The Office of the Dead (30 page)

The Old Manor House at Roth smelt to high heaven of old money. Quite a lot of it. I pulled over to the side of the road and we sat and admired the view.

It was a long, low house a few hundred yards away from the Queen’s Head, where Henry had stayed. The windows were large and the walls had recently been painted a soft bluey-green that shimmered like water. Between the house and the road was a circular lawn with a raked gravel drive running round it and meeting at the front door. An offshoot of the drive ran down the side of the house to the back. The leaves of the copper beech were changing colour in the garden behind. Outside the front door was a large car, its paintwork like a black mirror.

‘Is that the same car?’ I asked. ‘It looks as if it might be.’

Henry grunted. He was grumpy because he hadn’t wanted to come. ‘It’s a black R Type Bentley Continental, and so was the one we saw in the High Street. You don’t see many of them around.’

I took the keys from the Ford’s ignition and felt for the door handle. ‘OK. Let’s go and see if the owner’s at home.’

‘Wendy – can’t we leave it?’

I turned to face him. ‘I’d like to know what she was up to. And why.’

‘She was curious about her uncle. What’s so strange about that?’

‘If she’s only a Youlgreave by marriage, then he wasn’t her uncle.’

‘That’s hair-splitting. You know what I mean. You don’t think perhaps that because you’re pregnant, you’re –’

‘Making too much of things? All right, tell me why she was being so mysterious about it? She could have come to Rosington and asked all those things herself. Instead she hired that nasty little man. If it’s nothing more than simple family curiosity, it just doesn’t make sense.’

Henry shrugged. I knew what he was thinking – that I was behaving no less oddly than Lady Youlgreave. I knew I could never begin to tell him the muddled reasons why Francis was so important to me, and why he would never quite be able to understand me even if I tried. The answers were tied up with him, as well, and with the Hairy Widow and David Byfield and above all with Janet. I’d failed with Janet. I didn’t want to fail with this.

‘Wendy, –’

I didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. I pushed open the door and swung my legs out of the car. A moment later I was walking down the drive towards the front door. Behind me I heard the slam of Henry’s door and his footsteps hurrying after me. I rang the doorbell. The front of the house was in shadow and the air on my bare forearms was suddenly cool. Henry came up beside me. When I glanced at him he grinned.

‘Just be polite, darling,’ he murmured. ‘That’s all I ask.’

I rang the doorbell again. ‘If she’s in.’

‘Remember – she might have grandsons who could come to Veedon Hall.’

There was a pattering on the gravel behind us, and suddenly Henry was dancing up and down while something brown and hostile snapped at his ankles.

‘Beast!’ said a voice behind us.

Henry swore in a way unlikely to impress the average grandmother. I kicked the dog in the ribs.

‘Beast! Come here!’

The dog, a dachshund, reluctantly abandoned Henry and sidled back to its mistress by a roundabout route. For the first time I got a good look at Lady Youlgreave. She was a small, stooping woman with dark dyed hair. Her face was lined like a monkey’s and in no way beautiful, but expertly and expensively made up. She was wearing well-cut slacks and a silk blouse. Once upon a time, men had probably found her attractive. I thought she could have been any age between fifty-five and seventy-five.

A large Alsatian strained at the leash held in her right hand. Pulled by the dog, Lady Youlgreave moved towards us in a series of darting movements like a bird’s. The dachshund kept between us and his mistress, ready to intervene again if things grew nasty.

‘And what can I do for you?’

The voice had the calm assurance of someone who has always had money, who has always told other people what to do. There was no warmth in it, no friendliness.

‘I’m Wendy Appleyard,’ I said. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’

I watched the name register on her face. It was like watching someone respond to a mild electric shock. The Alsatian sniffed the toe of my shoe, the one that had kicked the dachshund.

‘Is this Beauty?’ I asked.

Lady Youlgreave nodded and waved the dog away from me with a hand whose fingernails were thickly encrusted with purple varnish.

‘Are we right in thinking you’re Lady Youlgreave?’

