The Silent Killer Read online

  The Silent Killer

  HAZEL HOLT

  For James and Hilary Hale, but for whom…

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  By Hazel Holt

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “I suppose,” Rosemary said regretfully, “there’s no earthly point in keeping them.” She smoothed down the pile of blankets on the bed. “I did offer them to Jilly but, of course, they use duvets too.”

  “I suppose you could give them to Oxfam,” I suggested. “They always seem to want blankets for refugees.”

  Rosemary looked down doubtfully at the pastel colours and the satin bindings. “Do you think these are the sort they mean?”

  “I should think they’d be jolly glad to get any sort of blanket.”

  “Anyway, I don’t think Oxfam sends out the actual blankets one donates. I think they’re recycled or something and the money is spent on the sort of blankets refugees need.”

  “Oh,” I said, rejecting with reluctance the picture of refugees wrapped in pure wool, pale blue blankets edged with satin ribbon. “Oh well, I suppose it is more practical. Though I would have thought the nice colours might have cheered them up a bit.”

  “Well, whatever. They’ll have to go. I really must have a proper turn out. I can’t think why I keep half the things that are cluttering up the house.”

  “Oh I know,” I agreed. “It’s quite impossible. I’ve got a whole chest full of white damask table linen all wrapped up in black tissue paper. Now what am I going to do with that?”

  “Actually,” Rosemary said, “I believe you can sell it. There’s a woman at South Molton who sells antique linen.”

  “I don’t know that you’d call it antique,” I said doubtfully.

  “Don’t you believe it. Anything can be antique nowadays.”

  “Most of them,” I said, “were part of my mother’s trousseau. Of course that was in the nineteen twenties, when brides still had trousseaux!”

  “There you are then, definitely antiques.”

  “I hardly ever used them myself. Just occasionally when we were first married and I had to give dinner parties for Peter’s important clients. But the laundry bills were so horrendous and I couldn’t possibly wash them myself – all that starching!”

  “Can you still get starch, I wonder?”

  “Probably not. Nor blue bags or carbolic soap or Monkey Brand… Oh dear,” I sighed. “I’m beginning to feel distinctly antique myself.”

  Rosemary laughed. “Come on, let’s go downstairs and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I suppose,” I said when we were comfortably settled at Rosemary’s kitchen table with tea and chocolate digestives, “we are better off now, with all our modern conveniences.”

  “When they work,” Rosemary said. “I had to wait the best part of a week for the man to come and see to the washing machine. By the end of the second day I’d gladly have settled for an old fashioned washtub and a mangle!”

  “Still… Oh, by the way, talking of old fashioned things, I’m looking for someone to go and collect some stuff from Sidney Middleton. He’s promised us some furniture for the Red Cross auction sale and I can’t find anyone with a trailer or van or anything to fetch it in.”

  “Somebody else having a clear-out?”

  “I believe he’s thinking of going into an old people’s home – or his son is thinking of it for him. I don’t think Sidney’s very keen on the idea.”

  “He must be quite old. He seems to have lived at Lamb’s Cottage forever!”

  “In his eighties, I think – though I suppose that’s not so old nowadays. Do you know I saw a whole rack of ninetieth birthday cards in Passmore’s the other day!”

  “Yes, he must be eighty – something, because his wife went to school with Mother.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “whatever he gives us will be very good quality – he’s really quite well off – and should fetch a decent price.”

  “Do you think he will go into a Home?”

  “I don’t see why he should, he’s still quite fit. A bit absent-minded sometimes, but then aren’t we all?”

  “I know,” Rosemary agreed. “Do you know, the other day I simply couldn’t think of the name hydrangea, and nor could Jack. It drove us nearly mad. In the end I had to ring up Jilly and ask her. I expect she thinks we’re both going senile.” She poured us both another cup of tea and continued, “And when I go into the larder for something I can’t remember what I went in for and have to go back into the kitchen to think what it was.”

  “Oh, so do I! And isn’t it extraordinary that it always seems to work. I suppose when it doesn’t we’ll know that we’re really going into Alzheimers!”

  Rosemary bit thoughtfully into a biscuit. “No, I think David Middleton is afraid that he and Bridget may have to look after the old man and that wouldn’t suit their lifestyle!”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “All that back and forth to their house in Provence and cruises round the Greek islands. No, it certainly wouldn’t.”

  “No, what they would like is for him to sell Lamb’s Cottage – it must be worth a lot with all that land – and have him quietly fade away in a Home. You know the way people do once they’ve left their own homes, they just seem to give up.”

  “It would be so sad. Poor old Sidney – he’s such a dear man. Why is it that so many nice people have such horrible relations?”

  “I don’t think Bridget is so bad,” Rosemary said. “I feel quite sorry for her sometimes, David is pretty horrid to her as well.”

  “Mm,” I agreed, “she does look a bit downtrodden. Anyway, we’ll be very glad of Sidney’s things. We haven’t got anything substantial so far, just a lot of bits and pieces. So, do you know anyone?”

