Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death Page 9

  “Well, at least I’ve made a start,” I said, swishing the ice about in my spritzer. We usually go out when we have lunch together; it saves us both cooking. “There’s masses of stuff—a whole chestful from Annie’s.”

  “What was it like going in there?” Rosemary asked curiously.

  “A bit daunting,” I said. “Houses that haven’t been lived in for a bit are always depressing, especially at this time of the year when it’s been so wet and everything feels damp.”

  “Don’t I know,” Rosemary said forcibly. “Clothes in one of the wardrobes practically have mold growing on them—they’ll all have to go to the dry cleaners. I suppose it’s worse living in a house built of sandstone; it simply absorbs the moisture!”

  “And, anyway,” I continued, “you know what a strong personality Annie had. I felt like an intruder and half expected her to pop up at any minute and turn me out!”

  “I think you were very brave; I wouldn’t be surprised if she haunted the place.”

  “There was certainly a presence. Still, I got the papers and things. They were in a chest in her bedroom.”

  “What was it like—the bedroom, I mean?”

  “Impersonal, a bit austere. I rather suspect she moved in there—the other bedroom’s very small—after her mother died and didn’t change a thing. Though . . .” I hesitated. “Though there was something that surprised me.” And I told Rosemary about the book. “It really was most unexpected.”

  “How weird! Max Holtby, he’s a top man in some oil business, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Perhaps she’d been playing the stock market—no, that doesn’t sound right. I wonder if there’s something in his childhood . . . Perhaps she’s his long- lost sister. After all, we don’t know much about her family. Look how surprised we were when Martin Stillwell popped up!”

  “I must try and get hold of a copy of the book and see if there is anything.”

  “You should have borrowed Annie’s.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that! No, I’ll see if I can get it from the library.”

  “I’ll ask Mother,” Rosemary said, “and see if she knows anything about the Roberts family. She’ll know something, even if it’s only gossip. Shall we order; can you see the menu on the blackboard from here? The fish pie was very good last time.”

  It started raining again when I got home, and I put my raincoat on to take the dustbin out and when I got back into the house I felt in my pocket for a tissue to wipe the rain off my glasses. Instead of a tissue I pulled out a piece of paper; it was the paper that had been caught behind the dresser drawer in Annie’s kitchen, and I remembered that I’d been wearing my raincoat that day—indeed, it had been such a wet autumn that I’d worn it practically every day.

  I went over to the kitchen table and smoothed it out, piecing together the places where it had been torn. It was a sheet of lined paper that might have been torn out of a notebook. There was some writing in ink, slightly smudged in places, but still legible. It was a column of initials. They seemed to be in no sort of order and I stared at the scruffy bit of paper, hoping to make some sort of sense of them. P.C., F.T., E.T., M.S., W.F., G.P, J.F., M.F., L.C., N.C., T.P., D.P. What on earth could it mean; was it some sort of code? That was palpably ridiculous. Then I suddenly realized what it was and almost laughed aloud at my stupidity.

  “Of course!” I said to Tris, who had been sitting patiently at my feet all this while. “It’s the initials of people in the village: Phyllis Craig, Fred Tucker, Ellen Tucker—probably a subscription list or something she was organizing. Oh well, she won’t need it now.”

  I went to throw it away, but some sort of primitive instinct (after all, it was Annie’s) made me smooth it out and put it carefully away in one of the cookery books on the shelf beside the microwave.

  I went into the dining room and began looking at the photos again, but somehow I felt the presence of Annie too strongly. It was an uncomfortable feeling and, on an impulse, I put all the stuff away and went back into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. I’d just started to drink it when the phone rang. It was Michael.

  “Thea said to ask you if you’d like to come to lunch on Sunday.”

  “Yes, please, I’d love to. Oh—Michael, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What will happen to that trust now that Annie Roberts is dead? Will you have to coop someone else or what?”

  “I’m afraid so. If you remember, we are required to have someone from the village.”

  “Who have you got?”

  “A chap called Jim Fletcher, retired bank manager or something—anyway, perfectly suitable.”

  “But he’s an off-comer. Surely it should be someone who’s lived there all their life.”

  “Well, he’s agreed now. We’ve got a meeting next week and this time I think that, without Annie Roberts to egg him on, Brian Norris will vote to wind the thing up.”

  “What if Jim Fletcher doesn’t agree?”

  “Oh, he does—we sounded him out before we asked him.”

  “Michael! That’s gerrymandering—is that the word I want? Anyway, it’s wicked and probably against the law!”

  “Not really. I know you don’t approve, but we had to get things sorted.”

  “So the developers will build the houses and all the money will go out of the village—it doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Well, as I explained, it will go to help some other charity. Look, I have to go now. See you on Sunday.”

  My tea had gone cold but I drank it anyway, thinking of Harriet Percy and her good works, and the sepia photograph of the school group in the village, and the young Martha Cross, whose good attendance had earned her a prize, who grew up to be the woman standing on the steps of her cottage in 1954 with a shy young child who had grown up to be Annie Roberts, who had died from a careless mistake.

