Someone Lying, Someone Dying

by Burke, John

  “Is so, yes. Since I am a little girl, and before that, yes.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Die?” The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. “She is dead?”

  “Well … isn’t she?”

  Her hand strayed down her chin. She raised her shoulders, puzzled, leaning imploringly towards them as though once more she might have missed some fine nuance of English speech. Carefully, to make sure that they were all talking about the same thing, she said:

  “She was not dead two, three weeks ago. She was alive when she left here.”

  One wall of Fernrock had developed an ominous split during the night. It zigzagged down the brickwork, pouring out a fine dust down the slope. Cracks were already splaying across many of the windows some because of the gentle shifting and settling of the building, some because children had seized the opportunity of throwing stones. “Trippers,” said Mrs Hemming fiercely. “Kids from London — not the sort of folk who belong in Lurgate at all.”

  The area was roped off and danger signs erected. It was decided that the fabric was too shaky to be left much longer, and the demolition date was brought forward. A van removed the larger pieces of Mrs Hemming’s furniture and took them into store. Nell helped to transfer personal belongings in her car.

  “And that’s what all that work amounted to. All that work we put into it, all those years.” Mrs Hemming looked back over her shoulder as Nell drove away. “Now they can’t wait to pull it down.”

  When it was out of sight behind the trees, she looked to her front again, watching the road as though it might at any moment fill up with a legion of enemies.

  Nell said: “It was an awful responsibility, though. When you’ve got over the shock, I’m sure you’ll find things are a lot easier.”

  “Derelict. After the war, when we took it on, it wasn’t much more than a ruin. That’s how we got it so cheap. And we worked and slaved on it, and we had something to be proud of. I don’t see why I shouldn’t say so. Proud of it, we were.”

  “Yes,” said Nell soothingly. “You did a wonderful job.”

  “And then he has to go and get himself killed in Korea. Ought never to have gone. At his age, there was no need for him to go.”

  “No,” said Nell. She had heard it so often before.

  “Though mind you” — the odd spurt of feminine conceit was uncharacteristic

  — “he was younger than I was.”

  They completed the long, wide arc behind the town and drew up outside the block of flats. The communal garden was still rough and unmade, but the paths had been finished off, and already more than half the flats were occupied.

  At the door, one arm laden with a motley assortment of her possessions, Mrs Hemming fumbled for her key. Then she let out a clucking gasp of annoyance; her tongue went stuttering on against the roof of her mouth.

  “I must have left them behind. My keys! In the hotel.”

  “I’ve still got my spare.” Nell opened her bag and found the key. She let them in. Mrs Hemming lowered her bits and pieces on to the narrow shelf along the side of the hall.

  “I must go back and get them. There’s this key, and all the keys for the hotel. I’m not going to have them lying around.”

  “We’ll pick them up on the way back.” They went on into the flat. Nell looked round. The signs of Mrs Hemming’s occupation were immediately apparent. It was not just that the place was tidy: it was prim. Nell had been brought up to favour a style of decoration in which nothing was unimaginatively squared up. Calculated unbalance had been the fashion in her day, and she still felt most at home with it. Ornaments must cluster casually to right or left, never balanced against one another; pictures must not be centred; the podgy conformity of a three-piece suite was blasphemy. Arthur had once said that he felt their living room was in danger of tilting sideways, but he had grown used to it. Brigid had been familiar with this atmosphere all her life, and Nell had tried to contribute something on the same lines to the flat. Mrs Hemming, however, had been brought up in a more conformist school. A mantelpiece should have a clock smack in the middle, and two candlesticks or china figures precisely placed one at each end. She had been shocked to find that there were no mantelpieces in the flat, but she had done her best to adjust its contents to suit her own visual tastes.

  Seeing Nell looking around, she said defensively: “I’ll be getting packed up in the next day or two.”

  “There’s no hurry. The youngsters won’t be back yet.”

  “I don’t want them to feel I’m hanging about. I’ll get a room somewhere while I look round.”

  “Betty, I’m sure they won’t mind if…”

  “They’re not going to have me round their necks. Wouldn’t be right. I’ll find somewhere. I’ll tidy this place up and be out of here long before they get back.”

  It was impossible to believe that it could be any tidier. Nell made a mental resolve to nip in as soon as Mrs Hemming had left and set things to rights again.

  It was late afternoon as they made the final return trip to the hotel. Workmen were climbing into a truck at the top of the slope. Arthur and the Borough Surveyor were making a final check over the ground which tomorrow would shudder to the crunch of explosives. A few holiday makers watched from a distance, determined to get as much free entertainment as possible. “Reckon it’s going to topple over, eh?” They waited and hoped. One busybody was explaining the whole principle of the job at great length to his family. Two old women waved to Mrs Hemming, who bit her lip and ignored them. Another older woman, tall and very erect, stood to one side, her dark eyes impassive in a dark, lined face. She was not a local, but looked unlike the usual sort of visitor to Lurgate.

  Arthur waved to Nell, beckoning her across the terrace. She and Mrs Hemming picked their way warily over the crumbling earth.

