The Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘Power of attorney? I believe that means going through the courts.’

  ‘Yes. Unless Montague agrees to sign such a form before he becomes too . . . too confused to understand the meaning of it, we may well find ourselves in difficulties. I am looking for advice, Mr Anders, as I am rather in the dark, so to speak. If this particular problem is not part of your brief then I shall make another appointment and speak to Mr Desmond. He has always dealt with the Pennington affairs.’

  Although Steven felt completely out of his depth, he was not prepared to admit it. ‘I find it quite straightforward,’ he replied with what he hoped was a confident smile. ‘I assume you have spoken to other members of the family as well as your husband. Are they in agreement with your assessment of Montague Pennington’s state of mind?’

  Mrs Pennington explained that she had spoken to Dilys Maynard who agreed with her, and to Albert who was reluctant to discuss the problem. ‘The responsibility seems to rest on my slim shoulders,’ she told him.

  Steven nodded. ‘How does your brother manage on his own? Does he have staff who could also corroborate your diagnosis? A housekeeper or . . . a housemaid?’ He wanted to hear mention of young Miss Letts.

  ‘A housekeeper? Strange you should ask that. Until recently my brother-in-law had a housekeeper, a Miss Dutton, who seemed to be a little too friendly, if you take my meaning, Mr Anders. He relied on her too much, in my opinion, and she tended to discourage us from visiting him. I never did quite trust her.’

  ‘Hmm. A difficult situation.’

  ‘It has been known for an elderly man to become . . . ensnared by his housekeeper.’ She clutched her beads. ‘To marry them, even. They become so dependent on them they imagine . . .’ She threw up her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘These things do happen, of course.’ Did they? He was surprised.

  ‘Fortunately Miss Dutton left abruptly and now we have to find a replacement but in the meantime there’s a young housemaid by the name of Daisy. She will recently have found him confused, I know. That is,’ she corrected herself hastily, ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure she will have noticed his general deterioration. By all means ask her, Mr Anders. I spoke to my brother recently on the telephone and he passed on the most amazingly garbled message to the housemaid. Almost every detail was wrong! Goodness knows what she thought.’

  ‘Could that be just his memory? Elderly people can get forgetful without being senile.’

  ‘Who can tell?’

  Steven decided that he now had an excuse to get in contact with Daisy Letts. Mrs Pennington had given her permission, in so many words. If she ever queried it, he would explain that he obviously misunderstood her. Maybe he and Daisy could meet in a nearby tea shop during his midday break. His excitement grew as he considered the possibilities. He could tell her he needed confirmation of Mrs Pennington’s suspicions. But the nagging question was – did she already have a young man? That would be a fly in the ointment and no mistake.

  To give himself a chance to think, he pretended to write in the folder although in fact he had placed a separate sheet in the folder for rough notes and would write a better report later.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Mr Anders?’

  He glanced up guiltily and nodded.

  ‘I am telling you about the advice I was given by his doctor,’ she insisted. ‘He seemed very perturbed when I explained the situation. Without professional advice I really do not know how to proceed. Should I insist that the doctor attends, maybe with a colleague? Where does one start in a case like this?’

  ‘Hmm. It’s difficult, I agree.’

  ‘I simply want to do what is best for him. I’m not asking that he be committed or anything drastic, but nor do I want him to mismanage large sums of family money. I have no wish to look back in a year’s time and see that I could have helped prevent a financial catastrophe. You can surely understand my very natural concerns.’

  Steven wrote again then laid down the pen. ‘I suggest that I present my notes to Mr Desmond and he in turn will take the matter further. Be assured we will be in touch again.’ He paused and then smiled giving his client a chance to recognize that, in his opinion, the meeting was at an end. Mrs Pennington rose to her feet with some reluctance.

  At the door she hesitated. ‘And these notes you have made will remain confidential, Mr Anders.’

  ‘Certainly they will – except for Mr Desmond who obviously will see them on his return.’

