The Death of Ruth (4 page)

When a man and a woman have lived together in a small cottage for twenty-odd years it is reasonable to believe that they know each other intimately.

Molly and I married early, and the years following our marriage were passive, uneventful. I had no talent for business, for money-making but we were satisfied with our way of life. We lived within our means, managing to save enough to have a vacation every year. Perhaps our life together and our characters can be explained briefly, by recounting that on our first vacation we went to a modest hotel in a mountain resort, where the tariff was cheap, the food uninteresting but plentiful, and, liking the place well enough, we returned to it every time vacation came around again.

Our way of life was quiet, but pleasant. Then, about three years ago it began to change. One evening I returned home after a short business trip. We always used the term ‘business trip' but actually, once every two months I accompanied my boss, Andrew Palmer, on
his
business trip, seeing to it that the samples of plastic materials he dealt in were packed in the correct cases and checking that his car was in good order to travel the long distances we covered. I acted as his chauffeur and clerk.

Returning to the city I was eager and anxious to get home, back to peace and order. Palmer is a tough insensitive man from whom I was forced to take any number of insults in order to keep my job. Molly's quiet attentiveness smoothed away these indignities.

A storm was raging, rain fell in a deluge and as I hurried
from the bus stop I worried about my garden—heavy rains always washed away so much of the precious topsoil—and I fretted about a leak in the kitchen roof that needed mending. I wished that we were better off so that I could afford professional tradesmen for odd jobs and devote all my spare time to the garden, make it the place of beauty I wanted it to be. I had wondered whether I could ask Molly to forgo our mountain holiday and spend the money and the time on the garden, then I thought of her indifference to gardening and decided it was hardly a fair request.

Passing by the large, vacant section that adjoined our property, I wished again that our house had been included in the real estate deal a few years back, when the land had been purchased for the building of an apartment block. We had no luck, I thought, no luck at all, really. But as I entered my front gate I suddenly felt quite fortunate and glad to be home.

I have always been relieved that Molly is never nervous whilst I am away. It was I, not Molly, who reacted nervously when our home was robbed. I was also damned annoyed at losing the recently purchased television, radio and record player which I had not bothered to insure against theft.

I knew from years of similar reunions that Molly would be in the kitchen. That the table would be nicely set for dinner. I knew that we would eat lamb cutlets—it was Wednesday—I knew that on opening the front door, I would take off my raincoat and call, ‘Molly, I'm home, dear!' and that she would come into the hall, wearing a crisp apron with her hair neatly groomed, smiling, saying, ‘Hello, John dear. So—you're home!'

‘Yes,' I would answer, ‘I'm home,' and I would kiss her cheek and she would kiss the air or perhaps her kiss would land on my ear.

But that evening—three years ago—when I stood in the hall calling, ‘Molly, I'm home,' although I was not then aware of it, the pattern of our lives changed, for instead of
coming into the hall, Molly called to me from the living room, saying, ‘John, in here! John! I'm in the living room.'

I went into the living room. Molly sat on a stiff-backed chair with her left leg resting on a stool, and the ankle was bandaged.

Concerned, I was about to ask her what had happened, when a man—a stranger—sitting on another stiff-backed chair, got to his feet and spoke to me, introducing himself as Grey and explaining that he belonged to a branch of the police force which made enquiries about missing persons.

‘Missing persons?' I looked at Molly. Molly was home. I was home.

‘Who is missing?' I asked.

Molly and the detective evidently expected the other to answer. A short silence ensued, then Grey informed me that our neighbour, Ruth Moyston, had presumably left her home two days before, and that, so far, no one knew of her whereabouts. Her husband, Ralph Moyston, had been upset about his wife going away without a word to anyone, but he, Moyston, had not become deeply alarmed until that afternoon and he had notified the police.

Grey explained that he was in our home, questioning us, because he had been told that my wife and Mrs Moyston were friends, and of course, because we were not only the Moystons' closest, but their only neighbours.

‘That's correct!' I said and I added, ‘My goodness!' I sat down and took out my pipe. I was intrigued because nothing quite as dramatic as this had happened to us before. ‘My goodness,' I repeated, ‘What can have happened to her?'

‘Why do you say that?' asked Grey.

‘I beg your pardon—say what?'

‘Surmise that something has happened to Mrs Moyston? So far, her husband, her children and your wife, have all been asking, “Where can she have gone?”'

