Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death

by Hazel Holt

  “Thank you so much for coming,” he said to us.“I never knew her, of course, but I’m sure she would have appreciated it.”

  “She’d certainly have expected us all to be on parade,” Captain Prosser said. “A stickler for the right thing, Annie was.”

  “So I gather.” Martin permitted himself a slight smile as if in tribute to his unknown cousin, and we were all silent for a moment.

  Meanwhile a buzz of conversation had built up as people began to move towards the refreshments, fill their plates with food and form little animated groups about the hall.

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” Captain Prosser said, “but I’m going to get some of those sausage rolls before they’ve all gone. Actually,” he said confidentially to me as we made our way towards the tables, “if I make a good meal here, I shan’t bother to cook tonight.”

  Father William was by the refreshment table holding a cup of tea. He lifted his hand in salutation when he saw me.

  “The cup that cheers but not inebriates,” he said. “But I suppose four o’clock in the afternoon is a little early for anything stronger, even if some people may feel the need for it.”

  “A lovely service,” I said. “I’m sure it was just what Annie would have liked.”

  “Certainly,” he said, “she liked a good funeral. I can’t remember her missing one in all the years I’ve been here. Presumably she wished to keep tabs on people in death as well as in life.”

  I gave an involuntary smile and said, “I suppose she did always like to know what was going on, but I don’t think you could say that she was a gossip.”

  “No, Annie just liked the knowledge; she had no wish to spread it around.”

  “She’ll be greatly missed,” I said conventionally.

  “You think so? Personally I feel that most people in the village will be rather relieved not to have her looking over their collective shoulder.”

  “But what about all the things she did, all the things she organized!”

  “Don’t you feel that other people might have wished to organize things too?”

  “But she was so good at getting people to do things.”

  “She certainly had a way about her.”

  I felt uncomfortably as though I was engaged in some sort of verbal rally with him and was glad when Toby Parker came up behind us.

  “Splendid effort, Father,” he greeted him. “Felt I must get down here to pay my last respects. Diana sent her apologies, by the way—nasty migraine. Nice to see the church so full.”

  “Hello, Toby,” I said. “Sorry to hear about Diana.”

  He looked a little uneasy, perhaps remembering the last time we had been together.

  “So,” he continued, “what’s all this about a long-lost cousin who’s suddenly appeared out of the blue?”

  “His name is Martin Stillwell,” I said, “and that’s him over there, talking to Judith.”

  “Most extraordinary. And she never mentioned him to anyone?”

  “No. We only heard about him because of the will.”

  “Pretty mysterious, if you ask me.”

  “God moves in a mysterious way,” Father William said. “Perhaps that was a hymn we should have had.” He smiled and moved away.

  Toby looked after him. “He gets more peculiar every time I see him,” he said. “But, anyway, do I gather that this chap gets the lot?”

  “Well, except for the Welsh dresser, yes, he does.”

  “Welsh dresser? Oh, never mind—he gets the cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about the contents?”

  “He gets those as well—except, as I said, the Welsh dresser. She left that to Judith.”

  He looked as if he was about to say something but, with a muttered excuse, he turned away in the direction of Martin Stillwell. I was amused to see how skillfully he extricated him from Judith’s stream of conversation and edged him into a corner of the hall where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Judith, balked of one listener and catching my eye, came over.

  “What a lovely lot of people. The church was nearly full, and Maurice told me that the donations came to over £50—such a good cause; I’m sure Annie would be pleased.”

  “Very gratifying.”

  “And Mr. Stillwell, such a nice man, so friendly. He told me how grateful he was for all I did when poor Annie was so ill, and afterwards, looking after things. Well, I said, it was the least I could do, after all these years. And he was very nice about the Welsh dresser—he said he was so pleased that she’d remembered me, which was good of him, really, because it would have probably have made quite a sum at auction. They’re very collectible, you know—not that I’d ever sell it, of course.”

