The Lifeline

by Margaret Mayhew

  Time to get some new ones. No question. But where from? And then he remembered seeing a whole set of whisky glasses in Claudia Deacon’s shop. Damned nice-looking ones too. It would mean another visit to Seek and Find which was rather a good idea, when he thought about it.

  Later, over supper, he put it boldly to the old girl while he was trying to identify whatever she’d cooked. Some kind of fish, he thought, in which case he had to watch out for bones. Lethal, if you didn’t. They could stick in the throat and choke you to death. He poked around with his fork. Yes, it was fish all right. Haddock, probably. Or hake. Or cod. They all tasted the same. He manoeuvred a sharp white bone carefully on to the side of his plate.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that we ought to get some more glasses, Marjorie.’

  ‘What for? We’ve got a cupboard full of them.’

  ‘They’re not for whisky.’

  Among the many things that his wife had never understood was whisky glasses and what they should be like. Heavy bottomed, good to hold and good to look at.

  ‘You’ve got a perfectly good glass already, Roger.’

  ‘There’s a chip on the rim – I nearly cut my lip on it this evening.’

  ‘You shouldn’t drink so fast.’

  He said with dignity, ‘I’d like to get some new ones, if you don’t mind. I’ll pay for them, of course.’

  She sighed. ‘If you insist.’

  He had discovered another fishbone and steered it over to join the first. ‘I noticed some in that gift shop in Dorchester where I bought the notebook for your birthday.’

  ‘Mrs Deacon’s place?’

  ‘As it happens.’

  ‘I thought it might be. Don’t start getting any of your ideas, Roger. You know they always land you in trouble.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do, but never mind. And don’t go spending a fortune. They’ll only get broken.’

  Which was true enough. He might as well go to that shop in the town where everything cost a pound. Except that some things in life still mattered and drinking a decent whisky out of a decent glass was one of them. The set he’d noticed in Seek and Find had looked just the job and he reckoned he’d earned them, what with all the fetching and carrying and waiting around that he had to put up with every day of what remained of his life.

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ he said.

  The Major took some trouble over his appearance for re-visiting Seek and Find. The second-best blazer would have to do in lieu of the best one, still held in police custody. Not that he wanted it back now. The mere thought made him shudder. He donned a double-cuffed white shirt from one of those places in Jermyn Street, put in his monogrammed silver cufflinks and tied his old regimental tie. A last check in the long mirror assured him that everything was tickety-boo. He peered closer and smoothed his hair. Not quite so much of it on top, maybe, but a lot more than most older men – except the Colonel. It was all in the genes, so they said. Handed down from generation to generation and not much you could do about it. He turned sideways for a different view of his reflection. According to Claudia, as he now called her in his mind, he had a reputation. It went before him, apparently. She hadn’t said what the reputation was for, but in his book, it could only mean one thing. If the Major had had moustaches, he might have twirled them but he contented himself with shooting his cuffs.

  Things had not been going quite as smoothly with Tanya as he’d hoped. She was always too busy to talk to him when she was working at the Manor and he was beginning to ask himself if she was worth the time and trouble he was taking. There were other fish in the sea, though not so many these days, it was true. On balance, it was probably still better to hang on. Stick to his course. Go on playing the game. But now that the fête was over he’d have to think up another excuse for calling at the Manor.

  He backed the Escort out of the garage, no trouble at all – the old girl rarely missed a gatepost – and breezed off towards Dorchester, one arm on the wheel. Sometimes – but not very often – he felt quite young again.

  The bell jangled as he opened the door to Seek and Find, bringing back the old sweet shop memories. Humbugs, he thought wistfully. That’s what he’d choose today, if he could. And maybe some treacle toffees – if only the old gnashers were still up to it.

  To his annoyance, he wasn’t the only customer. Some woman was already at the counter, talking and trying to choose between two almost identical flower vases and he could tell from bitter experience that she was going to dither for a long time. What was it about women? If men had something to say and decide they said it and decided. That was the end of it. Finished and done.

