A Death in the Family

by Hazel Holt

  There was a heavy, complicated lock on the massive front door and at one side a modern bell commanding visitors to Ring and Wait. After a while, through the stained glass panel (the ecclesiastical theme?) in the door I saw a figure in a green overall who unlocked it and, inviting me in, locked it behind me. Noticing my startled look she said, ‘We have to keep it locked, you understand. Some of the old dears go walkabout if we don’t.’ She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a strong Welsh accent and she ushered me into a small waiting room. ‘Who was it you were wanting to see, dear?’ she asked.

  I almost asked for Sybil, but remembered just in time that now she had another name and I must get used to calling her by it.

  ‘Sister Veronica, please, she is expecting me.’

  ‘Right you are, dear. I’ll just go and see if I can find her.’

  The waiting room was rather dark, with one small window (more stained glass) and was furnished only with a table with four upright chairs standing stiffly around it. There were several magazines on the table and I picked one up, expecting it to be of some religious nature, but it was an old copy of What Car? and the others were equally unexpected – Woman’s Own, Country Living and Hello magazine. Encouraged by the secular nature of the reading matter provided, I sat down and picked up the latter. I was absorbed in pictures of the wedding of two American film stars I’d never heard of, when the door opened and Sybil – that is Veronica – came in.

  She was wearing the sort of dress (one could hardly call it a habit) that Mrs Dudley had described and, indeed, she did look like an old-fashioned nanny. She came forward into the room with her hand outstretched.

  ‘Sheila, this is a pleasure. Do forgive me for keeping you waiting but I was in the laundry.’ She smiled, seeing my puzzled expression. ‘All our residents are elderly so, as you can imagine, keeping up with the laundry is an ongoing problem.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Well, now,’ Veronica continued, ‘let’s go up to my room where we can have a proper chat.’

  She led the way through the hall and up a fine, ornately carved staircase and along a series of corridors each lined with heavy doors with little brass slots, like those in Victorian pews, marked with their occupants’ names. Like all residential homes it was very warm, but today, given the miserable weather outside, the warmth was welcome. Veronica’s room was quite small and at the back of the house with a view over part of the vegetable garden. There was a divan bed with a cream candlewick cover, along one wall, a small bedside table, a table with one upright chair, and two armchairs facing the window. The curtains at the tall window were brocade, faded to some indeterminate colour and the carpet was a neutral green. The room was saved from dullness by the fact that the walls were lined with bookshelves, crammed with books, many still in their bright jackets, and a large, white cyclamen plant on the table.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Veronica said. ‘I’ve asked Gwyneth to bring some coffee.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said. Then, uncertain of what to say next, I went on, ‘It’s so nice to see you again – I can’t remember when the last time was.’

  ‘A funeral I expect,’ Veronica said with a smile, ‘it usually is.’ She indicated the armchairs. ‘Do sit down.’

  There was a knock on the door and the woman in the green overall came in with a tray with two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar and a plate with four plain biscuits on it.

  ‘There you are, Sister,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the biscuits but Mrs Granger had the last of the shortbreads.’ She put the tray down on the table and went away.

  Veronica handed me one of the cups of coffee and I refused the sugar and the biscuits. We sat in silence for a moment, then she said, ‘It’s always lovely to see you, Sheila, but do I get the feeling there’s a reason for this particular visit?’

  I nodded. ‘Actually, yes there is.’ I put my coffee cup back on the table. ‘Do you remember a cousin of ours, Bernard Prior? He was down here doing genealogical research into the Priors, and he’s been calling on members of the family, asking for photos, documents and so on. I wondered if he’d been to see you?’

  I became aware of the fact that Veronica was sitting very still, almost holding her breath. She didn’t reply straight away, but then she said in a calm, measured voice, ‘Yes, I remember Bernard Prior, and no, he didn’t call on me.’

  I looked at her curiously, but her face was impassive.

