Murder Fortissimo (6 page)

She brushed aside Alice’s startled query and reluctant parting kiss then, instead of making for the lift and her own room, she headed straight for the drawing-room in pursuit of Doreen Buchan.

Doreen was a sitting duck, her chair a little to the side as Vic chatted at his silent father.

‘Hullo, dear,’ came the breezy greeting. ‘Nice to see you; my word, you get more and more like your auntie every day. What a coincidence, us meeting here like this after all those years. Let’s see now, your auntie, was she your dad’s sister, or your mum’s?’

Not waiting for an answer, and not getting one, from the woman who cowered beside her, Christiane carried on, pulling the wings off the fly. ‘Are you like your mum, I wonder? They say heredity is a strange thing, of course, and it’s amazing what can be passed down through the generations, but it takes a brave man, I always say, to marry into some families.’

An inarticulate sound was Doreen’s only response, her features frozen in horror, so Christiane turned her attention to Fred Buchan, nodding cheerfully to Vic as she drew her chair nearer.

‘How are you, Mr Buchan? I see your father’s in one of his moods today; still I suppose it can be hard to cope in another language, I know that for a fact. I was lucky, of course, I’ve got a good ear and some people have told me they’d never have known I wasn’t English. Funny that,’ she gave Vic a genial smile and indicated his father. ‘Funny how some people are like me and have no trouble at all learning English and others can be like your dad and still sound really foreign after years and years.’

Vic agreed politely and she went on, turning the screw. ‘Well, we’ve all had our moments too, I daresay, I know I have. I bet
your dad could tell us a tale or two about what he got up to in the war, eh? And some of the others here too, no doubt.’

With that she nodded gaily and wheeled herself off leaving a puzzled Vic, flanked by a frozen father and wife sagging limply in her chair, her face drained of all colour.

Alice hurried home from the shopping precinct and flung herself into her latest bargain, a silk dress of dull cardinal-red silk, an extravagant £14.99 from the Friends of the Hospice shop, and brushed her long shining black hair. Up? Surely not down, no – I’d look like a superannuated teenager, she decided, but I’m not screwing it back in that tight bun. Finally she managed to pin it up into a more or less secure French pleat then, with a dab of eye shadow, a quick dusting of blusher on her sallow cheeks, a trace of lipstick, and she was ready.

The woman in her mirror was a stranger. ‘Goodness,’ she exclaimed. The stranger was, if not a beautiful woman, certainly an attractive one. When had that happened? It wasn’t just the make-up, it wasn’t just the dress, in spite of its designer label; this new confident woman had been trying to crawl out from under her stone for several days.

Ever since I walked into the office that day and found Neil there. She shuddered. Ever since Mother went to Firstone Grange. And now Neil had asked her out to dinner.

The wheezing chime of the front door bell was a welcome interruption to her thoughts; she raced down the hall, slowing her headlong rush as she reached the lobby with its encaustic floor tiles.

‘Hi,’ Neil was his usual friendly self but there was a new, surprised glow of admiration in his eyes. ‘Ready?’

As she went back to the kitchen to pick up her bag Neil took a look round. He was eyeing up the carved and antlered hat stand when she returned.

‘That was my grandfather’s pride and joy,’ she told him, turning up her nose. ‘It’s the worst dust trap in the house and that’s saying something.’

‘I think your valuation was pretty much spot on,’ he remarked as he handed her into his car. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything very different. Will you sell, do you think?’

He manoeuvred the car down the overgrown drive and through the crumbling brick gateposts then once they were out and driving up past the old flour mill and through the village, he repeated the question.

‘I don’t know.’ She turned her anxious brown eyes on him and confessed. ‘I don’t know what possessed me to do it, Neil. Mother will kill me when she finds out. I’ve told the auctioneer’s agent to collect most of the furniture on Monday and I’ve done all the paperwork to put the house on the market then too.’

Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she fell silent, retreating into the anxiety that was now constant. Who owned the house? Had Alice any right to sell it? Had her father left it outright to Christiane or to both of them? She bit her lip. She’ll kill me, she faltered silently as she stared out into the rain.

The guests at Firstone Grange had all gone to bed and Gemma was on the late shift. It wasn’t difficult; all she had to do was check on each of them to see if they were settled comfortably for the night.

‘Don’t forget to knock first,’ Matron urged when they met on the stairs. ‘You must always respect their privacy, you know, you wouldn’t just walk into a hotel room and these aren’t senile patients, they’re highly intelligent, professional people. Remember not to treat them like children, Gemma.’

