by Hazel Holt
As I drove home I considered with pleasure Janet and Luke’s new life together. It seemed like a real happy ending. I pulled myself up short. A happy ending that was the result of Bernard’s death. If only, I thought, Bernard had simply died of a heart attack and there’d been no (unnecessary, as it turned out) attempt on his life, how much simpler and easier it would all have been. Well, at least Janet and Luke, who’d benefit most from his death, were above suspicion. Janet had been with me and Luke had been in his restaurant. He’d called Christine from there and, anyway, he’d been in the kitchen all evening, cooking that delicious food, and then been in the restaurant talking to the customers. I was glad about that. Also, if Janet’s car crash was deliberate and an attempt to get rid of her, then that cleared them both conclusively.
Which seemed to leave Harry and Richard. Both of them had a strong motive to want Bernard silenced. I wasn’t sure, though, how I’d find out if they had alibis. Presumably Roger could do that, but I wasn’t sure just how much I wanted to tell him about the results of my ‘digging’ so far. I thought I might find some excuse for ringing Pam, but it would be more difficult to manufacture a reason for getting in touch with Rebecca.
The need to pass a seemingly endless convoy of lorries meant I had to concentrate on my driving and I postponed any further thoughts until I was safely home. Actually, I’d only just got back – fed the animals (furious at my absence) and let them out into the garden – when the phone rang. It was Pam.
‘Sheila,’ she said, ‘can you come over sometime? Tomorrow, if you can. There’s something I want to tell you.’
‘Of course. When?’
‘About ten-thirtyish?’
‘Fine.’
We sat in the kitchen as usual and Pam poured the coffee and pushed a plate towards me.
‘Shortbread,’ she said. ‘I used a higher proportion of cornflour and I think it’s an improvement. What do you think?’
I bit into the shortbread which, like all Pam’s baking, was superb. ‘Wonderful,’ I said, ‘can I beg the recipe?’
‘Sure, I’ll write it out for you.’ She drank a little of her coffee and said, ‘Do you remember what I told you about the farm and Uncle Robert, and how Matt was going to try and find out about it?’
I nodded. ‘And did he? Find out anything?’
‘Yes, he did. He was very lucky. I think I told you that this girl – her name was Gloria Porter, by the way – was a land-girl and we had the name of the farm where she was billeted. Anyway, Matt went to the farm, but it’d changed hands and no one there knew anything at all. He was a bit fed up about this, but he went into the post office in the nearest village – well, it was a sort of village shop and post office, where everyone knows everyone’s business – and asked there, and they told him about an elderly woman in the village who might remember something. And it was amazing, she’d been a land-girl on the same farm and knew this Gloria well.’
‘What a marvellous piece of luck.’
‘Wasn’t it! Apparently she’d married one of the local lads and stayed down there after the war.’
‘So did she know what had happened to Gloria?’
‘It’s a very sad story, really,’ Pam said. ‘It was one of those wartime weddings when they only had a few days together before he went back to his unit. Matt said he thought that leave was cut short because of the invasion preparations and everyone had to be back in camp for security reasons.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well,’ Pam continued, ‘because it was all such a rush, her parents couldn’t come down for the wedding so she went up to London, Camberwell I think it was, to tell them all about it. But while she was there the house was destroyed by a flying bomb and they were all killed.’
‘How awful!’
‘Robert never heard about it because the invasion had started and so, of course, she never knew that he’d been killed in action.’
‘Oh that’s terrible,’ I said, ‘really sad.’
‘I know,’ Pam replied, ‘and I felt really mean about being relieved when Matt told us.’
‘Relieved? Oh yes, of course – sorry, I was just thinking of it as a story, I’d sort of forgotten what it must mean to you all.’
‘It means that the farm really is ours, no one else has a claim to it.’
‘I’m so pleased for you,’ I said. ‘Not everyone would have made those enquiries, they’d just have ignored the whole thing.’
Pam smiled. ‘That’s not Harry’s way. Too honest for his own good, I sometimes think.’
