by Ruth Rendell
‘I knew him,’ said Mrs Jones distantly.
‘That’s terribly exciting.’ And the woman did look very excited. ‘I suppose you first met him when he came into the shop?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Jones and she got up. ‘But I don’t care to talk about it. It’s a very long time ago and it’s best forgotten. Good morning.’
‘Oh, but please . . . !’
Mrs Jones ignored her. She walked far more rapidly than usual, breathing heavily, along the path towards the old town. She was flustered and upset and very put out. To rake up all that now just when she was thinking of the lovely events of that time! For that day, though not, she hoped, for the future, the encounter had spoiled the seat for her.
‘Had a good day with Cottle?’ said Hugh.
‘Don’t speak to me about that man. Can you imagine it, I gave him a ring and a woman answered! She turned out to be some creature on holiday like us who was taking him to Lowestoft in her car. I could come too if I liked. No, thank you very much, I said. What about my finding the girl called Jones? I said. And he was pleased to tell me I was getting obsessional. So I gave him a piece of my mind, and that’s the last of Arnold Cottle.’
And the last of his ten pounds, thought Hugh. ‘So you went on the beach instead?’
‘I did not. While you were out in that boat I researched on my own. And most successfully, I may add. You remember that old man in Clacton, the one in the old folks’ home? Well, he was quite fit enough to see me today, and I questioned him exhaustively.’
Hugh said nothing. He could guess which of them had been exhausted.
‘Ultimately,’ said Cecily, ‘I was able to prod him into remembering. I asked him to try and recall everyone he had ever known called Jones. And at last he remembered a local policeman, Constable Jones, who got married in or around 1930. And the girl he married worked in a local chemist’s shop. How about that?’
‘You mean she was Moore’s girlfriend?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Her name was Gladys Palmer. She is now Mrs Jones. Moore was seen about with a girl in Clacton. This girl lived in Clacton and worked in a Clacton chemist’s shop. Now it’s quite evident that Moore was having a love affair with Gladys Palmer and that he persuaded her to give him the cyanide from the shop where she worked. The real evidence is that, according to all the books, that was one of the few chemist’s shops from which Moore never tried to obtain cyanide!’
‘That’s real evidence?’ said Hugh.
‘Of course it is, to anyone with any deductive powers. Gladys Palmer took fright when Moore was found guilty, so she married a policeman for protection, and the policeman’s name was Jones. Isn’t that proof?’
‘Proof of what?’
‘Don’t you ever remember anything? The barman in that Cross Keys place told us the old woman who sits on the Rupert Moore seat was a Mrs Jones.’ Cecily smiled triumphantly. ‘They are one and the same.’
‘But it’s a very common name.’
‘Maybe. But Mrs Jones had admitted it. I spoke to her this morning before I went to Clacton. She has admitted knowing Moore and that she first met him when he came into the shop. How about that? And she was very nervous and upset, I can tell you, as well she might be.’
Hugh stared at his wife. He didn’t at all like the turn things were taking. ‘Cecily, it may be so. It looks like it, but it’s no business of ours. I wish you’d leave it.’
‘Leave it! For nearly fifty years this woman had got off scot-free when she was as much guilty of the murder of Mrs Moore as Moore was, and you say leave it! It’s her guilt brings her to that seat day after day, isn’t it? Any psychologist would tell you that.’
‘She must be at least seventy. Surely she can be left in peace now?’
‘I’m afraid it’s much too late for that, Hugh. There must be an inquiry, all the facts must come out. I have written three letters, one to the Home Secretary, one to the Chief Commissioner at Scotland Yard, and a third to the author of this very incomplete book. There they are on the dressing table. Perhaps you’d like to look at them while I have my bath.
Hugh looked at them. If he were to tear them up she would only write them again. If he walked into the bathroom now and dislodged the heater from the wall and it fell into the water, and she died and it was called an accident . . . The letters would never be sent, he could have his workshop back, he could chat up pretty girls who worked in chemist’s shops and go on holiday to the Costa Brava and be free. He sighed heavily and went down to the bar to get a drink.
