The Silent Killer

by Hazel Holt

  “I know. I can still hardly believe it. But there you are. I don’t know which is the most awful, that horrible thing in the war or all those years of misery for Brian and his mother.”

  “That woman we saw him with at the garden centre, I suppose she’s the one he wants to marry.”

  “I think so. She looked nice. I wonder if Brian’s heard Bill’s story yet.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rosemary said. “Word gets about pretty quickly, especially if it’s something to someone’s discredit. I wonder what he’ll make of it?”

  “I should think he’ll be jolly glad Sidney’s real nature is being exposed at last.”

  “Nasty for David and Bridget.”

  I told her about Bridget avoiding me up on the hill. “It’s almost as if she can’t face me.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Rosemary declared. “Would you!”

  “No, I suppose not. Still it’s a bit unfair on her, poor little thing.”

  “She’s always struck me as being a feeble sort of person, but then you’d have to be to be married to someone like David.”

  “Yes, but remember that picture. Do we,” I asked earnestly, “know what David is really like?”

  “Oh, don’t,” Rosemary protested. “It’s bad enough having been wrong about Sidney – don’t tell me we’ve been wrong about David too.” She put the hyacinths in a planter and stood it on the window sill. “Thank you so much, Sheila, I adore hyacinths but they never seem to grow for me. The bulb either goes all soggy or shrivels up and withers away. I’m hopeless with indoor plants. That cyclamen Delia and Alex bought me for my birthday – I only had it about a week and the leaves went yellow and it pined away and died. I was upset.”

  “I expect you over watered it,” I said. “Let the hyacinths dry right out before you give them any water and they should be fine.”

  * * *

  I spent Christmas day with the children, which was lovely, though Alice, overwhelmed by a multitude of presents, was a little grizzly towards the end of the day. It’s a commonplace to say that children have too much of everything nowadays, but I’m sure they don’t have the real and exquisite pleasure that we used to have as children when we finally achieved the one thing, toy, book or whatever, we’d been longing for all year. When Thea had put her to bed we sat around, stupefied by too much food, as one always is, until I finally roused myself and went back home to attend to my resentful animals, trying to make up for my absence by extra food. This satisfied Tris, who is a simple soul, but Foss blackmailed me into playing endless games with string, scrunched up tissue paper and bits of tinsel before he finally allowed me to make my weary way to bed.

  Every Boxing Day Peter and I used to go to lunch with Jack and Rosemary and since his death I’ve kept up the comfortable tradition.

  “Oh well,” Jack said as he filled my wine glass, “Christmas is as far away now as ever it was.”

  This was a remark he made every Boxing Day and Rosemary and I exchanged smiles. “Now then,” he went on with his carving knife and fork poised over the splendid rib of beef. “Well done for you Sheila, isn’t it?”

  As we ate our beef and Rosemary’s exquisite Yorkshire pudding, talk turned, not surprisingly, to Sidney Middleton and his sudden death.

  “Extraordinary way to do a person in,” Jack said. “Must have been a really clever chap to have thought of that.”

  “Marvellously simple, though,” I said. “Didn’t need any sort of force or special implement like a gun or a knife, or poison, even.”

  “You’d have to know about flues and things,” Rosemary said. “Not everyone would know about that.”

  “So you think we’re looking for someone who’s got a stove like Sidney’s?” I asked. “That should narrow the field a bit.”

  “No, no,” Jack said impatiently. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be the same sort. The general principle would be the same for any chimney. Once you stop the fumes escaping they’re bound to be forced back into the room. It could just as easily have been an ordinary fire, or a gas fire for that matter – it sometimes happens when those blasted starlings build their nests in the chimney.”

  “Good heavens,” Rosemary said, “is ours all right?”

  “Yes, of course it is,” Jack said, “we have the thing serviced every year and they check it then.”

  “I’m going to get one of those carbon monoxide alarms, though,” I said, “just to be on the safe side.”

  “Good idea,” Rosemary said. “Do have some more roast potatoes.”

  “And all this stuff about the way he went on in Belgium in the war,” Jack went on. “Dreadful way to behave, the man must have been a thoroughly bad sort to do something like that. After all, he was an officer, responsible for his men.”

  “It’s like an awful thing you read about in a book,” Rosemary said, “not something that happens in real life.”

  “Poor Bill Goddard was dreadfully upset,” I said, “opening that letter after all these years. You can imagine the shock. And someone he’d always looked up to. Everyone did. There’s never been the least breath of scandal about Sidney before all this came out.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Jack said, reaching for the horseradish sauce. “I’ve occasionally heard the odd whisper from a bloke I know in the City. Sailing a bit close to the wind sometimes.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard that,” I said.

  “I always dismissed it as gossip,” Jack said. “A lot of old women as far as gossip’s concerned, those City types. Mind you there was that business in his firm about insider trading. Not that Sidney had anything to do with that. Some young chap it was, got too clever, but they nabbed him in the end. Still, it leaves a nasty taste, that sort of thing.”

  “Anyway,” Rosemary broke in, “I wouldn’t think Sidney would need to do anything crooked. He’s always had pots of money.”

