Chapter Six
For a moment I couldn’t take in what she was saying.
‘Her – what!’
‘Her daughter-in-law. She’s the one who went off with Jamie Hertford. Broke up his marriage. You must remember!’
I put my cup carefully down on the saucer and looked at her in astonishment. The Hertfords were the leading county family, and although they no longer lived at Hertford
Manor, which they had had to give to the National Trust, their name was still evocative of bygone glories to people of Mrs Dudley’s generation, and, indeed, to mine as well.
Jamie was their adored eldest son, a golden boy, wonderfully handsome and with immense charm – as young girls we were all, more or less, in love with him. He had for us the
sort of glamour that an actor or a television personality has for the young today. I had known him quite well because my brother, Jeremy, who was six years older than me, was
at boarding school with him (being the only son, he was, of course, sent to Clifton, my father’s old school) and they saw each other a lot in the holidays. Sometimes they would
let me tag along with them when they went out rough-shooting or fishing. I remember stifling my misery at the sight of the pathetic furry bodies, or the poor gasping fish,
because I was full of the glory of being with Jamie and I knew just how envious my contemporaries would be. They also went hunting together – Colonel Hertford was the
Master for several seasons. I was never keen on horses (frightened of them, if I am honest) so I could only admire Jamie and Jeremy from afar as they rode off, like two young
gods. They did their National Service in the same regiment, but Jeremy was sent to Cyprus and never came back – shot one hot morning on the road to Limassol. Jamie didn’t
go abroad, and when he came out of the army, he married Alison Freemantle, and everyone had said how suitable, because their families were connected in some way.
Alison was only seventeen, a fair, pretty, gentle child, who worshipped Jamie. But, alas, in the army he had acquired a taste for drink and gambling, and his youthful high
spirits and sense of adventure had turned to recklessness and uncertain temper. They settled at the Home Farm, but Jamie had not cared for farming, preferring to spend his
days hunting and horse-dealing and riding in point-to-points so wildly that I could hardly bear to watch him pushing his horses ruthlessly over the fences. Alison, poor girl,
couldn’t really cope with him and so she withdrew more and more into herself, devoting her time to her two children, a boy and a girl. On the rare occasions when I met her,
she had developed a sort of plaintive, complaining manner, which must have made Jamie even more bad-tempered and impossible to live with.
After a few years they had moved out of the district. The Home Farm was sold and there were a lot of debts – his father was dead by then, but I think he’d run through
most of the family money, apart from an annuity of his mother’s which he couldn’t get his hands on. I knew that he and Alison were divorced, because a little while after-wards
she was back in Taviscombe, more subdued than ever, living with her parents and the little girl. I heard that the boy had stayed with his father, and was surprised that Jamie
could be bothered with a child.
‘When did he marry Lee then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, she got hold of him when he left Taviscombe and went down to North Devon. I think she came from somewhere near Instow. Then, after the divorce, she married
him.’
‘But how do you know all this?’
Mrs Dudley tossed her head slightly. ‘Poor Mrs Hertford and I have always been great friends.’
This was certainly news to me. In the old days Mrs Dudley had certainly not moved in county circles. For that matter, neither had we. It was only Jerry and Jamie being at
the same school that had given us a limited entree into the charmed circle. I supposed that after the financial troubles and Jamie’s general disgrace after his father’s death, Mrs
Dudley had seized her chance to ‘take up’, as she would have said, ‘poor Mrs Hertford’.
‘Where is he living now?’ I asked.
‘Oh, still in North Devon. He has a sort of market garden
– can you imagine such a thing! – near, now where is it ... Georgeham! That’s right. I believe he’s in quite a bad way. Though of course Mrs Hertford never says as
much, she’s still very loyal, but I can always read between the lines. So,’ she finished triumphantly, ‘what do you think of that!’
I was still reeling from all this unexpected information and made no reply.
‘Now, you really must have a piece of Elsie’s Victoria sandwich – you always used to like it so much. No one can make a Victoria sandwich like Elsie.’ She spoke as if
she was personally responsible for the excellence of the Victoria sandwich.
‘No thank you – I really couldn’t manage another crumb! It was all quite delicious.’
‘Well, I expect you have to watch your figure. Like poor Rosemary – I’m always telling her she should go on a proper diet, but I’m afraid she’s really letting herself go
nowadays. I said she ought to try that new little man I’ve found in Taunton for her next perm, but she said she can’t be bothered. Do you know.’ she said in a shocked tone,
‘she may be my own daughter, but I do believe she has never had a proper manicure in her entire life!’
I hastily hid my unvarnished, garden-stained nails in my lap and gave a non-committal murmur. I felt I should tackle Mrs Dudley about the extraordinary information she
had just given me.
‘You will be telling all this – about Lee and Jamie Hertford – to the police, won’t you?’
She gave me a cold look.
‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream of letting that selfopinionated
young man of Jilly’s know all poor Mrs Hertford’s business.’ ‘But Mrs Dudley, they ought to know – it might help them with their enquiries.’ ‘You are not
suggesting, I hope, that any of the Hertfords had anything to do with this unsavoury affair?’ ‘Well, no, not necessarily – but it might be relevant in some way.’
‘And just suppose the Echo got hold of it. How do you think Mrs Hertford would feel, having all her private affairs splashed across the front page?’
Since Mrs Dudley was an avid reader of any sort of local gossip, I felt this was a bit thick.
‘Well, I suppose Mrs Hertford may be going to the police herself, when she hears the news.’
Mrs Dudley gave me a triumphant look. ‘Oh, didn’t you know – but, of course, how could you, I don’t suppose you ever see the family nowadays – she’s not in England
at the moment. She always spends the worst part of the winter with her nephew in South Africa. He has a sugar – can it be? – plantation somewhere near Durban. Of course,
he pays her air-fare, because I don’t think she could possibly afford it now. His wife’s a South African, but quite a nice girl I believe.’
I made another attempt to persuade Mrs Dudley that it was her duty to tell the police what she knew about Lee’s background, but her stubbornness and snobbery made
it very unlikely that she would do anything of the sort. So yet again – as in the case of Carol – I had been given information that the police might not have. I wasn’t sure what I
was supposed to do with either item.
I got to my feet and thanked Mrs Dudley for my splendid tea.
She shook my hand in both of hers and said, ‘My dear Sheila, you know I always like to see old friends. The world is so full of dreadful things nowadays. I sometimes
feel that I am an old, old woman who has outlasted her time.’
She paused, waiting for me to say that of course she wasn’t old and that she would see us all out – but I rather meanly didn’t. I simply said that it was nice to see her and
that I hoped Rosemary would be better soon.
‘Oh, she always seems to have something wrong with her
– I really don’t know about you young people. I don’t know what it is to have a day’s illness.’ I remembered various occasions when Rosemary had been summoned to
her mother’s side for some trivial complaint that Mrs Dudley had decided was terminal, but made no comment, merely saying goodbye and getting away as quickly as possible.
As I drove home I was in a state of total confusion. At the best of times a prolonged tête-â-tête with Mrs Dudley left me feeling drained and limp, and this, together with
the amazing news I had just been given, made me quite incapable of coherent thought.
I put the car away, went into the house and busied myself with mindless household tasks. Tris and Foss, left alone all afternoon, demanded my attention. I let them both
out into the garden and stood at the back door watching them idly in the twilight. Tris ran round and round in circles barking madly and making little darts at Foss who, feigning
alarm, rushed up a tree. I groaned. It was an old beech tree with a smooth trunk, and although Foss could get up it perfectly easily he always forgot that he couldn’t get down.
He perched, as he always did, in the first fork, peering down forlornly and howling for help.
Resignedly, I went to the garden shed to get the step-ladder, praying that he would stay where he was and not go any further up. Fortunately the higher branches were
swaying in the wind, so he stayed put until I gingerly climbed the steps and snatched him down. His claws dug into my shoulder and Tris jumped up and down round my feet at
the bottom of the steps and I wondered aloud why I ever bothered with tiresome animals in the first place. Foss leapt down and rushed into the house, pursued by Tris, and
they both sat hopefully in the kitchen, waiting for me to put away the steps and come and feed them.
All this activity cleared my mind, and when I finally sat down with the glass of sherry I felt I had really earned, I had decided what to do. I would go to Georgeham and
see if I could find Jamie Hertford. At the very least I could tell him that his ex-wife was dead, and maybe he could tell me something about her that would help in some way to
solve the mystery of her death. And – if I was absolutely honest with myself – I was very curious to see what Jamie looked like nowadays.
After supper I finally nerved myself to tell Charles what had happened. Because of the time difference I had to ring him at his office, which involved get-ting past a
collection of strong-minded secretaries, so that when I finally got hold
of him I was feeling decidedly on edge.
‘Yes, Sheila.’ he said, ‘what is it? Have you any news?’
‘Charles, look, I’m awfully sorry – it’s very bad. Lee’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ The single word sounded as lifeless as its meaning.
‘She was murdered. I found the body.’
Through Charles’s exclamations of shock and incredulity I tried to explain as simply and clearly as I could just what had happened.
‘But how did you know she’d be there?’
‘Charles’, I told you – it was just a feeling I had ... no reason. I was still trying to find out for you...’
‘Yes, I see...’
There was a pause, and I had the impression that Charles was working something out in his mind. When he spoke again his voice was steadier.
‘Look, Sheila,’ he said, ‘how about the police? Have they been through the papers at her office?’
I was startled at this sudden business-like approach.
‘I don’t know – they hadn’t this morning. They just interviewed Carol – that’s the girl who works there – and looked through Lee’s appointment book, but that’s all so
far, I think.’
‘Ah.’
There was another pause, and then Charles said, ‘Actually, I didn’t tell you everything last time. But now Lee’s dead – well, it makes a difference. You see, I handed
over a very much larger sum of money, much more than I told you. There was this deal...’
‘A property deal?’
‘Yes. She’d got wind of this hypermarket development – she was buying up property in single lots as my agent. Well, we stood to make a pretty good killing...’ The
ineptitude of this phrase didn’t seem to strike him and he went on, ‘It was all very hush-hush – planning permission from the local council and all that, it all had to be done very
carefully.’
Councillor Bradford, I thought suddenly. That was her contact. But what was in it for him, and why was he so anxious to see her, making those visits to her flat? No
wonder she didn’t keep the documents about that deal in the office.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I expect the police will find the papers soon enough – probably at her flat.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s going to be a bit embarrassing.’
‘Well,’ I said sharply, ‘there’s nothing I can do about that:
Surely Charles didn’t expect me to break into Lee’s flat and steal the papers, like some secret agent.
‘Look, Sheila, my dear, this has been the most dreadful shock – I haven’t really come to terms with it yet. I need time to think. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’ Then, as an
afterthought, ‘It must have been pretty awful for you.’
‘Yes,’ I said with restraint, ‘it was, rather.’
‘Well, Sheila dear, I’ll ring you tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after – soon, anyway. And if you can find out what the police are doing, I’d like to know.’
As I put down the receiver my previous concern for Charles was replaced by irritation. It seemed to me that he was far more concerned about his wretched money than
with the fact that the woman he was going to marry was dead. Well, perhaps that wasn’t fair, he probably still hadn’t taken in the fact that she actually was dead. And, I
suppose, with someone like Charles one’s business instincts always come to the fore, no matter what. Still, I felt slightly resentful. Had all his concern about Lee’s
disappearance really been because of his money? Did he think, as I had momentarily thought, that she had simply taken the money and gone? But as I recalled my talk with Lee
that day, I couldn’t doubt that she had been speaking the truth. She really had intended to marry Charles, I was quite sure. Her voice as she spoke of him had the quality of
confidence and satisfaction that another woman can always recognise in such circumstances. Besides, Charles was rich and reliable. I had no idea what her second husband,
the unknown Mr Montgomery, had been like, but certainly Charles would be a vast improvement on a gone-to-seed Jamie Hertford. I wondered how long that marriage had
lasted.
