Authors: Nicola Slade
It was immensely satisfying to hear Doreen Buchan groan, to see her writhe, to have her turn tortured eyes on her tormentor.
‘Leave me alone,’ she gritted, fumbling at the arm of her chair. ‘Leave me alone, I
hate
you. I could
kill
you.’
She stumbled into the darkened dining-room just as Vic appeared carefully toting three brimming glasses.
‘Where’s Dor then?’ he looked mildly surprised.
‘She’s just gone for a breath of air,’ Christiane reassured him as she accepted her drink. ‘It’s getting a bit close in here.’
Lurking by the kitchen door and hoping to waylay Neil, her insider in the band, to warn him to pick his victims carefully, Harriet was surprised when, alerted by a slight movement in the scullery, she spotted Gemma fiddling with the outer door, looking flushed and guilty. Just then the seven members of the Oompah Band appeared and Neil, nattily clad in lederhosen, embroidered shirt, wide braces and dapper feathered hat, paused for a quick word.
‘Don’t worry, Old Hat,’ he reassured her, grinning as she frowned at his use of Sam’s nickname for her. ‘Alice warned me already. I know who can take it and which ones to avoid.’ Appeased, she let him shoo her back to the audience as the band struck up an Oompah rhythm and marched into the hall, round the room and up the stairs to the minstrels’ gallery. As they took their places the door to the outer lobby opened a crack and Alice Marchant slipped in, tiptoeing shyly to the empty chair beside her mother.
‘
You
!’ shrieked the band leader, pointing an accusing finger. ‘Vot do you sink you are doink? Vy are you being so late?’
Startled, Alice lifted a blushing face towards the band and caught Neil’s eye. At his reassuring wink she smiled and sat down, hoping the band leader would move on to other prey.
‘Ve vill not vait for you again,’ he threatened her, however. ‘I sink you shall pay for zis, by giving me a big, sloppy kiss und gettink me a drink in ze interval,
mein fraulein
!’
Alice smiled and nodded, thankful to get off lightly but amused none the less, and the band played on, interspersing their pieces with a non-stop series of gags, sketches and slapstick, neatly treading the thin line between comedy and abuse, offending nobody and sending them off into fits of laughter.
Outwardly docile, sitting demurely beside her mother, Alice was enveloped in a glow of remembered bliss. Nothing can touch me now she thought; nothing can hurt me, not after last night. It had come as such a surprise. She had known Neil liked her as a colleague and, lately, as a friend, and she had helplessly recognized that her own feeling for him came close to idolatry as the one person in the world who had seen her as a real, adult woman, not a drudge, not just an invisible, dowdy spinster.
That he could have fallen in love with her had simply not entered her head and his awkward declaration had taken her unaware. There had been no time to consider, no room for shyness, carried away as they had both been on that tide of passion, though he had been very gentle, in spite of his urgency, and so her virginity had finally been lost with very little discomfort. Before he reluctantly left her they had made love again and Alice had discovered at last what all the fuss was about; and now she sat in the festive hall at Firstone Grange trying to disguise the adoration she felt for him.
Christiane shifted uneasily beside her daughter, this new,
serene Alice, glowing with confidence and happiness. What’s happened to her, she frowned? If it was anyone else I’d say there was a man involved, but Alice? As the band reached the end of their last number before the interval Christiane remembered a notion that had occurred to her the previous evening, a way to depress any pretension to independence that Alice might be harbouring. I’ll put a spoke in her wheel, she decided, I’m not having her get any ideas, she’s looking far too pleased with herself.
‘You can order a taxi for eleven tomorrow morning.’ She nudged Alice to make sure her daughter was listening. ‘I’m not really that struck on this place, the Matron thinks a lot of herself so I’m going home.’
She leaned back in her wheelchair waiting for a reaction and was not surprised to see the colour drain out of Alice’s cheeks.
