Almost a Crime (39 page)

still strangely calm, and when she reached the four of them,

she kissed each in turn, and thanked them again for coming.

‘Come back to the house, won’t you? We shall be a little

while, the — the burial is over there, in the graveyard,

private this time, by Daddy’s request. But we’ll see you

afterwards.’

‘She’s wonderfully composed,’ said Marianne. ‘I’m surprised,

I’d have imagined her to be distraught.’

‘Adrenalin,’ said Felix Miller fiercely. ‘Gets you through

most things.’ Thirty-three years after his wife’s death, he

still found funerals very painful.

‘Come along,’ said Marianne, slipping her arm through

his. ‘Let’s get the car and make our way to the house. Oh,

dear, look at that poor little boy, he looks so lost. I wouldn’t

have brought him if he was — Octavia, are you all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, thank you,’ said Octavia trying to smile, but

she couldn’t, tears suddenly engulfed her, and she started

crying, quite hard. ‘Sorry. So sorry.’

‘Why don’t you come with us?’ said Felix, putting his arm round her. ‘Our car is just over there and I don’t see yours. Tom can collect it and join us later.’

Grateful not to have to be with Tom while she was so

upset, afraid of what raw emotion would do to the gulf

between them, Octavia nodded silently, and allowed

Marianne to take her arm, and lead her away. As they

walked to the car, her father took her other hand; she

looked up at him and managed to smile, trustingly.

‘This was a good idea,’ she said, and pulled off her hat

and rested her head briefly on his arm.

Tom was not the only person watching them to think

how childlike she looked at that moment.

Over at the house, contemplating the odd quasi-cocktail

party mood of the funeral reception, accentuated by the

absence of the chief mourners, and sipping gratefully at a

glass of champagne, Octavia suddenly saw Dickon wandering

out into the garden, all alone. He had been with Janet,

but she was busy, rushing round with trays of canapes, her

eyes red.

‘Dickon,’ she said, going out through the french

windows, ‘Dickon, darling, are you all right?’

He looked at her and nodded, but his mouth was

quivering.

Octavia bent down and put her arms round him. ‘Come

here. You feeling sad about Granny?’

He nodded. ‘Mummy said I shouldn’t. Mummy said it

was wrong to be sad, that Granny was better and with

Juliet. Is she?’

‘Oh, most definitely,’ said Octavia. ‘In heaven with

Juliet, playing with her, I expect. But of course you feel sad,

you’re going to miss Granny. I feel sad, too. No one can

help that. Your mummy is very sad, I know, and—’

‘If she had another baby, would that one die too?’ said

Dickon suddenly.

Octavia stared at him, feeling rather sick. ‘No, of course

not,’ she said finally.

‘Are you sure?’ His little face was working, his dark eyes, Sandy’s eyes, fixed on hers.

‘Well, yes,’ she said, sending a prayer up to the God she

didn’t believe in. ‘It was just a terrible accident, what

happened to Juliet, it wouldn’t happen again.’

‘I think it might,’ he said, and she could feel him

trembling. ‘People keep dying in this family. And she might

have another baby, you see, and that one might die. I’m

frightened now …’ And he started to cry.

Octavia couldn’t see anyone who might be able to

comfort him. The family were all still at the graveyard.

Louise, his father, his grandfather even, all missing. She

stood up suddenly, took his hand and smiled. ‘Dickon,

darling, let’s go for a walk, shall we? Down to the little

bridge. We could play pooh sticks for bit. Just till Mummy

and Daddy get back.’

‘Where’s Octavia?’ said Felix distractedly. ‘She was so upset,

I do hope she hasn’t gone off on her own somewhere.’

‘Felix, if she has, I’m sure it’s because she wants to,’ said

Marianne briskly. ‘She’s not a—’ She stopped herself just in

time. God, how often did she say that to Felix? That

Octavia was not a child. This was not the moment for it.

She took a deep” breath.

‘She’s probably gone to the loo. Shall I try and find her

for you?’

‘Yes. Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m still worried about

that hysteria the other day. It’s not like her. I’m sure there’s

something wrong.’

Octavia wasn’t in any of the loos. She glanced down from

the landing window on to the garden; there were several

people out there now, but no sign of Octavia. Well, it was

probably easier to go on looking for her than return to Felix

without her. She ran downstairs and out of the front door

before Felix could see her and walked quickly down the

drive.

Charles Madison and his sons and one of the wives were walking down the drive, and a car, driven by Sandy, was inching its way behind them. There was no sign of Louise.

In that case, she probably was with Octavia; they would be

talking together, remembering the old days. That was good,

then; that would comfort them both. She could go back

and report to Felix that was what was happening. Or maybe

she should try and warn Octavia anyway. They couldn’t be

far away.

Marianne suddenly decided she needed a cigarette rather

badly. Felix had no idea that she smoked, albeit occasionally;

no one did, certainly not her children. She’d sit in the

car for a minute, with all the windows and doors open, and

indulge herself. She walked down to where it was parked,

about a hundred yards from the house, settled herself in the

driving seat and rummaged in her bag. She kept her

cigarettes in a rigid tampon container, and she smiled at

herself as she pulled one out; really she was just like a

naughty girl at boarding school.

She lit one with the car lighter, and then decided she

really couldn’t risk smoking in the car, Felix’s nose was

extremely sensitive. She got out and walked down to a

gateway leading across a small field. It was actually a short

cut, she realised, to the churchyard; she could see a few of

the graves. They must have walked back that way.