  ‘Oh, well – it’s just that I thought I’d better let you know – he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Her voice was no longer calm. ‘Dead? Do you mean that?’ she asked urgently. ‘Really dead?’

  ‘Well – yes, really dead,’ I said.

  ‘Thank God,’ she said.

  This reaction disconcerted me so much that I simply didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent.

  ‘Thank God,’ she repeated and got up and went over to the window where she stood for some minutes looking out. Then she turned and came slowly back and sat down again, gripping the arms of the chair tightly. She was very pale and she took deep breaths as if to restore her composure.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked anxiously and made a movement to get up. ‘Shall I call someone?’

  ‘No, no…’ She made a great effort to speak. ‘It was a shock – I’ll be all right, just give me a minute.’

  I sat quietly for what seemed like a long time, though it was probably only a few minutes, and then Veronica said, ‘I’m so sorry. You must wonder what on earth…’ She broke off and got up again, this time pacing up and down the room. ‘I’ve tried so hard, you see, prayed so much, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t forgive him. Even now, you see, even now when he’s dead. You’d think that now…’ She made a despairing gesture and stood quite still. After a moment she seemed to collect herself and came back and sat down. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sheila. You must think I’m completely mad. Perhaps I am where that man is concerned. When did he die, and how?’

  I told her what had happened and for a moment she said nothing. Then she gave a wry smile. ‘So there was someone else who hated him as much as I did,’ she said. ‘What a pity he was already dead and didn’t know it.’

  She saw my expression and shook her head. ‘I know, I know. It’s a shocking thing to say, especially by someone in my position, and, as I said, I’ve tried to forgive him for the awful things he did, and, indeed, I’ll go on trying for the rest of my life. Then perhaps my trespasses may be forgiven. It is, after all, a fundamental tenet of Christianity, is it not?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose I should tell you what on earth all this is about.’

  ‘No, really, you don’t have to,’ I said, ‘not if it upsets you.’

  ‘I think you deserve an explanation after my little outburst just now. I’m sorry to have inflicted that on you, but, well, it was, as I said, a shock.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  She nodded. ‘You remember Alma, my younger sister? She married someone called Howard Osborne, a nice man but not strong – he’d had tuberculosis when he was young and it left him with a weakness so he couldn’t work full time. He was a part-time library assistant, but, of course that didn’t bring in much money, so Alma trained as a nurse and when their son Robin was born, she went to work for an agency so that she could arrange her shifts to look after him.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘Robin was a lovely boy, so sweet-natured, a bit delicate though – they had worries about him, worries about his lungs of course – and perhaps, being an only child, a bit timid and introverted, but such a happy child. They were all so happy. I used to go and stay with them sometimes and the atmosphere in that household was so warm and loving…’ She broke off and sat in silence for a moment. ‘When Robin was about twelve, Alma ran into Bernard Prior – I think he had to come to the hospital for something. Anyway, they met again. We’d both known Bernard when we were children. We used to be invited round to tea with him – he was an only child and his mother (such a nice woman) worried t
hat he didn’t have enough company of children of his own age and he didn’t seem to have any friends. We never liked him because he was what we called “bossy”. I suppose it was really bullying, but, you know how it is, if your parents arrange things you don’t really feel you can do anything about it – well, that’s how we used to feel – I expect children today speak up for themselves more than we did.’

  ‘Indeed they do!’ I said.

  Veronica acknowledged my interjection with a smile and went on, ‘Anyway, Bernard seemed quite pleased to see Alma, went on about the old days and so forth and invited them all to Sunday lunch, so they went. After that they saw quite a bit of Bernard and his family. Alma didn’t really want to – she found Bernard as domineering as he used to be and was so sorry for his poor wife and children, especially the boy – but, as she said, it was difficult to keep on finding excuses without sounding rude.

  ‘Bernard had just been made headmaster at this private school and, when Robin was thirteen, he suggested to Alma and Howard that he should become a pupil there. Of course Alma said they couldn’t possibly afford the fees, but Bernard said that he’d waive the fees because Robin was such a bright boy he deserved the best chance they could give him.’

