7 - Death of a Dean Page 13

  “You mean ...?”

  “Oh yes,” she said quietly, “he was unfaithful, there were other women in his life. Well, it’s understandable, he was such an attractive man.”

  “But you never did anything about it?”

  “What could I do? We couldn’t afford any sort of scandal, it would have been so bad for his reputation—the bishop and everything. No, I never let him realize that I knew what was going on. You do see, don’t you, I didn’t dare say anything in case he’d found someone he really cared for, someone he’d risk divorcing me for! I would have lost him altogether then!”

  “Oh Joan,” I said helplessly.

  “It only happened a couple of times,” she assured me earnestly, “and he never even hinted that he might leave me!”

  “Who were these women?” I asked curiously.

  “One was the wife of the churchwarden when we were down in Cornwall; there was someone in London, I think, and recently there was someone down here, but I don’t know who.” She pulled her cardigan close about her and shivered. “What does it matter now? He’s gone and I’ll never see him again.”

  She was crying quietly now, the tears rolling unchecked down her face. Somehow this silent despair was more upsetting than the wild sobbing. I put my arm around her shoulders and we sat there for a while, neither of us saying anything.

  So Francis had been having affairs, there could be a motive there. I wondered how I could find out who the mysterious woman in Culminster was. Perhaps Mary knew. If she did that might be another reason why she felt particularly bitter toward her father.

  Joan made an effort to pull herself together. She mopped at her face with her handkerchief and stood up, almost composed.

  “I’m so sorry, Sheila,” she said. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with my worries.”

  “My dear, I’m so glad you did.”

  “The children don’t understand.”

  “It’s always easier with one’s own generation,” I said soothingly.

  “Yes. The young can’t know .... They don’t know how it feels—all those years together.”

  “I know,” I said. “I felt like that when Peter died. When one of the pillars of the house you’ve built together is suddenly taken away. But,” I said bracingly, “you have to go on. It’s something you have to face up to. You must be strong.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve never been strong, you know that. How can I start now?”

  I was silent, for how, indeed, could she start now. The sound of the doorbell shattered the silence.

  “I expect that’s David,” I said. “He was going to meet me here.”

  Joan seemed to shrink back. “Oh dear,” she said, “I don’t think ...”

  “You won’t feel like seeing anyone, I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll tell him you’re not very well, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “Thank you, Sheila, that would be kind.”

  I gave her a quick hug and went downstairs to meet David.

  I thought he was looking a little strained but I wanted to get him away from the deanery so I didn’t ask him how he’d got on.

  “Joan’s a bit upset,” I said. “She sent her love but didn’t feel up to seeing anyone. Look, it’s after twelve, why don’t we have lunch here? There’s a sort of tea shop place by the cathedral that does what they call light lunches. It’s usually nice and quiet.”

  The Spinning Wheel (which really did have a spinning wheel in the window, along with the trays of homemade scones and maids of honor) was indeed quiet—we were the only customers and had our choice of gingham-covered tables. I led the way to one at the far end by the old fireplace, filled with a large arrangement of dried flowers and surrounded by a collection of horse brasses.

  “Here, this will do.”

  After our food had arrived (quiche and salad for me, dish of the day: shepherd’s pie for David) I said, “Poor Joan, she was very weepy—I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. But first of all I want to know how you got on. What did the police want to see you about?”

  David was making patterns with his fork in the mashed potato in front of him.

  “It’s all very odd,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “Absolutely out of the blue!”

  “What?”

  “It’s Nana. The police seem to think that she might have been murdered too.”

  Chapter 15

  I was absolutely stunned. I sat with my fork suspended in midair and stared at him.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “I think they’ve decided that I murdered poor old Nana to get the house empty and then did in Francis because he refused to sell.”

  “But she fell downstairs.”

  “They seem to think she might have been pushed.”

  “Oh, David, what rubbish,” I exclaimed impatiently.

  “Well, I suppose it makes sense to them.”

  “Hang on,” I said, “when did she die?” I got out my diary. “You’ve probably got a perfectly good alibi for that day. Um, let me see, it was the twenty-first, wasn’t it? Oh.”

  David looked at me quizzically. “Exactly,” he said. “That was when you went to Exeter for the whole day with Rosemary and I simply stayed around the house. Actually, I went into Taviscombe in the morning, do you remember? To get those slug pellets you wanted. I passed the bottom of West Hill. I could easily have popped in and chucked the poor old dear down the stairs.”

  “But you couldn’t have got in,” I said. “You didn’t have a key, did you?”

  “No, but she’d have let me in. As the inspector made a point of saying, it would have been someone she knew and trusted.”

  “At that rate it might just as easily have been Francis.”

  “Francis,” David pointed out patiently, “didn’t have any reason to want the house empty.”

  “Well, there’s absolutely nothing to indicate that you ever did go and see her,” I said firmly, “so they can speculate all they like!”

  “Actually ...” David was fiddling with the mashed potato again. “Actually there was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I did go and see Nana—not on that day, but a few days before.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “You never mentioned it.”

