Well-Schooled in Murder (42 page)

Barbara shoved her dripping umbrella into the old, disintegrating rattan stand by the door and shrugged off her coat. The house was overly warm. The air smelled of wet wool held too close to fire. She glanced in the direction of the sitting room door, wondering if the acrid scent came from there.

“How’s Dad?” she asked.

“Dad?” Mrs. Havers’ watery eyes tried to focus behind the frames of her spectacles. A large fingerprint obscured the right lens. For the second day in a row, she had managed to dress herself, but she had chosen a sagging pair of knit trousers and her blouse was held together by three safety pins. “I thought that Peru…they have those sweet animals there. The ones with the big brown eyes and that soft fur. What are they called? I want to call them camels, but I know that’s not right. Look, here’s a snap of one of them. He’s even got a hat on. Isn’t that sweet? What’s he called, lovey? I can’t remember.”

Barbara took the picture from her mother. “It’s a llama,” she said, returned it, and sidestepped her mother’s attempt to grip her arm to keep her for more conversation. “How’s Dad, Mum? Is he all right?”

“On the other hand, there’s the food. And I do worry about that.”

“Food? What are you talking about? Where’s Dad?” She started down the hall. Her mother trailed at her heels, catching at the back of Barbara’s pullover.

“The food’s so spicy, lovey. I can’t think it would be good for any of us. Don’t you remember the paella we had all those years ago for your birthday? It was too spicy. We all got sick, didn’t we?”

Barbara’s footsteps slowed. She turned to her mother. In the close confines of the cramped hallway, she saw their shadows distorted against the wall—her own broad and ill-shaped, her mother’s angular and wild-haired. Just beyond them, the television in the sitting room was showing an old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film at a nerve-grating volume. Fred and Ginger were on roller skates, dancing their way effortlessly round a gazebo. The odour of burnt wool was becoming more pronounced.

“Paella?” Barbara grimaced inwardly at her needless repetition of everything her mother said. It was as if stepping inside her home nightly prompted her own inchoate mental collapse. She compelled herself to speak logically. “What made you think of the paella, Mum? That was at least fifteen years ago, wasn’t it?”

Encouraged, her mother smiled, but her lips seemed to quiver with uncertainty and Barbara wondered if her mother read the impatience on her face. This thought brought its usual attendant rush of guilt. Home all day alone with only an ailing husband for company, was it any wonder that the poor woman clung to a few minutes of conversation—no matter how mad—like a lifeline to humanity?

“Does all this have to do with the trip you’ve been planning?” Barbara asked, and adjusted the shoulders of her mother’s cardigan.

The smile took on confidence. “Yes, indeed. It does. You see, you
knew
what I meant. You always do, lovey. We’re kindred spirits that way, you and I.”

Barbara had more than a few doubts about that. “And you’re worried about the food in South America.”

“Yes! Exactly right. I was wondering whether we ought to do Argentina
or
Peru. The llamas are sweet and I did so want to see them. But I can’t think how any of us shall manage with that food. Our poor stomachs in an uproar from morning till night. So all day I tried to decide…I didn’t want to disappoint you, lovey. You work so hard. I know our holiday is the only thing you’ve got to look forward to. And I wanted it to be special this time. But I can’t think how we’ll manage with the food.”

Barbara knew that there would be no escape until they had found a resolution to the problem. Once her mother’s mind was set on a particular thought, nothing could dislodge it until she herself was ready to move on.

“You see, it’s the llamas most of all,” Mrs. Havers murmured. “I did so want to see the llamas.”

Here was rescue, Barbara thought. “But we don’t have to go to South America to see them, do we? We can see them in a zoo.”

Her mother frowned. “Oh, a
zoo
. Lovey, I don’t think a zoo—”

Barbara headed her off. “They’ve a lovely zoo in California, Mum. In San Diego. I think they’ve a park there where the animals run free. Why don’t we think about California?”

“But it’s not very
different
, is it? Not like Turkey. Or Greece. Or China. Remember China, lovey? The Forbidden City and all those curious doorways?”