‘Oh,' I interrupted, ‘I meant that too. Ruth is such a loner,
and certainly, although she's forever yelling that she intends to take off and leave Ralph and the kids, I have never known her to be away from home for one night, let alone two.'

I was becoming more interested, quite enthusiastic, and Grey was becoming quite animated in his manner and expression as he took a notebook from one of his pockets, saying, ‘Never?'

‘What?' I asked, ‘Never … what?'

‘Mrs Moyston has
never
been away from her home overnight?'

‘So far as I know, and except for my business trips and holidays I am always at home in the evenings, and I assure you I should know, for Ruth—Mrs Moyston—is a loud-mouthed, noisy woman.' I stuffed tobacco into my pipe, lit a match to it and puffed away.

Grey lost his animation, saying flatly, ‘Mr Blake, if you're away so much I can't accept your statement, or take it seriously.'

The man plainly thought I was a fool. He turned from me to Molly and by his manner I gathered that he had already asked her many questions.

‘And so, Mrs Blake,' he said, ‘You can think of nothing unusual at all? You're quite certain then, that nothing unusual occurred? I mean, could, for instance, Mrs Moyston have received a letter, a telephone call that upset her in any way? Perhaps …'

‘Not that I know of,' interrupted Molly. ‘Everything was as usual. On Sunday—the day before she left home—Ruth did her weekly wash, she polished the kitchen tiles, then, she came over here. We had coffee together, she chatted, talked as usual, of usual things, then she went back home and …'

‘Does Mrs Moyston always do her weekly wash on Sunday?' Mr Grey interrupted.

‘Yes,' said Molly, ‘She does. Ruth likes her family to see
how difficult her life is. She is a hard woman, very stern. She never lets her children, especially her daughter, have much fun or freedom. Ralph, Mr Moyston, is gentle. He always lets her have her way …' Molly hesitated, ‘ …I sometimes think Ralph is as scared of Ruth as the children are.'

‘Scared?' queried Grey. ‘Surely that's a rather strong word?'

‘Ruth is a strong woman,' replied Molly firmly. ‘Jodie and Rob have good reason to be scared of her moods. That doesn't mean that they don't love her, I am sure they
do
. As for me, yes, some of Ruth's ways do upset me. When I hear her yelling at the children or lashing out at Ralph with her tongue I dislike her intensely, but, for all that, she has her good qualities and we are friends …' Molly turned to me, saying, ‘Wouldn't you say that Ruth and I are good friends, John?'

‘Well,' I said, ‘I never think of her as your good friend, but you are quite friendly. Personally,' I faced Grey—‘Personally, Mr Grey, I detest the woman. I would be glad never to set eyes on her again.'

‘John!' interrupted Molly, admonishingly, ‘How can you!'

Grey stood up, saying, ‘Mr Blake, before I leave I would like a statement from you concerning the last time you saw Mrs Moyston.'

‘A statement! That's ludicrous! I see very little of her, as little as I am able to.'

‘Nevertheless, I require a statement,' he insisted. And so, I gave him a statement, saying that the last time I had seen and spoken to Ruth Moyston had been the Tuesday morning, a week before she left home.

‘I was leaving on a business trip.' I stated, ‘Ruth, Mrs Moyston, called to me from her front window—'

‘Called to you? What exactly did she say?' Grey sounded ridiculously suspicious.

‘“Goodbye, John!” That's all. She just called out, “Goodbye, John.”'

‘Was there a note of—let us say—a note of finality in her goodbye?'

‘Certainly not! It was just an ordinary, everyday goodbye.'

‘Well,' said Grey. ‘Thank you, both. I'll be on my way.'

I went to the door with him, and after watching him walk down the path then enter the Moystons' house I hurried back to Molly. She was still sitting on the stiff-backed chair, and kissing her smooth cheek, I said with some concern, ‘Now, tell me! Your leg? What happened? What is wrong with your leg?'

‘It's my ankle,' she explained. ‘I slipped in the shower. It's very painful—'

‘
Shower
?' I interrupted. ‘You seldom shower! You love your bath tub. What were you doing under the shower?'

For the first time ever, my wife spoke to me waspishly, obviously strained by the events of the last few days, ‘I-was-taking-a shower, John,' she said, ‘Can't I take a shower without you making a drama of the fact?'

