Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death (16 page)

The Fletchers lived in one of the cottages in the main street, like Annie’s from the outside, but inside very different.

“How lovely and warm!” I exclaimed as I stepped from the cold, windy street into the main room.

“We had a wood-burning stove put in,” Mary said. “It was dreadfully drafty and miserable before, and it fitted quite well in the old fireplace.”

“It looks lovely,” I said, moving towards it.“ Oh, and you’ve got the bread oven at the side—how splendid!”

“We tried to keep the original features. Actually, when we were redecorating, we stripped one wall right back and found the old cob wall. If you look over here, we kept a small section of it under glass. There you are—you can see the bits of horsehair.”

“Isn’t that fascinating! You really have got the best of both worlds—a real feel of the period and all the modern comforts.”

“It suits us,” she said, “and, of course, I’ve always been interested in old things. Now, do sit down and I’ll go and get the coffee.”

When she had left the room I got up and went over to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece above it there were several framed photographs. One of their wedding (both Jim and Mary instantly recognizable in their youthful selves), one of a small boy, about five years old, on a swing, and one that I studied intently, of a young man standing in front of the Sydney Opera House. He was half turned towards the camera, bright-faced and laughing, his hair ruffled by the breeze off the water. A son, indeed, that any mother would be proud of.

When Mary came back into the room I said, “What a nice photo! Is it your son?”

She went over and put the tray with the coffee down on a table.

“Yes, that’s Rick—he’s living in Australia now.”

“Oh yes,” I said, gesturing towards the photograph, “the opera house. Does he live in Sydney?”

“Yes. His work is there.”

“You must miss him. Have you been out there to visit?”

“No. I’m not very happy flying.”

“What a shame. Still, I expect he’ll come home to visit you—the young don’t seem to be bothered about distances nowadays, do they?”

Although her answers had been quite easy and natural, there was something about the way she was standing, a hint of tension. It seemed unkind to persist, and as I turned away from the fireplace and got out the things I’d brought to show her, I sensed rather than saw that she relaxed.

As I went through the material, I found that she was very competent and was going to be a great help. In that warm, comfortable room, drinking our coffee and discussing practicalities, I felt sympathetically drawn towards her and guilty that I had caused her discomfort, however momentarily.

 

 

 

As I drove home it occurred to me that the young man in the photograph had looked
very
young—more like a student, in fact. Perhaps the photograph had been taken when he was on his gap year and he wasn’t in Australia at all. Perhaps he
was
the young man in Greg’s story—but, really, what did it matter? And even if he was, making sure that particular secret was safe wouldn’t be sufficient reason for the Fletchers to kill Annie. I knew now that finding out about Annie’s death must be my only excuse for prying into people’s lives and I must keep anything I might discover strictly to myself. William had made it plain that he didn’t want to know any details, and Rosemary would understand.

Rachel brought round the photographs that she’d promised me.

“I can just remember Davy,” she said, pointing to a picture of a sturdy Welsh pony. “That’s him there with the trap. I was allowed to have rides on him, but Mother said Phyll was too young. Poor Phyll, she used to be so upset. She always wanted to do everything I did. I can see her now, hanging on to the gate of the paddock, watching me going round on Davy, her face screwed up trying not to cry!”

“How sad.”

“A few years later, Mother decided that it was the thing for girls to ride so we were sent off every Saturday to the local riding stables, but Phyll never got over Davy.”

I turned over the rest of the photographs.

“The ones of Higher Barton, when it was just built, are splendid,” I said. “And, oh, look at this wonderful one of your grandparents having tea on the lawn—goodness, complete with a maid in a cap and apron standing in the background!”

“I know. It’s like another world—which I suppose it was. No more maids now—Filipino couples, I suppose, if you’re rich. Daddy had a sort of housekeeper after Mother died, before Phyll came home, and then they had dear old Mrs. Fenn from the village for a few mornings a week. Now, of course, we mostly manage by ourselves, with a little help from Mrs. Bradshaw. Though it’s a big, inconvenient house and takes a lot of keeping in order. Still, it means that Phyll and I aren’t on top of each other.”

“So it’s working out all right?” I asked.

“By and large, yes. It’s not the same, of course, especially for me, but, as life goes on you have to adapt. We’re both out quite a bit. This week especially, now that Martin’s with us. Phyll’s been taking him round all the local beauty spots.”

“He’s really going to live in the village, then?”

“He seems quite set on it.”

“For any particular reason?” I asked.

Rachel laughed. “Because of Phyll, you mean? To be honest I really don’t know. I must say I’ve never known Phyll so
comfortable
with a man before, and he seems to be very relaxed with her. They might be old friends who’ve known each other for years.”

“What does Phyll say?”

“Well, I can’t exactly have a heart-to-heart with her while Martin is in the house, and, as I say, they’re out together most of the time.”

“More than friends? I asked tentatively.

She shrugged. “I think Phyll would like it, but he’s so easy and friendly with everyone it’s hard to tell.”

“Would you mind if they did—you know—get together?”

“Good heavens, no—if that’s what she really wanted. Dear old Phyll, she deserves a bit of happiness.”

“Do you know anything about him—his family and so on?”

“Not much, without actually cross-questioning him! His wife, Moira, her name was, died, of cancer probably (he hasn’t gone into details), but it was a long illness and I think he felt bad about having to be away so often with his job when she was ill. No children, no aged parents—that’s about it.”

“That and the fact that he’s Annie’s cousin. I wonder why they never really met.”

“I did ask him about that and it seems to have been some sort of family quarrel, generations back, which sounds about right.” She looked at her watch. “Goodness, is that the time? I must go.”

“Won’t you stay to lunch?”

