Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death Read online

  As I drove home I thought how good it was to see them together again. Phyll had seemed to drift along after her father died, not exactly unhappy, but aimless, as if she’d lost her sense of direction. But now that her strong, loving elder sister had come back, she’d become a different person. Much more her old self, more relaxed and happy, even before Martin had reappeared in her life. But (and the thought startled me so much that I felt obliged to pull into a lay-by to consider it) was it just that, or was it because Annie was dead? Somehow I’d forgotten that her initials were on Annie’s list. Well, not forgotten exactly, but it was a thought I’d put to one side because, since she was away from the village when Annie was taken ill, I hadn’t considered her as a suspect. But if she was on that list, she must have had a secret. I started the car again and resolutely put it out of my mind. So what if she did have a secret? It wasn’t important and I really didn’t want to know.

  As I was getting breakfast the next morning I switched on the radio and heard a familiar voice:

  “. . . We are told that you should love your neighbor. More than that—it’s quite specific—you must love your neighbor as yourself. A hard thing to ask. Not all neighbors are lovable; some may be unpleasant, even wicked. Must we love them? And then, we may ask, who is my neighbor? The preacher John Donne—who was also a poet and saw things with the clear eye of a poet—provides one answer. ‘No man is an island,’ he says. ‘I am involved in Mankind.’ We are all connected to one another as human beings and I would ask you, today, to look at each person you meet in your daily life—whatever your opinion of them may be—with a fresh eye, as first of all a fellow human being. Part, like you, of mankind.”

  Here was a moment’s silence, then the announcer ’s voice. “Thought for the Day was given by Father William Faber.”

  I switched off the radio and considered what William had said. I thought of the other words of Donne’s sermon. “Any man’s death diminishes me . . . And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls: It tolls for thee.” When words are so familiar the mind slides over them without examining them properly. Everyone in the village (a microcosm, you might say, of Mankind) was involved with Annie. She was hardly a good neighbor, but her death affected them all. But it was hard to think of Annie first of all as a human being. A hard thing to ask, William had said—I wasn’t sure I could do that. But then I thought of the picture of Annie, a little girl in a summer frock, standing up close to her mother on a sunny day many years ago.

  Life does things to people. We should, I suppose, try to understand. It was all very complicated; perhaps I would talk to William about it one day.

  A sharp bark at the back door and a reproachful feline face at the window reminded me to let the animals in, feed them, make my breakfast and generally get on with my life.

  Chapter Twenty

  The wedding went off very well. “All brides are supposed to look radiant,” I whispered to Rosemary as Phyll came down the aisle, “but she really does.” The reception was in the village hall, though there were outside caterers. “Rache wanted to do it,” Phyll had told me, “but I said she must just enjoy herself without all the fuss and responsibility!” I looked around the hall. Most of the village seemed to be there—after all, it really was a most unexpected match and decidedly an Event. I caught William’s eye and he smiled and raised his glass. “Really good champagne,” Captain Prosser had said approvingly, “not any old stuff.”

  Diana came over to speak to me. “Quite an occasion,” she said. “Fancy old Phyll getting off at last.” A typical Diana remark, but she sounded amused and almost affectionate, unlike her usual sarcastic self.

  “I know,” I said. “Isn’t it splendid? She’s so happy.”

  “What about him? Is he okay?”

  “He seems nice, and fond of Phyll. Anyway, Rachel likes him and she’s nobody’s fool, so I think he’s all right.”

  “Yes, Rachel—it must be a bit hard on her, when she’s just moved back here, to be left rattling about in that big house alone.”

  “Well, it won’t be for a while. Phyll and Martin will stay with her when they get back from their honeymoon, until the cottage is renovated, and that’s bound to take ages. And, of course, they’ll still be in the village.”

  “That’s true. Toby wanted to come down for the wedding, but there’s some tiresome committee he had to be at the House for. I can’t wait for him to come back for good. I hate London and all that political nonsense. He was never cut out for it—pretty well forced into it by our families.” She smiled. “He can be himself at last, the man I thought I’d married.”

  “I’m very happy for you,” I said, and I meant it. The new Diana seemed to be an agreeable person and I was glad to wish her well.

  “Thanks. I think they’re about to cut the cake and have the toasts, so I’d better get a refill.” She held up her glass, which I noticed had contained orange juice, gave me the ghost of her old sardonic smile and moved toward the buffet.

  “Whatever’s happened to Diana?” Rosemary had come up behind me. “Is she on the wagon?”

  “I think so.”

  “And she’s actually amiable. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard her congratulating Phyll as if she really meant it. A complete personality change!”

  “I know. I think it’s relief. She had to be hard and confrontational because she was unhappy and, probably, afraid.”

  “Because of Annie, you mean?”

  “I think that was the last straw—all that stuff I told you—worrying about it. I’m sure that’s why she took to drink. And now that Annie’s gone and Toby’s retiring, she can relax at last.”

  “You may be right. Well, whatever it is, it’s a vast improvement.”

  The speeches were short and affectionate—Phyll was very popular in the village—and soon afterwards the happy couple went away.

