by Hazel Holt
“Actually, Desmond knows him slightly, that’s why he was very anxious that Sir Robert should do it.”
“Really?”
“Such a nice man. I believe he’s due to retire soon, though he’s very active for his age and, of course, he does have that wretched diabetes to contend with – though I suppose that’s nothing nowadays is it, not with all the new drugs and injections and things.”
“No, I suppose not. How interesting that it should have been Sir Robert – I ran into his wife quite recently.”
I reflected that the white lie was almost justified since she had almost run into me!
“Oh did you? What did you make of her? She’s his second wife, of course.”
“I didn’t really take to her,” I said truthfully.
“No, well, I believe she isn’t generally liked.”
“How did they meet?” I asked. “I mean, she’s so much younger than him.”
“She was a nurse – South African, of some sort. I think that was when he was working in Durban. Which reminds me, did I tell you that Desmond’s sister Janet is going to buy a house in Spain? We all think it’s a great mistake, well, you know how difficult property abroad can be…”
She went on, without apparently drawing breath, for some time, until I finally managed to break in and make some excuse to get away.
When I got home and unloaded the plants I found that I’d forgotten to get the delphiniums which were to form an integral part of the border.
“Never mind,” I said to Foss, who was investigating a pot of Japanese anemones by scooping out the earth with his paw, “we now know that Robert Drummond is a diabetic, so that there must be a supply of insulin readily to hand, and that Claudia Drummond used to be a nurse, so would know exactly what would happen if Malcolm Hardy was given insulin on top of the drugs he was already taking. I think,” I said, “I’d better let Roger know before he has a word with her.”
I moved indoors to the phone leaving Foss, who had abandoned the flower pot and was putting in some serious digging of his own in the newly dug border.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
“At first she denied the whole thing,” Roger said. “Insisted Malcolm Hardy was a mere acquaintance and said he’d never been near the place that day. But when I told her we had a witness who’d seen him, she came over all pathetic – said her husband was so jealous, and so on and so forth.”
We were sitting in my kitchen with cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits (Roger’s favourites) while he brought me up to date on his interview with Claudia Drummond.
“That’s not what I heard,” I said. “Mind you, he may have reached the limits of his patience. Perhaps he’d threatened to divorce her – I’m sure she wouldn’t like that.”
“I certainly got the impression that she doesn’t want him to hear about this particular episode.”
“Did you get any idea why Malcolm Hardy went there? I mean, I wouldn’t have thought they’d risk being together at her place, especially since he’s got a large house of his own with no encumbrances. A much more convenient place to meet, wouldn’t you think?”
“I gather he suddenly turned up to have it out with her, or at least that’s what she said.”
“Have what out?”
“He wanted her to leave her husband and go and live with him.”
“Fat chance! So what did she say about that?”
“Oh, how she’d never looked on it as a serious affair, how she’d never leave her husband – that sort of thing.”
“And how,” I enquired, “did he take all of that?”
“Badly. She didn’t go into details but it sounds as if he was furious – I suppose he thought she’d led him on. She said she was afraid of him, thought he might get violent.”
“I can’t see Claudia Drummond being afraid of anyone in that way! But I suppose she might have been afraid that he’d tell her husband, and, like I said, it might have been the last straw for him.”
“Possibly.” Roger took another biscuit and bit into it thoughtfully.
“So,” I went on, “she might very well have had a reason for getting rid of him. And, as I told you, there’s insulin in the house. She could have put something in his drink.”
“Ah – that’s the point.”
“What?”
“He didn’t have anything to drink there.”
“That’s what she said?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed her?”
“Yes, I think I do. From what she told me, it was a real stand-up row and then he stormed out. Not a situation when he might have downed a peaceful whisky!”
“You don’t think she might have tried to smooth him down, given him a drink to calm him?”
“Not really. Anyway, your friend Dave said that he drove off down the lane in a tearing hurry – just like a man who’d had a row, in fact.”