Jamie ... my thoughts returned to him. Ja ... Jay! Of course, that was who she had been going to meet the day before she disappeared – it had to be. But why? What
could she possibly want with him and why had she been so anxious to see him? Now there was a stronger reason than mere curiosity for me to go to Georgeham tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
I reached Georgeham about mid-morning the next day, having got myself lost in the narrow Devon lanes which run between high banks and which all look the same. I
have absolutely no sense of direction. Peter used to be very patient with me but he never understood how anyone could not know which way to turn at a junction. (‘But don’t
you see – that way will simply take us back the way we came!’) Still, I got there eventually. It was a small place and I didn’t think it would be too difficult to find out where
Jamie lived. I had a choice really
– I could enquire at the garage or at the post office. My tank was almost full so I opted for the post office.
There were several people in the post office, which was also the village shop. I took my place in the queue and settled down for a long wait. As purchases were made
and local news exchanged, I looked around to see what I could buy. I was rather impressed by what they had. Presumably having decided that this was their best way of
competing with the supermarkets in Barnstaple and Ilfracombe, the owners had laid in stocks of health and speciality foods. When I finally reached the counter I had quite a
little collection of delicacies – smoked trout pâté and local goat’s cheese, as well as some organically grown carrots.
As I paid for my purchases I asked, ‘Can you tell me where I can find Mr Hertford’s market garden?’
‘Market garden?’ The young woman behind the counter looked doubtful. ‘Well, there’s Mr Hertford up at West Lynch, but I don’t know that you would call it a market
garden – though I suppose he does grow some veg and things.’
‘It sounds like him. Mr Jamie Hertford...’
‘Oh yes, that’s him. Lives up there with his son. Keeps bees, the son does, and a few goats. That’s his cheese you just bought.’
‘Can you tell me how to get there, please?’
West Lynch was apparently about a mile and a half out of the village, and she gave me directions which I repeated carefully after her. The other people, who had come
into the shop after me and were waiting to be served, looked at me curiously, and I imagined the speculation there would be when I had gone.
It was a milder day, but damp and rather miserable. The countryside looked bleak and sodden. It wasn’t a particularly picturesque part of Devon anyway – it all looked a
bit rundown, and there seemed to be a lot of old tyres and rusting corrugated iron around in the farmyards. As I drove, I wondered just how I would approach Jamie – how I
would get in, even – but to my relief, when I reached the turning to West Lynch, I saw a hand-written sign that said ‘Farm Shop’.
I drove cautiously up the rutted, muddy track and drew up in front of a dilapidated barn, which also bore a ‘Farm Shop’ sign. There was a small tractor in the yard and
bits of what I took to be agricultural machinery in varying stages of decay. Behind the barn I could see a horse-box and a very old Land Rover. The house was stone-built –
unusual for this part of the country – square, grey and ugly. It looked as if it would be cold and uncomfortable. Behind the house and some other out-buildings there was a
walled garden, with rows of rather frost-bitten vegetables, and beyond that a field with two horses. Four goats were tethered in a corner of the yard and I hoped they were
secure, since I have never entirely trusted goats after having been charged by a particularly ferocious one when I was a child.
I got out of the car and went into the barn. Inside, there were trestle tables with boxes of apples and washed vegetables. Someone had obviously tried very hard to make
an attractive display. There were also pyramids of jars of honey – all labelled ‘West Lynch Organic Honey’ – and some goat’s cheese, like that I had bought from the shop. At
one end of one of the trestles there were some dried-flower arrangements, not very well done, and rather touching. I couldn’t imagine that any of this was Jamie’s handiwork. I
also wondered who on earth they expected to drive up their muddy track for such a relatively meagre display of goods – especially at this time of the year.
There was a bell on the table with another hand-written sign that read ‘Please ring’. I rang it vigorously, hardly expecting anyone to come, but a young man came in from
the back and said in a quiet, almost timid voice, ‘Can I help you?’
As he came into the light, I could see at once that it was Jamie’s son. Physically, he was so like the Jamie I remembered, the same features and the same colouring, but
without the dash and vivacity of his father he looked like a pale, pastel copy of an oil-painting.
I smiled reassuringly. ‘I’d like some honey, please.’
‘Clear or set?’
‘Clear, please. With such lovely local honey I like to have it on yoghurt.’
He reached over to get a jar and carefully re-arranged the pyramid.
I moved along to the dried flowers and picked out a rather untidy posy.
‘These are nice,’ I said.
He flushed and looked pleased.
‘Did you do them?’ I asked.
‘Yes. It’s the first year I’ve grown them and I’m not very good at arranging them yet.’
‘They’re lovely colours.’ I said, ‘yellow and white. I like statice, it doesn’t drop bits all over every-thing.’
He smiled nervously. It was difficult to talk to him, he seemed very nervy – ‘highly strung’ Anthea would have said disapprovingly – so that it was rather like approaching
a nervous animal whose confidence had to be won.
I paid him for the honey and the dried flowers, and then I said, ‘I wonder – would it be possible to see your father?’
‘My father?’ He looked puzzled and rather wary.
‘Yes. I used to know him – years ago – and I would love to say hello, if he’s around.’
He hesitated and then said, ‘Will you come through then?’
He led the way out of the barn and towards the house. As we came out into the daylight I saw that he was not as young as I had first thought. He was considerably older
than Michael, in his thirties perhaps. I did some calculations in my head – yes, he might well be all of that. It was his manner that made him seem so much younger, the timidity
and an almost child-like simplicity. I felt that for him everything was black and white, no shades of grey, as it is for a child.
He took me into the house through a side door which led into a narrow hall with an ochre and black tiled floor. I was right about the cold, it hit you quite palpably as you
went into the house. He opened a door into what was presumably the sitting room and we went in. It was a large, square room which might have seemed cheerless but for the
obvious care that had been taken with it. The furniture was shabby but meticulously polished, the curtains and the covers on the chairs were faded but newly laundered, and
along both window-sills there were rows of flowering pot-plants. There was a good fire burning in the grate, and in an armchair to one side of the fireplace sat a man reading a
copy of Horse and Hound.
‘Dad’ – the voice was even more hesitant – ‘there’s someone who wants to see you.’
The man looked up. It was Jamie Hertford. I don’t quite know what I had expected. No, that’s not quite true. I had had a picture of a Jamie, red-faced and run to fat,
bloated almost, the result of the drink and the dissipated life – a sort of Henry VIII figure in breeches and riding boots, all the glory faded and gone. The reality was an even
greater surprise. To begin with, he seemed to have shrunk. Jamie had never been tall exactly, but he had looked taller than he was because of his vigour and upright bearing.
This Jamie seemed positively short and very thin. His face was reddish brown, tanned to leather, more by the wind than by the sun. His features, which had been of an
almost classical perfection, had sharpened – his nose, which was red-veined, seemed longer and more pointed, the line of his mouth was thin, and he now had a thick
moustache, which was grey like his hair. Only the blue eyes were the same, though even they were now slightly red-rimmed and looked weak behind the reading glasses he
was wearing.
I was struck by a moment of terrible sadness as I remembered my last meeting with the golden Jamie I had known. It was at a Hunt Ball, and Jamie and Jeremy had both
been on leave at the same time. Although I was still only sixteen I had pestered my mother so much that she had agreed that I could go, and Jerry, with the kindness that was
always the essential part of his nature, agreed to take me as his partner. I was in a daze of delight with my first grown-up ball dress. It had been made by my mother’s
dressmaker and was pale blue moiré taffeta, ‘suitable’ to my age, with the fashionable sweetheart neckline and puffed sleeves, but it did have a gloriously full skirt with a stiff
net petticoat that made it stick out like a crinoline. So, although I did hanker for something black and strapless, I was very pleased with my appearance. It was one of those
rare, totally magical evenings when everything miraculously lives up to your expectations. No one treated me as a child and I had a lot of partners – above all I had the
wonderful feeling, so precious to an adolescent, of being accepted into the glamorous grown-up world. Hunt Balls usually end with the Gallop and I was just looking round for
Jeremy, who had promised to dance it with me, when my wrist was seized by Jamie, who cried, ‘Come on, young Sheila’ and swept me into the dance. I had never seen him
looking so splendid as that evening, his face flushed, his fair hair slightly dishevelled and his brilliant blue eyes glittering with excitement. I suppose, looking back now, he must
have been rather drunk, but that didn’t occur to me then; I was simply swept away by a wild feeling of exhilaration. As we whirled round and round the full skirt of my dress
swung out and I was all the heroines in all the films I had ever seen and all the books I had ever read. I was totally and blissfully happy. I don’t remember the dance finishing or
going home, or anything; my memory stopped at that perfect moment.
I drew a deep breath and smiled at the man in the chair, who had half risen to his feet.
‘Hallo, Jamie.’ I said. ‘I don’t expect you remember me – it’s Sheila Fulford, Jeremy’s sister.’
He stood up and looked at me in a bewildered sort of way.
‘Jeremy.’ he said, ‘Jeremy Fulford.’ A look of pain crossed his face. ‘Poor Jeremy – Cyprus, wasn’t it? I remember now. Yes, of course I remember you. Little Sheila.’
He put out his hand and I shook it formally. The skin felt dry and rasping and the nails were broken and grimed from working out of doors.
‘How are you?’ he went on. ‘You’ve met my boy Andrew I see.’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve just been buying some of his delicious-looking honey.’
‘Yes, well, he does most of the work around here nowadays
– bees and goats and vegetables and so on. We’re thinking of getting some Jacob sheep – wool, you know. He’s been reading it up. Marvellous touch with animals.
Horses too. That’s all I really do now. A bit of dealing, horse-transporting sometimes. Getting old.’
I laughed. ‘Aren’t we all?’ I said, and we exchanged a few inanities about how time flew and it seemed like only yesterday...
He didn’t ask how I had found him after all these years. It has always amazed me that men – most men, anyway – are so incurious, hardly ever questioning why things
happen. My mother would have said, in her acerbic way, that they are so occupied with their own lives and thoughts that they never bother to think of anyone else’s. At any
rate, I was glad of Jamie’s lack of curiosity.
I nerved myself to say what I had come to say. ‘Jamie.’ I said, ‘I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. Lee
– your ex-wife – she’s dead, she was killed.’
He made no sort of movement, almost as if he hadn’t heard me, and there was complete silence, broken suddenly by a sort of gulping sound from Andrew. I turned to
look at him. His face was red, his eyes were blazing with excitement and he was clenching and unclenching his hands. He faced his father and almost shouted, ‘Aren’t you glad
– she’s dead, she’s gone, she can’t hurt us any more! Say you’re glad – say it!’
‘Andrew, stop that!’
‘She’s dead. It’s what we wanted – we need never see her again – never!’
‘Andrew’ Jamie’s voice was fierce and hard. ‘You’re hysterical. Pull yourself together – you don’t know what you’re saying!’
Andrew flinched as if from a blow, more from the tone of voice than from the actual words. He began to cry. It was a pitiful sight, and I turned away and looked out of
the window.
Then I heard Jamie say gently, ‘It’s all right, old chap. It was a shock, wasn’t it. It’s all right. Now, you just go and get some coffee for us all, that’s what we need now, a
nice cup of coffee.’
I heard the door close as Andrew went out of the room, and, reluctantly, I turned to face Jamie.
Chapter Eight
He was standing in front of the fireplace, still holding the copy of Horse and Hound.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said. ‘As you see, Andrew gets a bit overwrought sometimes. Do, please, sit down.’
I sat in the other armchair and faced him across the fireplace.
‘I’m sorry if my news was a bit of a shock,’ I said.
‘A shock?’ He seemed to consider this. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’
There was another silence. Then he said, ‘I sup-pose you’re entitled to some sort of explanation.’
He got up and went into the hall and I heard him call to Andrew.
‘Leave the coffee for a bit, old man. Go on out and finish mucking out Rajah’s stable, will you – thanks, that’s splendid.’
He came back into the room and sat down again. ‘He’ll be better with the horses for a while – that always calms him down if he gets upset.’
‘He seems very fond of animals,’ I said, trying to ease the conversation along.
‘Yes – he’s a marvel with horses – can ride any-thing – has a sort of sympathy with them, I suppose. Yes, well, I was going to explain, though it’s hard to know where to
begin.’
‘When were you and Lee divorced?’ I asked.
