The Lifeline

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Worth all the rest put together,’ she had told the Colonel many times.

  She occasionally re-lived the time of Dunkirk when her husband had been taken prisoner of war and she had had to wait more than six months to learn if he was dead or alive. German troops had apparently unearthed him in a French farmhouse cellar, drinking it dry. Thereafter he had languished in a prison camp in Poland for five long years.

  ‘After VE Day they flew him home in a Lancaster with a lot of other POWs. He was just like a wild dog, you know. Not a civilized bone left in his body. It had all been about survival, you see. Staying alive somehow. Nothing else had mattered. I nearly gave up on him but it was all right in the end.’

  It was hard to imagine Mrs Pennyfeather giving up on anything if her determination with her arm was anything to go by. An awkward fall on slippery ground had resulted in a multiple break. The shattered bones had been reassembled in hospital with the aid of a metal plate and screws, followed up by many hours of remedial exercises. The Colonel knew that she had attended every session faithfully and practised the exercises at home.

  As he settled her in the front passenger seat, she stuck out the arm for his inspection.

  ‘What do you think of it now, eh, Colonel? I reckon I could out-wrestle you any day of the week.’

  He thought it more than likely. The arm, which had been reduced to a thin white stick when he had first seen it, now looked strong and healthy. Practice had made perfect, as Miss Butler had once quite rightly observed.

  He drove Mrs Pennyfeather rather faster than he drove his other elderly passengers and she entertained him with her thoughts on the present state of the world which she considered shocking. Cruelty, greed, dishonesty; sometimes she didn’t think it was worth making the considerable effort to stay alive much longer. She’d given up watching TV news, she told him, especially the BBC’s which was always so depressing, and anyway she couldn’t hear or understand what the readers were saying.

  ‘Nobody speaks clearly any more, haven’t you noticed?’

  As a matter of fact, he had. He’d put it down to his own hearing deteriorating and wondered whether that was also Mrs Pennyfeather’s problem. It was difficult to tell exactly how old she was – somewhere in her mid-nineties, he guessed. A survivor from an indomitable age.

  She leaned across.

  ‘Can’t you make this old rattletrap go any faster, Colonel?’

  He put his foot down to take the Riley briskly up a steep hill. Mrs Pennyfeather wound down her window and let the wind blow her hair about. Just for a moment, sitting beside him, she seemed to him more like nineteen than ninety.

  ‘Fast enough for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to do.’

  ‘Hallo, Father. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Susan. How are you all?’

  ‘Edith’s had another cold but she’s almost over it, I’m thankful to say. Are you keeping fit?’

  ‘Reasonably so.’

  ‘No aches and pains?’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘And you’re eating properly?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Taking your vitamin pills?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  So far there had been no mention of any bungalows for sale.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you to call us, Father. About your visit. We need to finalize it.’

  Damn it! He’d forgotten that the school holidays would have begun. It was hard to keep track of them. The terms seemed so short now and the half-terms so long. Nothing like in the old days when it had been the other way round.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it very much.’

  Diary pages rustled.

  ‘We’re getting quite booked up already but we’ll be free at the end of next week. You could come then.’

  He said, ‘I’m very sorry, Susan, but I won’t be able to manage that. Things are rather busy here at the moment.’

  ‘Busy?’

  He appreciated that it would be hard to understand, given his circumstances.

  ‘I’m involved with a local problem that has to be sorted out.’

  ‘Can’t someone else deal with it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. People are relying on me.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She clearly didn’t. ‘Well, when can you come?’

  ‘I’ll make it just as soon as I can.’

  ‘The children will be very disappointed, Father. Especially Eric. He’s been looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to make it up to him, I promise. Take him out on a special treat of his own.’

  With any luck they might be able to do the old bomber airfields in Norfolk after all.

  ‘It would be much better if we all went somewhere together, otherwise Edith will feel left out.’

  He knew when he was batting on a losing wicket.

  ‘Just as you like.’

  ‘We could visit Littleland.’

  ‘Littleland?’

  ‘It’s a model English village with quaint old cottages and a church and a farm, all in perfect miniature, just a few feet high. It’s only been open for a few months. We haven’t been there yet but it’s said to be very popular with small children and to have full parental approval. Edith would love it.’

  The bomber airfields were receding rapidly. Control towers, Nissen huts, perimeter tracks, old runways vanishing into the mist.

  ‘Perhaps Eric would sooner do something else with me … I’ll have a word with him and see if he’s got any ideas.’

  ‘I’m afraid he can’t be trusted to be sensible these days, Father. He’d suggest something quite unsuitable. Littleland would be much safer for us all.’ The pages rustled again. ‘You’ll let me know as soon as your local problem is solved, won’t you, so we can arrange a firm date?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it will be long now.’