“Yes,” I said regretfully, “I suppose that’s true. And he was certainly still in a dreadful temper when he got back to the surgery. But if all that’s so, then where did he get the alcohol that was found in his blood?”
“I can only imagine he stopped off somewhere on the way back to have a quick drink. I expect he felt the need for one by then!”
“I suppose so.”
“Which means,” Roger sighed, “checking every pub between Hoccombe St Mary and Taviscombe!”
“Oh dear. Here,” I pushed the plate towards him, “have the last biscuit to keep your strength up!”
“So I’m afraid,” I said regretfully to Rosemary when she rang me that evening, “it looks as if Claudia didn’t murder him after all. I mean, if he didn’t drink anything while he was there. And he’s not likely to have stood still while she pumped him full of insulin!”
“Pity,” Rosemary said, “she was my favourite suspect. Dreadful woman! Oh well, I expect Roger will sort it out eventually. Now, what I wanted to ask you is can you come to Taunton with me next Tuesday morning? I thought I’d start my Christmas shopping really early this year.”
“Oh bother, no I can’t manage Tuesday. I foolishly let Anthea persuade me to help her serve the coffee at the flu clinic. You know how she won’t take no for an answer!”
“Oh, poor you! Never mind, we could make it Thursday if you like.”
“Thursday would be lovely,” I said gratefully. “It will be something to look forward to.”
The flu clinic, where the over-65s are given their flu jabs, takes place in one of the many church halls with which Taviscombe abounds. It’s very well run and is really quite a social occasion because the patients are required to sit down for 10 minutes after they’ve been injected to make sure there are no ill effects, and to keep them there they’re offered coffee and bicuits. After which, of course, they sit chatting and the problem is to get them moved on so that the next batch can be processed.
The thing was supposed to start at ten o’clock but when I arrived there was already a queue waiting to get in – the over-65s being of that generation who always, conscientiously, arrive early for everything. The hall had been set up with rows of chairs and screened-off tables with the medical equipment and I saw Anthea waving at me from the counter at the far end of the hall where the kitchen was.
“I’ve got the kettles on,” she said, before I’d even got my coat off. “There’s no urn, unfortunately, but I think we can manage if we keep the kettles going. Can you put the biscuits out – they’re in that tin over there.”
Silently giving thanks for the absence of an urn (urns and I are not compatible), I put some biscuits onto the plates and set out the cups and saucers and bowls of sugar.
“There’ll be quite a rush once they get going,” Anthea said, “so can you put some coffee into the cups all ready? About a heaped teaspoonful should be about right, most old people like it a bit weak. Oh, and can you open a carton of milk and pour it into one of those big jugs then I can get at it more easily.”
It is gener
ally recognised by those of us who engage in good works with her that Anthea will always take command and so most of us meekly do her bidding – though Vera Parrish (a born rebel) was once heard to mutter under her breath, “What did your last slave die of?”
The expected rush began and I was soon too busy to do more than spoon coffee into cups, gather up the used ones and replenish the plates of biscuits. After a while I also found myself at the sink washing up and it was while I was doing this that June Hardy suddenly appeared.
“Hello Sheila,” she said. “If I could just have a word?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about the Red Cross auction sale. You know, of course, that I shall have to dispose of the house now that Malcolm’s dead.”
“Yes, I suppose so…”
“Well, the larger pieces of furniture will have to go to the sale-room, but I thought perhaps some of the smaller pieces and the ornaments and so forth, might go to the auction. They should raise quite a good sum for the Red Cross.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, there’s nothing there that has any significance for me – I shall be glad to think that the things might do some good.”
“It’s very generous of you,” I said.
“Not really – selfish if anything. It’ll save me having to deal with a lot of it. Martin Preston has said he’ll have the stuff collected and taken along to the Red Cross depot so that’s no problem. No, what I’d like you to do is put stickers on anything you think might sell.”
“Stickers are no use!” Anthea had come up behind us.