‘No!’ The involuntary protest was explosive and Alice was as surprised as her mother at the force of her speech. ‘No, we’ve paid in advance and it’s too much money to waste. I’m sorry, Mother, but you’ll be staying here over Christmas as we arranged. Besides, I’ve been working nearly full-time lately. We’re very busy, rushed off our feet, so I wouldn’t be able to look after you properly.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me I can’t go back to my own house, madam.’ Christiane spat out the words during an outbreak of chatter and bustle at the beginning of the interval. ‘If you won’t call me a taxi I’ll ring for one myself.’
She wheeled herself away, her forehead creased with angry lines, cursing Alice for that surprising show of strength. In fact she was perfectly comfortable at Firstone Grange and had no intention of passing up such a delicious fount of opportunities to meddle and to annoy. I’ll make her pay, she vowed, and I’m certainly not letting her off the hook. Just let her sweat it out till tomorrow morning, waiting to see if I carry out my threat.
Feeling refreshed, she spotted Ellen Ransom sitting beside Tim Armstrong. Just what I need, she thought, two for the price of one.
Stranded in her chair Alice slumped, trembling with rage and a burning anguish. For a few blissful hours she had almost forgotten about her mother, had spent the day at work exchanging delicious secret smiles with Neil and, when the office was empty, exchanging even more delicious secret kisses. She had felt strong and invincible, able to cope with her mother, able to cope with anything life chose to throw at her. And now— Oh God, she prayed, give me strength. Make her die.
Gemma was as anxious as Alice. Obedient to Ryan’s prompting she had left the back door unlocked while he and Kieran went off to the pub, because he said he would look in later on, ‘to listen to the band, no harm in that, is there?’ What was he up to? Gemma knew his sudden interest in the residents at Firstone Grange had nothing to do with a feeling of festive goodwill. She sighed and hoped Kieran might be able to restrain Ryan, knowing that Kieran, like Gemma herself, was nothing more than his faithful dog.
She straightened up and bustled round the hall collecting empty glasses and neatly avoiding the colonel who was becoming heavily gallant after a couple of glasses of Merlot. He was exhibiting a distressing tendency to want to pat her bottom, not that she minded really, it made him feel young and handsome, and didn’t bother her. As she bent to pick up a glass she felt someone’s eyes on her and looked up to meet Christiane Marchant’s gaze. The French woman smiled at her and, looking round, spotted the matron, nodded significantly at Gemma and wheeled herself over towards Pauline Winslow.
Gemma gripped the back of a convenient chair, her legs
suddenly cotton wool. I hate her, she wailed inwardly. I
hate
her.
To Christiane Marchant’s satisfaction she spotted that Tim Armstrong and Ellen Ransom were both watching her approach with apprehension written clearly on their faces. Hemmed in as they were by a throng of residents and guests beside the makeshift bar, there was no escape for either of them.
‘Very festive, isn’t it?’ came the merry greeting as Christine rolled up in front of them. ‘I like those old songs, don’t you, Ellen? Reminds me of the time, just at the end of the War, when I came over here: those were the days and no mistake. I had a lovely time. I was something a bit different, you see,’ she explained to Tim who looked both fascinated and terrified. ‘What with being French and pretty. I was smart, and clever with it, soon had all the fellows round me.’
She looked at Ellen with a conspiratorial air. ‘Good gracious, but we all had a time of it, didn’t we, dear? My word, if some of the men who were still in the Far East could have known what their wives were up to! Sometimes you heard of girls who’d got themselves in a fix taking desperate steps to get themselves out of trouble, none of this abortion on tap like there is nowadays, eh? No, you had to take matters into your own hands if you were desperate then.’
Ellen lost colour and Christiane, satisfied with her efforts, turned her sights on Tim, changing tack. ‘Of course, lots of people get desperate, don’t they, Mr Armstrong? Not just in wartime either. Sometimes they have to move house to avoid the shame of what they’ve done, or the shame of what some member of their family might have done. Still, however carefully you cover your tracks, there’s always somebody who finds out about these things, isn’t there, Mr Armstrong? Such a shame.’
