The Man Who Was Death, page 23
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
“Oh, bearing up, thanks. This fairy cake’s delicious. I don’t know how Nancy does it...”
“Nancy? Who’s Nancy?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Bernie, you’re incorrigible. You must know Mrs Harper’s first name, surely?”
Bernard dredged his brain to connect the name of Nancy with his rotund housekeeper. No, he thought. The name doesn’t suit her, that’s why I can never remember it. Besides, she doesn’t seem the type that Bill Sikes would go to the gallows for...
“Bernie? Are you all right? You seem miles away...”
“Oh, sorry. Just thinking. Look, Dorothy, I wasn’t being exactly honest about asking you to come to tea today ...”
“No? You mean, you have an ulterior motive?” Dorothy smiled at him as she watched his face flush with ill concealed embarrassment.
“Yes, sort of. Well, it’s just that – er, I wondered if you and I – given a suitable period after – you know – your fiancé’s death – could maybe make a go of it...?”
“Bernie, that’s the least romantic proposal I’ve ever heard.” She was laughing. “It was a proposal, wasn’t it?”
Bernard looked down at his feet and mumbled into his dog collar.
“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you...”
“I said – yes, it was. Sorry. I’m not used to proposing. I’m a bit embarrassed, truth to tell. What with all my shilly-shallying in the past and ... that ...”
“Oh, you’re an absolute darling, Bernie,” said Dorothy, getting up and going over to him. She put her arms around his neck and gave him a big, slobbery kiss, much to his chagrin. He tried not to wipe his mouth as she returned to her seat, but he hadn’t enjoyed the physical contact one bit. What on earth was he doing, proposing marriage when he couldn’t even stand the woman kissing him?
“Is that – is that your way of saying yes?” He was on tenterhooks. He realised that he’d made a big mistake, that he didn’t want to marry her at all. He felt like running out of the room screaming.
“Of course I’ll marry you, you silly old thing.”
“Oh – good!” said Bernard, as if he had just agreed to have his head cut off and skewered to a stake. Dorothy wasn’t deceived; she had accepted him only because she knew he didn’t really want her as his wife. But she wasn’t about to let him off that lightly. Oh no.
Dave Allison had told her categorically that she and Bernard would never marry, and she had believed him then and she believed him now. Even though Bernard had said the words, well an approximation of them at least, he was no more inclined to marry her than before. He had been miffed when she had announced her engagement to Jonathan Muirhead, and he had fooled himself into thinking he really wanted her after all. But now that impediment had been removed, he had felt bound to offer her his hand once more. She found herself in a quandary. She had always wanted to be the vicar’s wife, but suddenly she knew that she no longer wanted it. But how to get out of it? Bernard wanted to get out of it just as much, but how? There had to be a way. Then she had a brilliant idea.
“How’s the cat?” she said.
Bernard was taken completely off guard by this question. “What made you ask that?”
Dorothy just smiled and shrugged. “Oh, I just wondered. He’s getting on a bit now, isn’t he?”
“Not so old,” said Bernard defensive of his pet. “Beelzebub’s about fifteen, I think...”
“It’s just that ...” She paused, savouring the moment. “It’s just that if I come here as your wife, the cat will have to go.”
“Go? What do you mean, he’ll have to go?” Bernard was deeply shocked.
“I’m sorry, Bernie, you see, I’m allergic to fur...”
“You never said ... You’ve been around Beelzebub before...”
“Oh, it’s all right for a while. But I couldn’t live in the same house as a cat....”
“Do you realise what you’re asking?”
“Yes, Bernie, I do.” She was serious now. “It’s me or the cat. There’s no room in your life for both of us.”
Bernard knew. Dorothy knew. And, if Beelzebub had been privy to the conversation, he would have known too. There was no contest.
Later that evening, Bernard sat down to continue struggling with his sermon. He stopped for a moment and looked across at Beelzebub curled contentedly in his master’s chair by the fire. “Thanks, Beelzebub,” said Bernard gratefully.
