The Silent Killer

by Hazel Holt

  “Oh well,” Rosemary said philosophically, “she was bound to object to something about it and it might as well be the colour. Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Yes, some dear little tiny furry animals – I long to keep them myself – and some doll’s clothes for her baby doll. Oh yes, and I got a really gorgeous pair of very soft leather gloves for Thea, sort of semi-gauntlet, most elegant.”

  “Oh, she’ll love those. What are you getting for Michael?”

  I groaned. “You know how difficult it is buying things for men! Poor love, he tries so hard to sound grateful when one produces yet another shirt or pullover. Actually, Thea said he wants a new waterproof jacket so I can get that from Ellicombe’s. How about Jack?”

  “Wasn’t it fortunate? His watch has given out just at the right moment, so I can get him a new one. Nothing expensive, he said, because he wants something he can garden in.”

  Since Taunton was so crowded we decided to have lunch at a garden centre we passed on our way home. As is the case nowadays, the plants and garden things took up only a fraction of the space, and the general impression was of an enormous craft centre – pottery of every description, hundreds of candles, table mats, wind chimes, sheaves of artificial flowers, stained glass this and that, jars and jars of “home-made” jams and chutneys – not to mention the vast pet department – hundreds of fleecy dog-beds and cat baskets, great sacks of dried food and cat litter, rubber bones, fluffy mice, collars, leads and medicaments for every imaginable animal ailment. And of course, it being November, there were acres of Christmas decorations, forests of artificial trees and glitter everywhere.

  The café which sold tea, coffee and Light Lunches was very full.

  “Oh dear,” Rosemary said, “a Senior Citizens’ outing – I thought I saw a minibus in the car park.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Look, there’s a table for two over in that corner. You go and grab it and I’ll get the food. Ham sandwich and coffee all right?”

  “I suppose,” I said, when we were settled with our sandwiches (cheese and pickle because all the ham had gone) “that technically we’re senior citizens.”

  “Oh, don’t!” Rosemary exclaimed. “I can’t bear it! That’s the thing – everyone tells you that the big jump is from youth to middle age, but it isn’t at all. The really ghastly one is from middle age to old age. I mean, you trundle along quite happily through your forties and fifties, probably your early sixties too, without feeling much different, then suddenly there are things you can’t do, or can only do more slowly or less well. And you know that it’s not going to get any better – in fact it’s going to get worse!”

  “I know. It’s a dismal prospect. I try not to think about it. Just live one day at a time, that’s what my mother used to say. Anyway, we’re not absolutely decrepit yet! And, if you come to think about it, as long as the children and grandchildren need us, we’ll still feel useful and that’s a marvellous way of keeping real old age at bay!”

  “I suppose so,” Rosemary said grudgingly. “Oh, that reminds me, I promised Jilly that I’d get her some of those special dog biscuits. I know they have them here.”

  “You see!” I said. “They still need us and will go on needing us …”

  I broke off.

  “What is it?” Rosemary asked.

  “It’s Brian,” I said. “You know, the splendid handyman I told you about. He’s having lunch here.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “He’s with a woman!”

  “So?”

  “Well – well, it’s just a surprise that’s all.”

  I tried to cast surreptitious glances at Brian and his companion. For some reason I didn’t want him to know that I had seen him. He seemed quite different from the Brian I knew, talking animatedly to the woman. She was small, dark haired and vivacious and they seemed to be very much at ease with each other. After a while they got up to go and I bent down to pick up my handbag so that he wouldn’t see me as they passed.

  “What was all that about?” Rosemary asked curiously.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it was so unexpected, not like Brian at all – it almost seemed like a secret assignation.”

  “Perhaps she’s married.”

  “Could be. But – well – that doesn’t seem Brian’s style.”

  “You never know with people,” Rosemary said.

  “No,” I agreed. “You never know.”

  Anthea carefully lifted the large cardboard box onto the table and examined the contents.

  “We’ve got a nice lot of jam and some marmalade as well,” she said, “and I’ve got the promise of a dozen cakes.” She fixed me with a stern look. “And of course, Sheila, you will be making two of your fruit cakes.”

  I saw Rosemary suppressing a giggle.

  “Yes, Anthea,” I said meekly.

  We were in the kitchen at Brunswick Lodge preparing for the Christmas Fayre – an appellation much disliked by many but somehow so honoured by tradition that no one ever considered changing it.

  “Shall I put the kettle on?” Rosemary asked. “I think we deserve a cup of tea after all our hard work. How about you, Mr Norton?”

  Jim Norton, who was engaged in some electrical work at the far end of the kitchen, said that would be very kind.

  “Now then,” Anthea continued, “that’s the Produce stall dealt with. Oh by the way, Marjorie is going to do some of those bay-leaf balls. It’s really quite clever, she sticks twigs of bay leaves into a ball of that foam stuff and ties it up with a ribbon. Most attractive, I’m sure they’ll go very well. Actually, I’m not sure if they should go on the produce stall – after all, they are made of herbs – but perhaps they should go on the Craft stall with Jennifer’s dried flower arrangements and the holly wreaths. What do you think?”