She smiled as the girl carried on upstairs. It really was working out well, her dream, her vision. Careful selection had
made sure that she had a good mix of guests and the odd misfit only made her determined to be a good deal more choosy in future. There were one or two mistakes. She wasn’t a snob; money was necessary, of course, Firstone Grange was expensive. She decided, though, that the main requirement was to maintain the harmony she worked so hard to create. She frowned at the thought of Ellen Ransom. Plenty of money there, but Mrs Ransom was definitely not contributing to the harmony of the house and to top it all, she had a sour, spiteful disposition as well.

And the other one, Mrs Marchant, pity I can’t expel her. Matron gave a small, down-turned smile. But she’s paid up in full for the month and to tell the truth I don’t think I could do that to her poor daughter. Especially now, not when she’s looking so happy, so alive. Matron straightened a holly wreath and tweaked a gold-sprayed teasel firmly into place. I’ll not let anything interfere though, she vowed, specially the likes of Christiane Marchant.

Most of the guests were already in bed and happy to call out in answer to Gemma’s knock, but Harriet Quigley beckoned her inside.

‘I’m fine, dear,’ she answered Gemma’s look of concern. ‘It’s just that I thought you looked a bit worried earlier on and I wondered if there was anything I could do?’ Harriet’s shrewd blue eyes noted the slight withdrawal, the anxious frown, the twisting fingers, and she continued. ‘I’m a very good listener, Gemma, if you ever want to talk about anything.’

Well, what did you expect you silly old fool, she told herself, closing the door behind Gemma who mumbled something and fled. I’ll be glad to see Sam tomorrow, she decided, I don’t think there’s anything we can do but it’ll be good to talk through some of these insane fantasies of mine.

Gemma hesitated at the end door, tempted to go straight
past, but her conscience smote her and she knocked, ready to hare downstairs as soon as she had done her duty. The door opened immediately, Christiane Marchant must have been poised at the ready.

‘Well,’ she smirked. ‘If it isn’t the sex siren of Firstone Grange. Expecting visitors again tonight, Gemma? I do hope Matron doesn’t find out, it would be an awful pity to lose your job, wouldn’t it?’

Neil drove cautiously along the overgrown drive and pulled to a halt.

‘Would … would you like a coffee?’ Alice stuttered with nervous tension. Apart from a couple of innocuous teenage forays, she had never been out with a man. Would he think she was pushy?

‘That’d be great, thanks.’ Neil was jittery too. It had been so long since he’d taken a woman out, other than his ex-wife, and that had been years ago. He’d lost the knack and was terrified of scaring Alice away, afraid she’d think he was bent on seduction. Newspaper stories of dates gone wrong made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth.

The evening had so far been a great success. Over a pleasant meal in the Christmassy pub restaurant the conversation had swooped in grasshopper leaps from likes and dislikes to schools and childhood to plans for the business. Both were glad to discover similar interests and shyly delighted to find that a clash of opinions just added to the spice. They had fallen silent as they neared the dilapidated old house and Alice seized on the opportunity to make coffee, leaving Neil to warm up in the drawing-room where she had banked up the fire before going out.

The best Crown Derby cups, Mother, she thought defiantly as she carried in a tray. And see if I care.

Prim and petrified they sat on opposite sofas, bought new from Maples in 1923, the big shadowy room lit only by the fire and a lamp on the piano. She wondered about music, should she play some? On what though, Daddy’s big old radiogram? Christiane’s television in her bedroom? Definitely not. Grandpa’s steam radio, circa 1935, that didn’t work any more because she didn’t know if you could still get spare valves? I suppose I could play the piano? She began to rock very gently, wringing her hands in an agony of bashful suspense.

The companionable pleasant feeling of the evening seemed to have disappeared. What did I do, she agonized, was it asking him in for coffee? Don’t people do that? Her coffee threatened to choke her but she fought the urge to cry and tried to make polite conversation. As she dared to look across at him, wondering when he would make his escape, Neil put his cup down.

‘Oh God, Alice, this is awful,’ he said, coming to stand in front of her. ‘I never meant this to happen.’

She gulped and struggled for some kind of dignity. ‘It – it’s all right, Neil, I don’t mind. You’d – you’d better go.’

‘Don’t be silly, he said, sitting down beside her. ‘I don’t
want
to go, that’s just the trouble.’

He took her in his arms, stifling her squeak of surprise with a kiss that started lightly and somewhere along the line turned to desperation. Carried away on a tide of sensation Alice gave herself up to the feeling completely, her lips, and his, frantic with desperation born of years of unfulfilled longing. She gasped with dismay as Neil broke away, panting: ‘Christ, Alice, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this. What must you think of me?’