  “Of course not,” I agreed.

  “Anyway, he said I was to let him know when I wanted it moved into my cottage and he’d arrange for a man to come and do it. Wasn’t that kind! But, actually, I do need to have my own kitchen redecorated soon. There’s dampness coming in by the back door, so I’ve decided to have a complete rearrangement—a makeover, that’s what they call it now, isn’t it? That means I must think how to fit the dresser in. I mean, it’s quite big, so I’ll have to move the cupboard next to the sink—actually I suppose I might get rid of it.” She leaned confidentially towards me. “It’s got wood-worm, you know, and I wouldn’t like that to spread to the dresser. So I told Mr. Stillwell that I’ll leave it for a bit until all that’s been sorted.”

  “It all sounds most exciting,” I said, backing away, “but do excuse me; I need to have a quick word with Mr. Stillwell before I go.”

  Toby had disappeared and Martin was now being buttonholed by Captain Prosser in Ancient Mariner mode.

  “. . . and then I was stationed in Malta—amazing place. Have you ever been there?”

  “Yes, I know it quite well.”

  “Oh really—”

  “Do excuse me for interrupting,” I said, “but if I could just have a word with you, Martin.”

  “Of course,” he said gratefully as we moved away. “How can I help you?”

  “It’s just to say that I haven’t been able to get the papers from Annie’s cottage yet, so would you mind if I held on to the key for a little while longer?”

  “Of course not; there’s no rush,” he said. “I’m in no hurry to do anything about the cottage, so please do take your time.”

  “Oh, thank you. That would be marvelous.” I paused and then I asked, “Are you going to sell the cottage? You don’t fancy living there yourself?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind. I’d keep my London flat, of course—I need to be in London at present for my work—but I’ll be retiring soon and this is an attractive village and the people seem very friendly.”

  “That would be splendid,” I said. “Even though you never knew Annie, it would be nice to think of the cottage staying in the family!”

  “Well, he seems very nice,” Rosemary said as we drove home, “and I see what you mean about him and Phyll—almost as if they’re old friends. Anyway, it was a good turnout for the funeral and afterwards. Fancy Toby coming down!”

  “I know. In the end it was quite a jolly affair.”

  “Did it strike you, though,” Rosemary asked, “that there was a sort of sense of relief?”

  “You’re right; there was. Actually that’s exactly what Father William said—as if everyone was relieved not to have her looking over their shoulder all the time.”

  “Oh dear, what a way to be remembered!”

  “You must admit she did rather loom over the village—the way she ran everything.”

  “I wonder who’ll do that now?” Rosemary asked. “Perhaps Rachel will.”

  “Well, it might be a good occupation for her, and she would do it in the nicest possible way!”

  Chapter Nine

  A few days later, spurred on by my conversation with Martin Stillwell, I decided to go and collect the papers from Annie’s cottage. I thought I’d better go into t
he shop first and announce my intentions, since there would be endless speculation if anyone saw me (as someone certainly would) going into the cottage.

  Fortunately, Judith was at the counter, talking to Maurice, and I knew that she would spread the reason for my visit better than anyone.

  “I’ll just have some stamps,” Judith was saying. “A book of first class, please, before they go up again, and can you tell me how much it will be to send this letter to Ireland—that’s Dublin, not the northern bit. My old friend Sally Davis—she married an Irishman. There were such problems because he was a Catholic and she wasn’t, but his family came round in the end, and he died last year and I thought she might have come back to England, but she said no, she couldn’t stand the upheaval . . .”

  Maurice took the letter and withdrew to the other side of the shop where the post office was and I said to Judith, “I’m just going into Annie’s cottage—Martin gave me a spare key—to get the papers we found, the ones Annie promised me for the Book.”

  “Would you like me to come with you?” she asked eagerly.