  “Oh, Crafts, I think, don’t you? Anyway, there probably won’t be room on the Produce stall, especially if you make all those scones and mince pies.”

  “Oh yes,” Rosemary said. “I forgot to say, Mother says she’s sending two of Elsie’s Victoria sponges.”

  “Oh well,” I said, “definitely Craft, then.”

  We were drinking our tea (Jim Norton didn’t join us, preferring, he said, to Get On With Things, though I think it was because he rather disapproved of our female chatter) when the door opened and Bill Goddard came in.

  “I thought this is where I’d find you,” he said. “Is there a cup for me?”

  He laid down a large parcel on the table.

  “Betty said you might like to have these for the Fair thing.”

  He opened the parcel and spread out several tablecloths, some embroidered, some with crocheted lace edging.

  “They’re beautiful,” Rosemary said. “Such fine work! Did Betty do them? It’s very good of her to send them. I don’t think I could have parted with them!”

  “No,” Bill said, “Vera did them. She was a great one for fancy work, always stitching away. I suppose it was something to do to pass the time.”

  “But don’t you want to keep them?” I asked.

  “Betty put one of them aside, but, well, we don’t use such things any more. A cup of tea in front of the telly at teatime is more our style now.”

  “Well, I’m sure someone will be delighted to buy them,” I said. “It’s very kind of you to let us have them.”

  I carefully folded the cloths and put them away while Rosemary poured Bill a cup of tea and pushed a plate of biscuits towards him.

  “Oh well, I won’t say no,” he said, “though Betty’s always on at me to give up sweet things – she’s forever reading these articles in the paper saying everything’s bad for you. Still, I reckon it’s too late now to make a bad day’s work good as my old father used to say.”

  “So,” I said, “how are you getting on with clearing out Vera’s house?”

  Bill sighed. “It’s a job and a half, I can tell you. The stuff she hoarded. The coal shed alone is full of cardboard boxes!�
�

  “Oh dear.”

  “Still, we’ve cleared most of the downstairs, Betty and me. A lot of the furniture will go to the auction rooms – she had some nice pieces – and most of the china and ornaments too. There’s still some of Terry’s things in the cupboard on the landing and I don’t know what to do with them. It’d cost a fortune to send them out to New Zealand, but I don’t just like to throw them away.”

  “Still,” I said, “I expect he’d have taken anything he really wanted when he left home.”

  “Don’t you believe it!” Rosemary said. “I’ve still got a mass of things Jilly left behind when she and Roger got married. I’ve asked her a hundred times what she wants me to do with them but all she says is they haven’t any room, so will I keep them.”

  “Actually, yes,” I agreed, “now you come to mention it, Michael’s old room is still full of his things and I hardly like to dump them on poor Thea.”

  “That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Anthea said firmly. “When Jean and Kathy left I had a real clear-out and anything they hadn’t taken I gave to Oxfam or threw away.”

  “Anyway,” I said, hastily turning to Bill, “at least you’ve made a good start.”

  He shook his head. “There’s still all the stuff up in the loft,” he said. “Boxes of it.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I went up there the other day and I couldn’t believe the things she’d kept. One thing, though, that was a bit upsetting.” He paused for a moment and then went on. “When Frank was killed I was away, of course, in the Army, and it was a while until I got back and could see Vera, to know how she was taking it. Well, she’d been in a right old state, so Betty said. Sort of numb, I suppose. But one thing Betty could never understand. A letter had come for Vera, and it must have been the last one Frank wrote to her before he died. Well, she wouldn’t open it. Said she couldn’t bear it. And that wasn’t all. There were several other letters – one from his commanding officer and a couple from one of his friends who was with him – you know, when he was killed. She wouldn’t open them either. She must have put them away up in the loft, because that’s where I found them, in an old biscuit tin, still unopened.”

  “Good heavens,” Rosemary said. “So have you read them?”

  “No, Betty was calling me, said we had to get back for the television repair man.”

  “But you will read them?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, I think someone ought to. Mind you, I suppose Terry should have them really, but I think I’d better have a look at them before I pass them on to him. There might be something upsetting… Not that he remembers Frank, of course. He was only a baby.”

  “It must have been very strange,” I said, “finding them after all these years.”

  “It gave me a bit of a turn,” Bill said slowly, “to see Frank’s handwriting like that.” He drank the last of his tea and put the cup carefully back in the saucer. “And now we’re all dropping off the perch, one by one, and those of us that’s left are getting on. I’m lucky, I’ve got Betty to keep me going, but poor Sidney – I don’t know how much longer he can manage on his own.”

  “Oh yes, that reminds me,” Anthea said. “Marjorie says that David is going to take him to see another retirement home this weekend, somewhere down in Cornwall. It’s quite a journey so they’re going to stay the night at some hotel down there. St Ives, I think she said.”

  “But that’s so far away!” I exclaimed. “He won’t know anyone there and it’s far too far for his friends from Taviscombe to go and visit him.”

  “I believe St Ives is very nice,” Anthea said. “There’s a splendid art gallery there, Jean sent me a postcard when she and Ian were there for a holiday.”

