by Hazel Holt
‘You poor child! What a time you have been through!’
She obviously hadn’t been expecting sympathy and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
‘I hadn’t intended to tell anyone, ever, but I’m glad I did. And Tony will be glad too. I don’t know if I should tell Mother.’
‘No!’ I said sharply. ‘No, you mustn’t tell her. Just thinking of what you would have done to help her ... she would feel so dreadfully responsible. No,’ I continued, ‘you must put it all behind you – make a fresh start – you and Tony and your mother. Tony did the right thing-you’ll feel much better when you’re away from the library. You must marry him – for his sake as well as for your own.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘I do.’
‘Then I’ll do it. Oh, thank you! I’m so glad that I told you about it – I feel so much better…’
I could see that she would be able to put the whole thing behind her. She had shifted her burden to Tony and, to a lesser extent, to me with the confidence of a child who believes that the grown-ups can make everything all right. Tony would have to be strong and wise for all three of them, but this new Tony, I felt sure, would be perfectly able to cope.
I said as much to him – though not exactly in those words – that evening after supper. Betty was glued to the telephone rallying her troops for some planning enquiry and Robert was using a rare free evening to do some potting up in the greenhouse, so we had the sitting room to ourselves.
‘I’m so pleased that she told you everything.’ Tony said. ‘It means that she feels safe with you.’
‘I like her so much,’ I said, ‘she’s exactly right for you. And I like her mother, too. I think I was able to explain how Peter and I felt about Mother living with us – I think she felt reassured.’
‘Thank you, Sheila,’ he said warmly. ‘I knew that if anyone could persuade her you could.’ ‘So when can I buy my new hat for the wedding?’
‘Quite soon, I think. There’s no reason to wait and I’d like to be able to look after them properly. I’ve got quite a bit saved up for a deposit on a house – we’ll need a garden for Cleo...’ He broke off and stroked her head. ‘That’s the only thing that worries me – how Cleo will take it. I mean, they both love cats, but Cleo is rather ... well ... you know.’
‘I think you will find that Cleo will be thrilled to have a doting full-time slave in Mrs Turner who is around all day to pander to her every whim.’
He laughed. ‘You’re probably right.’
Cleo, sensing that we were talking about her, jumped off Tony’s lap and began, quite deliberately, to sharpen her claws on one of the chairs.
When she had been reproved, I said, ‘I can understand now why you didn’t really want to stir up any sort of enquiry into Gwen Richmond’s death. But it does seem likely that if she tried that sort of blackmail on Pamela she may well have tried it on someone else – and with quite different results!’
‘You’re right, of course. I was so concerned about Pamela I didn’t really think it through. All that stuff about the past catching up with people…’
‘What exactly did she say, and when? Can you remember?’
‘It was one morning when I was having my coffee break. She sometimes used to come and sit by me. It sounds silly, but I think she rather liked me. She had this sort of joking, flirtatious manner – it was a bit embarrassing.’
I could imagine that Tony would have found it so.
‘I got the impression that she had just met someone she hadn’t seen for a long time – years and years – and that she was planning some sort of revenge. I’m sorry to be so vague but it was veiled hints and general remarks, nothing concrete. She did say something about it never being too late to right a wrong. It sounded a bit melodramatic – but then she was a bit over the top, if you know what I mean. Very opinionated, very vehement. In a way she wasn’t really talking to me. I got the impression she’d just seen this person, whoever it was, and she was so worked up she had to talk about it – however obliquely – to someone.’
‘So you think it might have been someone she’d seen in the Bodleian – a reader, perhaps?’
‘Well, yes, it could have been – I mean, it was almost as if she’d just seen whoever it was, that morning.’
‘When was this? I mean, how soon before she died?’
‘About a couple of weeks, I think. I could probably tell you exactly if I look up my desk diary – I can usually date things by remembering what I was working on.’
‘So she might have been blackmailing someone she’d known in the past – someone who’d done something wrong – something criminal even. And she wouldn’t want money, like an ordinary blackmailer, but power over another person.’
