by Nicola Upson
The presence of a police officer in the house seemed to confirm something that she had already suspected, and she cut him off before he could finish. ‘He’s done it, then. I thought he was planning something.’
‘Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Penrose said, interested to note that the resignation in her voice was tinged with a genuine sadness. ‘Done what?’
‘Killed himself. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Is he downstairs?’ She glanced at the door to the basement, then back to Penrose again, and her hand went to her mouth in horror, distorting her words. ‘Dear God, I knew I should never have left him on his own, but he was so insistent. Practically strong-armed me out of the house, he did, and he’s never behaved like that before.’
Penrose listened as she blamed herself for a fault which existed only in her imagination, then gently led her into the study and encouraged her to sit down. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs . . .?’
‘Pryce. Hilda Pryce.’
‘Mrs Pryce. I’m sorry to say that Dr Laxborough is dead, but he didn’t take his own life.’
She stared at him, confused. ‘An accident, then? What happened? Where is he?’
He paused, taking time to choose his words carefully. ‘Dr Laxborough’s body was found earlier today in St John’s churchyard. We don’t know exactly what happened yet, but we are sure that he was killed unlawfully. That’s why I’m here—to look for anything that might help us piece together how he died, and to talk to you about the last few days of his life.’ The reality of the situation seemed suddenly to drain all the strength that Hilda Pryce had, and she collapsed into gut-wrenching sobs in front of him. Penrose gave her time to recover, feeling stupid and insensitive for thinking only of a family’s grief: he had reckoned without the devotion that often accompanied long service. ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked gently. ‘Some water, perhaps, or a cup of tea.’
She shook her head and searched in her bag for a handkerchief. ‘No, nothing, thank you. I’ll be all right in a minute. I’m sorry. Whatever must you think of me?’
‘There’s no need to apologise.’
‘It’s just you get fond of someone, don’t you, when you’ve been with them a long time, and he was always good to me.’
The conversation was so different to the one that Penrose had been expecting that he began to wonder if the remoteness between Laxborough and Turner had been down to church politics or personal dislike rather than a general character trait. ‘How long had you worked for Dr Laxborough?’ he asked.
‘Eighteen years, give or take. I started with him as soon as he moved here, and the job saved my life, really. My husband died not long after the war, and I don’t know how I’d have managed otherwise.’
‘And from what you say, you were obviously happy here?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I was. We got along all right. Dr Laxborough knew how he wanted things and he expected them done properly, but he was decent. Easier to look after than Charlie ever was.’ She flushed, regretting her indiscretion with a stranger. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, but my husband could be difficult. We married in a hurry and we didn’t really know each other. After he died, well—it was a relief not to bother about all of that. I knew where I was with my job.’
The conversation had calmed her a little, enough for Penrose to return to more difficult questions. ‘Can I ask why you thought that Dr Laxborough had committed suicide?’
‘Because he’d tried it before. Last Christmas, it was. I came back unexpectedly and found him downstairs, with the house full of gas.’ She paused, reliving the scene in her head. ‘He always hated Christmas—it made him morose. People are when they’ve got no close family, I suppose. I’m not that keen on it myself if I’m honest, though it doesn’t seem Christian to say so. But last year was worse. It hit him earlier than usual, and he couldn’t seem to shake himself out of it.’
‘Do you know what was troubling him?’
‘No. He never talked about himself and I knew better than to ask. The only way I ever knew how he was feeling was through the music he played. And I certainly never dreamt what he was planning, or I wouldn’t have gone in the first place.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, I’d finished at lunchtime on Christmas Eve, like I always do, and I went off to get the bus to my sister’s, but then I realised that I’d left the presents for the little ones in my room and I had to come all the way back for them. There’d have been hell to pay—you know what kids are like. Anyway, it was about four o’clock—I know that because the wireless was on and they were just finishing with the carols. I’ll never forget it—all that beautiful music, and there he was, lying on the floor. I switched off the gas and opened the windows, and pulled him away as best I could. Terrible, he looked. It was ages before he came to.’
‘But you didn’t call an ambulance or try to get help?’
For the first time, Hilda Pryce looked away as she answered. ‘No, I didn’t, and I know that was wrong but he wouldn’t have liked it. As it was . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘As it was, he never forgave me. Things were different between us after that. We didn’t talk as often as we used to.’
‘Because he was embarrassed, or because he wanted to die and you stopped him?’
‘Both, I suppose. I thought he might get over it in time, hoped he might even be grateful—not because I wanted thanks, I don’t mean that, but I wanted him to believe that there were things worth living for, that he’d made a mistake. His music was everything to him, and I hoped it might get him through.’
‘But whatever had depressed him didn’t go away?’
‘It didn’t seem to, no. In the end, I felt as though I’d let him down by saving him.’
‘Did he leave a note? Anything to explain why he was doing it?’
‘Not that I saw. He might have written one and destroyed it afterwards, I suppose.’
‘And this time—you said that Dr Laxborough sent you away?’