They were on the hearthrug now, firelight gleaming on her bare shoulder, her hair a descending tangle of curls. ‘Don’t …’ she whimpered. ‘Don’t stop, please, please.’

He gasped and turned her face towards him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘I think I’m in love with you, Alice,’ he whispered.

As he pulled her close and she melted into his arms she had a last coherent thought: nothing must spoil this, not now, not
her
, not ever.

Harriet Quigley ate her dinner on Friday with an air of attentive interest that completely deceived the guest beside her as he droned happily in her ear. She knew that Pauline Winslow had done some thorough research into convalescent and residential homes and that was why everyone was moved round on a daily basis to encourage socializing. No cliques or cabals for Matron. Mostly, Harriet thought, it worked very well, the shy guests were saved the ordeal of having to introduce themselves; the neat place cards saw to that. This meant that the bores were shared out among the whole company so that nobody suffered unfairly. Today it was Harriet’s turn to endure, but only for one day.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Matron was up on her feet. ‘As you know, the Oompah Band will be entertaining us tonight. I believe it’s a mixed programme, some Christmas carols and some other old favourites.’

She looked puzzled as she caught Harriet’s eye. Miss Winslow had obviously spotted that Harriet was concealing a smile at the memory of the recent Oompah offering in her own village, in aid of the organ fund. It was certainly likely to prove a ‘mixed’ concert.

‘There’ll be wine and beer available from Mrs Turner, by the door to the kitchen.’ She acknowledged the ragged cheer that greeted this statement, looking round to make sure nobody was offended. ‘I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful evening.’

There was a mild ripple of applause and she continued. ‘As I explained the other day, the Oompah Band do a lot of charity work and they assure me that any contributions will be extremely welcome, so we’ll be passing a plate round. I do hope no one will take offence at their banter; I’m told they can be quite saucy, but it’s all in good fun.’

Hmm, Harriet pursed her lips and resolved on a quiet word with Neil. I can’t see Ellen Ransom rising to the occasion if she found herself on the end of a stream of cheerful abuse. No, and not Christiane Marchant either,
she
has to be the one doing the abusing.

She gathered up her book and handbag, ready to go upstairs and titivate, pausing for a word with Mrs Turner who was busily decorating her makeshift bar with its stacked bottles and glasses.

‘It’s going to be fun, isn’t it?’ Mrs Turner gave her a friendly nod, snipping off lengths of black thread as she tied up an errant strand of tinsel. ‘Oops, there goes another one; I couldn’t find any gold thread but black ought not to show up.’

Harriet admired the cheerful display and gestured to the bar, which in everyday life was a side table in the drawing-room, used to display Miss Winslow’s artistic flower arrangements. ‘I imagine there’ll be some kind of limit on consumption,’ she enquired, raising an eyebrow and they both grinned, studiously not staring at Firstone Grange’s most glamorous guest who was teetering past them on three-inch heels, her eyes slightly glazed.

‘Where on earth does she hide it? Still, she’s always discreet about it,’ Mrs Turner whispered. ‘Oh yes, there won’t be any hangovers tomorrow, it’s just to add to the sense of occasion, a bit of fun. We checked beforehand that nobody had any strong teetotal views, of course. Matron’s very good about that.’

Harriet nodded. Matron was very good about everything.
Single-minded, as Harriet had told Sam, but good luck to her anyway. Her dream of a specialist home-from-home for the elderly was obviously fulfilling a long-felt want in the neighbourhood, to judge by the rapidly lengthening waiting list. So, apparently, was the nursing home next door while the list for the sheltered flats was fully subscribed. But not for me, Harriet shook her head, not yet awhile.

Christiane Marchant’s door was slightly ajar so Harriet, feeling ridiculous, started to tiptoe past, desperate not to be trapped. She doesn’t like me though, Harriet grinned, I think she’s given up on me; I don’t give any secrets away. At that moment Gemma hurtled blindly out of the room, tears pouring down her cheeks, great sobs racking her slight body. Harriet, shoved to one side, clutched at a side table to catch her breath, but the girl was gone, taking the stairs two at a time. At the same time Christiane’s door closed quietly but firmly.

Now what? Heaving a heavy sigh Harriet made her way along the landing and shut her door behind her.

Locked in the staff bathroom Gemma sat on the edge of the bath. How was I to know that my aunt couldn’t keep her mouth shut? Mum should never have told her about me.