Pamela had said that Gwen Richmond had played with her like a cat with a mouse. That kind of thing, used against a really desperate person could lead, and perhaps had led, to tragedy.
‘Yes, that was Gwen all right. If she couldn’t dominate people by her personality – and it was a pretty strong one then she’d try to find out something discreditable about them – quite little things, but niggly – and hold it over them. She never said anything outright, just hints or snide comments. It didn’t make for a very pleasant atmosphere, as you can imagine. We all tried to avoid her as much as possible. After all, she was only with us on a temporary basis she would soon be gone.’
‘And it seems most likely that someone helped her on her way! She does sound most unpleasant. I can’t imagine that anyone would grieve for her. What about her sister, though? You know her, don’t you?’
‘Molly? I’ve met her a few times at madrigals and fetes and things. She seemed very nice – not a bit like Gwen. I don’t really know how she felt about Gwen’s death. They’d only been living together for just over a year – since Gwen came back from Greece.’
‘If Gwen was murdered, whoever did it took a tremendous risk. I mean, he snatches up a heavy book and hits her over the head and then takes the time to unscrew the shelves and bring them down on top of her with all the books crashing around ... suppose someone had come in.’
‘Room 43 is rather out of the way, so I don’t think anyone would have heard the crash. And, as I said, we all tended to avoid her as much as possible – kept well away from her. I only went to see her because I needed to know if she was going to be there for a meeting on that particular Monday – it wasn’t something I often did. And as for unscrewing the shelves – it wouldn’t have been all that difficult. It wasn’t a large section of shelving, and it was quite old. I had a look after ... after they cleared everything away, and the shelves were only secured in a couple of places, it wouldn’t be difficult to unscrew them.’
‘I’ve only just realised – whoever did it must have been a member of staff or a reader. I mean, with George on the desk keeping his beady eye on things someone couldn’t just have wandered in off the street.’
‘And just at the moment, with all the alterations and upheavals going on, the only readers are in Room 45.’
‘Can you check on who was in that day?’
‘Yes, of course, and I’ll see if I can find out where the rest of the staff were – though if it was someone Gwen had only just met again after a long time that would rule them out, because nobody new has come since Gwen came back.’
‘I wish I’d known her – it’s difficult to try and picture a person you’ve never met. I do feel I’d like to know more about her...’
I broke off as Betty came into the room looking very pleased with herself.
‘There. That’s done. I think we’re going to have a very successful enquiry. I managed to round up quite a lot of waverers. By the way, Sheila, do you fancy taking a few hours off tomorrow and coming to a coffee morning with me at Great Tew?’
‘Great Tew?’
‘Yes, Molly Richmond asked me to go, and, since I’ve just talked her into coming to the enquiry, I thought I’d better say yes. Do come and swell the numbers.’
I looked at Tony and he smiled.
‘Yes, Betty, I’d love to come with you tomorrow.’
Betty looked surprised but pleased. ‘It’s in aid of new equipment for the village school. It really is so important to keep the village schools going, they are the heart of the community. The headmistress is going to drop in and tell us about the curriculum and how the school fits into the local area plan. I’m sure you’ll find it all very interesting and informative.’
I avoided Tony’s eye as I said dutifully, ‘Yes, Betty, I am sure I will.’
Chapter Seven
We drove past the signpost that says ‘To The Tews’, leading to Great and Little Tew. I love those sign-posts. You seem to get them mostly in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. As well as The Tews there are The Barringtons and The Rissingtons, though I think my favourite is The Pluds, who must surely be cartoon characters. The Tews, on the other hand, are rather sub-urban, I think. ‘We’re going to dine with the Tews and the Barringtons and the Rissingtons are coming in after for bridge.’
We drove into the village, past the school, which seemed very flourishing to judge from the number of children engaged in some sort of PT exercise on the green outside, and turned left down the Mil.
There were already several cars outside the cottage and we had to park quite a distance away. As we walked back towards the cottage I asked Betty if Molly Richmond had been very upset about her sister’s death.