‘I do beg your pardon.’ A pleasant voice broke in abruptly and a tall man with silver hair loomed over the trio. ‘I’m Sam Hathaway, Mr Armstrong, Harriet Quigley’s cousin. I think we’ve met once or twice on committees and so forth?’
‘Excuse me.’ Matron had materialized and spoke at the same moment but she smiled and nodded to Sam to continue. He shook his head and she went on: ‘Oh, thank you, Canon Hathaway. I’m so sorry, but I shall have to ask you to move, Mrs Marchant. I’m afraid your wheelchair marks the parquet so I’ve put down a special mat for you. I do apologize but the floor in the hall here is rather special, so we are obliged to preserve it.’
She took a firm hold of Christiane Marchant’s chair and wheeled her away to a spot in the corner just in front of the minstrel’s gallery and well away from the rest of the seating. ‘There we are,’ she said heartily, parking the seething woman on the small rug. ‘That’s much better. I’m afraid you won’t get much of a view of the band from here, not that you can see much in this dim light, but at least you’re right next to the table with the mince pies. Help yourself if you feel peckish, won’t you.’
Sam silently applauded Pauline Winslow’s masterly strategy, having watched her become aware that Ellen and Tim were under attack from their tormentor. Giving her a mental three cheers he stooped to give Tim a hand and went on, without waiting for a reply. ‘Come and join Harriet and me, she’s put her coat on a table over there to save it, and gone off to grab us a drink.’
Under cover of his gentle flow of talk Sam hoisted the older man out of his seat and hauled him off to join Harriet. He shot Ellen Ransom a speculative glance, wondering what the brief exchange he had overheard could possibly mean. Not really an exchange, if it comes to that, he decided with a wry smile,
considering neither Tim nor Ellen had uttered, but the threat in Christiane Marchant’s words had been unmistakable, as had the hatred in Ellen’s face.
‘That woman deserves to die,’ said Tim, suddenly quite lucid.
‘Places, everyone, please,’ called Matron fifteen minutes later as she fussed over her flock, urging them back to their seats and away from the bar. She cast a rapid look round, counting heads. Yes, Mrs Marchant was still there, where she’d been parked, thank goodness. Certainly, she had a sullen expression but she was stationary, taking advantage of the permission granted her, and munching her way through some of the remaining mince pies on the long table that separated her from the rest of the audience.
Matron hurried up the gallery stairs to chivvy the guests who had gone up to take a look at the instruments. ‘Come along, Mrs Ransom,’ she fussed. ‘And you too, Mr Armstrong. Goodness me, I think almost everyone, residents and visitors, must have come up here during the interval. Mr Buchan, Mrs Buchan, please come down now and take your seats again.’
Harriet watched appreciatively as Pauline Winslow shepherded them into place then turned to find her own seat. ‘Anything wrong, Mrs Turner?’ she enquired, seeing the housekeeper searching the makeshift bar.
‘What? Oh no, nothing wrong, exactly, Miss Quigley,’ came the explanation as she ducked down to peer under the table. ‘It’s just that I’ve mislaid my reel of black thread somewhere and I’ll spit if I’ve lost it. It’s one of my silly economies; we all have them, don’t we? I hate spending money on sewing cotton
and this is a new one, and button-thread at that, which means it’s stronger and costs more.’ She gestured at the flickering candle bulbs and shrugged. ‘This is all very pretty and Christmassy but it’s hopeless for trying to find something.’
Harriet murmured something sympathetic and left her to it while she made her way back to Sam who had moved her bag and was now saving her chair, Tim Armstrong having declined a drink and wandered off somewhere. ‘Here, Harriet, take this before I spill it,’ he urged, handing her a glass. ‘I made sure we had iron rations to hand for the second half; there’s a packet of nuts in my pocket if you’re feeling peckish.’
