Dead In The Morning (4 page)

“Well, my goodness me, what a lot of miserable faces,” said Mrs Ludlow, looking at them all. “Anyone would think this was a funeral feast, not a homecoming. Why are you all so gloomy? Gerald’s old enough by now, I hope, to know what he’s doing.”

“It seems a little hasty, perhaps, Mother,” Derek suggested. He glanced apologetically at Cathy. “Marry in haste and all that.”

“Ten years of widowhood is no short time, I do assure you,” said his mother.

“Derek means Gerald hasn’t known Helen long, Grandmother,” interpolated Betty.

“I know what Derek means,” said Mrs Ludlow testily. “I’m sure we all wish Gerald to be happy.”

“Of course we do, Mother,” said Phyllis. She had been very quiet all the evening. She and Gerald had always been very close; the bond between them had been made stronger by the fact that the marriages of both had ended, though for different reasons, and Gerald had reason to be grateful to his sister for her care of Cathy. She would be anxious about her brother until she had got to know his wife; meanwhile a sense of some intrusion was inevitable, but it was Cathy who would be the more affected.

“It’s an excellent thing to have happened, and I’m delighted,” Phyllis said now. “The next thing is to think about getting you into a university, Cathy. It’s too late for this year, I suppose. What do we do to apply for a place for next year?”

As she had intended, this hare stimulated everyone to argument of one sort or another, so much so that they failed to hear a car draw up outside, and voices were still raised in discussion when the drawing-room door opened and Gerald entered, leading Helen by the hand.

There was a silence. Cathy broke it, by springing up and rushing to her father, crying, “Daddy, Daddy.” She hugged him, then fell back and looked at Helen in sudden self-conscious embarrassment.

Helen held out her hand.

“Hullo, Cathy,” she said gravely.

Cathy felt a rush of gratitude to her for not seeming to expect a kiss. She shook hands, then stood aside to let Gerald lead Helen up to Mrs Ludlow. He bent to kiss his mother’s dry old cheek; she smelt of soap and
eau de cologne.

“Here’s Helen, Mother,” he said.

“Well, let me look at you, child,” said Mrs Ludlow, staring at Helen intently. You could be so rude when you were old and get away with it, thought Cathy. Gran was really awful, scrutinising Helen up and down minutely. “You’re much too thin,” was her pronouncement when she had completed this inspection. “I suppose you’ve been racketing about all over Europe. Now you must settle down and put on flesh.”

“Mother, you mustn’t be so personal,” Gerald scolded. He was the only person apart from Dr Wilkins who ever dared reprove Mrs Ludlow.

“Take no notice, darling,” he added to Helen. “Mother loves to tell us all what we ought to do.”

“And none of you pay the least attention,” remarked his mother, but she smiled in a wintry way.

How did he do it?

Phyllis watched, fascinated, while Gerald went on talking to their mother. He could say anything to her and she would come back smiling; he teased her, and she enjoyed it. Yet the rest of them, who had to tend her and to deal with her each day were all afraid of her, even Derek. It wasn’t fair.

Her mother was not yet eighty. This might go on for years.

Phyllis pulled herself together as she heard her own name mentioned.

“Darling, this is my sister Phyllis. She’s done so much for Cathy,” Gerald was saying.

How did you greet a new sister-in-law, not a young woman, certainly, but a great deal younger than yourself? Phyllis was not demonstrative, but she was very fond of Gerald; she bent and kissed Helen primly on her pale cheek.

“I hope you’ll both be very happy,” she said in a stiff voice.

“Why, thank you, Phyllis,” Helen said. “You know Gerry, so you’ll know that I am very happy.” And indeed she looked it now, smiling at them all with disarming shyness.

“Well said, well said,” said Derek heartily. He advanced towards her. All this kissing seemed a bit much on first acquaintance, but he must follow his sister’s lead; the sooner these greetings were over and they all settled down again to normal life, the better. He bent and pecked Helen’s cheek in formal fashion, very relieved to see that his brother had not fallen for some dolly in a mini-skirt. Helen wore a white wool suit in which she looked elegant enough; she seemed, thus far, entirely suitable, though perhaps not very robust: Gerald must have a
penchant
for fragile women. It was to be hoped that Helen was physically tougher than her appearance indicated. With these reflections Derek turned thankfully to the task of opening the champagne.

