Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Have you any practical experience in building or construction work of any kind?’

  His smile widened – she was amusing him. ‘Nope,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Do you?’

  Tess felt her blood pressure start to rise. ‘I have a degree in art history and over eight years’ practical experience in the field of interior decoration, particularly in the restoration of older properties. What is more, all the structural work on this house has been under the direction of a qualified architect whom we consult for all our renovation requirements.’

  He was grinning, now. ‘Aunt Dolly said you were a beaut sheila, all right,’ he said, admiringly. ‘Peppery, too. Never told me you were a Yank, though. Generally, I like Yanks. Sympathetic to ’em, you might say, seeing as we all kicked over the Pommy traces in our time. Fact remains, that kitchen needs bigger windows. Putting on the style is all very well, but it kind of spoils the effect to have your client cut off a thumb the first week in residence because she can’t see what she’s doing, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ll speak to the architect about it.’

  Archie smiled expansively, showing wonderful teeth and two dimples. ‘There you are, that’s all I ask. I just want Aunt Dol to be happy in her new home.’

  ‘Very considerate of you.’ Tess was still nettled.

  ‘Aw, now, don’t go snaky on me. Let me buy you some lunch. We should get to know one another, because I intend to be around a lot from now on.’

  ‘You do?’ Tess asked, faintly. She envisaged weeks of fruitless argument with this antipodean alarmist. Handsome he might be, but he hadn’t the first idea about Victorian authenticity. Or kitchens. But Adrian had spoken.

  ‘All right,’ she conceded.

  It was a very long lunch.

  They found a small Italian restaurant nearby. There Archie McMurdo talked of many things – carefully avoiding the subject of interior décor. He told her of his travels, his property in Australia, his hobbies, his ambitions.

  In fact, Archie spent so much time and energy systematically attempting to charm her that Tess hardly had a chance to follow Adrian’s suggestion that she charm him. Concerning smiles and graces, the lunch was a definite contender for the Annual Sweetness and Light Award, providing the judges could keep from throwing up.

  He was very attractive, of course.

  Nice voice, nice hands.

  Shame about the clothes.

  Still, by the time they’d reached the strega and cappuccino, she’d decided to let him win the charm contest. Why not? He was neither Max’s edgy neuter tutor nor her late husband’s suddenly possessive ex-partner. (She still felt cross, remembering Richard’s demands.) Here was a handsome stranger who thought she was lovely and kept saying so. It is very soothing to be told you are lovely, especially when you are feeling hot and cross and frustrated. If Richard wanted to be jealous, well then, she’d give him reason. Damn him.

  After the meal, she thanked Archie, deftly evaded enquiries about her plans for the coming evening, and fled homewards. There had been a great deal of icy white wine with the spaghetti vongole, and while being charmed was one thing, being seduced was quite another. One man in her new life had been pleasant, two had been interesting – but three could be confusing, if she wasn’t careful. She needed time to think.

  And lots of black coffee.

  Mrs Grimble was in a hurry to get away, and John Soame had gone to spend the afternoon in the British Museum Reading Room, so there was only Max to tell about the initially annoying (but eventually delightful) Archie McMurdo. Max listened to her description with deep interest.

  ‘Why don’t you get Mr Flowers to brick him up in the basement?’ he suggested, with all the ghoulish delight of a nine-year-old.

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Tess said, and started to laugh despite herself. ‘I think Ernie would enjoy doing it, though.’

  ‘Never mind, Mum. These things are sent to try us,’ Max said, and sighed wheezily, like Mrs Grimble. ‘We have to rise above them,’ he said, in a fair imitation of the housekeeper’s lugubrious tones.

  ‘I guess I have to admit it wasn’t all that trying, in the end,’ Tess admitted. ‘He took me to lunch and told me I was a lovely sheila.’

  ‘I see.’ Max eyed her censoriously. ‘And did you believe him?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have?’

  He thought about this, and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You’re not too bad looking for your age,’ he said, in a judicious tone.

  ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

  ‘But I don’t think you should go around flirting with men you hardly know, Mother.’

  ‘You’re too young to be so pompous. And anyway, what makes you think I flirted with him?’ Tess asked, defensively.

  ‘Because you’re going red, and because your voice went all weeny and horrible when you told about him saying you were lovely. Yeuchhhhhhh. Disgusting.’ He made as if to poke his finger down his throat and pantomimed vomiting.

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ Tess said. She considered him for a moment. His colour was better, and he seemed restless. ‘Are you getting bored up here all alone?’

  ‘A bit,’ he admitted.

  ‘Did you have any visitors, today?’

  ‘Mr Hendricks came around,’ Max said.

  ‘Can’t you call him Uncle Richard?’ Tess asked. ‘He’s very fond of you, you know.’

  ‘But he’s not my uncle,’ Max said, firmly. ‘Any more than that other one is.’

  ‘What other one?’ Tess asked, alarmed. Who had been there?

  Max looked sheepish. ‘I guess he’s Mrs Grimble’s brother.’

  ‘Oh. Walter Briggs.’

  ‘I don’t think I was very polite to him – he woke me up and I didn’t know who he was. I think he was a little bit . . . you know . . . pissed.’

  ‘Max!’

  ‘Well, he was. He scared me, at first, sort of leaning over me and staring the way he did. I thought he was going to fall right on top of me.’ He went a bit pink. ‘And he smelled. So I said “Who the hell are you?” and sort of scrumpled up the covers over me. And he laughed.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘He said he just wanted to say hello. He brought me that.’ He pointed to a jigsaw puzzle at the foot of the bed. ‘I did say “thank you”.’ His tone was defensive.

  ‘Good. Richard said he was here.’

  Max looked grim. ‘Does Mr Hendricks own this house or something?’

  ‘No, of course not. I own it. Why?’

  Max shrugged. ‘You’d think he did, the way he stomped around, shouting and everything. It was pretty embarrassing.’

  Tess straightened the coverlet. ‘Is Mrs Grimble’s brother here often?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Max asked, grumpily. ‘I was away at school and now I’m stuck up here, aren’t I? There could be a herd of elephants drinking lemonade in the sitting room for all I know about it.’

  ‘Maybe you should start your proper lessons, if you feel so left out of things,’ Tess suggested.

  Max groaned piteously. ‘No, no, I’m too weak. Watching old movies on the video is all I can stand. My brain is fuzzy, my mouth is dry, I have dry rot in my wooden leg. In fact, I feel a whole new attack coming on,’ he said, clutching his forehead dramatically. ‘Oh, the pain!’

  Tess laughed. ‘You are feeling better. I’ll tell Mr Soame to set you an essay when he comes in.’

  Max slid down under the covers. ‘Tell him I’ve gone to Timbuctoo,’ came the muffled suggestion. ‘Tell him I’ve turned into a frog.’ He pushed down the duvet suddenly, and produced an uncanny imitation of his late father. ‘Tell him I’m in a meeting,’ he growled.

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re impossible,’ Tess said, pulling the duvet back up around her son.

  ‘He already knows that,’ Max sa
id. ‘He said I have a mind like a grasshopper – jumping around nibbling everything and digesting nothing. He said I was a challenge.’ This judgement seemed to evoke deep satisfaction.

  Tess stood up and walked around the room, straightening things idly. ‘Do you like Mr Soame?’

  ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Was he in here for long, this morning?’

  ‘I don’t know. We watched The Flame and the Arrow,’ Max said. ‘It was medieval and had a sort of motte and bailey castle in it. Did you know that Burt Lancaster used to be an acrobat in the circus?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘John said that when I’m stronger—’

  ‘John? You call him John?’

  ‘He said I could. It was his dumb idea, not mine,’ Max said, negligently. ‘Mostly I call him “sir” because we have to at school, and it’s hard to break the habit.’