‘It’s hard to tell. She’s such a placid person, you don’t feel anything has much effect on her. I went to see her to say how sorry I was – I felt I had to, really, because she must have known that it was Tony who found Gwen – and she didn’t seem terribly distressed. But I couldn’t really tell what she was feel-ing.’
We reached the gate of Timings Cottage at the same time as two other ladies, and there was a little polite shuffle in the doorway and a murmured conversation about nothing in particular as we went in.
Inside I had a general impression of exposed beams and open fireplaces with bread ovens. There was a great deal of heavy carved oak furniture and the windows were very small with lattice panes that obscured most of the light. Betty introduced me to Molly Richmond. She was a tall, comfortable-looking woman. Not fat but – to use an old-fashioned word – buxom. Her long grey hair was insecurely caught up on top of her head and there was a cheerful smile on her round face. She looked for all the world like Mrs Bun the Baker’s Wife in my old set of Happy Families.
‘I’m glad Betty brought you along,’ she said and I was startled by her voice, which was deep and rather beautiful. ‘We must try and have a chat later, when the crowd has dispersed! Meanwhile do go and find a cup of coffee.’
The cottage was quite full and rather too many people were crowded into the two downstairs rooms that were in use. Coffee was being served in the sitting room and there was a table set out with jars of marmalade, cakes and potted plants in the dining room. I took advantage of the crush to have a really good look round. As I always do I looked first at the bookshelves. Quite a few of the books were classical texts or proceedings of archaeological societies and I imagined that they had belonged to Gwen. Those about birds and wildlife I took to be Molly’s along with some really splendid Phaidon Press art books. There were a lot of framed photographs too. I identified a middle-aged clergyman (quite High Church, I deduced from the height of his collar) as their father and decided that the handsome woman in an early1920s coat and skirt must have been their mother. There were several photographs of the two girls as young children and one of Molly as a jolly schoolgirl wearing a gymslip with the waistline down around her hips. Gwen had obviously been the pretty one – small and slim with dark hair and very beautiful large dark eyes. There were photographs of her at all ages – in her late teens with her hair down her back, a wartime one, dressed as a land girl with short hair under the rather becoming hat, one standing among classical ruins in Greece, others by a Bernini fountain in Rome and by the Duomo in Florence. Always with her head held high, gazing directly at the camera as if issuing a challenge. There was a fairly recent one, taken outside the cottage, and although the hair was now grey the dark eyes were still as commanding as ever.
The morning progressed as all coffee mornings do. I bought a ginger cake and Betty bought a jar of marmalade. The headmistress of the village school (looking, as Betty and I decided later, unbelievably young to be a headmistress) spoke briefly about the work of the school and urged us to give generously to the cause. Eventually other women (there were only a couple of middle-aged men, obviously retired and brought along by their wives) drifted away and only Betty and I were left. I seized my chance.
‘Now you must let us help you do the washing up,’ I said, gathering up a couple of cups and heading resolutely towards the kitchen.
It was a good, old-fashioned kitchen with an ancient Aga, a large wooden table and cupboards and open shelves rather than fancy units. Betty, as she usually did, took charge.
‘I’ll wash, Sheila can wipe, and will you put away, Molly, because you know where everything goes.’
I picked up a drying-up cloth with a picture of Leeds Castle on it and said to Molly, ‘It was very well attended wasn’t it? How much do you think you will have made?’
‘Alison Notley, who is our treasurer, thinks we may have cleared sixty-five pounds.’
We talked about the work of the school and the village in general.
‘It’s really changed quite a bit, hasn’t it,’ I said. ‘Just in the last five years or so. All those houses beyond the Falkland Arms, done up and rethatched. And new building too.’
‘Time stood still here for a couple of hundred years, but I’m afraid it was too good to last – the old cottages were gentrified and the village will never be the same again. Gwen could hardly believe it when she came back.’
‘She’d been away for a long time?’