  “Darling, the damnedest thing. I’ve got to go over and see old Pinfold.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You know. The vicar — our chum who wants to make a national monument out of that Georgian house. He’s just sent a message that he can get all the interested parties together this evening. It may be our only chance to beat them all into submission. I want this thing settled — so don’t expect me back till morning.”

  “Sure it isn’t some girlfriend you’ve got tucked away up country?”

  “Wish it were. Don’t suppose there’ll be anyone under the age of seventy there.”

  “Poor old things, having to face your fury.”

  “I’m going to get it over with,” said Arthur, “if it takes all night. But they’ll be a crotchety crowd. I don’t fancy driving back in the small hours. I’ll settle the cranks, get an early cup of coffee off the Rev., and drive straight to the site here in the morning. One big bang — very satisfying after Pinfold and his chums — and then you can set up some breakfast for me.”

  “What time’s blast-off?”

  “Eight o’clock, before most of the tourists surface. We don’t want a crowd hanging around inhaling dust.”

  Mrs Hemming’s legs were straddled, her feet planted wide apart. She glared at the hotel as thought to stiffen its will to resist.

  “What will it be like? What will happen?”

  Arthur smiled sympathetically. When he spoke he was quiet and matter-of-fact. “We set a charge to slice through the foundations over there. We’re aiming to bring as much as possible down into the cleft. Then we’ll have to cut back the cliff and use the rubble for filling and buttressing it.”

  “Hm.”

  “At least you’re insured.”

  “You think I can just start all over again? All that work, building something up — again?”

  “No,” said Arthur. “I’d say it was time for you to sit back a bit. Now that Martin’s off your hands, why not take it easy?”

  “I could find a small house. Perhaps let a couple of rooms — nice regular lodgers, respectable folk. Give me something to occupy myself with.”

  Arthur’s gaze
strayed to his wrist watch.

  Nell said: “We’d better be going. You’ll come home first?”

  “I can do with a clean-up before I set off.”

  “There’ll be a watchman on duty tonight?” asked Mrs Hemming, seeking to have every detail established in her mind, resenting every last little trickle of her draining control over the hotel.

  “No need. We’re not leaving any stores around. Don’t fancy leaving a stack of explosive for the yobs to play football with at midnight.”

  “If the hooligans break into the hotel…”

  “I propose to lock up now.” Arthur urged them up the slope.

  “You?”

  “I’m holding the spare set of keys.” As she drew breath to protest, he said gently: “I’m the contractor, you know. The place is my responsibility now.”

  “I see. If you want me to surrender my set…”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s what we came back for — my keys. I’ll just run in and fetch them. I know exactly where they are.”

  “We’ll wait for you,” said Nell. Arthur sighed.

  “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you.” Mrs Hemming quickened her pace away from them.

  “If you hurry, we can drop you…”

  “I won’t have you going all that way round.”

  Arthur, only too glad to take her at her word, called: “You will lock up behind you, won’t you?”

  Mrs Hemming did not deign to answer.

  She went on into her home for the last time. Arthur slid into the car beside Nell.

  Nell said: “I hope she won’t do anything … I mean, I wouldn’t want her to do anything silly.”

  “Hurl herself from the battlements? She’s not the type. Look,” said Arthur impatiently as Nell still did not start the engine, “if you’re going to fret about her, for goodness’ sake go and…”

  “No,” said Nell.

  She drove off.

  *

  That evening she was restless, unable to settle to anything. Brigid had been gone for some days, and she was just beginning to accept that this was a permanent thing: Brigid was married, belonged somewhere else to somebody else. Arthur was out for the evening and probably for the night. The place was empty.

  For Mrs Hemming it was going to be like this always, from now on. Nell had seen more than enough of Betty Hemming for one day, but felt a nagging sense of responsibility towards her. Perhaps they ought to have a meal together. Go out somewhere — make the evening pass more quickly.

  She telephoned the flat. There was no reply.

  It was odd. She must be back by now. Unless she had been unable to find the keys? If, unknown to the rest of them, one of the workmen had spotted the keys and taken them away, Mrs Hemming would be locked out of the flat.

  In that case surely she would have come here?

  Nell fidgeted round the house. She could not bear to stay in here on her own. She took the car out again and drove a circuitous way into town. It was even more circuitous than she had planned, since police signs had by now commanded a diversion, isolating the road past the hotel. She had to wind her way through a small network of quiet residential side streets, catching just one glimpse of the dark shape of the hotel against the horizon. It look solid and immutable. It was criminal to destroy it.

  Mrs Hemming was probably as restless as herself and had decided to eat out. It was unlike her; but so many things today were unlike what they had been yesterday, and tomorrow there would be even more violent changes.

  Nell peeped into two restaurants on the off-chance that Mrs Hemming might be in one of them, alone at a table. Then she gave up and had a meal in a quiet place where she and Arthur were fairly well known. She talked to the manager, got home late, and went to bed tired.

  Shortly after midnight the telephone rang.

  Brigid’s voice filtered through a crackle and hiss along the line. “Mummy, where on earth have you been? We tried to ring you from Palermo…”

  “Palermo?” Muzzily Nell said: “I thought you were supposed to be in Malta.”