“I think I should like California, Mum,” Barbara said with more determination. “The sun. Perhaps the beach. And we’d see the llamas in that park. Why don’t you think about it? We could manage the food in California.”

California
. Mrs. Havers mouthed the word. Barbara patted her shoulder and went into the sitting room. There she immediately found the source of the pungent smell that was permeating the heavy, hot air in the house. A green and blue blanket had been thoughtlessly flung across the three-bar electric fire that blazed at full force in front of the old walled-in fireplace. Wisps of smoke rose from it. It was mere moments away from bursting into flames.

“Jesus, bloody
hell
!” Barbara cried and dashed to tear the blanket away. She hurled it to the floor and ground her feet against four scorched sections that were giving off the worst of the smoke. “What in God’s name…Damn it all! Dad! Didn’t you even
notice—
”

As she spoke, she spun to her father’s chair, anger fired by the fear of what might have happened had she not arrived home in time, and by the anxiety aroused by the thought of what might happen in the future. But both words and anger faded when she saw the futility of a lecture on common safety precautions. Her father was asleep.

His jaw was slack. His head hung forward. His unshaven chin rested on his chest. The oxygen tubes were still in place in his nostrils, but his breathing sounded oddly mechanical, as if his lungs were being operated by a crank turning slowly somewhere on his back.

On the television, Fred and Ginger began to sing. Barbara muttered an oath and switched off the set. Her father’s breath alternately gurgled and clanked.

Monday’s and Tuesday’s newspapers had joined the Sunday paper on the floor. Mingled among them were several pieces of crockery: two cups of untouched tea, a plate of pickled onions and bread, a small bowl of half-eaten grapefruit segments. Barbara stooped to gather the newspapers into a pile. The dishes she placed on top of the stack.

“Dad all right, lovey?” Mrs. Havers had come to the doorway. She held a travel album open against her stomach. The trip to Peru was in the process of being disassembled. Large holes gaped in the pages of the album where photographs of Machu Picchu had not easily surrendered to the idea of removal.

“Asleep,” Barbara answered. “Mum, you’ve got to watch him more closely. Can’t you remember? He almost set the blanket on fire. It was smoking. Couldn’t you smell it?”

Confusion swept across her mother’s face. “Dad doesn’t smoke, lovey. You know that. He can’t round the oxygen. The doctor said—”

“No, Mum. The blanket was on the electric fire. It was too close to the coils. Do you see?” She pointed to the scorched spots that blackened the wool.

“But if it’s on the floor, I don’t see how—”

“Mum, I put it on the floor. It was on the fire. It was smoking. The whole house could have burned down.”

“Oh, I hardly
think—
”

“That’s it! You hardly think!” The words were out before she could stop them. Her mother’s face crumpled. Barbara’s heart twisted with remorse.
It’s not her fault. Not her fault!
Barbara searched for words. “I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just that this case I’m working on…I’m worried. I don’t know. Why don’t you put on the kettle for tea?”

Mrs. Havers brightened. “Have you had your dinner? I remembered dinner tonight. I put a pork joint in for us. At half-five on the button, just as I used to. I should think it’s done now.”

Considering the time—half-past eight—it was either charred to cinders or uncooked entirely. Putting a joint in the oven did not guarantee turning the oven on. Still, Barbara forced a smile.

“Good for you. That’s very good.”

“I can take care of Dad. I can, you see.”

“You can. Yes. Would you see to the kettle now? And perhaps you can check on that pork joint as well.” She waited until she heard her mother’s movement in the kitchen before bending over her father and touching his shoulder. She shook him gently, saying his name.

His eyes fluttered open. He lifted his head, closed his mouth with what looked like a grimace of pain.

“Barbie.” One hand rose to greet her. But he lifted it only inches from the arm of the chair before dropping it down again. His head started to droop.

“Dad, have you eaten?”

“Had a cuppa, Barbie. Nice cuppa round four. Mum made it for me. Sees after me, does your mum.”

“I’m going to make you something right now,” she said. “Can you manage a sandwich? Would soup be better?”