  “Thanks to Joan,” I said. “We always thought they were childhood sweethearts, all that sort of thing, but not according to your mother. She said he only married her for her money.”

  “If Mother says so then it’s probably true.” Rosemary laughed.

  “Old Clive Wishart must have made a fortune from that agricultural machinery business,” Jack said, “and Joan was his only child. There was a lot of money there.”

  “She always seemed to worship him,” I said. “Perhaps she did.”

  “People are peculiar,” Rosemary said. “Now then, how about pudding? I made a sherry trifle, lots of sherry because I thought we all needed bracing after the exhaustion of Christmas.”

  That terrible dead week between Christmas and the New Year seemed to pass even more slowly than usual, but it was over at last and I was able to take down the cards and decorations that always seem to have outstayed their welcome by then. I spent New Year’s Eve as I always do, quietly at home with the animals, occasionally switching on for a moment to watch the mechanical revels on television. People did very kindly ask me to their New Year celebrations but, as Rosemary once said, “Think of the horror of a party you know you can’t possibly leave until after midnight!”

  I was in bed at midnight, reading, when Michael rang, as he always does, just to say Happy New Year.

  “Oh, and by the way,” he added, “I thought you’d like to know that we’ve got probate on Sidney Middleton’s will, so Brian Thorpe and his mother now own the cottage at Withycombe so they’ll be financially secure now.”

  “I’m glad about that,” I said, “but it doesn’t really solve poor Brian’s problem, does it?”

  I ran into Roger at the weekend. He was loading shopping into the boot of his car.

  “Hello,” I said, “have they got you doing the supermarket run now?”

  “Delia has a rotten cold and Alex has an ear infection, so Jilly’s more or less housebound.”

  “Oh poor little Alex, that’s so painful, he must be feeling really miserable.”

  “I’ve just been to collect his antibio
tics so I hope it’ll clear up soon.” He slammed the boot shut and went on, “Sheila, if you have a few minutes to spare I’d like a word.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Let’s sit in the car, shall we, it’s bitterly cold.”

  “I know,” I said as I got into the passenger seat, “the wind blows into this car park straight off the sea!”

  “It’s about Sidney Middleton,” Roger said. “I’ve been hearing rumours.”

  “About that thing in the war?”

  “That’s right. My Sergeant Lister is the nephew of Ernie Shepherd, who’s a friend of this Bill Goddard…”

  “‘And that’s how tales do get about’,” I quoted. “I see.”

  “So, after what you said about Sidney Middleton not being as universally popular as you thought he was, I wondered if you’d tell me now about this other person you mentioned and what sort of grudge he might have.”

  “Oh dear. It was told to me in confidence.”

  “And it will stay that way with me, you know that, just as long as it doesn’t have any bearing on the case. It is a murder, after all.”

  I sighed. “I know. Oh, all right.”

  I told Roger Brian’s story and he looked thoughtful.

  “And Middleton left them the cottage?”

  “I think he more or less had to,” I said, “he’d signed some sort of document years ago.”

  “Mm, that gives this man Thorpe even more of a motive, if there’s property involved.”

  “I don’t think Brian’s the sort of person – I mean, he wouldn’t kill someone for property.”

  “But he might do it as revenge for what happened in the past and what happened to his mother?”

  “I suppose. But Roger,” I asked as a thought struck me, “why do it now, after all these years? Why wait all this time?”

  “Well, if, as you told me, he knew the cottage would come to him when Middleton died, and if the only way he can marry this woman is to put his mother in a home, then – well, you see…”

  “Possibly. But – oh, I don’t know – he’s such a nice man!”

  “But under an enormous amount of stress, and that makes people do uncharacteristic things.”

  I thought of Brian’s outburst at the funeral and how shocked I’d been. “You’re right, of course. Who knows what any of us would be capable of if we were really pushed?”

  “And then there’s this Bill Goddard. From what Sergeant Lister said he’s been in a very agitated state.”

  I told Roger about the letter and how moved I had been by it. “He was dreadfully upset. I know Betty, that’s his wife, was afraid he was going to have a break-down…” I broke off.

  “But Roger,” I went on, “Bill is an old man. There’s no way he could have done such a thing, however strongly he felt about it.”

  “It doesn’t take much strength to undo an inspection plate,” Roger said. “Or to put it back again.”

  I thought about Bill’s solitary walks, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention them to Roger.

  I shook my head. “I still can’t believe it,” I said.

  “Because you don’t think it’s possible?” Roger asked. “Or because he’s a friend and you’re fond of him?”

  “Both, I suppose. Are they – Brian and Bill – going to have to be interviewed?”

  “I’d like to know where they were at the relevant time.”

  “Well, look, it doesn’t matter so much about Bill. He’s been telling everyone about Sidney and the letter, but if you could manage not to let Brian know that you got his story from me…”

  “I’d have been interviewing him anyway as a beneficiary under Middleton’s will. And I’d have to ask him why he and his mother should have been left the cottage. I daresay the rest will come out if I approach it that way.”

  “Oh, thank you, Roger.”