‘That’s right. He gave me some time off, out of the blue, as if he’d made his mind up about something and wanted me out of the way. I guessed what it might be, but he was so insistent and there was no arguing with him, so I packed a bag and went to my sister’s for a few days.’
‘When was this?’
‘He told me on Friday and I left on Saturday.’
‘And had he seen anybody shortly before that? Were there any meetings that seemed to upset him? Any callers you didn’t recognise?’
‘No. The only people who ever came to the house were his pupils, and they were a nice lot on the whole. Kids, most of them—he only ever taught people he thought were truly gifted and who would make the most of the opportunity. A lot of the time, he didn’t even charge them.’
‘So he was wealthy?’
‘Comfortable, I’d say, rather than wealthy. And he wasn’t an extravagant man.’
‘What about post or telephone calls last week? Anything unusual there?’
She considered the question for a long time. ‘There wasn’t anything particular that I could put my finger on, but now I think about it, it was shortly after I took him the second post on Friday that he told me to go away for a bit.’
‘Can you remember exactly what he said? It might be very important.’
‘He said that he wanted to be on his own for a while and it would be better if I got away from the house and took some leave.’
‘But you told me that he “strong-armed” you.’
‘Yes, and perhaps that was the wrong word because I don’t mean anything physical. He just said that if I felt any loyalty to him whatsoever, I’d do as he asked. I suppose he knew that was the one thing I would never argue with.’ Penrose was about to ask another question, but Mrs Pryce hadn’t quite finished answering the last one. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t so much what he said that worried me. It was the fact that the music stopped.’ She saw that he didn’t understand, and added: ‘There was always music in this house.
If he wasn’t playing it, he was listening to it. I sometimes used to joke with him that he couldn’t hear himself think, and he said that was precisely the point.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t really know how to explain it. It was like the world saddened him. Perhaps it was the war or perhaps he was just made that way, but he didn’t seem to need other people like the rest of us do. My sister and me, we fight like cats over a scrap of fish, but I wouldn’t be without her, nor she with me. But Dr Laxborough wasn’t like that. He found his refuge in his music.’
Penrose thought back to the quotation that had been found in his pocket—a confession of sorts, a hesitant acknowledgement of responsibility. ‘Did you ever get the feeling that he’d done something he regretted, something he felt guilty about?’
‘Which of us hasn’t? I couldn’t answer that. Probably only he could. All I can say is that he was a good man as long as I knew him. I don’t mean that in a sentimental way. He wasn’t all God and charity, not like some of them at that church, although most of that’s for the show of it rather than any genuine piety. No, he said what he thought and he didn’t go out of his way to help people unless they deserved it, but he was principled. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I think so, yes. Can you tell me anything about his family?’
‘There’s a nephew, Michael, but he lives abroad—in South Africa, I think. That’s it, as far as I know. His parents are long gone and his brother died in the war. I can give you Michael’s address if you need it.’
‘Thank you, that would be helpful. And the name of his GP, too, if you know it?’ Laxborough’s body would have to be formally identified, but the last thing Penrose wanted was to put Hilda Pryce through that if he could possibly avoid it; to his relief, she nodded. He thought about the signet ring, worn on the little finger of the left hand, and asked: ‘In all the years you’ve known him, did Dr Laxborough ever have a particularly close friend? Were you aware of any romantic involvements?’
‘He wasn’t interested in women as far as I could tell—not like that, anyway.’
It wasn’t exclusively what Penrose had meant, but he didn’t want to offend her by clarifying the question too bluntly. ‘He wore a ring on his left hand . . .’
‘Ah yes, I can tell you about that. His father gave it to him when he got his degree. It had been in the family for years, apparently, and it was a tradition to pass it on at a significant moment.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pryce. Now, if you’ve no objections, I’d like to take a quick look at the rest of the house. Perhaps you could get me those addresses in the meantime?’
She nodded and busied herself with the appointments book while Penrose went upstairs. The first floor consisted of a bedroom, bathroom and sitting room, all typical of a confirmed bachelor and with nothing particular to distinguish them except for a beautifully crafted antique harpsichord. Apart from a large linen cupboard, the rooms at the top of the house clearly belonged to the housekeeper. He opened the door of her bedroom, feeling every bit the intruder that violent death demanded him to be, and walked over to the dressing table. In spite of all she had said, Hilda Pryce still kept the obligatory photographic reminders of her marriage on display: there was a snapshot of her husband in army uniform and another of their wartime wedding. Penrose looked with interest at the cocky young soldier and his girl-at-home bride—someone to write to, someone to brag about. His view might be coloured by what she had told him, but—to his eyes—the new Mrs Pryce seemed apprehensive, even unhappy, and he was struck by how many silent casualties the fighting had claimed outside of the trenches. His own war was painful enough, but at least he had never felt obliged to make two lives miserable by a hasty and ill-suited match.