‘Still,’ I said, ‘this time honesty really did pay off. And well done Matt for investigating!’
‘Actually,’ Pam said, ‘it’s really a good thing that he did. I mean, once we knew about Uncle Robert and the marriage, if we hadn’t tried to find out, then we’d always be wondering if someone was going to turn up out of the blue.’
Another happy ending I said to myself as I drove home, but again, a happy ending because of someone’s death – well, two people’s deaths in this case. Still I was so glad that things had turned out well for Pam and Harry.
‘Mind you,’ I said to Rosemary when I told her the end of the story, ‘at the time, when Bernard was still alive, they must have felt threatened, so they did have a motive for wanting him out of the way.’
‘That’s true,’ Rosemary agreed. ‘But, no, after the way Harry’s behaved over all this, I simply can’t believe he could have tried to kill Bernard.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said, ‘and, anyway, we both know Harry; he’s just not capable of doing something like that. It was silly of me to imagine that he could. So,’ I continued, ‘that leaves Richard. I’d much rather it was him!’
‘Oh,’ Rosemary exclaimed, ‘I forgot to tell you. He’s got an alibi.’
‘Who? Richard? How do you know?’ I demanded.
‘Well,’ Rosemary said, ‘I suddenly remembered that on the night your cousin Bernard died, Jack had a Rotarians meeting. You know Richard’s on the committee too, so I asked Jack if he was there, and he was. The thing started at seven-thirty (such a tiresome time, so inconvenient for eating!) and didn’t finish until nearly nine. Well, you know what they’re like when they start arguing about something, no one will ever give way. And Richard was there all the time.’
‘And I suppose,’ I said, ‘that means he wasn’t the person who caused Janet’s car accident either. Oh bother! He was quite the most promising suspect. I don’t suppose Rebecca…no, not possible. Not hitting someone over the head, too down-to-earth. So that’s that then.’
‘That’s everybody?’
I nodded. ‘Yes – except for cousin Sybil.’
‘Sybil?’
‘Now Sister Veronica.’
‘You mean the one that joined that Anglican Order?’
‘That’s right. They run a retirement home just outside Lynton.’
‘Oh I know, one of Mother’s friends – Mrs Savage, you remember her – she went in there. Mother went to visit her.’
‘Really?’
‘Only once to see what it was like. She said it was very well run and comfortable and all that.’
‘But?’
‘But apparently there’s a chapel there and everyone’s expected to go to services twice a week.’
‘That seems fair to me,’ I said. ‘I mean, you presumably have some idea of what you’re letting yourself in for if you go into a home run by nuns. It’s like people who put their children into church schools because of the good academic standards and then complain that they’re being taught religion!’
‘I don’t think Mother has ever grasped the idea of an Anglican Order,’ Rosemary said. ‘I believe she thinks you can’t be a nun unless you’re an RC. And I gather she was put out to find the nuns weren’t wearing long black robes and those great white headdresses. They looked more like nurses, she said and what’s the point of that?’
I laughed. ‘Oh well, I suppose I might go and see Sybil. Not that I imagine for a mom
ent she would have had anything to do with Bernard’s death. Still, it would be interesting to see the place. I don’t really know what the form is, obviously I can’t just drop in. I’d better write and find out when visiting hours are, or whatever.’
So I wrote a brief note to Sybil and got a reply back by return saying that she’d love to see me and would two-thirty the following Tuesday be all right. I got out Bernard’s material once again and looked at what he had written for Sybil. It was just the family tree, our common grandparents and then her father (Francis Prior m. Elinor Partridge), and then the entries for Sybil and her younger sister, Alma (m. Howard Osborne) and their son Robin. There were no notes, so either he hadn’t had time to investigate that particular branch, or there was nothing worth reporting. Though that didn’t seem like Bernard, who seemed determined to wring the last little drop of information from every single member of the family.
