Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death (17 page)

“Hello, Sheila, you looked lost in thought.”

“I was just admiring Diana’s horses.”

She put down the bundle of branches she was carrying and tugged at the fastening of the gate. I gave it a push to help her open it.

“Thanks. It’s a bit stiff; I think it needs oiling.”

“Have you been for a walk?” I asked.

“I’ve been up in the wood to get some beech leaves,” she said, picking up the bundle. “I’m doing a demonstration for the WI about how to preserve them in glycerine.”

“How lovely. I always keep meaning to do that myself, but I never seem to get around to it. You seem to have got a splendid lot. Are there a lot of beech trees up in that part of the wood? I don’t think I’ve ever been up there.”

“Quite a few.”

“I believe beechwoods are good for finding fungi, something to do with an open canopy.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never fancied them,” she said. “You really want to know what you’re doing and I couldn’t be bothered, reading it all up.”

“And even if you do know what you’re doing,” I said, “you can still make a mistake—like poor Annie.”

“Oh well, Annie had to know best about a lot of things, and look where it got her.”

I nodded agreement. For something to say I asked after her daughter at art school.

There was an imperceptible pause before she said, “Bridget? Oh, she’s doing very well.”

“Such a pity you couldn’t get to her exhibition. Whereabouts was it?”

“Oh, it was just at the school, nothing very grand.”

“Still, it would have been nice for you to have gone.”

“There’ll be another time.” She moved the bundle of branches more securely under her arm. “I’d better be getting along and start on these. Nice to have seen you.”

I watched her walking back to the shop and wondered if something about their daughter—it really had been a hesitation—was the secret that Annie held over them. We are at our most vulnerable where our children are concerned.

I was still standing by the gate when Judith came by.

“Hello,” she said. “Were you looking for Diana?”

“I thought she might be here, but I’ll leave it for now.”

“Come to think of it, she might be in London. She usually goes up when there’s some political thing of Toby’s.”

“I’m surprised she’s down here most of the time. I mean, she is a politician’s wife, and he has a London constituency after all, and there must be things there she has to go to.”

“I know,” Judith said. “I often think it must be difficult for Toby sometimes—but, of course, he’s so devoted to her.” She lowered her voice. “I did hear that she only agreed to marry him if she didn’t have to be up in London all the time, and he was so keen that he agreed. Such a charming man—I do think he deserves a little more support.” She leaned towards me and spoke even more quietly. “They do say that she is a little fond of the bottle. I don’t know if you saw how she was at the Harvest Supper. Of course,” she went on in a more normal voice, “she has the money. Her father was a Member of Parliament, but very rich—a millionaire—and she was his only daughter.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I remember seeing the photos of the wedding in the paper—that was before we came to live here—very grand, St. Margaret’s Westminster. She made a lovely bride.”

“How interesting. She certainly has some beautiful horses. I’ve been admiring them. Actually,” I said, turning towards the gate, “I hadn’t realized that path across the field was a right of way.”

“It isn’t really, but everyone uses it to get to the wood. It’s all right as long as people are good about keeping the gate shut.”

“I’ve just seen Margaret—she told me she was up there getting beech leaves for a demonstration for the WI.”

“That’s right. She’s the president now that Annie’s no longer with us.”

“I was asking her about her daughter—the one at art school. She sounds very talented.”

“Margaret’s ever so proud of her. It was such a pity she couldn’t get to the exhibition.”

“I expect they see her in the holidays when she comes down here.”

“She used to, but these last two holidays she’s been abroad—something to do with her art school, I think. It’s a shame, really; they’re such a close family.”

Later that afternoon I was just about to go into the library when I saw Michael coming out of his office a few doors away. He was with the man I’d seen talking to Maurice in the village shop earlier on. The man got into his car and drove away and Michael turned and saw me.

“Oh good,” he said. “I was going to phone you. Thea said could you possibly meet Alice from school tomorrow—her car ’s acting up—and come back to tea with her.”

“Of course, I’d love to. I’ll give Thea a ring—I’ve got some frozen raspberries she might like to have.” I hesitated for a moment. “Michael, who was the man you were just with? I’m sure I know his face, but, for the life of me, I can’t think of his name.”

