by Hazel Holt
We set off across the heather, our shoes setting up clouds of pollen and releasing a sweet smell of honey.
“Oh, it is gorgeous,” Rosemary said, “and such a brilliant day! I was right – we don’t do this often enough.”
We walked in companionable silence for a while enjoying the sense of space – the moors stretching away into the hazy distance and the great arc of incredibly blue sky above us. There was not a breath of wind and the sense of peace was almost palpable.
“‘And all the air a solemn stillness holds’.” Rosemary said. “What’s that? Wordsworth?”
“I think it’s Gray – ‘Elegy in a Country Churchyard’.”
“Well, whatever – it’s true though, isn’t it? That extraordinary stillness.”
We walked down the hillside until we reached the stream that ran along the bottom of the combe.
“Oh look,” I said, “there’s a stone chat. I love the way they bob up and down.”
We stood for a while watching the little bird and the dragonflies that skimmed across the surface of the water, then turned and made our way (more slowly) back up the hill enjoying the sunshine and the beauty all around us.
“Do you mind if we stop for a moment?” Rosemary asked. “I can’t manage hills like I used to.”
“I’ll be glad of a little rest myself,” I agreed. “When I go for a walk with the children now I tend to stop and admire the view rather more than I used to. Mind you, it’s worth admiring.”
I looked around me at the scattered sheep in the distance grazing peacefully, a group of ponies moving slowly across the sweep of the moor and the looping flight of a lark that had risen up almost at our feet and was soaring away into the sky singing its heart out.
“I must say I’m ready for a cup of tea,” Rosemary said as she unlocked the boot of the car. “I’ll pour it here, shall I – easier than balancing cups and things inside.”
“Oh yes,” I agreed. “So nice when the weather’s fine and warm. Goodness, all those ghastly summer holidays – picnics in the rain, trying to pour tea with the car full of children and dogs and nowhere to put the milk!”
Rosemary handed me a cup and undid a tin. “Tell me what you think of these Bakewell tarts. I used Elsie’s old recipe, and I managed to get some really good ground almonds when I was in Taunton last week.”
The Bakewell tarts were very good indeed and I was just reaching for a second one when we heard voices and two people came up behind us and walked over towards the Range Rover. One of the voices sounded familiar and I turned to see Malcolm Hardy opening the rear door and putting a travelling rug into the back. The woman with him was talking animatedly and, though we were too far away to hear what she was saying, I could see that he was obviously very taken with her and trying to make a good impression. He seemed to be succeeding since she put her hand on his arm in a manner that was at once flirtatious and proprietary. Although we were not far away, they seemed oblivious of our presence and never glanced in our direction – obviously too occupied with each other to be concerned with two middle-aged women standing drinking tea beside a Volvo estate car. After a few minutes they got into the Range Rover and drove away.
“Well!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Did you see who that was?”
“You mean Malcolm Hardy?”
“No, I mean who was with him.”
“I didn’t recognise her, who was it?”
“That,” Rosemary said, “was Claudia Drummond. You know, the wife of Sir Robert Drummond, the surgeon.”
“Oh, the one who has that big house near East Quantoxhead?”
“That’s right.”
“Good heavens! What on earth was she doing out here with Malcolm Hardy?”
Rosemary shrugged. “I don’t know, but he was carrying a travelling rug.”
“You don’t think…”
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s got a bit of a reputation for taking up with younger men, and, from what I’ve heard, a little pastoral episode like this is just the sort of thing to appeal to her.”
“She sounds ghastly. How do you know so much about her?”
“How do you think? Mother, of course.”
“I wonder,” I said thoughtfully, “if that’s why Malcolm Hardy and his girlfriend were having that quarrel when I went to the surgery the other week.” I told Rosemary what I’d seen and heard. “This Julie girl was obviously very upset.”
“You do see interesting things,” Rosemary said. “When I take the dogs to the vet’s all I get is Muriel Sullivan boring on about her Border terrier’s mange.”