‘Most of her life. She went abroad just after the war – she was with the British Council you know – first to Italy and then to Greece. I didn’t really think she’d ever live in England again. She came back once in the sixties and worked at the Bodleian for a year, but she couldn’t settle and so she went out to the British School in Athens to work in the library there. I think she only came back last year because of some disagreement with the new director. I never fathomed the ins and outs of it all.’
‘She was lucky to be able to come back and live with you – and in such a lovely cottage.’
‘I didn’t, actually, have much choice. She simply turned up one day, right out of the blue, and announced that she’d come home. It’s true that Mother left us the cottage jointly, but I never expected to share it with Gwen.’
She turned and put a stack of saucers into one of the cupboards so that I couldn’t see her face, but I had the impression that she was frowning.
‘One does get set in one’s ways if one lives alone,’ I said. ‘I know I’ve found that.’
‘Gwen was – how shall I put it? – rather domineering. She tended to take people over. Even though she was two years younger than me.’
‘Oh, don’t talk to me about younger sisters!’ Betty exclaimed. ‘Gillian’s the absolute limit! No one can get a word in edgeways when she’s around!’
‘But it must have been a dreadful shock – the accident, I mean. It must have upset you dreadfully.’
In the cosy domestic intimacy of the kitchen I didn’t feel too awkward about introducing such a delicate subject. Molly was silent for a moment, as if she’d never actually considered the question before. Then she said, ‘The accident, yes. Any fatal accident is always shocking. But, no, I didn’t feel upset. She’d been away for so long, it was like something happening to a stranger. And, if I’m honest, I didn’t really like her much anyway. When we were children I actually hated her.’
She paused and stood quite still, a milk jug in her hands. Then she smiled.
‘Isn’t that shocking! It’s something I don’t think I’ve ever ad
mitted to myself before!’ She put the jug on the table. ‘But it’s true. She was my parents’ favourite. She was tiny and lively and pretty and good at games as well. The parents were absolutely mad about golf – we used to go on golfing holidays, it was quite dreadful. I was fat and slow and useless! I used to go off with a sketching pad ... Gwen was very bright – she went up to Oxford and read Greats. They wouldn’t let me go to London to the Slade – I was offered a place, but they didn’t think it was suitable for their daughter. So I stayed in Banbury, which is where we lived, and kept house for them until my father died and then my mother was left this cottage by an aunt, so then I came and kept house here. She died eight years ago. She was a great age, everyone said. Gwen didn’t come back for the funeral. But Mother left the cottage to her as well as to me...’
Her voice died away. Then she said briskly, ‘Look, it’s nearly lunchtime. Do stay and have a bowl of soup. Let’s have a glass of sherry first – I think we’ve earned one!’
We moved back to the sitting room and as Molly took a bottle and some glasses from the oak dresser, I said, ‘I wonder, do you mind if I pop up to the bathroom?’
‘Of course – it’s at the top of the stairs, on the right.’
All the doors upstairs were open. I decided that the room at the front of the house was Molly’s bedroom. It was more of a study than a bedroom, with bookshelves all round the walls and a desk in the window, to catch what light there was. There were books and papers every-where. Obviously Molly was not of the school that tidies everything away when people are coming. I wished that I had her strength of mind. There was a small room that contained an easel and a work table, which was presumably where she did her painting and the third room must have been Gwen’s. It was very tidy, compared with the other two rooms. The bed was made up with a smooth, white honeycomb bedspread and there was a wardrobe and a dressing table, set out with silver-backed brushes and an old-fashioned ring-tree. There was also a small table beside the bed with two framed photographs. I listened to the murmur of voices downstairs to make sure that Molly was safely engaged in conversation, and then slipped quickly into the room. One photograph showed Gwen, in her twenties with her arm round the shoulder of a young man. He was about the same age, very good looking in a delicate, rather feminine way. They were standing in the ruins of a small, ancient amphitheatre with wild flowers at their feet. The other photograph was a formal studio portrait of the same young man. The head was in profile, like an idealised head on an ancient coin and this larger study emphasised the fine line of the jaw and the cheekbones. I wondered who he was.