‘Good thinking, Sam,’ she congratulated him, sipping her Chilean Merlot and looking round the room. Miss Winslow and her housekeeper made a formidable team, she reflected, admiring the decorations. What a gift, to have both the vision
and
the determination to realize it. The two women had conjured up a perfect reproduction of a Dickensian Christmas, the scent of pine, the sparkle of the tinsel just touched by the glimmer of candle bulbs, the crackling log fire in the hearth, the tall tree in the corner. There was an evocative glamour to the scene, she mused, like a Christmas card or a Victorian painting and as a finishing touch, Neil had told her, there would be carols to wind up the concert.
The members of the Oompah Band had returned to the minstrel’s gallery, brainchild and folly of the Edwardian industrialist who had built Firstone Grange. Safely tucked away behind the elaborately turned and carved oak railing, the men in leather shorts galloped into a heavily accented version of ‘Tulips from Amsterdam’.
Over to her left Harriet could see a cluster of people, some sitting, some standing, all apparently enjoying themselves as they beat time, sang along, or tapped their toes. Ah, that’s where he’d got to; Harriet was pleased to spot Tim Armstrong
leaning against the panelled wall and looking a lot happier now, with Ellen Ransom beside him, actually cracking a smile. They both seemed to have put their antipathy to Christiane Marchant on hold for the time being.
It was too much to hope that Doreen or Fred Buchan might have summoned up a grin but they too were standing by Tim and Ellen, flanking Vic – husband and son respectively – and their gloom was clearly not sufficient to put a damper on their companions. Although still fairly close to the woman in the wheelchair the little group of Christiane’s apparent victims seemed protected by the table and by the distance between them. A psychological protection perhaps, Harriet fancied, but it seemed to be giving them some kind of strength; long might it last, she hoped.
A flicker of movement from upstairs attracted her attention, a shadow right at the back of the minstrel’s gallery. Harriet’s long-distance sight, in her glasses, was excellent and she was astounded to recognize the thin dark boy she had seen with Gemma. He was gone almost before she could make sense of what she had seen but it had definitely been Gemma’s boyfriend. But what of Gemma? Looking round anxiously Harriet could see Gemma standing at the kitchen doorway, actually looking a little more cheerful at last. Did she know the boy was there? And what exactly did he think he was he up to, upstairs where he certainly had no business to be?
A happier distraction gave Harriet a moment’s satisfaction. It was the sight of Alice Marchant chatting comfortably with one of the guests while her mother, her wheelchair tucked right apart from the rest of the crowd, sat hunched and brooding like the bad fairy at the feast. Harriet smiled and sat down beside her cousin Sam, just in time.
‘Right, peoples,’ shrieked the band leader, with manic enthusiasm. ‘Now you vill do ze hand-klepping,
ja
?’
‘
Ja
!’ The thunderous reply rang out as the audience happily joined in and the bandleader started them off with a brisk nod of approval. The piece began with only the sound of Neil Slater on the clarinet along with a rousing virtuoso performance by the jolly-faced, tubby drummer, who sported a black moustache, while the other bandsmen demonstrated the
hand-clapping.
The accordion player unhitched his instrument and pranced down to seize Matron as his partner, treating the audience to a spirited display of ‘Hands, Knees and Boompsadaisy’. The euphonium player was about to follow suit, leaving his oversized horn where it had remained during the interval, precariously balanced on the wide, polished handrail that ran the length of the gallery, when there was a particularly loud roll on the drums, and the great brass instrument toppled over.
‘Look out below!’ The cry was accompanied by warning shrieks as those below tried to scatter. There was a sickening thud and a clang and clatter as the euphonium bounced once, twice, and settled on the polished oak floor.
The silence was … shocking. Harriet could almost
feel
the tension in the air.