‘Divorced?’ He looked at me blankly. ‘We’re not divorced. Lee is – was – still my wife.’
‘But what about Mr Montgomery?’
‘They weren’t married. I suppose I’d better tell you about it from the beginning.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You know that Alison and I split up when the kids were
small. All my fault, I led her the hell of a dance, poor girl. She went back to her parents and took the children with her. But Andrew – he was about seven – wouldn’t settle.
He’d always been very devoted to me, used to follow me about like a little dog, even though I was a rotten father. But, anyway, he had these screaming fits and things so he
came back to me – I was living the other side of Exeter then – and Charlotte stayed with Alison. Poor little creature, he didn’t have much of a life – I was involved with Lee by
that time, and then we got married and bought this place. We led a pretty rackety life – you know, too much drink, too many parties, too many horses coming in last. Andrew
had to fend for himself most of the time.’
‘Didn’t Lee like children?’
‘She liked them to like her, and when there were other people around she always made a fuss of Andrew, so that everyone said how marvellous she was with him. She
was never cruel to him, but she just couldn’t be bothered most of the time. She used to tease him, and, poor child, he rose to the bait every time. And then she laughed at him –
it was thoughtlessness really, but it hurt Andrew just as much as real cruelty would have done. I used to laugh at him too, before I realised...’
Oh Charles, I thought, what a lucky escape your children have had!
‘Anyway.’ Jamie continued, ‘we went on like that for quite a while – things went from bad to worse and there wasn’t much money. We were both fairly drunk a lot of the
time – it was all pretty squalid. Lee used to go off occasionally with some chap or other, and then one time when she was driving back from London she had an accident. Quite
serious, court case and everything. She was fined and lost her licence for a year. That seemed to sober her up. She seemed to pull herself together and decided she wanted a
lot more out of life than I could offer her. That’s when she took up with Ralph Montgomery. He was years older than she was – late sixties I should think – a retired business
man, pots of money. He was absolutely besotted with her and set her up in a flat in Exeter.’
‘Why didn’t they get married?’
‘Oh, he was married already. Didn’t want a divorce because of his children. It didn’t seem to worry Lee, she just called herself Montgomery.’
‘Why didn’t you divorce her?’
‘The whole thing shook me up – that and too much drink. I had a sort of breakdown. Alison tried to take Andrew away, but he wouldn’t go. He was in his early teens by
then and he pulled me through – put up with me, nursed me, generally looked after me. It was quite extraordinary. Gradually we built up something here – a sort of market
garden, Andrew’s bees and goats, my horses. We just about manage to break even. He works so hard, that boy, all the hours God sends. But I think he’s happy now. At
least, he was...’
‘What happened.’
‘Lee – she got in touch again, after all those years. She said she wanted a divorce. I thought she was going to marry Montgomery, but he had died. Though he had set her
up in an estate agency business – in Taviscombe, of all places! I wondered if my mother knew...’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘people have long memories in places like Taviscombe.’
‘Anyway, she was going to marry someone—’
‘Charles Richardson,’ I said. ‘He’s an old friend of mine. Do you remember Fred Richardson? He was a bank manager – his son. Charles works for a big multi-national
and lives in America. Lee was selling his mother’s house – that’s how they met.’
‘A lot of money?’
‘Yes.’
‘The bitch,’ he said violently. ‘She didn’t need the money, then...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She rang me up and said she had to see me. She wanted a divorce and she wanted a settlement.’
‘What sort of settlement?’
‘We bought this place in our joint names. I couldn’t possibly raise the money to buy her out. I would have had to sell up, after all the work we’d put in – the one place
where Andrew feels safe.’
He gripped the arms of his chair; then, recovering himself, he said quietly, ‘The awful thing is, she spoke to Andrew first – on the phone.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, just as usual, she couldn’t resist teasing and tormenting him. She said she was coming back, and that it would all be just like it used to be...’
‘Oh, no, the poor boy!’
He gave me a grateful look. ‘It was terrible, he went off for three days – took one of the horses and just went off. I was dreadfully worried, anything might have happened
with him in that state.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know – he came back eventually because of Rajah
– the horse. There was no feed for him out on the hills. Andrew was starving and exhausted. He’d been sleeping rough, in that awful frost, too. It took the best part of a
week to get him back to normal again. It wasn’t just the physical illness, I had to convince him that Lee was never coming back again – no matter what I had to do to prevent
it.’
‘Did you meet her?’
‘Yes, while Andrew was missing – I’d said I’d see her at Wringcliff Bay – miles from anywhere. For some reason she was very anxious not to be seen with me. I was half
beside myself with worry, but I had to see her. I had to tell her that she wasn’t going to wreck our lives again.’
‘What happened.’
‘She said she wanted a divorce as quickly as possible – and the money from the house. She said if she got it she would go right away, but if not she’d have to come back
to us ... I said I’d find the money somehow but I needed time. I pleaded with her. I took hold of her arm and tried to make her see how she would be destroying Andrew as
well as me if we had to sell up. But she wouldn’t listen. She shook my arm off and said that I must do the best I could and she’d be in touch again, very soon. Then she went
away.’
‘Oh, Jamie...’
‘I sat in the Land Rover for a long time trying to think what to do, but all I could think of was Andrew. So I came back here and then, the next day, thank God, Andrew
came home, and for about a week I was so busy looking after him that I had barely time to think of anything else. And then, as time went by, and I didn’t hear from Lee, I
began to think that she’d changed her mind. I let myself hope, well, you know, the way you do, that she’d changed her mind, or something...’
‘Charles – the man she was going to marry – thought she was divorced. I suppose that’s why she didn’t want anyone to see you together.’
‘I suppose so ... If only I’d known that she was going to marry a rich man ... there would have been no need...’
His voice trailed away and he sat staring into the fire. We sat in silence for some time and I too watched, as if mesmerised, the ash falling from the burning logs in the
grate. There was a lot I felt I should be asking Jamie, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask questions just then.
After a while he raised his head and said, in quite a different tone of voice, ‘But what about you? What have you been doing all these years?’
I told him about my marriage and about Peter’s death, using the form of words I had evolved to spare myself thinking about the hurt, and about Michael and about my
‘work’ and my busy life.
‘Poor Sheila,’ he said, and with a perception the old Jamie would never have had, he added, ‘We all build a pearl around the grit, as best we can. It takes a while, but it’s
worth it in the end.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am beginning to find that.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Will you stay to lunch? We usually only have a bit of bread and cheese – Andrew’s goat cheese, it’s very good – but you are very welcome.’
I got to my feet. ‘It’s awfully kind of you, but I ought to be getting back...’ I picked up the honey and dried flowers that I had laid on the floor at my feet. ‘I shall look
forward to trying this lovely honey.’
He led me out into the hall and opened the front door.
‘Say goodbye to Andrew for me,’ I said. ‘I won’t disturb him now if he’s busy.’
‘Yes, I will. And, Sheila,’ he put his hand on my shoulder, ‘please come and see us again. Andrew took to you – I could tell that – and I’d like you to see him when –
well, when he’s more himself.’
‘Of course I will,’ I said warmly. ‘Perhaps I could bring Michael, when he’s home from Oxford. Who knows,’ I added, knowing that it could never be, ‘they might
become friends
like you and Jerry were...’
‘That would be nice.’
He stood beside me as I opened the door of my car, and when I drove away I could see him in my rear mirror, still standing where I had left him.
I somehow found my way back through the narrow lanes and on to the main road. What I needed now was time to sit down and consider what I had learned. I really
couldn’t allow my mind to sift through the extraordinary information and impressions I had just received while I was still driving. I stopped at a pub and ordered a plate of hot,
com-forting shepherd’s pie and an even more comforting gin and tonic.
So my first impression of Lee had been the right one. She really was an unspeakable sort of person. That meeting I had with her on the day we went to Plover’s Barrow
had lulled me into a sort of reluctant liking. But that was simply Lee exercising her charm to win my approval of her marriage to Charles, because she thought I still had some
sort of influence with him. I wondered how many others she had charmed for just long enough to get what she wanted. Now, having seen what she had done to poor Andrew,
I could no more have tolerated her than if I had seen her striking an animal.
It was very terrible, I thought, that the first really strong motives for Lee’s murder I had come across should be there, in that pathetic little household. Certainly Jamie had
every reason to hate Lee and to want her dead. The break-up of all he had laboriously built, his own life and, even more, the precarious happiness of Andrew, all depended on
the greedy whim of this woman. I could hardly find it in my heart to blame him if he had killed her. And then there was Andrew, who saw things as a child might see them, who
was so horrified when he thought that Lee was coming back to torment them that he had run away. Where? He wouldn’t think of it as murder. Jamie and Andrew – each
would have killed for the other, with no more thought of any moral prohibiting than a hunted animal would have when it turned on its pursuers.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ The young man from behind the bar came and removed my plate. The pub was empty, and he was disposed to stop and chat.
‘Not much doing at this time of the year, even though we are on the main road. Not at lunch-time, that is. Evenings, now, we have Country and Western – they come
from miles around, as far as Plymouth sometimes, when it’s something special. We got a good one on Saturday’ – he indicated a large poster on the wall among the
reproduction horse-brasses and hunting horns – ‘Chuck Wayne and the Waggoners – they’re great!’
I indicated my interest in all things Western by a little murmur and said that yes, please, I would like some coffee. He went away and I continued my brooding. I
wondered if anyone else in Taviscombe, apart from Mrs Dudley, knew about Lee and Jamie. Obviously Rosemary didn’t, or she would certainly have said something. But in a
small town like Taviscombe there would always be somebody who would tell the police all about it, and they would not have the sentimental scruples I had about questioning
Jamie very sharply about his movements and motives, and those of Andrew, on the day that Lee was murdered. No doubt when they went through Lee’s papers they would
find her marriage certificate and other things that would lead them to that little smallholding. I drove home slowly, worried and confused, wanting to do what was right, but
reluctant to hurt those who seemed so vulnerable. When I got back I laid down my purchases on the kitchen table. The bunch of dried flowers had come undone and the
fragile, papery blossoms spilled on to the floor. Foss batted one gently with his paw and looked at me enquiringly, but I had no answer.
For the rest of the day I tried to put the whole thing to one side. I cooked the animals’ fish and made my supper and carefully watched nothing but soap operas and
situation comedies on the television. I made a cup of tea and went up to bed, but my mind began churning about again, so I took up my familiar, blue-bound copy of Pillars of
the House and lost myself, at last, in the myriad complexities of the Underwood family, until the small print caused my eyes to close and I finally fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
I woke up early the next day, which was just as well, because, not surprisingly, I’d forgotten I’d promised to make a cake for the Help the Aged Bring and Buy sale,
which was being held that morning. I quickly threw together a sponge, but alas, when it had finished cooling on the wire rack, it looked decidedly lop-sided. I put an extra lot of
jam filling in it and strewed the top liberally with icing sugar and hoped that nobody would notice. Needless to say, it didn’t escape Marjorie Fraser’s eagle eye.
‘Oh dear – it seems to have sunk a bit,’ she said, examining it critically.
‘What a cheek! Rosemary said indignantly as Marjorie moved away to supervise the making of the coffee. ‘She can’t make cakes at all!’
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘but she did bring those marvellous bowls of hyacinths. Did you see, all coming out at once and every single one the same size? I wish I knew how she did
it.’
‘I expect she speaks to them sharply,’ Rosemary said acidly.
Then the doors of the church hall were opened and there was the usual serum round the cake and jam stall, which soon looked as if it had been attacked by a swarm of
locusts. Even my despised sponge was snapped up, by an elderly man in a deerstalker and a bright blue anorak. As I tidied away the paper plates that the cakes had been on
and pushed to the front of the stall the remaining two jars of bramble jelly, I wondered if I should tell Rosemary about my visit to Jamie. My instinct was to keep it to myself.