“Oh, that’s Bob Carver. It’s his firm that’s buying the field from the Percy Trust.”

 

 

 

Of course, I thought as I went into the library, there may be no sinister reason for Bob Carver to have been in the village shop talking to Maurice. For all I knew he might live in or near Mere Barton and had every right to be in the village shop. I made a mental note to try to look him up in the telephone directory when I got home. I skirted round the tables of computers, which seem to take up more and more space these days, and made for the Biography section, where I found Rosemary.

“Hello,” I said. “You look harassed. Is anything the matter?”

“Just Mother as usual. She’s had a bad cold that’s gone on to her chest.”

“I’m sorry. Is she all right?”

“It’s not serious, but Dr. Macdonald says she mustn’t go out, so she’s getting bored. I’m trying to find something to keep her occupied.” She held up a book. “Do you think she’d like this life of Florence Nightingale?”

“It looks a bit heavy,” I said, “in both senses of the word. Tiring to hold up if she’s in bed.”

“You’re right, of course. Why must people write such
enormous
books? Oh well, it’ll have to be another Dick Francis if I can find one. Such a blessing when there’s racing on television—that and the antiques programs!”

“Would she like a visit?” I asked.

“That would be angelic of you, if you can bear it. Tomorrow morning for coffee—she has a rest in the afternoons now, I’m glad to say. It gives Elsie a bit of a break.”

 

Elsie has been with Mrs. Dudley for many years now and is devoted to her and rather proud of what she calls her whims and ways. She greeted me cheerfully when I called the next day.

“She’s feeling much better today,” she said. “She really brightened up when she knew you were coming and insisted on coming downstairs.”

Mrs. Dudley was, indeed, downstairs, and looking very much her old self.

“Good morning, Sheila,” she said. “I must apologize for all this.” She indicated her dressing gown (blue, and of the finest Pyrenean wool) and slippers. “But Dr. Macdonald, who is a silly old fool, insists that I spend most of the day in bed.”

“I’m so sorry you’ve been ill,” I said, as I handed her the bottle of cologne I had brought, despairing of finding flowers she might find acceptable.

She looked at it critically and then gave me a nod of approval. “Thank you, Sheila—most thoughtful of you.”

Elsie brought in the tray and my heart sank when I saw the delicate china coffeepot. Not as heavy as the silver teapot that always caused me such anxiety, but of an elegance and fragility that always made me feel instantly clumsy and sure I was going to break off the exquisite curved spout. Elsie gave me a reassuring smile and poured the coffee herself before she went away and in my relief I took two pieces of her heavenly shortbread. Mrs. Dudley put me through the usual cross-examination about my life and activities and those of the family, but that was merely the preliminary before we got down to the news and gossip.

“So,” she said, brushing a few crumbs from the Pyrenean wool, “how are you getting on with that
book
?” She gave the word a complex emphasis, implying interest, disapproval and a general feeling that I was, yet again, wasting my time on something unworthy.

“Oh,” I said hastily, hoping to divert her attention to some less controversial subject, “it’s coming along.”

“Of course, Mere Barton isn’t a proper village anymore,” she said. “Full of retired off-comers. I don’t see how you can find anything to write about.”

“It’s really a sort of history and there’s still a few families left who’ve been very helpful, looking out photos and things—the Tuckers at the farm and Toby Parker and Phyll Gregory and Rachel, too, now she’s back again—memories, you know, of how things were.”

“Oral tradition,” Mrs. Dudley said. “They’re always going on about it on the wireless.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that.”

“Asking people to send in stories about the past. I would have thought most of that would be better forgotten.
I
believe in living in the present.”

Since Mrs. Dudley spent most of her time asserting how much better things were in the old days, this barefaced volte-face indicated that she’d taken up her favored attitude, that of the opposition.

“Ellen Tucker has lots of marvelous photos,” I said enthusiastically. “Some lovely ones of work on the farm—splendid old carts and horses, and some of the village schoolchildren and the bell ringers’ outings—really fascinating.” Mrs. Dudley looked unconvinced. “And,” I went on, “Phyll has some beautiful ones of the house, Higher Barton, when it was first built and lovely Edwardian tea parties on the lawn.”

