Murder My Neighbour (10 page)

It was true she'd been having imaginary conversations with her old employer recently. Thomas said this was because Rose had been so close to Miss Quicke that she could come out with whatever she thought her old employer might have had to say on any given situation. He said that if Rose chose to think she actually ‘saw' Miss Quicke on these occasions, it was a harmless phenomenon and not to be confused with seeing a ghost.

Ellie had an inspiration. ‘Have you asked my aunt about this? I don't think she'd want you to leave us – or her.'

‘Oh.' Rose thought about that. ‘No, I haven't seen her lately.' She struggled upright. ‘I wonder . . . She was talking about the plants in the conservatory last time I saw her, said they weren't looking as good as when I was caring for them. I don't think that dratted gardener understands them. Perhaps I could get out there later on, have a look at the plants, see what she says.'

Miss Quicke had added the conservatory to the back of the house specifically for Rose to potter around in, and it seemed that that was where the old lady was usually to be found. Not that anyone apart from Rose had ever seen her.

‘What a good idea,' said Ellie, looking at her watch. ‘I'll get you some lunch and after you've had your little rest this afternoon, you can see if you feel up to it.'

Ellie left her old friend smiling. Back in the kitchen, Ellie inspected the contents of the fridge. As she put various items on the table for the meal, she noticed that her notes on the conversation with Vera and Pet had disappeared. Had they been disposed of by accident or design?

Come to think of it, hadn't there been a something and a nothing . . . a half-formed thought about . . . an uneasiness in her mind that had arisen during that apparently frank talk?

Ellie looked through the pile of newspapers put out ready for recycling, but the sheets from her shopping list were not there. The black bag that lined the bin in the kitchen was clean and fresh – and empty.

Ellie went outside the back door and found a rubbish bag which Vera or Pet had just filled and put there. She opened it, wincing as tiny vinegar flies stormed out. No notes. There was nothing in the green box used for recycled paper, either. How very odd.

‘We're off now!' Vera put her head out of the kitchen door and waved goodbye. ‘See you Friday.'

‘Yes,' said Ellie. ‘Have you seen . . . ?' She was talking to thin air. She went back indoors and down the corridor to her study, where she set about writing down again everything she could remember that Vera and Pet had told her.

She finished up by scrawling a couple of questions to herself. Why had her notes been removed? And which of the girls had done it?

She made soup and sandwiches for lunch and distributed them around the house. Thomas was on the phone and merely grunted to her when she took his tray in. At least the bishop had gone.

Ellie took her own tray into her study and, picking up the phone, asked Directory Enquiries to find her the number for the Corfton Towers Retirement home, which they did.

A bright-voiced woman answered the phone.

Ellie said, ‘Is it possible to speak to Mrs Pryce? Mrs Flavia Pryce?'

‘Who?' A pause. ‘Sorry. We don't have anyone of that name here.'

‘Are you sure? She told me she was moving into your place, oh, it must be nearly six weeks ago now. My friends had arranged to come out to see her on her birthday, but may have to change the date. My name is Quicke, Mrs Ellie Quicke, and I live in the next road to Mrs Pryce in Ealing.'

‘One moment, please.' A tapping of keys. Using a computer? ‘No, I'm sorry, we have no one of that name here.'

‘How very odd. I mean; she's left her house here, all the furniture's gone, her cats have been collected, bills all paid up.' A gentle laugh. ‘She can't have got married and changed her name again, can she?'

‘Just a minute.' Ellie was put on hold. Some irritating music was played at her. Vivaldi. One of the Four Seasons? There's a muffled quality to sound played like that over the phone. Ellie grimaced.

‘Mrs – er – Quicke? Is that right?' An educated man's voice, with a slight accent. Punjabi? Perhaps this was the man whom Terry Pryce had spoken to?

‘Yes. Ellie Quicke. A neighbour of Mrs Pryce's. Our garden walls touch at one point, although the entrance to her house is on the next road.'

‘My assistant tells me you and some friends have arranged to come over to visit Mrs Pryce. Do you know her well?'