  “Well,” he said, “it was a bit embarrassing. I went round there one morning to try and persuade her to move somewhere else. She was very vague. I mean, she knew who I was and so forth, but she kept thinking we were back in the past—you know, complaining about how untidy my room was and had I changed my vest. I tried to make her understand about things, but in the end I’m afraid I got a bit impatient with her and she was rather upset. I felt pretty mean then, you know, bullying the poor old thing like that, so I suppose I felt too ashamed to tell you I’d seen her.”

  “Oh dear,” I said, “how sad. Still, the police aren’t to know you’d been round. Unless someone saw you.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. It’s just that when I was round there I left behind a pair of gloves and they had my name in them.”

  “Why on earth did you have your name in your gloves?” I asked, sidetracked for a moment by this strange fact.

  David laughed. “Nana’s influence, would you believe. She always made us write our names on the lining of our gloves so that Francis and I didn’t quarrel over whose pair was which. The habit’s sort of stuck. Ironic, isn’t it? I meant to go back and collect them when I realized they were missing, but then Nana died and, what with one thing and another, I forgot about them.”

  “How did the police know about the gloves? I mean, they didn’t search the house when she died or anything. As far as anyone knew it was an accident, so there was no reason.”

  “No. But apparently the inspector suddenly had this thought about it possibly being murder, and, since the house hadn’t been touched since she died, he got the key from Adrian and went to have a look around.”<
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  The waitress came and took away our plates, looking hurt at the amount of unconsumed food.

  “Do you want a sweet?” she inquired. “There’s apple pie or crumble.”

  David shook his head.

  “No, thank you,” I said, “just coffee.”

  “The trouble is,” David said, “when they first asked me if I’d been to see Nana, I said I hadn’t.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes, well. Then Inspector Hosegood told me about the gloves and so I had to tell him what I’ve just told you. Which, in a way, made things worse.”

  “He’d think you’d been intimidating her?”

  “Exactly. And then, when I couldn’t bully her into moving, I lured her upstairs and pushed her down. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!”

  “Oh David, what a mess! Still”—I suddenly thought of something—“if you had done it, then surely you’d have been round straight away to collect your gloves—as soon as you knew they were missing!”

  “We must hope the inspector has your quick wit, dear.”

  The waitress put two cups of very milky coffee before us.

  “Did the inspector have anything else to say about Francis?” I asked. “Oh bother, can I borrow your sweeteners? I can’t find mine in this stupid handbag. Thanks. Have they got any farther with that?”

  “I don’t think so. I did ask, but he was a bit noncommittal—well, he would be, I suppose, if he’s got me cast as the murderer.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “So,” David said, stirring his coffee vigorously, “how did you get on with Joan?”

  “It was quite extraordinary,” I replied. “I’d more or less decided she was the guilty party—she could easily have got hold of some morphine while she was sitting with old Canon Burgess, and the whole thing fitted perfectly. I was all set to try and confront her in some way, when she broke down.”

  “Goodness!”

  “We got it all wrong, David—she was sobbing her heart out, she really loved him!”

  “You’re sure? It wasn’t just an act—the grieving widow and all that?”

  “Oh no, I’m quite sure. I know genuine grief when I see it. Poor Joan, she really does feel she hasn’t anything left to live for!”

  “Good God! I must say I find it hard to understand how anyone could grieve for a cold fish like Francis ...”

  “And that’s not all,” I went on. “She told me that Francis had had several affairs, including a recent one with someone in Culminster!”

  “You’re joking! Francis!”

  “So Joan said. Poor soul—she never dared to confront him for fear of losing him altogether.”

  “The slimy toad!” David said. “The sanctimonious bastard!”

  “The thing is,” I said, “it does spread the net a bit wider, as far as motives are concerned.”

  “You mean a jealous husband?”

  “Perhaps. Or an extra motive for Mary or Adrian if they found out about it and felt as you do about his appalling hypocrisy, as well as being furious for their mother’s sake.”

  David leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m damned,” he said. “Francis!”

  “It’s not so incredible from the female’s point of view, I suppose, whoever she is. I mean, we know what he was really like, but he was very good looking, and when he wanted to be—I mean, when he wanted something from somebody—he could be quite charming. Most of the females in the diocese doted on him—that sort of grand remoteness can be very attractive, if you fancy that kind of thing. No, I can easily see some poor, impressionable female being swept off her feet.”

  “I wonder who it was?”

  I reached for my handbag and tried to catch the waitress’s eye.

  “I think I must have another chat with Mary, I have a feeling she may know more about all this than she’s letting on.” I sighed. “I just hope it doesn’t mean that I’ve got to go riding again! Actually, it would certainly be easier to see her at the stables. Perhaps I’ll go round on Saturday when she’s likely to be there.”

  There was no one about when I entered the yard, though sounds of girlish laughter came from one of the stables followed by cries of “Mind what you’re doing with that fork, Caroline, you ass!”