The fewer people who knew about his connection with Lee the safer he would be, and Rosemary could never keep a thing like that to her-self. It was, indeed, very fortunate
that Mrs Dudley hadn’t said anything about it to her daughter. But I could understand that she wouldn’t want any-thing to diminish the grandeur of the Hertford family in
Rosemary’s eyes, now that she could claim Mrs Hertford as a friend. Telling me was different. Jeremy had been Jamie’s friend – she had always resented that – so she
wouldn’t scruple to pass on to me anything that might denigrate Jamie. I marvelled at the complexities of the English class system that could produce such fine degrees of
snobbery! So perhaps I shouldn’t tell Rosemary. But I dearly wanted to tell someone, and I knew that Rosemary would be as astonished as I was at the transformation in
Jamie’s appearance and in his life-style. The hall finally emptied, and Rosemary and I went into the small, inconvenient kitchen to wash up the coffee cups.
‘I’ll wash, shall I?’ Rosemary asked. She looked at the plastic washing-up bowl and made a face. ‘This really needs a good scrub. Oh well, never mind, pass me those
cups will you.’
She started to talk of Lee’s death and how upset Charles would be.
‘Well, I don’t know...’ I said slowly. ‘He’ll get over it and he’s well out of it, if you ask me. Lee really wasn’t at all a nice person.’ That was the understatement of the
year, but there was no way I could go into details without telling Rosemary too much.
‘Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t like her myself, but she might have suited Charles – he always liked his females to be sharp and rather glamorous. And, you never know, she
wasn’t that old – they might have had children—’
‘Women like that don’t want children.’ said a harsh voice behind us. ‘And heaven forbid that they should ever have any!’
We turned round in astonishment to see Marjorie Fraser standing behind us.
‘They’re too greedy and self-centred,’ she said abruptly.
We were disconnected by this interruption, and simply stood there, Rosemary with a dripping dish-cloth in her hand and me with a cup half-way into the cupboard.
Marjorie’s gaze swept over us disapprovingly.
‘Those tea-towers could do with a good boil,’ she said, and went out, banging the door behind her.
‘Weill’ said Rosemary at last.
‘Why on earth should she go on about Lee like that?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. She can’t have known her at all well – I mean, would she? They couldn’t have any-thing in common.
Perhaps she bought her house from Country Houses when she first moved here. I can’t think how else they would have met.’
‘I think it was something to do with children.’ I said, and my thoughts turned to Andrew. Had Marjorie somehow heard about him? She moved in the same horsy set that
Jamie used to belong to. Word might have filtered through; they were a gossipy lot.
‘She’s fond of children.’ said Rosemary grudgingly, ‘I know that. She does a lot with Riding for the Disabled, Anthea told me. I suppose she didn’t have any children of
her own, perhaps she couldn’t. Sad to be left a widow with no children.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Rosemary turned to me quickly. ‘Well, you’ve got Michael, and he’s super and very fond of you ... But even if you were all alone I bet you wouldn’t be all sour like
Marjorie.’
‘Who knows what I’d be like?’ I said seriously. ‘Children do make a difference...’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Rosemary said, her mind darting off, as it so often did, in quite another direction. ‘Did I tell you, Jilly and Roger are going to buy a house! A joint
mortgage. Honestly, I daren’t tell Mother, she’ll go on and on about what will the building society think about them not being married!’
‘Good for them.’ I said. ‘I like Roger. Jilly’s very lucky. And if they’re buying a house together it sounds as if it’s turning into a stable relationship.’ I tried not to put the
phrase in inverted commas. ‘What does Jack think about it?’
‘Oh, he’s all for it. He likes Roger too. He thinks they’ll get married sooner or later so why make a fuss. You know what Jack’s like – very laissex-faire! I’m the one who
worries all the time.’
‘Don’t we all,’ I said. ‘Children!’ And some of us have more to worry about than others, I thought, my mind going back to Andrew again.
Rosemary wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the washing-up bowl, while I, mindful of Marjorie’s remark, put the damp tea-towers in my shopping bag to take
them home to wash.
‘It was a bit much.’ Rosemary said, ‘Marjorie butting in like that on a private conversation!’
‘Well,’ I said cattily, ‘I don’t suppose she’d let a little thing like good manners stop her if she had something she wanted to say!’
When I got home I picked up the local paper, which had been delivered that morning, and took it into the kitchen to read while I was having a sandwich and a cup of
coffee. I spread it open on the kitchen table, and the first thing that caught my eye was a photograph of Councillor Bradford, making a presentation to a council worker who
was retiring after thirty years’ loyal service.
Now I came to think of it, I was really rather confused as to exactly what Lee’s property deals had all been about. Philip Bradford had presumably approached her about
buying up property when he heard of the proposed hypermarket development, and it would have to be done in someone else’s name so that he wouldn’t fall under suspicion.
Well, it seemed that she had bought up the property, but in Charles’s name. A double-cross, in fact. Bradford wouldn’t be able to make a fuss because he wouldn’t want it
known that he had acted illegally as a councillor, so he had no come-back. But did he know yet what Lee had done? Had she gone on stringing him along, right up to the time
she had been killed? If so he must be quite anxious – even more anxious than Charles was – to know what papers the police had found. I wondered how I could find out
exactly who knew what.
Foss, who hated to be ignored, leapt on to the table and walked deliberately over the paper, his long crooked tail waving in my face.
‘All right,’ I said resignedly, ‘come on then.’
Leaving my half-finished cup of coffee, I cut up some ox liver for him. Tris, hearing the saucer being put down on the floor, came rushing into the kitchen demanding food
as well. I wondered, not for the first time, how anybody ever got anything done when they had animals or children around.
When I came to take Tris for his walk it was brilliantly sunny. There was no wind but it was intensely cold, the sort of cold that seems to bite into the very marrow of your
bones. I got Tris ready, putting on his fleece-lined plaid dog-jacket, of which we are both rather ashamed, but he is getting on a bit now and needs the extra warmth. The same
might also be said about me, so I put on the dreadful old sheepskin coat that I keep only for dog-walking, my fur-lined boots and gloves and a sheepskin hat with ear-flaps that
tie under the chin. This is a relic of Peter. We called it Nanook of the North, and Michael and I used to threaten to refuse to go out with him when he wore it. Nowadays I am
grateful for the warmth and no longer care about its eccentric appearance. Finally I wound my old college scarf around my neck and the bits of my face exposed to the biting
air, so that practically only my eyes were left uncovered.
With a slightly rolling gait, because of all my cumbersome clothing, I made my way down to the sea to let Tris have a run along the beach. The sky was a glorious pale
blue and the sea almost translucent. As we walked along the sand I saw that the little pools left by the tide were already silver with ice – the temperature must have dropped
very suddenly. Tris ran wildly about, making little dashes at seagulls, then suddenly stopping to investigate a piece of driftwood or seaweed. The air was so cold and sharp it
was like breathing in broken glass, so I buried my nose in my scarf and tried to generate a little warm air. I was leaning against the old break-water for a short rest before
turning back for home when a voice behind me said accusingly, ‘I didn’t recognise you, all bundled up like that.’
It was, of course, Marjorie Fraser, apparently in a better temper, exercising her golden cocker spaniel. She, of course, was neatly and suitably dressed for the cold
weather in a Barbour jacket, cord breeches, Newmarket boots and a tweed hat.
‘Oh, hello Marjorie – hasn’t it got cold all of a sudden! No more hunting again if this goes on, I suppose?’
‘No, it’s been a rotten season – ground’s a rotten season either been like iron or a beastly quagmire.’
In the bright open air her face looked worn and very lined, so that I felt impelled to ask, ‘Are you all right? You do look tired.’
‘Oh – well, yes, I am a bit. I was up most of the night with Satin – that’s the chestnut mare. A bad cough – I shall have to get Hawkins in to have a look at her if she’s no
better
tomorrow.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Tris and the spaniel were engaged in a joyful game with a piece of driftwood, taking it in turns to toss it in the air and then both rushing after it barking madly. I regarded
them fondly.
‘Aren’t they sweet?’ I said.
‘That Westy of yours is getting too fat,’ she said critically. ‘You’ll have to put him on a high protein diet.’
There was a short silence while I swallowed my resentment but acknowledged the truth of what she said. It was very still and peaceful; we were the only people on the
sands. There is a lot to be said for the seaside in winter.
On an impulse I turned to Marjorie and asked, ‘Have you ever come across Jamie Hertford?’
She had been looking at the dogs, but her head jerked round and she regarded me sharply.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered – you’re both horsy, and hunt and so forth.’
‘Yes. As it happens, I do know him,’ she replied stiffly. ‘As you say, we occasionally meet out hunting.’
‘Have you met Andrew, his son?’
‘Yes.’ It was a barely acknowledged affirmative.
‘Poor boy, he’s terribly nervy...’
‘How do you know them?’ she asked me, almost accusingly.
‘Jamie is an old friend.’ I said evasively. ‘He used to be at school with my brother.’
She seemed to relax slightly and I couldn’t resist probing a little.
‘Did you know that he was married to Lee Montgomery?’
She had turned away so that I couldn’t see her face, but I could sense that she was very tense.
‘That woman.’ she said.
‘She treated them both very badly I gather.’
‘The world is well rid of her – she was...’ Marjorie was clenching and unclenching her hands, just as Andrew had done. The dogs suddenly rushed towards us, nearly
knocking me over in their excitement.
‘Tessa.’ she called. ‘Heel.’ The dog ran obediently over and sat patiently beside her. The tension of the moment was broken.
‘She certainly seems to have been pretty unpleasant,’ I said inadequately. ‘Jamie and Andrew have built a very peaceful little world without her. I can’t get over how
Jamie has changed.’
‘He’s been marvellous,’ she said with a quiet intensity. She obviously knew much more about their lives than she was prepared to admit to me. ‘He devotes his life to that
boy. He knows what it is to make sacrifices for one’s child.’
She seemed about to say more, but her face suddenly flushed and she bent down to clip the dog’s lead on to its collar.
Well! I thought. So that’s it! The old Hertford charm was still there. Marjorie might not have admitted it, even to herself, but it was obvious to me that she was in love
with Jamie.
Chapter Ten
Over the weekend I tried to put everything else out of my mind and get on with some work. I had to finish a study I was doing of Mrs Oliphant’s Salem Chapel. It was
for a collection of essays on the nineteenth-century novel, to be published in honour of the eightieth birthday of a distinguished literary critic, so that I had a very definite
deadline and really had to finish it by the following week. I worked hard, stopping only to get myself snack meals and – more important – keep Foss and Tris provided with full
saucers, so that by Sunday evening I had more or less finished. There were a couple of points I had to check, and as Taviscombe Public Library, although it is excellent for so
small a town, doesn’t run to a set of the Dictionary of National Biography, I decided that I would have to go to Taunton on Monday morning to consult the one there.
I made an early start and had a very satisfactory couple of hours checking the details I needed in the DNB, with all those side-trackings into that splendid publication that
I can never resist. It was still only about midday, so I decided to go along to the Brewhouse Theatre to see if I could get a seat for The Gondoliers which the local operatic
group were doing in a few weeks’ time. Gilbert and Sullivan are immensely popular down here and I knew it would be pretty well booked out, but one of the few advantages
of going to the theatre on your own is that you can often get a single ticket.
As I was carefully picking my way through the crowded car park I came face to face with Roger.
‘Sheila! How extraordinary – I was going to ring you today.’
‘Oh.’ I said warily.
‘Just a few things I wanted to say – off the record, as it were. Look, are you busy just now?’
‘I was just about to try and get a ticket for the G & S,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes, Jilly and I are going on the Friday. They’re very good, aren’t they. Really most professional. Why don’t we have lunch, if you haven’t got to rush back?’
‘That would be lovely,’ I said. ‘I was planning to have lunch here anyway – the food is splendid, as I expect you know.’
We went into the foyer and I managed to get a single ticket for the Wednesday.
‘I love The Gondoliers’ I said, ‘although I think that Iolanthe is my favourite.’
‘If! had to choose, I think mine would be Patience. Probably because that’s the one I saw first.’
Chatting casually about Gilbert and Sullivan, Roger led me into the main area where stalwart volunteer ladies stood behind a hatch serving out very good pasta dishes or
cold meats and salad. All the food was home-cooked and the puddings were especially noteworthy. It was very obvious how the little theatre made most of its profits. As we
were early, the dining room wasn’t too full, so that we were able to find a table tucked away in a corner.