“I can see that this Claudia woman would be more attractive to someone like him than some silly little girl.”
“She’s a bit of a femme fatale by all accounts,” Rosemary said. “Apparently she more or less wrecked Desmond Barker’s marriage – he was quite besotted, wanted to marry her and everything.”
“But?”
“But there was no way she was going to change her grand lifestyle for love in a cottage with a poor schoolmaster.”
“Goodness, she certainly seems to get around! I wonder how she got hold of Malcolm Hardy.”
“Oh horses, I expect. She hunts and he – Sir Robert, that is – breeds them as a hobby. Plenty of excuses for seeing each other, especially when her husband spends a lot of his time in Bristol or London – he’s very eminent, some sort of orthopaedic specialist. Mother once consulted him when she had that knee trouble.”
“I wonder what he thinks about his wife’s goings on?”
“He’s a good bit older than she is, so perhaps he pretends not to notice. And I believe she’s quite discreet.”
“Your mother seems to know all about her.”
“Well, you know Mother – she has her informants. Goodness, is that the time! We’d better be getting back. I promised Jilly I’d look after the children this evening so that she and Roger can go out to dinner. It’s their anniversary.”
“How long is it now?”
“Eleven years! Isn’t it ghastly the way time just slips away? Delia is nine now and it only seems like yesterday when we were all at her christening – do you remember the crisis about Mother’s hat?” She began packing up the thermos flask and cups. “Just you wait. Alice will be grown up before you know it!”
“That’s why we really must do this again,” I said. “Have lovely afternoons like this one while we can still can.”
“Yes, we must,” Rosemary agreed. “Mind you,” she said, laughing, “we may not have the excitement of seeing Claudia Drummond and her latest conquest every time.”
Life went on very much as usual. Thea, Michael and Alice went off to stay for a week with some friends who had a house in Brittany and I had Smoke to stay. This caused a bit of an upheaval since Tris and Foss, over-excited by a new young cat in the house, both reverted to kitten/puppy-hood and went roaring around the house, all three playing complicated chasing games to the imminent danger of lamps, ornaments and any other object that lay in their (collective) path. It was during one of these episodes that Tris, forgetting that he was now an elderly gentleman, and leaping down several stairs at once, managed to damage his paw and sat in the hall whining miserably, while Foss and Smoke stopped dead in their tracks and sat regarding him with curiosity quite unmixed with concern.
“Oh Tris,” I said, “what have you done?”
He tried to get up but it obviously hurt him. When I bent over and examined the paw he gave a little yelp and looked at me reproachfully.
“Poor boy,” I said. “We must get you to the vet’s. As for you two…” Two pairs of eyes, blue and green regarded me innocently. “Oh go and play outside!”
The only vet free to see me was Keith, a nice young man, usually full of chat but today strangely quiet and abstracted. He examined Tris and pronounced it just a strain and nothing to worry about.
“I’ll give you some lotion to put on it,” he said, “and because he’s getting on a bit I’ll give him a vitamin injection if
you’ll just hold him for me.”
I stood stroking Tris while Keith got the syringe out of its package. He was just poised to do the injection when we heard Malcolm Hardy’s voice outside. Keith lowered his arm and I could see that his hand was trembling.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “Is anything the matter?”
He tried to pull himself together.
“No, nothing, I’m fine…”
“You’re not, are you? What is it? Is it something to do with Malcolm Hardy?”
He put the syringe down. “It’s nothing really – it’s just that we had a bit of a set-to earlier on.”
“A set-to?”
“Yes, he accused me of having given too much anaesthetic to a dog he was operating on – we lost it, it died on the table – but it was his fault. The dog had a heart condition – he should have told me but he never did – and we usually use a different sort of anaesthetic in cases like that. He should have told me! He’s trying to make me take the blame!”
