Fate Worse Than Death

by Sheila Radley

  He cursed himself silently for reminding her of it. Two years before, misinterpreting his single-mindedness in pursuit of villainy, Alison had called him an unprincipled liar. He had hoped she’d forgotten that incident.

  ‘Finding out about you, when we first met, was nothing to do with my being a detective,’ he said quickly. ‘It was my natural reaction because you’re such a very attractive girl. And your father told me more about you than he might normally have done because you worried us sick by disappearing … remember? From what he told me, the man you had been living with gave you a very raw deal.’

  Alison shrugged. ‘I was young and silly, and Gavin was a pig. I lived with him because I loved him. He lived with me because I was fool enough to wash his dirty socks and cook for him. I’m not walking into that trap again.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, with me. I’m not that kind of man. I’m an excellent cook, and I send all my dirty clothes to a laundry. I want to live with you because it’s the natural extension of our relationship.’

  She looked at him coolly. ‘Well, yours is a different approach, I’ll say that. Gavin Jackson talked me into living with him by swearing that he loved me. At least you’re being more honest than he was.’

  Tait opened his mouth and closed it again, alarmed by the verbal minefield that lay ahead. He suspected that he did indeed love her; certainly he’d never before in the whole of his life felt about any girl the way he felt about Alison. He loved her and he was almost sure that he wanted to marry her: but not yet. If he talked of love, how could he avoid the subject of marriage? But if he didn’t mention love, how could he contrive to keep her in reserve for the next four or five years?

  ‘I tried to tell you how I felt about you two years ago,’ he reproached her, ‘but you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t want to know. Don’t you realise how humiliating that was? Can’t you see that I’m wary of expressing myself, this time, because I’m trying to keep a little pride …?’

  It was the corniest of tactics, he knew; but it worked. Alison was remorseful. She put her hand on his, and they moved closer. With the minefield safely negotiated, he began to talk again about the advantages – the desirability – of living together. Alison seemed to concur, though the memory of Gavin Jackson’s behaviour made her understandably hesitant.

  ‘I’m talking about a serious long-term commitment,’ Tait said, seeking to reassure her. ‘That’s what it would be on my side, anyway. On yours too, I hope?’

  She frowned. ‘Commitment? That’s not a word I expected you to use. I’d want you to be serious about it, yes, because I’d only consider living with you if I thought it would work as a long-term relationship. But living together can’t ever be any kind of commitment. If it’s commitment you’re after – and don’t mistake me; I’m not proposing to you, just trying to understand your motives – why aren’t we discussing the pros and cons of marriage?’

  God, she was like her father! That same down-to-earth attitude, that same clear insight, bluntly put. But Alison was beautiful with it. Whereas Doug Quantrill’s eyes were the sour green of little apples, his daughter’s had the soft translucence of peeled grapes. She was honest, generous, intelligent, shyly sensual – a lovely girl. And yes, Tait definitely did want to marry her. Eventually.

  He held both her hands and told her so, explaining about the problem of money. So many men, he said, married too early in their careers. He’d seen it happen to most of his friends from school and university. As long as the couple remained childless, they could live well on their combined salaries; but as soon as they started a family, the husband’s income was inadequate to maintain their standard of living, and the wife and children suffered. And he, Martin Tait, was determined not to marry until he had an income large enough to support his family in considerable comfort.

  That was what he told Alison. So far as it went, it was true. What he didn’t add was that he’d seen too many good men’s lives spoiled: all the pleasures of their young manhood, their interests, their ambitions, subordinated to mortgage repayments, pregnant wives and sticky-fingered brats. In his private opinion, that was one good reason why a lot of men tried to opt out of their marriages in middle age. Not because they were seeking to recapture their lost youth, but because they’d never given themselves the chance to enjoy it in the first place. And he intended to enjoy his youth to the full.