  “So sensible,” Mary Fletcher said to me, “not to have to change. I mean, that lovely dress was perfectly all right to travel in. Anyway, they’re only going to London today. Rachel said they’re staying at the Ritz tonight before they catch their flight to Vienna. Isn’t that glamorous!”

  “Lovely,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to stay at the Ritz, but I don’t suppose I ever will now.”

  “Oh, you never know your luck! Oh yes, before I forget, the printer said they hope to have finished copies of the book in a few weeks’ time, so we must make proper arrangements for distributing them.”

  “Yes, of course, we’ll have a chat about it. Father William has some good ideas. I’ll see when he’s free and we can all get together.”

  I had a quick word with Rachel. “It all went off splendidly; you must be very pleased.”

  “Yes, thank goodness. Phyll had a fit of nerves this morning.”

  “Not doubts?”

  “Oh no—no problem there. She suddenly got panicky at the thought of everyone looking at her! Well, you know she’s never liked being the center of attention. Anyway, I told her the only person looking at her that mattered was Martin, and that did the trick.”

  “She certainly looked blissfully happy.”

  “Yes, I do believe she is. Such a relief.”

  William agreed a time to discuss the arrangements for the Book and Mary was keen for us to meet at her house. Jim was nowhere to be seen and I suspected that he’d been told to make himself scarce. I was touched to see that she’d got out the best china and that there was homemade shortbread and fancy almond biscuits.

  “Now, do make yourselves at home. Sheila, you sit here. Father, I think you’ll find that chair comfortable. I’ll just get the coffee.”

  After a lot of offers of milk and sugar (“I’ve got sweeteners somewhere if you’d rather”) we finally got down to business, which we settled fairly quickly and efficiently, after which, as is the custom at such times, we relaxed into a good old gossip.

  “Such a lovely wedding,” Mary said. “A beautiful service, suitable for one of riper years—or is that b
aptism?”

  “I did, certainly, edit it slightly,” William said. “I felt they were rather past the age for the procreation of children.”

  “And so many people there,” Mary said hastily. “The village hall was quite crowded. Judith was saying it was just the sort of thing that Annie would have loved.”

  There was an almost imperceptible silence; then I said, “Yes, I’m sure she would. Well, I suppose in a way Martin was there because of her—I mean,” I continued, feeling that I was not improving matters, “we might never have known him if . . . Though, of course, he and Phyll had met before, so I suppose they might have come together again in the general course of things.”

  “Indeed they might,” William said, obviously enjoying my confusion. “God moves in a mysterious way, as the hymn tells us.”

  “I love Cowper,” I said. “So, of course, did Jane Austen—you remember that bit in Sense and Sensibility?”

  “Some of his poems are really lovely,” Mary said, delighted at the literary turn the conversation had taken. “That one about the stricken deer. I often think of that when they’re hunting.”

  At that the conversation proceeded along familiar lines and the old arguments, Mary, a keen supporter of the RSPCA and William mischievously citing the many hunting parsons, which fortunately got us to Jack Russell terriers.

  “Well,” I said, “do forgive me, but I really must go. I want to drop in on Rachel and return a book.”

  William got to his feet. “Oh, don’t go, Father,” Mary said. “There’s several things I’d like to ask you about.” Obviously, she was determined to make the most of a social occasion.

  Rachel looked a little disconcerted when she answered the door.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically. “Is this a bad time? I only wanted to return this book that Phyll lent me.”

  “No, no, it’s fine, do come in. It’s just that I have to make a rather important phone call and it might take a little while. But come into the sitting room and make yourself at home and then, when I’ve made the call, we’ll have lunch.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, really, it’ll be nice to have a chat. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She went out, shutting the door behind her.

  I put the book I was returning—Pruning Shrubs and Roses—down on the table and went over to the bookshelves, which covered most of one wall. I’m always fascinated by other people’s books. Not just what books they have but how they’ve arranged them, whether orderly (alphabetically, or by subject) or higgledy-piggledy like mine. The books here were quite a mixture. There were a great many Oxford editions of our great authors, presumably from Phyll’s schoolteaching days, a lot of modern authors in bright dust jackets, and a few medical books left over from Dr. Gregory’s time. There was also a fine, handsomely bound collection of the novels of Sir Walter Scott.

  I suddenly remembered how, once, when I’d come to tea with Phyll and Rachel when we were quite young, Dr. Gregory read aloud to us from Ivanhoe, and how we were all captivated by it. I remembered that the very next day I went to the library to get a copy so I could see how it all turned out. I suppose there are certain authors, certain books even, that you should read when you’re young, since it’s somehow too daunting to start on them when you’re grown up. I went to take down the copy from the shelf, but it wouldn’t come out; something seemed to be wedged behind it. By removing Rob Roy and The Heart of Midlothian from farther along, I was able to get at the book that had been causing the trouble. It was a book on mushrooms and edible fungi. Sticking out from the pages was a slip of paper, marking the place of something. I opened the book and found an entry about the deadly Lepiota and its resemblance to the harmless Macrolepiota. I stared at this for a while; then I saw that the corner of another page had been turned down. This featured a fungus called Brown Roll-Rim, which can be eaten once with no ill effects but, eaten several times, it can cause collapse and possible renal failure. The full implication of what I was looking at suddenly struck me and I was standing there with the book open when Rachel came back into the room.

