Some Deaths Before Dying

by Peter Dickinson

  The men had done wonders with the study. Though the reek of smoke was still perceptible it was no longer intense. Everything had been washed down, the ceiling repapered, and the walls repainted. Only the top coat on the woodwork remained to be done. Her table had been taken away and an identical one ordered from the joiners.

  When she and Jocelyn moved back in a week later his lighter was on the desk. She didn’t see the Laduries, didn’t look for them or wonder about them. Only clearing his desk for Jack to use, when he and Flora came to live at Forde Place after Jocelyn’s death, she found the box at the back of one of the locked drawers and hid it away in the secret compartment in her bureau, not having opened it and failing to notice that its weight was short by that of one pistol.

  3

  Once again Rachel heard the approaching pad of feet and felt cool fingers probe gently at her wrist. This time she opened her eyes.

  “Well, guess who’s slept and slept? And who’s been dreaming then! Heart going like a train last time. Any more of that, and I’d’ve been sending for the doctor. Was it a nice dream?”

  “Horrid.”

  “Tsk, tsk—but funny how they come, that kind. I still have ’em, some nights, no reason at all. Worst is when I’m a little girl again, only I’m grown up inside me somehow, with all I’ve known and seen, but there I am with the other kids on the footbridge below the pin mill, and we’re dropping twigs into the tail of the race, the way we used to, coming home from Sunday School. And then I’m alone and it’s getting dark and I look to see where the other kids have got to, but the town’s all different, not anywhere I know, so I don’t know my way home and there’s no one to ask. Then the twig I’m holding gives a sort of kick in my hand and I look and see it’s a wicked little lizard, so I go to throw it into the race, only it’s all dry, and that’s the worst bit, I don’t know why … I’m sorry, dearie. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that. Don’t know what came over me. I’ve never told anyone else before. It’s funny what we’ve all got bottled up inside us, isn’t it?”

  JENNY

  1

  She got home a little before eleven, stiff and trembling after almost twelve hours of driving. Jeff ran her a bath and brought her finger-food to eat while she soaked.

  “How have you got on?” she said.

  “I’ve broken the back of it. There’s just a bit of tidying up and presentation to get right.”

  “Are you pleased with it?”

  “It’s the best I can do—clearer than I expected. But there’ll be boardroom politics I don’t know about, and Billy’s a formidable operator at that sort of thing. What about you? Was it worth it?”

  “Oh, yes! It’s a terrific house for a start. And Uncle Albert seemed happy. There was just one sticky bit—I’ll tell you about that in a moment. But he made a little speech and gave Mrs. Matson the pistol—I didn’t see what happened to it—she sent me out of the room for that, but it wasn’t there when I came back and we didn’t bring it home.”

  “Great. As long as I don’t have to bother about it any more. What’s the old lady like?”

  “Upsetting. No, that’s wrong, because she’s rather wonderful. She’s disturbing, though. They didn’t tell us what’s wrong with her, but she’s paralysed from the neck down, and she can barely speak, but mentally she’s all there. Absolutely. You can see it looking out of her eyes. Hell, if I start telling you now I’ll get all wound up and I’ll never get to sleep. Are we going to have time for a lie-in tomorrow?”

  “Nine o’clock? Then you can tell me at breakfast and I’ll have the rest of the morning to get my report together, and then we’re free.”

  “Great. Let’s have lunch at The Cat and go and walk on the Downs.”

  The telephone rang as they were leaving the house. Jenny answered.

  “Mrs. Pilcher? This is Sister Morris at Marlings. Albert would like to talk to you. He’s upset about something he thinks he’s lost. He thinks you might have it. Wait. He wants me to go out of the room. Here you are then, Albert.”

  Sounds of movement, and the closing of a door. Breathing.

  “Hello? Uncle Albert?”

  “Who’s that, then?”

  “Jenny. Jenny Pilcher. I’m married to your great-nephew Jeff. Yesterday we drove all the way to Forde Place to give Mrs. Matson her pistol.”