Thank goodness, thought Mrs Jones, that woman wasn’t anywhere to be seen this morning. The intrusion of yesterday had upset her for hours, even after Brenda arrived, but she was getting over it now. Unfortunately in a way, the weather had taken a turn for the better, and several of the seats were occupied. But not Rupert Moore. Mrs Jones sat down on it and put her shopping bag on the ground at her feet.
She was aware of the proximity of the barfly who was sitting on Lubbock (‘Elizabeth Anne Lubbock, for many years Headmistress of Northwold Girls’ High School’) and with him was a different woman, much younger than the other and very well dressed. With an effort, Mrs Jones expelled them from her mind. She looked at the calm blue sea and felt the warm and firm pressure of the oak against her back and thought about her darling. How sweet their love and companionship had been! It had endured for such a short time, and then separation and the unbearable loneliness. But she had been right to marry Mr Jones, for he had been a good husband and she the wife he wanted, and without him there would have been no Brian and no Brenda and no money to buy the house and come here every day to remember. If her darling had lived, though, and the children had been his, and if she had had him to sit beside her on his seat and be the joy of her old age . . .
‘Do forgive me,’ said a voice, ‘but I’m a local man myself, and I happened to be in Lowestoft yesterday and someone told me they’d heard you’d come back to this part of the world to live.’
Mrs Jones looked at the barfly. Was there to be no end to this kind of thing?
‘I’ve seen you on this seat and I did wonder, and when this friend in Lowestoft told me your present name, all was made plain.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Jones, gathering up her shopping bag.
‘I want you to know how greatly I admire his work. My father had some charming examples of it – all sold now, alas – and anyone can see that this seat was made by a craftsman compared with the others.’ Her stony face, her hostility, made him hesitate. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘who I think you are, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Mrs Jones crossly, another morning spoilt. ‘Arthur Sarafin was my first husband. And now I really must be on my way.’
Paintbox Place
Elderly ladies as detectives are not unknown in fiction. Avice Julian could think of two or three, the creations of celebrated authors, and no doubt there were more. It would seem that the quiet routine of an old woman’s life, her penchant for gossip and knitting and her curiosity, born of boredom, provide a suitable climate for the consideration of motive and the assessment of clues. In fiction, that is. Would it, Mrs Julian sometimes wondered, also be true in reality?
She took a personal interest. She was eighty-four years old, thin, sharp-witted, arthritic, cantankerous and intolerant. Most of her time she spent sitting in an upright chair in the bay window of her drawing room in her very large house, observing what her neighbours got up to. From the elderly ladies of mystery fiction, though, she differed in one important respect. They were spinsters, she was a widow. In fact, she had been twice married and twice widowed. Could that, she asked herself after reading a particularly apposite detective novel, be of significance? Could it affect the deductive powers and it be her spinsterhood which made Miss Marple, say, a detective of genius? Perhaps. Anthropologists say (Mrs Julian was an erudite person) that in ancient societies maidenhood was revered as having awesome and unique powers. It might be that this was true and that prolo
nged virginity, though in many respects disagreeable, only serves to enhance them. Possibly, one day, she would have an opportunity to put to the test the Aged Female Sleuth Theory. She saw enough from her window, sitting there knitting herself a twinset in dark blue two-ply. Mostly she eyed the block of houses opposite, on the other side of broad, tree-lined Abelard Avenue.
There were six of them, all joined together, all exactly the same. They all had three storeys, plate-glass windows, a bit of concrete to put the car on, a flowerbed, an outside cupboard to put parcels in and an outside cupboard to put the rubbish sack in. Mrs Julian thought that unhygienic. She had an old-fashioned dustbin, though she had to keep a black plastic bag inside it if she wanted Northway Borough Council to collect her rubbish.
The houses had been built on the site of an old mansion. There had been several such in Abelard Avenue, as well as big houses like Mrs Julian’s which were not quite mansions. Most of these had been pulled down and those which remained converted into flats. They would do that to hers when she was gone, thought Mrs Julian, those nephews and nieces and great nephews and great nieces of hers would do that. She had watched the houses opposite being built. About ten years ago it had been. She called them the paintbox houses because there was something about them that reminded her of a child’s drawing and because each had its front door painted a different colour, yellow, red, blue, lime, orange and chocolate.