  He had a look round for the whisky glasses. No sign of them.

  ‘Can I help you, Major?’

  Another woman had come up behind him while he was searching. Who the hell was she?

  ‘I’m Mrs Deacon’s assistant. She’s rather busy at the moment. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  He hadn’t realized that Claudia had anybody to help her. Plain as a pikestaff, he noted, or he might have taken up the offer. He wondered if she had heard about his reputation too?

  He said firmly, ‘No, thank you. I’ll wait until Mrs Deacon’s free.’

  She went off to the back of the shop and he wandered around a bit more, looking in vain for the glasses. The customer at the counter had finally made up her mind after changing it several times, but now she had started complaining about her husband. On and on she was going about how he always took her for granted. She was damn lucky to have one at all, he thought. The assistant had been a pikestaff, but this one was a battleaxe. If she were his wife, he’d have got rid of her long ago.

  Another ten minutes went by before the woman finally paid for the chosen vase and left with much loud and unnecessary jangling of the sweet-shop doorbell. No consideration for others, he thought. None at all. But that was the way it went these days. Nobody gave a damn any more.

  ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting, Major. I’m afraid some of my customers like to take their time. I have to be patient. It’s all part of the job.’ She was smiling at him. ‘I hoped Edie might be able to help you.’

  ‘Edie?’

  ‘My assistant. She works here on Thursdays and Saturdays.’

  Claudia was even better looking than he remembered. A mature woman, of course, but none the worse for that. He’d always preferred them himself, especially now he was getting on a bit. They knew how many beans made five, whatever it was. He couldn’t cope with the young ones any more. Couldn’t understand what they were saying, for one thing.

  ‘Actually, I wanted a word with you.’

  ‘Well, now that I’m free, what can I do for you, Major?’

  He explained about the whisky glasses. ‘I happened to notice them when I was in last time, buying the present for my wife.’

  ‘Oh yes, the notebook and pencil. I hope she liked it.’

  ‘It was a jolly good idea of yours,’ he said. ‘Marjorie’s not easy to please.’

  ‘And now you’re looking for some whisky glasses for her?’

  ‘Not for her. For me. You had a set of six. Out on a table somewhere.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Major, but I sold them the day before yesterday.’

  He felt crushed out of all proportion. They were only modern glasses, after all, not golden tankards from some pharaoh’s tomb. But he’d liked the look of them and he’d already got used to the idea of owning them. Had pictured himself taking one from the cocktail cabinet, pouring a good-sized measure, retreating to his fireside chair and raising it – chipless and glinting before his eyes. The whisky would taste all the better, like wine from crystal and tea from bone china.

  Claudia Deacon said, ‘But I do have another set, very similar to the ones you saw. They’ve only just come in. Would you like to see them?’

  He waited anxiously until she came back with a very smart-looking box and opened it for him. He lifted a glass out, we
ighing it in his hand, holding it up to the light and running his fingertip round the rim. It passed the tests with flying colours. Heavy bottomed, good to look at and good to feel. And there were six of them. Even allowing for Marjorie’s rate of attrition, they should keep him going for a while. They cost a fair bit, as he discovered, but he paid up like a man. They were worth it.

  He waited while she stowed the box in a strong carrier bag. Now would be the very moment to ask her to join him for a thank-you drink, considering that she’d been so helpful, not once but twice. There was a quiet little bar he knew of not too far away, and Whatshername could hold the fort.

  ‘Here you are, Major. I do hope you enjoy using them.’

  She was holding out the carrier bag and he was just about to pop the drink question to her when the shop bell jangled loudly again and a customer came in. Another woman and, from the look and sound of her, she was going to be as inconsiderate as the one before. No good hanging around any longer. He could wait for hours.

