Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death (11 page)

My eye was drawn to a small bookcase by the fireplace and I went over to look at it. I always think book-cases look rather sad when there are only a few books in them and the spaces have been filled with ornaments and photographs. There were a few gardening books, an early copy of Mrs. Beeton (probably quite valuable now), the illustrated history of a neighboring village (presumably where Annie got the idea for the Mere Barton book), a couple of paperbacks (ancient Penguins of
The Owl’s House
and
The Lonely Plough
) and a large family Bible, which I opened and noted that the names of the family had been carefully inscribed with the dates of their births and deaths. I thought that Martin would be pleased to have that. But none of the books explained the book of memoirs beside Annie’s bed. I picked up my shopping bags and, with a last look round the room, let myself out and locked the front door behind me.

As I stepped down into the street Judith’s door opened—she’d obviously been waiting for me.

“Was everything all right?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you.”

“And you found everything you wanted?”

“I think I’ve got all the papers Annie promised me,” I said, holding up the shopping bags.

“Good gracious, I expect all that will keep you busy!”

“I expect it will.”

“And everything was all right in the house?”

“It felt a bit cold and damp, but otherwise everything seemed fine.”

She came down the steps from her front door and said confidentially, “
I’ve
got Annie’s potted plants. Well, I did mention to Mr. Stillwell how worried I was about keeping them watered, and she had some very nice ones—that beautiful Christmas cactus, for instance, though that one doesn’t need watering so often. She’s had it for ages and it’s grown enormous, so it really ought to be repotted. Anyway, I was telling Mr. Stillwell about all this and he asked me if I’d like to have them. Wasn’t that kind!”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that you’ll look after them.”

“Potted plants are so
personal,
don’t you think, more than plants in the garden. And, actually, I’m really worried about Annie’s garden—it’s getting quite overgrown. I just looked over the fence the other day and I was shocked to see how bad it was. I’m sure it would have grieved poor Annie to see it looking like that.”

“I expect,” I said soothingly, “Mr. Stillwell will be making some arrangement about it when he comes down.”

“Oh, do you think so? Yes, I’m sure you’re right—such a nice man. Now, while you’re here, would you like to come in and have a cup of tea—or coffee?”

“That’s very kind of you, but I really ought to be getting on with all this.” I held up the shopping bags again. “Some other time, perhaps, I’d love to.”

 

When I got home I certainly intended to start work on the papers, but by the time I’d let the animals out and then fed them it was lunchtime. After lunch I had to go in to Brunswick Lodge because I’d rashly promised Anthea that I’d set out the chairs and help with the refreshments for a talk on discontinued local railways that she’d persuaded someone to give. By the time I got home all I had the energy for was to get supper and spend the evening slumped in front of the televison.

The following day was gray and rainy, miserable outside and appealingly warm and cozy inside, the sort of day, in fact, most conducive to work. I spread out some of the photographs on the dining room table. As I worked my way through them I became absorbed in my task—many of them would be invaluable. The changing face of the village street, with ancient cars and bicycles; a group of children at the village school, one of estate tenants and another of bell ringers, all taken in the 1890s; photographs of the football club and the cricket team sometime in the 1930s—many others of a similar nature. Finally, I found a photograph of a little girl (about eight years old) standing, shyly, just behind her mother, on the steps of a cottage. They both wore summer dresses, and both were staring self-consciously at the camera. It was only when I read the writing on the back (
Martha and Annie, Whitsun 1954
) that I realized that the bashful child in the cotton frock, with a bow of ribbon in her straight fair hair, had grown up to be the Annie who had been such a forceful personality in the village. I sat for quite a while looking at it—a moment in time, one summer day in the early 1950s. The dining room clock striking twelve recalled me to the present and I hastily put the photographs back in their folder and went to get ready to have lunch with Rosemary.

 

“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.

 

 

 

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 concentrated 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.