  ‘That was generous.’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘Bernard never did anything without an ulterior motive.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said.

  ‘Robin really was bright and was obviously going to do well in exams and with league tables being as important as they are I can see that Bernard thought he’d be useful.’

  ‘Oh, those wretched league tables! They seem to be the be-all and end-all of everything now!’

  ‘Well, Alma and Howard talked it over and decided that they ought to accept Bernard’s offer. His school had a very good academic reputation and could give Robin a lot of things his local comprehensive couldn’t. So they said thank you very much and Robin started at the beginning of the next term.’ Veronica paused for a moment, as if remembering something, then went on. ‘It was all fine to begin with. Robin did very well and his teachers were pleased with him and the other boys seemed friendly enough, but, after a while, things started to go wrong. I think I told you that Robin was rather a timid child, overprotected I suppose – he was so precious to them – and I suppose that sort of child does tend to attract the bullies, and that is what happened. It wasn’t bad at first, just a bit of name-calling, but when they saw he was scared it got worse. Then one of them found out his parents didn’t pay any fees and they taunted him about that, and it was made worse when they discovered Bernard was a relation.’

  ‘Children can be very cruel,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t just the children,’ Veronica said. ‘Bernard began to ask Robin about the other pupils – who was doing something wrong, who was responsible for various things that had happened in the school – making him a spy, in fact.’

  ‘But that’s awful!’

  ‘Of course Robin didn’t want to, but Bernard told him that it was the least he could do because his parents didn’t pay.’

  ‘No! He actually said that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, of course, but he implied it. “Your parents would be so grieved to know how ungrateful you are being” – that sort of thing. Robin was totally confused, he adored his parents and couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting them, so he did what Bernard asked.’

  ‘The poor child!’

  ‘It wasn’t long before the bullies found out and then it really was hell for him. The ringleader, was a boy called Desmond, and the rest of the gang kowtowed to him because he was the son of the local millionaire. Anyway, this boy decided that the best way to teach Robin a lesson, as he called it, was to introduce him to drugs.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘The group had been smoking cannabis – I imagine it was quite easy to get if you had the money. So instead of tormenting Robin this Desmond said he knew the sneaking wasn’t his fault and he could join the gang. Again, I don’t think Robin wanted to, but anything was better than the misery he’d been enduring. They said he had to smoke the cannabis if he wanted to be part of the group and so he did.’

  ‘What about his parents? Didn’t he tell them what was happening?’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘No. Howard wasn’t well and his mother was working all the hours she could just to keep their heads above water financially. Poor Robin didn’t want to give them any more worries so he kept all this to himself. And I was too far away down here for him to be able to turn to me. If only I’d known…’

  Her voice trailed away and she took a few moments to recover.

  ‘Things went from bad to worse. They made Robin collect the stuff from the dealer, and by then it was hard drugs not just cannabis, and the inevitable happened: he was caught by the police.’

  ‘Did Bernard have any idea of what had been going on?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but he may have done. The fact is, though, when this Desmond swore that he had nothing to do with it and said Robin was the ringleader, Bernard backed him up.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Desmond’s father was rich and influential, Robin was the perfect scapegoat.’ She paused for a while and then went on. ‘I think the police suspected the truth, but there was no evidence against Desmond and Robin had been caught red-handed, as it were, and however much he protested his innocence there was nothing he could do. But the police did try to make things easier for him. He wasn’t sent to a young offenders’ centre, thank God, and just did community service. But he has a police record.’

  ‘What happened at the school?’

  ‘Oh, Bernard expelled him with a great deal of fuss and commotion. You know – “An example must be made to show we won’t tolerate such behaviour…” and, of course, “After all I’ve done for this boy…” – that sort of thing.’

  ‘How awful for Alma.’

