Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder

by Hazel Holt

  ‘Perhaps some public-minded literary critic did away with her to preserve Meredith’s reputation,’ Michael said.

  ‘There could be worse motives for murder,’ I agreed. ‘Can you finish this up? I hate having bits left over.’

  Chapter Ten

  Rosemary is a member of the Garden Club and I had promised to go as her guest on an outing to the Margery Fish garden at East Lambourne. To be honest, I really didn’t feel like going anywhere, but I knew she’d be disappointed if I dropped out. Anyway, I thought that a little communing with Nature might stop me squirrelling about in my mind about the two deaths. In a way, Enid’s death had made me quite sure that Will was not the murderer. I could just about see him striking Adrian down in a blind rage, as some sort of revenge for Lucy, but there was no way that he could ever have tried to burn poor Enid alive. Indeed, of all the people who might be considered suspects, there was no one, I felt, capable of such vicious brutality.

  In the coach, trundling along the narrow lanes, Rosemary was inclined to the same view.

  ‘Well, I don’t see how it can have been murder, not this time. I think Roger’s got a bit carried away, don’t you? I mean, can you see anyone we know doing a thing like that!’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ I replied. ‘I still think it was vandals. After all, there was that business last year when those young boys tried to burn down the sports pavilion at the school.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Rosemary shook her head vehemently. ‘I blame the teachers really, and the parents – no sort of discipline. Children nowadays seem to think they can get away with anything. Well, they can, if you think of it. All those boys got was a warning and a few hours’ community service, whatever that might mean.’

  ‘I think they do things in hospitals and for the old people,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t like to think of any old people of mine having anything to do with young tearaways like that!’

  ‘Arson,’ I said reflectively, ‘always seems to be a particularly rural crime – rick-burning and all that sort of thing.’

  We considered this thought for a moment and then Rosemary said, ‘Well, anyway, they won’t be able to say this is Robin’s fault.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said slowly, ‘though, of course, we don’t know where he actually is. He may have gone to ground somewhere locally.’

  ‘You know Taviscombe,’ Rosemary said. ‘You can’t imagine that somebody wouldn’t have seen him by now if he was anywhere in the neighbourhood.’

  I agreed that it was virtually impossible to disappear in the countryside where every unusual occurrence is carefully monitored.

  ‘Though even if he had gone quite a long way away,’ I said, ‘he could still have come back.’ I mean, he had his car. I don’t suppose the police have found that?’

  ‘No, he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. Poor Robin,’ Rosemary looked anxious. ‘I do wish I knew what had happened to him. He must be in a dreadful state to have gone off like that. I’m so afraid he may have done something silly.’

  ‘You mean...’

  ‘Well, he did try to commit suicide when he was, you know, having that breakdown. I don’t think it was a really serious attempt, just a cry for help, as they say. He took an overdose of aspirin and they got him to hospital in time and pumped him out. But now...’

  ‘The police are looking for him. I’m sure they’ll find him soon,’ I said reassuringly.

  ‘But what use will that be,’ Rosemary asked in exasperation, ‘if they charge him with murder.’

  Mrs Browning, the President of the club, came down the aisle towards us, swaying slightly with the movement of the coach.

  ‘Hello, Sheila,’ she said, ‘so glad that you could come. We do need to fill up the coach every time to make it a practical proposition and today several people simply haven’t turned up! It’s really too bad!’

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ Rosemary said, ‘I meant to tell you but I forgot. Eleanor sends her apologies but she’s really seedy and couldn’t make it. I think she’s got this wretched summer flu, there’s a lot of it about.’

  Mrs Browning didn’t appear to be mollified by this explanation.

  ‘Well, I do think she might have let me know in good time. If only I’d known there was a seat to spare, old Mrs Burns very much wanted to come. Her husband was a great gardener, you know...’ She moved back up the aisle still complaining.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rosemary said. ‘Now she’ll be offended all afternoon. It completely went out of my mind. I saw Jessie in the library yesterday and she told me then and I said I’d tell Mrs Browning.’