  “I don’t think Sidney is very keen on art,” I said, “and even if he was it wouldn’t make up for being so far away from his family and friends.”

  “I expect David wanted him as far away as possible,” Rosemary said, “so that he wouldn’t have to bother with him any more. Typical!”

  “Perhaps,” I said hopefully, “it won’t be suitable in some way. I think it’s such a shame that he has to move out of Lamb’s Cottage, it must have so many memories for him.”

  “He will take his memories with him,” Rosemary said gently.

  “We all have to move on, Sheila,” Anthea said. “After all, we’re none of us getting any younger.”

  And really, I thought, as I gathered up the cups and saucers and rinsed them in the sink, there’s no answer to that.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  It was over a week later that I finally got down to making the fruit cakes for the Christmas Fayre. As I got out the ingredients, the scales and the mixing bowl, Tris materialised at my feet. He is passionately fond of sultanas and seems to know, as if by magic, when I am about to be using them. Foss was in his usual position, sitting on top of the microwave, where he is able to command a good overview of what’s happening in the kitchen and where he can bat at my hair with his paw when I pass to remind me of his continued presence.

  While I had the things out, I thought I’d make a sponge and a few scones to put in the freezer to have by me in case anyone called. After all that, though, I didn’t really feel like cooking lunch so I made myself a poached egg on toast and was just sitting down to have it when the phone rang. It was Michael.

  “Hello, Ma. I thought I’d better let you know. Sidney’s dead.”

  “Oh no! What happened? Was it a heart attack?”

  “They don’t know yet – there’s got to be a post mortem.”

  “How awful!”

  “Mrs Harrison found him when she went in to clean.”

  “Oh dear, poor Sidney, dying all alone like that. Perhaps it would have been better if David had got him into a home.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “We’re his solicitors. David got in touch.”

  “How dreadful for Mrs Harrison. She must have had a terrible shock.”

  “Yes. Look, Ma, I must go. I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes, but I just thought you’d want to know…”

  “Yes, of course. Do let me know if you hear anything else.”

  I went back to my poached egg, but it was cold and congealed and, anyway, I didn’t really feel like eating anything so I just made myself a cup of tea and sat thinking about Sidney.

  “Oh, isn’t that sad!” Rosemary said when I rang her later.

  “He looked so well when I saw him at the Remembrance Day service,” I said. “A bit frail, but it was a cold, miserable day.”

  “I didn’t know he had a heart condition, did you?” Rosemary asked.

  “We don’t know that it was heart. Michael said there’d have to be a post mortem.”

  “How did Michael hear?”

  “David rang because they’re Sidney’s solicitors.”

  “Typical of David!” Rosemary said. “Thinking about the money, I suppose.”

  “Well, to be fair, I suppose they had to know. But I expect he’s keen to know about the money.”

  “Sidney must have been pretty well off. They say he made a packet when he worked in the City. And with property prices as they are Lamb’s Cottage must be worth a lot, too. There’s quite a bit of land as well as the house.”

  “Oh yes, it’s a lovely spot. I expect with all that money David will be able to send those boys of his to an even grander public school!”

  But when I ran into Bridget a few days later she had quite different news. I was taking a short cut through the park when I ran into her, walking her dog.

  “Bridget,” I said, “I was so sorry to hear about poor Sidney.”

  “Yes, it was very sad.”

  “You’ll miss him.”

  “Well…” She hesitated. “To be honest, I didn’t see that much of him. David went round there quite a lot, of course, but he didn’t visit us all that often.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “We don
’t know yet. David will put a notice in the Free Press and the Telegraph when we do.”

  “Will the boys come back for it?”

  “Oh no, David thinks it might be upsetting for them.”

  “I suppose they didn’t see that much of Sidney, either,” I said, “being away at school…”

  “Oh, Sheila!” Bridget interrupted me. “Such good news! They’re coming home at the end of term – they’re not boarding any more. They’ll be day boys at Taunton School.”

  Her eyes were shining and she looked positively animated.

  “That’s lovely for you, Bridget,” I said. “I know how much you missed them. But I thought David was frightfully keen on boarding school, meeting all the right sort of boys and so on. What made him change his mind?”

  “Oh, I think he was missing them, too, and he knew how much I wanted them at home.”

  “Well, that’s splendid,” I said. “It’s good to hear something nice at a sad time like this.”

  I bent and patted the spaniel which was whining softly, annoyed at having his walk interrupted. “We were all very shocked to hear about Sidney. I had no idea he had a heart condition.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a heart attack.”

  “Oh. I suppose I just assumed it must be, since it was so sudden. What was it, then?”

  “The post mortem said it was carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “What!”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “But how…?”

  “They think it was something to do with the stove. I’m afraid I don’t really know the details. Oh dear,” she went on as the spaniel began to pull at its lead, “Dandy wants to be off. Goodbye Sheila. I expect I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I expect you will.”

  “I couldn’t believe it,” I said to Thea, when I went round there later. “She just came out with it, almost like an afterthought. Well, not even that really. In fact, if I hadn’t said that about a heart attack I don’t believe she’d have mentioned it at all!”