  He went out into the garden to check on the general progress. The pig trough was doing well, the mint brought under control so that there was room for all, as originally intended. He moved on to the border to admire the lupins, the foxgloves and the delphiniums in their full summer colour and glory, and stopped to give an encouraging word to Miss Jekyll with her pretty sky-blue flowers who seemed very content in the sunny spot he had chosen for her. Thursday was following him, as he often did, and he walked slowly so that the old cat could keep up. They paused at the pond, and the Colonel sat down on the bench, Thursday lying close beside him. The six goldfish were all still present and correct and circling hopefully but, for once, Thursday showed no more interest in them than he did in the tins of gourmet cat food. The Tempting Terrine of Salmon, the Duck Delight, the Grilled Fish Medley had all been ignored lately.

  The Colonel went on watching the fish for a while, his thoughts elsewhere.

  If Tanya Carberry were to be believed – and he saw no reason why she wasn’t – Deacon had positively encouraged people to hit him over the head with a spade. And the prerequisite for that action was not only a strong motive, but also the physical strength to do it hard enough to be sure to kill him. Nothing less would do.

  Miss Butler’s comments about Joyce Reed’s husband had been very much to the point. No one in Frog End, it seemed, had ever laid eyes on him, not even Miss Butler herself on duty at her sitting-room window. It was more than puzzling, it was unbelievable.

  The next day the Colonel visited two eighteen-hole golf clubs, both within a reasonable distance of Frog End. Neither, he soon discovered, had a member named Arthur Reed. At the second, though, he was lucky enough to run into a very helpful and friendly club secretary who invited him to watch the players in action on one of the greens close to the club house. The Colonel admired the civilized pace of the game, the ritual courtesy between the players, the air of calm so often lacking in other sports. It was certainly appealing but, for some reason, he had never felt any wish to play golf himself. His loss, very probably, but it was rather late now to change h
is ways. He was not, and never would be, a golfing man.

  ‘We’re not quite Sunningdale here yet,’ the secretary told him, ‘but I think you’d find this a very pleasant club.’

  The Colonel said, ‘I don’t doubt it, but I’m afraid I’m here under false pretences. I’m not looking for a club to join. I’m trying to find a man who belongs to one somewhere in Dorset.’

  ‘Well, if you’d care to give me his name, I might be able to help you. I’m familiar with most of the local players.’

  ‘It’s Arthur Reed.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Quite well, actually. Or I used to. He was a pretty good club player, though we can’t lay claim to him here in Dorset. Hampshire’s his home ground – or was, before he moved away.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he and his wife have bought a flat in the Dorset village where I live.’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘I would have been surprised if you had. He walked out on his wife when they were living in Hampshire and went off with someone else’s wife from the same club. It was a big local scandal at the time. He and the other woman went to live in Portugal and, as far as I know, they’re still there. The Portuguese are very keen on golf and they’re great Anglophiles. Portugal is our oldest ally, did you know that?’

  He had known, but he hadn’t known about the rest of the story. He should have paid far more attention to Miss Butler.

  He said, ‘Mrs Reed has kept a great many of her husband’s golfing cups. They’re all polished and out on display.’

  ‘I can understand why. It makes it easier for her to pretend that he lives there too. I met Mrs Reed once. A forceful lady, as I remember. I believe Reed tried very hard to get her to divorce him when he left her but she wouldn’t. Are you looking for him on her behalf?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well, I doubt if she’ll ever change her mind about a divorce. Not that it matters much these days, does it? Anything goes.’

  As he left, the club secretary shook his hand. ‘I hope you’ll think about joining us, Colonel. You’d be very welcome. And you never know, you might enjoy it.’

  He smiled and thanked him.

  Joyce Reed looked surprised and not particularly pleased to see him when she opened her flat door.

  ‘You’d better come in, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stopped in front of the illuminated display cabinet. The contents glittered brightly.

  ‘You mentioned that your husband had recently won another trophy.’

  She pointed.

  ‘That one there.’

  He leaned forward to take a closer look.

  She said, ‘It’s a very ordinary one.’

  ‘But interesting, Mrs Reed. Unlike all the others, it has no inscription. Did you buy it yourself?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘To keep up the pretence that your husband is still living with you.’

  ‘Arthur and I have been married for more than forty years, Colonel.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that’s true, Mrs Reed, but people in Frog End are wondering why they’ve never seen your husband. The truth is that he’s never been here at all, has he? He left you some time ago. I’m sure you have your own good reasons for concealing the fact, but you’ll find it difficult to do so for much longer. People are curious.’

  ‘I do have my reasons and they’re nobody else’s business.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have raised the subject.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t really matter now, Colonel. I’m planning to leave Frog End anyway, so you may as well know the whole sorry tale.’

  ‘You’re not obliged to tell me.’