‘Oh, you’ve got that gorgeous chestnut and cream thing. I can never decide between that and the sherry trifle...’
I told him about my article on Mrs Oliphant and what the other essays in the Festschrift were to be, staving off the moment when I knew he would be talking about Lee’s
death.
After a while he said, ‘I do hope that you’ve quite recovered from that awful shock.’
‘Yes, thank you. And thank you for being so marvellous. I don’t believe I really said anything at the time, but...’
‘Just looking at a murder victim is a horrible thing.’ he said. ‘Something you never get used to, however many times it may happen to you in the course of the job. It’s the
knowledge that somebody has done that to another human being.’
‘I remember thinking – who could have hated her so much? That was dreadful.’
‘There is no excuse for taking the life of another person.’
This flat statement, strangely echoing Mrs Dudley’s ‘Right is right and wrong is wrong’, brought me up sharply.
‘I agree with you, of course—’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Jamie Hertford?’
‘I honestly didn’t know at the time. That is, of course I knew him, years ago when I was a child, he was a school-friend of my brother’s. But he went away and we lost
touch.
So I never knew that he was married to Lee. Strangely enough,
it was Mrs Dudley who told me. She knows Jamie’s mother.’
‘Jilly’s grandmother’. Did Rosemary know as well?’
‘No, Mrs D. had her own inscrutable reasons for not telling anybody. She only told me to score a snobbish point about my not knowing The Family (the Hertfords used
to be practically lords of the manor, you know) as well as I thought I did!’
He laughed. ‘That figures.’ He finished off his lasagne and embarked on his creamy pudding. ‘As you will have gathered, we found a marriage certificate and various
letters among her effects at the flat. Did your friend Charles know about Jamie Hertford? He’s local too, isn’t he?’
‘I’m sure he couldn’t have. He actually thought she was divorced, presumably from the man Montgomery. He died – I expect you discovered that – and Lee was never
married to him because she was still married to Jamie. Goodness, what a mess some people’s lives are!’
‘But you didn’t know anything about it. Surprising for somewhere like Taviscombe.’
‘It’s really the previous generation – Mrs Dudley and her cronies – who kept up a spy system. We don’t seem to have the time and the energy nowadays. Besides, Jamie
went off to the other side of the county – into Devon, even, so interest would be proportionately less.’
‘I went to see him, of course. He had to be told that his wife was dead. And I found that he knew already.’
I tore a bit off my bread roll and pulled it to pieces.
‘I suppose, if I’m really honest, I was just curious to see what he looked like after all these years. I don’t know if I can explain just how glamorous a figure he was when
we were all young. Rich, handsome, well-born, with something of a reputation – just a hint of “mad, bad and dangerous to know”. What young girl could resist! I expected
something quite different – all run-down and gone to seed. Instead – well, you’ve seen for yourself. Oh Roger, the pathos of it all!’
‘And the son – would you think he’s actually simple-minded?’
‘No, not that. Child-like, I suppose, in some ways.’
‘Obsessively devoted to his father, as his father is to him. There is nothing they wouldn’t do for each other, wouldn’t you say?’
I was glad for Jilly’s sake that Roger was a sensitive and perceptive person, but just at that moment I would have preferred him to be the obtuse, plod-ding policeman of
Mrs Dudley’s imagining.
‘But so gentle, Roger. Andrew is wonderful with animals, with plants. And Jamie – well, I simply can’t believe...’ My voice trailed away. We both had the same picture, I
felt, of Jamie, goaded beyond endurance by Lee’s vicious taunting, snatching up the knife. ‘Roger.’ I said briskly. ‘I really don’t know much about what you found at Plover’s
Barrow. Are you allowed to tell me? I feel so involved, as you can imagine. I really would like to know the actual facts. I suppose there’s no chance of it having been a robbery
of any kind?’
‘No. Her handbag was there, with quite a large sum of money in cash – several hundred pounds, actually – and her cheque book and credit cards. No, not robbery.’
‘And the knife?’
‘Part of the stuff left behind in the house. There were several old knives and kitchen implements on the dresser. It was old and rusty, but it had a thin blade and did the
job.’
I shivered. Then I thought of something that had been at the back of my mind for several days.
‘Roger, I think that Lee must have gone to Plover’s Barrow to meet a client.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘She was wearing a suit, wasn’t she, and high heels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, except when she was on business she always wore trousers and boots or flat shoes. That day we talked, she was saying how she hated skirts and never wore them
except when she had to be done up for work or in the evening.’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact I had come to something of the same conclusion. There was a dressing case in her car, and a suede jacket and a Harrods bag with trousers and
a sweater and some other shoes. As far as we can judge, she wasn’t at her flat the night before she was killed, so she must have taken her business suit and so forth with her to
change for her appointment the next day.’
‘Where can she have stayed?’
‘That we will have to find out.’
‘Certainly not with Jamie and Andrew – Jamie wouldn’t have had her in the house! So you see...’
‘All that doesn’t alter the fact, I’m afraid, Sheila, that the two people – the only two people, as far as we know
– who wanted Lee Montgomery dead were Jamie and Andrew Hertford. They have neither of them got an alibi. Andrew was off, riding over the hills in a highly
emotional state. Heaven alone knows where he went. He can’t, or won’t, say. And his father had an extremely acrimonious interview with his wife in a very remote spot the
day before she was killed, and no alibi at all for the day in question. He simply said he was out, looking for Jamie.’
‘But if she was meeting a client at Plover’s Bar-row...’
‘She could have arranged to meet Jamie Hertford there either before or after her business interview. She seemed to prefer meeting him in out of the way places.’
‘I think that was because she didn’t want Charles to know that she was still married – if anyone had seen her with Jamie something might have got back to him somehow.’
‘But then, what about the client, whoever it was? It seems most likely that she was killed before he arrived. Something must have happened and he never showed up –
only that one set of tyre tracks, remember.’
‘It seems an extraordinary coincidence,’ I said, unwilling to relinquish an unknown suspect, someone who wasn’t Jamie or Andrew.
‘True. But there is something else, something that I’m afraid points only too clearly to the Hertfords.’ ‘What’s that?’
‘Two things, actually. First of all, round the back of the house, where there’s a gate that leads straight on to the moor. There were the hoof-marks of a lot of ponies.’
‘Yes, I saw them that day – there was a little group of them standing round the gate.’
‘Exmoor ponies are wild, of course, but among those hoof-marks there were marks of a horse that had been shod.’
‘It couldn’t have been an exception, I suppose – just one pony that had been shod for some particular reason?’
‘I’m afraid not. In fact it wasn’t a pony at all. The hoof-marks were definitely those of a horse, and quite a large horse at that. The imprints were much bigger and deeper
than those of the ponies. And the other thing we found out confirms it. There was a shepherd, checking on his sheep across the valley. He noticed a man riding away from
Plover’s Barrow about midday. He was much too far away to give a proper description, but he certainly saw a figure on a horse. He says it was a large horse, possibly brown,
though of course he can’t say whether it was a bay or a chestnut or whatever. The rider was going away from him, round the edge of that wood, and making for the open
moor.’
‘But it would be much too far for Jamie or Andrew to come on horseback – it would have taken far too long.’
‘Andrew went off the day before, remember, making for the moors. He would have just about reached that spot if he’d slept overnight in a barn or some-thing, as his
father thinks he did.’
‘But how would he have known that Lee would be there?’
‘He might have heard something when his father was talking to her on the phone.’
‘I still don’t think it’s possible. But anyway, it would certainly be too far for Jamie...’
‘There are such things as horse-boxes, you know, and the Hertfords do horse-transporting don’t they? He could easily have left the horse-box in a lay-by up on the road.
It wouldn’t have been in any way remarkable. The hunt was out that morning and there are a lot of horse-boxes about on hunting days.’
I was silent for a while. Then I said, ‘There’s no sort of proof, is there? I mean, you can’t match up the horse-shoes or anything?’
‘No – that’s not really possible. No proof. They can neither of them prove that they weren’t there, but then we can’t – so far – prove that they were.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry, Sheila, but you must admit that they do seem to be the only people who have a real motive.’
I thought about Lee’s property dealings.
‘Have you investigated her business affairs? I’m sure far more people kill for money than for hate.’
Roger smiled. ‘Inspector Dean is dealing with that side of things, being on the spot, as it were. Why? Do you know anything that we should know?’ He looked at me
quizzically.
‘I don’t actually know anything,’ I said, wondering how I could divert the police’s attention away from Jamie and Andrew without involving Carol and Charles. ‘It’s just
that I got the impression, from what people have been saying,’ I added vaguely, ‘that Lee was involved in some sort of large property deal. It might be worth looking into.’
‘It will be.’ He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward sympathetically. ‘I know how you feel about the Hertfords, Sheila. They have managed to salvage
something very fragile from the wreckage of two lives. It would be very upsetting to have to smash it. But you have to face the fact that someone’s been killed – murdered. It
isn’t a fact that can be conveniently ignored, you know, just because the victim was unpleasant and the suspects are pathetic’
‘You’re right, of course. Perhaps she was a spy,’ I said hopefully, ‘and was killed for the Secret Papers?’
‘Heaven forbid.’ he laughed. ‘Things are complicated enough without having Special Branch breathing down my neck!’
I looked at the clock by the door.
‘Goodness, look at the time. I must go. Thank you so much for my lunch, Roger, and for telling me what’s going on. Can you let me know if there are any developments?’
If anything happened to Jamie or to Andrew the other would need a lot of support.
‘Yes, I will. Keep your ears open for me, Sheila – the Taviscombe intelligence network probably hears a great many things that we don’t.’
I promised that I would – though with certain mental reservations.
‘I shall look forward to your essay on Mrs Oliphant.’
‘If you’re interested I’ll send you a set of proofs – they usually let me have a couple.’
‘Signed by the author, I hope.’
‘Of course. Give my love to Jilly.’
We parted with friendly waves and I plunged into the Marks and Spencer food hall. As I packed various delicacies into my wire basket I tried to think of some way that I
could find out something that would open up another line of police enquiry. A pack of American-style beefburgers decorated with the Stars and Stripes made me think of
Charles. I might telephone him. He had been definitely evasive about his financial dealings with Lee. It wasn’t that I wanted to throw him to the wolves to distract attention from
Jamie and Andrew – he was an old dear friend. But he could look after himself, and they, poor things, certainly couldn’t. And Charles was half a world away, across the
Atlantic, while they were all too close to the scene of the crime.
Chapter Eleven
I did some calculations about the time difference and tried to phone Charles at his apartment before he left for work, but there was no reply. I gave it another hour and
then tried his office. His secretary – Paula, I think she was called – with immense efficiency remembered my name from my previous calls to Charles.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Malory,’ she said. ‘He isn’t here right now. He had to go to Denver yesterday for about three days. He’ll be travelling about, but I could give you the
number of our Denver office...’
‘No, really, it’s not that urgent – I’ll wait until he gets back.’
‘He’ll certainly be sorry to have missed your call. Just between ourselves, Mrs Malory, I think he gets a little homesick for England sometimes.’
‘Yes, I think he does. Have you ever been to England yourself?’
‘Oh, sure. Rob, that’s my husband, and I, we were over just last spring. We did London, Stratford and Canterbury – it was really exciting. I said to Mr Richardson when
I booked that trip for him to London in January, I sure do wish I was coming with you, to go to that wonderful Harrods sale – there’s TV advertisements for it over here you
know. That really would be something!’
‘January?’ I asked.
‘Sure. New Year’s Day – but it was only a short trip, I guess.’
‘I see. Well, thank you so much. If you could tell Mr Richardson that I called...’
‘I surely will. Nice to speak with you, Mrs Malory.’
‘Yes, thank you very much indeed.’
‘My pleasure. Goodbye.’
I put the telephone down in a state of considerable bewilderment. Charles had said nothing about being in England at the beginning of January. Had he seen Lee then, and
if so, where? In London? Surely he couldn’t have been in Taviscombe
– someone would have been sure to see him and word would get around. And why was he over here? And – most peculiar of all – why hadn’t he told me about his visit
when he telephoned about Lee? I was really beginning to get worried. Nothing seemed to make sense any more. My last telephone conversation with Charles had left me
uneasy. I had the impression that he was holding something back and that there was something slightly discreditable that he didn’t want me to know about. What was Charles
up to?