  “Not really,” I said hastily. “I might be a little while because I need to sort out which ones will be suitable.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just that I thought you might not like to be in there by yourself after—well, you know . . .”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I’ll be fine.” Since Maurice was coming back, I was able to make my escape and walked up the street to the cottage. When I went in, the dank, oppressive feeling was even greater than when I was there with Martin, so that, just for a minute, I wished I’d accepted Judith’s offer. But I pulled myself together and went upstairs.

  As I had before, I paused on the threshold of the bedroom; it seemed even more of an intrusion now that I was by myself. But then, looking into the room, I saw the book on the table beside the bed and curiosity propelled me forwards. When I picked it up I was astonished to see that it was the recently published memoirs of a prominent businessman. As I retrieved a till receipt that fell out, I saw it was from our local branch of Smith’s. I wondered what could have prompted Annie to have paid £20 for such a book. I looked with bewilderment at the photograph of the author on the front of the shiny new book jacket, a stern, purposeful face, but with secret, watchful eyes. But then, I knew nothing of Annie’s reading habits; perhaps this was the sort of thing she habitually read.

  I looked round the room in search of other books. There was none in this room, but in the other, smaller bedroom, furnished with a single bed, wardrobe and a chest of drawers, I found a few on the broad window ledge, between two pottery bookends. There were a couple of old books on Exmoor, a hunting book by Cecil Aldin, The English Hymnal, and a copy of Tennyson’s Poems, bound in limp leather, worn and crumbling at the edges. I picked it up and opened it. There was a handsome bookplate inside inscribed Martha Cross. For Good Attendance. Easter 1895. It was signed Harriet Percy. I looked at it with interest; presumably it had belonged to Annie’s mother and had been given to her by the very Miss Percy whose trust Annie was involved in. The symmetry of the situation was somehow pleasing. I replaced the book and went back into Annie’s room.

  The chest was, indeed, very full of papers. I cautiously lifted out one of the files. It contained old sepia photographs with faded writing on the back; some were in the form of postcards, something I remembered from similar ones in my own family. Another file had a miscellaneous collection of old newspaper cuttings, fragile and yellow with age. Yet another had actual postcards, views of seaside resorts with figures in old-fashioned clothes, buildings of various kinds, or sentimental ones with flowers or kittens, some decorated with glitter that fell away from my hand as I picked them up. It was obvious that I couldn’t possibly sort them all out in situ—I’d have to take them home and deal with them there. I eased them carefully into the couple of shopping bags I’d brought with me, painfully straightened my back and stood up again.

  Downstairs I went into the kitchen. It was tidy now (Judith and Rachel had done a good job of clearing up) and looked much as it had when I’d been there before. There was no sign of the basket that had contained the fungi. I assumed the police had taken it away. I went over to the back door and, on an impulse, clicked back the lock and went outside. The garden was quite small, but Annie always kept it looking very trim. Now, though, it was beginning to look overgrown and neglected. The tiny lawn needed cutting, and in the flower beds the late dahlias and asters were being smothered by grass and weeds. The small bed by the back door was closely planted with herbs, so that looked all right. I bent down and picked a piece of rosemary, crushing it in my hand and thinking (“Rosemary, that’s for remembrance”) of Annie.

  I was startled by a sudden noise. The garden backed onto a field, and a horse, attracted by the sight of someone, had come up to the little gate in the fence. I went towards it, but it shied away and went cantering back to its companion grazing on the far side of the field.

  I went back into the kitchen, carefully locking the door behind me. The Welsh dresser, now that I came to look at it, was, indeed, quite large, and I could quite see that Judith would have to make a fairly radical rearrangement to accommodate it. On an impulse I opened one of the drawers. It contained tablecloths, tea towels and other kitchen items, and I supposed Judith would inherit the contents as well as the dresser itself. When I tried to push the drawer back it stuck and, although I moved it from side to side, it wouldn’t move. I put my hand inside and pulled out a piece of paper that had got wedged at the back and the drawer went back quite smoothly. The paper was crumpled and torn from my efforts to pull it out and I looked round for a bin or something to put it in, but I couldn’t see one, so I stuffed it into my pocket and went along the passage back into the sitting room.