‘Dear me, Gemma,’ the hated voice had purred just now, when she was checking on the radiator thermostat. ‘You’ve been an even naughtier girl than I realized, haven’t you?’

No sound had emerged from Gemma’s dry mouth.

‘I’ve been talking to one of the cleaners here, dear. It turns out she’s good friends with your aunty and it seems they’ve had a nice, long chat about you. I hear you’re just getting over a little bit of trouble,’ the woman in the wheelchair smiled sweetly. ‘The usual sort of “trouble”; I do hope you’re making sure it won’t happen again, Gemma, considering what I saw the other night!’

‘I – I must – got to go,’ Gemma had turned blindly towards the door but the wheelchair blocked her way.

‘Of course,’ agreed Mrs Marchant. ‘But I really wonder if I ought to tell Matron about it. She’s such a religious woman I’m sure she has strong views on abortion, and probably fornication too.
Extremely
strong views, I shouldn’t wonder. Perhaps it’s my duty to tell her?’

In the bathroom Gemma’s nails dug viciously into her clenched hands.

‘I could
kill
her,’ she moaned aloud.

Pauline Winslow smiled benignly at her guests as she offered sherry on a silver tray. Mostly dry sherry too, she noted with a glow of pride; the guests at Firstone Grange were a classy lot, not many requests for dark sweet syrup. Disguising the distaste that Christiane Marchant always aroused in her she bent to offer the tray.

‘Sherry, Mrs Marchant?’

One of her iron-clad rules was that guests were to be addressed politely and formally. Woe betide any well-meaning employee who bandied around a given name in a disrespectful manner.

‘Why, thank you,’ Christiane smiled graciously then lowered her voice, forcing the other woman into an unwelcome intimacy. ‘I think I should tell you, Matron, that I’m rather worried about your fire precautions here.’

‘Eh?’ Pauline Winslow let out a squawk, hastily muffled. ‘I don’t understand, Mrs Marchant?’

‘I’ve been reading up on Fire Regulations,’ Christiane looked delighted at the effect of her remark. ‘You’ve got a copy in the bookcase in the drawing room.’ She smirked and wagged a finger at the matron. ‘I’m afraid your fire extinguishers are out of date, I couldn’t help noticing. If you check the tag on the
extinguisher you’ll see the next service is ten days overdue.’ She gave a malicious, tinkling titter. ‘You’re operating illegally, you know, so you’d better get them sorted out.’

Miss Winslow had herself in hand now. ‘I can assure you, Mrs Marchant,’ she said stiffly. ‘I had Firstone Grange stringently vetted by the Fire Brigade before we opened and there is no need for alarm.’

In fact Matron had quite forgotten that she was behind with the servicing. There had been so much to do, so many expenses, that it had quite slipped her mind, but now she bit her lip. Of all people, why did it have to be Mrs Marchant who spotted the discrepancy? A complaint from a ‘concerned’ resident was the last thing she needed just now. The other woman was speaking again.

‘I thought you had to have asbestos doors too, in an institution like this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m sure those big mahogany doors are a fire hazard.’

‘As it happens you’re quite out-of-date, Mrs Marchant, I can assure you that asbestos is no longer used on doors.’ She turned on her heel. ‘And this is
not
an institution, Mrs Marchant,’ she snapped, striding away. That woman is a menace; I wish something would happen to make her go away. But I won’t let her spoil things for me, not
now
.

‘Dear me,’ Christiane put on her plaintive face. The evening promised more entertainment than was on the official programme, she thought with relish. What next? Aha, her eyes lighted on Fred Buchan, hunched in his chair, a dejected tortoise.

‘Good evening, Mr Buchan,’ she cried brightly, drawing her chair up beside him. ‘How are you today?’

Not waiting for, and not getting, any reply she waved a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
under his nose, her bright eyes watchful, gauging his temper. ‘Did you read the books page yesterday? I
saved it specially for you. There’s a very good review of a book about the Israeli squad dedicated to rooting out old war criminals? I’ve marked it here, I’m sure you’d find it interesting.’

His hooded eyes flicked open but she met his hostile glare with a broadening smile.

‘I wonder if there are any of them left. I don’t suppose the Israelis would be too gentle with them, do you? An eye for an eye, and all that?’

Fred Buchan hauled himself out of his easy chair, staggering as he found his feet. As he stalked from the room he shot a glance back at her. ‘You are an evil bitch,’ he grated, his accent harsher, more pronounced, than usual.