“Really?” June said.
“No – either they fall off or they leave dreadful sticky patches when you remove them. What you want are tie-on labels.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got a box of them at home – I used them when Mother died and we had to separate out who was going to have what in the family.”
“Perhaps,” June suggested, “you could give Sheila a hand then.”
Since this was patently what Anthea had had in mind (she loves poking about in other people’s houses – but then, don’t we all?) she agreed enthusiastically.
“Well that’s very kind of you both,” June said. “I’ve got the keys from the solicitors now so if you’d like to call in at the Larches on your way there I can let you have them. Now I must go and collect my old people – I’m sure they must have finished their coffee by now. Oh yes, there’s Mrs Benedict wandering off. I’d better go and catch her before she goes out the door – not exactly Alzheimers, but she’s very vague. Let me know which day will suit you.”
The Hardy house (I’d forgotten it had a name – it was called Willowbank, though there wasn’t a willow in sight), had that damp musty smell when we went in that you get in houses that have been shut up for a while. It was a very long time since I’d been inside; it must have been over twenty years ago, when old Mr Hardy was alive and my mother and I sometimes went to tea there. I’d also forgotten just how big it was, a real Edwardian family house, three storeys high and with attics and cellars and all sorts of outbuildings whose original use was now lost in the mists of time.
“The central heating’s still on,” Anthea said, putting her hand on one of the large, old fashioned radiators, “but it feels dreadfully damp – everything’s going to be covered in mould!”
I shivered slightly. “It’s a bit creepy,” I said.
“Nonsense,” Anthea said briskly. “It’s just that the stained glass in the door and windows makes it seem so dark.”
She switched on the electric light and we looked around us.
The ochre and black encaustic tiles on the floor, and the dark green painted lincrusta which gave way to sage green paper on the walls, certainly did little to lighten the spacious hall with its heavy oak staircase carpeted in crimson. There was a large grandfather clock and a massive carved oak chest against one wall and dark, indeterminate oil paintings in heavy gilt frames hung on the other. The drawing room was equally of its period, with long amber velvet curtains, vast chairs and sofas, which looked as if they could accommodate a race of giants, and a plethora of small occasional tables loaded with “objects”.
“Good heavens above!” Anthea exclaimed. “No wonder June doesn’t want to keep any of this!”
“It looks just like it did when we used to visit all those years ago,” I said. “It’s quite extraordinary. How could a young man like Malcolm live in such surroundings?”
“Mind you,” Anthea went on, examining a pair of elaborate pewter candlesticks on the piano, “it’s all very good quality. You don’t get workmanship like this nowadays.”
“Actually,” I said, looking around me, “some of this stuff really ought to go to Sothebys or somewhere – those miniatures, for example, those silver snuff boxes and that French clock on the mantelpiece. They’d never realise their proper value in a Red Cross sale here at Taviscombe.”
“But June did say…” Anthea began.
“Yes, I know,” I said, “and if she wants to she can always give the money they raise to the Red Cross or some other worthy cause.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Anthea was moving out of the drawing room back into the hall and into the room beyond.
“Good gracious!” I heard her exclaim and I went to join her in what used to be the dining room.
The contrast was certainly startling. This, presumably, was where Malcolm Hardy had actually lived. There were no rich velvet curtains here; instead there were fancy slatted blinds. Instead of elaborate chandeliers there were a multiplicity of spotlights in chrome holders and instead of the heavy furniture there were chairs and tables of twisted chrome and smoked glass. The walls had been covered in a sort of coarse cream linen and were hung with abstract “modern” paintings. The whole thing looked like a Style page from one of the Sunday supplements.
“Whatever would his father have said!” Anthea demanded.
There seemed to be no answer to that so I continued to look about me. There was what I believe is called a Work Station at one end of the room, with a very elaborate-looking computer and next to it a large television, video and CD player, all in one. Beyond that was a glass and chrome trolley which held a number of bottles, ice buckets and general drinking paraphenalia.