“Don’t matter. A bit off my food, Barbie. Feeling a bit knackered.”

“Oh God, your appointment with the doctor. I’ll phone him first thing tomorrow. I’ll take you in tomorrow afternoon. Will that do for you?” She smiled, not the genuine article but a reflection of guilt. “Can you fit that into your schedule, Dad?”

He returned her smile sleepily. “Rang him myself, Barbie. This afternoon. Set the appointment for Friday. Half-three. All right?”

Barbara felt a small degree of relief at this information. Tomorrow would have been difficult to manage in spite of her promise. Friday, on the other hand, seemed a world away. Between now and then, they might have got to the bottom of Matthew Whateley’s murder. That would give her a bit of free time. Between now and then, she might have come up with an idea of how to see to her mother. That would give her a bit of peace of mind.

“Lovey?”

Barbara looked up. Mrs. Havers was in the doorway. In her hands was a roasting pan. Barbara’s heart sank. The pork joint in the pan hadn’t been removed from the paper in which the butcher had wrapped it. Nor had the oven ever been lit.

Perhaps as a form of self-abuse—she didn’t know clearly why she made the decision to do it, and she was beyond evaluating the motivations behind her behaviour at the moment—Deborah St. James walked all the way through Chelsea from Sloane Square station, down the King’s Road. The rain beat against her, the wind fought to wrestle her umbrella from her hand. She felt her muscles constricting against the cold, and she knew from the sound of splashing and sloshing that her shoes were sodden and her feet were soaked, even though she wasn’t aware of any sensation at all beneath her knees.

Buses and taxis hurtled past her, sending spray onto the pavement round her like angry spume. She could have hailed either, from bus stop or kerb, but to do so would have meant shelter and convenience. She wanted neither. Nor did she care particularly about safety, or the inherent foolishness in making such a long walk in the darkness, where not only was she available to passersby wishing to prey upon her but she was also exposed to the potential danger of vehicles roaring by on streets made slick by the rain.

A twenty-five-minute walk took her nearly an hour, and by the time she made the final turn onto Cheyne Row, her body was shaking with great spasms from the cold. When at last she reached her front door, her hands were trembling so violently that nearly a minute passed before she was able to force her key into the lock. She stumbled inside as the grandfather clock in the hall began to sound the time. It was nine.

Leaving both coat and umbrella by the door, she went into the study, her rigid body not yet ready to yield to the warmth of the house. The fire was not lit in the room, and although her intention was to see to it at once, instead she found herself crouching on Simon’s ottoman, arms drawn up to her chest, staring at the grate with its neat pile of logs and their promise of heat.

Out of the storm at last, Deborah was honest enough with herself to examine her behaviour and see it for what it was—punishment for her crimes against her husband, blended with an abandonment to the pleasures of a self-pity she despised even as she welcomed it. Agony of spirit demanded concomitant agony of body. She was only too happy to oblige. To take off her wet clothes—even to remove her ruined shoes—would be to ease discomfort. She did not want that.

She had not seen her husband since the morning. Their conversation had been as brief, as remote and formal as their goodbyes had been on the previous day. Simon had not tried to reschedule any of his engagements. He had not offered to stay at home should she need him. It was as if he had finally recognised her desire to build a barrier between them and had decided to allow her to do so. He did not fight against her determination to isolate herself, but she knew that he was not untouched by actions which he obviously did not understand.

In the study, huddled on the ottoman with her hair hanging like wet streamers round her shoulders and down her back, Deborah found herself examining the entire question of deception, dwelling upon the central point that some forms of betrayal were beyond forgiveness. Estranged from Simon all those years ago, separated from him by six thousand miles, yet all the time loving him, she had sought only to forget, to replace the pain of their disjunction with anything that remotely resembled peace. To be loved by someone, to be held, to be caressed, to be the object of passion and the focus of desire. It had all been a way to mask reality, a pretence in which she acted the role of heart-engaged lover and per suaded her emotions to follow along. It had worked for a while; it might have worked forever, had Simon not come back into her life.