  ‘You do see what I mean?’ he said, deploying his arguments. ‘I very much want to settle down and have children. That’s what marriage is about, ultimately, isn’t it? But you’ve only just started your career in radio. You told me a few minutes ago how much you’re enjoying it. So what kind of a pig would you think me if I were to say, “Scrap all that, Alison. Marry me and start a family instead”? You’d tell me to shove off, wouldn’t you?’

  She retrieved her hand, pulled a blade of grass and looked at it intently. ‘I’m not sure what I’d say … I can tell you now that I wouldn’t dream of scrapping my career and starting a family immediately. But I suppose I might be prepared to discuss options … if I definitely decided to marry you, that is. And I don’t know about that. I’d need time to think it over.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ he said, breathing more freely. ‘This is what I mean about living together – it’ll give us the time we need to be sure about each other. And it’ll save money, too. We’ll both be in a much better financial position when we do begin discussing marriage.’

  She gave him another of her devastatingly level looks. ‘I shall be in a better financial position, yes. But then, I try to save something, even if it’s only a little, every month. My parents had to bring three of us up on a police constable’s pay, so I know all about being careful with money. You don’t, though, do you Martin? I imagine you spend every penny you earn. Dad told me – all right, I admit I’ve been asking about you – that it cost you over a thousand pounds to learn to fly. And now you actually own a share in an aeroplane –’

  ‘Only a twentieth!’ he revealed.

  ‘Oh. I had the impression it was more … Still, flying must be the most expensive hobby you could possibly have chosen. I know you’re getting accelerated promotion, and in a year or two you’ll outrank Dad, but if you’re not prepared to drop your standard of living I don’t see that you‘ll ever be able to afford to raise a family.’

  ‘Your father may know a lot about me,’ Tait retorted, ‘but he doesn’t know everything. As a matter of fact, I have money coming to me. A family legacy. A large one. So I don’t anticipate that money will be any problem at all, in a few years’time.’

  Alison was taken aback. ‘Sorry … I had no idea. That does make things different for you, of course. I thought you were being irresponsible, you see, and ever since Gavin I’ve tried to keep away from irresponsible men.’

  ‘Very wise of you.’ Tait gave her a forgiving kiss on the cheek. ‘I don’t usually talk about the legacy, but now we’re thinking in terms of eventual marriage it’s only right that you should know it’s there.’

  ‘Well … it’s rather a shattering thought. There’s never been enough money in my family for any legacies. I don’t even know how they work. Is it a lump sum that’s waiting for you when you reach a certain age?’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s not really as definite as that. There’s no way of knowing when I shall actually get it. It’s my Aunt Con’s money, you see. My father’s elder sister. She was lucky enough to have a rich godmother who left her a packet. Aunt Con has no children and I’m lucky enough to be her only nephew. We’ve always got along very well, and she’s generously left me everything in her will.’

  Alison frowned at him. ‘Your Aunt Con? The one you’re going to stay with in Fodderstone?’

  ‘That’s right. Mrs Constance Schultz. She sounds like a comfortably rounded middle-European, doesn’t she? In fact she’s tall and thin and unmistakably English – slightly eccentric, in a genteel sort of way. I’m very fond of her. She’s always interested me because she was the black sheep of the famil
y.

  ‘Her father – my grandfather Tait – was a respectable solicitor with a practice in Woodbridge. It seems that Aunt Con lived at home, leading a quiet dull life, until the 1940s. Then she suddenly discovered the opposite sex. Apparently the countryside was swarming with lonely servicemen of various nationalities, and Aunt Con befriended them with a bit too much enthusiasm. Woodbridge was scandalized, and the rest of the family didn’t know which way to look.

  ‘Aunt Con must have got married at some stage, but her husband disappeared years before I was born. He was never mentioned in my hearing, and I don’t know whether she’s now divorced or widowed or separated. Or whether Schultz was an American airman or a German ex-prisoner of war. The story has always intrigued me, because it seems so totally unlikely when you meet her. And I hope you will meet her, because I’m sure you’ll –’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ Alison’s frown deepened. ‘How old is your aunt?’

