‘How is Kathleen?’ he asked.
‘Not so good, I’m afraid.’
‘What does Mrs Prescot say it was?’
‘A heart attack. And a pretty massive one, it seems. Thank God the tenant found her when he did. As it is she’s in a pretty bad way.’
‘Oh, God,’ Hal groaned. ‘Do they think she’ll recover?’
Rowan shrugged. ‘Who knows. If she does her life from now on will be very different; very limited. Oh, it’s so sad. And the way Mrs Prescot would talk of her she always seemed such a healthy woman.’
‘And how is she—Mrs Prescot?’
‘Very upset—very shaken, naturally.’ She paused. ‘She won’t be coming back here now, of course.’
‘No . . .’ Hal had realized that when he’d taken Mrs Prescot to the station early that morning, soon after she’d got the news. He had known then that she was leaving Moorstone for good. Now, with her telephone call she had only confirmed his belief.
After a few more minutes, during which they discussed Kathleen’s illness and its ramifications, Rowan said: ‘And as for us—well, it only gets things moving a bit faster, doesn’t it? I mean, we knew she’d be leaving sometime. It’s just happened a lot sooner and more suddenly than we’d expected.’ She shrugged. ‘But I daresay we shall manage perfectly well on our own.’
‘No.’ Hal shook his head. ‘Be sensible now. We can afford some help around the house, so why not have it? There’s a lot to do around here and if you try to do it all on your own you’ll never do anything else. What about your own writing? Your stories? I thought you were keen to get back to that.’
‘I am.’
‘Good. Then in that case you must have help. Particularly at a time like this when we’re still finding our way and getting things the way we want them.’
‘But—I just don’t know that I want any—stranger here—not after Mrs Prescot.’
‘Oh, I know what you mean, all right. That’s the way I feel. But—well, it’s either we do or you make a career of housework.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
He nodded. ‘Good. That’s settled then. We’ll start looking around for someone.—Not to live in, but just to come in part-time. That would be best, wouldn’t it?—Three or four days a week—like Tom Freeman . . .’
‘Yes, that would be fine.’
He was silent for a moment then said, ‘I suppose we could put an ad in one of the papers.’
‘Mmm . . .’ Rowan nodded doubtfully, then: ‘What about Paul Cassen’s friend—Mrs Palfrey? I did promise we’d give her consideration before anybody else . . .’
Hal wasn’t enthusiastic. ‘By the way you described her,’ he said, ‘she doesn’t strike me as being the most . . . suitable. We don’t want someone who’s going to be more of a liability than a help.’
Rowan nodded agreement. ‘True . . . though Paul did say that she was very capable.’
Before Hal could say anything to this there was a ring at the doorbell. He went into the hall, opened the door and saw Paul Cassen standing there.
‘Am I calling at a bad time?’ Cassen said. He eyed Hal keenly. ‘I’ve just been to see one of your neighbours and I thought I’d drop in on you for a minute before I go home.’
‘You called at a very good time.’ Hal stood back, opening the door wider. ‘We’re just having a drink. Come and join us.’
‘Are you sure it’s not inconvenient?’
‘Of course not.’
He led Cassen into the sitting room, where he called out to Rowan that they had a guest and then poured the doctor a vodka and tonic. Rowan entered carrying their own drinks. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Cassen said to her. ‘I have to get back for dinner soon.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Rowan said, ‘we had just that minute mentioned your name . . .’
‘Oh . . . ?’
‘We were discussing your friend Mrs Palfrey.’ She paused; sighed. ‘Our Mrs Prescot’s gone back to London.’
Cassen frowned. After a moment he said, ‘When did that happen?’
‘This morning. Hal drove her into Exeter and she got the train.’
Another pause before Cassen spoke again. ‘Is—is she all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course—she’s fine. Why shouldn’t she be? Her sister isn’t, though. She’s been taken ill with a heart attack. Quite a severe one.’
‘Oh, dear, how sad.’ Cassen gave a shake of his head. ‘When was that—that her sister was taken ill?’
