The Lifeline

by Margaret Mayhew

  The Colonel said, ‘As a matter of interest, what was your opinion of Lawrence Deacon?’

  ‘The Inspector asked me that too.’

  ‘What was your answer?’

  ‘I thought he was a most unpleasant man. He treated Jacob disgracefully. I’m not surprised the worm turned.’

  The Inspector had used the same word in connection with Jacob but there was really nothing worm-like about Jacob. Worms were actually bold creatures, advancing sinuously but inexorably through life whereas Jacob was a timid and terrified animal, unable to communicate, unable to cope, defenceless. Flight would always be his instinctive way out of trouble – unless he had been cornered and there was no escape.

  The Colonel raised his cap. ‘Well, I hope to see you back at the Manor very soon, Mrs Reed.’

  ‘Most unlikely, I’m afraid.’

  As he moved on, she called after him. ‘Arthur’s won another trophy.’

  ‘My congratulations.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s just one more to polish.’

  Why were they kept so brightly polished and so prominently on show, the Colonel wondered, unless she was, in fact, proud of her husband? The resentful golf widow could be a pretence, kept up over years. A game that suited both the Reeds, for some strange reason. You never knew the whole truth about other people’s marriages or what went on behind closed doors. It was a secret and usually very well kept.

  ELEVEN

  On his next trip into Dorchester, the Colonel stopped at Mrs Deacon’s shop. Naomi had given him the name and location. He must have passed it often but this time he took a look in the window. Gift shops weren’t really for him, but he could see that Seek and Find was much better than most. The items for sale were well chosen, well displayed and well lit. He opened the door and an old-fashioned bell jangled as he went inside.

  Claudia Deacon was busy serving a customer and he waited until she had finished. Once again, he was impressed by her efficient look and by her calm demeanour. Outwardly, at least, she seemed unaffected by the loss of her husband, but he had long ago learned that some people chose to hide their feelings, to keep them private. Their previous meeting after the funeral service had been very brief, but she remembered him.

  ‘How nice to see you again, Colonel. Are you looking for something to buy, or is this a different sort of visit?’

  He said frankly, ‘A different sort. I was wondering how you were coping with Inspector Squibb and his cohorts?’

  ‘He’s a fairly objectionable man, isn’t he? I’m quite sure I’m high on his list of suspects but he’s finding it rather hard to unearth any evidence that I murdered my husband.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take it personally. He always suspects everyone.’

  ‘You’ve come across him before, then?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘In Frog End?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Another murder?’

  ‘Two, actually, though one was never proved.’

  ‘I’m very surprised. It seems such a quiet place.’

  ‘Appearances are often deceptive.’

  ‘That’s true.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘It wasn’t me who murdered Lawrence. I was working here in the shop all that day, as I told the Inspector, and there were plenty of customers in here to confirm it.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you, Mrs Deacon.’

  ‘I won’t deny that our relationship had been deteriorating for a number of years and that Lawrence’s stroke had made it even worse. He found the effects very hard to cope with. So did I, to be honest. It was a difficult situation for us both – him stuck alone at home, me working here all hours. He resented it. I have a girl who comes in to give me a hand part-time but otherwise I do everything myself. The shop means a great deal to me. It’s become very important in my life.’

  ‘And I can see that you’ve made a great success of it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Lawrence didn’t like the idea at all. He thought he should come first and that I should give up the shop and stay at home to hold his hand. I refused and kept on refusing. When Dr Harvey suggested the gardening therapy to him I was all in favour because I thought it might really do him some good. But Lawrence wasn’t so keen. He never took to it, you know. It bored him and so it never worked. And lately, for some reason, he’d got the idea into his head that I was having an affair.’ She smiled. ‘I might have been tempted, but I don’t have the time, or the energy.’

  ‘He told me that you and he lost your only son some years ago.’

  ‘I’m surprised that he said anything about it, but then I can see that you’re the kind of person people would confide in. We never spoke of Richard. We agreed not to after he died. I think some people find it a comfort to talk about a lost loved one but we both found it agonising.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have mentioned it.’

  ‘You’re not the first, Colonel. The Inspector has already brought up the subject, though it has nothing whatever to do with Lawrence’s murder. How could it? Richard was killed more than twenty years ago when he was seventeen. He was the pillion passenger on a motorbike. His best friend had just bought one and they went out for a spin – at top speed, of course, like all boys. They went round a corner too fast and into a skid. The friend stayed on the bike and survived, but Richard was thrown off and hit a tree. He died instantly.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It might have been more bearable if we’d had other children, but we didn’t. As it was, the only way we could cope with the loss was to bury it deep and not to speak of him any more. He was a lovely boy, you see. Very special. Charming, kind, good-natured, funny, so full of life … It broke us both completely. Our marriage was never the same again.’