‘I don't understand. If she hasn't got a phone of her own in her room, then surely you can reach her through the switchboard, or send someone to tell her she's wanted on the phone?'

‘That would be the position if we had a Mrs Pryce here. But we do not.'

‘But – she said she was moving to—'

‘That was the position as we understood it, too. Mrs Pryce paid six months rent in advance and booked our biggest room with en suite and French doors leading on to the garden. She was businesslike in all her dealings with us. She made it clear that if she found our facilities not to her liking, she would be moving on, in which case we agreed that she would give us two months' notice.

‘Although her furniture arrived here as arranged, she did not. She phoned the day after she was due to arrive, saying she'd changed her mind about moving in. She said she'd let us have instructions as to what was to be done with her belongings. We have heard nothing since. We had no reason to suspect that the balance of her mind was disturbed, but this is the only explanation we have that fits the facts.'

‘But . . . where has she gone?'

‘We have no idea. We have repeatedly sent letters to her old address, which remain unanswered. We are holding her furniture until the six months that she paid for is up, although naturally we have stored them in a back room as we can let our best suite a dozen times over.'

Ellie rubbed her forehead. ‘She gave you no hint as to where she intended to go?'

‘None. We did ask for a number on which we could reach Mrs Pryce, and she gave us a mobile number which seems to be out of service. We do not appreciate dealing with people who can't make up their minds.'

‘I'm sure you don't. What do her next of kin say?'

‘She told us she had none.'

Oh. Mrs Pryce really didn't like her family, did she? ‘I see. Well, thank you.'

‘My pleasure. Have a nice day.' He put the phone down, and so did Ellie.

Thomas came into the room. He looked preoccupied, till he saw Ellie's face. ‘What's up, my love?'

‘Mrs Pryce's furniture arrived at the retirement home, but she didn't.'

‘So, she changed her mind.'

‘A woman doesn't carefully select what furniture she needs to make herself comfortable in retirement and send it on to her new home only to abandon it without explanation. Something's happened to her.'

‘Yes, that is odd. Tell me all about it.'

‘In a minute.' Ellie keyed in the phone number for her ex son-in-law, Stewart. He picked up straight away. ‘Listen, Stewart. I want to look round the Disneyland house in the next road. Can you get me an order to view?'

‘Surely you don't want to buy it? It would be the devil and all to adapt it into flats, and it'd cost the earth. The house could be pulled down and the site developed, I suppose. That is, if you could get planning permission, which wouldn't be easy in that neighbourhood. You don't really want to go into that line, do you?'

Ellie felt her temper rise. ‘I don't have time to explain at the moment. I could contact Hoopers myself, but they must know you deal with the property side of our business, and it would sound better coming from you. Will you arrange for me to have a look at it, the sooner the better, please?'

‘Yes, of course. I'll ring you back.' He sounded hurt; was he going to be upset because she hadn't time to take him into her confidence? Well, tough.

She put the phone down and gave her attention to Thomas, saying, ‘Have you got rid of your bishop?' And knew her tone was too sharp.

‘As bishops go, he went.'

‘You don't care for him? I thought bishops were in the habit of summoning you to their palaces, rather than finding their way out here to the wilds of West London.'

‘Ah. Well. He's written a book and wants me to serialize it in the magazine, and I don't think it's, er, appropriate. He refuses to accept that it's not appropriate. He's tried writing and phoning me. No joy. Hence the state visit. Now, light of my life; what's worrying you? Diana?'

Ellie tried to switch her mind over to her daughter's problems and got there eventually. ‘She says she's got a new man in her life.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘She proposes to set up house with him and Frank in my old house, the one I made over to her.'

‘Oh, but—'

‘Stewart and I will resist with our last breath.'

‘Quite right. That's all?'

‘No. She wants me to bail her out of yet another financial difficulty. When she started the agency with Denis, they both signed a document saying that if one of them wanted to leave, the other would have to buy them out. Denis wants out, and she hasn't got the money to get rid of him. Plus, she's in debt all round. She says. I suggested she mortgage her flat and the house she'd rented out; she says she's done that already in order to keep the agency going.'

