A Death in Two Parts (15 page)

The impossible does not happen. Absurd not to have thought of it sooner. Her row of little houses must have been built some time in the eighteenth century as working men's cottages, to service the big houses on the other side of the High Street. Their gardens, she knew, ran uphill behind them into open country, except where patches had been sold off for development. So where had their stables been? Obviously, across the mews lane at the bottom of her garden.

She fetched the secateurs and advanced on the rampant polygonum there. When you really looked, it was obvious enough. Someone had indeed forced their way through here, she saw as she cut savagely at the tough stems. It must have been a very small person, though, probably just a neighbouring child, who had found the way and made the secret garden their own. And here was the door, solidly set in the back wall, badly needing paint, and – she turned the handle – unlocked.

What a fright about nothing. Standing in the deserted
lane, she looked at the graveyard wall facing her and saw that it was comparatively new, late nineteenth or even early twentieth century brick. The stables must have been pulled down at some point and the graveyard extended, probably when the advent of the motor car began to make horses redundant. Looking up and down the quiet lane she saw that most of the other back entrances had been bricked up. No need to do that herself; her own door seemed solid enough behind its screen of polygonum; but she would go down to the ironmonger who actually existed in the pedestrian precinct by the station and buy herself a large bolt. She even felt a little sorry for the unknown child, who had made her garden its own and would now find itself locked out. They had done no damage, after all, left no litter, lit no fires. But she did not want them watching her through her kitchen window.

She bought the bolt that afternoon and screwed it on herself, thinking with amusement that back at the Hall she would have had to wait for Barnes, the chauffeur, to get around to doing such a job for her. Inevitably it reminded her of one of the arguments she had had with Geoffrey. She had very much wanted to get Barnes to teach her to drive, but Geoffrey had been set against it. ‘Much more dignified to let Barnes drive you,' he had insisted.

Who wants to be dignified? But, as so often, she had not said it. Perhaps she would take lessons now. Perhaps not. All her principles were against it. She had bought this house, after all, and moved into Leyning so that she would be able to get about by public transport, such as it was. By taking the short cut across the graveyard she could be at the station in ten minutes. Less, now, she thought, if she used her back
gate. She must have a proper lock put on, next time she had someone working about the place, so she could go out that way and leave all safe behind her.

The telephone rang again a couple of times that night, and she remembered that she had never got in touch with the operator. The second time, instead of a click when the receiver was replaced at the other end there was the sound of slightly asthmatic breathing. She did not like it at all.

The operator, when she called next morning, was friendly, but not very helpful, making it clear that two days' worth of odd calls on a new line were not much to complain about. It's like someone having to get killed before you get a pedestrian crossing, Patience thought, replacing the receiver. The front door bell rang. She hurried to answer it, half expecting to find nobody there, stood for a minute, looking the strange woman up and down. Not a strange woman.

“Hullo, Patience,” said Mary Brigance. What was her surname now? “You never answer my letters, so I thought I'd take the bull by the horns and come and see you. Are you going to ask me in?”

For a moment, Patience hesitated. She had meant the break to be absolute, and to stay that way. But after all that time? And all that had happened? Besides, those same two Conservative ladies were hovering on the other side of the road, quite obviously watching. She swung the heavy door wider. “I suppose I am,” she said, and knew it sounded ungracious.

“Good.” Mary stripped off leather driving gloves and dropped them on the chest by the door. “Mark said I had to get in, even if it meant forcing an entrance.”

“Mark?” She had thought she would never say that name
again. Moving mechanically while her heart raced, she took Mary's jacket.

“He writes to me sometimes.” Mary was just as elegant and almost as beautiful as ever, rakishly thin with a crop of startling silver hair. “When he can. He'd been reading through back files of
The Times
, saw something about you. Gossipy rags they are these days; fancy hashing up all that old story. I don't suppose you liked it much.”

“I didn't see it.”

