A Silent Killer E-Book

Hazel Holt

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sheila Malory Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 292

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

When widower Shidney Middleton is found dead in his cottage from carbon monoxide poisoning, Sheila Malory is deeply disturbed. The old man had seemed in good health and the ageing wood-burning stove, cited as causing the fatality, had just been serviced. Sheila's suspicions that this was no accidental death just won't be quietened. Sidney had always seemed a pleasant, unassuming gentleman. So Sheila is shocked when, at the old man's funeral, she encounters outright hostility. Then Sheila uncovers some rather shocking information about the deceased - information that paints him in a very different light and leads her to ask how many people might have borne him a grudge?

Leseprobe

The Silent Killer

HAZEL HOLT

For James and Hilary Hale, but for whom…

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyAbout the AuthorBy Hazel HoltCopyright

Chapter One

“I suppose,” Rosemary said regretfully, “there’s no earthly point in keeping them.” She smoothed down the pile of blankets on the bed. “I did offer them to Jilly but, of course, they use duvets too.”

“I suppose you could give them to Oxfam,” I suggested. “They always seem to want blankets for refugees.”

Rosemary looked down doubtfully at the pastel colours and the satin bindings. “Do you think these are the sort they mean?”

“I should think they’d be jolly glad to get any sort of blanket.”

“Anyway, I don’t think Oxfam sends out the actual blankets one donates. I think they’re recycled or something and the money is spent on the sort of blankets refugees need.”

“Oh,” I said, rejecting with reluctance the picture of refugees wrapped in pure wool, pale blue blankets edged with satin ribbon. “Oh well, I suppose it is more practical. Though I would have thought the nice colours might have cheered them up a bit.”

“Well, whatever. They’ll have to go. I really must have a proper turn out. I can’t think why I keep half the things that are cluttering up the house.”

“Oh I know,” I agreed. “It’s quite impossible. I’ve got a whole chest full of white damask table linen all wrapped up in black tissue paper. Now what am I going to do with that?”

“Actually,” Rosemary said, “I believe you can sell it. There’s a woman at South Molton who sells antique linen.”

“I don’t know that you’d call it antique,” I said doubtfully.

“Don’t you believe it. Anything can be antique nowadays.”

“Most of them,” I said, “were part of my mother’s trousseau. Of course that was in the nineteen twenties, when brides still had trousseaux!”

“There you are then, definitely antiques.”

“I hardly ever used them myself. Just occasionally when we were first married and I had to give dinner parties for Peter’s important clients. But the laundry bills were so horrendous and I couldn’t possibly wash them myself – all that starching!”

“Can you still get starch, I wonder?”

“Probably not. Nor blue bags or carbolic soap or Monkey Brand… Oh dear,” I sighed. “I’m beginning to feel distinctly antique myself.”

Rosemary laughed. “Come on, let’s go downstairs and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“I suppose,” I said when we were comfortably settled at Rosemary’s kitchen table with tea and chocolate digestives, “we are better off now, with all our modern conveniences.”

“When they work,” Rosemary said. “I had to wait the best part of a week for the man to come and see to the washing machine. By the end of the second day I’d gladly have settled for an old fashioned washtub and a mangle!”

“Still… Oh, by the way, talking of old fashioned things, I’m looking for someone to go and collect some stuff from Sidney Middleton. He’s promised us some furniture for the Red Cross auction sale and I can’t find anyone with a trailer or van or anything to fetch it in.”

“Somebody else having a clear-out?”

“I believe he’s thinking of going into an old people’s home – or his son is thinking of it for him. I don’t think Sidney’s very keen on the idea.”

“He must be quite old. He seems to have lived at Lamb’s Cottage forever!”

“In his eighties, I think – though I suppose that’s not so old nowadays. Do you know I saw a whole rack of ninetieth birthday cards in Passmore’s the other day!”

“Yes, he must be eighty – something, because his wife went to school with Mother.”

“Anyway,” I said, “whatever he gives us will be very good quality – he’s really quite well off – and should fetch a decent price.”

“Do you think he will go into a Home?”

“I don’t see why he should, he’s still quite fit. A bit absent-minded sometimes, but then aren’t we all?”

“I know,” Rosemary agreed. “Do you know, the other day I simply couldn’t think of the name hydrangea, and nor could Jack. It drove us nearly mad. In the end I had to ring up Jilly and ask her. I expect she thinks we’re both going senile.” She poured us both another cup of tea and continued, “And when I go into the larder for something I can’t remember what I went in for and have to go back into the kitchen to think what it was.”

“Oh, so do I! And isn’t it extraordinary that it always seems to work. I suppose when it doesn’t we’ll know that we’re really going into Alzheimers!”

Rosemary bit thoughtfully into a biscuit. “No, I think David Middleton is afraid that he and Bridget may have to look after the old man and that wouldn’t suit their lifestyle!”