  “Sorry to be so long, but it was something important that I had to arrange—” She saw the book I had in my hand and stopped abruptly.

  “I was looking for your father’s copy of Ivanhoe,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And this was wedged behind it.”

  “I see.” She came over and took the book out of my hand, glancing at the page it was open at. “I see,” she repeated.

  “Rachel,” I said urgently, “was it Phyll? I know Annie was blackmailing her—she was blackmailing half the village . . .”

  Rachel shook her head slowly. “No. It wasn’t Phyll. It was me.”

  There was complete silence for a moment; then I said, “You did it for Phyll?”

  She nodded. “For me as well, in a way.” She paused as if to collect her thoughts. “Annie had been in and out of the house during our mother’s last illness and knew that Father had killed our mother.” She paused again briefly and went on. “Well, that was how she put it, and I suppose that’s how the law would look at it. Because he couldn’t bear to see Mother suffer—she was in a great deal of pain—he eased her out of life.” Another pause. “That was the hold Annie had.”

  “But not over your father.”

  “No, it was a little while after he died. About the time she worked out how to use the knowledge she had of other people’s secrets to get power over them—to help her run the village the way she wanted, I suppose. Anyway, you know how devoted Phyll was to Father—she couldn’t bear the thought of what people would say.”

  “People would understand.”

  “The way she saw it, his good name would be gone, and the respect everyone had for him. She’d been brooding about it for ages and when I came back here she told me all about it.”

  “Poor Phyll.”

  “She’s my little sister—I had to do something. Besides, I felt the same about Father. I wasn’t going to let someone like Annie Roberts destroy his reputation, especially when I thought what a wonderful doctor he’d been and how he’d helped so many people.”

  I nodded and she went on.

  “I knew about her thing with edible fungi so I got this book and found out how the poisonous variety could be mistaken for the harmless one. And then I found the one that you could eat once safely, but was poisonous thereafter. The other two weren’t difficult to get hold of, but that one certainly was. I had to go traipsing all over Dorset before I found it. Believe me, I’m quite an expert now. So there you are. I’d found the perfect way to get rid of someone and be nowhere near when it happened.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  “I made several mushroom quiches for the Harvest Supper—one had the Brown Roll-Rim fungus in. I remembered Annie’s unpleasant habit of scrounging any leftover food on these occasions and also the fact that she ate up everything, however ancient, in her fridge. I even ate one slice of the quiche myself, and made sure someone saw me, so that, in the unlikely event of anyone questioning what she’d eaten, I could say the quiche was fine. Then I put it to one side as one of the leftovers. And I arranged for Phyll and me to be a long way away when it happened.”

  “But surely,” I said, caught up in her explanation, “you couldn’t be sure it would be fatal—not all poisonous fungi actually kill people. She might just have been very ill and then recovered.”

  “The thing about this particular fungus is that it causes renal failure. I happened to know that Annie had only one kidney. I heard Father mention it—I can’t remember the context, but I did remember that. So even a relatively small amount of the stuff, if she ate the whole quiche, would be enough.”

  “But what about the ones in the house? How did you get them in there?”

  “When we came back and heard the news, I helped Judith clear up the house, if you remember. It was easy to leave the back door on the catch—Judith was so busy talking she wouldn’t have noticed if I’d left t
he door wide-open—so I slipped round the back way through the field after dark, and put the poisonous ones in a basket in the kitchen.”

  We’d been standing all this while, but now she sat down and I felt the need to as well.

  After a bit I said, “Does Phyll know?”

  “Good God, no! And, please, Sheila, I would be very grateful if you never told her.”

  “But—but you can’t expect me to condone what you’ve done! I agree that Annie was a despicable person and she made a lot of people thoroughly miserable and she should have been punished. Punished, perhaps, but not killed.”

  “I agree with you. But there was no way of exposing her without the facts coming out. And, from what I gathered, many other facts too, that might have blighted other people’s lives.”

  “You can’t justify—”

  “No, of course I can’t—it’s indefensible. All I can do is try and make up for what I’ve done in other ways.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The phone call I just made—it was to Jamie’s boss at the relief organization. I’m going out to Somalia to one of the refugee camps. They’re desperately short of people with medical training.”

  “It’ll be terribly dangerous.”

  “It’s something I can do to make amends, something worthwhile.” She gave a wry smile. “I believe it’s called expiation. So, please, Sheila, let Annie’s death still be an accident—don’t tell anyone.”

  I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “I’ll tell Rosemary—she’s been puzzled about the whole affair as I have, but she won’t tell anyone.”

  “Thank you. I’m very grateful.” She smiled. “Though, actually, I don’t think there’s any actual evidence . . .”

  “There’s the book,” I said. “Why did you keep it?” Rachel leaned forwards slightly, as though imparting something secret. “You must never think that I’m not aware of what a terrible thing I did; it’s burned on my mind. But, just to remind me, every day, I’m taking that book with me—a sort of hair shirt, you might say.”