  He popped into the quiet little bar, nevertheless, and had a couple of quick ones before he drove back to Frog End. To his relief, Marjorie was out. It was her turn for doing the font flowers, he remembered, which would take some time. Competition among the village ladies over the church flowers was always cutthroat, but the font display, he had learned, counted the most. The altar and chancel vases might impress with their towering and colourful arrangements but the ancient Norman font, still in its original position by the west window after more than six hundred years, caught the eye on entering the church and was generally felt to require a more subtle approach. Surprisingly, the old girl was a match for it. Her all-white effort last Easter had been praised to the skies.

  He unpacked the new glasses and put them carefully away in the cocktail cabinet, accompanied by ‘Drink to Me Only’. Right on cue his late mother-in-law’s clock chimed six silvery pings from the mantelpiece. He poured a celebratory measure into one of the glasses and took it back to his armchair. A toast was in order, though he couldn’t think of one for a moment. Finally, with Dusty Coleman in mind, and others who had preceded him, he raised his brand-new glass to absent friends.

  Too bad about Claudia, but there would always be another chance. He could visit the shop on any excuse and ask her out again. She was bound to accept, he thought, given his reputation.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘The grand draw takes place this Saturday, Colonel.’

  ‘Draw?’

  Miss Butler had just happened to be passing by his front gate as he had opened the door on his way out. He had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘For the Greenfields Animal Shelter raffle prizes. You very kindly bought a whole book of tickets. You will be notified, of course, if you are one of the lucky winners.’

  He smiled. ‘I never win, Miss Butler. I told you.’

  ‘But I do so hope that you do this time. Perhaps not the first prize, but the second or third.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember what they are.’

  ‘First prize is a week’s holiday for two at a luxury hotel in Barcelona, Spain.’ Miss Butler’s cheeks turned pink. ‘I don’t think that would be quite right for you, Colonel. But you might enjoy the case of English sparkling wine, or the willow basket of sun-ripened fruit.’

  ‘We’ll wait and see what happens, shall we?’

  ‘I’ll be present at the draw myself and keeping my fingers crossed for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She came a little closer to the gate.

  ‘I’ve been wondering if you’ve made any progress, Colonel?’

  ‘Progress?’

  ‘About Mr Deacon’s murderer? I know the police have arrested Jacob, but I really don’t believe he would have done it, do you? It’s not in his nature.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Mrs Carberry still seems the most likely suspect, in my opinion. We know so little about her, don’t we? She’s very new to the village.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t think that she did it either.’

  ‘Oh dear, I was hoping that perhaps she had. What about Mrs Deacon, herself? She must have got very tired of her husband being an invalid, especially with her busy shop to run. Some gentlemen can be rather difficult, can’t they?’

  Miss Butler’s father, the late Admiral, had probably provided her with plenty of first-hand experience of difficult gentlemen.

  ‘Rather a drastic solution, though.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Miss Butler sighed. ‘It’s all very unsettling, isn’t it? Johnny might be another possibility – if he could walk, but he can’t, so he couldn’t, and anyway I can’t imagine why he’d want to kill Mr Deacon. What good would it do? Poor, poor young man. I feel so sorry for him not able to enjoy life like other young men. Tragic! And I pity his poor mother having to push him everywhere in that wheelchair, as though he were a baby. It must be awful for them both. Humiliating for him and such hard work for her. I’ve watched her struggling along and I’ve often wondered how on earth she manages, being so frail herself. But, of course, she does it for Johnny and that’s what’s given her the strength. Luckily she seems to find it easier now. Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it, Colonel?’

  ‘It can certainly help.’

  ‘That’s why athletes train so hard, of course. The sad thing is that Johnny had been so much brighter and better lately and Dr Harvey’s gardening therapy idea was getting to be such a success. Such a breakthrough! Mrs Turner must have had high hopes for him. But after Mr Deacon was murdered and the police interviewed Johnny, he refused to go back to the Manor. I’m not at all surprised, are you? Inspector Squibb is enough to upset anyone. I wish he’d just go away and leave Frog End alone.’