  “Anyone?”

  “Who could collect the stuff.”

  “Oh no, sorry. I can’t think of a soul.”

  “Oh well, I’ll just have to see what Michael can fit in his Land Rover.”

  I went with Michael to Lamb’s Cottage that weekend and I thought Sidney was looking a bit subdued, not his usual ebullient self.

  “Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got the kettle on.” He led the way into the house. “You don’t mind sitting in the kitchen, do you? I more or less live in it now, especially in the winter.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said, looking around me appreciatively. “It’s very cosy.”

  It was a large farmhouse kitchen with a big wood-burning stove. Heavy dressers filled with china took up most of the wall space and there was a big window, whose broad sill held pots of herbs and flowering plants. As well as a big kitchen table with four upright chairs there were a couple of comfortable armchairs and a television set on one of the dressers.

  “Joan loved her kitchen,” Sidney said, “and when she died I somehow felt more at home here than in the sitting room.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said, “and blissfully warm on a cold day like this!”

  “Yes, the stove’s very good, but it’s been playing up a bit lately. I keep meaning to get so
meone in to have a look at it.”

  He poured the tea and pushed a plate of biscuits towards us.

  “I’ve put the things in the hall,” he said. “A couple of little tables, a chest of drawers, two bookcases and some other odds and ends – well, you’ll see for yourself. All the big stuff will have to go to the sale rooms, I suppose. That is if I decide to go.”

  “You haven’t decided yet, then?” Michael asked.

  Sidney shrugged. “I could hang on here for a bit, I suppose. I’m a bit creaky but there’s nothing really wrong with me. Mrs Harrison comes in twice a week to keep the house clean and tidy…” His voice trailed off.

  “Well then,” I said, “why move out?”

  “The thing is,” Sidney said earnestly, “I don’t want to be a burden to David. He’s still making his way in the world and has quite enough on his mind as it is without having to worry over me.”

  Michael and I exchanged glances, since worrying about his father has never seemed to us to be uppermost in David Middleton’s mind.

  “And actually,” Sidney went on, “he’s found me this very nice retirement home down in Devon. He took me to see it last Sunday. A beautiful big room – en suite of course – and the grounds were magnificent. It’s almost on the coast and on a clear day I believe you can see the sea.”

  “Devon!” I said. “That’s a long way away! It wouldn’t be easy for him to visit you – or all your friends.”

  “But you haven’t decided anything yet?” Michael asked.

  “Well, no, not exactly decided. I told David I’d think about it. But that’s why I’m getting rid of some things – just to show willing, as it were.”

  “Well,” I said bluntly, “I think you should stay where you are. You’re managing perfectly well and,” I added, “no trouble to anyone! Besides, I’m sure Lamb’s Cottage holds so many happy memories for you.”

  His face lit up. “Oh yes. Joan loved it here. We bought it before I retired, you know – used to come down for every holiday and weekends, too, when we could manage it. The day we moved back here from London was the happiest day of our lives!”

  “There you are then!”

  “But David…”

  “You’re not going to be a burden to anyone for years yet!” I said. “You stay where you are.”

  “But I don’t suppose he will,” I said to Michael as we drove back home. “David Middleton will keep on at him until he gets what he wants. Horrid man!”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. Poor old thing, he’s too nice for his own good.” He sounded his horn at a pheasant who was contemplating a suicidal dash across the road. “Oh, by the way, Thea said could you possibly look after your granddaughter on Thursday afternoon? She’s got to do a few things in Taunton and doesn’t want to take Alice with her. She could drop her off with you on the way.”

  It was while I was taking Alice along the sea-front in her pushchair (she was teething and not her usual placid self ) that I met Bridget Middleton walking her spaniel.

  “Hello, Bridget – look, Alice, at the nice doggie. How are you?”

  “Oh, hello, Sheila. Not bad. Busy, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Though I couldn’t imagine what Bridget could be busy with. She was at home all day (“David doesn’t want me to have a job”) and her two boys were away at boarding school. She did a certain amount of charity work (“David says it’s important to put something back into the community”) and I suppose she did some entertaining in their big house just outside Taviscombe – but still…

  “Oh, is this your granddaughter?” Bridget leaned over the pushchair and peered in at Alice, who had just fallen asleep. “Isn’t she a pet!”

  “Mercifully asleep now,” I said. “She’s a bit fractious at the moment – teething.”

  “Poor little mite! But I love them at that age, they’re so sweet and loving. And a girl too – I always wanted a girl.”

  “You must miss the boys,” I said, “away at school.”

  “Yes,” she said wistfully, “I do.”

  “My brother was at boarding school,” I told her. “It was the usual thing then, but I didn’t want Michael to go away. After all, there are some very good schools quite near where they can be day-boys.”

  “Oh, I know! And I do so wish… But David said that it was important for them to go to a top public school – useful contacts, you know.”