  “We are now. It’s a long story. But we’re coming home on a plane an hour from now. It’s the first one we could wangle on to.”

  “There’s nothing wrong, is there? You and Martin…?”

  “It’s not us at all. It’s Serafina.”

  “Brigid, really! At this hour of the night.”

  “Serafina Blythe.” Brigid’s voice whispered away and then came back again more strongly. “She’s still alive. And we think she must be over there in Lurgate. We’re worried stiff. You see, now she knows her husband didn’t just walk out on her but was murdered, she’ll have to pursue the vendetta…”

  “The what?”

  “Vendetta. She’ll have to settle up the account. And if the murderer’s dead, then his family — or her family — comes next on the list.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. Have you?”

  “Mummy, don’t you see? You and Daddy could be in danger. You or Mrs Hemming.”

  “What’s Mrs Hemming got to do with it?”

  “The daughter of Serafina’s deadly rival. It might have been her mother who killed Walter Blythe. Or Daddy’s father. Maybe Serafina doesn’t know which it was, so she’ll try to deal with all of you — and with Martin and me as well. Though why she had to kill Peter, if it was her, we don’t know.”

  “This is too much.”

  “Mummy, is Mrs Hemming all right?”

  “Of course she’s all right.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Only a few hours ago. We’ve been shifting her bits and pieces.”

  “Martin’s been so worried about her. You see, we’ve been up there, to Serafina’s home, and there’s such a dreadful atmosphere there. We can just feel that she’s up to no good. We’re coming home as fast as we can, but Mummy, please be careful, and tell Mrs Hemming…”

  Two distant, ethereal voices began to argue across the line, then there was a click, a spluttering, and silence.

  Nell held the receiver for a few moments, then replaced it. She lay back and waited for another ring. But the line had been a bad one to start with. She had no idea how easy or difficult it was to make a call from Malta to Lurgate.

  After ten minutes she put her hand on the receiver.

  Mrs Hemming did not care much for telephone calls even in the daytime, even as part of the inevitable routine of running a hotel, making bookings, ordering food.

  Nell let another five minutes go by and then dialled the number of the flat.

  There was no reply.

  If a workman had taken the keys away, so that Mrs Hemming was unable to let herself into the flat, she might just conceivably have gone off in her stubborn, independent way to find a hotel room. All the same it was odd that she had not contacted Nell.

  Unless she felt that this would have been construed as a request for hospitality…

  Something could have happened to her in Fernrock.

  A falling ceiling, a jammed door.

  Something.

  Nell was wide awake. She turned over and then turned back again. It was ridiculous to worry. There was always a simple, dull explanation to anything. It was only the availability of the telephone that got people so steamed up. Just because you made a call and got no immediate reply, this didn’t mean that sinister things were happening. Tomorrow there would be a perfectly mundane explanation.

  Such as that Betty Hemming had been trapped in her old home by a falling beam or a collapsing floor.

  Nell spent another ten minutes trying to go to sleep. Then she got up and pulled on slacks and a heavy old pullover which had once been emerald green and now had the hue and texture of seaweed. She drove along the familiar route and narrowly avoided smashing through a barrier: she had forgotten the diversion which led her away from the hotel.

  In the block of flats, one light shone on each landing level. She rang the doorbell of the flat where Brigid
and Martin would live when they got back — and realised that this meant this morning, a few hours from now.

  There was no answer. She tried again. After a third attempt she took out her own key and let herself in.

  The packages and odds and ends lay on the shelf where Mrs Hemming had dumped them earlier.

  Nell went out and drove back the way she had come. She parked the car in a sleeping side street and walked up to the hotel, ducking under one of the barriers.

  The hotel still looked solid and imposing.

  There was a torch in the car, she remembered. It needed a new battery, but it was still in working order. She ought to go back and get it.

  No real need, she told herself. She wasn’t going to do anything silly. She had no intention of prowling round the deserted hotel. She would go up to the front door, make sure it was locked, and then go away again.

  She reached the front door and tried the handle.

  The door opened.

  Nell stood frozen for a moment, then went in. Betty Hemming could not have found her keys … could not have locked the door behind her.

  Then why…?

  Nell stepped warily into the stripped, echoing hall, with the reception desk bare and unwelcoming, the staircase a faint shadow ahead of her. No lights, no carpet, no warmth.

  “Mrs Hemming,” she called. Her voice rose, then came seeping back to her. “Betty? Mrs Hemming?”

  Somewhere there was a sound. Not just the echo of her own voice but a murmur, a voice and a rustle of movement; and then silence which somehow emphasised what she had half-heard.

  Nell went step by step towards the staircase.

  “Betty…?”

  The hollow echo of her voice mocked her. On the first landing she took a cigarette lighter from the pocket of her slacks. Its tiny flame picked out a row of doors. Bedrooms on the left, she recalled, facing the sea. On the right, bathrooms, two lavatories, and a linen room.

  One of the doors on the right was ajar. Nell pushed it and went in.

  There was the faint thud of the door closing behind her, and the squeak of a key in the lock. She spun round, and looked into a dark face etched darker by the hazy, fluttering light.

  The woman said in a deep, aged, masculine voice: “I do not think you will know who I am.”