“No, really, I promised Diana I’d have lunch with her—nowhere special, we’re only going to the hotel. I think she gets a bit lonely when Toby’s away; a bit inclined to hit the bottle when she’s on her own. Anyway, I’ve known them both forever—well, Toby, especially, we were much of an age.” She laughed. “Mother always thought he’d be a suitable match for me—you know, son of a gentleman farmer, the nearest thing the village had to a lord of the manor.”

“But you never fancied it?”

“Good God, no! A rackety young man; he used to bring a crowd of very dubious people down for the Long Vac when he was at Cambridge, not my cup of tea at all. And I wasn’t his! Anyway, he went off to London to work in some rather grand merchant bank—he was never going to be a farmer—and I left to do my training at St. Thomas’s, much to Mother’s annoyance. She never wanted me to go into nursing.”

“Really? What did she want?”

“One of the professions—doctor, lawyer, whatever. Though what she really wanted was for me to marry someone grand, preferably with a title, and do the County thing. I think she thought nursing was rather undignified. But that’s what I’d set my heart on. I couldn’t wait to get away. Anyway, she bullied Phyll into going to university and then into teaching, so she got her way with one of us. Now I
must
go—we really will do lunch soon.”

As I was making my lunch (cheese on toast, hardly lunch at all,) I thought about Toby and Diana, who were also on Annie’s list, and wondered about their secret. Of course, Toby was an MP and what might be quite a mild peccadillo in an ordinary person could very well be blown up by the press into something much more. Perhaps he was a Love Rat, or was it the tabloids’ favorite word, Sleaze? Either could ruin a career, even though the headlines were based on rumor or spite. Unfair, really. Actually, I always felt there was something slightly uneasy about Toby, a certain defensiveness behind his bonhomie, though perhaps all politicians were like that; perhaps it went with the territory. Certainly he was the one person in the village who might have had most to lose if Annie knew something discreditable about him.

I was suddenly aware of the grill flaring up and I rescued my cheese on toast just in time, though I had to cut the burned bits off round the edges. Alerted by the sudden movements of panic, the animals materialized and demanded their lunch, and I was obliged to put my speculations to one side and cope with my own concerns.

A few days later found me back in the village, ostensibly to have another look at an inscription in the churchyard, but actually to wander around seeing what, if anything, I might pick up. I went into the shop and found Maurice Sanders in earnest conversation with a tall man, whose face looked vaguely familiar.

“I’ll let you know, then,” Maurice was saying, “as soon as I know anything myself.”

He broke off when he saw me come through the door and began putting the man’s purchases into a plastic bag. “There you are, then. That’ll be £9.20.”

The man handed him the money, gave me a brief smile and left the shop.

“Now, then, Sheila,” Maurice said, “what can I get you?”

“Have you got any of that Exmoor Blue cheese?” I asked.

“Just had some in. Do you mind waiting while I go out the back and unpack it?”

“No, that’s fine.”

While I was waiting Judith and Captain Prosser came in and I explained Maurice’s absence.

“Oh, that’s a lovely cheese,” Judith said enthusiastically. “Very expensive, but worth it for a treat!”

“Give me good old cheddar every time,” Captain Prosser said. “All this fancy stuff’s not a patch on it. A nice lump of cheddar with a bit of home-baked bread and a pickled onion—now, that’s a proper way to eat cheese.”

“Annie used to like cheddar,” Judith said, “and Double Gloucester, and Lancashire for cooking. She never ate soft cheeses; she said they didn’t agree with her.”

“You must miss her,” I said.

“Oh, the village isn’t the same without her. We had a parish council meeting last week and really, the ages it took to get everyone to agree to anything—Annie would have had things sorted in no time!”

Captain Prosser looked as if he was about to say something, thought better of it, and sighed.

“People keep arguing all the time,” Judith went on, “so nothing gets done. You really need someone strong-minded enough to pull things together. And no one seems to think of good ideas like Annie did. That book of yours, Sheila, that was her idea. How’s it getting on?”

“Quite slowly, I’m afraid, but now that Mary is helping, it will be much easier.”

“Oh, Mary’s so clever,” Judith said, “and she knows all about books and things. And, of course, you’ve got all Annie’s photos and papers.”

“Papers?” Captain Prosser said. “I didn’t know there were papers. What sort of papers would those be, then?”

“Oh, old letters, mostly,” I said, “and some postcards—that sort of thing.”

Captain Prosser nodded. “Ah, I see. Interesting.”

Maurice came back with the cheese.

“Sheila’s just been telling us about Annie’s papers,” Judith said.

“Papers?” Maurice said.

“Just old letters and so forth,” I said. “I haven’t quite finished going through everything.”

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

“The letters from Annie’s grandfather when he was in France in the First World War,” I said. “They’re very moving. And accounts of village festivities—cuttings from the local papers, all quite long ago.”

“Nothing more recent, then?”

“Not really, though, as I said, I haven’t been through everything yet.”

“Have you got all the material you need for the Book, then?” Judith asked.

“More or less,” I said, “though Diana did say there were some things, photos and so forth, from Toby’s family.”

“They should be fascinating,” Judith said. “After all, they’ve lived in the village for generations!”

“Yes, I really must get onto her about them.”

“How much of this cheese do you want?” Maurice asked.

“Oh, that piece will do nicely. Oh yes, and a couple of slices of that ham.”

When I left the shop I walked along to the field where Diana kept her horses, but there was no sign of her and I didn’t feel like making a special journey up to the house, so I decided I’d ring her instead. I stood for a moment, leaning on the gate, watching the horses moving slowly across the field, cropping the grass as they went. As I was watching, I saw a figure coming out of the wood and taking the path across the field. It was Margaret Sanders. She greeted me as she got to the gate.