Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (17 page)

“Well—I think it probably was.”

“Probably? That’s not what I heard.”

“Well,” I said again, “there was some problem about the wire being cut, but that was all explained at the inquest, and the coroner was quite satisfied.”

Mrs. Dudley gave a short laugh. “Marcus Barrington! He’s about as much use as a chocolate fireguard!”

I looked at her in amazement at this colloquial turn of phrase.

“I believe that’s what dear Delia calls it—it struck me as a very colorful and accurate metaphor. I certainly wouldn’t trust
his
judgment on any legal matter. How he came to be appointed coroner is, and always will be, a mystery to me.”

“Still,” I said, getting involved in a discussion I didn’t really want, as always happens with Mrs. Dudley, “I do think it
was
most likely an accident. I mean, who would want to kill poor Jo? Everyone loved her.”

“Not everyone.” She paused to spread a scone with cream and jam. “Not everyone by any means.”

“Who? Who could possibly dislike Jo?”

“Esther Nicholson for one.”

“Esther? But she’s Jo’s sister!”

“What has that got to do with it?” Mrs. Dudley said sharply.

“But why?”

“She has always been bitterly jealous of her—the beautiful, talented older sister. Even as a young girl Esther was plain and very dull. You must remember that.”

“Well, yes,” I said, remembering guiltily several occasions in our youth when Esther had been excluded from some activity or other because someone said she was “dim” or “boring.” “I suppose she must have felt left out sometimes.”

“Exactly. And, of course, her parents made it very plain that Josephine was their favorite. I remember Margaret Howard saying frequently what a disappointment Esther was after her brilliant older sister.”

“Poor Esther,” I said. “I’m afraid we weren’t very nice to her.”

“And then there was the business with Gordon Nicholson.”

“Gordon?”

“Oh yes, he was madly in love with Josephine; begged her to marry him several times.”

“I never knew that.”

“Well, he was hardly likely to publish his disappointment. It would have been a good match. He was a professional man and his family was very well off. Have you heard of Nicholson’s, the builders? Arnold Nicholson, Gordon’s father, worked his way up from nothing—
his
father was a common laborer—so it wasn’t a good family, but he made a great deal of money building those houses out beyond the marshes. He got the land for a song. He always had an eye for the main chance. Gordon takes after him in that way.”

I thought of the talk about Gordon’s deals with Dan Webster. “Yes,” I said, “he’s always had a head for business. But I can see why Jo rejected him—very much not her sort of person. It would have been impossible!”

“The Howards didn’t see it in that way. They were very upset that Josephine had refused such a good offer, especially since she’d refused his cousin Clive before. They weren’t at all well off. If you remember, Desmond Howard was only a bank clerk and they thought it would have been a marvelous match for their daughter.”

“But still—I can’t imagine it, Jo and Gordon!”

“They put a certain amount of pressure on her, and that is why she went off to London.”

“I see. But then Esther went to work for Gordon.”

“That was some years later. I believe she had always had some sort of romantic ideas about him, her sister’s young man—I believe that often happens—and he was still unmarried.”

“And you think he married her as second best?”

“I believe that often happens too.”

“Poor Esther.”

“Well, I suppose she had got what she wanted.” Mrs. Dudley paused. “Sheila dear, will you very kindly cut me a piece of sponge—no, a little larger than that—and have some yourself. You’ve eaten almost nothing. I do hope you are not on one of those stupid diets.”

I cut myself a piece of sponge and assured her that, indeed, I was making an excellent tea.

“Of course,” Mrs. Dudley went on, “getting what we want is not always what we
thought
we wanted.”

I considered this aphoristic statement for a moment and then said, “It couldn’t work, of course. If Esther knew that Jo was the love of his life and he’d only married her as a sort of substitute, she’d always feel inferior. And I suppose it was bad enough when Jo was in London leading that glamorous life, but, in a way it must have been much worse when she came back to Taviscombe with Charlie—who was so charismatic—and was there under Esther’s nose every day, so to speak.”

Mrs. Dudley nodded. “Exactly. And it hasn’t helped that Simon, her own son, obviously preferred the company of his aunt to that of his mother.”

