Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (23 page)

“It was really splendid of Jo,” I said, “to bail him out like that. Especially when money was pretty tight.”

“She had something of her own, and”—Rosemary hesitated for a moment—“and she gave him the money from Charlie’s life insurance.”

“Good heavens!”

“I know.”

“That’s quite something!”

“Well, that’s what you do for your child,” Rosemary said, “and Simon was the nearest thing she had to a child of her own. But I expect it’s made the situation at the stables even more difficult.”

“And that’s another reason why Simon’s got to pull himself together and make a go of things there. He owes that to Jo.”

“That’s what Jack told him.”

“But of course,” I said slowly, “if he
hasn’t
given up and is in debt again, then perhaps he might be considering Webster’s offer.”

“Oh don’t! I keep thinking of that. He couldn’t—could he?”

“I suppose it depends how deeply he’s in debt. He might be really desperate and there’s no one else to bail him out this time.”

“What about the money Gordon left him and Vicky?”

“I don’t know how easy it would be to break the trust. And, anyway, it would probably take ages and it would depend whom he’s in debt
to
.”

“You mean it might be someone . . . ?”

“Well, you do hear such awful things when people get mixed up in gambling and I don’t think it just happens in television plays!”

“Oh don’t!”

“I can’t think of any way we can find out if he’s still gambling, can you?”

“Actually, I can. I’ll ask him.”

“But Jack said . . .”

“Yes, but it would be different if I asked, not so
formal
, if you see what I mean.”

“True. Yes,” I went on, warming to the idea, “I think Simon’s a bit nervous of men—even Jack. Something to do with his father, I expect. But he would respond to you. Now that Jo’s gone, you are the one he’d turn to.”

“Right, then,” Rosemary said with sudden resolution. “Delia’s got a two-hour ride tomorrow. I’ll tell Jilly I’ll take her to the stables. Two hours—longer if Delia starts cleaning the tack—should be long enough to have a proper talk.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Oh dear,
what
a mess. Why can’t people lead straightforward lives!”

“If he is in debt,” I said, “what will you and Jack do about it?”

“I don’t know. Help somehow, I suppose—a proper loan, perhaps. Jack will know. The important thing is to find out exactly what’s happened.”

When I got home I was quite exhausted. What with one thing and another it had been a peculiar day. Above all there was the awful feeling I had when Rosemary told me about Simon’s problem. It was a feeling that I must keep to myself because I could never even suggest to Rosemary the possibility that if Simon was in debt and desperate and Jo had no more money to give him . . . I couldn’t even formulate the thought in my mind, but it nagged away all evening. It was impossible, I was sure, that whatever the circumstances, Simon would even contemplate—no, he could never. . . .

I didn’t sleep very well that night and I was just finishing a very early breakfast when Rosemary rang.

“Sheila, look, I don’t think I can do this thing with Simon on my own. Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will, but are you sure? Won’t it stop him opening up to you if I’m there?”

“No. I don’t think so. You’re an old friend and you were a very good friend of Jo too. And if he
is
still gambling and he promises to give it up, then you’ll be another witness.”

“I suppose so.”

“And,” Rosemary said, “I want you there so that I don’t give up too soon; so that I really push him!”

“Fair enough. What time?”

“Delia’s ride is at two, so about quarter to?”

“I’ll be ready.”

But will I really be ready? I wondered, when she’d rung off. I had to prepare myself somehow. On an impulse I put Tris into the car and went down to the beach. Even in the summer Taviscombe beach is almost always empty and this morning there was only one other dog walker in the far distance. The tide was right out—it looked as if you could almost walk all the way to Wales across the channel—and it was pleasant to walk on the hard, ribbed sand. I took a deep breath and tried to face the unthinkable.

If Simon was really in debt—really
badly
in debt again—and there was no more money to come from Jo . . . Well, then, he must have known that she would have left him everything—not just the stables, but the chance of the money that Dan Webster would pay for the fields. She would certainly have told him about that. He’d have gone through Gordon’s papers and would probably have found stuff on the council’s decision about the change of use of those fields before they’d been made public. So he’d have known just how
much
money Webster would have been prepared to pay. If he was desperate,
really
desperate, could he have wished . . . ? She was no longer young; she was unhappy, grieving for Charlie. Would it have been so impossible to convince himself that she might want to die? He was in and out of the stables all the time; it would have been so easy for him to have tampered with the wiring. . . .