She nodded, looking faintly surprised I’d had to ask. Then she waited, leaving me to say why we were here.

‘You know Mrs Byfield, I understand?’

‘Slightly, yes.’

‘We’ve just been having tea with her and her son and granddaughter.’

She stared up at me with large, dark-brown eyes like muddy ponds. ‘It was a sad business at Rosington,’ she announced.

‘Yes, it was.’

‘I think Mrs Byfield mentioned you were living in the house at the time?’

‘I think you already knew that. Harold Munro would have told you.’

For an instant the monkey face was blank. Then the wrinkles rearranged themselves into an expression that could have been a grimace or a grin. ‘I want to take the weight off my feet. Let’s sit in the garden, shall we?’

She led us down the side of the house to a formal rose garden. We passed under an archway of greenery and on to a large square lawn bisected by a stone-flagged path. Round the enclosure ran an old brick wall lined with trees and shrubs. Beyond the wall were the roofs of a sea of box-like houses. The garden was a green island, embattled and existing on sufferance, like Rosington surrounded by the Fens, and the Close surrounded by Rosington.

Lady Youlgreave made a beeline for a cluster of garden furniture – four wicker armchairs with cushioned seats and a table with splayed bamboo legs. She perched in the largest chair, which had a tall back like a throne, and waved at us to sit down as well.

‘I can only spare a few minutes.’

‘Then I’ll keep this brief,’ I said. ‘Munro was working for you.’

Her shoulders lifted. ‘Was he?’

‘Would you mind telling us what you wanted him to do?’

‘I don’t think it’s any business of yours, Mrs Appleyard.’

‘I don’t agree. You see, he was watching me some of the time. That makes it my business. He tried to talk to all sorts of people in Rosington. Did you know he almost frightened one old lady to death?’

The dogs had settled down on the grass by Lady Youlgreave’s feet. But something in my tone made them both raise their heads. She scratched the Alsatian between its ears and then examined her hands, which wore more rings than I’d ever owned in my life.

‘I hired Mr Munro to make some enquiries on my behalf about one of my husband’s relations.’ She looked up at me. ‘That’s the long and the short of it. By the way, what was the name of the old lady you mentioned?’

‘Mrs Gotobed.’

There was no mistaking the pleasure in Lady Youlgreave’s face. ‘But she recovered?’

‘For a short time. She died a few weeks later.’

Henry drew in his breath sharply. ‘Of course, my wife isn’t actually implying that Mr Munro caused Mrs Gotobed’s death. Just that –’

‘He certainly gave her a bad fright,’ I said. ‘I saw her just after it had happened. She thought Munro was trying to break in.’

Lady Youlgreave nodded, not committing herself.

‘He traced Simon Martlesham,’ I went on. ‘Why would you want him to do that?’

‘To trace Martlesham? Because as a boy he’d known Francis Youlgreave.’

‘I think what really interested you was why Francis Youlgreave left Rosington. There was a scandal, wasn’t there?’

‘That’s common knowledge.’ She raised plucked eyebrows, black as ink. ‘Women priests – I wonder where he got that one from. I don’t think he even liked women very much. Frightened of them, probably. A lot of men of that generation were. But there’s no great secret about that, Mrs Appleyard. Mr Munro even found me a report in
The Times.’

‘He also ripped out everything about it from the backfile of the
Rosington Observer.
Straightforward theft, was it, or was he trying to muddy the trail for anyone who came after him?’

‘Mr Munro did have a tendency to cut corners, I give you that.’

‘Did?’

‘I’m no longer employing him. He finished the job I wanted him to do.’

‘But your uncle was involved in another scandal, Lady Youlgreave, and this one wasn’t ecclesiastical. I think they just used that sermon about women priests as an excuse to get rid of him.’

‘How very melodramatic.’

‘It was to do with Simon Martlesham and his family.’

She leant forward, and her fingers stopped scratching the Alsatian’s scalp. ‘Go on.’

‘Mrs Gotobed was Simon Martlesham’s aunt. The Martleshams were very poor. They came from a part of Rosington called Swan Alley, a slum by the river – it no longer exists. Simon cleaned the boots in the Bishop’s Palace. And he had a little sister called Nancy. But you know all this, don’t you?’