“We’ve all been so curious about you, Helen,” Betty said, coming forward in her turn. “Gerald hasn’t told us anything at all. We’d no idea what to expect. Welcome, anyway.”

“This is Betty, darling,” Gerald said, somewhat superfluously.

“How do you do, my dear,” said Betty, kissing her with warmth. “You mustn’t mind me, I’m the tactless one.”

Helen was saved from replying to this difficult introduction by the entry of Mrs Mackenzie, who had come to take away the coffee tray.

“Ah, Mrs Mack, how are you?” said Gerald breezily. “Helen, this is Mrs Mackenzie, the best cook in the world. Mrs Mack, my wife.”

“How do you do, I’m sure, Mrs Gerald,” said Mrs Mackenzie, smoothing her hands on her apron; she smiled pleasantly, looking at the newcomer, and then her expression changed. Cathy noticed suddenly what a piercing glance came from her bright blue eyes when she was interested. She could not be said to stare, in the sense that Gran did, but nevertheless she was summing Helen up just as shrewdly. Her gaze narrowed. The hand that she had been about to extend dropped to her side.

“I’ll just take out the tray, madam,” she said to old Mrs Ludlow, picked it up, and left the room.

“What’s bitten Mrs Mack?” asked Gerald of the room at large. “Bit abrupt, wasn’t she? And she’s put on weight. Too many sweets, that’s the trouble.”

Derek was pouring out champagne.

“Come and get a glass, everyone,” he said. “Gerald, give the girls their
vino.”

Of them all, only Phyllis noticed that Helen’s already pale face had turned a chalky white.

The Dean of St Mark’s sat in his sister’s garden with a rickety deal table in front of him covered in papers. At his side was a foolscap pad on which he was writing busily. Occasionally, he paused in his labours and gazed at the pram which stood some feet from him under the shade of an apple tree. An indolently waving arm or leg could usually be seen moving within it; his nephew Andrew, under his supervision, was spending a peaceful afternoon investigating his limbs.

Jane was out collecting for a flag day; one of Winterswick’s older matrons had bullied her into undertaking this charitable act, and Jane had decided that if Andrew were left behind, she would get around her area more quickly. She had been gone for two hours, and Patrick pitied her, trudging round the village begging, while he sat tranquilly at work. All the same, if she did not return soon he would have to give Andrew his orange juice, for such were his instructions, and he was not too confident of his ability to carry out this mission without a clash of personalities.

He turned his attention once more to the mysterious disappearance from Chipping Campden in 1660 of William Harrison, and was absorbed in the details of this puzzling affair when he heard the garden gate open as his sister arrived home.

“Well, how have you been, my angel?” Jane crooned over the pram. “Has that bad uncle of yours forgotten all about you?”

Some cheerful gurgling sounds answered her.

“He’s been extremely good,” said Patrick. “Not a squeak, all afternoon.”

“There, I told you he wouldn’t be a bother,” said Jane complacently.

“How have you fared? Fleeced the natives satisfactorily?” asked Patrick.

“Saturday afternoon’s a bad time to get people at home,” said Jane. “Lots of folk were out, but I did quite well, all the same. It was rather fun really, it’s a chance to chat to people one might not otherwise meet. I met young Cathy Ludlow on her way to deliver a note at the vicarage, so I asked her back to tea. She’ll be here in a minute. I thought we’d have it in the garden, if you’ll clear a space.”

“Very well,” said Patrick meekly. He began to tidy up his papers, and Jane went into the house with her collecting box and tray of flags. As she came out again, Cathy appeared at the gate, pushing her bicycle.

“Ah, there you are, Cathy. Come along in,” called Jane.

Cathy wheeled her machine through the gate and propped it against the hedge. Then she approached the others, looking rather shy.

“This is my brother Patrick. He’s the Dean of St Mark’s, where your cousin is,” said Jane. She bent over the pram and plucked Andrew from its depths. “Here, Cathy, you talk to Andrew and Patrick while I get tea,” she said, and thrust the baby into Cathy’s surprised arms.

“Oh, can’t I help you?” asked Cathy, eyeing Andrew nervously.

“No, no. You sit down and amuse Andrew,” Jane instructed.

Cathy sat down on the wooden garden seat, clutching the baby tightly. He was a writhing, squirming mass of concentrated energy, she discovered, but he beamed at her myopically, and dribbled.