  ‘She and Howard were devastated. Of course they believed Robin, but there was nothing they could do. Still, that wasn’t the worst problem. The awful fact was that Robin had become an addict. They got him into a rehab programme and for a while they thought things were going to be all right. But he lapsed. Time and again he’s lapsed and now – well…’

  ‘That is really terrible.’

  ‘It completely overwhelmed poor Howard. The worry and the sheer awfulness of what had happened were simply too much for someone in such frail health. He died a year after and ever since Alma has been trying to keep some sort of home together for herself and Robin and trying desperately to keep him clean.’

  She finished speaking and we sat there in silence for some time. Veronica looked drained and tired, as if she couldn’t talk any more, and I was so overwhelmed by the dreadful story she’d just told me that I couldn’t find any words to speak of it. After a while she got up and went over to the window. Looking out, with her back to me she said, ‘So you see why Bernard Prior was unlikely to call on me, and why I thank God that he is dead.’ She turned and faced me. ‘No, I didn’t kill him, though I have often wished to, may God forgive me. And Alma didn’t kill him either. For the last two months she’s been up in Newcastle, finding work where she can, trying, once again, to support Robin on yet another rehab programme.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When I drove away the mist had lifted but the sky was still iron-grey and the whole landscape seemed drained of light. Somehow I didn’t want to go straight home. I needed time to take in the dreadful things Veronica had told me, so I took the long way back, over the moor, and stopped in a lay-by to collect my thoughts. The feelings she’d described were so strong, the events so vivid, that I felt I’d somehow been living them with her and I needed time to come back to my own world.

  I watched the sheep moving down the slope into the combe below, nibbling the short grass as they went, saw the crows wheeling overhead and heard the cry of a seagull perched on a mound covered with dead heather, hoping for some titbit from my parked car. Slowly I began to understand
fully the horror of what had happened to that family, and the extent of Bernard’s responsibility for it. More than ever, when I thought of the irreparable damage he’d done to so many people, I felt, with Veronica, glad that he was dead. The heart attack was, perhaps, divine justice – was that how Veronica thought of it? I wondered. But if only it had remained a natural death, if only that blow had not been struck. Admittedly, if what Roger and Michael had told me was true, then no one could be prosecuted for the attack, but all the same I couldn’t leave it alone, I still needed to know who had wanted to kill him.

  Veronica said she hadn’t done it (and her reaction to the news of his death made me feel she was telling the truth), and Alma and Robin were far away, so there seemed to be no one left. No one in the family, that is. I suddenly remembered the conversation I’d had with Raymond Poyser about the boy – his neighbour’s nephew – at Bernard’s school who’d tried to commit suicide. That had been about bullying too. His parents would have felt as badly as Veronica and Alma; would, surely, have wanted Bernard dead. I sat thinking about this while the rain began to fall, the sort of fine, wetting rain, whipped up by that wind that almost always cuts across the high moor, sweeping it in waves so that it almost obliterated the landscape in front of me.

  It wouldn’t do, I decided eventually. How would they have known that Bernard was down here in Taviscombe? It would obviously have been easier to kill him in Bristol. And, anyway, why wait so long after the event? No, I decided regretfully, although they certainly had a motive, it was unlikely the parents of that poor boy could have killed the man they knew was responsible for their son’s desperate act.

  So I was back to the family again and the feeling I’d had all along that Bernard’s own research had been responsible for what had happened. But there was no one left.

  ‘Yes there is!’ I said aloud, startling myself with the sound of my own voice in the enclosed confines of the car. ‘There’s Fred!’

  I suppose I’d forgotten about Fred because he lived in Bristol and not locally, but there was no reason to think that Bernard hadn’t been in touch with him too and that he’d mentioned his projected trip to Taviscombe. Surely there’d been notes attached to Fred’s family tree. I couldn’t remember. I started the car and began the journey home, anxious to see what, if anything, Bernard had discovered about that particular branch of the family and if there was something there that might conceivably have provided a motive for murder.