  ‘Poor Eleanor,’ I said, ‘is she in bed?’

  ‘Yes, Jessie said she was really poorly. Mind you, I thought Jessie looked a bit off-colour herself. I hope she doesn’t get it too. I know Mrs Carter comes in every day, but with a house that size and two invalids ... I’ll ring up when we get back and see if there’s anything I can do.’

  The old Manor House and its beautiful gardens exercised a tranquillizing effect upon us both. The sun had come out and it was a really perfect English summer’s day. The glorious profusion of plants, arranged apparently haphazardly, but actually with so much care and imagination, rested the mind and lifted the spirits.

  ‘Just look at those gorgeous spurges!’ Rosemary said. ‘We’ve got a couple in the garden but they look positively mingy compared with those. I wonder what variety they are?’

  She moved away to examine them more closely and I drifted on to look at a particularly fine tree peony. As I stood beside it, admiring the great yellow stamens and the velvety crimson petals, like some Oriental painting, I was aware of a conversation just on the other side of the shrubbery. Dorothy Browning’s voice had that loudness and clarity that makes it impossible not to listen to what she is saying, whether you want to or not.

  ‘Yes, it was a dreadful thing! Young hooligans! I don’t know what the police are thinking of to let such things happen. Poor Enid! She was a difficult woman, I know – well, you remember that time when the Club was on Gardener’s Question Time and she tried to hog all the limelight, just because her husband was something at the BBC. I don’t for a moment believe he had anything to do with our being chosen!’

  There was an inaudible murmur from her companion and she went on, ‘He was a nasty piece of work! Yes, I know some people said he had a certain kind of charm, but I never thought he was – how shall I put it? – trustworthy. I believe she had a great deal to put up with. What? Oh, women, dear, other women! As a matter of fact...’ Here she lowered her voice and I was forced to crane forward, hoping that the bulk of a large syringa would hide me, to catch what she was saying. ‘I know something of the matter myself. I was going out to see Madge Frisby – she’s got a most unusual escallonia, a white one, and she promised me some cuttings – so I was driving through that wooded road to Upper Combe when I saw a car parked just off the road. I recognized it at once as Adrian Palgrave’s because he gave Doris and me a lift back when we all went to that open day at Bridge-croft Manor. I had to slow down, because there’s that very sharp bend just there, so I could see quite clearly who was in the car.’

  She paused for dramatic effect and to my dismay I saw Rosemary coming towards me, about to say something. I put my finger to my lips (feeling idiotically histrionic as I did so) and flapped my hand up and down to implore silence. She made a face at me and stood stock still, while Dorothy Browning’s voice rang out clearly.

  ‘Adrian Palgrave was in that car with a woman! I don’t know who she was – dark, a high complexion, rather gypsyish – but they were talking very earnestly, very earnestly indeed! They were so absorbed with each other that I don’t believe they even heard my car until I’d gone by!’

  Rosemary raised her eyebrows and made another face and I waited hopefully for more revelations but, alas, a group of gardening enthusiasts came up and began talking about a special sort of Eucryphia on the other side of the garden and they all drifted away.


  ‘Well!’ Rosemary said, her eyes sparkling. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Adrian’s “goings on”,’ I said. ‘Seen in a car with a woman!’

  ‘Trust Dorothy Browning to think the worst,’ Rosemary snorted. ‘Mind you, there probably was something in it, knowing Adrian. I wonder who it was?’

  ‘Dark, high complexion, rather gypsyish,’ I repeated. ‘No one comes to mind.’

  Rosemary thought for a minute and said regretfully, ‘No, I can’t think of anyone. Besides, I’d have thought he’d keep all that sort of thing for London. You know what people are like down here, Enid would have heard about it in no time.’

  ‘Perhaps she did,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose she’d have done anything about it. She’d never have divorced him.’

  ‘Poor Enid,’ Rosemary said thoughtfully, ‘it must have been pretty awful for her, if you come to think of it, everyone knowing that Adrian only married her for her money.’