  Chapter Ten

  The next day I pulled myself together and told myself it was silly to be so obsessed with Annie Roberts. So I went into Taunton and spent a lot of the day making notes on the historical stuff, and, when I got home, I put it on the computer, feeling I’d done a good, professional day’s work. Buoyed up by this, the next day I telephoned Father William to see if I could look through the parish records that remained in the church.

  “Do come,” he said. “I’ll be at home all morning.”

  When I arrived he greeted me warmly. I declined the offer of coffee and, fetching a long woolen scarf, he joined me and we made our way to the church. Our progress through the village was punctuated by greetings and inquiries from various people as to how the Book was going, and when Father William lifted the heavy latch of the church door it was a relief to go into the quiet emptiness of the church. The cold that struck up from the stone floor was scarcely mitigated by the strip of matting that ran the length of the aisle, but fortunately there was an electric heater in the vestry and he switched it on.

  “For your benefit,” he said. “This garment”—he indicated his cassock—“was designed to keep out the cold of medieval stone floors.” He unlocked the cupboard and took out the heavy registers. “There you are,” he said, clearing a space at the cluttered table and laying them down. “I see,” he continued, as I got out a writing pad and pencil, “that you do not favor the advanced technology.”

  “I haven’t got a laptop,” I said, “only a rather ancient sit-up-and-beg computer. No, this is what I’m comfortable with!”

  I sat down at the table and drew one of the registers towards me.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it. But, please, when you’ve finished, come and have a glass of sherry—I’m sure you’ll need it. Oh, and if you would very kindly switch off the fire and lock the cupboard when you’ve finished with the registers and bring me the key, that would be splendid.” He raised his hand in what might have been an airy wave, or even a blessing. “Good luck to your labors.”

  I worked steadily for just over an hour and then, feeling a bit stiff (I always work in concentrat
ed bursts), I looked at my watch and decided I’d done enough to justify rewarding myself with a glass of Father William’s sherry. I heaved the heavy registers off the table and back into the cupboard, locked it and switched off the fire. Going back into the church, I was startled to come face-to-face with Mary Fletcher, rather strangely wearing a hat and a flowered apron.

  “Goodness,” she exclaimed, “you did give me a start! I was just coming to get some vases—it’s my turn to do the flowers.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was in the vestry consulting the parish registers. Father William very kindly gave me permission.”

  “Oh, I see—and did you find anything interesting?”

  “There’s quite a lot of useful entries I think I can use in the Book,” I said.

  “Nothing . . . unusual? Well, you never know what you’re going to turn up in those primary sources. When I was at the library, one of the staff there was trying to trace his ancestry—so fashionable these days, with all those television programs. He tracked down some parish records and, well, he wished he hadn’t!”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I won’t go into details, but you can imagine—he found out several things about some of his relations, grandparents and so forth, that would have been better left alone!”

  “Oh dear. No, I found nothing like that.”

  “Just as well.” She sounded disappointed, deprived of a little excitement.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d better be getting along. I must return this key to Father William.”

  “I could give it to him if you like.”

  “No, really, thanks all the same, but I’m passing the vicarage on my way back.”

  “Well, I’ll be getting on, then.” She picked up a large bunch of flowers she’d laid down on one of the front pews.

  “What splendid dahlias,” I said. “Did you grow them yourself?”

  “Oh, that’s Jim’s department—he takes prizes at the Flower Show.”

  “Well, those would certainly win a prize,” I said.

  “I can’t say I’m fond of dahlias myself,” she said. “Always full of earwigs, nasty things. I give the bunch a good shake to get rid of them, but you can be sure there’ll always be one left that crawls out when you’re arranging them.”

  I gave her what I hoped was a sympathetic smile and went on my way.

  Since it was a chilly day and since Father William had seemed impervious to cold, I was pleased to see that the firescreen in the grate had been replaced by a real fire and there were sherry glasses and two decanters on the desk.

  “Now, do sit down; that is the more comfortable chair. And, please, it’s William to my friends.” He went over to the desk and turned to look inquiringly. “I can offer you a choice of sherry: fino or amontillado?”

  “Oh, amontillado, please,” I said. “I know fino is more the thing, but I don’t really like it.”

  He positively beamed at me. “Well-done!” he said. “I have longed to hear someone say that!” He poured a glass of the darker sherry. “People are such sheep,” he went on as he handed it to me. “If once they’re told that something is more ‘civilized’ or fashionable, they accept it without any reference to their own taste. I have always preferred amontillado myself,” he concluded, as if that settled the matter. “Mind you,” he said, with the air of one modifying a supposition, “sweet sherry—or cream sherry, as it is sometimes called—is quite a different matter.”

  “Oh, quite,” I said. “This is excellent.”

