The Cruellest Month Read online

  ‘She sounds very unpleasant but do you know that anyone would have actually wanted her dead?’

  ‘No – I don’t know – not anyone one actually knows - no that wouldn’t be possible.’

  He spoke vehemently, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.

  ‘Things like that don’t happen to people like us?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘They do, though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We sat in silence until a sudden burst of laughter from a group of locals talking to the landlord at the bar broke the tension between us.

  ‘Tell me about Pamela,’ I said. ‘She seems very nice. Am I right in thinking that she is a particular friend of yours?’

  I chose my words carefully and was rewarded by a grateful smile.

  ‘Yes she is – a particular friend. And very nice.’

  ‘Does she live in Oxford?’

  ‘She lives with her mother in a fiat at Wolvercote. Mrs Turner, her mother, is an invalid – it’s all a bit difficult for Pamela – well you know what it’s like, you will understand.’

  I, too, had had an invalid mother until three years ago.

  ‘Poor girl, it can be a strain. Is she fond of her mother?’

  ‘Oh yes. Mrs Turner is a marvellous woman – very brave and cheerful – Pamela is devoted to her.’

  My mother had been brave and cheerful too. She had also been witty, compassionate and quite exceptionally life-enhancing. I hoped that Pamela was as lucky.

  ‘I see her sometimes. I give Pamela a lift home and pop in to say a word. She gets pretty lonely by herself all day. I wonder...’ he hesitated. ‘I wonder – would you come with me one evening?’

  ‘Of course, I’d be delighted.’

  I was very flattered that Tony trusted me with this part of his private life and I was certainly curious to see how he fitted into the Turner household.

  Chapter Six

  I was able to form my own opinion about the Turners the very next day. I was up early for breakfast having been woken by a dawn emergency telephone call for Robert, who I observed from my bedroom window striding down the path towards the garage, his black bag in one hand and what seemed to be a currant bun, from which he took enormous bites, in the other.

  ‘Was Robert really eating a currant bun this morning?’ I asked Betty as I put some bread in the toaster.

  ‘It could have been,’ she said yawning. ‘He just snatches up what comes to hand when he has an early call – once it was a couple of cold roast potatoes.’

  ‘How does he do it?’ I marvelled. ‘After a late night, too, he seemed to be fresh as a daisy! Toast for you?’

  ‘More than I am. Nothing to eat for me. Just tea.’

  ‘Was it a good do?’

  ‘Not as bad as I expected and I was able to have a really useful chat with Leslie Robertson, who’s organised this group over at Enstone – we’re going to get together – both groups – over the by-pass protest.’

  ‘Oh good – you’re up,’ Tony said to me as he came into the kitchen.

  ‘I can give you a lift in and back again this evening if you like, Sheila. I’ll be leaving in about half an hour.’

  ‘Splendid! I’ll just have this bit of toast. Oh, by the way, Betty, Cleo’s in my bed so I’ll have to leave it.’

  ‘Dreadful animal!’ Betty said absently. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to it later on when she comes down.’

  As we drove in Tony said, ‘Would you like to come with me to the Turners’ this evening? It seems a good opportunity.’

  ‘Won’t it be rather short notice?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll just put our heads round and say hello – nothing formal.’

  As we walked to the car that evening, Pamela said shyly, ‘Thank you for coming to see Mother. She gets very few visitors. We don’t have many friends here – Mother moved to be with me when my father died last year. We used to live in Leamington.’

  ‘Were you up at Oxford,’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I was at St Hilda’s – I read English – and then I was lucky enough to get this job in the Bodleian…’ She broke off, as if she was uncertain about something, then continued, ‘Tony’s told me about your mother and how you looked after her for all those years. Was it very difficult?’

  ‘No, not really. I was lucky – my mother was a wonderful person and I loved her very much, so I never felt that I was making a sacrifice. And then, of course, Peter, my husband, loved her as much as I did. There was never any question of where she would make her home. We wanted her with us.’