“Strong-minded. It was the first Mark had heard of Geoffrey Crankshaw's death. Should I condole?' she enquired with a quick, bright glance.

“No, thanks.” They seemed to have moved into the kitchen and Patience, reached for the kettle. “Coffee?”

“I'd rather have a drink.” Mary looked at the wall clock. “Less trouble and more fun. And then I'm taking you out to lunch. I saw a friendly-looking pub a mile or so out of town. Sunshine in the garden, too. We could have a sandwich and tell each other the stories of our lives without your nosy neighbours listening in.”

“Nosy neighbours?”

“You must have noticed the two old things across the road. And there was someone lurking around on the pavement outside when I first drove by looking for somewhere to park. A teenager by the look of it, and up to no good, I thought. Maybe you should have moved further … Thanks. I'm glad to see you still like it dry.” She took the glass of sherry Patience had poured.

“It's all I've got, I'm afraid. Not really your line, Mary.” She was surprised to hear the Christian name come out so easily.

“Oh, I'm a reformed character. Have been for years. My husband before last was teetotal, God help me.”

“And the present one?”

“Past. I've just left him.”

“Oh?” They had settled on either side of the dining table and Patience looked at her questioningly.

“‘Oh' it is. He turned out to be an alcoholic with a tendency to violence. Looking back I sometimes wish I'd hung on to poor Tony Wetherall.”

“What happened to him?”

“He's all right. He married a very suitable girl and they have at least five children. I'm godma to one of them, I rather think.” She sipped her sherry. “You never gave us a chance to thank you for that money, Patience, which was more than we deserved, I reckon. And sometimes I wonder if I mightn't have been better without it. Looking back, I suspect I liked my job – when I had it – better than any of my husbands.”

“Any children?”

“No, alas. Tony didn't want them, and with the others they just didn't happen. Too bad; I'd have liked them.”

“Oh, so would I.” But that was something about which she absolutely would not talk. “It's really good to see you, Mary.” It was.

“Isn't it? I thought I'd be able to talk to you, and you've not really changed a bit, Patience, not now you've got that frozen look off your face. Do you know, when you opened the door, you looked, just for a minute, that way you did when you came into the study, back at the Hall, and found us all there, conniving against you. And I don't blame you for a moment. But, honest and true, Patience, Mark and I
were going to break ranks if the inquest had gone the other way. You must –
please
– believe that.”

“I'd like to.” The old wound was bleeding again.

“So, come out to lunch and let's talk. I rather need a family ear.”

“No, let's stay here. You'll be my first guest. Frozen pizza and salad, but I brought away all Geoffrey's wine hoard, and the cheese is good.”

“Lovely. But don't let me drink too much. And ply me with coffee afterwards. I'm on my way to the ferry.”

“Newhaven?”

“Yes, if they don't cancel it. I'm going to meet Mark; he's got some leave.”

“Leave? What from? He's not retired?” As she spoke she plunged into the deep freeze and extricated the pizza from under several bags of frozen vegetables.

“Lord, no. Something very hush-hush all over the world. They wouldn't let him go. Said they couldn't spare him. You don't know anything about any of us, do you, Patience?”

“No. I didn't want to.” It sounded as bleak as she had felt.

“I shall tell you, just the same. We're your family, after all. When you come right down to it, all you've got. Except those friends of yours – what was their name, Cunningham?”

“That's it. They live in the south of France now. I went to see them last summer.”

“And it didn't work?” Mary had always been quick. She raised her glass: “Here's to the gloomy catalogue. Mother and Uncle Joseph are both dead; Emily is in a home and so is Seward – senile he is – and Grisel has taken on a new lease
of life. I rather think she had him sectioned, or whatever they call it these days. She certainly made it crystal clear she didn't mean to look after him any more and got away with it.”

“What about Ludwig and Leonora?” It was strange to find herself interested again, after all these years, in the family that had nearly got her hanged.