“He likes you,” Patrick observed.

“I’m afraid I’m not very used to babies,” Cathy said. “I’ve never really met one socially before.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m excused from giving him his tea,” said Patrick. “If Jane hadn’t come back by half-past four, that was what I had to do. I’m not used to babies either. But he’s a good little chap, this one.”

Peering at the infant through his heavy-rimmed spectacles, Patrick gave him a friendly poke in the stomach. “I’d better clear up this mess before Jane comes back with the tea,” he added, opening a big box file and piling his papers into it.

“Are you writing a book?” asked Cathy reverently.

“Not a whole book. Just a paper. I’m very interested in unsolved mysteries,” said Patrick, “and there are quite a few that happened long ago and haven’t been explained. I’m adding several thousand words of thoughts to what’s already been said about the Campden Wonder.”

“What was that?”

“He was a man who disappeared from Chipping Campden in 1660. Three people were executed for his murder, and then he turned up again, hale and hearty, two years later,” Patrick said. “No satisfactory solution to the mystery has ever been given. Rather tough on the three scapegoats, too, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Cathy. “How extraordinary.”

“Modern knowledge throws new light on a number of things that baffled our forebears,” Patrick told her happily. “For instance, George III was a much maligned monarch. As you know, everyone thought he was mad, but now it’s believed that he suffered from porphyria.”

“Whatever’s that?”

“A disease with symptoms similar to insanity. It was not recognised all those years ago. But present-day doctors, reading about poor old George’s sufferings, find them typical of the illness.”

“How very interesting,” Cathy said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Patrick. “Then there was Amy Robsart, who was found dead at the foot of the stairs of the house where she was living, with a broken neck. You remember who she was, the wife of the Earl of Leicester who was such a chum of Queen Elizabeth the First’s. People thought she might have been pushed down the stairs, though the verdict of the day was misadventure. But it was strange that her body wasn’t bruised, as you might expect after such a fall, and as they said at the time, the ‘hood which stood upon her head’ wasn’t disarranged. A theory’s been put forward now that she may have had a spontaneous fracture of the neck due to a secondary cancer. This is not uncommon, and it was rumoured that she was suffering from some severe ailment. Unfortunately her grave can’t be found so that there’s no hope of testing her skeleton to find out for sure. But the facts fit, and would explain what happened.”

“Is this what your work is at Oxford?” asked Cathy.

“No, this is just a hobby,” Patrick said. “My official subject’s English.”

Jane came back at this moment with the tea tray.

“Come on, Patrick,” she exclaimed. “Haven’t you cleared the table yet? I suppose you’ve been haranguing Cathy about Beowulf or something.”

“Your brother’s been telling me about the death of Amy Robsart,” Cathy said. “It’s fascinating.”

“Patrick is the most inquisitive man ever to be born,” Jane told her. “He looks for mysteries where there are none, and is always poking his nose into other people’s business.”

“To their advantage sometimes,” said Patrick mildly. “I’ll just take these papers into the house.”

“He must be very clever,” said Cathy when he had gone.

Jane looked surprised.

“Oh, not especially,” she said, with the nonchalance of one whose relations were always expected to get brilliant firsts.

“I expect you’re just used to him,” said Cathy tolerantly. “He looks very learned.”

“That’s his specs,” Jane said. “I used to think he took to them originally to furnish his face and make him seem older to the undergraduates, but he seems to need them now.”

“I haven’t heard Tim mention him,” said Cathy. “I expect their paths don’t cross, as he isn’t reading English.”

Jane forebore to mention that Patrick, as Dean, was responsible for student discipline and so had often come across her cousin.

“Where is Tim now?” she asked instead. She had set out the tea things, and put a rusk into Andrew’s hand. The baby chirruped in a pleased way and began to gnaw it wetly.

“I don’t know. He’s been in Spain, but I think he’s back from there. He’s probably staying with some of his weirdie friends,” said Cathy.

Patrick came back and sat down, and Jane poured out the tea.

“Hang on to Andrew while I do this, Cathy,” she said. “Then I’ll give him his orange juice. I was just asking Cathy where young Tim is,” she added to her brother. “She doesn’t seem to know.”

“My uncle and aunt, Tim’s parents, came to Pantons last night,” Cathy said. “They don’t know where he is at present, but he’ll turn up.”