As Christiane wheeled herself complacently out into the hall to watch the preparations, Harriet, who had watched this exchange with distaste, strolled over and casually picked up the discarded newspaper with its headline helpfully ringed by Christiane Marchant:
Retribution Squad Investigates War Criminals
. She pursed her lips as she scanned the piece about persistent rumours of old Nazis living in Britain under aliases and she pictured Fred Buchan with his strongly accented speech and his grim refusal to discuss his history. With a thoughtful frown she deftly ripped out the article and stowed it in her handbag just as a crowd of visitors arrived.

‘You’re looking a lot more human.’ Sam Hathaway hugged his cousin and piloted her towards the bar. ‘Less like something the cat dragged in. Here, have a drink and tell me all about—’ He broke off hastily as she glared at him, seeing Mrs Turner smiling at them both. ‘Tell me about the book I gave you,’ he changed tack smoothly. ‘Why was Madcap Mabel in tears?’

‘It was as I thought,’ Harriet backed him up. ‘She’d been unjustly accused, not to mention getting involved with ghosts.’ He raised an eyebrow and she explained. ‘Poor but noble
owner of a stately home has opened it as a girls’ school to make ends meet, but the wimpy wenches are scared of the headless Elizabethan lady who wails around the Great Hall. Mabel eventually banishes her, would you believe, by having a maypole dance indoors and then it turns out she’s the noble owner’s long-lost heiress. Not a dry eye in the house at the end. It was great, a real find; thank you, Sam.’

‘Look at them all,’ Mrs Turner murmured. ‘The families are delighted because they’ll have a granny-free Christmas and the grannies are delighted not to have Christmas ruined by shrieking grandchildren and noisy toys. It’s so much easier to love your relatives in small doses and with a clear conscience!’

‘Quickly, Harriet.’ Sam spoke quietly but urgently as he steered his cousin into a convenient nook by the stairs. ‘What’s the matter with you? No,’ as she began to protest. ‘Don’t give me that. You do look a lot better, it’s true, but I also know when you’re upset. What’s happened?’

‘It was that
bloody
woman,’ she hissed. ‘And don’t you look at me like that, Sam Hathaway; she makes me so mad I
have
to swear! She cornered me just after dinner and came out with the old “concerned friend” routine at me. “Wasn’t it Lakelands Manor School, Miss Quigley? It was all over the local papers and on the television too. The one where you were head teacher? Oh dear, oh dear, but surely that was the school there was all that dreadful scandal about?” And out it all came, tumbling out in a cascade. She was so keen to tell me that she knew all about the whole wretched mess that she was actually tripping over her words. I tried to stop her but she went on and on. All about the deputy head – “Oh dear, such a terrible thing to happen, interfering with children like that.…” And then the killer punchline: “But of course you must have known all about it, Miss Quigley, after all, you
were
the head teacher. It was
your
responsibility to look after
the children in your care.” I tell you, Sam, I could have hit the woman.’

Looking slightly alarmed at all this vehemence, Sam gave her a quick, affectionate hug. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hat, the whole sorry affair was investigated thoroughly and you were completely exonerated, never in the frame, in fact. For a start, the offences had occurred six months before you were appointed and everyone knew it. After all, that’s why you were offered the job – damage limitation and to restore confidence; and you did a marvellous job. Ignore the woman, she’s not worth getting so worked up about.’

Still thrumming with anger Harriet subsided gradually, giving his hand a grateful squeeze. ‘Oh, I know,’ she agreed, blowing her nose discreetly. ‘But … honestly, Sam, that woman is poison, sheer poison.’

Fed up with craning her neck to look for Alice, Christiane looked for other sport, gleefully making for Doreen and Vic Buchan.

‘Evening, dear,’ she greeted Doreen with a fond smile, receiving only a gasp in reply, as Christiane parked expertly alongside her. Vic nodded politely and offered to fetch them all a glass of wine.

Christiane patted her victim’s hand. ‘This is cosy, isn’t it, dear? I was just talking to Matron, saying how cosy it is and she agreed. “It’s not an institution,” she told me.’

There was no answer. Doreen had withdrawn into herself, clutching at her handbag.

‘Of course, dear, you’d know all about what an institution looks like, wouldn’t you? What does your husband think about it all? Didn’t he mind?’ Her eyes gleamed as the frightened rabbit twitched. ‘Don’t mind me, dear; I mean no harm, you know. It’s just that somehow, people have always told me their
little secrets and I do have an excellent memory. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make connections sometimes.’ She paused, then smiled. ‘You
did
tell your husband all about it, didn’t you, dear? When you got married?’ Her concerned expression would have been an Oscar contender. ‘I mean about your mother and what she did. Where she went?’