Winter, 1964
Dave Allison leaned on his rake and sighed. He looked around the grounds of Mountjoy Court and noted the crocus buds and early daffodils already making a show, heralding the oncoming spring. There was no spring in his heart, however, as he ruminated on the previous night’s events.
First, there was the sad death of Lord Mountjoy. He should have phoned the police instantly, he knew, but he had allowed himself to be coerced by Forsythia and now there was no going back. If he went to the police now, he would at once be implicated in the murder. He had no doubt that Forsythia had been a willing participant in the killing of her husband, even if it was this Paul bloke who had actually done the deed. Why had he allowed himself to be led by the nose? Led by the nose, he had to add, right into her ladyship’s bed. That had been the worst day’s work he’d ever done. He still couldn’t comprehend how it had actually happened.
They had been drinking in the lounge after the ambulance had taken away the lifeless body of Florian Mountjoy, and Forsythia had kept topping up his whisky glass. She had then burst into tears, saying the fact of her husband’s demise had just hit her. He had had, by that time, at least four large double whiskies, and was feeling magnanimous and warm towards her. He put his arms around her, but it was a comforting gesture, nothing more. But before he knew where he was, he was on the bed with her, rolling around, kissing, touching, groping. It didn’t take long for that to turn into full-blown sex and she lay in his arms afterwards, purring like a cat that had not only got the cream but the full contents of Express Dairies as well.
Now he was, to all intents and purposes, her co-conspirator in the murder of Lord Mountjoy, and nothing he could say to the police at this late stage would convince them otherwise, he was sure. She had hinted as much to him that morning, as she slid out of his bed.
“Now, you’re not going to get all righteous about this, are you, Dave?” she had said, leaning over him. He could feel her hot, stale, whisky breath on his mouth and he inwardly recoiled. What was she doing there? How had it happened?
He stared up at her, as she wrapped herself in his towelling dressing gown. “What do you mean?” he asked, raising himself on one elbow.
She gulped as she watched him. He looked even more desirable now, with his sleep-filled eyes and tousled hair. Even his unshaven chin gave him an appeal that was hard to resist. She adored him, every inch of him, which she had at last been able to explore to the full the previous night.
“I mean that maybe you should have gone to the pictures after all and then you wouldn’t be in this position,” she said seriously, stroking the hair out of his clear blue eyes. “You said you had been looking forward to that film for ages.”
“I meant to go but you know I’d left my wallet behind. I don’t think they would have let me in without paying...”
“If it had been a woman in the ticket office, she would...”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Forsythia...”
“I told you to call me by my pet name last night...”
“I’ve forgotten what it is...”
“You know. Flossie – call me Flossie.”
“It doesn’t really suit you. It conjures up a woman in curlers and an overall.”
“Do you know, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me?” She laughed. “But getting back to what happened – you know there’s no point in going to the police now. And we’ll all be charged with Florian’s murder if you do. Paul will see to that.”
“I know. I’m not daft.” He was sulking now. Looking at his mistress in the cold light of day, he realised that now, more than ever, he didn’t much like what he saw. Without makeup she looked old and even haggard.
“That’s right. Let sleeping dogs lie, eh?”
“Suppose...”
“Now how about you get up and see to the garden? Look, the sun’s shining...”
“Don’t you feel any pity for your husband, Lady Mountjoy?”
She shrugged. “He was a drunk. What’s there to feel sorry for? He’s better off where he is now. We just stick to the story that he fell down the stairs because he’d had too much to drink, okay? At the inquest, I mean...”
Dave was dreading this. He knew there would have to be an inquest, of course. Any sudden death had to be investigated, but if he stuck to their story, all would be well. Just a formality. Wasn’t it?
“All right. I’ve agreed. Let’s not keep harping on about it.”
“Good. Now how about you and I going to the pictures tonight? To see ‘The Carpetbaggers’? My treat.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you? Just after your husband’s death. What will people say?”
“Who cares? I don’t.”