  ‘Just turned seventy. She must have been pushing thirty during the war, so I suppose she was trying to make up for lost time.’

  ‘Seventy’s not all that old, these days. Your aunt could easily live for another fifteen years. Twenty, perhaps.’

  ‘Have a heart!’ Martin grinned. ‘It’ll be nowhere near as long as that, with any luck.’

  Alison stiffened. Strongly as she was drawn to him, she found his preoccupation with money alien and repellent. She hadn’t realized how very much material things mattered to him, and how casually he could anticipate the early death of a relative from whom he had expectations.

  ‘With any luck?’ she protested. ‘And you claim to be fond of her –’

  ‘Who wants to live to be ninety? I’m sure Aunt Con doesn’t. I don’t wish a long and infirm old age on her – but that doesn’t mean I’m not fond of her.’

  ‘Like hell you are, Martin!’ Alison sprang to her feet, her hair swinging with vigorous indignation, her cheeks pink, the green of her eyes sharpening to emerald. ‘How can you say you’re fond of your aunt, when you’re basing your entire lifestyle on the money you anticipate getting when the poor old lady’s dead! I think that’s disgusting. No doubt you’ll make a great fuss of her while you’re staying with her, but all the time you’ll be hoping that she’ll conveniently drop dead within the next four or five years, so that you can afford to get married without giving up any of your pleasures. Well, you can leave me out of your calculations! Of all the rotten, scheming –’

  Alison stopped to draw breath. She was trembling with fury. Martin Tait stood beside her wondering what had hit him. He tried to touch her, to soothe her, to explain, to change the subject, but she was beyond reason. Two years ago she had called him an unprincipled liar; this time she called him a selfish hypocrite. Now,

  as then, she told him that she never wanted to see him again.

  Chapter Seven

  For the first time since her incarceration, Sandra Websdell had spoken kindly to her captor when he came to bring her breakfast. For the first time for days she had forced herself to eat.

  Already, buoyed up by the thought of attempting to escape, she felt a little better. To have a purpose was, in itself, she discovered, a kind of freedom.

  But she couldn’t hope to get away simply by rushing for the door when his back was turned. Unless she could disable him in some way, at least temporarily, she would have no chance of breaking free.

  She took no pleasure in the thought of causing him physical pain. She didn’t hate him, she pitied him. But that wouldn’t stop her from damaging him – if only she could think of a way to do it without using up the strength she would need for running.

  If only she could think … Her head seemed to be filled with foam rubber. She couldn’t see clearly, either. The air in the room was so hot and stale that sweat stood on her forehead and trickled down into her eyes, stinging and blinding her. And if her sight wasn’t clear, how could she hope to –?

  Eyes …

  That was it. She must blind him temporarily, go for his eyes.

  An atomizer would be just the thing to use. If only she had put a spray – hair spray, toilet-water spray – in one of her honeymoon suitcases. She rummaged in them just to make sure, but she knew she hadn’t. She had packed the cases with nothing but clothes, and had left them in advance in the rented cottage where she had intended to begin her married life. After changing her mind about getting married she had gone to the cottage to pick up the clothes; and it was then that he had come for her, tricked her, blindfolded her and brought her here, suitcases and all.

  She had no spray, then. But that was the kind of thing she needed, something that would prevent him from seeing for long enough to allow her to escape. What could she use? If only she could concentrate, if only she didn’t feel so lightheaded …

  And then the answer came to her, such a simple one that she laughed aloud with relief. She could hear her own laughter, so high and cracked that she imagined for a moment that it must come from someone else.

  Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? He would bring her the weapon she needed – he would literally hand it to her on a plate. Breakfast wouldn’t do, because that was invariably a sandwich. But in the early evening, just before six o ‘clock, he brought her a main meal of cold meat with lettuce and a tomato. And with the meal he always brought a dish of stewed plums covered by a thick yellow blanket of cold custard – a gooey, throwable custard pie …

  She imagined herself talking to him to distract his attention as she balanced the pudding dish in her hand and took aim. The ruse would work, she felt sure. As long as she flung the contents squarely in his face, she could be well away before he finished wiping the mess out of his eyes.

