A Death in the Family Read online

  After he’d gone I went upstairs to tidy myself. I felt I must go and see Janet. No wonder she’d collapsed. This extraordinary piece of news – such a loathsome thing to have happened – coming on top of finding Bernard dead. She’d taken that with apparent calm, but this new revelation was enough to upset anyone.

  When I got to the cottage Christine opened the door.

  ‘I came as soon as I heard,’ I said. ‘How’s Janet?’

  ‘She’s calmer now,’ Christine said leading the way into the sitting room, ‘but she was quite hysterical for a while. She’s lying down at the moment, so it’s fortunate you came. I need to go out for a while – there’s no food in the house, so inefficient. But I do feel someone should be with her, if you wouldn’t mind staying till I get back.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I said, surprised at Christine’s comparatively conciliatory tone. ‘I was so sorry,’ I went on, ‘to hear of this new development. It’s perfectly horrible to think of such a thing happening. It’s no wonder poor Janet’s so upset. And apparently there’s nothing in the law to punish whoever did it.’

  ‘I shall certainly want my solicitor’s ruling on that,’ Christine said. ‘It would be unthinkable if someone who did such a thing were to go unpunished. Right then,’ she said briskly, ‘you can go on up, I don’t think Mother is asleep.’

  Actually Janet was sitting in a chair by the window. She had the same stunned look that she had when we discovered Bernard’s body. She turned as I knocked and went into the room.

  ‘Sheila?’ she said vaguely, then, obviously trying to pull herself together, ‘how kind of you to come.’

  ‘You must be feeling awful,’ I said. ‘Such a shock.’

  ‘Yes,’ she echoed, ‘such a shock.’

  ‘An unspeakable thing to have happened.’

  She was silent for a moment and then she said, ‘He was dead, you see. Dead when…’ Her face contorted and she began to cry. ‘Horrible,’ she kept repeating, ‘horrible…’

  She was sobbing violently and painfully now, every vestige of her previous calm quite gone. I knelt down beside her.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘it’s a really dreadful thing to have happened, but you mustn’t upset yourself like this, you’ll make yourself ill.’ I spoke soothingly as if to a child. If it had been a child I could have said that everything will be all right, but, in spite of her childlike helplessness, Janet was not a child and I knew that everything was going to be far from all right. After a few minutes her sobs grew less and she was obviously making an effort to control herself.

  ‘I’ll go and make you a cup of tea,’ I said, seizing on the one thing we feel we can do in difficult circumstances. ‘That’s if you’re all right for a moment?’

  She nodded without speaking and I went downstairs. In a way, I was glad to see the tears, it made the whole situation seem more normal. A wife should cry for her dead husband, shouldn’t she? Well, possibly not in some situations. But I could see that the unusual and unpleasant circumstances of Bernard’s death might well have stirred depths of feeling that had little to do with sorrow. It occurred to me, though, that I was glad that Bernard had died a natural death and that he hadn’t known of the blow someone had delivered so cruelly. I hoped Janet might feel the same. As for Christine, well, I didn’t know. Surely she must have been moved by this new aspect of her father’s death. The impregnable carapace of self-satisfaction might hide some real emotion, but she was certainly not going to show it to me, nor, probably, to her mother.

  When I took the tea upstairs Janet seemed to have recovered – she was no longer crying, but her face wore a look of desolation that I found more upsetting than her more overt signs of grief.

  ‘Here,’ I said, handing her the cup, ‘drink it up while it’s hot.’

  The banal remark seemed to cheer her and she gave me a little smile.

  ‘Thank you, Sheila, you’ve been very kind. I’m so sorry I broke down like that. It’s just that it was all so – so unexpected.’

  ‘I think you’ve been very brave,’ I said. ‘Especially now.’

  She shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  ‘How long is Christine staying?’ I asked as I poured myself a cup, feeling that I needed a little comfort too. ‘Has she decided?’

  ‘I think she’s going back tomorrow – it’s so difficult for everyone when she’s away – but she’ll be coming back as soon as they release – is that the word? – Bernard’s body.’ She spoke the last word hesitantly as if unwilling to use it.

  ‘Look, Janet,’ I said, ‘you can’t stay here on your own. Do come back with me when Christine goes.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s really sweet of you, Sheila and I do appreciate it, but I think I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You see,’ she went on, ‘I have to do things on my own now and this will be the first thing, the first time, really since I married Bernard that I’ve actually been on my own and made any sort of decision for myself. And do you know,’ she added, faintly surprised, it seemed to me, at what she was saying, ‘do you know, I’m rather looking forward to it.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The phone was ringing as I let myself into the house. It was Thea.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You sound a bit breathless.’

  ‘I’ve just got in,’ I said. ‘I had to go and see Janet.’ I told her what had happened and she exclaimed, ‘How absolutely awful. What a vile thing to have happened!’

  ‘I must say it did shake me a bit and Janet really broke down.’

  ‘I should think so, poor soul. But look, Sheila, are you sure you’re all right for tonight? I’m sure Virginia would quite understand if we didn’t make it.’

