by Hazel Holt
“Oh all right,” I said, giving in as I always did. “I’ll give you something now.”
I put a handful of cat and dog biscuits on the tray with my drink and, with the two of them hard on my heels, I went into the sitting-room, pacified them with treats and put on the television.
I seemed to have switched on half way through a drama set, as far as I could see, (it was all very dark and, to help the atmosphere, raining heavily) in some Northern town. I picked up the remote control to switch it off, since it was decidedly not the sort of entertainment I was looking for at the end of a tiring day, when my attention was caught by the dialogue.
The woman, who was about Kathy’s age, was protesting to the man I took to be her lover.
“It’s no good,” she said. “We’ll be hurting too many people if we go on with this.”
She looked a bit like Kathy too, though the man was much younger than Ben and better looking.
“But don’t you see…?” he said.
“No, Mal,” she interrupted, “it’s impossible and you know it!”
There was one of those pauses when you know the character is winding himself up to make some powerful speech. Then he burst out,
“Kathy, we love each other, you know that! There’s no way we can ignore it, it won’t go away just because we pretend it doesn’t exist.” The coincidence of her name being the same kept me riveted. “All right, Janice is my wife but we’ve been living as strangers for years now. We don’t communicate any more – perhaps we never did. And now this fabulous chance has come along for us to be together forever. How can we let it slip?”
The woman (who distracted me by an irritating habit of tucking stray locks of hair behind her ears) considered this.
“It’s wrong,” she said at last. “How could we do such a thing!”
“It would be wrong,” he declared, “not to do it. It’s our one chance of happiness, surely we deserve that? In your heart you know I’m right. Be brave, Kathy, and face the truth!”
“Oh Mal! Yes! You’re right. Of course I’ll come with you!”
There was the obligatory embrace as the credits rolled and I was left wondering what the fabulous chance was that would let them be together forever, and wishing that such a chance could occur for my Kathy. But, of course, whatever the chance, and however fabulous, she would never take it. People like Kathy and Ben didn’t do things like that, nor, probably, would any of the people I knew in Taviscombe.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
There is nothing so profoundly irritating and frustrating as having something happen to one’s computer. Especially if, like me, you haven’t the remotest idea how the thing works or what to do to make things better. You daren’t experiment in case you do something irretrievably awful to the mysterious and omnipotent entity called The Hard Drive, so you are left with a feeling of helplessness and rage. In my innocence, as a novice, I had assumed that once I’d grasped the basic principles (I really only used the thing as a sort of super typewriter) all would be plain sailing. How wrong I was. The wretched thing kept freezing (I believe that’s the proper term) and I could only switch it off, getting that horrid, patronising notice that told me I’d exited incorrectly and not to do it again. After this had happened a couple of times, I left it to itself, hoping that by some miracle it would be all right the next day. And the next day. But, of course, it wasn’t, so eventually I had to phone Michael.
“Lord! I don’t know. It could be anything!”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” I said impatiently, “you must have some idea!”
“Computers are funny things,” he said maddeningly. “It could be anything.”
“I know that. Can you come and look at it?”
“Honestly Ma, I don’t think I’d be able to do any good. What you should do is take it to my friend Dave, he’s an absolute whizz at fixing them. Just give him a ring, I’m sure he can help. You’ll only have to take the tower so I’ll come round and disconnect all the wires and things.”
Michael’s friend Dave, who I remembered as charming but eccentric, seemed willing to help and gave me directions for reaching him. It was a pleasant day and I quite enjoyed the drive to Hoccombe St Mary’s until I reached the narrow lane that I was required to take to get to the cottage. It was, in fact, a very narrow lane with virtually no passing places and I peered anxiously ahead, praying that I wouldn’t meet another car. I had gone for about a mile when I went round a bend (fortunately very slowly) and found myself nose to nose with a large estate car. I sat for a moment, hoping that the other person (obviously a local from the speed the car was travelling) would back, but as I looked again I saw that the driver was Claudia Drummond and, from the way she sat there impatiently tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she had no intention of moving.
I hate reversing, especially in our lanes where large stones in the hedges, hidden by the lush foliage, are a constant threat to one’s paintwork. Anyway, now I have a bit of arthritis in my neck the whole exercise is quite painful. With bad grace I started to reverse, lurching a bit from side to side of the narrow lane and having to stop and correct myself. Eventually, after what seemed ages, I found a gateway and eased my car into it. The estate car swept past, and I noticed with fury that Claudia Drummond didn’t even raise her hand in token thanks for my manoeuvre.
Still shaken by anger at the encounter I went on and finally found the cottage. I couldn’t make anyone hear at the front door so I went round the back and found Dave in what I took to be his workshop. He greeted me cheerfully and, fetching my computer from the car, invited me in.