‘Last night, so it would appear. She wasn’t found till this morning. One of her tenants found her and phoned Mrs Prescot here . . .’
‘And it’s serious, you say . . .’
‘Yes.’ Rowan gave a shrug. ‘So—Mrs Prescot’s gone back to be with her—and take care of her.’
‘So she won’t be coming back . . .’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She sighed. ‘We shall really miss her.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Cassen paused for a moment, then said: ‘And were you thinking of giving Mrs Palfrey a try—now that Mrs Prescot’s gone?’
Rowan glanced briefly at Hal before she answered. ‘Well, actually, Hal’s not too keen on the idea . . . We were thinking of advertising . . .’
‘I see.’ Cassen nodded. Then, turning to Hal, he said, ‘May I ask why, Hal—why you’re not too keen?’
Hal shrugged. ‘I’m only judging on what Ro’s told me,’ he said awkwardly. ‘And going by that I just—have doubts that Mrs Palfrey’s the right one. I mean going by her description she seems to be a bit on the—the frail side . . .’
‘Oh, she’s not frail,’ Cassen said. ‘She might look it, but she’s not. She’s a wiry little thing—and very capable. Why don’t you give her a try? See how it works out . . . ?’
‘Are you getting a commission?’ Hal asked with a grin.
‘A commission—?’
‘Well, you’ve already supplied us with our gardener—and now it’s the domestic help.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re getting a cut of their salaries, aren’t you?’
Cassen laughed along with him. ‘So you’ve guessed! No, but seriously, I’m only trying to give a deserving woman a helping hand—and help you two at the same time. You need someone, and she’s a very sweet lady who needs a job—and, further, would be an asset.’
‘She gets her pension, doesn’t she?’ Hal asked.
‘Oh, yes, of course. But she doesn’t like to just sit back. She thrives on keeping busy.’ He paused. ‘Think about it—why don’t you?’
Rowan looked over at Hal. ‘What do you think . . . ?’
Before Hal could reply, Cassen said, ‘I should also say that she’s most reliable—and completely trustworthy.’
‘Isn’t everyone in Moorstone?’ Hal said, smiling. Then he shrugged and turned to Rowan. ‘Well . . . I’ll leave it to you, Ro.’
She looked from one man to the other. ‘I suppose we could give it a try, couldn’t we? See how she works out . . . ?’
Cassen smiled his satisfaction. ‘Good, good. I’m so pleased. I’m sure you’ll both be very glad. Shall I mention it to her, then?’
Rowan nodded. ‘Yes, why not?’ Then she added, ‘Of course, she might decide she doesn’t want to come and work for us.’
Cassen brushed this idea aside with a wave of his hand. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell her to get in touch with you. When—Monday morning?’
‘Might as well,’ Rowan said. ‘We don’t plan on going anywhere.’
‘Fine.’
With the business of Mrs Palfrey settled for the moment, the talk moved on to other things. Cassen, looking around him, said how attractive the room was looking, and how well their own furniture co-ordinated with the old pieces they’d taken along with the house. After that he went on to ask Hal how the new novel was progressing. Hal, lying, replied that it was going well. . . .
‘Have you met our other resident writer?’ Cassen asked.
‘Edith Carroll? No, not yet. Rowan mention
ed her to me.’
‘I haven’t met her, though,’ Rowan said quickly. ‘I just happened to bump into her secretary—Alison Lucas. She told me a little about her.’
Cassen nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I know Alison. A very nice girl. Of course,’ he went on, turning back to Hal, ‘Edith Carroll doesn’t write the kind of things you write. And I don’t think she writes nearly as quickly as you do, either. From what I gather, it takes her two or three years to do a book. And she’s getting on a bit now, so she’s slower than she was.’
‘I must read something of hers,’ Hal said. ‘I’ll see what there is in the library.’
‘You should,’ Cassen said. ‘She writes well.’
‘Moorstone seems to hold an attraction for writers,’ Hal said.