The telephone rang. It was Anthea.
‘Sheila? About Friday. Ronnie’s cousin can’t come, I’m afraid. He’s got flu.’
I suppressed an unworthy exclamation of delight and said how sorry I was not to see him.
‘But do come just the same, Sheila. I’ve invited Philip Bradford. You know him, he’s on the District Council. Ronnie’s met him quite a bit at various Rotary things and we
owe him some hospitality! Actually, I was a bit worried about the numbers, but it will be all right, we’ll just be four, because his wife’s away for six weeks visiting their daughter
in Australia
– she’s just had her first baby and Moira, that’s Moira Bradford, wanted to be out there with her—’ ‘That will be fine,’ I broke into Anthea’s usual monologue.
‘The same time, then?’
‘What? Oh, yes, seven for seven thirty.’
‘Lovely. See you then.’
I replaced the receiver and said to Foss, who was sitting on the arm of my chair, ‘Well, Foss, what do you think of that? Isn’t it splendid! Now I can see if I can find out
anything from this Bradford man quite naturally. Isn’t that lucky!’
But Foss was staring, in that disconcerting way that cats have, at some fascinating but invisible object in the far corner of the room, and paid no attention at all to what I
was saying.
The following day brought a summons to the inquest. It was to be held at the local coroner’s court in ten days’ time. I felt very apprehensive at the idea of having to tell
my story in public. My reasons for going out to Plover’s Barrow would sound pretty feeble. And I would have to be careful what I said. For instance, I couldn’t say that I
knew Lee had an appointment there because Carol really shouldn’t have shown me the appointment book and I didn’t want to get her into trouble. Oh what a tangled web we
weave ... as Peter would have said.
Furthermore, I was not looking forward to seeing my name all over the front page of the Echo: ‘LOCAL WOMAN FINDS MURDER VICTIM’ or even, to make it a
bit more classy, ‘LOCAL WRITER FINDS BODY’ – it would all be very distasteful. I was glad that Michael was away at Oxford, though when I had telephoned to tell him
all about it, he had begged to be allowed to come home to ‘do a bit of Sherlock Holmesing’, an offer I had firmly declined.
I buttered myself another piece of toast, spreading the butter much thicker than usual, and topped it with some of Andrew’s honey. Comfort eating, I told myself, and,
indeed, I did find myself in need of comfort. I felt depressed and unsure and very much alone. If only Peter were here, I thought, he would know what to do. If Peter were
alive, common sense told me, I would never have got mixed up in all this. After two years’ grieving, you may think you’ve done with that first, sharp, painful misery, but it’s
always there, waiting for just such a moment as this, and then it comes back as strongly as ever, sweeping over you in waves.
I sat at the table for some time, not really thinking of anything but just having what my mother used to call ‘a good wallow’. A ray of winter sun, shining on to the
sideboard, made me get up and fetch a duster and that broke the mood, and I pulled myself together and did the washing up, thinking how lucky women were to have so many
little tasks that simply come under Marjorie Fraser’s critical gaze) and some shortbread and found a few snowdrops in the garden to put in my favourite little Victorian china
basket. Spurred on by this burst of energy, and while the sun was shining, I bathed Tris. We both dislike this so much that I usually do it on the spur of the moment, when
neither of us is expecting it, like this morning. I rubbed him dry and mopped up the kitchen floor, decided against using the hair-dryer on him because he hated the noise, and
left him on a rug in front of the sitting-room fire looking clean but martyred. Foss, who had disappeared at the first sign of the plastic bath, suddenly materialised and sat on the
window-sill delicately washing his paws and casting scornful glances at the poor creature who had to be washed by human beings.
Rosemary came nice and early, bringing with her a heavenly bunch of freesias.
‘You sounded as if you needed cheering up,’ she said, ‘and no wonder when you come to think of it. You’ve had quite a time.’
‘Roger bought me lunch at the Brewhouse yesterday,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t that sweet of him? I do like him. Lucky Jilly!’
‘Oh yes, certainly lucky Jilly. It’s all working out very nicely. They’ve got their mortgage – it doesn’t seem to matter whether you’re married or not these days.’
‘He wanted to talk to me about the case, of course. And, oh Rosemary, it is all so confusing! I simply must tell someone all about it...’
I cut us each a piece of sponge and poured the tea and, with occasional excited exclamations from Rosemary, I told her absolutely everything that I had found out, from
whatever source.
‘So you see how complicated it all is – you must promise not to tell anyone at all – even Jack.’
‘Of course. Fancy Ma not telling me about Jamie Hertford and Lee!’
‘You mustn’t let her know that I told you, else she’ll never speak to me again.’
‘Lucky you!’ Rosemary said.
‘No, seriously. I wish you could see them though. It’s an extraordinary set-up.’
‘Do you think Marjorie Fraser is really in love with him?’ Rosemary asked, fastening, as I knew she would, on the inessentials. ‘Perhaps she murdered Lee,’ she
suggested frivolously, ‘so that she could marry Jamie!’
‘Poor Marjorie – I don’t believe Jamie really notices her at all. They’ve shut the outside world out altogether, those two, that’s the only way they can feel safe.’
‘Goodness! When you think.’ Rosemary exclaimed, ‘how gorgeous he used to be. I was always frightfully jealous of you, being with him and Jeremy all the holidays...’
‘The trouble is, I do see how it must look to the police. I mean, you could hardly ask for a stronger motive, and then there’s the bit about the horses.’
‘I hate horses,’ said Rosemary irrelevantly. ‘Those awful big feet, and the way they toss their heads at you.’
‘And then there’s all this business about Charles and the property.’
‘Oh well – you know what Charles is like about business!’
‘Yes, but he’s never been mixed up in anything shady.’
‘I suppose you get pretty ruthless working for a multinational, whatever it is he does.’
‘I’ve never known exactly – something about petrochemicals.’
‘Well, there you are then.’
‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but it is rather different from land speculation in the heart of the West Country. I suppose it’s legal, but definitely sharp practice, wouldn’t you
say?’
‘Well, that wouldn’t surprise me about horrible Lee,’ Rosemary declared, her mouth full of short-bread. ‘I never liked her, from that first moment when Charles
introduced us. Nor did you.’
‘No – but she did have a sort of charm. You’d never have guessed that she was so absolutely foul and coldbloodedly cruel.’
‘And greedy! I mean, she was going to have all Charles’s money...’
‘And all the money they were going to make on this development thing...’
‘Yes. And still she wanted poor Jamie’s little bit as well.’
‘I wonder how she got hold of the news of that development. Do you think this man Bradford approached her?’
‘He’s a slimy toad,’ Rosemary said vigorously. ‘Jack says he’s been in on some very shady things. And that poor wife of his, she looks pretty down-trodden. I wouldn’t
be at all surprised if he had some little popsy tucked away somewhere, he’s just the type—I say!’ she said excitedly. ‘You don’t think that there was anything between Lee and
him...’
I stared at her. ‘Of course! I’m sure you’re right. That would explain all sorts of things...’
‘Do you think Charles knew?’
I thought about Charles’s trip to London in January.
‘I wonder.’
I put some more water in the teapot and stirred it energetically.
‘Ronnie had better look out, accountants can’t be too careful who they associate with.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s actually business. Anyway, I’ll be able to see him and judge for myself, and, who knows, I might be able to ferret something out about Lee. I don’t
think the police have enough evidence against anyone to do anything definite before the inquest.’
‘Oh, the inquest! I hadn’t really thought about that. You’ll have to give evidence, I suppose. Oh, poor Sheila, it will be awful for you. When is it? Jack and I will come
with you, of course...’
‘Bless you, that would be a comfort. I must say I am rather dreading it. I’m trying to put it out of my mind until it actually happens.’
‘Have you got a hat?’
‘Yes, I thought I’d wear my black funeral one, you know...’
‘Oh yes, good idea. I suppose Jamie will be there. I expect he’s the only next of kin she’s got. It will be fascinating to see him. You know, I really can’t bear to think that
he killed Lee. Do try and find out something about the horrible Bradford man. I wouldn’t mind it being him at all.’
Chapter Twelve
I arrived at Anthea’s dinner party just after seven o’clock to find that Philip Bradford was already there. He had a glass of whisky in his hand and it didn’t look like his
first. Ronnie was always very generous with his drinks.
‘Come on in, Sheila. Nice to see you. G and T isn’t it?’
‘Just a small one please, Ronnie, not one of your super-specials if I’ve got to drive myself home.’
‘Righty-ho. Now, do you know Philip? Philip, have you met our old friend Sheila Malory?’
Philip Bradford gave me a slightly puzzled look.
‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ he said uncertainly.
It was plain that he had a vague memory of my face, but he couldn’t quite place me. I hoped that my appearance was quite different from that time when we had met by
the lift in Lee’s apartment block. Indeed, I’d made a special effort for this evening. I was wearing my black velvet skirt and white lace evening blouse (almost a uniform for
Taviscombe dinner parties) and had put on some eye-shadow and even had my hair blow-dried into a different and, I hoped, more fashionable style.
‘No, we’ve never met,’ I said, ‘though of course.’
I added irrelevantly, ‘I’ve seen your photo in the Echo quite often. It was in last week, wasn’t it? You must be very busy with all that council work.’
He preened himself – he really was a thoroughly objectionable man.
‘Yes, that’s right. Service to the community – and doesn’t do me any harm, if you know what I mean!’
I gave a little laugh. ‘Oh well, why not?’
He sat down in the chair beside me. He was the kind of man I really dislike, the kind who leans confidentially and puts his hand on your arm whenever he wants to make
a point. He obviously fancied himself as a ladies’ man and I wondered how I was going to get through the evening without a feeling of nausea. I don’t mind old-world gallantry,
like old Mr Welsh at the Stroke Club who bows from the waist and calls all the helpers ‘dear lady’, but this kind of slimy (Rosemary was right) attention was quite different,
since it sprang not from a natural courtesy, but from the man Bradford’s perception of himself as a charmer.
He embarked on a long story of how he had helped to rehouse an elderly couple who had suddenly found themselves homeless. It was very complicated and designed
solely to show what a splendid and generous-hearted person Philip Bradford was. I sat there wide-eyed, saying, ‘Did you really, how marvellous!’ at intervals. This seemed to
be sufficient to keep him going because he embarked on a second story, this time to illustrate his brilliant business acumen and sharp commercial mind. My face was beginning
to set in a dreadful false smile when Anthea mercifully shepherded us in to dinner.
I noticed that she obviously thought Philip Brad-ford was an important guest, because she was using her best dinner service and we had a fish course as well as the
smoked salmon pate and the Stroganoff. Like Rosemary, I hoped that Ronnie hadn’t got his eye on a business connection with Bradford.
‘When’s Moira coming back?’ Anthea asked him.
He seemed a little put out by the reference to his wife, but answered easily enough, ‘Oh, in about ten days’ time. They haven’t arranged the flight yet.’
‘And how do you fancy being a grandfather?’ she persisted. I couldn’t help smiling at his distinct displeasure at this image of himself.
‘Oh, how lovely; I gushed. ‘I long for grand-children.’
Automatically on cue, as I knew he would, he said, ‘Oh, but you’re far too young to be a grand-mother!’
With difficulty I managed a simper. ‘Oh, Mr Bradford! How sweet!’
‘Not Mr Bradford – Philip.’
The conversation flowed back and forth along the usual lines – the weather (cold but seasonable), the number of unemployed in the town (young lay-abouts who don’t
want to work), the new repairs to the harbour wall (necessary for the tourist trade, but should have government funding not soak the poor old tax-payer) – and I didn’t see any
opportunity to pop in a question that might connect up with Lee.
Then Anthea said, ‘Oh, talking of tourists, Philip. Are you still renting out that holiday cottage?’
‘Oh, have you a cottage?’ I asked. ‘What a marvellous investment! Where is it?’