  The Colonel said, ‘Another of Dr Harvey’s patients working at the Manor is a young man called Johnny Turner. He’s confined to a wheelchair after a motorbike accident which damaged his spine irreparably. Did Lawrence ever talk about him to you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Several times. He wasn’t at all sympathetic, I’m afraid. He said it served him right. He never forgave Richard’s friend, you see. The friend survived the accident that he’d caused, and without a scratch, while Richard was killed. It didn’t seem fair to Lawrence. But, of course, that sort of thing happens all the time, especially to reckless young men. After all, they are the ones who have to fight our wars for us, aren’t they, Colonel? They have the nerve and courage it takes. They don’t believe in death happening to them. It’s something that happens to someone else.’ She paused. ‘I’m sure Lawrence felt that your young Johnny in his wheelchair represented some sort of retribution. He, at least, hadn’t got away with it scot-free, like Richard’s friend and, better still, he would be paying the price slowly for the rest of his life. The idea would have given Lawrence a great deal of satisfaction, and I’ve no doubt he talked about it to other people. That’s the sort of person he’d become, especially since his stroke. Bitter and twisted. I’m not really surprised that somebody killed him.’

  She had spoken matter-of-factly, without emotion.

  ‘Do you have any idea who it might have been?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But, as I told you, it wasn’t me.’

  The Colonel said, ‘I expect you know that Jacob, the gardener who works for Mrs Harvey, was seen running away from the greenhouse just before your husband’s body was discovered.’

  ‘Inspector Squibb told me. I gather Major Cuthbertson definitely identified him. I’ve only been to the Manor once and I’ve never actually met Jacob. He’s gone missing, hasn’t he? Which must put him ahead of me on the Inspector’s list.’

  ‘What did your husband think of Jacob?’

  ‘Bats in the belfry was one term he used. Or crackers like the Jacobs Cream Cracker box he was found in as a baby. That’s why he was named Jacob, apparently. Lawrence thought that was very funny. He made jokes about it.’

  ‘To Jacob?’

  ‘To me and probably to others. I don’t know
about to Jacob. I imagine Jacob kept well away from Lawrence. I expect he was frightened of him. He could be very unpleasant and cruel. Tell me, Colonel, why are you so interested in my husband’s murder? You can’t have known him very well. Why should you care who killed him, or why?’

  ‘Frog End would like to see the mystery solved, Mrs Deacon.’

  ‘You mean the whole village?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘And you think you can solve it?’

  ‘I can only try.’

  ‘Well, I wish you luck. The police don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do they?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  She said, ‘Lawrence wanted me to go away with him to Paris, you know. We went there once years ago, soon after we were married, and he wanted us to go back and stay in a smart hotel. I suppose he thought we could somehow go back to being the young couple we once were.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I couldn’t leave the shop at the busiest time of the year. He was furious, of course. He said it was just an excuse and that I didn’t want to go with him, which was perfectly true, I didn’t. I’m afraid I told him so straight out. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I hated him, Colonel, but I didn’t like what he had become. Of course, that didn’t help our situation, but it had nothing to do with his murder.’

  ‘Could it have caused him to lash out at somebody else, do you think? To vent his feelings?’

  ‘I suppose so. He certainly never held back from speaking his mind. He didn’t care about people any more.’

  Another customer came in and the Colonel took his leave.

  He called at the pet shop to buy Thursday some tins of the kind of food that might particularly tempt him – the ones with fancy names: Grilled Fish Medley, Tempting Terrine of Salmon, Duck Delight. Lately, the old cat had been even more picky than usual.

  As he drove back home in the Riley, he thought about his talk with Claudia Deacon. He had appreciated her honesty. She had freely admitted that her relationship with her husband had been far from perfect, but that was no motive for murder. She could have left him at any time. By her own admission, Claudia Deacon hadn’t liked what her husband had become, but whoever had smashed the spade down on Deacon’s skull had done so with far deeper and stronger feelings than dislike. Rage? Fear? Hatred? Revenge? Claudia could have felt any, or all, of these but kept them well hidden.

  Meanwhile, the inquest on Lawrence Deacon’s death had been adjourned, pending further police investigations.

  And Jacob was still missing.

  Instead of driving back to his cottage, the Colonel turned into The Close leading to the new bungalows. He went past Journey’s End, The Nook, Tree Tops and Shangri-La before he reached the one with the beautiful pelargonium in a blue pot standing by the front door. Ruth had told him the story. Johnny had apparently bought the plant out of his wages. Ruth had watched him choosing it very carefully – Lara Starshine with the bright pink flowers. She had seen how moved Mrs Turner had been when Johnny had given it to her: the first sign of any appreciation or gratitude from her son. It must have been quite a moment.

  The Colonel parked the Riley and walked up to the door. It was some time before it was opened to him and not by Mrs Turner, as he had expected, but by Johnny.

  ‘Mum’s not here. She’s gone on the bus to Dorchester.’

  He had stopped to speak to Mrs Turner on several occasions when they had passed each other as she was pushing the wheelchair round the green and he had always included Johnny in the conversation, though with very limited success. The boy, hunched up in his chair, seldom responded.

  ‘Would you mind if I came in for a moment, Johnny?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Please yourself.’