  “Yes, I see.” I rocked the pushchair gently to and fro. “Michael and I went to Lamb’s Cottage last weekend. Sidney is very kindly giving us some things for the Red Cross auction.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “We thought he was looking very well.”

  “Oh… David says he’s getting very frail.”

  “Well,” I said firmly, “we didn’t see any sign of that. In fact we both thought how well he’s coping.”

  “He’s quite old, though.”

  “The eighties aren’t that old nowadays,” I said briskly. “Lots of people stay in their own homes well into their nineties and still look after themselves perfectly well. Besides, Sidney has help in the house and the garden.”

  “But it’s such a responsibility,” Bridget said earnestly. “Say he had a stroke or something and lay there for days and nobody knew!”

  “Mrs Harrison would. And I’m sure she’d look in every day if you’re really worried. Besides, there are those splendid things you can wear round your neck to call for help.”

  “I suppose so…” she said doubtfully.

  “And there’s all sorts of help you can get from the Social Services to stay in your own home.”

  “Oh, I don’t think David would like that!” Bridget said quickly. “Anyway, they’re for poor people, aren’t they?”

  “I’m sure they’d let you pay,” I said. “If you insisted.”

  Bridget looked at me, suspicious of an irony she had not quite understood. “Anyway,” she said, “David’s found this marvellous place in Devon for him. More like a hotel than an Old People’s Home. It’s very expensive. I’m sure his father would love it, and there’d be lots of company for him. He’d like that.”

  The spaniel, as if sensing her uneasy mood, began to whimper and pull at his lead.

  “Oh dear,” she said gratefully, “Dandy’s getting restless, I must go. Lovely to have seen you.”

  * * *

  “She’s obviously got a guilty conscience about it,” I said to Thea, when she called to collect Alice. “She’s a nice person really I’m sure, and she can’t be happy to see the way David is determined to get poor old Sidney out of Lamb’s Cottage.”

  “Well, Sidney must just stand up to him.”

  “Ye-es. But it’s not easy when you’re old. It would be different if there were two of them. Not,” I added thoughtfully, “that Joan would have been much good at standing up to anyone.”

  “Really? I don’t actually remember her and she’d died before I came back to Taviscombe.”

  “Yes, I suppose she had, it was quite a while ago – goodness, how the time flies! No, Joan was a sweet person, but a mouse-like little creature who couldn’t say boo to a goose.”

  “Do mice speak to geese?” Thea asked, laughing.

  “No, you know what I mean. Quiet and gentle, a real homebody, as they say. I often wondered how she managed when they were in London – he was a very high-powered accountant – and there must have been a lot of entertaining. And he was away quite a bit because his firm had connections in America, so she was on her own because David was away at boarding school. As far as I can gather she never really had friends of her own and her brother lived in Canada – she must have been lonely. Of course she was absolutely devoted to Sidney and he was to her. He once told me they were childhood sweethearts and they married very young. They did have their Ruby Wedding before she died.”

  “That was nice.”

  “It was a terrific do, at that big Country House Hotel just outside Taunton. Michael and I went. I remember thinking at t
he time that Joan was a bit overwhelmed by it all. Sidney was in his element, of course, but Joan just sat there looking bewildered.”

  Alice, who’d been still asleep (I’d lifted her from her pushchair onto the sofa) showed signs of waking up and started to grizzle a little.

  “Poor love,” I said. “That tooth is still hurting her. Do you think she ought to have some more Calpol?”

  “No, she’ll be all right. I’ll wait until I get her home.”

  Alice, now fully awake, caught sight of the various bags and parcels Thea had brought with her and rolled herself off the sofa and trotted over to investigate them. She opened one of the bags, took out a rag doll with fair plaits, dressed in pink gingham, seized it and clambered back onto the sofa again, rocking it in her arms.

  “Dolly,” she said triumphantly. “Alice’s dolly.”

  “I know,” Thea said defensively, “she’s got so many dolls already, but I had to bring her back something!”

  “Better than Calpol,” I said. “Or any medicine. What else did you get?”

  “Oh I must show you. I went mad in Laura Ashley and got her the most gorgeous velvet pinafore dress with an embroidered yoke. Look! And a dear little hat to go with it.”

  When they’d gone I thought again about Bridget and how, in a strange way, she was a sort of replica of Joan, another doormat – so unexpected in this day and age. Thea was modern, in that she’d had a very successful career, but old fashioned because she’d chosen to give up her job to look after Alice. I wondered how it would be with Alice – home or career? Of course I might not still be around to see and the thought saddened me. I poured myself a gin and tonic, partly to cheer myself up and partly because I was out of practice at looking after small children and suddenly felt very tired.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  It is a truth universally acknowledged (at least among those engaged in Good Works) that committee meetings are (generally speaking) a complete waste of time. A great deal is said but very little is decided and, in the end, the actual work is done by the faithful few who have been doing it for as long as anyone can remember, while those who were most voluble usually find they have important engagements that can’t be broken when any sort of action is called for.