Anthea, following my gaze, stared disapprovingly.
“All that drink,” she said. “He must have been an alcoholic!”
I moved over and examined the bottles more closely. There were three different kinds of gin, half a dozen single malt whiskies, and various kinds of rum and vodka that I’d never even heard of.
“I think they’re as much for show,” I said, “as for drinking.”
Anthea gave me a sharp look and went out of the room. I heard her going upstairs and went back into the hall. The wide hall turned into a narrow passageway leading to the kitchen. Just before the kitchen there were two doors on either side of the passage. I tried the first, that appeared to lead out into the drive, but it was locked. The other opened into a large walk-in larder of a kind that you don’t see very often nowadays. There were wide shelves and marble slabs and it was well-lit with a large window at one end. The shelves were empty except for a few heavy earth-ernware jars and a great shallow dish of a kind I remember from my childhood that we used to “put down” eggs in isinglass for the winter. I went over to the window, which looked out onto the garden. One of the sash-cords was broken and hung down, stirring occasionally in the draught from the ill-fitting window. I shivered slightly, turned and went out and into the kitchen. Although it hadn’t been modernised and still had a large dresser with shelves displaying plates and dishes, and a large scrubbed wooden table with a couple of chairs, there was a modern sink unit, a big refrigerator and a nice new cooker. But the cooker was suspiciously clean and it seemed probable that Malcolm Hardy, when he cooked for himself, had used the large, shiny microwave that stood on a table by the window.
I had just opened the refrigerator (empt
y except for a few cans of beer – but presumably June had got rid of any perishable stuff) when I heard Anthea calling from upstairs. Rather guiltily I slammed the door shut and went to join her. I found her outside one of the bedrooms.
“Just look at that!” she said flinging the door open wider.
Just as he had modernised one of the rooms downstairs so he had completely altered the room he had used as his bedroom. There were the same blinds at the windows and the same linen paper on the walls. Not that much of the walls were visible, although it was a fair sized room.
They were all covered with works of art. And, indeed, they were works of art, reproductions of paintings and drawings by Botticelli, Cranach, Velasquez, Ingres, Degas, Bonnard, Picasso and many others – a comprehensive history of art, you might say, and all with one theme: they all portrayed the naked female form.
“Just look at that!” Anthea repeated.
“Good gracious,” I said.
Anthea seemed to find that an inadequate response.
“I think it’s absolutely disgusting. What poor June must have thought when she saw it…”
I went further into the room. Apart from a fitted cupboard the only things in the room were a king-size bed with a sort of fur coverlet over it and a very large television set. I’m afraid I can never quite resist teasing Anthea a little.
“I believe it’s what’s called a bachelor pad,” I said. “Very stylish and modern.”
“Disgraceful – just like all that dreadful rubbish you get on television.”
The bathroom had also been modernised but the other bedrooms had been left in their old-fashioned splendour. I indicated the stairs leading up to the third floor.
“I think it’s just attics up here,” I said. “Shall we go up?”
Anthea shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m going to make a start downstairs – you go ahead though and let me know if there’s anything suitable up there. I really don’t know what we’re going to do about labelling things for the auction.”
The rooms on the top floor were small and all had sloping ceilings; presumably the servants’ rooms way back in the early 1900s when the house was first built. Now they were filled with boxes and tea chests all dusty and forgotten, with the odd object – a glass vase or broken china ornament – left abandoned on the narrow mantelpieces. I lifted some old newspapers from one of the boxes and found a jumbled collection of books, framed photographs (mostly faded with age), odd pieces of china and the usual collection of coathangers that always seem to find their way into any collection of discarded objects. The thought of sifting through this detritus of a bygone age, which at other times might have appealed to me, suddenly seemed too much. It made me feel melancholy and depressed, so I quickly made my way downstairs to the comfort of Anthea’s bracing presence in the kitchen.