“Oh dear.” I absently took another slice of sponge. “I can see why Esther might very well hate her sister, but I really can’t see her
killing
her.”

“You think she is too stupid to choose such a recherché method?”

“Well, yes—it does seem a little, well,
inventive
for Esther.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Dudley said triumphantly, “but I happen to know that she had just had some electrical work done and that the electrician had warned her about the dangers of having wiring in a place where it might become damaged.”

“Steve Webber?”

“He did happen to mention it when he came to put in a new switch for me.”

“He doesn’t think Jo’s death was an accident,” I said, resisting the temptation to lick the icing from my fingers, and wiping them decorously on my table napkin. “He thinks the wire was cut deliberately.”

“Precisely,” Mrs. Dudley said, “and he is a very experienced electrician.”

“But at the inquest they said it was probably that heavy, metal cash box that cut the wire.”

“Oh, the inquest!” Mrs. Dudley waved it aside. “I have no opinion of that ridiculous procedure. I’ve no doubt it suited them to call it an accident—less bother all round, typical of the slipshod way things are done today.”

I ignored this slight on the criminal justice system. “But Esther!” I protested. “No, I really can’t believe that.”

“She adored that tiresome husband of hers and you must have noticed how oddly she has been behaving since he died.”

“Well, yes, in a way, but that’s only natural. It must have been a dreadful shock to have him collapsing like that.”

“The man had had a serious heart condition for years. It can hardly have been unexpected, even to someone as stupid as Esther Nicholson.”

“But she hardly ever went to the stables; she may not have gone that day.”

“Has anyone asked her?”

“I suppose Inspector Morris may have done.”

“
Inspector
Morris,” Mrs. Dudley said scornfully. “What use is he? Why is Roger not looking into things?”

“He’s based in Taunton now,” I said apologetically, “though he is still taking an interest in it.”

“That is all very well, but with a murderer on the loose, are we in Taviscombe to be considered less worthy of protection than the people of
Taunton
?”

There seemed to be no answer to that and, with Mrs. Dudley now in full Lady Bracknell mode, I was glad that Elsie came in just then to remove the tea things so that I could decently take my leave.

“Dear Sheila,” Mrs. Dudley said as I bent to kiss her, “remember, all this dieting is bad for the health, especially at your age.”

 

“Your mother really does know how to put the knife in,” I said to Rosemary when I reported back to her. “That remark about dieting was pure malice!”

“You really should be used to it after nearly sixty years,” Rosemary said, laughing.

“I know,” I said ruefully, “but she gets to me every time. And what’s all this about picking up phrases from Delia? I couldn’t believe my ears!”

“Oh, that’s Delia’s latest ploy, spending time with Great-Grandma. It drives Jilly and Roger mad, which, of course, it’s meant to. ‘She’s always beautifully behaved with
me
,’ Mother says whenever any of us complain about how impossible Delia is. And ‘She reminds me very much of what I was like at her age.’ I mean, come on!”

“Oh dear, the deviousness of little girls,” I said.

“She stuffs herself with cakes and things when she’s there, just when Jill’s trying so hard to get the children to eat healthily. Mother simply encourages her, of course, and Delia always comes away with extra pocket money—for doing well at school, that sort of thing!”

“Well, I suppose it’s a new interest for your mother.”

“Oh, by the way,” Rosemary said, “Simon’s been able to fix the date for Jo’s funeral. It’s going to be on the twenty-ninth at two thirty. St. James’s, of course, and then at the County, like Charlie’s do. Poor boy, that’s the third funeral he’s had to arrange. Jo wasn’t up to doing Charlie’s, so Simon did that, as well as his father’s. I think it’s all getting to him. He really did look awful when I saw him yesterday.”

“Poor Simon,” I said. “Everyone does rely on him. I’ll go with Thea, of course, and I expect Michael will be able to get away.”

But, as it happened I wasn’t able to go to Jo’s funeral. The day before, I came down with the particularly horrible feverish cold that had been going round Taviscombe—the sort of cold when all you can do is crawl miserably into bed and stay there. I did manage to phone Rosemary to tell her.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “I could easily pop round this morning.”