‘No . . .’ Cassen shook his head. ‘It attracts all kinds—people in all kinds of professions.’ He grinned. ‘Even accountants aren’t immune.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rowan asked.
‘That’s what I was—when I first came here.’
‘Oh, really? And how was that? How did you come here?’
‘I was on a motoring holiday. I’d just intended to take a break for a few days—to get away on my own. Like you two I was based in London.’ He smiled. ‘And—I just—came across the village.’
‘And how did you come to stay here?’
He was silent for a moment, as if looking back into the past. ‘As I remember, I started off by deciding to stay on for a few weeks. I had some leave owing to me—and with the relationship I had going with my wife there was nothing in London I felt like hurrying back for. And I really liked this place. I loved it—and it seemed to me to be the perfect spot for getting away from it all.’ He grinned. ‘Sounds corny, doesn’t it? But I was very dissatisfied and mixed up about my life, I can tell you. Apart from my marriage being a disaster I was also very unhappy with my job. I didn’t know what to do about anything. Anyway, one day when I was in the bar at The Swan—I had a room there—I got talking to one of the locals—a doctor—John Richmond. He told me that his assistant had recently left—and the next thing he was offering me the job. It wasn’t much of one, I’ll admit—just doing his bookkeeping and bits of clerical work—answering the phone and so on. But I was glad of it; I jumped at it. Because—well, I wanted to stay on for a while.’
‘And so that was it,’ Hal said.
‘That was it.’ Cassen nodded. ‘I left The Swan and took a room at Dr Richmond’s house.’
‘Does he still live here?’ Rowan asked.
‘No—I’m afraid he’s dead now. He died only a few weeks after I moved in.’ Cassen looked thoughtfully into the distance. ‘He was the most fantastic person. And like a father to me.’ He paused. ‘Can you imagine?—I’d only known him a little while, but when he died I found that he’d left me everything. Everything he had.’
‘My God,’ Rowan breathed, ‘that’s incredible.’
‘Isn’t it? And it was that that enabled me to take up medicine. It was his money and it was his influence—of course. And I was young enough. And I studied hard—and when I qualified I came back here. I was divorced from Marianne by then—and I married Sandra. Sandra lived in the village. She was one of the reasons I came back here—apart from loving the place—and feeling that I owed it something.’ He smiled. ‘So there you have it. And Moorstone really is my home now.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘And now it’s your home too. And believe me, it’s a good place to be.’
‘That’s what I feel,’ Rowan said. ‘I’ve felt it all along.’
Cassen nodded. ‘It’s the way nearly everyone feels. Even those who’ve lived here and then have to leave for some reason or other. I know I felt like that when I went away to study. I couldn’t wait to get back. And other people—they go away for years and years—but they always return, it seems—always. At least they always intend to. Like Childs, for example. He’d always planned to return.’
‘The previous owner of this house,’ Rowan said.
Cassen smiled. ‘There’s only one Lewis Childs.’
‘I’ve been wondering about him,’ Hal said. ‘I think I’ve heard about him in some other connection—apart from his having been the owner of this place.’
‘You might well have done,’ said Cassen. ‘He’s made the newspapers on a few occasions.’
‘That’s right.’ Hal nodded. ‘That’s why his name rang a bell when we bought this house. I must have read something about him.’
Rowan, shaking her head, said, ‘How could someone own a place like this—this house—and then sell it? I couldn’t.’
‘Oh, he never did live in this house,’ Cassen answered. ‘This house was left to him by one of the villagers. He’s got his own place in the village—though he hasn’t set foot in the place for ages.’
‘It’s coming back to me now,’ Hal said thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t he one of the—jet-setting crowd?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes . . . It’s hard to imagine him being associated with this place—as coming from this little village. He’s something of a playboy, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose you’d call him something of an adventurer.’ Cassen shook his head. ‘Though with all his wild and wonderful experiences and his endless travelling around he always kept his house ready for his return. He always intended to come back some day.’
‘You’re talking of him now in the past tense,’ Rowan said. ‘Has he changed his mind? Has he decided now not to return?’