  In health she could run much faster than he could, she had no doubt about that. It was not knowing which way to run that bothered her – that, and the possibility that in her weakened state she might stumble or trip. She dare not dwell on what he might do if she fell and he caught up with her. He kept protesting that he would never harm her, but by abducting her he had already forfeited her trust. He was odd, unpredictable. He might do anything …

  Despite the heat Sandra felt a momentary shrinking of her flesh, a goose-pimpling presentiment that someone was walking over her grave.

  Chapter Eight

  In the kitchen of her Regency Gothic cottage on Fodderstone Green, Constance Schultz – née Tait, and known to her relatives and friends as Con – was making preparations for her nephew’s visit.

  Most of the ten cottages on the Green were owned by the Forestry Commission and occupied by its employees or pensioners. Geoff Websdell, who lived with his wife Beryl at number 8, worked as a forester. But two of the cottages were in private ownership.

  Numbers 9 and 10 had changed hands many times since the third Earl of Brandon’s estate had been broken up in the 1920s. Middle-aged summer visitors fell in love with the cottages and bought them for holidays and eventual retirement, without taking into account the hard work that would be involved in keeping up the large gardens, and without realizing what a bleak, isolated place Fodderstone Green was in the winter. Con Schultz had stuck it for longer than most – for ten years, ever since she had retired from her job as an assistant public librarian in Ipswich – but she was by preference a solitary person. She was also an enthusiastic gardener, and she had always wanted to live somewhere where she could keep bees.

  Her neighbours at number 10, Marjorie and Howard Braithwaite, had been in residence for two years. Howard, formerly the managing director of a light engineering firm in Chelmsford, spent his retirement fishing; he set off with pike rod and tackle every morning of the season for the lake in what had once been the grounds of the Hall. His wife, like Con, was a keen gardener.

  Their love of gardens was the only thing the two women had in common. Even in this, they differed. Con’s gardening was a random activity, her pretty garden not so much a creation as an assisted happening. Marjorie on the other hand, a born organizer, liked to keep everyth
ing about her well under control. The climbing roses on her walls were orderly, her lawns were frequently shaved, her borders were stiff with hotly coloured municipal bedding-plants. Any flowers that had the temerity to put in an appearance where she had not planned they should grow were ruthlessly given the chop.

  So efficient was Marjorie’s gardening that she still had plenty of energy for other projects. She had taken charge of every community activity in Fodderstone, but there were too few of them to provide sufficient scope for her abilities. With time to spare, she had turned her attention to her disorganized neighbour.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Constance?’ she demanded, marching into the kitchen of number 9 without so much as a token knock.

  Con flinched. It was, she knew, ungrateful of her to do so; her neighbour was generous and usually brought with her some small gift. The gifts were often edible, presumably because Marjorie thought that Con, who was built in the classic English gentlewoman shape with a long narrow face, long narrow hands and feet, and a body as flat as a plank, needed feeding up. This morning’s gift was a bowl of home-made muesli. Marjorie lectured both publicly and privately on the importance of dietary fibre, especially for the over-fifties, and the principal constituent of her muesli was bran.

  ‘What are you up to?’ repeated Marjorie. Con often thought that her neighbour’s frequent visits were made for the purpose of finding out what she was doing and telling her either to stop it or to do it some other way. Marjorie was not a particularly large woman, but everything about her – firm features, greying hair worn straight with a fringe, spectacles worn with a retaining chain that hung in loops on either side of her cheeks, home-made summer tent-dress, strong flat sandals – proclaimed a formidable practicality. Con found her overpowering: too loud, too inquisitive, too personal, too interfering. She wished Marjorie would leave her alone, but she was too polite to say so.