And then she saw Louise. She was unmistakable, even at

the hundred yards’ distance, with her shining fair hair, the

hat removed now, and the black silk dress. Only she wasn’t

with Octavia. She was with Tom. And he was holding her

at arm’s length. And she was hitting him, with both her

fists; and across the field, in the still air, Marianne could hear

their voices, although not what they were saying, and then a

louder sound, Louise crying hysterically, and then she saw

Tom push her almost roughly away and set out across the field.

Marianne stamped out her cigarette and walked, very quickly, back to the house.

Lucilla Sanderson settled herself into the wicker chair - her

wicker chair, as she called it, although several of the other

residents of Battles House didn’t regard it in quite the same way — with a sigh of pleasure. This was the best bit of the

day, especially in the summer; midday, when the aches and

pains of the early morning were easing, when she had had

her coffee and biscuits and a good read of the paper, listened

to the wireless for a bit, and then made her way from her

room — slowly, on her sticks. That was part of the pleasure,

really, pausing to chat to people in the corridor and the big

lobby at the bottom of the stairs, popping her head in

briefly to the large sitting room where the poor old things

who were really well past everything were settled in front

of the television, nodding off already as Richard and Judy well,

it was only Richard at the moment, Judy was in

hospital having some operation or other — as Richard

interviewed yet another celebrity, and that strange Savage

creature talked about its frocks. Lucilla didn’t approve of

watching TV before six in the evening; the day was for the

radio and for reading and writing letters. It was the great

divide between the people like her, still completely in

command of their faculties, and the poor, other ones: going

into the television room, or rather being put into the

television room, in the morning. One of the many

wonderful things, about Bartles House was that it was big

enough to allow for a variation in lifestyle.

Lucilla, who had grown up in a large Queen Anne house

in Wiltshire and had a very real eye for architectural virtue,

had been enchanted by Bartles from the first moment she

had seen it. Of course it was quite ugly outside, with its

ridiculous turrets and mullioned windows, but it had charm

and personality, and the interiors were really very nice; the

high ceilings, the stone fireplaces, the wooden panelling,

and the cornices, although plain, were rather fine. She

wouldn’t even have considered moving into a residential

home if it had been one of those dreadful modern places, or

even the thirties Tudor that seemed so popular in nursing

home culture. But somehow Bartles House had felt it could

—just — be home. And the grounds were so very lovely; the

gardens, neglected, of course, the small sloping meadow leading down to the wood, that charming little wood, were enchanting. Occasionally, when she was feeling very fit and

strong, her daughter would walk her to the edge of the

wood and they would stand looking in at its dusky, leafy

heart. She had several times seen woodpeckers flying out, so

rare these days; and there were jays and thrushes, and in the

summer, she often lay awake at night, soothed by the sweet

throbbing song of the nightingales.

She settled herself in her wicker chair, picked up the Telegraph to do the crossword, and allowed herself five minutes first, just to close her eyes. It was a lovely day and

the sun felt warm on her face; the air was rich with

birdsong, and the sunlight danced on the tips of the trees in

Bartles Wood and across the little valley; she could hear the

rather overgrown lambs bleating, bothering their mothers

still, as adolescent children did …

Lucilla snapped her eyes open with an effort; she would

be nodding off if she wasn’t careful. She reached for her pen

and glanced at her watch - nearly sherry time, only half an

hour to go, good — and before she started on the crossword,

drank in the view in all its lovely, graceful, mellow summer

best. How lucky she was: how privileged, what a truly

lovely place to end her days. They all thought so, she and

her fellow travellers, as they called themselves, often said

that if they had to move, leave Bartles, they would simply

lie down in the drive and let the removal vans drive over

them. Not that it was in the least likely to happen.

There had been this nonsense in the papers, but both Mr

and Mrs Ford had assured them that they were simply silly

rumours and there was absolutely no way they would ever

dream of selling Bartles. ‘This is our home, as it is yours.

Don’t worry about it.’

They didn’t.

In his small neat square pen of an office at the Planning

Inspectorate in Tollgate House, Bristol, John Whitlam was

making out a report on his visit to Bartles House, Bartles

Park, Near Felthamstone, Avon. He had found the place,

he said into his dictaphone, in very bad repair; the house

particularly, cold and draughty, in need of renovation, was

obviously expensive to heat and generally unsuited to its

purpose. Staff had to travel considerable distances, as did the

relatives of the inmates to visit. The inmates would be far

better in every way — as indeed Mr and Mrs Ford had

stressed — housed in a modern, purpose-built establishment

such as they had already earmarked on the other side of

Bath. The house had no architectural merit and it would be

no loss to anyone if it was pulled down.

There were no preservation orders on any of the trees in

the grounds except for one, behind the house, which could

remain, given a small adaptation to the plans.

It was hard to see on what grounds the local council had

turned down the first planning application; the proposed

development was well conceived and visually pleasing and

in keeping with the best of the local architecture in Bath

and Bristol. And of course there was also the added benefit

of the community centre with its facilities for the disabled.

Finally, the construction of the development would bring

much needed employment to the area.

His conclusion was, John Whitlam said, that planning

permission should be granted to Carlton Construction

without very much more delay.

Well, the funeral was over; the very worst was over. Or

maybe it wasn’t. Sandy took a glass of champagne from the

tray, drained it and picked up another. It had been after

Juliet’s funeral that Louise had really fallen apart. That

might happen again. Although she had seemed much better

yesterday; and she had read beautifully in the church today,

and had wept easy, natural tears at the graveside. Her