“Anyway, I don’t want to see it after all. I’ve just realised that Alan Ladd is in it. He was great in ‘Shane’ but he’s beginning to show his height these days...”
“Don’t you mean age?” She laughed.
“I know what I mean. Someone told me he’s only five foot four...”
“Really? That shatters an illusion. I suppose all his leading ladies were standing in ditches...”
“All except Virginia Lake,” said Dave, warming to his theme. He prided himself on being a bit of a film buff. “She was five foot two, so that was all right.”
“Well all’s hunky dory then. Get out of bed. Let the dog see the rabbit...”
That was earlier that morning. Now Dave could take no pleasure in his work, even though the garden looked lovely, his heart wasn’t in it. He knew he would have to get another job, and the sooner hr did that the better.
Autumn, 1968
Robbie watched from a distance as Dave raked the newly fallen leaves that were beginning to proliferate around the graves in St Stephen’s churchyard. He couldn’t help admiring the man’s rippling muscles as he worked. He could understand how the women fell for him; the man was God’s gift to the fair sex, he had to admit. But he was watching the man with a heavy heart. What he had to tell him that morning wasn’t going to be easy, and he had no means of knowing how he would react. But tell him, he must. That was certain. He made his way tentatively over to him and coughed politely to gain his attention.
Dave swung round at the sound of that cough, narrowly missing hitting the doctor in the eye with his rake. “Whoops! I nearly had your eye out. You shouldn’t creep up on me like that.” He was feeling decidedly jumpy these days. Forsythia resurfacing and producing a son he never knew he had was giving him more than a few sleepless nights, as well as the fact that he knew by her aura that she was about to die. No medical diagnosis was necessary.
“My fault, lad. No harm done. Can I have a word?”
“Sure.” Dave mopped his sweaty brow. “Let’s see if Mrs Aitch can make us a brew, shall we?”
Mrs Aitch said she could certainly make them a brew, and make them a brew she did. She provided some delicious homemade biscuits to go with it, but continued to hang around them in the kitchen as they sat down to their refreshments.
“Er, Mrs Aitch – would you mind? I need to talk to this fellow in private...” Robbie knew he was incurring her wrath by dismissing her from her own kitchen, but what he had to say wasn’t for anyone else’s ears; certainly not for Mrs Harper’s, the fount of all gossip for miles around.
So, after giving them the benefit of one of her infamous sniffs, she flounced out of the room, demanding that they vacate it in half-an-hour as the dinner ‘wouldn’t cook itself’ and the ‘vic’ would be back any minute demanding to be fed.
“Sorry about that, Dave,” smiled Robbie, handing him the plate of biscuits. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks. So, you wanted a word? I presume it’s about Fors- er, Lady Mountjoy?”
“Yes – partly. That is, I mean, well, it all concerns her actually...”
“Look, I know what you’re going to say, doctor...”
“Call me Robbie ...”
“Er, Robbie. She’s going to die, right?”
Robbie gave a non-committal shrug. “Well, it’s not looking good. She – she wants to set things right with you before ... er, you know...”
Dave braced himself. This was the moment. “I know what she wants, doc,” he said, biting into a flapjack.
“I’m not sure you do, lad,” said Robbie, in his most fatherly tone.
“She wants me to have Martin – I understand that. After all, he is my child. Besides, I’d be very happy...” He broke off as he saw the expression on Robbie’s face. “W-what is it?” he asked.
Robbie coughed nervously. “I’m not sure how you’re going to take this, but she told me that Martin isn’t your child...”
“Isn’t? What are you talking about? She told me to my face. He even looks like me when I was his age...”
“Let’s face it, Dave, all little boys look like little golden haired angels at that age...”
Dave was at a loss. “Did – did she tell you who is the father then?” The flapjack, which he had been enjoying, now tasted like ashes in his mouth. He had been looking forward to having his other son home with him. He hadn’t worked out in his mind how he was going to tell Pru, but then she would just have to get used to the idea. She wouldn’t have anything to complain about anyway, seeing as how his brief affair with Forsythia had happened before he had even met her.
