire exit for a cigarette. As Fran waited for Tom to pick up, Mrs Snegglington weaved round her ankles, emitting peevish mews, intended to remind her that merely putting down a dish of food was insufficient attention for a cat who has been left alone to amuse herself all day.
‘Connecting your call,’ came the voice of the operator.
Another, different voice said, ‘Hello?’
It was a young woman’s voice. Refined. Not like a servant’s. Fran waited for one anguished second before cutting off the call. She replaced the receiver and walked into the middle of the room, where she could see her oddly pale reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The cat trotted after her and jumped on to the back of the sofa, watching Fran expectantly.
A moment or two later, when the telephone rang, she retraced her steps and answered it automatically. This time it was Tom’s voice. ‘Hello? Is that Fran? Did you just try to ring a minute ago? I checked with the operator and recognized your number. Were you cut off?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Not cut off, no. I put the phone down when a woman answered. I was expecting you and thought I’d got a wrong number.’
‘It was my wife, Veronica,’ he said, perfectly oblivious to the sound of cracking ice at the other end of the line as Fran fell right to the bottom of a very deep pool.
THIRTEEN
Fran had forgotten, until she plumbed the recesses of the pantry, that they had finished off the gin during Mo’s last visit, but she found a bottle of red wine gathering dust at the back of the shelf and decided that would have to do. It was not as if she held dinner parties any more. The cork began to disintegrate before she had the corkscrew more than halfway into it. Michael had always been the one who opened the wine. It was traditionally a job for the man of the house (assuming one wasn’t well-heeled enough to have a butler) and although she told herself that there was no reason why a woman should not do it, lack of experience left her making a total pig’s breakfast of the whole operation, so that when she finally managed to draw the corkscrew towards her, the upper half of the cork came out in bits while the lower remained firmly in situ. It had turned into such a performance that she had almost lost interest in the idea of a drink but, determined not to be beaten, she made another couple of failed attempts with the corkscrew before resorting to the potato peeler to dig out the rest.
After that, she investigated the cold supper left by Ada, discovering bread and butter, curling at the edges, some slices of cheese and an accompaniment of pickled cabbage (Ada’s ideas of catering sometimes left a lot to be desired). Deciding that she was not hungry after all, she replaced the plate under its cover of greaseproof paper and took her glass of hard-won wine back to the sitting room, which seemed emptier now that it was warm enough not to need a fire in the evenings.
Here she sat brooding on her own foolishness. Or maybe it was mere naivety? It had been foolish, yes, to assume that Tom Dod was a bachelor. Had she been wrong in imagining that the attraction on her part was mutually felt? If not, then he must have been anticipating that they would have an affair. Put bluntly like that, it sounded sordid. She did not want to start a cheating game, like the one to which she herself had fallen victim. But then again, perhaps the sense that her feelings had been reciprocated had been mere wishful thinking?
The wine was a source of comfort, in spite of the need to fish out an occasional fleck of cork. Mrs Snegglington insinuated herself on to Fran’s lap and began to purr, occasionally kneading with her claws or shifting into a more satisfactory position.
‘You’re right, Sneggers,’ Fran said. ‘We must stop being maudlin and focus on the matter in hand.’ And I must stop talking to the cat, she added inwardly.
The papers from the meeting were within easy reach where she had tossed them down on the table and with her free hand she began to draw abstract doodles on the back of the agenda, mixed in with occasional questions. What were Linda’s ‘differing’ ideas? Is there some other motive? Why did Jennifer Rumsey stand down as membership sec? Eventually she tipped the cat on to the rug and took her glass through to the kitchen for a refill. On her return, she spotted the card from Linda Dexter’s funeral, still propped on the mantelpiece. It was easy to conjure up an image of Linda: a petite woman with bobbed blonde hair, grey eyes and an ordinary-looking face – nothing remarkable. Someone you might pass in the street without a second glance.
‘You know, I’m carrying on with this for your sake,’ she said aloud. Oh dear, now she was talking to imaginary dead people as well.
She switched on the wireless and tuned it to a programme of dance music, turning it up loud enough for a party; no neighbours here to come knocking on the door. Mrs Snegglington stalked out, flicking her tail a couple of times to indicate her displeasure as she headed upstairs to lie on the bed. One of the great things about living alone is the opportunity it affords for unrestrained dancing around the hearth rug while getting all the lyrics wrong. Fran was midway through muddling the words of ‘Has Anybody Seen My Girl’ when the doorbell sounded a long, insistent note, just as if the neighbours had come round to complain.
Fran stopped dead in her tracks, then stepped across to the open doorway, from whence she could see the front door. It was only just after nine and still daylight, but no one ever came in the evenings except by prior arrangement. Perhaps it was someone whose car had broken down. You could see the cottage rooftop from the main road. If she peered through the front window, whoever was standing at the door would be able to see her. The Palmer Dance Band continued to belt out ‘Has Anybody Seen My Girl’ but she hardly noticed. The bell shrilled again. Her persistent caller was keeping a finger on the button for what seemed like forever. She reached over and turned down the wireless a couple of degrees, then approached the front door. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘It’s Stephen Latchford. I’ve got something here that will interest you.’
Although he couldn�
��t see her, she felt exposed. ‘You can’t come in. I … I’m just about to have a bath.’
‘It sounds more like you’re having a party.’ Although it was delivered as a joke, there was a challenging note in his voice.
‘I have it on loud so that I can hear it while I’m upstairs in the bath.’ Dammit, dammit. He would not be able to hear any water running, instantly giving lie to her excuse. No, wait, wouldn’t the music drown the water out?
‘Shall I come back in half an hour?’
‘No, it’s bath night. You’ll have to come another time. It would be much better if you telephoned first to say you are coming, and avoid having a wasted journey.’
There was a moment or two of silence. She was just thinking he had gone when his voice came again. ‘Very well. I’ll come back when it’s more convenient.’ He sounded unmistakeably annoyed.
She stepped back from the door and collided with the small table where she had put her glass of wine down a moment or two before. It crashed on to the stone floor, splintering in all directions and sending splashes of red wine up the wall like blood at a crime scene.
‘Is everything all right in there?’
‘Yes.’ She faltered. ‘I just dropped a bottle of bath salts. Everything’s fine.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need any help?’
‘Of course not, I’m absolutely fine. You’ll have to excuse me; I have to clear this up.’
She backed away from the door, doing her best to avoid treading in the mess on the floor, then ran softly up the stairs, sidestepping across her bedroom until she could see out of the window while standing far enough back to be out of sight in the room, which was in shadow now that the sun had sunk below the treeline. She was just in time to see him reach his car. He got inside, but he didn’t put on the lights or start the engine. What the hell was he doing? Why didn’t he go away?
Surely he couldn’t see her watching him? She shrank further back into the room, just in case. The floorboards seemed to be vibrating to the beat of the dance band – or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. ‘Just go,’ she whispered. ‘Just go away.’