  I suddenly remembered I’d agreed to babysit Alice while Thea and Michael went out to dinner. ‘No, really, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing Alice.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. About seven then. Alice will have had her supper and her bath.’

  Alice greeted me with enthusiasm, heightened by the sight of the small furry toy I’d bought for her – young children always associate grandparents with such tribute items and come to expect them.

  ‘Bunny rabbit,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Benjamin Bunny,’ she added. ‘Gran, read me the story?’ she suggested.

  ‘You go and get the book then and hop into bed, and I’ll come upstairs.’

  When Alice had gone Michael said, ‘Thea will be down in a minute. She’s been telling me about Bernard. Pretty grisly!’

  ‘Roger said that in law there’s nothing to be done – that’s most peculiar.’

  ‘The law is peculiar,’ Michael said, ‘and extraordinary and, sometimes, unfair – but there you are!’

  ‘Goodness knows,’ I said, ‘I had no time for Bernard – especially when I discovered how he treated Janet and his son Luke, but for something like that…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But the fact remains that someone attempted to kill him. Attempted murder, whatever the law might say.’

  ‘Or aggravated burglary,’ Michael suggested.

  ‘Roger didn’t seem to think so,’ I said, ‘and the more I think about it, the more I feel there was something not quite right about the whole scene. I mean, it was horrible and really upsetting, but – well – something arranged about it all.’

  ‘But if it was murder,’ Michael said, ‘do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’

  ‘Both Janet and Luke had every reason to want him dead,’ I replied, ‘but neither of them could have done it. No, it’s a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Michael said, ‘my heart sinks when you use that word. Please don’t tell me you intend to investigate a non-existent murder!’

  ‘You must admit someone ought to, and the police aren’t going to give it any sort of priority.’

  ‘You could,’ Michael suggested, ‘let sleeping dogs lie – no, silly of me to sug
gest it. I know, you can’t resist giving them a little prod.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I feel I owe it to Janet to make some sort of enquiries. She’s in such a peculiar state I’m sure it would help if there was some sort of – horrid word – closure. It might help her to come to terms with it.’

  ‘I suppose it’s as good an excuse as any for interfering,’ Michael said. ‘Just don’t go poking about in any really dark corners. Where are you going to start, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to have a think.’

  ‘She’s in bed with her book,’ Thea said, coming downstairs, ‘but she’s had a lot of exercise and fresh air today so I think she’ll be really sleepy very soon. I’ve left the sandwiches and things out in the kitchen – help yourself, you know where everything is.’

  ‘Probably better than we’ll be eating,’ Michael said. ‘Virginia’s a nice girl but her cooking’s terrible!’

  Thea was right. Alice fell asleep halfway through the second reading of Benjamin Bunny and as I was eating my sandwiches (chicken and stuffing – delicious) I was, indeed, trying to think who might have had a reason for killing Bernard. Motive – such a cold impersonal word for the fierce emotion that could make someone take the life of another human being – what might be the motive? It could be something Bernard had done to someone, or else the knowledge he might have had that would be dangerous to another person. Either was a possibility. It seemed that Bernard had been capable of making other people’s lives unbearable, so if he’d behaved like that to Janet and to Luke, what other lives might he have destroyed? But – I was brought up short – presumably anyone he’d injured in that way would be in Bristol and not in Taviscombe, so why kill him here?

  I poured myself another cup of coffee as an aid to concentration. Did that mean, I wondered, that the person in question – the murderer, I must try to think of him (or her) as that – was local and Bernard was killed now because he was here? The only people who might have that sort of motive were members of the family, all connected in some way, however distantly, with the family tree that Bernard had been putting together. People like me. Was it possible that someone…?

  My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a small forlorn figure trailing a comfort blanket behind her.

  ‘Gran – Gran, I woke up and there’s a tiger in my room and he won’t go away!’

  I went over and picked her up. ‘Good gracious,’ I said, ‘we can’t have that! It’s long past bedtime for all tigers.’

  As it turned out I had no opportunity to do any sort of investigating for the next couple of days because I suddenly realised that I’d come up against the deadline for a review I was doing and everything had to go on hold until that was finished. Then, no sooner than that was out of the way, I had to go and help Monica with the coffee morning at Brunswick Lodge. I hadn’t the time to make the scones that Anthea demanded so I took a sponge out of the freezer and hoped it would be sufficiently defrosted to be edible by the time I got there.

  ‘That’s all right, Sheila,’ Monica said, ‘I’ll put it up for a raffle at the end of the morning – cakes always go well – it’ll be fine by then.’

  We were quite busy for a while but towards the end of the morning, when most people were busily chatting to acquaintances they saw every day (the main purpose of coffee mornings), Monica said, ‘I was so interested in that talk your cousin gave here a little while ago – he is your cousin, isn’t he? Such a fascinating subject! I often wish I had the time to investigate my family tree. There’s a lot of interest in that sort of thing now, isn’t there? Did you see that series on the television? Amazing the things they found out – not all of them good, of course. That’s the problem, I suppose; you never know what’s going to turn up. It might be something you really didn’t want to know.’ She laughed. ‘Or that you didn’t want other people to know, for that matter!’