  The secretary saw her out and Steven was left with a broad smile on his face. It did rather feel as though a kind fate was acting on his behalf. ‘Everything comes to those who wait!’ he whispered as he returned to the desk to study his notes.

  On Saturday, with some trepidation, Daisy served the midday meal, certain that Dilys would find fault with it. She had reheated some stew from the previous day and added dumplings to make it enough for three. The cabbage was a little soggy and the potatoes slightly underdone but to Daisy’s surprise and relief, Dilys ate hers without complaint. Monty gave her a wink and she felt she had survived the first hurdle.

  ‘There is no pudding, I’m afraid,’ she said apologetically but Dilys brushed aside the apology.

  ‘Tomorrow I shall cook for us,’ she announced. ‘I like cooking but it is soul destroying for one. I shall cook fish pie so I will tell you, Daisy, what to order from the fish man and you can telephone it through later. My mother used to adore fish pie. Do you remember, Montague? I always cooked it when she came to visit. The only problem is the bones and I always took the time to remove them.’ She smiled at Daisy. ‘I’ll teach you how to make it. Add it to your repertoire.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pennington.’ Daisy was genuinely pleased. If Dilys taught her a few more recipes, she, Daisy, could soon become a reasonable cook which would help her career.

  No one had so far mentioned the previous night which passed without incident. Dilys had slept with her door ajar, insisting that Daisy did the same so that in case of an intruder, they could each contact the other by shouting and ringing the bedside bells. By agreement, Daisy and Monty had agreed not to talk about the dangers that Dilys feared.

  Now, however, Dilys raised the matter herself. ‘I shall go down to the police station,’ she told them,’ to see what progress they have made but first I shall speak to Hettie and satisfy myself that they have suffered no harm from this wretched man – and tell her that we have survived the night here.’

  ‘The police may have caught him already,’ Daisy suggested hopefully. ‘He may already be locked up.’

  ‘Most unlikely. I don’t think they are treating the matter seriously. To them it is just another burglary.’

  ‘But they were going to investigate and maybe they found a footprint. It’s amazing what they can learn from the sole of a shoe.’

  ‘But dozens of men would be wearing the same shoes, Daisy. Maybe hundreds. I’m afraid I’m not impressed by their claims or the suggestion that the theft was random. I know better. I understand that our family is being marked out for attention by this dreadful man, for reasons that escape me. He knew my name!’ Querulously her voice rose a little. ‘He called me Dilys! No one seems to believe me but I heard it quite clearly in the soup kitchen. Not missus, but Dilys. Certainly the wretch is not normal. I think this is the beginning of harassment but the police give the idea no credence. They insist the intrusions are random but . . . first Albert and Hettie and now me.’ She looked at her brother. ‘I hope you are not next, Montague. I don’t mean to frighten you but we must be on our guard here.’

  ‘Well, safety in numbers, eh?’ Monty smiled nervously.

  Daisy wished that Dilys would drop the subject – but suppose she was right. Maybe the Penningtons were being sought out for some reason.

  Dilys sighed. ‘We must all be particularly careful. Admit no one to the house – no stranger, that is. And we must ask Len to keep an eye open in the garden for any trespassers.’

  Despite her determination not
to be scared, Daisy rose to clear the table with growing trepidation. There was some truth in what Dilys said about the family and it might be that Monty was next on the list for aggravation from this man.

  Later in the morning a police sergeant visited them to inform them of the latest developments. The small clock had been recovered from a pawnbroker in the town and they had a description of the man who had brought it in. Tall, thin and shabby. A trawl of neighbours had produced a man who, while walking his dog on three separate occasions, noticed a man who seemed to be watching the house. He also fitted the description, the sergeant told them, and they were keeping a lookout for him.

  Monty, Daisy and Dilys received this news with gratitude and the mood in the house lightened considerably.

  Meanwhile Constable Cresswell waited patiently in the incident room as his sergeant thought about the break-in at Dilys Maynard’s home.

  ‘So there were footprints, Cresswell?’

  ‘Yes sir, and they’ve taken a cast.’