The other photographs and knick-knacks only served to emphasise what he had already noticed about the house in general: there was nothing very personal in any of the rooms, and what there was consisted of taste rather than history. Stephen Laxborough’s lifestyle and habits were evident in his music and his books, but there wasn’t a single clue to his past—no family photographs, no images of friends, nothing to indicate where he had lived or whom he had loved before he arrived in Hampstead eighteen years earlier. Come to think of it, there wasn’t even a photograph to show Penrose what the dead man had looked like, and he tried in vain to recall another house that didn’t contain a picture of its owner, either taken with a loved one or in celebration of a particular achievement. He thought about Marta and her ‘sentimental clutter’, and realised how normal that was; here, it was as if Laxborough had just moved in and the important boxes were still to be unpacked.
He went back downstairs, deep in thought, and Mrs Pryce met him in the hallway with the details he had requested. ‘Can I get one of my colleagues to take you back to your sister’s?’ he asked, reluctant to leave her so abruptly on her own.
‘No, that won’t be necessary. I’d rather stay here.’ As soon as the words were out, it seemed to dawn on Hilda Pryce that her tenure was no longer a right and that the man who had made this her home was gone. ‘It is all right if I stay?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course. Ultimately, that will be up to Dr Laxborough’s beneficiary, of course, but probate will take some time to sort out. Would you like me to bring someone to you instead? Perhaps your sister could stay here with you, at least for tonight? You’ve had a shock, and . . .’
Again she refused, more firmly this time. ‘No, please—I’ve got all I need. But thank you. You’ve been very kind.’ She was dismissing him to be alone with her grief. Penrose collected his hat and allowed himself to be shown to the door. ‘This will sound funny, but I’m almost glad I was wrong about his death, you know,’ she admitted. ‘We’ve had a suicide in the family and it’s a terrible thing. You never stop thinking about how much pain they must have been in and how frightened and alone they’ll have felt at the end, once they knew what they were going to do. At least this’ll have been unexpected. At least it’ll have been quick.’
Penrose looked away, unable to give her the assurance she sought that a man she loved hadn’t suffered; she would find out, no doubt, but he wouldn’t give her those images a moment earlier than was necessary. ‘I’ll need a formal statement from you,’ he said, glad to have a procedure to fall back on. ‘Would it be all right if I asked one of my colleagues to call tomorrow and take one?’
If she saw through the change of subject, she was too polite or too fearful of his motives to say so. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll be here all day.’ He opened the door but she put her hand on his arm. ‘There is one more thing, though. Will I be able to see him?’
Penrose hesitated, remembering Laxborough’s injuries. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said gently, blaming a rule that under any other circumstances he would have broken. Before she could argue or ask him to justify his decision, he bid her goodnight and walked out into the street.
3
‘Where do you want these?’ Josephine asked, with a weary glance at the plethora of cardboard boxes marked simply ‘miscellaneous’. She picked up one of the more interestingly shaped newspaper parcels and unwrapped it. ‘Actually, let me rephrase that. Why do you want these?’
Marta laughed and took the gilt bronze figure from her hand. ‘You and I will never agree on the right side of kitsch, but it’s a big house. I’ll make sure she stays out of your way.’
‘It’s not actually the figure I mind—it’s that awful marble base they’ve stuck her on. She looks like she’s dancing on a headstone.’ Happy to remain oblivious to the rest of the box, Josephine closed the lid. ‘I can’t help thinking that I might have been more use to you if I’d helped you pack. By the time the removal van drew up outside here, the damage was already done.’
‘It was a bit rushed towards the end,’ Marta admitted, ‘but it just seemed easier to shove everything in a box and worry about it later. Now “later” is here, I’m beginning to see the drawbacks in the plan.’ She looked
round the first-floor room, which somehow managed to appear both sparse and cluttered. ‘Anyway, there’s precious little point in unpacking very much at all until the decorators have been through the whole house. That’ll teach me to rent a place without actually seeing it.’ Defeated, she sat down on the bare floorboards and looked at Josephine. ‘Are you sure you want to stay here while I’m away?’
‘Of course I do. It’s lovely.’ Josephine pulled Marta to her feet and led her to one of the windows overlooking St Clement’s Passage, a pretty paved alleyway which ran between a row of elegant townhouses and one of Cambridge’s many churches. ‘What could you possibly regret about that? It might need a bit of work . . .’ Marta looked at her. ‘All right, a lot of work, but it’s worth the effort.’ As if to support her argument, a streak of late afternoon sun brushed the church’s pantiled roof, drawing out a rich, autumnal red, and the faint sound of choral music drifted across the passage. ‘And anyway,’ Josephine added, speaking more seriously now, ‘it’s the least I can do. You’ve sold a house you loved just to give us a new start. Why wouldn’t I want to stay and make this one beautiful? You won’t recognize it when you get back.’ She smiled and brushed a covering of dust and flaked paint from Marta’s shoulder. ‘Let’s forget about it for a while and go and get some tea.’
As they were on their way out, a young girl in a nurse’s uniform ran down the steps of the house next door and hurried over to the church railings, which were all but obscured by a row of bicycles. She smiled and nodded, then rode out into the traffic, glancing up at the church clock as if she couldn’t believe what it was telling her. ‘Late for a shift,’ Josephine guessed, watching her go. ‘I remember what that was like. Have you met many of your neighbours yet?’