  “Say that again.”

  “We drove to Forde Place yesterday. We took the pistol so that you could give it back to Mrs. Matson. She was in bed. You looked at a lot of old photographs with her. There was one of Anne fishing.”

  His memory snagged on the image, held.

  “Right,” he said. “So there was. Little Anne, fishing. And that’s where it’s gone, back in the box with the other one—that’s what I wanted to be sure of. Thanks. You’re a good girl, Penny. I’ve been misjudging you, but you’re a lot better than I gave you credit for.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Don’t ring off, Uncle Albert. Can I have a quick word with the sister?”

  “Listening at the keyhole most likely. I’ll get her.”

  She heard the handset clunk down, and looked at Jeff.

  “Could we go on from the Downs and have tea with him?” she said. “I’ve thought of something that might help.”

  “Provided we don’t hang around over lunch.”

  “I’ll be about ten minutes. You’ve finished with the computer?”

  “For the moment.”

  It took a bit longer than that, fiddling with typefaces to make the document look authentic. Jeff leaned over her shoulder and made suggestions. The end result pleased them both.

  CERTIFICATE

  It is hereby certified that on the 9th day of April 1996

  SERGEANT MAJOR ALBERT FREDRICKS. M.C., M.B.E.

  returned one (I) LADURIE PISTOL to MRS. MATSON. of Forde

  Place, Matlock, Staffordshire, the said pistol having been entrusted to him for safekeeping by the late COLONEL MATSON.

  Signed Jennifer Pilcher LLB.

  Attorney at Law

  “I’ll do a couple of copies,” said Jenny. “One for him and one for Sister Morris in case he loses it.”

  “Fine—and I’ve had a thought. I’ll do his filing while I’m there, and that’ll give me a chance to see if there’s anything about this chap Voss in the old Cambi Road lists.”

  The obituary was very brief. Terence Voss had died in 1978.

  He had been a conscript, so his military career had been limited to the war years, and had consisted of his call-up, training, posting to Singapore, capture and internment. He had remained a private throughout. He was described as a cheerful and colourful character. His next of kin was given as E. J. Cowan, with an address in the Midlands.

  As soon as she returned to work, without great hope Jenny wrote on the firm’s paper but giving her home telephone number, saying that she would be interested in any information about the late Terence Voss. On the same day she handed in her resignation, but agreed to stay on for a month to clear up outstanding work.

  Jeff, meanwhile, received an acknowledgement of his report, with a formal note telling him he was temporarily suspended on full pay. This meant, among other things, that he still had the use of the car.

  A few days later, while Jenny was at work, Jeff got a call from Mrs. Thomas, enquiring, with reasonable tact, about Uncle Albert’s finances. She told him her mother had asked her to find out.

  “I explained we were a bit up in the air at the moment. I said we should be OK for a bit, but we couldn’t see very far into the future.”

  “About till next Tuesday, you mean.”

  “Oh, it’s better than that. Don’t worry.”

  But Jenny felt she had a duty to worry, and to let Jeff see that she was doing so. It took some of the load off him. He wasn’t good at worrying, he hadn’t had enough practice. He had this image of himself as relaxed, easygoing, taking life as it comes, and to a large extent that was justified. For himself there’d never been much to worry about, and
nor did there now seem to be for the pair of them. They would make out. But the sudden responsibility of worrying for Uncle Albert rather threw him. His instinct was to be laid-back about it, but his intelligence was aware that this might not be, in this case, the right response. So, Jenny told herself, if she kept on visibly working at the worry face, he could allow himself to relax.

  She still hadn’t heard from Terry Voss’s next of kin when she left her job and was about to start temporary work with a firm in Sevenoaks. Then a letter arrived, forwarded from the firm she had left, marked “Personal.” It was computer-written and cleanly printed, from a church office in West Kent. It referred in formal terms to her enquiry and asked her to call a number. It was signed “Rev. E. J. Cowan.”