  I approached the open door cautiously and put my head around. “Hello. Is Mary Beaumont anywhere around?”

  A plump, pigtailed girl of about ten appeared. She was wearing jodhpurs, Wellington boots and a T-shirt that bore the proud legend CULMINSTER PONY CLUB, and was carrying a pitchfork.

  “I’m frightfully sorry,” she said politely, “she’s not here. She had to take Rajah and Nelson down to the smith’s. I don’t think she’ll be long. Fay’s in the tack room, if you’d like to see her.” She gestured toward a building at the end of the yard.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  It might be interesting to have a word with Fay while I was waiting for Mary, I thought. I might pick up something there.

  I knocked on the tack room door and went in and was immediately enveloped in a warm, cozy world smelling of horses and polish. It was an impressive room, with wooden walls where highly polished bridles hung on pegs, saddles on stands and a great many rosettes that spoke eloquently of success in innumerable shows. Fay was sitting on a stool polishing a bit.

  “Hello,” she said, “I know you, don’t I?”

  “I’m Sheila Malory, a friend of Mary’s.”

  “Yes, of course, I remember. You went out on Prudence, didn’t you? Do you want to book another ride?”

  “No—well, not at the moment. I just wanted to have a word with Mary.”

  “She’s taken a couple of horses to be shod,” Fay said, “but she won’t be long if you’d like to wait. Here, chuck the stuff off that chair and sit down.”

  “Do forgive me intruding like this, but the girl in one of the stables said you were in here.”

  “Jennifer? Yes, she and her friend Caroline seem to ask nothing more of life than to spend their weekends mucking out here.”

  “Little girls and horses,” I said smiling.

  “Absolutely! Thank God for child labor. You ought to see this place in the school holidays!”

  “As I said, I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I wanted to have a word with Mary about her mother—I’m very worried about her—and so I couldn’t very well go to the deanery.”

  “I understand. How is Mrs. Beaumont? Mary hasn’t said much about how things are at home since ...”

  “I think it’s all a bit fraught. Her mother’s very upset, of course, and her brother seems to have broken down completely. Mary is the only strong one now.”

  “Yes, she’s always been pretty tough underneath. Not quite tough enough to stand up to that terrible father of hers, though—I’m sorry,” Fay broke off and looked at me inquiringly. “I know the Beaumonts have been friends of yours for some time ...”

  “You can say what you like about Francis,” I said. “He wasn’t exactly one of my favorite people. No, it’s Joan I’m concerned about. She adored him, strange as it may seem, and she’s going to need an awful lot of support from Mary, since it looks as though Adrian’s going to be no help at all.”

  Fay laid down the bit and took a bridle off one of the pegs and began to work on it. “It sounds a dreadful thing to say, given the circumstances of her father’s death, but Mary’s been a different girl since all this happened.”

  “I know she’s always wanted to work here,” I said, “so now perhaps she can.”

  “Not just work,” Fay said. “She knows I’ve been looking for a partner in the business and she thinks that now her mother can get at her own money at last she may be able to come in with me. Actually, the timing’s right. I’ve just had an offer from another friend, a girl I used to work with at the Priory Riding Center a couple of years ago. She’s quite keen to come in with me. Of course, I’ve more or less given Mary first refusal, so, as I say ...”

  “I see. Well, I do hope t
hings work out for Mary. She’s had a pretty dismal life up to now.”

  There was a clatter of horses’ hooves in the yard outside.

  “That’ll be Mary back again,” Fay said. She put her head around the door and called out, “Mary! A visitor for you! Why don’t you both go into the office and make yourselves a cup of coffee. You haven’t got another lesson until twelve-thirty.”

  I waited until Mary had seen to the horses and then followed her into the office. Unlike the tack room, where everything was neat and well ordered, the office was chaotic, with papers scattered about, mixed up with bits of harness, polishing cloths and old copies of Horse and Hound.

  Mary pushed a clutter of brushes and curry combs to one side and plugged in the electric kettle.

  “Nice to see you, Sheila,” she said. “Have you come to book a ride?”

  “No,” I said hastily, “I mean, I’d love to some other time but I’m a bit tied up just now, with David staying and everything. As I said to Fay, I’m sorry to bother you here, but I did want to have a word with you about your mother. I’m really worried about her, she still seemed to be in a terrible state when I saw her yesterday. I’m afraid she misses your father dreadfully.”

  Mary still had her back to me, as she spooned coffee into a couple of mugs, so I couldn’t see her face. “Yes,” she said, “I do find that hard to understand, when you’d think she’d be as glad to be rid of him as I was.”

  “Well,” I replied, rather flustered at this plain speaking, “I’m afraid she isn’t. The fact is she was still very much in love with him.”

  Mary turned and handed me a mug of coffee. “Hard to imagine,” she said. “How could she be?”

  “Love is like that,” I said rather tritely, “there’s no rhyme or reason in it. She says she feels there’s nothing left to live for.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” Mary exclaimed impatiently. “I’ve made plans for us all—it’s going to be great!”