‘I know a lot of things, Mrs Appleyard.’

‘Then the mother died, and the children became the responsibility of their aunt. She was working in a haberdasher’s shop then – she hadn’t married Mr Gotobed. The children were a burden to the aunt, partly because she wanted to get married. Mr Gotobed was the head verger, and he had a house in the Close. He didn’t like the idea of children who came from Swan Alley. Perhaps he wanted his own children. Is this making sense to you?’

Lady Youlgreave nodded in a way that suggested she didn’t much care whether it made sense or not. Henry stirred in the chair beside me and the wicker creaked.

‘Luckily a solution was at hand,’ I went on. ‘Canon Youlgreave knew the Martlesham children. Simon had helped him when he fell over in the Close. And Canon Youlgreave had taken an interest in the boy, given him books to read and so on. And he’d done the same for Nancy, the sister, as well. I expect all that increased his reputation for eccentricity.’

‘I don’t want to hurry you, Mrs Appleyard, but I do have another engagement.’

I nodded. ‘This won’t take long. Mrs Gotobed said that people in the Close thought he was being over-friendly with children from Swan Alley. Anyway, he came to the rescue as far as the Martleshams were concerned. He paid for Simon to emigrate to Canada, and learn a trade there. But this is where it gets confusing. When I first talked to Simon, he said that Francis Youlgreave had also paid for Nancy to emigrate with him. But then we found a photograph that proved that Nancy had stayed in Rosington. So Simon changed the story. He said Canon Youlgreave had arranged for Nancy to be adopted by wealthy friends. But as far as I can see, there’s no evidence that he actually did that. After the summer of 1904, Nancy Martlesham simply vanished.’

Henry wriggled and cleared his throat. ‘Nothing necessarily sinister in that, of course.’

‘Do go on,’ drawled Lady Youlgreave. ‘It’s so interesting to have another perspective on Uncle Francis.’

‘I’ve talked to people who knew him,’ I said. ‘I’ve read his poetry. Did Mr Munro tell you that he was in the habit of cutting up animals? Or did you know that already from something you’d found here?’

I paused. But she said nothing. She stared at me with those opaque brown eyes.

‘I think he believed that eating a child might make him stay young.’

Lady Youlgreave hooted briefly with laughter, a surprisingly loud sound in that quiet garden. ‘Uncle Francis was eccentric, I grant you that. It’s common knowledge. Unbalanced, even. Did you know he was addicted to opium? But I doubt if he had the strength to kill a fly. Just think about it, Mrs Appleyard. Think about the practicalities of killing something, even a cat.’

‘How did you know there was a cat?’ I asked sharply.

She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. ‘Munro turned up something.’

‘So he
was
strong enough.’

‘More likely the animal was already dead.’

‘He was strong enough to kill himself, by all accounts.’

She glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘Aren’t we getting rather hypothetical, Mrs Appleyard?’

‘You’re interested in the Martleshams as much as Francis Youlgreave. I think you were trying to trace them. And in particular you were looking for Nancy. Because something you’d found or heard made you think that Francis had killed her.’

This time Lady Youlgreave laughed properly. It was one of those well-bred laughs that don’t express mirth. When she’d had enough, she sat up in her chair and smiled at me. It unsettled me, that smile, because it didn’t belong on this face at this time. I could have sworn it was a smile of relief.

‘How imaginative you are, Mrs Appleyard. But I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I’ve never for a moment thought that Uncle Francis killed her. And for a very good reason. I’m Nancy Martlesham.’

Veedon Hall was a place with aspirations, a tall, ugly house built by a nineteenth-century manufacturer of corsets. It had a large garden which the school prospectus referred to as the Park, a pond known as the Lake and a ditch called the Ha-Ha. One of the bedrooms was said to be haunted by the ghost of an aristocratic girl abandoned by her lover.