  ‘That’s very true,’ I said.

  The thought stayed with me and lingered as I made myself some lunch. It was quite possible that, in the course of his research, Bernard had come across something a member of the family didn’t want known. Still, it must have been a pretty big something for someone to try to commit murder to stop it coming out. And, again, if there was something, did Bernard know it was important? Had he been actually blackmailing whoever it was? I felt he was capable of it – though perhaps not for money, but for power or influence, in some way, over his victim.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the toaster expelling two pieces of blackened bread – why is it that no toaster, however carefully you set it, will ever consistently produce toast that isn’t either underdone or burnt? By the time I’d made more toast, heated my soup and got out the cheese and biscuits, the animals, having long since consumed their own food, joined me, hoping to share in mine. So I decided to postpone any thoughts on the matter until after lunch when I could look out the material Bernard had given me and see if I could find anything that might give me some sort of clue. I gave Tris and Foss a piece of cheese each and devoted myself to my lunch and the review pages of the Spectator.

  It was with some reluctance that I spread out the various sheets of family trees and other information that I’d stuffed into a drawer of my desk and not looked at since Bernard had left. I found that, as when I’m faced with any sort of numbers my mind freezes over, it was just the same with this sort of material. Naturally I could trace a family, generation by generation, straight down the line, but once I had to cross-reference it, I found it difficult to make any connection apart from the obvious one that they were all related. It was even more difficult when I tried to trace a person from one family tree to another – something Bernard seemed to delight in doing. As for the dates, well, I’ve never been able to get my mind round them.

  I did try. I struggled with the wretched papers (all an inconvenient shape and size, with some pasted together) for well over an hour. Then, in despair, I turned to Bernard’s notes. These appeared to be notes from parish registers and from the County Record Office – more dates again – and some census returns. I felt I was drowning in a sea of information.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said to Tris, who’d been patiently sitting by my feet, hoping that if he leant his weight against me long enough, I’d remember he was there and take him for a walk. ‘It’s all too much to take in. Not for the whole family. I must try and do it one person at a time. Make a list of who Bernard was going to see while he was down here and look them up one by one.’ This (I suppose) obvious idea so pleased me that I swept all the papers into a pile and put them back into the drawer. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  I was just nerving myself to face the cold wind outside and take Tris for a walk when Rosemary rang. She’d been away for a fortnight looking after an old aunt, her mother’s sister, who was ill and I’d missed her very much.

  ‘My dear, I’ve only just heard – Roger told me. What a ghastly thing to have happened! It must have been a terrible shock, are you all right? Look, come on over now and have a cup of tea and tell me all about it.’

  ‘I was just going to take Tris for a walk…’

  ‘Bring him too. He and Alpha can have a runabout in the garden.’

  I felt a lightening of spirits. Of course the best thing of all is to have your loving family around you, but there’s nothing quite the same as a good chat with your best friend.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ I said, as we sat by the kitchen window watching Tris and Alpha, Rosemary’s elderly boxer, chasing each other sedately round the garden. ‘How was Auntie Gwen?’

  ‘Better when I left – it was quite a bad go of bronchitis. She’s a game old thing but a terrible patient. After the first couple of days she refused to stay in bed and I had to keep a very beady eye on her or she’d have been trotting around trying to look after me!’

  ‘It sounds as if you had your hands full.’

  ‘Oh, she’s good company – she’s got a sharp tongue, just like Mother, but
a kinder nature! But it’s so cold in Lincoln – all those east winds – and the streets are so steep, and you can’t take the car because parking’s even worse than it is here. I was quite worn out by the end of it. Jolly glad to be home, as you can imagine.’

  ‘I’m sure Jack was delighted to have you back. How did he manage while you were away?’

  ‘Well, Jilly popped in every day and left him some food and saw to Alpha and he ate with them several evenings. That was all right, and he did try to keep things going here, but you know how hopeless he is about the house; it’ll take me ages to get things back in order.’

  ‘Never mind, he’ll really appreciate you for a bit now you’re back.’

  Rosemary laughed. ‘The appreciation’s starting to wear off already and I only got back yesterday. Still, I did miss him! It made me realise how much I depend on him, just being there.’ She looked at me. ‘I can’t imagine how you managed after Peter…’

  ‘It takes time,’ I said.

  The kettle made bubbling noises and Rosemary got up to make the tea.

  ‘Anyway, what about this awful thing with your cousin? I know you weren’t too keen on him but it must have been dreadful to find him like that. And with his wife there too.’

  ‘It was. But somehow the full force of what had happened didn’t really hit me. I was so busy trying to look after Janet – she was in a very vulnerable state – so I suppose I just sort of focused on her.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ Rosemary said sympathetically, ‘how did she react? I’d have been in hysterics!’

  ‘She was stunned, very quiet, almost more difficult to deal with in a way. Later, of course, after we heard about Bernard being already dead when – when he was attacked, she really broke down – very painful.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, it’s a really gruesome thing to have happened. So where is she now?’

  ‘She’s insisted on staying in the holiday cottage they were renting. I did try to persuade her to come and stay with me, but she wouldn’t.’