Keith was becoming quite agitated, so I said soothingly, “I’m sure it will be all right. Everyone knows that you’re most conscientious and professional.”
“The owner was really upset – she’ll blame me. And there’s the insurance…”
“Diana will speak up for you. She knows how reliable you are.”
“Diana can’t do anything – he’s in control of everything now. I don’t know how much longer I can stay here! We’re all in such a state, not just me – everyone. I really don’t know how it’s going to end.”
Tris, already nervous, became agitated at the tone of Keith’s voice and began to whimper.
Keith immediately bent to stroke and reassure him, then turned to me and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Mrs Malory, I shouldn’t have spoken like that, please forget I said anything.”
“It’s all right,” I replied. “It’s all right, really it is.”
This reiteration seemed to reassure him and after a moment he picked up the syringe and gave Tris his injection.
“He should be all right now, but bring him back if you’re worried.” He stroked Tris’s head again and Tris licked his hand.
“You’re honoured,” I said, “he doesn’t do that to everyone. He obviously likes you.”
Keith smiled wryly. “If being a vet only meant dealing with animals, it would be a perfect life.”
“That’s the important bit,” I said. “Just don’t let the other bits get you down.”
When I got home the cats, as usual, refused to have anything to do with Tris because of his vet’s smell, so I lifted him up onto the sofa and we sat companionably side by side sharing the Garibaldi biscuits I was having with my tea. I was saddened by Keith’s outburst. He was usually a cheerful, composed young man, excellent at his job, kind and careful with the animals and reassuring with their owners. To see him reduced to that state was upsetting and a sad indication of just how badly things had gone wrong with the practice. The more I saw and heard of Malcolm Hardy the more I disliked him. He had ruined the happy, friendly atmosphere and alienated all the staff (even the wretched Julie) and I didn’t see how the situation could possibly be retrieved. The fact that there was no other practice in the neighbourhood that unhappy clients could go to meant that the tension would inevitably get worse until – well, until what? Like Keith, I couldn’t imagine where it would all end.
I met Anthea the next day when I was wandering aimlessly round the Library.
“Have you had a word with Kathy yet?” she asked, coming straight to the point as she always did.
“Well, yes, in a way. That is, I saw her the other day, quite by chance when I was walking Tris along the seafront and she was sitting…”
“Yes, yes,” Anthea interrupted. “So what did she say? Did you find out what’s the matter with her?”
“I think it’s just that she’s unhappy at work. This new man, Malcolm Hardy, does seem to be really awful; he’s reduced Diana to tears and poor Keith – the junior vet – is really upset. And he’s sacked Ben Turner, who’s been there for years.”
“Has he been picking on Kathy?”
“No – well, not specially. He just seems to have been beastly to everyone, even Diana.”
“And you really think that’s what’s been bothering her?”
I hesitated for a moment. As a parent I knew how Anthea must be feeling, but then I had promised Kathy I wouldn’t say anything to her mother about what appeared to be an unhappy love affair. I know Anthea loves both her daughters very much, but in a situation like that she would go charging in, demanding to know who the young man was and generally upsetting Kathy, who is a sensitive soul, very much.
“Yes,” I said. “I think so. The atmosphere there is really poisonous – I’m not surprised that Kathy hates it. But, as they all know, there’s nowhere else for them to go in Taviscombe and none of them want to move away.”
“I should think not!” Anthea exclaimed indignantly. “Taviscombe is Kathy’s home – there’s no question of her moving. Jim wouldn’t hear of it and neither would I! Oh well, at least she’s got her Operatic Society. That should take her mind off things and cheer her up a bit. Did I tell you she’s singing Phyllis in Iolanthe?”
I smiled. “Isn’t that splendid! I’m so looking forward to seeing it. How are the rehearsals going?”
“Oh, I don’t know, she never says. But then, nobody ever tells me anything!” She looked down at the book I had taken from the shelves. “Corpse Diplomatique – a thriller! That’s a bit low-brow. The last thing I’d expect an intellectual like you to be reading!”