  ‘I suppose she was lucky to have money to be married for,’ I said sardonically. A sudden thought struck me.

  ‘I wonder who’ll get it all?’ I asked. ‘The money, I mean. They neither of them had any close relations. Geraldine said that there’s a cousin of Adrian’s in New Zealand, or something. I suppose he’ll get the lot.’

  ‘Perhaps he came over here in disguise and bumped them both off,’ Rosemary suggested frivolously.

  I laughed, but in the coach going home I took with me not only a pot of species geranium (G. pratense ‘album’) but also several new thoughts about Adrian’s murder.

  It was quite late when we got back and I found that Michael had got his own supper.

  ‘I thought it would save you the bother,’ he said virtuously.

  I looked round the kitchen, noting with resignation what appeared to be the entire contents of the fridge scattered over the worktop, the eggshells in the sink, the crumbs spilling off the bread board on to the floor, and the unbelievable number of dirty bowls and pans Michael seemed to require for the construction of a simple dish of bacon and eggs.

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ I said as I filled the kettle. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Please. I say, Ma, Edward asked me to ask you if you could do us a favour?’

  I reflected that Michael now seemed to think of himself as very much a part of the firm and I thought how pleased Peter would have been.

  ‘Yes, of course, darling. What is it?’

  ‘Well, you know old Thompson – Forsyth and Merrick – he’s the Palgraves’ solicitor, and he’s a bit worried about those Meredith papers. Like you said, they’re pretty valuable and quite a lot of them were burned in the fire, but some survived. Thompson wondered if you’d have a look at them – you being Literary and all that – and see if you could let him know what’s left, if you see what I mean.’

  I screwed the top back on to a bottle of cooking oil and replaced it on the shelf.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could have a look. But of course I don’t know what was there originally, so it’ll be a bit difficult to know what’s gone. How much stuff is there, do you know?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, Thompson didn’t give us any details. He just wanted to know if you’d look through them.’

  ‘OK. Tell him I will. Here’s your coffee. There’s a banana cake if you want some.’

  ‘No thanks, I must dash. I’m supposed to be playing badminton with Gerry in half an hour.’

  I sat down at the kitchen table and drank my cup of coffee slowly, thinking about Adrian’s work on the Meredith papers and wondering just how much he had done. My meditations were interrupted by Michael appearing dramatically in the doorway with a garment in his hand. ‘Ma, there’s no buttons on this shirt and I need it this evening!’

  ‘If only you’d keep the buttons when they come off, I could sew them on for you,’ I said, with what I felt was admirable restraint.

  ‘Oh, you know how they always pop off when you’re not looking,’ Michael said airily, handing over the offending shirt.

  I went upstairs, rummaged in my sewing box to find three buttons of approximately the right size and colour, and began to sew them on.

  When Michael had gone and all was peaceful again I had my own supper and reduced the kitchen to order again. The pot with the species geranium caught my eye and I thought I would go into the garden to see where I would like to plant it.

  It was a quiet evening with no wind and the beginnings of a brilliant sunset. I wandered around the garden with the pot in one hand and a trowel in the other, the dogs trotting hopefully beside me in case I was thinking of taking a walk. I bent down to dig a hole at the end of one of the raised beds and Foss strolled across the garden to watch my efforts critically. I had just smoothed the earth round the new plant when I heard the telephone ringing. I dropped the trowel and made a dash for the house. It was Roger.

  ‘Sheila, I thought you ought to know, Robin Turner’s dead.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Rosemary’s pretty upset, as you can imagine, and Jack’s away on business so I thought you might have a word with her.’

  ‘But what happened? How did he die? Where has he been?’

  ‘They fished his body out of the water at Bristol Dock.’

  ‘Bristol! What on earth was he doing there.’

  ‘I can’t say. I haven’t had the details yet, just the bare fact. I’m going down almost immediately. I had to tell Rosemary straight away; she and Jack were the closest to him. He didn’t have any family.’

  ‘Oh, poor Robin,’ I still hadn’t really taken it in. A thought struck me. ‘Is this another murder, Roger?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. It could be, I suppose, or perhaps suicide.’