It was, actually, difficult to get in, since most of the available floor space was taken up by benches with a variety of computers, monitors, keyboards and boxes of what I took to be spare parts. There were also ancient filing cabinets, old swivel chairs and desks, what seemed to be the detritus of many abandoned offices. Dave dusted off one of the swivel chairs and I sat down in it gingerly. He plugged my computer in and questioned me patiently about the problem. After a bit he said, “I think you need more memory – I can do that for you, no problem.”
“That’s marvellous,” I said.
“Well, leave it with me and I’ll try that and see how it goes.”
“Right, I’ll do that then. Thanks very much.”
I got up to go and Dave said, “It’s not very easy to reverse from here – not a lot of space. You’ll do better to go up the lane to the fork in the road by the big house and turn there. That’s what most people do.”
“The big house?”
“Yes, Hoccombe Court.”
“Is that where the Drummonds live?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
I told him about my experience with Claudia Drummond and he gave a short laugh.
“Typical! Dreadful woman! Very unpopular in the village.”
“I can imagine.”
“When they first came here she tried to run everything and when people wouldn’t stand for that she decided we were a lot of ignorant clodhoppers and found other things to amuse herself with.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. I imagine she thinks she’s being discreet, but you know what it’s like in the country, someone is always around. There’s quite a lot of gossip.”
“Gossip about what?”
“Young men mostly. Some of the hunting set – she’s very into all that – and there’ve been a couple of others. One was a schoolmaster, I think, and I don’t know who the most recent is – or perhaps she’s tired of him already because he hasn’t been around lately.”
“You seem very well informed about their movements,” I said.
“Well, the cottage is almost on the road here so I can see who goes by. There’s not a lot of traffic along here, mostly for me or for the big house. Living alone you take more notice, I suppose, of people going by.”
“But what about Sir Robert?”
“He’s away a lot. He works in Bristol and then he’s
off on these conferences they all seem to go to.”
“But surely he must know what’s going on?”
“Oh, he knows sure enough, but he must have known what he was taking on when he married her – she led a racketty sort of life before then, from what I can gather – and she’s a good bit younger than him. No, I reckon he thinks that if he pretends nothing’s happening then it’s all right and people will take things at their face value.”
“It seems an odd sort of relationship.”
“I think he’s the kind of man who really only cares about his work – they say he’s very ambitious – and he wanted someone who’d look good at functions and what have you and give him a bit of prestige. She’s certainly a handsome woman.”
“I suppose so.” I picked up my bag and started to thread my way through the various objects to the door. “Oh, by the way, what did the latest young man look like?” I asked.
Dave seemed surprised at my question, but he said, “Tall, dark hair, drives a grey Range Rover.”
“Malcolm Hardy!” I exclaimed. “I thought so.”
“Someone you know?”
“I don’t know him exactly – but he was the vet – the one who was killed. That’s why you haven’t seen him around here lately.”
“Good heavens! I read about that in the local rag. I don’t think there was a photo so I never made the connection.”
I thought for a minute then said, “I don’t suppose you can remember the last time he came here, can you?”
“As a matter of fact I can. It was the day I had a delivery of some monitors and they were the wrong sort so I had to make a heck of a lot of phone calls to sort it out. Hang on a minute, I can find the exact date if you like.”
He went over to a sort of wall planner that was sellotaped to one of the filing cabinets and studied it.
“Yes, here we are. Look,” he pointed to a scribbled entry in one of the squares, “it was the twenty-fifth.”
I bent over to look and exclaimed, “Good heavens! That was the day he died!”
“Really?”
“What time was he here?”
Dave thought for a moment. “Lunchtime. It must have been lunchtime when he went down, just after twelve. I remember thinking it was no use ringing the wholesalers because everyone would be on their lunch break.”
“And did you hear him going back up the lane?” I asked tentatively.
“I certainly did. He was going like a bat out of hell. I just hoped he didn’t meet anyone because there’d have been a bad accident if he had.”
He paused and said curiously, “Forgive me asking, but why do you want to know all this?”
“Well, you see, the people at the surgery said Malcolm Hardy had been out at lunchtime, a few hours before he died, but no one knew where he’d been. I think the police will be very grateful to hear about all this. Look, I know Inspector Eliot (he’s my god-daughter’s husband), so I’ll tell him what you’ve told me and I expect he’ll want you to make a statement. Is that all right? I know it’s very valuable information.”
“Sure, I don’t mind.” He looked at me sharply. “Do you think Claudia Drummond had something to do with this chap’s death?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I’m sure it’s really important to know where he spent those last few hours.” I paused for a moment. “The police will want to talk to her. Will that make things awkward for you? I’m sure they won’t let her know that it was you who told them about Malcolm Hardy’s visit.”
“No skin off my nose if they do. We’re not exactly on calling terms!”
“Well,” I said, moving cautiously towards the door, “thanks for everything.”
“I’ll let you know when this is ready,” he said, tapping my computer. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days – depends how soon the bits come through. Don’t forget – go up to the fork and turn.”