She left me with my usual mixed feelings; affection and exasperation in equal measure.
Chapter Five
* * *
Actually it was Anthea who rang me, several days later, with the news.
“You’ll never believe it – Malcolm Hardy’s dead!”
“What?”
“He’s dead. Malcolm Hardy. Kathy’s just rung me.”
“Good gracious, what was it? Did he have an accident? Where did it happen?”
“It was at the surgery. Apparently he collapsed and they took him to the hospital, but he died soon after.”
“How dreadful. Do they know what caused it?”
“Kathy didn’t say. She was really quite upset. It’s not surprising – I know he was really unpleasant, but, well, a sudden death like that…”
“It must have been awful for all of them,” I said to Rosemary when I rang her to pass on the news. “Especially, in a way, because they all hated him. I mean, they may have wanted him dead – not in those words exactly, but wanting him not to be there – and then to have him die suddenly like that – well!”
“Worst kind of wish fulfilment,” Rosemary agreed. “Still, even if they do feel uncomfortable about it, I bet no one will grieve for him.”
“Except Claudia Drummond perhaps.”
“Goodness yes. I wonder if she knows?”
“Soon will. I expect it will be in the obituaries in the Free Press on Friday.”
It was indeed in the local paper, not just in the obituaries, but splashed over the front page in large black type: “Mystery Death of Well-known Local Vet”.
Rosemary was on the phone early on Friday morning.
“Have you seen it?” she asked. “‘Mystery death’ could be anything – I suppose they can’t come right out and say ‘Murder’ until after the inquest. I haven’t been able to ask Roger about it yet.”
Roger is Chief Inspector Eliot and Rosemary’s son-in-law, now working at police headquarters in Taunton but still (to Rosemary’s relief) living in Taviscombe with his family.
“I do need some more flea stuff for Foss,” I said. “I could go along to the surgery later this morning.”
“Good idea. See what Kathy has to say.”
But when I got to the surgery there was a police car outside and the place was shut up. On one of the doors someone had stuck a handwritten notice:
The surg
ery will be closed until further notice. In case of emergencies please telephone our usual number and someone will get back to you.
As I stood reading this I heard a voice behind me.
“I might have known that you’d be on the doorstep!”
It was Roger.
“Oh, Roger – I just called to get some more flea stuff for Foss…”
“Of course,” he said smiling. “And the fact that Malcolm Hardy has died in suspicious circumstances has nothing to do with it?”
“So there are suspicious circumstances then?”
“Perhaps – we don’t know for sure. We’re waiting for the post mortem. How well did you know him?”
“Not at all really – just as a vet, not as a person. How did he die? The papers were very vague about it.”
“He collapsed here at the surgery and went into a sort of coma. We don’t know yet what caused it.”
“Acoma? Was he a diabetic then?”
“It’s a possibility; no one here seems to know, although there’s no reason why they should if he didn’t choose to tell them.”
“I suppose not.”
“Look, Sheila, I have to get on…”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Good luck with your investigations.”
I stood aside while he knocked on the surgery door and was admitted by a police constable and then turned slowly away considering what he had told me.
If it was simply a diabetic coma then it wasn’t a ‘mystery death’ after all, just newspaper hype. I hoped it was as simple as that. Amurder investigation would be very unpleasant for everyone at the practice, especially as it was well known that Malcolm Hardy was deeply disliked by everyone who worked there. They must all be feeling very apprehensive, wondering what the result of the post mortem would be and if the whole thing would be taken further. Well, we would all have to wait and see.
Actually, though, I did have the opportunity to make enquiries myself that very afternoon. I was in Woolworths trying to find the cards of elastic, all that remained of the haberdashery department, when I saw June Hardy also apparently looking for something. She smiled when she saw me and said, “You haven’t any idea where they’ve put the shoelaces, have you?”