  ‘You mean...’

  ‘If he was responsible for the other murders. Yes, well, it’s possible. But we won’t know anything for sure until they’ve done the autopsy.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I must go now. If you could ring Rosemary, she’s in a bit of a state.’

  I sat for a few moments collecting my thoughts before I picked up the phone and spoke to Rosemary.

  We talked round and round, coming to no conclusion. Indeed, how could we? But I felt it was a good thing to let her talk it out.

  ‘I can’t understand why Bristol; she kept saying. ‘He didn’t know anyone there.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why,’ I said. ‘If he wanted to get away.’

  ‘But why should he want to get away?’

  ‘Well, I suppose...’

  ‘No, I can’t believe he killed Adrian and Enid, especially not in that awful way. You know what a gentle person he is ... he was.’

  She was near to tears and there seemed nothing that I could say that would be of any comfort.

  ‘Shall I come round?’ I asked.

  ‘No, bless you, I’m all right. Jilly phoned and Jack will be back tomorrow. I had a word with him on the phone. He couldn’t believe it, either. It’s just that it keeps going round and round in my head. I can’t think of anything else.’

  I found that I couldn’t concentrate on anything, either. Theories, speculations, conjectures, they were all of them useless until we had more information. But that didn’t stop my mind formulating and rejecting them. If Robin had killed Adrian and if Enid had somehow found out then he would have had to kill her – but in such a way? He may have had the wild idea of making it look like an accident and then, realizing just what he had done, felt he couldn’t live with himself. Poor Robin.

  I suddenly thought of Eleanor. I must let her know. She would be devastated, since she and Robin had become so close. Reluctantly I picked up the phone. It rang for quite some time and then I heard Jessie’s voice, hesitant and cautious.

  ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  ‘Jessie, it’s Sheila Malory. Is Miss Eleanor there?’

  ‘She’s not well, Mrs Malory, she’s in bed.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. I had hoped she would be feeling better by now. The
thing is, I’ve got some bad news for her.’

  ‘Bad news?’ Jessie’s soft voice was sharpened by alarm. ‘What bad news?’

  ‘It’s Mr Turner, I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  There was a long silence, then she said, ‘This will be terrible news for Miss Eleanor. Poor soul, she’s been so upset, like, over Mrs Palgrave, and now this!’

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s really awful.’

  ‘Was it a car accident?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘No. No, he was drowned. They found him in Bristol Dock.’

  ‘Deu! What was he doing in Bristol, the poor young man?’

  ‘We don’t know, Jessie.’

  ‘Mr Robin hadn’t any call to go to Bristol: Jessie made it sound like Siberia. ‘He knows he has friends here.’

  ‘Yes, he had a lot of friends in Taviscombe.’

  ‘I can’t tell Miss Eleanor tonight, she’s been really poorly all day. She needs to get a good night’s rest. I’ll see she takes some of those pills to make her sleep.’

  ‘Yes, you will know what is best.’ I felt relieved in a cowardly way that I didn’t have to break the news to Eleanor myself. ‘She’s very lucky to have you to take such good care of her, Jessie.’

  ‘Well, we take care of each other,’ Jessie replied. ‘She’s very good to me, Mrs Malory. I owe her a lot, more than I can ever repay.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she appreciates all you do,’ I said. ‘I hope,’ I added, ‘that you haven’t caught this flu thing too. You didn’t look too well when I saw you at Dr Macdonald’s.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me!’ Jessie spoke vehemently.

  ‘Well, if you do feel a bit seedy, do take care of yourself. And do let me know if there is anything I can do, won’t you? Shopping or anything like that, if you can’t get out.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Malory, but we can manage very well.’

  Poor Eleanor, I thought as I put the phone down, just when she had something to brighten her life it’s snatched away from her. Jessie had sounded rather strange, though after all that had happened at Kinsford and then Enid’s death. I supposed it was only to be expected. And now Robin. So many awful things seemed to have been happening lately.