I walked back through the garden, admiring a splendid rhus in its colourful glory, and got back into the car. I drove very slowly up to the fork in the lane and turned the car. Then, making sure that there was no one about, I got out and went over to look at Hoccombe Court, or at least what I could see of it. Although it was at the end of a short drive lined with shrubs and small trees, it stood on a slight eminence and so was fairly visible from the road. It was a handsome small manor house, typical of those in this part of the county, built of mellow brick with some half-timbering, bleached with age. There didn’t seem to be anyone about so perhaps there were no live-in servants, which would have made Claudia’s little escapades easier to manage. The garden was well-tended; the grass cut and the shrubs neatly trimmed, signs of professional attention, probably some landscape specialist rather than an old-fashioned gardener, since it gave the impression that competence rather than love had dictated the layout and planting. I stood for a moment gazing abstractedly at the scene, then I got back into the car and went home.
That evening I phoned Roger. Jilly answered the phone and we chatted a bit about the children, then I said, “Do you think I could have a word with Roger?”
“Of course. He’s reading Alex his third bedtime story so expect he’ll be glad to be released!”
“Roger,” I said, when he came to the phone. “I’m so sorry to bother you at home, but I found out today something I think you ought to know.”
I told him what I had gathered from Dave and he said, “Well done Sheila! I always knew that the Taviscombe MI5 was our best source of information.”
“Very funny! But seriously, Malcolm Hardy was obviously having some sort of affair with Claudia Drummond. Rosemary and I saw them together one day up by Brendon Two-Gates.”
“You see! Nowhere is safe from the perfect spy system.”
“And,” I went on, “it looks as if there might have been a quarrel between them that lunchtime. I mean, Dave said Malcolm drove off in a fury and all the girls at the surgery remarked on how bad tempered he was when he got back. Something must have happened.”
“Could be.”
“Actually, if you think about it, it’s quite possible that he took, or was given, the insulin there, at Claudia’s. So no one at the surgery need have been involved at all!”
“I’d need to get medical advice about the reaction time of the insulin.”
“But it’s possible?”
“It might be.”
“So will you go and see Claudia Drummond?”
“In view of what you’ve told me, yes, of course.”
“Roger,” I said hesitantly, “if you do go and see her, you won’t let her know that Dave told me about Malcolm going there, will you?”
He laughed. “Surely you know that we never disclose our sources of information.”
“Yes, well. And Roger – you will let me know what you find out, won’t you?”
I didn’t really expect to hear from Roger immediately. Adopting the mock severe tone he does on these occasions, he’d said that it would be confidential information, which of course couldn’t be divulged, but I was fairly sure he’d at least give me a hint about what he found out. In any case I was pretty much involved in a gardening project that was taking up most of my time and energy. Reg Parry, who does most of the heavy work in my garden, had finally, grumbling every step of the way, (“Thic deuritzia she’s a fine bush – tid’n no sense to move ’er”) dug up several shrubs that had been cluttering up the main herbaceous border for years so I was taking the opportunity to replan the whole bed. The house was littered with bits of paper with rough pencil sketches, and kind Thea had made me several plans on her computer with the various options marked out.
“You know,” I said to Thea when she brought them round, “I think it might be a good idea to go to a garden centre and see what’s actually on offer.”
“You could order things from catalogues,” Thea said sensibly.
“I know, but I do like to see the plants. I always expect too much of pictures in catalogues. Actually there’s this splendid new place that opened th
e other side of Kilve. They say it’s really good – they’ve got lots of unusual things.”
“Is unusual a good idea?” Thea asked cautiously. “They might not be suitable.”
“Oh well, I’ll probably stick to the old faithfuls, with just a few experiments.” I picked up one of the designs she had made. “I must say I like this one. I’ve always wanted drifts of things, and I love the way the plants spread out over the path at this end.”
I took Thea’s plan with me, when I made my expedition to the new garden centre, as well as numerous lists I had made. But, of course, once I was confronted by the richness and variety of all the plants on offer, I rather lost my head and soon my large trolley was full of things that I felt in my heart Thea would call unsuitable. I was just considering my potential purchases when a voice behind me said,
“Sheila! Sheila Malory! What a surprise – I haven’t seen you for ages. How are you?”
My heart sank. Beryl Morton is an old acquaintance, but one I try to avoid whenever possible since she is the most terrible bore. Trapped as I was by a heavily ladened trolley there was no escape, so I greeted her with what I hope passed for enthusiasm.
“Beryl! How nice to see you. How are you?”
That was a mistake since she spent a good ten minutes telling me about the bad bout of enteritis she’d just recovered from, which led on to her son’s tendonitis and her husband’s cartilage operation. My eyes were glazing over as I leaned for support on the handles of my trolley, when I suddenly heard a name I knew.
“He had the operation done privately of course, in Bristol. Sir Robert Drummond did it – he’s very eminent in his field you know.”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly alert and eager to hear more. “So I’ve heard.”