‘Molly,' I placated, ‘I'm sorry, dear. That detective fellow
has
upset us. My goodness, isn't it queer? About Ruth, I mean! Where can she have gone? Is Ralph greatly upset? I had better go over and see him, poor chap, and how about the kids? I bet they're glad that the old girl has skedaddled …'

‘John,' Molly interrupted whisperingly, ‘I'm sorry dinner is not ready. I feel very off-colour. There are lamb chops, there is a cold baked custard. John, I must lie down. I must rest. I'm sorry …'

Accepting my help, she limped into our bedroom. I went into the kitchen and ignoring the lamb chops and the custard, I made some toast and coffee, then, after eating it on the hoof, I carried a snack-tray into Molly. She was lying on the bed, obviously asleep, but still fully clad.

Feeling at a loss—also rather neglected—I tidied up the kitchen then, concerned at the havoc the rain would be causing in my back garden, I was about to put on my old raincoat, take up my flashlight to go and investigate, when the front door bell rang.

It was the detective Grey again. Ralph Moyston stood behind him and behind Ralph were Jodie and Rob. They all trooped into the living room where Grey at once made a speech, saying, ‘I have just been informed that Mrs Moyston has taken away a certain amount of clothing and personal possessions, also quite a large sum of money. This causes one to believe that she has indeed left home, intending to stay away for some time.'

He looked up at the ceiling. My gaze followed his and I noticed that the paint was flaking a little, then he continued on, still with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, saying, ‘ …But, I am not at all
satisfied
.'

Resembling a darting bird his glance swooped from the ceiling to our faces, causing me—at least—to squirm uneasily and feel that I knew something, and was deliberately withholding information from him.

Jodie began to sniffle and Ralph drew the girl to his side, saying, ‘Now then, don't cry, pet.'

Ignoring this tender interlude between father and daughter, Grey continued briskly, saying, ‘From all accounts Mrs Moyston is a careful, a methodical woman. Would this careful and methodical woman—without a word to anyone—leave her home, leave the house she has so devotedly cared for over the years—lock the back door—place the key in its hiding place and yet leave most windows in the house wide open—'

‘Wide open? The windows left wide open?' interrupted Ralph, ‘After the recent robberies? No, Ruth would never do that, and as a matter of fact, Mr Grey, you are mistaken. When I came home that evening, all the windows were closed.'

‘Your daughter had closed them.' Mr Grey turned to Jodie, saying politely, ‘Miss Moyston, I would like you to tell me—once more—exactly how things were when you returned home from school on Monday.'

Jodie, unaccustomed to such formal address, blushed wildly. I smiled at her. ‘Go ahead, Jo,' encouraged Ralph, tenderly.

Jodie went ahead, in the rapid, but halting, manner peculiar to teenagers, saying, ‘I came home as usual and as usual the windows were open. The kitchen door was locked—that wasn't usual—I knocked on the door and called out because I knew Mum must be home. But she wasn't home, so I looked and found the key and I went inside and then I came over here, to Aunty Molly, because I thought Mum would be here—and I was rather glad of that—because Mum had been—well—she had been a bit upset with me before I left for school and I was glad that I'd see her first together with Aunty Molly, not by herself. But she wasn't here. Aunty Molly said she thought that Mum must be out, because earlier on in the day the baker-boy had told her, Aunty Molly, that Mum had not answered him. Then Aunty Molly told me that she—Aunty Molly, I mean—had sprained her ankle during the day and that after her accident she'd yelled out to Mum to come over and help her bandage it but Mum hadn't answered. Then, when Rob came home from school, he came over here too, and we all talked and thought it was a bit … funny.'

‘Funny?' Mr Grey interrupted Jodie's soliloquy.

‘Yes, funny,' repeated Jodie, ‘Like … strange, unusual! Anyway, I made a cup of tea for Aunty Molly and Rob went home and it was
Rob
who closed the windows, because it was getting windy—real stormy and rainy—and then he started on his homework for school. And then when I went home a bit later I got a jolt when I found out that Mum had taken Dad's old case and that she'd also taken a lot of other
things too. When Dad came in, we told him and he couldn't believe us and he went right through the house and he found out what we had said was all true and he said Mum must be playing a trick—to tease us—and that—for sure—she'd be home soon. But she hasn't come home, even yet …?'