Tris was running, barking at a large seagull that regarded him with contempt as he flew slowly away. I faced the possibility that a person I knew and liked might have planned the death—no, put it brutally—the
murder
of someone he loved. Gambling, I suppose, is a form of madness; you’re not yourself—how could you be?—and when you’re not yourself, you might be capable of something you wouldn’t ever contemplate when you were in your right mind. Yes, Simon might have killed Jo. I’d faced the thought. But I didn’t see how I was ever going to present that thought to Rosemary.

The other dog walker was approaching. I recognized the dog, running on ahead, before I recognized the owner. It was Roger.

“Hello, Sheila. You’re out early!”

“So are you.”

“It’s such a lovely morning, I couldn’t resist.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed, suddenly realizing that he was right and that it was one of those perfect autumn mornings that still hold the warmth and brightness of summer.

Roger looked at me curiously. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a bit worried.”

“No,” I said hastily. Roger was the last person I could share my suspicions with. “I was just brooding about Anthea’s latest idea—for a sponsored walk.”

“Good God! Well, no one’s going to persuade me to do more than put up the money for someone else to do it!”

“You’d better avoid Anthea then. You’re just the sort of person she’s looking for.”

“I’ll willingly sacrifice Delia and Alex,” he said, “even Jilly!”

Tris had come running back to me. Roger’s terrier, though perfectly amiable, played more energetically than Tris could manage. I bent to put his lead on.

“I’d better take this one home,” I said. “He looks worn out!”

“Nice to see you,” Roger said as he moved off. “I’ll remember what you said about Anthea!”

What would Roger say, I wondered, if he knew what I’d been thinking? He’d laugh, I suppose, and wouldn’t take it seriously. Jo’s death was an accident—everyone said so; the coroner said so. I should put the thought out of my mind. Or, at least, see what Simon had to say this afternoon.

Chapter Twenty

Rosemary and I were both a bit on edge when she called for me the next day and were, I think, glad of Delia’s flow of chat to cover up our silences.

“Emily’s got this awful allergy thing—she comes out in ghastly blotches—and they thought she might be allergic to some horsey thing, so she was
dreadfully
upset, but it turned out to be a food allergy, so that was all right. Actually, there’s a girl in my form who’s gluten intolerant
and
lactose intolerant and when she goes out to tea she has to take her food with her in a sealed plastic box. . . .”

When we got to the stables and Delia had gone off on her ride, Rosemary looked at me and said, “Right. Let’s do it.” She knocked on the door of the office and we went in, closing the door behind us.

“Can I pay for Delia’s ride now?” Rosemary said, putting some money down on the desk.

Simon looked up and smiled. “Hello,” he said, “good to see you.”

There was silence for a moment and then I said, “How’s your mother?”

“Oh, good news. She seems much calmer now and a splendid thing has happened. Vicky’s got to go to Montreal—some program she’s doing about Canadian women writers—and Mother’s going with her. Do you remember our cousin Phyllis? She and Mother were very close at one time, and then Phyllis married a Canadian and went out there. Anyway, he died last year and she’s been on at Mother for ages to go out for a visit, so she agreed to go out with Vicky and stay for a while.”

“That’s marvelous,” I said. “It’ll do her the world of good.”

We were silent again and Simon looked at us inquiringly.

“I’m sorry to go on about it, Simon,” Rosemary said abruptly, “but we’re really very worried about this gambling thing. Have you really given it up? Yes,” she added, “Sheila knows all about it. You know she’s fond of you too and is as worried as we are.”

“I told you,” Simon said, “I’m on top of it now.”

“But there is something, isn’t there?” I said tentatively. “I’ve felt it too—something that’s really bothering you. Please, won’t you tell us so that we can help?”

“No—really—there’s nothing. . . .”

“That’s nonsense and you know it.” It was Rosemary at her most forceful. “Simon, we’ve known you all your life. It’s perfectly obvious something is very wrong and it’s tearing you to bits. If you really are coping with the gambling and it’s something else, then
please
tell us. You know how much we care about you. You can tell us anything!”

Silence fell again as Simon sat motionless, not looking at us, staring down at the desk. Then quite suddenly he got up and went over to the small safe, opened it and took out a large brown envelope, which he put down in front of us.

“All right,” he said very quietly, “perhaps you should know.” He opened the envelope and took out a sheaf of foolscap pages covered with Jo’s distinctive handwriting. “You were both her very good friends. I think she would like you to know how it was.”

He laid the pages down on the desk.

“I’ll leave you both to read it and then you’ll understand.”

He drew up another chair beside the one at the desk and went out of the office.

“What on earth . . . ,” I began.

“Let’s just read it,” Rosemary said, and we sat side by side, reading together as we used to do sometimes when we were girls, sharing a favorite book. It was in the form of a letter.