“Do you know, they vanished. Into the U S of A, I rather think, from something Grisel said once, but not a whisper, not a Christmas card, certainly not a wedding announcement.”

“And not much loss,” said Patience.

“You mean you liked them even less than you did the rest of us? Well, I suppose that's good news of a kind. You've not asked about Priss.”

“I'd forgotten all about her.”

“One does tend to, but she was the great surprise. She married Paul Protheroe.”

“What?”

“I said it would surprise you. It turned out they'd been carrying on all the time. Very much unbeknownst to old Gran. No wonder Priss had so little use for those spineless young men her mother dragged down for her.”

“Priss and Paul Protheroe!” Ideas were jangling against each other in Patience's mind. One thing she and Geoffrey had agreed on was their conviction that her cousin Paul had contrived to embezzle her money during her long minority, but there had been no way of proving it. “That is a surprise.”

“And you'd be surprised, too, if you saw Priss. She made herself over when she got away from the Hall; and to some purpose.”

“Dark hair,” said Patience out of deep instinct.

“You're quite right; suits her much better than that mouse colour. Though mind you, she's kept it that way a bit too long.”

“Children?”

The telephone rang.

“Hell,” said Patience. She picked it up and got no answer. “I'm being harassed,” she told Mary. “It's a dead bore; I'll tell you about it.” She was really glad now that Mary had come. “But if you are going to catch the ferry we ought to be thinking about lunch. I'll fetch us up some wine. Red or white?”

“Oh, red, don't you think, now it's so good for our hearts. Don't tell me you have a cellar?”

“Yes; a huge one. It's got the boiler in, but there's a cool corner at the other end for the wine. It's got a TudorBethan bread oven in. Come and see.”

“You love this house, don't you?”

“Yes. Love at first sight.”

“I don't blame you. It's friendly somehow. Not like the Hall.”

“You felt that too?”

“Oh, yes.” She followed Patience into the front hall where a bolted door opened on to steep steps, a musty smell and the sound of the boiler muttering contentedly to itself.

“Careful on the steps.” Patience switched on an overhead light, started down and gave something between a gasp and a scream. “What on earth—”

Craning over her shoulder, Mary too saw the crimson pool gleaming in the light from the naked bulb. “Dear God! What's happened?”

“I don't know.” They both looked nervously into the dark corners of the cellar where the light did not reach. “I'll get a flashlight.” Her voice shook. She reached to take Mary's hand. “I'm so glad you're here, Mary.”

“Yes.” They moved back, silent, in single file up the narrow stair.

“It must be recent, to look like that.” Neither of them had said the word ‘blood'. Patience picked her heavy duty flashlight out of the hall cupboard and led the way back down. “Oh!” As she flashed the torch on to the sinister pool they both saw that it was not blood at all. “Paint!”

“But still wet,” said Mary. “How on earth?”

“It's under the area opening.” Patience had begun to think. She flashed the torch upwards. “See. The gas board made me put a grille in for air for the boiler. Someone must have poured it down.”

“What a disgusting trick,” said Mary. “It's not like you to have enemies, Patience.”

“That's what I'd have thought,” said Patience, plucking a random bottle of red wine from the rack. “Let's get out of here. I'll clear it up tomorrow. It'll take gallons of turps.”

“But at least it won't do any harm down there,” said Mary. “Just a very nasty prank. And, come to think, I did see that teenager loitering when I drove by. I told you I thought she was up to no good.”

“She?”

“Oh, definitely – hippie type; trailing skirts; are there gypsies in town?”

“Not that I know of.” Patience had automatically uncorked the bottle and poured wine for them both. “I smell pizza; let's eat. It will make us feel better.”

“There's room.” Mary took the plate Patience passed her. “I think you should tell the police.”

“No!” Patience took a gulp of wine. “Not the police, Mary. I know it's not reasonable, but I can't help it. After those nights in that cell I don't care if I never see the police again. You just don't know what it's like to be treated as worthless, assumed guilty. I'd rather die than go to them.”