Cassen hesitated before he answered. ‘I don’t think he’s at all likely to be going anywhere now,’ he said. ‘Not after that accident.’
‘What accident was that?’ Hal asked.
‘I thought you might have read about it. It was mentioned in some of the papers. I don’t know any of the details, but he was hurt very badly. A car crash, apparently. A week or so ago. By what I’ve been told his chances of recovery are very slim. Last thing I heard he was still in a coma.’
‘That’s sad,’ Rowan said. ‘So he’ll never come back to his house now.’ She turned in her chair to look out onto the garden where the birds filled the peace of the evening with their song. After a moment she murmured, ‘Moorstone is the kind of place I’d want to return to—to rest. Though I don’t think I’d ever want to leave here in the first place.’
Cassen looked at her, gently smiling. Then, glancing at his watch he gave a sigh and said: ‘Well, Sandra will be wondering where I am. And I must let you two get on with your dinner.’ He swallowed the last of his drink, put down his glass and got up. ‘So,’ he said as he preceded the two of them into the hall, ‘—I’ll have a word with Mrs Palfrey and get her to give you a ring.’
‘Fine,’ Rowan said.
He was just moving to the front door when Rowan added quickly, ‘Oh, Paul, just wait a moment, will you?’
‘Of course.’
She turned and stepped across the hall into the room that had been Mrs Prescot’s. When she reappeared a few seconds later she held in her hand one of the umbrellas that had been left in the stand at the café.
‘I just wondered,’ she said, ‘whether there was a chance that you might know who this belongs to.—You know most of the villagers . . .’
‘No.’ Cassen shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue. Why?’
‘When Mrs Prescot and I were in the café yesterday morning someone took her umbrella and left this one in its place. There was this one and another one in the stand when we were leaving. The other one was claimed by someone there when the manageress made enquiries, but—not this one. The thing is, the one that was taken didn’t even belong to Mrs Prescot. It was her sister’s.’
‘Ah,’ said Cassen, ‘—it was her sister’s.—The one who’s just been taken ill . . .’
‘Yes.’ Rowan nodded. ‘So of course I’d like to get it back and return it to her.’ She sighed. ‘Not that it seems she’ll have that much use for it—not now.’
8
When Mrs Palfrey swi
tched off the vacuum cleaner she could hear again the sound of Rowan’s typewriter from her little study on the left of the hall. Next to it was the room that Mrs Prescot had occupied—a neat little bed-sitter with its own television set. Not that Mrs Palfrey would be needing a room here; like Tom Freeman in the garden she was only employed part-time—on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Four days, the Grahams had decided, would be enough.
Mrs Palfrey looked at her little gold watch. Just after ten-thirty. She’d finish doing the hall carpet, polish the banister rail and then make a start upstairs. Then it would be time to begin preparing lunch. Today, Monday, was her first day in Crispin’s House. Earlier this morning she had telephoned the Grahams and then come round to see them. The interview hadn’t taken long and at the end of it she’d been hired for a trial period of a month, starting—at her own suggestion—immediately. Only one month. Mr Graham hadn’t been ‘exactly sure’ what their future plans were, he’d told her. But she knew better; she wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t sure of her, that’s what it was. She could tell; he hadn’t been at all convinced that she’d be suitable. She’d prove him wrong, though, wait and see.
She did her work thoroughly as she went about her various tasks. She wasn’t going to be one of those brooms that swept clean only because it was new. Now that she’d got the job she was determined to keep it for as long as she chose—for as long as it suited her. The month she’d been given should be enough—but just in case . . .
She pushed the Hoover across the carpet. Cleaning, cooking, looking after someone else’s house—it wasn’t the job for her, and, there was no doubt, she was getting too old for it. But for the moment it was necessary, and she would cope with all its demands. . . .
Because of the noise of the cleaner she didn’t hear the door open. But then, turning, she saw Rowan standing in the open doorway of her study. Mrs Palfrey depressed the stop button with her foot and turned to her, smiling.
The Moorstone Sickness Page 6