‘Oh my
God
!’ It was Matron who cried out, a cry echoed in muted tones by all around when they realized exactly what it was that the euphonium had bounced off, before it clanged and clattered to the floor.
Christiane Marchant was still seated a little apart in her wheelchair, but now her body was slumped forward and she was hanging out of the chair, her shoulder and the side of her head a bloody, pulped mess. On the table beside her, in stark incongruity, were the smashed and broken remnants of the mince pies, shattered china plates, and bloody tablecloth.
For a moment nobody moved, then there was pandemonium. Sam Hathaway looked to Matron but she had
rushed straight to the woman in the wheelchair. No one else seemed to be taking charge so, with a degree of diffidence, Sam stepped forward.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said gravely, his voice shaken but clear and audible. ‘Please don’t panic, there’s obviously been a terrible accident and the best thing we can do is keep calm. Perhaps, Matron, it would be an idea if people went quietly into the drawing-room?’
Pauline Winslow, kneeling beside the body, raised her head and nodded gratefully. ‘Oh yes, that would be best, I should think.’ She frowned, still looking at Sam. ‘Could somebody phone the doctor, please?’
At the same time Harriet half started to speak then thought better of it, and muttered, ‘Oh, what’s the use?’
‘What did you say, Harriet?’ Sam queried. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just something that occurred to me, something ridiculous. I can’t be sure so I’d be better off holding my tongue.’
She looked over her shoulder to the cluster round the Breton woman’s body. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, be an angel and rescue Tim Armstrong, Sam, please. What on earth is he doing over there? It’ll be enough to send him right over the edge.’
In exasperation she turned away, to see what she could do to help, and spotted Alice Marchant still standing where only moments ago she had looked so comfortable. As Harriet steamed towards the younger woman, drawn by the frozen look of horror on her face, she was unceremoniously elbowed aside by Neil Slater, the clarinettist, as he came leaping down the stairs.
‘Alice.’ He said no more but enfolded her so lovingly in his arms that Harriet slowed her approach until satisfied that Alice, who had collapsed in a torrent of tears, would be all right now.
‘Is she dead?’ The question came from Doreen Buchan who
had risen, white with shock. Her voice was harsh and her eyes wide and staring.
‘Er – yes, I’m afraid she is,’ said Harriet. Surely it was obvious? It scarcely took a medical qualification to diagnose death considering the state of the woman’s pitiful skull. Even though the heavy brass instrument had only caught the side of her head, there had been more than enough weight behind it to inflict a great deal of horrific damage.
‘Good. She deserved to die.’ Doreen Buchan looked her full at the dead woman’s mangled body and smiled, a terrible, mirthless rictus. After a moment’s silent contemplation she turned to her husband. ‘I think we ought to go home now, Vic.’
‘I don’t know that we can, yet, Dor,’ he demurred from his seat beside his ashen-faced father. ‘They’ll need to get the ambulance and inform the police first.’
‘The police?’
Curiously enough it was Ellen Ransom who spoke, a trace of hysteria in her voice, but old Fred Buchan and several other people jerked round to stare at Vic. ‘That’s right, Miss Quigley, isn’t it?’ Why he appealed to Harriet, she had no idea; surely she was nobody’s idea of an expert on sudden death?
‘I believe so,’ she conceded. ‘I’ve an idea they have to be informed in any case of sudden death but it’s purely routine.’
The magic phrase calmed their jangled nerves until a sudden blast of cold air heralded the approach of the ambulance team, whose quiet, professional bearing soon reassured the anxious audience.
‘Not much they can do, I’m afraid,’ murmured Sam as he came to stand beside Neil to watch the proceedings.
Arms still round Alice, Neil shrugged slightly then he gave Sam a measuring glance. ‘Do me a favour, Sam, will you?’
The tall clergyman nodded, head cocked ready for further instructions.
‘Go and have a word with Mike, the euphonium player, will you? He’ll be feeling suicidal about this but you’ve got to reassure him that it was just a terrible accident.’