As always, when I’d spent any time poring over Bernard’s findings, I felt the beginnings of a headache coming on so, although it wasn’t a very nice day, dull and grey with an insidious, chilly wind, I thought a little fresh air might help. Tris, who’d already encountered the weather when he went out into the garden, remained in his basket when I dangled his lead temptingly before him, but I thought that he needed the exercise so I turfed him out saying he could stay in the car if it was too bad. Foss, comfortably ensconced on the worktop beside the radiator, gave him a look in which pity and contempt were equally mingled.
Actually, it wasn’t too bad down by the sea and Tris soon forgot his reluctance, and ran about on the beach investigating the pools left by the receding tide, getting (probably purposely) wet and muddy. Apart from the usual flock of gulls, Tris and I had the beach to ourselves, which is always nice, and I enjoyed watching the waves creaming onto the shore, but after a while, the wind got stronger and more unpleasant. Tris began to whimper and, as a sudden squall of rain caught me, I felt a bit like whimpering myself, so we made our way back to the promenade as quickly as we could and sat down in one of the shelters to recover our breath. I was just remonstrating with Tris, who was shaking himself vigorously all over my ankles, when someone else came into the shelter.
‘Hello, Sheila. I might have known nobody else would be mad enough to come out on a day like this.’ It was Roger.
‘Except you,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t you out detecting things or filling in forms or whatever you do nowadays?’
He laughed. ‘Between meetings,’ he said. Roger often came down to the seafront whenever he had an hour to spare; he said it was a good place to think. It was another thing we had in common. ‘I didn’t expect this, though,’ he said, looking at the heavy rain bouncing off the pebbles on the beach.
‘I can give you a lift back, if you like,’ I said. ‘Oh, by the way, did you get anything useful from Janet about her car crash?’
He shook his head. ‘Not really. It was dark and she obviously panicked. She said she really didn’t get a proper look at the driver, which is a nuisance because we’ve got him and a witness statement would be helpful.’
‘You’ve got him?’ I echoed.
‘Well, them really, I suppose. Sergeant Harris was right, it was joyriders. A couple of kids he’s had trouble with before. He found the car and their prints were all over it, and the paint marks matched the paint on Mrs Prior’s car – it was an open and shut case really, but it would have helped if she’d got a look at them. Still, there’s no doubt it was them. It isn’t the first time they’ve driven someone off the road like that, so I hope they’ll get put away, but of course, they’re both underage so…’
‘So it was an accident,’ I said slowly.
Roger looked at me quizzically. ‘I’m sorry to spoil your nice complicated theory, but yes, it was an accident, and there was no attempt to silence Janet Prior for whatever reason you may have thought.’
‘I suppose not,’ I said slowly.
‘Have you run out of ideas?’ Roger asked.
I nodded. ‘More or less,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it was just a burglary that went wrong after all.’
‘One should never reject the obvious.’
‘Though you did say,’ I went on, ‘that it looked too good to be true.’
‘Which just goes to show,’ Roger said, ‘that even I can’t be right every time. So now what? Are you giving up on it? I’m sure you have other things to do with your time.’
I sighed. ‘It’s given up on me, really,’ I said. ‘I seem to have come to the deadest of dead ends.’
Tris, who’d been lying quietly at my feet suddenly got up and almost pulled the lead out of my hand as he made a dive for a seagull that had ventured almost inside the shelter. There was a great flapping of wings on the part of the seagull and barking from Tris.
‘I suppose I really ought to be getting back,’ Roger said. ‘It’s still tipping down so I’d be glad of that lift.’
I decided that I’d put the whole business of Bernard’s death out of my mind and for several days I had the feeling that there was an uncomfortable space in my life, but then other things drifted in to fill it. Anthea, for instance.