  Tess leaned against the windowsill and regarded him thoughtfully. His hair was sticking up in spikes and his eyes were like Roger’s – long-lashed and slightly tilted at the corners. He’d be quite pretty, she thought, if it weren’t for that jaw and those freckles. As it is, even thin and pale, he’s all boy. ‘I think calling him “sir” is good,’ she said, casually. ‘It shows you respect him.’

  ‘Hmmmmm. Anyway, he said when I’m stronger maybe I could do some fencing. Fencing isn’t medieval, though, they used broad swords then and hacked bits off one another until they died. But modern fencing is good, he said. Did you know that one year in the Olympics somebody cut somebody else’s ear off? A German or a Russian or somebody. Snick, snick, just like that – it flew off and landed on a judge’s lap!’

  ‘Oh, nonsense.’

  ‘It did. And then he cut off his nose and then—’

  ‘All right, all right. What do you want for dinner?’

  ‘Fried ears and chips,’ Max said. ‘And ice-cream!’ he shouted after her, as she went down the stairs.

  Well, it all sounded pretty normal to her, Tess thought, as she went into the kitchen. And Soame was obviously getting a few facts into Max along with the snickersnees and varlets. What was a varlet, anyway? Villains in historical films were always calling people varlets. Or was it vartlet? She must look it up.

  Putting on an apron, she began to get out pans and plates.

  Richard said he would be looking up things about John Soame. Where would he look? How did you go about, what did they call it? – oh, yes – ‘positively vetting’ someone? She stopped in the middle of the kitchen, a frying pan in one hand and a potato peeler in the other.

  Perhaps he would hire a private detective.

  Would a private detective find out anything terrible about John Soame? Was there anything terrible to find out about him? Or, if there wasn’t, would Richard make something up? From the way he had been behaving that morning, she wouldn’t have put it past him. Honestly, saying that John had been the person making those nasty phone calls. Why, the voice had been nothing like his.

  She continued across the kitchen and banged the pan down on the sink. Men were impossible, absolutely impossible. They said one thing but meant another.

  You never knew what they were really thinking.

  FOURTEEN

  That night, Max had another nightmare.

  Tess had been awakened a few minutes before by a faint noise, and had been lying in the dark trying to figure out whether it had been one of the neighbourhood cats doing a fandango on the dustbins, or just another of the creaks and cracks the old house was heir to.

  And then Max screamed.

  Jumping from bed, she grabbed her dressing gown and fled down the hall to his room. She found Max sitting bolt upright in bed, his eyes open. But she knew he was still asleep, caught somewhere in a subconscious limbo of horror. His face was a blank mask, but his eyes were dark with fear.

  She and Mrs Grimble had moved his bed to the bay window that overlooked the back garden and the bird table he and Roger had built together two years before. The afternoon sun would warm him, they’d thought, and the birds would give him an outside interest. His binoculars hung conveniently from the bedpost, and a bird book sat upon the windowsill, ready for consultation.

  But now, in the stillness of the night, moonglow streamed over the patchwork quilt she had made years before, while waiting for him to be born. The squares of bright primary colours she’d chosen looked washed out in the strange, pale light. Only the appliquéd tumbling clowns were visible, their frozen antics somehow eerie and ominous.

  And then Max began to speak.

  ‘No . . . please . . . don’t make me do that. Please . . . I won’t . . . I can’t . . . please . . . no . . . ’

  Tess stood, stricken, afraid to waken him too suddenly, but John Soame, coming into the room behind her, didn’t hesitate. He stepped around her and spoke quietly and firmly, with the unmistakable voice of authority.

  ‘Max, it’s all right. No-one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. It’s all right, Max. You can wake up now. You’re safe now. Nothing bad is going to happen.’

  He didn’t touch the boy or even go close to the bed, but stayed near Tess, still and watchful, talking steadily and evenly. Gradually the fear was erased from the small, thin face. Max slumped in the bed, his eyes closed.