‘It’s called Paragon Place,’ said Mrs Upton, her cleaner and general help, when the building was completed.
‘What a ridiculous name! Paintbox Place would be far more suitable.’
Mrs Upton ignored this as she ignored all of Avice Julian’s remarks which she regarded as ‘showing off’, affected or just plain senile. ‘They do say,’ she said, ‘that the next thing’ll be they’ll start building on that bit of waste ground next door.’
‘Waste ground?’ said Mrs Julian distantly. ‘Can you possibly mean the wood?’
‘Waste ground’ had certainly been a misnomer, though ‘wood’ was an exaggeration. It was a couple of rustic acres, more or less covered with trees of which part of one side bordered Mrs Julian’s garden, part the Great North Road, and which had its narrow frontage on Abelard Avenue. People used the path through it as a short cut from the station. At Mrs Upton’s unwelcome forebodings, Avice Julian had got up and gone to the right hand side of the bay window which overlooked the ‘wood’ and thought how disagreeable it would be to have another Paintbox Place on her back doorstep. In these days when society seemed to have gone mad, when the cost of living was frightening, when there were endless strikes and she was asked to pay 98 per cent income tax on the interest on some of her investments, it was quite possible, anything could happen.
However, no houses were built next door to Mrs Julian. It appeared that the ‘wood’, though hardly National Trust or an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, was nevertheless scheduled as ‘not for residential development’. For her lifetime, it seemed, she would look out on birch trees and green turf and small hawthorn bushes – when she was not, that is, looking out on the inhabitants of Paintbox Place, on Mr and Mrs Arnold and Mr Laindon and the Nicholsons, all young people, none of them much over forty. Their activities were of absorbing interest to Mrs Julian as she knitted away in dark blue two-ply, and a source too of disapproval and sometimes outright condemnation.
After Christmas, in the depths of the winter, when Mrs Julian was in the kitchen watching Mrs Upton peeling potatoes for lunch, Mrs Upton said: ‘You’re lucky I’m private, have you thought of that?’
This was beyond Mrs Julian’s understanding. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean it’s lucky for you I’m not one of those council home helps. They’re all coming out on strike, the lot of them coming out. They’re NUPE, see? Don’t you read your paper?’
Mrs Julian certainly did read her paper, the Daily Telegraph, which was delivered to her door each morning. She read it from cover to cover after she had had her breakfast, and she was well aware that the National Union of Public Employees was making rumbling noises and threatening to bring its members out over a pay increase. It was typical, in her view, of the age in which she found herself living. Someone or other was always on strike. But she had very little idea of how to identify the Public Employee and had hoped the threatened action would not affect her. To Mrs Upton she said as much.
‘Not affect you?’ said Mrs Upton, furiously scalping brussels sprouts. She seemed to find Mrs Julian’s innocence uproariously funny. ‘Well, there’ll be no gritters on the roads for a start and maybe you’ve noticed it’s snowing again. Gritters are NUPE. They’ll have to close the schools so there’ll be kids all over the streets. School caretakers are NUPE. No ambulances if you fall on the ice and break your leg, no hospital porters, and what’s more, no dustmen. We won’t none of us get our rubbish collected on account of dustmen are NUPE. So how about that for not affecting you?’
Mrs Julian’s dustbin, kept just inside the front gate on a concrete slab and concealed from view by a laurel bush and a cotoneaster, was not emptied that week. On the following Monday she looked out of the right hand side of the bay window and saw under the birch trees, on the frosty ground, a dozen or so black plastic sacks, apparently filled with rubbish, their tops secured with wire fasteners. There was no end to the propensities of some people for making disgusting litter, thought Mrs Julian, give them half a chance. She would telephone Northway Council, she would telephone the police. But first she would put on her squirrel coat and take her stick and go out and have a good look.