‘Will do.’ Sam made his way to the wide polished staircase and sat down beside the distraught middle-aged man who was sitting there, rocking himself in an agony of distress, hands clasped tightly round his bare knees, shivering in his brief lederhosen.
‘Here,’ Sam put a comforting arm round the man’s shoulders. ‘Come on, son, you mustn’t blame yourself, it’s ghastly but it’s a ghastly
accident
. Not your fault at all.’
‘But it
must
be my fault,’ came the anguished reply. ‘I thought I’d balanced the horn safely, the coping on top of the railing is really wide, but I should have been more careful. Oh Christ! What am I going to do? I’ll never be able to forgive myself.’
Sam looked round, wondering if he could leave the poor tormented soul while he went in search of a jacket or something, for Mike was shivering. Suddenly a crocheted afghan was thrust into his hand and Harriet was there.
‘Here, wrap this round the poor chap,’ she commanded briskly. ‘I just nipped into the small sun parlour for it. It usually stays there for anyone who needs a spot of extra comfort; it’s sunny in there but you can get a draught whistling round your legs. And, here.…’ Her other hand offered a glass. ‘Get this inside him. I don’t care what they say, I don’t think you can beat a decent slug of malt for shock. Shouldn’t do him any harm, it’s not as though he’s got concussion.’
She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oops, not a terribly tactful thing to say in the circumstances. Sorry.’
Sam took the whisky and held the glass to Mike’s chattering teeth. ‘Here you are, get this down you, it’ll dull the pain a bit.’
Tea, coffee and hot, milky drinks were what Gemma was told to distribute among the rest of the audience as a remedy for shock. She had been tidying up, in fits and starts, averting her eyes from the ambulance team and the surrounding mess, and she was glad of a diversion. As she escaped thankfully to the kitchen a shape loomed up out of the dark corner by the pantry.
‘Shhh, don’t make so much noise, you stupid cow.’ Ryan made for the back door. ‘Let me out of here, quick, before the pigs get here. Make sure you lock up behind me.’
Mute with distress she obeyed, fumbling at the door catch with clumsy, shaking fingers, whimpering as he glared savagely at her. ‘Right, you keep your bloody mouth shut, you hear? I wasn’t here, you never saw me.’
‘Ryan.…’
He shot a furious glance over his shoulder. ‘What now?’
‘You never … you never
did
anything, did you? I mean, it wasn’t you that – that pushed that thing over?’
‘Are you out of your mind? I wasn’t there, nowhere near it. And no, I never had time to go round and nick stuff, if that’s what you’re on about.’
She winced as he slammed the door with an angry bang. No, she vowed, I won’t tell the police he was here. He’d already had a first reprimand – for what the police called ‘petty thieving’ and which Ryan dismissed as a set-up. This had been followed by a final warning when he’d been caught shoving some old woman around near the chip shop and somehow her purse had fallen into his pocket. Ryan had pleaded total astonishment at that but he turned eighteen in a few weeks and Gemma knew the next time would be more serious, he’d be considered an adult.
A uniformed police constable had turned up by now but he had little to do apart from recording the incident. ‘I expect somebody from the Coroner’s Office will be along in due
course,’ he told Matron. ‘There’s not that much I can do, to be honest; everyone seems to agree what happened and that it was just one of those unfortunate accidents, something nobody could have foreseen. I can’t see anything untoward and the paramedic has pronounced life extinct so that’s sorted; no need to hang around for an FME.’ At Matron’s questioning glance, he explained: ‘Forensic Medical Examiner. Some forces call them in routinely for a sudden death but my guv’nor doesn’t; just as well, this is a busy time of year for them. I’ll call for an undertaker – does the next of kin have any preference? No? Righty-ho, I’ll fill in the sudden death form and take another look round and after that I’ll get in touch with my sergeant.’