  ‘You were lucky to find someone who felt about things as you did,’ Pamela said wistfully.

  ‘Yes I was. Peter was very special.’

  The Turners’ flat was in a red-brick, barrack-like block just off the main road to Wolvercote. The rooms were small and box-like with low ceilings and metal window frames. I could imagine the condensation running down them in the winter. It was a ground-floor flat and I felt that it might well be noisy. Sure enough, as Pamela turned the key in the door, we could hear the whirr of a Hoover being used in the flat above.

  ‘Mrs Organ-Morgan’s at it again,’ Tony said and they both laughed.

  ‘The woman upstairs is obsessively house-proud.’ Pamela explained. ‘She always seems to be sweeping or Hoovering. It’s a little joke we have about her.’

  I smiled benevolently on them both.

  Mrs Turner was sitting in an orthopaedic chair by the window – just as my mother used to do. But where Mother had had the trees and hills of Exmoor to refresh and delight her, Mrs Turner’s view consisted of a row of garages and a line of parked cars. But the windowsill was crowded with flowering pot plants, the meagre little room was comfortable with old-fashioned furniture and the cream-emulsioned walls were almost covered with pictures – mostly old prints. Mrs Turner rose painfully to her feet and came and took my hand.

  ‘How very kind of you to come, Mrs Malory. It’s so nice to see a new face.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’

  I led her back to her chair and she settled herself with a small sigh.

  Pamela said, ‘Will you have a glass of sherry or would you rather have tea or coffee?’

  ‘I think I’d like a cup of coffee, please,’ I said.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ Tony said and followed Pamela out into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Mrs Turner. She was a small, thin woman, about my age. Her hair was still a rich dark brown but her face was lined and drawn, the result, I knew of years of pain. Her hands were twisted and strapped up with supports and she wore trousers, as my mother had done, to hide the strappings on her legs and ankles, as well as for the additional warmth. But her expression was cheerful and lively and we chatted happily about her plants and how she missed her garden.

  ‘I couldn’t do much, by the time I had to leave – this wretched arthritis makes things very difficult. But, then you know all about that. Tony told me about your mother.’

  ‘It is a terrible thing and they still don’t seem able to find a cure – though there are things, I know, that can help.’

  ‘Hospital waiting lists are so long ... still I manage to keep occupied.’

  She reached down and produced a knitting bag from beside her chair.

  ‘I can’t do tapestry work any more but I can just about manage to do a bit of knitting. Fortunately my hands aren’t as bad as my poor feet.’

  She smoothed out the front of a pullover. It was knitted in a very complex stitch and beautifully done.

  ‘What a complicated pattern!’ I exclaimed. ‘It must be very difficult.’

  ‘Following the pattern’s quite easy – my brain hasn’t gone yet! – but it takes a long time to do a row. It’s for Tony, you see. He’s been so wonderfully kind to Pamela and to me. Do you know, he was worried about me using the electric stove when Pamela is out - I warm up something that she leaves me for lunch, bless her. So he managed to find this microwave oven - just like new. A friend
of his mother’s was getting rid of it, he said – she was going to have a bigger one. Well I wasn’t sure if I could manage it at first - I didn’t quite understand about the Standing Time.’ She brought out the technical phrase with pride. ‘But Tony is so good at explaining things, so patient. He’s a wonderful boy!’

  Her face lit up as she spoke and she gently stroked the knitting on her lap. I could imagine how painful it must be for her just to hold the needles and the thought of the affection that made her persevere made my throat prickle with tears, as it does when I see things that move and upset me, like old ladies whose supermarket baskets hold only a small tin of soup, a packet of biscuits and six tins of cat food. I admired not only Tony’s kindness but his tact as well.