‘Sheila, you haven’t forgotten the committee meeting on Monday to discuss the Christmas Fayre, have you? We’re practically into November now and you know how long it takes to get anyone to commit themselves to do anything.’ She took a breath and went on. ‘Now, it’s very important that we make it quite clear at the outset that Agnes Howell is not to be allowed to organise the collection of the mince pies. You will remember last year what a dreadful muddle she made of it. She completely underestimated the number of people who needed to supply them and it was only because I happened to have an extra batch in my freezer that we had enough for the teas. And those frightful ones that Moira made with that stone-ground wholemeal flour, hard as bullets, no one touched them! No, I’d like you to organise them this year, Sheila, and make sure that Doris Makepeace brings hers on time this year. Up to the last minute we weren’t sure if she was going to…’
By the time I’d extricated myself from all the burdens that Anthea was planning to put on me, my head was full of anything but Bernard’s affairs. Then there was Rosemary.
‘What do you think about that country house hotel outside Simonsbath? Cynthia said that they did Stephanie’s wedding do very well, but that was in the summer, of course, and most of it was outdoors. Perhaps it isn’t the right place for December. Oh dear, I do wish we’d been married in the summer, it would be so much more convenient! Of course, Mother’s still going on about having it at The Castle, but I really don’t…though, come to think of it, Simonsbath’s quite a way to travel for a lot of people, and if the weather’s bad some of those roads are practically impassable. Honestly, I wish to goodness people didn’t make such a fuss about having been married for forty years – and all to do again, if we make it to fifty!’
Alice needed my attention too.
‘Now you be the shopkeeper and I’m the lady coming in with her little girl. We want some cakes please (these sweeties are the cakes) and some rice (it’s real rice, Mummy gave it to me), and you weigh it out on the scales. Half a pound of rice. Gran, what’s tuppenny rice? Can you sing me the song? And I want two apples – we have to pretend the apples – my little girl likes apples, but she likes strawberries better. Do you like strawberries, Gran? Do you like strawberries better than apples…?’
Not to mention the animals. Foss, who is normally an enthusiastic eater, cleaning up his own dish and licking round Tris’s empty bowl in case some fragment has been overlooked, suddenly went off his food. For two days, although he seemed perfectly healthy (cold, wet nose, full of energy), he didn’t eat a thing. At first I thought he’d been catching mice and birds, but there were no pathetic little piles of feathers and no solitary mouse’s gall bladder on the doormat (his usual offering). I couldn’t understand it and began to be really worried. But then, suddenly, he was his usual voracious self and ate everything I offered and asked for more. Another
feline mystery. Such are the maddening ways of cats, using up your time and energy, never coming when called, then strolling in hours later, when you’ve been out combing the highways and byways, peering down rabbit holes in anxiety and despair, totally unconcerned. ‘Were you calling me?’
No, I decided, my life was full enough. After I’d been to see Sybil, I’d wipe the whole Bernard mystery completely from my mind. The trivial round, the common task, as Dr Keble tells us, should be quite enough for me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tuesday was another cold day, dull and misty with a fine drizzle falling, and I began to wonder why on earth I was going out in this miserable weather to see Sybil, someone I really didn’t actually need to see, when I could be cosily at home occupying myself in a more rational way. The animals, too, showed no signs of wanting to venture out. After breakfast Tris had retired to his basket with an ancient bone for company. Foss had gone to ground under the duvet on my bed and was visible only as a motionless hump. Feeling a strong desire to join him, I nevertheless put on my warm winter coat and gloves and got the car out.
As I drove along the coast road the mist got thinner, though there was still enough to obscure the view across the Bristol Channel on one side and the high moorland on the other.
I drove down Countisbury Hill into Lynmouth, empty now of tourists with only the gulls and the jackdaws inhabiting the seafront, and up again into Lynton and then on towards the Valley of Rocks, but turning left back onto the moor again until I finally found the large imposing building that was St Winifred’s Home. It stood in solitary splendour, its Victorian Gothic towers overlooking lawns and shrubberies that, though they were doubtless pleasant in summer, now had a dismal appearance. There was no one about – not surprising, I suppose, in view of the weather, but nonetheless adding to my feeling of unreality, and it was with some relief that I saw a prosaic notice saying Visitors’ Car Park. Grateful for this sign of normality I drove the car into the space indicated and got out.