  She called, a woman answered, she asked to speak to the Reverend Cowan, and was transferred. Another woman said “This is the vicar’s office. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for the Reverend Cowan.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh … my name is Jenny Pilcher. I wrote to you about Mr. Terence Voss.”

  “Yes, of course. I would like you to tell me what you want to know, and why, before I say anything more.”

  The voice was light, formal, scholarly in an old-fashioned way, but with something a little peculiar about some of the vowels.

  “Well,” said Jenny. “It’s a bit complicated, and some of it is confidential. I wrote to you on office paper, by the way, because I thought I was more likely to get an answer. I’m a solicitor, but this is a personal matter …”

  She paused for some kind of response, but none came.

  “I got your name from an obituary in the Cambi Road Association newsletter,” she said. “I believe Mr. Voss was a Japanese prisoner of war, on the Cambi Road.”

  “That is so.”

  “My husband’s great-uncle, Sergeant Major Fredricks, was there at the same time.”

  “Bert Fredricks?”

  “We call him Uncle Albert.”

  “He is still alive then? How is he?”

  “Physically fine. He’s living in an old people’s home near Hastings, where he’s very well looked after. But his memory isn’t too good, particularly recent stuff. I can’t go into the next bit, but he became very anxious to visit somebody called Mrs. Matson, who lives up in Derbyshire. She’s the widow of Colonel Matson, who was—”

  “I have met the Matsons.”

  “Well I drove him up about six weeks ago, and he sorted out what he’d come to see her about. She’s paralysed, by the way—bedridden—but there’s nothing wrong with her intellect. They looked at a lot of old photographs together—Uncle Albert’s memory is pretty good for that sort of thing—and he enjoyed himself. But there were a couple of times when he got very agitated, when Mrs. Matson tried to question him about something—it was two things, actually, and I don’t know if they were connected. He didn’t exactly refuse to tell her, but he pretended to have lost his memory, which he won’t normally ever admit to.”

  “You thought he was lying?”

  “Yes. So did Mrs. Matson, I’m pretty sure. This thing was extremely important to her—I don’t know why—but she could see how upset he was so she didn’t press him. Now, when I’d first been talking to Uncle Albert about making this trip, one of the things Mrs. Matson wanted to know about had actually come up in passing, and Uncle Albert told me he’d been there and so knew about it. He’d added, ‘Ask Terry Voss.’ So after we’d said goodbye to Mrs. Matson I slipped back into her room and told her, and she asked me to find out anything I could. That’s why I wrote to you.”

  There was a pause.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Pilcher, had you met Mrs. Matson before?”

  “No.”

  “What is your general attitude to your husband’s great-uncle?”

  “I like him a lot. I think he’s a wonderful old man.”

  “And yet you went back and told this almost complete stranger something that he had been anxious to conceal. Why did you do that?”

  Ms. Cowan’s tone had become marginally less formal since the mention of Uncle Albert’s name, and didn’t now change, but Jenny felt there was something not exactly brutal, but almost inhuman, in having the question asked so instantly and inescapably.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “I didn’t think about it at the time. It just seemed the right thing to do. But I did on the way home, quite a lot. The answer is that I felt Mrs. Matson had done something for me—she didn’t know, and I don’t want to tell you what it was—it’s very personal—but I felt I owed her something. That’s why I wrote to you too—I mean, after I’d had time to think it out.”

  “And, other things being equal, truth is in itself to be preferred to falsehood?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t think about that. Yes, I suppose so. But they weren’t. Equal, I meant.”

  “They seldom are. Well, Mrs. Pilcher, I shall need to think about this. I have not much more time now. But I should very much like to talk to your Uncle Albert. You say he’s at Hastings. Where are you? That’s a Maidstone number, isn’t it? I was wondering whether we could all three somehow meet.”

  “That would be great.”

  “I’m afraid that it’s not that I necessarily wish to help you or Mrs. Matson. Perhaps I had better explain my interest. Terry was my mother’s brother. He was very important to me. The times when he was in prison were the bleakest periods of my childhood. You are not perhaps aware that my uncle was a professional thief.”