  The young people came back with the coffee and some of Pamela’s shortbread and we were quite a jolly party. It was lovely to see Tony as the centre of that little house-hold, to see how he grew in stature and authority as they deferred lovingly to him, and how gentle and affectionate he was not just with Pamela but her mother as well. He was happy here – all the sweetness and generosity of his nature had found an outlet at last, and I resolved to do everything I could to make this happiness last.

  I was not surprised the next day when Pamela, handing me my document box, asked if I would have lunch with her.

  ‘I have to go rather early, if you don’t mind. About twelve?’

  ‘That’ll be fine – places are always much emptier then.’

  I chose to go to a rather health-foody place called Salad Days, partly because it had a lot of quiet corners where we could talk undisturbed, and partly because Pamela didn’t look like the sort of girl who would feel comfortable in a pub – certainly not a noisy Oxford pub.

  We settled ourselves down with our bowls of salad, our rolls and our fruit juice (orange for Pamela, apple for me) and I said brightly, ‘Well, this is nice!’

  Eating salad these days is really hard work, especially since they’ve taken to putting in chunks of raw cabbage, apple and intractable pieces of red and yellow peppers, not to mention nuts and fibrous bits of fennel. We chewed away in comparative silence for a while and then Pamela seemed to brace herself and said, ‘Tony’s told me so much about you. I mean, I know that he’s very fond of his parents and sister but...’

  ‘They are rather busy all the time, yes, I know. Tony’s always been very special to me and I do care very much about his happiness.’

  ‘Has he told you that he’s asked me to marry him?’

  ‘My dear! How marvellous!’

  ‘But I’ve said no.’

  ‘But why? He’s obviously devoted to you – and – well, it seems to me that you are very fond of him.’

  ‘That’s it – I love him too much to ask him to take on an invalid mother-in-law as well. And I could never leave my mother.’

  I remembered using the same arguments to Peter and I remember his answer:

  ‘My dear girl, you and your mother have built up this wonderful relationship – if you will let me be part of that, then I will be the lucky one. Anyway,’ he gave me his lovely one-sided grin, ‘you know I’m only marrying you because your mother won’t have me.’

  I told Pamela what he had said.

  ‘That was a marvellous thing to say.’

  ‘I’m sure Tony feels the same way. Besides if he really likes your mother and she likes him – and I’m pretty sure that’s the way it is – then there’s no reason why it shouldn’t all be a marvellous success for all three of you. It seems to me that we only ever hear about the times these things don’t work out – I’m sure that thousands of couples are as happy as Peter and I were in that situation.’

  She smiled and said, ‘Tony told me to talk to you about all this – I expect he knew how convincing you would be.’

  ‘I’d be very happy to think I had convinced you.’

  She was silent for a moment and then she said tentatively, ‘There’s something else ... something quite serious.’

  She took a sip of her orange juice as if to fortify herself to continue.

  ‘I’ve done something wrong, something very foolish. I think I must tell you.’

  ‘You can tell me anything you like – I won’t repeat it to anyone.’

  First Tony, now Pamela – I seemed to be a sort of confessional.

  ‘You’ve seen Mother, how bad she is. Well, I heard about this new treatment – an artificial ankle joint – like an artificial hip – and her doctor said it would certainly benefit her, she would be able to get about, she might even be able to go out again. It seemed wonderful. But there’s a two-year waiting list and we couldn’t afford to have it done privately. We’re pretty hard up, you see. My father had a bookshop in Leamington, but he wasn’t a very good businessman. When he died – he had a heart attack – there were bills and things, and by the time we had sold the house there wasn’t much left and no pension for my mother. We can just about get by on what I earn and Mother’s invalidity allowance. I’ve got a little saved up, but nowhere near enough to pay for the operation. But, oh, I did want her to have it!’

  ‘I know how you must feel. We were very lucky. My father died when I was still at school, but my mother had what was known in those days as “private means” so we never had any money worries. She always had the best treatment that was available. You must feel so frustrated to think that she could be helped…’

  ‘That’s just it! And that’s why I did it.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Stole some valuable books from the Bodleian.’