“She told me that you would know who it was,” said Robbie enigmatically. “The name meant nothing to me, but then I don’t see any reason why it should.”
“Let me hazard a guess – Paul Brierley.”
“Paul was the Christian name, but I can’t quite remember the surname... Brierley? Yes I believe it was – something like that...”
Dave was frozen to the spot. This was a bombshell he hadn’t bargained for. The first thought in his head was, if Forsythia wasn’t dying already, he’d have made sure of it himself. His blood was boiling. He wanted to hunt Paul down and kill him too, but then he remembered. He was dead already.
He cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts as he did so. “Did she tell you that this Paul bloke was dead?”
“Yes, she did.” Robbie watched the other man’s face with concern.
“So she expects me to take on Martin anyway, I suppose...”
Dave thought fast. He understood much more than Robbie did about this request. Okay, the woman was dying, and she wanted her little boy to go to a good home. That was uncharacteristically unselfish of her, he had to admit. Paul’s death had robbed Martin of the father he had never known and, when she died, he would be left an orphan.
“She said to ask you,” said Robbie. “She also said something that I didn’t understand...”
“Yes? What was it?”
“She said to say to you ‘don’t forget you know too much to turn your back on this request’...”
Dave knew exactly what she meant. He realised he had no choice; she could do him immeasurable harm if she cared to. Blackmail was something he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to employ if she thought it expedient. But it wasn’t entirely up to him, and nor was it up to Pru either.
“But the social services will have to be involved,” said Dave reasonably. “She can’t just hand him over to me like a piece of property. Martin’s a human being, he’ll have to be formally adopted. All legal and above board. You tell her that.”
“Why don’t you go and see her yourself? She asked me to ask you. You can’t deny a dying woman, Dave, you really can’t...”
“Oh, can’t I? You don’t know what she’s put me through, doc.” Dave finished his tea and stood up. As he did so, Mrs Harper returned to her kitchen.
“Can I ’ave my kitchen back now?” she demanded crossly. “’Is nibs won’t be best pleased if ’is dinner’s not on the table at one o’clock prompt.” She put her hands on her hips and gave the two men her most Gorgon-like glare. Robbie could feel himself ossifying on the spot.
“Dear lady, we’re going. Sorry to have put you out.” He gave her the sweetest smile he could muster, but he could see that it was having no effect on her.
“I should think so too,” she sniffed, and started banging about on the stove. She was really more upset by the fact that she had been excluded from their conversation than that she had been excluded from her kitchen.
Dave and Robbie walked out into the back garden, leaving her to it. Discretion, they both thought simultaneously, was the better part of valour in this case.
Robbie made his way towards the back gate, turning to Dave as he unlatched it. “So that’s your final word on the matter? You won’t go and see her, at least? She hasn’t got long. I think you and she have unfinished business....?”
“If it is unfinished, it isn’t any business of yours,” said Dave rudely. He picked up his rake and began vigorously shuffling a fresh fall of leaves.
“Well, I’ll say no more. But, please, do think about it. Life really is too short, you know, especially for Lady Mountjoy now.
Early Spring, 1964
Paul Brierley was sitting in his small Tooting bedsit which was his third stage in downsizing since he had lost a packet on the stock exchange. He was emulating the late Lord Mountjoy by swigging from a bottle of Smirnoff. It seemed the only thing to do these days. Life was so unfair. One minute he had it all before him; money in the bank and a wealthy mistress to attend to his other needs. Now the money was gone, but at least he had Forsythia where he wanted her.
As he drained the bottle his intercom rang. He pressed the buzzer and heard the door open. He was on the third floor of an old house that had seen better days, but at least had the semblance of respectability about it still. He wondered who the visitor was; not many people sought him out these days. In fact, very few of his old associates even knew where he lived. Not for the first time did he wish the intercom worked properly, but he had given up asking his landlord to fix it. Still, he surmised, it couldn’t be anyone after money because he had made certain none of his creditors knew his address.