‘Oh, it’s very remote.’ said Anthea, answering for him. ‘Miles away in the middle of the moor, just outside Brendon.’
I couldn’t believe my luck. ‘Which side of Brendon?’ I asked.
‘The Taviscombe side. It’s about a mile from the village. People seem to like to get right away on holiday, back to nature and all that. I never have any trouble letting it.
Booked up all the summer and right on into late October last year.’
A little more probing and I had a pretty clear idea where the cottage was. It was less than a mile from Plover’s Barrow.
‘I should think it’s a bit of a headache in the winter.’ I said. ‘I mean, I expect you have to keep an eye on things, to see that it doesn’t get frozen up – burst pipes and all
that.’
‘Yes, it’s a nuisance sometimes, but I get over there most weeks.’
I wondered if he had been there on the day that Lee was murdered, and decided to do a bit more fishing and mentioned the inquest, trying to sound suitably nervous and
fluttery. Bradford seemed rather anxious about the idea of an inquest. I suppose he was afraid of what might come out about his business dealings. We talked around the
subject of Lee’s death for a while and then, to my delight, Anthea asked Bradford, ‘Did you ever meet her, Philip?’
Again, there was a certain edge of unease.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did. I bought the cottage through her firm.’
Sensible, I thought, to admit something that could be checked.
‘We didn’t like her, did we, Ronnie? Not at all the type of person that Charles would ever have been happy with.’
‘Charles?’
‘Our friend Charles Richardson – did you ever know him? No, well, he left Taviscombe quite a long time ago, probably before you came here. They were going to be
married.’
I had the impression that Charles’s name was not unknown to him, but he still seemed very much taken aback. His smooth manner vanished and he asked sharply, ‘When
was all this arranged.’
‘Well, Charles was over here just before Christmas, and then she went over there – that’s right isn’t it, Sheila? And they arranged everything then.’
He made no comment but sat there, obviously thinking furiously. Anthea appeared not to notice and went on.
‘We never thought that she was a suitable person for Charles. Well, he had that first unfortunate marriage – those poor little children – he doesn’t seem to have much
sense when it comes to women.’
I dropped another stone into the pool.
‘But you must admit that she was very attractive. Didn’t you think so, Mr Bradford – Philip?’
He hesitated, and then the smooth manner returned and he said, ‘Oh, quite a charmer – a pleasure to do business with a charming lady!’
I had the impression that he wanted to make further enquiries about Charles but didn’t want to seem too interested.
‘Did you say that he – this man – lives in America? Were they going to live there?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Anthea replied, ‘Charles said that he wanted to come back and live in England, but I don’t know.’
‘He’d find it pretty small beer after gadding all over the world for that firm of his,’ Ronnie said. ‘Martenco – petrochemicals,’ he explained. Brad-ford looked very
thoughtful.
‘A multi-national?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said enthusiastically, ‘very high-powered. Charles was very much the local goy who made good, you know. Frightfully rich.’
Anthea got up and fetched the puddings from the trolley.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘raspberry Pavlova or lemon mousse?’
I made those exclamations of delight and admiration that all women make when confronted by the fruits of long and complicated culinary labour on the part of their
hostess, and chose the lemon mousse. I had a sudden idea and turned to Bradford.
‘I’ve just though, Philip.’ I said. ‘Your cottage sounds just what some friends of mine are looking for to stay in for the Easter holidays.’
‘What friends?’ Anthea asked with interest.
‘Freda Benson – do you remember her? She went to teach modern languages at a school in Sheffield. She wants to come down with a couple of friends. They’re mad
about bird-watching,’ I invented, hoping that Anthea wouldn’t remember Freda Benson. Fortunately she was occupied with a recalcitrant portion of Pavlova that was in danger
of shooting off the serving dish, and wasn’t really listening. I turned and gazed earnestly at Bradford.
‘That’s why it sounds so ideal. Right in the middle of nowhere – masses of birds and the moors all round. They’d love it!’
‘I’m not sure about Easter—’
‘Oh, it doesn’t have to be actually over Easter,’ I said hastily. ‘You know what marvellously long holidays schoolteachers have.’
‘Well, yes, that would be all right I should think.’
‘Do you have anyone to pop in to do a bit of cleaning and get some milk and things in?’ I asked.
‘There’s a very good woman in the village who comes in a few days a week.’
‘That sounds wonderful. I’d like to have a look at it before I write to Freda. Would that be all right?’
He hesitated again.
‘I’m not quite sure when I can manage a day to take you over there.’
That was not at all what I had in mind. What I wanted was to have a good old poke around on my own.
‘Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure I’ll be able to find it perfectly well. If you can let me have the keys I could pop in one day next week. That is,’ I continued archly, ‘if you trust
me with them!’
I looked up at him ingenuously from under my eyelashes. I was glad that Rosemary wasn’t there or I would have giggled and spoiled everything. Anthea and Ronnie, who
were never very perceptive, seemed to notice nothing odd in my behaviour.
‘Well...’ he said doubtfully.
‘I’ll be very careful to lock up properly. I’m fright-fully conscientious, you ask Anthea.’
His naturally grasping nature finally overcame his caution, and he appeared to decide that a good spring let for the cottage was not to be missed.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a set of keys for the cottage on me. You’d better take them now and let me have them back when you’ve had a look.’
I burst forth into a flood of gratitude and enthusiasm on the behalf of the mythical bird-watchers.
‘Tell you what,’ he said confidentially, ‘drop the keys in one evening and we’ll have a drink on it!’
I shuddered inwardly at the thought of a drink à deux with Philip Bradford, but I smiled happily at him and said that it would be lovely and that I would look forward to it
immensely.
‘I’ll just give you my address.’ he said, ‘and the name and address of the woman in the village who looks after the cottage ... There you are.’ He scribbled on the back of
a business card and handed it to me. I saw that he owned a firm of builders’ merchants and thought how handy that would be for any development scheme.
‘Thank you so much.’ I said, putting it away in my handbag. ‘I’ll be in touch in the next few days.’
As soon as I decently could, I made my fare-wells, pleading the need to give Tris a run before his bedtime.
‘Oh, you and your animals!’ Anthea said. ‘You let them rule your life!’
No animal had ever been allowed into her immaculate home, and whenever she came to see me she always brushed (real or imaginary) animal hairs from the cushions and
stared disapprovingly at the threads drawn from my furniture by sharp Siamese claws.
‘Thank you for a super evening, Anthea, Ronnie. Delicious food, such a treat. Goodbye Philip – so lovely to have met you at last...’
Anthea and Ronnie embraced me, and I firmly held out my hand to Bradford who had shown an inclination to do the same.
I got into my car and heaved a great sigh of relief at being on my own again. Anthea and Ronnie were old friends but a little of them went a long way. As for Bradford ... I
wriggled my shoulders inside my coat as if I could shake off the slimy feeling I still had from contact with him. Had he really been Lee’s lover? How could she!
But that was a naive way of looking at things. I knew now that for Lee sex was just one more way of getting what she wanted in life and, I suppose, it had got her quite a
way. I felt revolted and saddened and, perhaps thanks to the gin and Ronnie’s good burgundy, rather confused.
‘But right is right and wrong is wrong.’ I said aloud as I turned into my drive. It might well be that Lee’s false values had finally been what had caused her death. Like
Rosemary, I wouldn’t be at all sorry if Philip Bradford turned out to be the murderer.
Tris had heard the car and was barking excitedly as I let myself into the house, and then there was a thump followed by a wail, which indicated that Foss had just jumped
down from the top of my wardrobe and was ready for supper. In spite of all the food and drink, what I wanted most of all was a nice cup of cocoa. I let Tris out into the
garden to bark at the hedgehogs and put the milk on. I felt rather pleased with myself. On Monday – no, bother, not Monday because I had a committee meeting – on Tuesday
I would go and see Bradford’s cottage. I got out Peter’s Ordnance Survey map of the area and found where I thought it must be. There was a track marked, round the wood,
that brought one out at the back of Plover’s Barrow. He could easily have got there on foot – or perhaps he went with Lee in the car, killed her and walked back to the
cottage and picked up his own car there. I couldn’t think it all out logically, not times and distances and everything, but it seemed a possibility at any rate. And if I could have a
good look round the cottage, who knew what I might find?
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday was a lovely day with a bright blue sky, and in the car out of the wind there was real warmth in the sun. There were quite a few early lambs in the fields and I felt
that the year was on the turn at last. Since it was such a nice day I didn’t take the coast road but drove over the hill and across the moor. There was still a little snow on the
higher ground but the road was clear and dry. I saw very little traffic and it didn’t seem to be a hunting day. As always when I was up on the moor, my spirits rose and I even
sang a little – an indulgence of which I am rather ashamed and would never admit to.
After a while I stopped and looked at the map and tried to get my bearings. More by luck than judgement I found the cottage quite easily. It lay back from the road a bit,
but there was a farm gate with the name painted on it: ‘Barleymead’. I stopped and opened the gate and drove up to the front door. It was a well-kept, smooth-surfaced drive
– I suppose Bradford had it done at cost, like the decorations to the cottage, which was immaculate. It had a tiled roof, not thatch, but in every other respect was exactly what
a summer visitor would expect a country cottage to be – white walls, and a heavy, dark, wood front door with a lot of genuine wrought-iron hinges and latches. There was
even an evergreen honeysuckle climbing round the porch. I took a bet with myself that there would be an old bread oven. There was plenty of room to park at the front so I
left the car there and let myself into the cottage.
The inside was even more perfect. There were heavy oak beams and an enormous old open fire-place (with a bread oven), and the staircase went straight up through a
door in the sitting room. There were two rooms downstairs as well as a beautiful modern kitchen, and to my surprise the whole thing was furnished with some very nice pieces.
Either Mrs Bradford had very good taste (but then how could she have married Philip Bradford?) or else he had had it all done by a firm of interior decorators. Certainly he
would be able to charge a very high rent for it. It must be a nice little investment.
I don’t know what I expected to find. Something that would prove that Lee had been there on the day before she died – a hairpin, perhaps, or one of those clues that
featured in the more old-fashioned detective stories. But no one used hairpins now, and certainly Lee didn’t; her hair was short and naturally curly. Still, inspired by that
thought, I opened the door in the sitting room and went up the narrow stairs.
There were three bedrooms (one of them minute, for a child, I supposed) and a very luxurious bath-room (palest blue and white and I coveted it greatly). The bedrooms
were very Laura Ashley, with pretty, spriggy printed curtains and covers. I went into the larger bedroom, which was the one with the double bed, and looked about me.
Everything was neat and apparently untouched. I had hardly expected to find a rumpled, unmade bed, it is true, but I must admit that I felt slightly let down and disappointed. I
opened the door of the wardrobe, but apart from a collection of wooden hangers it was empty. So were all the drawers of a rather nice mahogany bow-fronted chest and
those of the old-fashioned dressing table. I sat down on the dressing-table stool and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked rather dishevelled and windblown and my
lipstick had got eaten off as usual. I got out my lipstick and put some more on and then laid it down on the dressing table to fish in my bag for a comb. The old uneven floor had
made the surface of the dressing table slope, and my lipstick rolled off and on to the carpet. I exclaimed in annoyance and bent down to look for it. At first I couldn’t see it
anywhere, and then, when I had got down on my knees and looked more closely, I saw that it had rolled over and come to rest against the skirting. As I went to pick it up, I
saw that something else had rolled down the same sloping bit of floor. Hidden between the skirting and the leg of the dressing table was an eye-liner.
saw that something else had rolled down the same sloping bit of floor. Hidden between the skirting and the leg of the dressing table was an eye-liner.
I picked it up and took it over to the window to look at it properly in the light. It was an expensive one, an Elizabeth Arden, and instead of the usual black or brown, it
was navy. I was immediately convinced that it belonged to Lee. She used Elizabeth Arden cosmetics, I was sure, because I remembered recognising the smell of Blue Grass
when we were in the close confines of the car together. It is a perfume that has upsetting memories for me, so I always notice it. And her eyes were so very blue that she would
be sure to use a navy liner to emphasise them – I remembered all those beauty hints in Vogue. The fact that it was an eye-liner suggested that she had stayed the night. Lee
looked to me like the sort of woman who put her make-up on very carefully in the morning and then didn’t touch it all day except to renew her lipstick. Perhaps she’d been in a
hurry that morning and hadn’t noticed that the liner had rolled off the dressing table. And then I thought, my excitement mounting, if it if was the morning she had been killed,
she would have been dead before she realised that it was missing, so she wouldn’t have mentioned the loss to Bradford (I was sure they were very careful to leave no traces
here) or come back to look for it herself.