The reality was kinder than the aspirations and almost cosily suburban, despite the fact we were in the depths of rural Hampshire. The rooms were large, airy and well-lit. Generations of small boys had humanized the place. I liked Veedon Hall very much, which was just as well because I now owned twenty per cent of it.

The previous owners, the Cuthbertsons, had invited us to stay the week after Janet’s death. When Henry told me, I assumed there had been an element of calculation in the invitation, that they wanted to safeguard the sale they had agreed with Henry. It’s always easier to believe the worst about human nature than the best. But when I met them, I soon realized they simply wanted to help.

Henry and I had spent much of the summer term at Veedon Hall, gradually growing used to the place and to each other. I was surprised to discover that as far as the school was concerned I was one of Henry’s advantages. His new partner was what we used to call a confirmed bachelor and, as Mrs Cuthbertson told me, the mothers liked to think there was a woman about the place. As for Henry, he slotted into the rhythms of the school as though he’d never been away.

‘The boys actually work for him,’ Mr Cuthbertson said. ‘Lord knows why, but there’s not many of us you can say
that
about.’

I was fond of Veedon Hall for what it was and what it could be. Best of all, it wasn’t the Close at Rosington. It was another miniature world, but this one was dominated by a hundred and seventeen fairly healthy little savages. The boys had to learn about the subjunctive of
Amo
and simultaneous equations, which fortunately was not my province, but they also had to be fed and watered, looked after when they were ill and comforted when they were sad. One of the junior matrons left suddenly when her mother fell ill and I took on some of her duties.

It made me feel as if I was someone else now, knowing that I was not only pregnant but owned part of the school. Henry had put both our names in the contract. So far I’d enjoyed the school more than the pregnancy. Henry and his partner might be wonderful teachers but neither of them had the slightest idea how to organize the place or control the money. Gradually I began to take over the administration. I had come a long way from 93, Harewood Drive, Bradford, but part of me was still the daughter of a Yorkshire shopkeeper.

So I was busy. During the summer term and afterwards, I didn’t have much time to brood or to grieve about Janet. I didn’t have much time to think about what had happened. That suited me very well. But I could run away from Rosington for the rest of my life. I could never run away from Janet.

Janet
. However busy I was, she was always there in the back of my memory, waiting patiently. I’d kept cuttings about the case in a large manila envelope because I knew sooner or later I would have to read them again.

One of the newspapers carried the headline
THE WOMAN WHO DIED FOR LOVE
. The
News of the World
said Janet was an Angel of Mercy who had killed to save suffering. She had done the wrong thing for the right reason, and had made herself pay the price. The general verdict was that she was kind-hearted but fatally weak. It was taken for granted that suicide was a coward’s way out. I didn’t understand that, and still don’t. Killing yourself must take more courage than I ever had.

None of the accounts mentioned David’s lost job or indeed David’s failings as a husband. He and Rosie were confined to the margins of the drama. Janet would have been glad of that. She wasn’t vindictive, and she cherished her privacy. At some point before swallowing the rest of her father’s sleeping tablets, she wrote three letters and put them under her pillow.

The coroner’s letter was read out at the inquest. Janet said she was sorry to be such a trouble to everyone. She’d decided to take an overdose and kill herself because she’d killed her father. She had not been able to bear him going senile, and she knew how desperately unhappy he was, and how much more unhappy he would be when he went to the nursing home. He had begged her to kill him, she wrote. She added that she couldn’t stand living with the knowledge of what she had done, and that in any case she was very depressed after losing a baby. The coroner saw the letters to David and me but did not think it necessary to read them out in open court.

I never knew what was in Janet’s letter to David. Mine was short and to the point, and more than forty years later I can recite it word for word.

There’s nothing anyone can do, even you. The police know I killed Daddy and I think it’s only a matter of hours before they arrest me. You’ve always been a sort of guardian angel to me, but please don’t think this is your fault.

This way it’s better for everyone, especially David and Rosie. I want so much for them to be free to make a fresh start and they can’t do that if I’m here. I know you’ll help them if you can. Thank you for everything.

Do you know how much Henry needs you? Give him my love and to you, as always, my special love.

Janet