  “My wine merchant in St. James’s sends me down a case. The fino I buy locally.” I couldn’t help laughing and he looked at me approvingly. “Exactly. It is ridiculous.”

  We sat for a moment without speaking, peacefully, with our sherry in the warm, elegant room as though there was some unspoken communion between us. William (as I now thought of him) broke the silence.

  “Tell me,” he said, “did you really want to have anything to do with this book?”

  “To be honest I was bullied into it, but, actually, now that I’ve started, it’s really very interesting.”

  “Bullied by Annie, of course.”

  “She had a very forceful personality.”

  “She was an extremely unpleasant woman, in some ways actually evil.”

  I looked at him. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum?” I suggested.

  “Indeed, and one’s Christian principles make that mandatory, of course. But just this once I must make an exception.”

  “I know she was irritating and a bit of a bully, but not evil, surely?”

  He got up, went over to the desk and refilled his sherry glass, holding up the decanter inquiringly.

  “No, thank you; I’m fine,” I said.

  He was silent, staring into the fire. Then he said, “I think I’m going to tell you something I’ve told no one else. I’m going to tell you, partly because you are writing a book about this village and I think it’s something you ought to know, and partly because I have the urge to tell somebody and I think you will understand and, having understood, I’m sure will keep it to yourself.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Some years ago,” he said, “when I was a very young curate in a London parish, my vicar, a man of considerable charisma, was accused of abusing young boys, boys in the choir. Naturally it caused a great scandal and the national papers took it up. He was found guilty and sent to prison—which, indeed, he richly deserved. Unfortunately that sort of mud sticks not only to the perpetrator but also to those around him. You may find it hard to believe, but I had no idea what was going on, but, as I said, I was very young and, in those days, such situations, although they undoubtedly existed, were not widely reported in the media. In the course of the investigation I too came under suspicion and, although I was absolutely cleared, there was a great deal of talk and I was asked, discreetly, if I would consider moving to another parish. I refused, of course, but pressure was put upon me and eventually I agreed. Then, what I feared did happen and there were articles in the local paper saying things like no smoke without fire and so forth. Fortunately it was a nine days’ wonder and, when I went to another parish—a pleasant town on the south coast—I was able to put it behind me.” He looked at me and smiled wearily. “Of course, it is human nature to believe the worst of people, but it is depressing, shall we say, when it happens to you.”

  “It must have been horrible,” I said.

  “In those days, as you will have gathered, I was young and simple, someone it was easy to take advantage of. But I had learned my lesson. I began to build myself another personality. My new parishioners liked their religion spiked up, as they say, so I became Father William and my sermons were more pointed and controversial so that soon I attracted some interest, was asked to write articles, even do a little broadcasting. They liked my new affected manner, so I developed it as you see today. All very camp, and I’m sure everyone thinks I’m gay—I’m not, by the way, but simply that old-fashioned thing: a celibate Anglican priest.”

  “Omnipresent in Victorian novels,” I said, “but not today. Just as there are no bachelors or spinsters anymore; everybody has to be something.”

  “Very true. You will be wondering,” he went on, “why I am burdening you with all this personal history. The fact is that one day, when I had been in Mere Barton for about a year, Annie Roberts let me know, in the subtlest way, that she knew all about that unfortunate period in my past, as she put it. Of course, she said, she wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to anyone; she quite understood it was better that it should remain buried.”

  “She blackmailed you!”

  “Oh no, nothing as obvious as that. But as time went on I found that she expected me to back her, whenever there were disagreements on the parish council, for instance, or to support any scheme she proposed—that sort of thing.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. I had no intention of submitting to pressure.”

  “So what happened? What did she do
?”

  “She came to see me and said how upset she was that I hadn’t seen my way to giving her my support on various matters, and she was sure, if I considered it more fully, I would agree that it would make life more harmonious for everyone if I did so. She may have expressed it a little more forcibly, but that was the gist of it.”

  “Good gracious. So what did you do?”

  “I explained, equally forcibly, that on no account would I change my attitude and that if she wished to inform the village of what was a perfectly innocent episode in my past, she was certainly welcome to do so.”

  “Good for you. Publish and be damned. And did she? Tell everyone?”

  “Oh no, bullies very rarely fulfill their threats. She was very wary of me after that, because, you see, I had discovered the secret of her influence over the rest of the village.”

  “You mean she had a hold over people because of something in their past?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But surely . . .”

  “Everyone has something in their past they’d rather other people didn’t know about, often something quite small and unimportant—although it seems important to them.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I said thoughtfully. “What an extraordinary thing! But how did she find out all these secrets? I’m sure she was the last person people would confide in.”

  “She was the district nurse. In and out of people’s houses all the time, able to overhear conversations, catch glimpses of papers—many opportunities.”

  “But that was an appalling betrayal of trust! I see what you mean about evil.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I often wondered how she managed to run everything and get support for all her schemes. She didn’t want money for her silence. She wanted power; she wanted to run the village!”