  ‘I know, but I will. Arthur walked out on me and went to live with a woman he’d met at the golf club in Hampshire. She was thirty-six years old, very glamorous and an excellent player. Everything I’m not. I always hoped he’d get tired of her – just like I always hoped he’d get tired of golf – but neither of those things happened and I could see they never would. We stayed legally married because I refused to consider a divorce and when the house was sold I kept all his trophies so that I could keep my pride as well. But I don’t expect you to understand that.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  She considered him. ‘You’re a widower, aren’t you, Colonel? I wonder which is worse to have to cope with – death or desertion?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer.’

  ‘Either way, it’s loss. But I think desertion is far worse. Death is seldom intentional but desertion is deliberate and total rejection. Believe me, that’s very hard to live with.’

  ‘Did Lawrence Deacon find out about your husband?’

  ‘He certainly did. He’d known Arthur years ago before we were married and he kept making veiled remarks to me when I met him at the Manor. It was the sort of thing he liked to do – frighten and upset people – only I ignored him completely. I wasn’t afraid of him, you see.’

  ‘Do you think other people were?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Mrs Carberry, for instance. She was terrified.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘No idea. You’ll have to ask her yourself. But I’m very glad he’s dead and I can’t be the only one.’

  ‘Do you know how he was killed?’

  ‘This is a village, Colonel. Everyone knows … the garden spade, the head wounds, the pools of blood. Every detail.’

  ‘Major Cuthbertson says he saw a woman in the distance when he was at the Manor on the day of the murder, but she was too far away for him to identify. Could it have been you?’

  ‘Me? The answer is definitely not, Colonel. My back was too painful to work. I stayed at home all day, resting it. I hope you’re not accusing me of murdering Mr Deacon? What a preposterous idea! I couldn’t even lift one of those spades off the ground, let alone batter someone to death with it.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Mrs Reed, but it would be useful to find out who the woman was.’

  ‘I don’t see why it need trouble you, Colonel. Inspector Squibb is in charge of the investigation, isn’t he? In any case, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Jacob is obviously guilty.’

  ‘It’s not obvious at all.’

  ‘It is to me. Not that I blame Jacob. He did us all a favour, let’s face it.’

  She showed him to the door.

  ‘Don’t trouble to call again, Colonel. I have nothing more to say.’

  ‘Will you be leaving soon?’

  ‘As soon as I can sell this flat. I’ve never liked the place. There’s something wrong about it. A bad feeling.’

  He could have told her what it was – that a woman had been murdered there, not so long ago. A famous actress, past the height of her career but still beautiful. He had found her lying dead in the bath a few yards from where they were standing, killed by a switched-on electric hair dryer that had been thrown deliberately into the water. Her eyes had been wide open, looking at him in surprise and she’d had her mouth open, as though she was about to speak to him. He could have told Joyce Reed all about it, but he didn’t.

  ‘Well, I wish you the very best for the future.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed the gardening, though,’ she said. ‘It’s done me good. I might look for somewhere with a garden next time.’

  ‘Could I have possibly have a word with you, Colonel?’

  He paused on his way out of the Hall front doorway. ‘Of course, Mrs Carberry.’

  She had come out of her flat and was standing halfway down the stairs. ‘I won’t keep you a minute.’

  ‘I’m not in any hurry.’

  ‘There’s something else I think you should know.’

  He returned to the foot of the stairs. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You asked me if Lawrence Deacon had ever upset me or been offensive and I said he hadn’t. I lied to you.
I’m sorry.’

  He said quietly, ‘We all tell lies sometimes, Mrs Carberry, myself included. What do you think I should know?’

  She looked down at him, hesitating, and he could see that it was costing her dearly to tell him.

  ‘When I was working on the herbaceous border that morning, Mr Deacon came up and grabbed hold of me. I had to fight him off and he got very angry. I’d been leading him on, he said. I’d been encouraging him all the time and now I’d suddenly changed my mind. He called me a slut and a whore and a lot of other horrible things. He said he was going to tell everyone in the village the sort of woman I really was … how I went after men while pretending to be an innocent widow. He’d make sure that I wouldn’t be able to go on working at the Manor. Mrs Harvey wouldn’t want me there once she knew the truth about me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I turned my back on him and went on working. He was still saying dreadful things but, after a while, he went away. All I could think of was that I must tell Mrs Harvey and hope that she’d believe me and not him, but when I went to the stables at lunchtime she wasn’t there. And later, when I was back at work, I heard the Major shouting and I ran over to the greenhouse and saw Mr Deacon’s body. It was such a shock, Colonel.’

  ‘It must have been. Did you tell Inspector Squibb about Mr Deacon’s behaviour with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘The Inspector’s the very last person I could talk to about that sort of thing. Besides, I was afraid I’d be suspected of the murder.’

  ‘What made you decide to tell me?’

  ‘I’d been thinking about you saying that there was no proof of Jacob’s guilt and that you and Dr and Mrs Harvey believed him to be innocent. I don’t know who murdered Mr Deacon, or why, Colonel, but I thought that if I told you how he behaved with me, it might help you somehow.’