“Oh well, of course,” Mrs. Dudley said, instantly rejecting her passion for the present, “people knew how to do things in those days. They knew the proper way to go on. You will scarcely credit it, Sheila, but the other day when I was at the hairdresser (they usually come to me, but there was some sort of difficulty, most inconvenient) the girl offered me coffee in a
mug
!”

“Goodness,” I said inadequately. “How perfectly dreadful,” I added, feeling that something more was required by the enormity of the offense.

Mrs. Dudley nodded. “You may well say so. I said to the girl, ‘Do I look like the sort of person who would drink out of one of those things?’ Of course Brooke—she’s a nice girl; she understands my hair—was very apologetic and fetched my coffee in a proper cup. But, really,
Brooke
. What sort of name is that for a girl!”

“I know,” I said. “I came across a girl on the television called Tayler the other day.”

“Oh well, television,” Mrs. Dudley said dismissively. “Did you say Toby Parker was helping you with this book? I would have thought he had enough to do looking after his constituents, though I wouldn’t care to have him for
my
MP. He was very wild as a young man—I know his father was very worried about him at one time. I believe he thought of sending him off to his cousin in Canada, but Toby wouldn’t go, so they got him a job in the city (some sort of merchant bank), and the next thing I heard he was in Parliament. Influence, of course, typical of that family. And by then he’d married Diana Francis and it was her father’s old seat that Toby got, so you see . . .” She took a finger of shortbread and broke it into smaller pieces. “That’s the way things go. And MPs are never in Parliament anyway. When you see them making speeches, there are all those empty seats!” She bit into the shortbread.

“Actually,” I said, “it’s Diana who’s looking out the photos for me.”

“How is she?” Mrs. Dudley demanded. “I hear she’s been drinking again. You remember she had to go to that place a while back to be—what do they call it?—dried out.”

I didn’t feel able to go into Diana’s drinking habits so I just said, “She was fine when I saw her a little while ago.”

“Her uncle died of drink—liver failure, though they called it something else. It’s in the family.”

“She said there’s a whole lot of photos in a trunk somewhere,” I said, ignoring this little piece of family scandal. “I’m hoping she’ll look them out when she gets back from London. Time is getting on. The text’s more or less done and I’d like to get the captions for the illustrations finished. I’ve done Phyll’s and those from the Tuckers—oh yes, and the ones Annie Roberts gave me before she died.”

“Annie Roberts,” Mrs. Dudley echoed. “Now, that was a most peculiar affair.”

“In what way peculiar?”

“Mushroom poisoning. I thought she was supposed to be an expert.”

“Well, apparently it’s easy to mistake the poisonous ones from the ones that aren’t, and it’s very dark in her kitchen. She was quite ill for several days but no one thought it was serious until she collapsed and Lewis Chapman sent for an ambulance.”

“Lewis?” Mrs. Dudley’s tone softened. “Such a nice young man, so understanding and sympathetic when I had the anesthetic for my leg. A real gentleman, unlike some members of the medical profession these days, seeing patients in open-necked shirts. No, Lewis is one of the old school. Such a pity about that first marriage—I said at the time it was a mistake, both of them far too young, and then with that child!”

“She seems to have grown up into a nice young woman,” I said, “and very fond of her father.”

“Where did you see her?” Mrs. Dudley demanded sharply.

“Oh. Just casually, in passing,” I replied vaguely, remembering the circumstances. Though I daresay Mrs. Dudley would have approved of our undercover activities.

“And then,” she went on, “when he was free of that entanglement, Naomi Cromer got her claws into him.”

“I must admit,” I said, “I’ve never really warmed to Naomi; she always seems so cold and hard.”

“Exactly.” Mrs. Dudley nodded emphatically. “Just like her mother. She was one of the Harrisons—I knew her quite well at one time; we were on several committees together—they always thought very well of themselves, though
her
father was only a shopkeeper, in quite a small way.”