I tried to be practical. If it did belong to Lee then it would have her fingerprints on it so I mustn’t handle it too much. There was a box of fancy tissues on the dressing
table and I took a handful and wrapped the liner loosely in them, taking care not to smudge any prints that might be there. Then I put it in an empty plastic bag I found in my
handbag. Peter used to groan at the immense amount of junk I carried around in my bag, but, I thought triumphantly, it does come in useful sometime!
I put my lipstick away and combed my hair, smiling at myself in the mirror. Then I went down-stairs. If they had been here, there might just be traces in the kitchen. It was
unlikely that they would risk being seen eating out together, and even if they had, then I was pretty sure, from what I knew of both of them, they would have had a drink. No
doubt Bradford would have tidied up to leave no trace, but, in my experience, most men never really leave a kitchen looking quite impeccable.
I looked around and was gratified to see that there was a trace of spillage in the smaller oven of the elegant electric stove. It was still quite soft and hadn’t been burnt on,
so it wasn’t a relic of previous visitors. And it was obvious enough for a housewifely eye to spot it, so it must have been done since Mrs Ellis – the woman in the village – had
last come in to clean the cottage. I imagined that they had brought some sort of made-up dish in a foil container and heated it up. I found myself wondering what it had been.
Inspired by this discovery, I looked in the pedal bin, but that was empty and lined with a clean plastic dustbin bag. This evidence of Mrs Ellis’s zeal reinforced my belief
that she would certainly have cleaned the oven properly. I poked around the kitchen a bit more, opening cupboards, and admiring the high standard of equipment. I even found
myself regretting that Freda Benson wasn’t coming at Easter, since I would have had no hesitation in recommending the cottage. The refrigerator was switched off, but when I
opened the small freezing compartment there was still water in the ice-cube tray. Mrs Ellis, I told myself, would have made sure it was empty before she defrosted the fridge,
so Bradford had probably switched it on to make ice for their drinks.
I was really very pleased with myself as I let myself out of the cottage, carefully double-locking the door behind me. I sat in the car and took stock of what I had found
out. Lee had certainly spent at least one night there, though there was no way I could prove that it was the night before she was killed. Still, I felt I had established a personal
connection between her and Bradford. Whether that gave him a reason for killing her I didn’t know, but it was a start. Anyway, since I had a perfect excuse, it would do no
harm to have a word with Mrs Ellis. I drove on into the village and found her bungalow in the main street. It was, as I would have expected, immaculately kept, with a blue
front door and a plethora of net curtains. I rang the bell, and a young woman came to the door with a small girl clinging to her hand. I was surprised, since I had imagined
somehow that Mrs Ellis would be an elderly ‘treasure’.
I explained who I was and that Mr Bradford had said that she looked after the cottage, and would she mind turning on the electric heaters and getting in milk and bread
for my friends if they decided to come at Easter.
‘Come in, won’t you?’ she said, and I followed her into a small sitting room, brightly papered and crammed with innumerable small objects. A little boy of about two was
playing with bricks on the floor, and I marvelled that all the bric-à-brac was intact, remembering Michael’s destructive tendencies at that age. However, it seemed that Mrs
Ellis’s children were as impeccable as her house, and the boy went on playing peacefully and the little girl, who was a few years older, sat quietly on the sofa watching the
television which was showing an episode of an Australian soap opera.
‘Half a mo,’ Mrs Ellis said, ‘I’ll just turn this thing down.’
She turned the sound down, but the child still sat regarding the now silent screen with its bright images of sun-drenched beaches and patios.
‘That’s better, now we can hear ourselves think!’
I repeated my request on behalf of my friends.
‘Oh yes, just let me know when they’ll be coming. I’ll have given the place a good going over, of course, but I can see to the bread and milk and anything else they want.
Barry might have some early lettuce by then and I could make them an apple tart...’
I regretted more than ever that this pearl among holiday cottages would not be occupied by Freda and her friends.
‘That would be absolutely marvellous. I’ll let you know the dates as soon as I hear from them.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
I realised that Mrs Ellis was probably lonely, as young housewives with small children so often are, and would welcome a chat.
‘That is kind, I’d love one.’
She went out of the room and I asked the little girl what her name was.
‘I’m Debbie, and he’ – she indicated her brother – ‘is Craig. But he’s not two yet.’
I trotted out the second classic gambit. ‘And do you go to school?’
‘Yes, but I broke my leg falling off my new bike. They put it in plaster, but now they took it off and I mustn’t run about, just sit quiet.’
Her eyes returned to the television screen where the soap opera had been replaced by the vaguely familiar face of a politician in relentless close-up. Mrs Ellis came back
with two mugs of coffee and a plate of custard cream biscuits. I took the coffee gratefully but declined the biscuits. She gave each child a biscuit, which they ate silently and
neatly. I began to have considerable respect for Mrs Ellis.
‘Debbie tells me she broke her leg.’ I said.
‘Yes. It was that new bike she had for her birth-day. I said it was too big for her but Barry would have it that she’d grow into it. Men!’
I smiled sympathetically. ‘It seems to have mended quite well.’
‘They say it has at the hospital. But it means she’s off school for all this time...’
‘Are there many children in the village?’
‘No. We’re the only family now with young children. Mostly old people, retired and such-like, and holiday homes, people only here at weekends. Hardly seems worth
the school bus coming all this way just for one. It’ll be better when Craig starts.’
‘I suppose there’s no way you can get him to a playgroup or anything.’
‘No – there’s nothing like that nearer than Taviscombe. Seems a shame somehow. I’d like to move, but Barry’s lived here all his life, works on the farm just down from
the village. He’s a cowman. He won’t move. Still, I made him get a mortgage so’s we could buy this place. I wasn’t going to live in a tied cottage like his Mum and Dad...’
‘You’re not from round here, then?’
‘No, from Taviscombe. My Dad’s a milkman. Shapwick, his name is, Fred Shapwick.’
‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘He used to be my milkman. Right up until last year when his round was changed! You must be Maureen.’
‘Mrs Malory! I thought the name was familiar when you said it ... Dad often talked about you and your husband. He gave Dad some very good advice once when he got
into trouble over some HP.’
We smiled at each other in genuine pleasure, as one does when life presents one with these neat coincidences.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘isn’t it a small world!’
In recognition of this truth, she passed me the plate of biscuits again and this time I took one.
‘It’s a good-sized bungalow,’ I said, ‘and you’ve got it looking so nice. But then, when I think how beautifully you’ve kept Mr Bradford’s cottage, I’m not surprised.’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m glad of something to do. You can get round this place in a couple of hours and when Debbie’s at school there’s only Craig to see to. And I like
looking after nice things.’
‘Yes, the cottage is very nicely furnished, isn’t it.’
‘He had it all done, by some firm. He doesn’t know anything about antiques and things and I’ve never seen his wife. She doesn’t have anything to do with the letting.’
I had the feeling that she didn’t like Philip Brad-ford, despised him, even. Probably he had tried to patronise her, and that would have been a mistake.
‘I don’t expect he has any trouble in letting it. It really is a lovely spot and the cottage looks most comfortable.’
‘Charges the earth for it. But then, people like that from London, they’ll pay anything for somewhere in the country. Me, I’d rather go where there’s a bit of sun!’
‘Was it booked up all last year?’
‘Oh yes, every week practically. Except when he used it himself.’
‘He stays there himself?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’ She hesitated, but the urge to impart a little gossip was irresistible. ‘A love nest, you might say.’
I guessed that the Ellis’s took one of the more lurid Sunday papers.
‘No!’ I exclaimed.
‘I’m not supposed to know, of course,’ she said. ‘He tries to tidy up himself when he’s been. But you can always tell.’
‘Wash-basins.’ I said wisely.
She gave me an approving look. ‘Men seem to think that taps just clean themselves.’ she said. ‘Oh, lots of little things they wouldn’t notice.’ Mrs Ellis seemed to have no
very high opinion of men.
I took a deep breath. There was something I very much wanted to ask. I hoped that we were now on sufficiently cosy terms to do so.
‘Do you ever see the women? I mean, are there several or just the one?’
She drew her lips into a thin line of disapproval. An old-fashioned young woman, Mrs Ellis, but I could have guessed that, I suppose, from her children.
‘There used to be several, but lately, these last few months, there’s been just the one.’
‘Really! Much younger than him?’
‘No, not really. I was quite surprised – the others were girls, from his office I should think. No, this one’s older, in her forties, but very smart. She’s got very good
clothes, you know, casual but very good quality, suede and that.’
‘Sounds very sophisticated,’ I said, ‘not really his type I’d have thought.’
‘That’s right. Treats him very off-hand, she does, and he loves it. I saw them sometimes, when the weather was nice, out in the garden. The cottage is down in a dip, but if
you’re walking along the back road you can look down and see it quite clearly. I don’t suppose he’d know that. Shouldn’t think he’s walked anywhere in his life!’
‘Did – do they meet here or come separately?’
‘Oh, she always comes in her own car – a dark green one it is, big, must be expensive. She must have money – I can’t think what she sees in him!’
‘I don’t suppose she comes in the winter, though, does she?’
‘She didn’t come for quite a bit, and then, In the New Year, she was here for one night.’
‘In the New Year?’ I asked, hardly daring to breathe.
‘Yes, the first Tuesday, that would be. I know because I saw her car drive through the village in the afternoon and then I saw it at the cottage early the next morning.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, well, it was quite a coincidence, really. I had to take Debbie here to the hospital to have her plaster off and the ambulance was calling at half past eight – it has to
come ever so early so they can pick up people on the way in. Barry’s mum was having Craig for me – well, toddlers get so fed up hanging about in hospitals, don’t they – so I
took him round just before eight. She lives up on that back road, so I looked down at the cottage as I went by and saw the car was still there. It was ever such a cold day and
I thought they’d have to have all the heating on full blast if they were there over-night. That cottage isn’t damp but it takes quite a while to warm up. It’s what Barry’s dad calls
back-sundered, doesn’t get a lot of sun till the afternoon. Anyway, she was there that night, but I haven’t seen any sign of her since. P’raps she’s got fed up with him, or else
his wife’s found out.’
‘Goodness,’ I said, ‘it’s just like a telly play!’
‘Oh, we see all sorts round here,’ she laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe.’
I was wondering how to change the subject so that she wouldn’t suspect that my only interest was Philip Bradford and his visitor, when the little boy suddenly caught sight
of the plate of biscuits and grabbed at it, spilling them all on the floor. We knelt on the floor to retrieve them and Mrs Ellis said, ‘Now look what you’ve done – what will Mrs
Malory think!’ and Debbie said primly, ‘He shouldn’t have another biscuit, it’ll spoil his dinner.’
I looked at my watch gratefully and got up.
‘Good gracious, is that the time! You’ll be wanting to get on and give the children their dinners. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s been nice having a chat,’ she said. ‘Just you let me know when your friends are coming and I’ll see to everything.’
I was so absorbed in thoughts of Lee and Philip Bradford that for a moment I couldn’t think what she meant. Then I pulled myself together and thanked her.
‘And do, please, remember me very kindly to your father and tell him that I miss him.’
‘I’ll do that. Dad’ll be ever so interested that I’ve seen you.’
I said goodbye to the two children and Debbie responded politely.
‘They really are marvellous children.’ I said, as we went to the door. ‘So beautifully behaved! When I think what my son was like at that age...’
She looked pleased and said, ‘You’ve got to be firm with them, else they rule your lives.’
I was amused at this echo of Anthea’s remark about my animals. But we all, I thought as I went down the path to my car, need someone or some-thing to rule our lives,
or how empty they would be. Then I thought of Lee. Money and possessions had ruled her life, and look where that had got her.