He stroked his beard. Sighed.

‘She wants me to buy Denis off, so that the agency can be taken over by a larger concern. She even offered to repay the money as a loan later, which surprised me. I said I couldn't find the money. She doesn't believe me.'

Silence.

Ellie pushed back her chair. ‘I'm at my wits' end. How can I find that much money for her, without taking it out of the charity – which I can't and won't do!'

‘No.'

‘But if I don't she'll go bankrupt. I can't bear the thought of that.'

‘Ellie, I can understand your distress, but . . . may I gently point out that it's about time Diana took responsibility for her own actions?'

Ellie blinked. Was it? The relief, if it was. ‘But . . .'

‘See that Stewart has a good solicitor because I agree that there's no way Diana should have custody of Frank. Her lifestyle is not suitable.'

‘Stewart's on to that already. Thomas, are you sure? I mean, the only way I could raise the money for her is to mortgage this house, but then we'd have difficulty repaying the instalments. We could sell it, but it's our home, and Rose's. Of course, we could live in a smaller place, but then you need an office and so do I, and I love this house, which is silly, I know it's only bricks and mortar, but I really don't want to move. Oh dear, hark at me. I'm babbling.'

‘I don't see why you should have to move.'

She grimaced. ‘A poor job I've made of bringing up Diana.'

‘The responsibility for her upbringing was not entirely yours.'

‘No.' She relaxed. Closed her eyes. Breathed deeply. Felt the burden roll off her. ‘You're right. She's trying to push everything on to me as usual, and this is one too far for me.' The burden rolled back. ‘And yet . . . No, I suppose you're right.'

‘It's moral blackmail.'

Ellie nodded. ‘Yes, I must try to think of it that way and not get into a tizzy about it.'

‘You've prayed about it?'

She nodded. Oh. Actually, she hadn't. Not really.

‘And the other problem? Mrs Pryce?'

‘Could you bear to take another walk around there with me? I want to see if her car's still in the garage. Vera and Pet said Mrs Pryce was going to drive herself to her new home in her own car. There's a big padlock on the door, but perhaps we could take a torch and shine it through the window in the covered way to see if the car's gone.' She struck her forehead with her hand. ‘I forgot. Mia's out and I can't leave Rose alone.'

‘I'm expecting some more phone calls, so I can't come just yet. Mia was going to have lunch with her roly-poly boyfriend and said she wouldn't be late. Can you wait till she gets back and I've spoken to a couple of people? I'll come with you then.'

Ellie subsided into her chair and surveyed the paperwork her part-time secretary had left out for her to do. ‘Yes, of course. That would be the sensible thing to do.'

Thomas nodded and left her to it.

Ellie wanted to sweep all the paperwork off her desk on to the floor. And maybe trample on it. She wanted to lie down on the floor and have a tantrum like a two year old.

Sensible? She didn't feel sensible. She felt . . . stressed.

She ought to pray about all sorts of things, but everything was going round and round in her head like a washing machine caught on a spin cycle.

Diana's finances.

Little Frank's bed-wetting.

Rose's failing health.

The missing Mrs Pryce. Find the lady.

Ellie couldn't concentrate on any one of them long enough to formulate a coherent appeal to the Almighty. After all, He knew all about it, didn't He? Oh yes. But she seemed to remember that He liked to be reminded. Well, the best she could do was . . .
Please, if you could spare a minute?

So . . . be sensible? Deal with office work?

It was impossible to concentrate.

She went back to the kitchen to start a new shopping list. Mia had said she'd bring back something for supper, but they were nearly out of sugar and tea bags . . . spreadable butter . . . and they'd hardly any cereals left, or bread. They needed more eggs, of course. The freezer looked half empty; it was time to restock. There was an excellent greengrocery in the Lane. She needed more than she could carry in one go. She wondered if they would deliver if she made up a big enough order.