  Tess went to him and took him in her arms, cuddling him as she had done when he was very young, feeling the bird-flutter of his heart against her, his soft breath feathering her throat. She looked up at John Soame, and smiled her thanks.

  Standing there in his pyjamas, without his spectacles, he looked rumpled and young and suddenly embarrassed. He turned away abruptly, and said something about making them all a cup of tea. A few moments later there was a sound of cups and clatter from the kitchen below.

  Max gave a long shuddering sigh, and snuggled closer to her. He was awake now, she could feel his eyelashes brushing her collarbone as he blinked away tears he would rather have denied. He sniffed. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be a baby.’

  ‘We all feel like babies when we have bad dreams.’

  ‘It was bad. It was all . . . ’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘It was what? It might help you to talk about it, you know.’

  He was silent for a moment, thinking this over, then shook his head against her shoulder. ‘I can’t remember. When I woke up . . . just for a minute I remembered . . . but now it’s gone.’

  Tess, feeling the tension in his body as it rested against her, decided not to press the point. She was quite sure he did remember, and equally sure he didn’t want to tell her about it.

  Why?

  What was it that he so feared both sleeping and waking?

  John returned, then, with three steaming mugs on a tray. Deftly, as they drank their cocoa – which he had apparently decided was more soothing than tea – he led the conversation into general channels, keeping it cheerful. They left a more relaxed Max behind when the cocoa was gone, tucked up and smiling, his eyes already closing.

  Tess and John walked down the hall towards the stairs. ‘It must be the accident,’ Tess said. ‘It can’t be anything else.’

  John stood outlined against the light from below. He held the tray with the empty mugs awkwardly before him. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he said, slowly. ‘Come downstairs for a minute.’

  Puzzled, she followed him down and into the kitchen. He put the tray down on the table and turned to face her. ‘When I came down to make the cocoa I found the back door wide open,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take a look,’ he suggested. ‘The lock has been forced.’ She went over and looked at the splintered wood around the lock, and felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, just like in books – only this was real. Burglars, again.

  Burglars?

 
Or someone else?

  ‘It might be a coincidence that Max had a nightmare at the same time as some intruder was sneaking around the house. Or it might be the very thing that gave him one. Perhaps he heard something, or sensed something . . . ’ John said.

  Tess just kept looking from the door to him and back again. It was too much to take in. Someone in the house? Someone in Max’s room?

  John went on. His voice was calm on the surface, but she thought she heard anger there, too. ‘I looked around the house and garden before I wedged the door shut. I didn’t find anyone, obviously. As far as I can tell, nothing has been taken, but you’d know that better than I would. The question is – do we call the police now, or in the morning?’

  FIFTEEN

  The police came promptly, two uniformed constables arrived within ten minutes of the call. They were thorough – they inspected the door, looked around the yard and did a quick tour of the immediate neighbourhood. They asked a lot of questions: who had keys to the house, were neighbours or friends in the habit of dropping by, had there been any repairmen in the house recently, or insurance salesmen, or vicars of unknown denominations, or charity callers, or people claiming to represent the local council? Did the dustmen come into the garden or collect from outside the gate? Did she know the faces of the regulars? What about itinerant window washers? Television aerial installers? People claiming to be searching for lost dogs or cats? So many questions, so many possibilities. They were kind. They were sympathetic.

  But they were not all that helpful.

  ‘About twenty or thirty break-ins a week now, in this area,’ the big one said. He seemed almost proud of it.

  ‘You’re sure nothing was taken?’ the smaller one said.

  ‘I think he was frightened off before he could,’ Tess said, and explained about Max’s nightmare screams.

  ‘Ah, well,’ the smaller one nodded. ‘If there was something taken – something of value – I’d say call in the CID for fingerprints and all that palaver. But I doubt they’d take it on, seeing as how things are so backed up with real—’ He paused. ‘With bigger crimes. We had a jeweller’s broken into in the High Street last week, they took maybe ten thousand’s worth out of there, neat as you please.’ He glanced at his partner. ‘What do you think on this one?’