  ‘But that won’t help until we have a suspect and can compare shoe soles.’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Still it’s better than nothing.’

  The constable nodded and the sergeant skipped through the thin file for the second time.

  At last the sergeant said, ‘So now we reckon this chap’s got it in for the whole family?’

  Constable Cresswell shrugged. ‘So they reckon. Because of the trespasser at the brother’s place.’

  ‘Namely Albert Pennington.’

  ‘That’s about it, sir.’

  ‘And they all claim they have no enemies. No idea who this can be?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. They must be lying. They’re hiding something.’

  ‘Yes sir. But we’ve asked the neighbours. It’s all in my report.’

  ‘Then what do you think we should do next, Cresswell?’

  ‘Widen the search, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. Who else might know something? Maybe something in the long distant past. A long-held grudge. Who has known them for a long time? Anyone?’

  ‘There was a housekeeper, sir, but she left not long ago. A Miss Dutton – or Button. Something like that.’

  The sergeant’s expression changed. ‘Sacked? See, that could be the motive! People have long memories and as long as they get revenge they don’t care how long they wait for it.’

  The constable scratched his head. ‘You’re not saying it was the housekeeper, sir?’

  ‘Of course I’m not, you idiot! I’m saying she might remember someone who was sacked and now has a grudge against the family.’

  ‘The housemaid said she left to look after her mother who was very ill. Just upped and left.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes sir. But we can find her.’

  The sergeant’s hopes lifted again. ‘If she’d been there for a long time she might know more than the rest are saying! Get after her, Cresswell. Find her and grill her to within an inch of her life!’ They both grinned. ‘It may be a dead end but at this moment this Miss Dutton is all we’ve got!’

  Dilys and Monty were in the summer house when the telephone rang later that afternoon and Daisy hurried from the kitchen to answer it. She now considered herself an experienced hand with the machine and answered crisply. ‘Montague Pennington’s house. Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is Steven Anders from Marsh & Desmond, the—’

  ‘The solicitors!’ Daisy could hardly believe what was happening. That nice Mr Anders was telephoning them! For a moment she could hardly speak.

  He said cautiously, ‘Is that Miss Letts?’

  ‘It is!’

  She assumed he needed to talk to Monty or Dilys but he went on, ‘I have a confession to make, Miss Letts. You gave me a sample of your signature but I accidentally spilt tea over it and I don’t want to look a fool in front of my partners. I was wondering—’

  ‘If I could call in and give you another one? I could.’ She cheered silently. ‘It would be no trouble, Mr Anders. None at all. When should I come in? I’ll have to ask . . .’

  ‘Well, the thing is, I’m going past Mr Pennington’s house this evening and I could bring the form with me. It would only take a moment.’

  This very evening! Daisy’s face was one large smile. She was going to see him again. Struggling to maintain some sort of calm she asked what time he was likely to be passing.

  ‘Around six thirty? Would that be acceptable, Miss Letts? Do you need to ask permission from your employer? I don’t want you to get into any trouble.’

  ‘I won’t. Mr Pennington will understand. I shall be . . . that is, I look forward to seeing you.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure, Miss Letts.’

  ‘Oh!’ She could hardly breathe. Was he just being polite?

  He said, ‘A real pleasure.’

  Daisy searched for the right reply. If she was misunderstanding any of this, she must not give herself away, but if he was trying to tell her something – that, perhaps, he had taken a fancy to her – then she must encourage him. The silence lengthened as she sought a suitable reply.

  ‘Miss Letts?’

  ‘Yes. I mean . . . yes, it will be a pleasure for me, too!’ She crossed her fingers in case she had gone too far. He might be laughing at her. Could he be leading her on? Her smile faded.

  ‘Then I’ll see you at six thirty, Miss Letts. Goodbye for now.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver but remained staring vacantly towards the front door. What was she supposed to think now? He might just be making fun of her – raising her hopes only to dash them! Would he even turn up at half past six? If he didn’t she thought she might die of disappointment. Briefly she closed her eyes, uttering a prayer that she would survive.