  The Colonel followed the wheelchair down the narrow hallway and into a sitting room. He could see how hard Mrs Turner had tried to make it cheerful with patterned curtains, bright cushions and pictures on the walls. There was a pile of magazines in a corner – some of them strewn untidily across the floor. Motorbike magazines. Nothing about gardening.

  Johnny had spun the wheelchair on its axis to face him. He manoeuvred it like a dodgem car.

  ‘The police have already been here, asking me questions. I’ve got nothing more to say about Mr Deacon, except what I told them. He got what he deserved.’

  ‘I’m not the police, Johnny.’

  ‘Why are you here, then?’

  ‘I came to ask if you’d carry on at the Manor – like you did before. There’s only Mrs Carberry left to help Mrs Harvey now.’

  ‘She can get someone else – a proper gardener.’

  ‘You were well on the way to becoming one.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. It was all a con to make me feel like I was a normal person. Well, it didn’t work. I’m not normal. I’m a bloody cripple and it’s all I’ll ever be.’

  ‘That’s up to you, Johnny.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you can choose to do nothing – just sit around here and read these magazines – or you can go out and do something else. It doesn’t have to be gardening at the Manor but you happen to be rather good at that and Mrs Harvey happens to need you, so it makes some sense.’

  ‘I’m not going there any more – not with the police hanging round, acting like I might have killed the bloke.’

  ‘But you didn’t kill him, did you?’

  ‘I’m not saying I did or I didn’t. I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘Do you know who did?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not saying.’

  ‘Do you think it was Jacob?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Dr and Mrs Harvey have done their best for you, Johnny, and now they need any help you can give them in return. Is there anything you saw or heard or know that might lead to the truth about Mr Deacon’s murder? Anything at all?’

  Silence.

  The Colonel picked up one of the magazines from the floor. He turned the pages.

  ‘You can do better than this, Johnny. Much better.’

  ‘And you can go to hell.’

  He left. He didn’t blame Johnny in the least for how he felt. What right had he to lecture him? None whatsoever. It was Johnny’s life to live exactly however he chose.

  ‘I’d like another word with you, Mrs Carberry. If you don’t mind.’

  It was obvious that whether she minded or not, the Inspector was going to come into the flat. Tanya stood back and he walked past her, the Sergeant plodding after him.

  ‘What exactly did you want to see me about, Inspector?’

  ‘Perhaps we could sit down?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to add to what I told you.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find that you have, Mrs Carberry.’ He sat down, uninvited; so did the Sergeant who opened his notebook on his knee. ‘Let’s start by you telling me your movements on the day that Mr Deacon was murdered. From the time when you arrived at the Manor.’

  She sat down as far away from him as possible. ‘I’ve already done so.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  She took a deep breath. The man was trying to unnerve her but if she kept her head, he couldn’t actually do anything. He couldn’t arrest her – not without proper evidence. The law was on her side.

  ‘I was later than usual. I didn’t get there until after ten o’clock.’

  ‘Mrs Harvey didn’t mind?’

  ‘Mrs Harvey lets me come and go whenever I like.’

  ‘That must be very convenient for you. I wish I had a job like that.’

  ‘It’s not a job, Inspector. I’m not a paid employee. I’m a patient of Dr Harvey’s. The four of us were his patients. Mr Deacon, Mrs Carberry, Johnny and myself. Dr Harvey believes that gardening can be therapeutic in some circumstances.’

  ‘I’m wondering what the circumstances were in your case, Mrs Carberry. Do you mind telling me the nature of your illness?’

  Again, she minded very much but a refusal would
be unwise.

  ‘My husband died suddenly a year ago. I’ve been very depressed since.’

  ‘And Dr Harvey has been treating you for that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you don’t need to work? To have a proper job?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your husband left you well-provided for?’

  It was absolutely none of his business.

  ‘I don’t have any money worries, Inspector, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘How about children?’

  ‘I have two. Both grown-up and independent. My son lives in San Diego. My daughter in Seattle.’

  ‘So, you don’t see much of them?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’

  Hardly ever, she might have said, more truthfully.

  ‘Are they married?’

  ‘No, neither of them. Inspector, what exactly has all this got to do with Mr Deacon’s murder?’

  ‘I ask the questions, Mrs Carberry. Not you. How long have you lived in Frog End?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘We moved here just over a year ago. My husband died suddenly a few months later.’

  ‘Leaving you all alone in a strange village?’

  ‘The people here have been very kind.’

  ‘But you must miss your husband?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What sort of relationship did you have with the other patients?’

  ‘I didn’t have a lot to do with them. I was usually working on my own.’

  ‘Going back to the day of Mr Deacon’s murder, what garden work did you do – when you finally arrived at the Manor after ten?’

  She repeated her story. Mrs Harvey had asked her to do some weeding in the herbaceous borders by the main lawn and she had spent the morning there. Around midday she had taken her sandwiches to eat in the old stables where there was a table and chairs. Mrs Harvey was often there too but not on that day.

  ‘What about Mr Deacon?’

  ‘He always ate his lunch wherever he was working. Johnny Turner sometimes joined me in the stables but not then.’

  ‘Where was he?’