  He smiled. “We do try to protect our sources, you know, especially such valuable ones.”

  “Will you let me know what you find out?”

  “I daresay it may emerge. Oh, by the way, Sheila, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ve finally found a copy of Three Brides.”

  Roger, like me is a Charlotte M. Yonge enthusiast.

  “Oh, that’s marvellous,” I said. “That one is quite rare now. How did you find it? On the internet?”

  “That’s right – so lucky.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “Mm. It will never be my favourite but it’s got some splendid stuff in it. All that business with the drains and the casual way she killed off one of her main characters, poor Raymond, in the typhoid epidemic!”

  “I know. Her females weren’t supposed to have any interest in drains, it was thought unwomanly. But they pop up in most of the books, and not just hers. I’ve always wanted to write a paper on The Importance of Sanitation in the Victorian Novel, but I’ve never had the time.”

  “Oh, I think you must. Well, I’d better be getting this antibiotic back to Alex. Thanks for the chat, Sheila.”

  I got out of the car and went into the supermarket. By a strange coincidence I ran into Betty Goddard again.

  “Hello, Betty, how’s Bill? Is his bronchitis better?”

  She looked up from examining a Buy One Get One Free display of tinned soup.

  “Oh, hello, Sheila. Yes, Bill’s much better – well, the bronchitis is, but he’s not himself, not by a long chalk.”

  “No,” I said, “I suppose it’s all been a dreadful strain.”

  “He’s been going down to the Legion practically every day and he comes back in quite a state. Telling everyone there about Sidney Middleton and then they all go on about it, over and over. Honestly, Sheila, when he first told you and then Fred I thought it would do him good to get it off his chest, but now the whole thing’s getting right out of hand.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “He can’t seem to talk about anything else – it’s really shocking.”

  “It must be very worrying for you.”

  “Some days I’m at my wit’s end. It can’t be good for him.”

  “What does Susan think?”

  Susan is their grown up daughter. She and her husband and two children live in Bournemouth.

  “They’ve been away. They went to Trevor’s people for Christmas and stayed on a bit, so I couldn’t have a talk with her straight away. But, of course, they’ve had to come back for the children’s school now. I rang her yesterday and she said to bring Bill down and stay with them for a bit.”

  “That sounds like a very good idea,” I said. “A change of scene might be just what he needs.”

  “He likes to see the children,” Betty said, “well, we both do, and I like the shops. Trevor said he’d come and fetch us at the weekend, and I’m sure the Nortons would look after the house for us while we’re away.”

  “I think you should go. It’ll do you good as well.”

  When I got outside the sky was iron grey and it was very cold.

  “Looks like snow,” the man collecting up the trolleys said cheerfully.

  “Oh, I do hope not,” I said, thinking of all the inconveniences snow always brings. But as I drove away the first flakes began to fall and by the time I got home a white, whirling mass was blown into my face by the wind as I got out of the car.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  The snow was quite deep by the next morning. It looked absolutely beautiful, of course, the trees and hills brilliant white against the iron grey sky that promised more to come, but I am too old now to take delight in the aesthetic qualities of snow. My thoughts were more prosaic: would the electricity go off, and would it be possible to drive my car up the lane? I spent a considerable amount of the day staring morosely out of the window, hoping for some gleam of sun that would melt the wretched stuff. Tris, however, loves the snow and made little forays outside, scratching away on the lawn and inspecting with interest the tracks made by other, wilder creatures in the night. Foss would have nothing
to do with it. Having satisfied himself that there was snow outside every door, he gave me a glance of deep disappointment and took himself up to my bed where he spent the day curled up in a disapproving ball.

  The snow melted a little the next day and then it froze, bringing new hazards. The following day more snow fell and I thought I really must try to clear a path for the postman and the milkman who had been nobly making deliveries. I’m not very good with a shovel – and this was a heavy, spear-shaped implement that had belonged to my father and was always used by him for such tasks – and I was just pausing for breath when a van churned its way slowly up the lane, stopped outside the gate and Brian got out.

  “Here,” he called out as he approached, “let me do that.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, relinquishing the shovel gratefully. “Can I make you a cup of something?”

  “Tea would be nice.”

  I went back into the kitchen, put the kettle on and got out the cake tin. After a while there was a knock at the back door.

  “I’ll leave my boots outside, shall I?” Brian asked, shaking the powdered snow off his jacket.

  “Come on in,” I said. “Tea’s ready.”

  “I came to see about those shelves,” he said. “That’s if you still want them.”

  “I most certainly do. Even though I hardly ever buy new books these days I’ve still got piles of them sitting on the floor in the dining-room now! Do have a piece of fruit cake, or there’s some sponge if you’d rather.”

  “Right, then, I’ll go and measure up in a moment. It’s just that this is usually a quiet time for me. Most people don’t think about having things done just after Christmas, they seem to wait for the Spring.”

  We chatted for a while on general topics, quite easily, just as though Brian’s outburst last time we had spoken had never happened. Then, out of the blue, he said, “The police came to see me yesterday.”

  “Really? What for?”

  “About Middleton. This Inspector said he had to talk to everyone who benefited under his will.”