The snow had melted, the pavement was wet. A car had pulled up and a young woman in jeans and a pair of those silly boots that came up to the thighs like in a pantomime was taking two more black plastic sacks out of the back of it. Mrs Julian was on the point of telling her in no uncertain terms to remove her rubbish at once, when she caught sight of a notice stuck up under the trees. The notice was of plywood with printing on it in red chalk: Northway Council Refuse Tip. Bags This Way.
Mrs Julian went back into her house. She told Mrs Upton about the refuse tip and Mrs Upton said she already knew but hadn’t told Mrs Julian because it would only upset her.
‘You don’t know what the world’s coming to, do you?’ said Mrs Upton, opening a tin of peaches for lunch.
‘I most certainly do know,’ said Mrs Julian. ‘Anarchy. Anarchy is what it is coming to.’
Throughout the week the refuse on the tip mounted. Fortunately, the weather was very cold; as yet there was no smell. In Paintbox Place black plastic sacks of rubbish began to appear outside the cupboard doors, on the steps beside the coloured front doors, overflowing into the narrow flowerbeds. Mrs Upton came five days a week but not on Saturdays or Sundays. When the doorbell rang at ten on Saturday morning Mrs Julian answered it herself and there outside was Mr Arnold from the house with the red front door, behind him on the gravel drive a wheelbarrow containing five black plastic sacks of rubbish.
He was a good-looking, cheerful, polite man was Mr Arnold. Forty-two or three, she supposed. Sometimes she fancied she had seen a melancholy look in his eyes. No wonder, she could well understand if he was melancholic. He said good morning, and he was on his way to the tip with his rubbish and Mr Laindon’s and could he take hers too?
‘That’s very kind and thoughtful of you, Mr Arnold,’ said Mrs Julian. ‘You’ll find my bag inside the dustbin at the gate. I do appreciate it.’
‘No trouble,’ said Mr Arnold. ‘I’ll make a point of collecting your bag, shall I, while the strike lasts?’
Mrs Julian thought. A plan was forming in her mind. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Arnold. I shall be disposing of my waste by other means. Composting, burning,’ she said, ‘beating tins flat, that kind of thing. Now if everyone were to do the same . . .’
‘Ah, life’s too short for that, Mrs Julian,’ said Mr Arnold and he smiled and went off with his wheelbarrow before she could say what was on the tip of her tongue, that it was shorter
for her than for most people.
She watched him take her sack out of the dustbin and trundle his barrow up the slope and along the path between the wet black mounds. Poor man. Many an evening, when Mr Arnold was working late, she had seen the chocolate front door open and young Mr Laindon, divorced, they said, just before he came there, emerge and tap at the red front door and be admitted. Once she had seen Mrs Arnold and Mr Laindon coming back from the station together, taking the short cut through the ‘wood’. They had been enjoying each other’s company and laughing, though it had been cold and quite late, all of ten at night. And here was Mr Arnold performing kindly little services for Mr Laindon, all innocent of how he was deceived. Or perhaps he was not quite innocent, not ignorant and that accounted for his sad eyes. Perhaps he was like Othello who doted yet doubted, suspected yet strongly loved. It was all very disagreeable, thought Avice Julian, employing one of her favourite words.
She went back into the kitchen and examined the boiler, a small coke-burning furnace disused since 1963 when the late Alexander Julian had installed central heating. The chimney, she was sure, was swept, the boiler could be used again. Tins could be hammered flat and stacked temporarily in the garden shed. And – why not? – she would start a compost heap. No one should be without a compost heap at the best of times, any alternative was most wasteful.
Her neighbours might contribute to the squalor; she would not. Presently she wrapped herself up in her late husband’s Burberry and made her way down to the end of the garden. On the ‘wood’ side, in the far corner, that would be the place. Up against the fence, thought Mrs Julian. She found a bundle of stout sticks in the shed – Alexander had once grown runner beans up them – and selecting four of these, managed to drive them into the soft earth, one at each of the angles of a roughly conceived square. Next, a strip of chicken wire went round the posts to form an enclosure. She would get Mrs Upton to buy her some garotta next time she went shopping. Avice Julian knew all about making compost heaps, she and her first husband had been experts during the war.