  ‘Trust him, Daisy!’ she told herself in a whisper. ‘He’s a nice man. He wouldn’t . . .’ She couldn’t even put the thought into words.

  Footsteps sounded behind her and a voice startled her. She spun round to discover that Dilys had come in from the garden and was standing a few feet away from her.

  ‘Are you ill, Daisy?’

  ‘No. I was answering the telephone.’ She explained about the signature and Dilys frowned.

  ‘I thought it was Mr Desmond who dealt with our family’s business. This Mr Anders – who is he exactly?’

  ‘He’s only been there a few months so you may not have met him. He was only standing in for Mr Desmond because he’d gone to the dentist. He’s awfully nice.’ Immediately she wished the last few words unsaid.

  As she expected, Dilys pounced. ‘“Awfully” is not the word you want to use there, Daisy. Very nice is better. And how would you know how nice he is? I hope you are not getting any foolish ideas, Daisy. Remember your place. You are only a housemaid. Mr Anders—’

  ‘At the moment I’m a trainee housekeeper,’ she protested. ‘Mr Pennington says . . .’

  ‘Don’t interrupt your betters, Daisy! You’ll never be a housekeeper with manners like that! As I was saying, this Mr Anders is obviously a well-educated man with a career ahead of him and if he is showing any interest in you, he will certainly have no serious intentions where you are concerned. Apart from which my brother obviously does not wish you to encourage followers. So please do not encourage Mr Anders.’

  ‘I wasn’t . . . I mean, I won’t.’ What do I mean, she wondered, thoroughly confused. It had seemed that he was encouraging her.

  ‘When he calls,’ Dilys went on, ‘take him into the sitting room to do the signature and I will come in with you. That way he is unlikely to attempt any unseemly flattery or nonsense of that sort.’

  ‘There’s no need, ma’am.’

  ‘I feel there is.’ She sighed. ‘We really must get Montague a new housekeeper.’

  ‘But I can learn and—’

  ‘I’m not blaming you, Daisy. You are doing your best in difficult circumstances. It is a housekeeper’s job to keep an eye on the housemaids and ther
e is no one to guide you. Poor Montague is somewhat out of his depth – in more ways than one. My sister-in-law is extremely worried about him. She thinks he needs help with . . . certain family matters.’

  ‘I think he’s coping very well.’

  Dilys raised her eyebrows. ‘I haven’t asked for your opinion, Daisy. Do pay attention to the advice I give you since Miss Dutton is no longer here to supervise you.’

  As she swept out of the room Daisy stuck out her tongue and began counting the days until Monty’s sister would feel able to return to her own house.

  That same afternoon PC Cresswell arrived at Emily Dutton’s cottage. It was small and the neat parlour in which they sat was what estate agents liked to call ‘compact’. It was also dark because a large oak tree outside hid the sun and it smelled of cats. PC Cresswell forced a smile. He sat uncomfortably in a wing-backed chair that creaked ominously whenever he moved, and to complete his discomfort, the trailing leaves of a tradescantia in a pot on the mantelpiece to his right dangled close to his face, which he found irritating.

  The old lady, introduced as Emily Dutton, sat in a rocking chair surrounded by cushions, her nightwear discreetly hidden by a blanket which was well tucked in around her. She was working at something white that the policeman took to be crochet. Probably cuffs, he thought irritably. His grandmother had always been embroidering tablecloths. Why did elderly people always have to pretend they were busy, he wondered, as he pulled a notebook from his pocket and found a clean page for his notes.

  Emily Dutton’s daughter, whose name was apparently Edie, balanced her comfortable body on a small stool, with her hands clasped in her lap, and the constable was reminded of a childhood illustration of Little Miss Muffet awaiting the arrival of the spider.

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Dutton, in answer to the constable’s first question, ‘I wasn’t there when Monty’s wife was alive because I suppose she ran the house but when she died he advertised for a housekeeper and I got the job.’