  Automatically I noticed that she didn’t say Bodley, as Tony did, and then I realised what she had told me. She gave a wry little smile at my astonishment.

  ‘Yes, you’re right – it was totally out of character – I couldn’t believe myself what I was doing.’

  ‘But I thought that all the books had those little stamp marks on them?’

  ‘Only after they’ve been accessioned. When the books arrive they are held in one of the accession rooms to await processing. It’s a chance for the staff to have a look and see what’s come in. Anyway, I spotted these books – they were part of a collection that had been left to the Bodleian, but it was all a bit of a jumble, there wasn’t a catalogue of any kind. I knew that they were rare – I remember my father telling me what similar ones had fetched at auction several years ago.’

  She had been talking quickly, as if by telling me as rapidly as possible she could slur over what she had done, now she spoke more slowly.

  ‘It was just before twelve o’clock and for once the room was empty – the person who was working there went to lunch at twelve and I managed to scoop them up and hide them among some other books I was transferring on a trolley. I had the most dreadful fright. Just as I’d got them on the trolley the alarm bell rang. I was sure they’d found out and would be looking for me. But then I remembered it was a Thursday and they test the alarm every Thursday. You can imagine how my heart was beating! I took them into a stack room that we don’t use and smuggled them out through the back staff entrance when I went to lunch.’

  She looked at me beseechingly.

  ‘Please don’t think too badly of me – I wanted so much to help her!’

  ‘I don’t think I could blame you. I would probably have done the same thing myself.’

  ‘When I got them home I felt terrible. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, that I couldn’t go through with it – trying to sell them. I suddenly thought about what she would say – she’d know I couldn’t have got the money honestly. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t dare to take them back – I was afraid of being caught ... So I told Tony.’

  That must have been a great test of his love, I thought, since his loyalty to the Bodleian was the cornerstone of his life. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was wonderful. I could see how dreadfully upset he was, but he never said a word of blame. He got the books back himself so that they were never missed. But then something awful happened.’


  ‘Something else?’

  ‘Gwen Richmond – she saw me take the books, I don’t know how – I suppose she must have been round the corner of the room and I hadn’t seen her. I told her that I’d put the books back – I couldn’t let her know about Tony, of course – and that I’d never do anything like it again. I begged her not to tell anyone. At first she said she wouldn’t and that she hoped I’d learnt my lesson. But then, a few days later, she said that she really ought not to let it go and that it was her duty to tell Mr Frankau – he’s the Keeper of Western Manuscripts. She was playing with me, like a cat with a mouse. I honestly didn’t know where I stood. It was terrible! It went on like that for a couple of days and I was getting desperate. I told Tony that I would go and tell Mr Frankau myself – but I needed the job so badly and if he sacked me I wouldn’t have any sort of reference – I mean, how could he ... Anyway, I’d almost made up my mind, when she had that accident and died. It sounds really awful, but when I heard I said, “Thank God!” – wasn’t that dreadful? But you can imagine the relief!’

  So Tony hadn’t told her of his suspicions about Gwen Richmond’s death and she had no reason to suppose that it was anything other than an accident, miraculously releasing her from an agonising situation: Or had she? But no – stretch my imagination as I might – there was no way I could see Pamela murdering anyone.

  ‘You must both have been very relieved,’ I said inadequately. ‘And it’s over now. You must put it behind you. You’ll never be tempted to do anything like that again, the books are back so there’s no harm done. Your job is safe.’

  ‘I’m giving up my job in the Bodleian.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Tony’s found me a proof-reading job with the University Press – I can do part of it at home, which will be better for Mother.’

  So Tony had settled his conscience. I knew that for Tony stealing a book from Bodley was an unforgivable crime – a betrayal of trust. Pamela – even his much-loved Pamela – couldn’t stay on there after what she had done. She was sensitive enough to understand his attitude and to feel that there was now a cloud over their relationship. I set myself to dispel her doubts.