  “No. I’m sorry. He was just a name.”

  “That is why I was so cautious when you wrote to express your interest. Well, now. From what you tell me, Bert is reasonably mobile. I’m afraid my own time is extremely taken up. I’m supposed to have Thursday afternoons free, but they seldom are. Let me see …”

  “I and my husband could collect Uncle Albert and bring him to you, if that would help, but it would have to be at a weekend. I shall be working again from Monday on.”

  “Unfortunately parish priests tend to be busiest at weekends … ah, yes, I could arrange to have an hour and a half free this coming Sunday, before evensong. I could offer you tea.”

  “That sounds great. I’ll have to check with my husband, and the nursing home, but I should think it will be all right. Can I let you know?”

  “Of course. I’ll pencil it in. Provisionally then, four o’clock, Sunday the 24th. Do you need directions?”

  “Not if I can find it on the map.”

  “We will assume you can. The vicarage is opposite the church, and clearly designated as such. I hope that none of you is allergic to cats.”

  “Hell … Oh, sorry. I’m afraid my husband is. I may have to come without him. I’ll let you know.”

  Jeff decided not to risk the cats, with the hay fever season almost on him.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Ms. Cowan, when Jenny telephoned. “But I’m greatly looking forward to meeting Bert Fredricks after all these years. About your other problem I’m not so sure. We may in any case have some difficulty in discussing it in his presence, if he’s so unwilling to talk about it.”

  “Suppose I wrote telling you in confidence as much as I know. It isn’t a lot. The main thing this time is to give you a chance to make up your mind whether you want to help at all.”

  “That might be very useful. I’m glad you see it that way. Till Sunday then.”

  2

  The village—almost a small town—was in that tangle of lanes with which the Kentish Weald is reticulated between the roaring thoroughfares to the coast. It was self-consciously kempt, with old, small-windowed houses, weatherboarded and tile-hung, all in near-perfect condition—this not to catch the tourist’s eye and camera, but for the gratification of the inhabitants who had chosen to live in this half-artificial version of the English dream, and had the money to maintain it. The main street curved up a hill—little more than a mound—to a church and churchyard at the top, building and tombstones of the same dark sandstone. The chur
ch looked genuinely mediaeval, and was probably fascinating, but Jenny found churches oppressive. She responded much more willingly to the houses of the living.

  A woman answered the vicarage door. Several cats wove purring round her ankles. She was about fifty, tall and angular, with a narrow pale face framed by a helmet of dense, shining white hair. She wore silver pendant earrings, a dog collar and a dark grey suit, with the frilled white cuffs of her shirt just visible. The effect, obviously deliberate, was strikingly black and white.

  Her smile was thin but not sour.

  “Come in,” she said. “The kettle is just coming to the boil. Mind your head, Mr. Fredricks—the ceilings are desperately low. You too, Mrs. Pilcher—in fact you’ll find the doorways are more of a trap for you, because you aren’t used to ducking. This way. I shan’t be a moment.”

  She showed them into a dark room with a lattice-paned window and a beamed ceiling so low that Uncle Albert couldn’t stand erect.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “What’s this woman doing, got up like that?”

  “She’s the parson here. They have woman parsons now, you know.”

  “It’s not right. Not in the Bible—bet you it’s not. So what does she want with us, then?”

  “She wants to talk to you about Terry Voss. She’s his niece. You remember Terry Voss?”

  “Terry? I should think I do. What does she know about Terry, then?”

  Jenny guessed from his tone what he meant.

  “She knows he was in prison quite often. But she was very fond of him. That’s why she wanted to meet you.”

  “Terry’s all right. More than all right. Only he couldn’t tell yours from mine—never could and never would. Is he showing up here then? She’ll need to watch her spoons.”

  “I’m afraid Terry’s dead, Uncle Albert.”

  “Can’t be helped. A lot of ’em are. Most of ’em now, I dare say. Funny sort of room. Looks like it’s been got ready for a sale, somehow.”