  My eye was drawn to a small bookcase by the fireplace and I went over to look at it. I always think book-cases look rather sad when there are only a few books in them and the spaces have been filled with ornaments and photographs. There were a few gardening books, an early copy of Mrs. Beeton (probably quite valuable now), the illustrated history of a neighboring village (presumably where Annie got the idea for the Mere Barton book), a couple of paperbacks (ancient Penguins of The Owl’s House and The Lonely Plough) and a large family Bible, which I opened and noted that the names of the family had been carefully inscribed with the dates of their births and deaths. I thought that Martin would be pleased to have that. But none of the books explained the book of memoirs beside Annie’s bed. I picked up my shopping bags and, with a last look round the room, let myself out and locked the front door behind me.

  As I stepped down into the street Judith’s door opened—she’d obviously been waiting for me.

  “Was everything all right?” she asked.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “And you found everything you wanted?”

  “I think I’ve got all the papers Annie promised me,” I said, holding up the shopping bags.

  “Good gracious, I expect all that will keep you busy!”

  “I expect it will.”

  “And everything was all right in the house?”

  “It felt a bit cold and damp, but otherwise everything seemed fine.”

  She came down the steps from her front door and said confidentially, “I’ve got Annie’s potted plants. Well, I did mention to Mr. Stillwell how worried I was about keeping them watered, and she had some very nice ones—that beautiful Christmas cactus, for instance, though that one doesn’t need watering so often. She’s had it for ages and it’s grown enormous, so it really ought to be repotted. Anyway, I was telling Mr. Stillwell about all this and he asked me if I’d like to have them. Wasn’t that kind!”

  “I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that you’ll look after them.”

  “Potted plants are so personal, don’t you think, more than plants in the garden. And, actually, I’m really worried about Annie’s garden—it’s getting quite overgrown. I just looked over the fence the othe
r day and I was shocked to see how bad it was. I’m sure it would have grieved poor Annie to see it looking like that.”

  “I expect,” I said soothingly, “Mr. Stillwell will be making some arrangement about it when he comes down.”

  “Oh, do you think so? Yes, I’m sure you’re right—such a nice man. Now, while you’re here, would you like to come in and have a cup of tea—or coffee?”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I really ought to be getting on with all this.” I held up the shopping bags again. “Some other time, perhaps, I’d love to.”

  When I got home I certainly intended to start work on the papers, but by the time I’d let the animals out and then fed them it was lunchtime. After lunch I had to go in to Brunswick Lodge because I’d rashly promised Anthea that I’d set out the chairs and help with the refreshments for a talk on discontinued local railways that she’d persuaded someone to give. By the time I got home all I had the energy for was to get supper and spend the evening slumped in front of the televison.

  The following day was gray and rainy, miserable outside and appealingly warm and cozy inside, the sort of day, in fact, most conducive to work. I spread out some of the photographs on the dining room table. As I worked my way through them I became absorbed in my task—many of them would be invaluable. The changing face of the village street, with ancient cars and bicycles; a group of children at the village school, one of estate tenants and another of bell ringers, all taken in the 1890s; photographs of the football club and the cricket team sometime in the 1930s—many others of a similar nature. Finally, I found a photograph of a little girl (about eight years old) standing, shyly, just behind her mother, on the steps of a cottage. They both wore summer dresses, and both were staring self-consciously at the camera. It was only when I read the writing on the back (Martha and Annie, Whitsun 1954) that I realized that the bashful child in the cotton frock, with a bow of ribbon in her straight fair hair, had grown up to be the Annie who had been such a forceful personality in the village. I sat for quite a while looking at it—a moment in time, one summer day in the early 1950s. The dining room clock striking twelve recalled me to the present and I hastily put the photographs back in their folder and went to get ready to have lunch with Rosemary.