“No, it’s fine,” I croaked. “Thea, bless her, has been in and seen to the animals, and she’s making me hot drinks and soup and things. Do please tell Simon how sorry I am not to be there, but I really can’t make it. My throat’s raw and I’m at the streaming stage. I’ve gone through one box of tissues already. Thea’s made me some lemon and honey and I’m living on aspirin and Vick. . .” I broke off with a fit of coughing, and Rosemary, murmuring comforting words, rang off.

Putting down the phone, I sipped some of the lemon and honey, took some more aspirin and moved a reluctant Foss from under the duvet so that I could pull it up over my head and try to get some sleep.

I felt marginally better the next day and able to listen quite sensibly to Rosemary’s account of the funeral.

“It was exactly the same as Charlie’s, same hymns and everything. Simon told me that’s what she wanted. Some of the same horsey people were there and some theater people—I recognized a few of them—and one of them said a few words. The church was more or less full and most people went on afterwards.”

“I’m so glad,” I said. “I just wish I could have been there too.”

“I tell you who wasn’t,” Rosemary said.

“Who?”

“Esther.”

“Really!”

“Apparently she wasn’t well enough—she has the same bug as you. So really it was just Simon, Liz and Peggy. Oh, and Vicky. I think she was a bit put out at the girls from the stables being counted as ‘family,’ but they certainly had more right than she has.”

“Especially Liz. She was almost like a daughter to Jo and Charlie.”

“I think that’s always riled Vicky. Apparently she was
very
put out that Liz had been left the house as well as a share of the stables.”

“She really is so like Gordon—money, money, money!”

“And she was networking—if that’s what they call it—after the funeral, chatting up some of the theater people. I think she wanted them for this program of hers, the one Jo wouldn’t do. Oh yes, and she was asking after you, something she wants
you
for.”

“Well, at least I’ve avoided that,” I said. “But I would have liked to be there, just to say good-bye to Jo.”

“Anyway, how are you?” Rosemary asked.

“I think the worst’s over,” I said cautiously. “It was pretty violent but mercifully short. My head feels full of cotton wool and my sinuses are all bunged up, but my temperature’s down, so I can function enough to get up and see to the animals. And Thea’s been marvelous. She’s brought me some gorgeous fish pie for my supper, just what I feel like.”

“Well, don’t go overdoing things. You must take care”—she paused—“especially at
your
age, as Mother would doubtless say.”

But I should have realized that I wasn’t going to escape Vicky that easily. I’d just put the fish pie in the microwave to warm it up when she rang.

“Oh, Sheila, I was sorry to miss you at the funeral,” she said, “because we need to finalize your contribution to my Victorian writers program.”

In my weakened state I hardly felt equal to protesting that I hadn’t agreed to any contribution. She went on to outline the “scope,” as she called it, of the program and what she needed me to say “. . . in relation to the other contributors. I’ve been so lucky to get Christine Marshall—she wrote that excellent book on the Brontës; it was
very
well reviewed—and Freda Anderson on George Eliot. So if you concentrate on Mrs. Gaskell, along the lines I’ve indicated, and just
touch
on Charlotte Yonge . . . I won’t want much on her—all that religion puts people off. So if you could, let me have a script, about four thousand words, though we can cut it if necessary, by the beginning of next week. I’ll book a parking space for you. That’s splendid.”

She’d rung off before I could make any effective protest, so I just gave up and switched on the microwave, feeling somehow that she’d quite spoiled my pleasure in the fish pie.

Chapter Fifteen

When, a week later, I got to the BBC studios in Bristol, I found Vicky very much in charge.

“I had to come down for a special meeting this morning,” she said importantly, “so it was convenient to stay on to do your piece. I’ve booked a studio.”

I have to admit that Vicky’s very good at her job. She did the recording briskly and efficiently, with only a few interruptions, mostly technical and about sound levels and so forth.

“Right,” she said when we’d finished, “I’ve got a spare half hour, so shall we go and get a cup of tea and a bun in the canteen? That’s unless you’d rather have a polystirene cup of not-very-nice coffee from the machine.”