  ‘He will. Don’t worry, Miss Butler.’

  ‘I can’t stop worrying, I’m afraid.’ She hooked her handbag further up her arm. ‘Of course, there’s always Mrs Reed. We don’t know much about her either. And still less about her husband. Nobody in Frog End has ever seen him – not even me – which is rather strange, don’t you think? Very puzzling.’

  The U-Bootwaffe binoculars housed at the ready in the bureau drawer had not been mentioned but they were obviously uppermost in Miss Butler’s mind.

  ‘He’s very keen on his golf.’

  ‘Yes, but husbands have to come home at night, don’t they? They need to go to sleep somewhere. And how does he get to and from his golf when they only seem to have the one car? Mrs Reed’s health wouldn’t be up to chauffeuring him, would it?’

  ‘Perhaps somebody from his club gives him a lift.’

  Miss Butler looked doubtful. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. He certainly seems to play a great deal. All day and every day, so far as I can see, wherever it is. I know Mrs Thompson’s husband enjoys an occasional game locally – when he has the time – but it’s only a small nine-hole course and she says Mr Reed definitely doesn’t play there. He must belong to a club with a much bigger course, considering what an excellent player he must be, with all those silver cups. I wonder which club it is?’

  ‘It has eighteen holes, according to Mrs Reed.’

  ‘That sounds a lot.’

  ‘I believe it’s quite normal.’

  ‘If you say so, Colonel. I’m sure you know all about these things. I’ve been thinking of something else, too. We only have Mrs Reed’s word for it that she wasn’t at the Manor on that terrible day. She may not have actually been working there but she could still have gone there, couldn’t she? Unfortunately, I wasn’t actually at home myself, so I can’t be sure whether she left the Hall or not. But I’ve heard that the Major happened to notice a woman while he was trying to choose his plant. He was standing by the benches when he looked up and saw her in the distance.’

  The Frog End grapevine was clearly on top form.

  He said, ‘I’m afraid he only saw her for a moment. Not clearly enough to identify her.’

  ‘So I understand. Such a pity that the Major’s sight isn’t better or we m
ight have the answer to our mystery. He really should wear stronger spectacles, but gentlemen can be rather vain about such things. My late father was always bumping into the furniture yet he maintained to the end that he had perfect vision.’ Another tug on the handbag which had slithered back down her arm ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer, Colonel. I’m sure you’re very busy. Perhaps we’ll have some news from the Inspector soon.’

  He stood in his doorway, watching her go and thinking about what she had said.

  It was a great shame that Miss Butler had never met the U-boat captain who must have scanned his North Atlantic quite as assiduously as she monitored her Frog End village green. Every wave and every blade between them. They would have made a striking partnership. The German in his piratical white captain’s cap, a Führer-awarded black iron cross sported at his neck and several days’ growth of beard. Miss Butler, ultra-neat and restrained in English navy blue, her hat on her head, her handbag hooked over her arm. He doubted that there was much that the captain could have taught Miss Butler about wielding a pair of powerful Zeiss binoculars to maximum effect, but he would have held all the aces when it came to commanding his boat. Submariners were tough men – they had to be – and none tougher than their captain who couldn’t afford the least sign of weakness or fear. Yes, it was a great pity that the captain and Miss Butler had never met.

  It was the Colonel’s turn to take old Mrs Pennyfeather to hospital for her weekly exercise class. This was never less than a pleasure because she was always interesting. The journey there and the journey back were full of Mrs Pennyfeather’s views on a very long life and covered all aspects of her experience. She had seen world wars come and go, dictators live and die, kings succeed queens and the other way round – one of them abdicating inexcusably in her opinion – and countries rise and fall. She held strong opinions about most things and about most people and reserved her deepest contempt for politicians of all kinds. In her view, they were cowards, liars and cheats. The only exception was Winston Churchill.