“Oh yes,” I said. “All that back and forth to their house in Provence and cruises round the Greek islands. No, it certainly wouldn’t.”

“No, what they would like is for him to sell Lamb’s Cottage – it must be worth a lot with all that land – and have him quietly fade away in a Home. You know the way people do once they’ve left their own homes, they just seem to give up.”

“It would be so sad. Poor old Sidney – he’s such a dear man. Why is it that so many nice people have such horrible relations?”

“I don’t think Bridget is so bad,” Rosemary said. “I feel quite sorry for her sometimes, David is pretty horrid to her as well.”

“Mm,” I agreed, “she does look a bit downtrodden. Anyway, we’ll be very glad of Sidney’s things. We haven’t got anything substantial so far, just a lot of bits and pieces. So, do you know anyone?”

“Anyone?”

“Who could collect the stuff.”

“Oh no, sorry. I can’t think of a soul.”

“Oh well, I’ll just have to see what Michael can fit in his Land Rover.”

I went with Michael to Lamb’s Cottage that weekend and I thought Sidney was looking a bit subdued, not his usual ebullient self.

“Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got the kettle on.” He led the way into the house. “You don’t mind sitting in the kitchen, do you? I more or less live in it now, especially in the winter.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said, looking around me appreciatively. “It’s very cosy.”

It was a large farmhouse kitchen with a big wood-burning stove. Heavy dressers filled with china took up most of the wall space and there was a big window, whose broad sill held pots of herbs and flowering plants. As well as a big kitchen table with four upright chairs there were a couple of comfortable armchairs and a television set on one of the dressers.

“Joan loved her kitchen,” Sidney said, “and when she died I somehow felt more at home here than in the sitting room.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, “and blissfully warm on a cold day like this!”

“Yes, the stove’s very good, but it’s been playing up a bit lately. I keep meaning to get someone in to have a look at it.”

He poured the tea and pushed a plate of biscuits towards us.

“I’ve put the things in the hall,” he said. “A couple of little tables, a chest of drawers, two bookcases and some other odds and ends – well, you’ll see for yourself. All the big stuff will have to go to the sale rooms, I suppose. That is if I decide to go.”

“You haven’t decided yet, then?” Michael asked.

Sidney shrugged. “I could hang on here for a bit, I suppose. I’m a bit creaky but there’s nothing really wrong with me. Mrs Harrison comes in twice a week to keep the house clean and tidy…” His voice trailed off.

“Well then,” I said, “why move out?”

“The thing is,” Sidney said earnestly, “I don’t want to be a burden to David. He’s still making his way in the world and has quite enough on his mind as it is without having to worry over me.”

Michael and I exchanged glances, since worrying about his father has never seemed to us to be uppermost in David Middleton’s mind.

“And actually,” Sidney went on, “he’s found me this very nice retirement home down in Devon. He took me to see it last Sunday. A beautiful big room – en suite of course – and the grounds were magnificent. It’s almost on the coast and on a clear day I believe you can see the sea.”

“Devon!” I said. “That’s a long way away! It wouldn’t be easy for him to visit you – or all your friends.”

“But you haven’t decided anything yet?” Michael asked.

“Well, no, not exactly decided. I told David I’d think about it. But that’s why I’m getting rid of some things – just to show willing, as it were.”

“Well,” I said bluntly, “I think you should stay where you are. You’re managing perfectly well and,” I added, “no trouble to anyone! Besides, I’m sure Lamb’s Cottage holds so many happy memories for you.”

His face lit up. “Oh yes. Joan loved it here. We bought it before I retired, you know – used to come down for every holiday and weekends, too, when we could manage it. The day we moved back here from London was the happiest day of our lives!”

“There you are then!”

“But David…”

“You’re not going to be a burden to anyone for years yet!” I said. “You stay where you are.”

“But I don’t suppose he will,” I said to Michael as we drove back home. “David Middleton will keep on at him until he gets what he wants. Horrid man!”

“I’m afraid you’re right. Poor old thing, he’s too nice for his own good.” He sounded his horn at a pheasant who was contemplating a suicidal dash across the road. “Oh, by the way, Thea said could you possibly look after your granddaughter on Thursday afternoon? She’s got to do a few things in Taunton and doesn’t want to take Alice with her. She could drop her off with you on the way.”

It was while I was taking Alice along the sea-front in her pushchair (she was teething and not her usual placid self ) that I met Bridget Middleton walking her spaniel.

“Hello, Bridget – look, Alice, at the nice doggie. How are you?”

“Oh, hello, Sheila. Not bad. Busy, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

Though I couldn’t imagine what Bridget could be busy with. She was at home all day (“David doesn’t want me to have a job”) and her two boys were away at boarding school. She did a certain amount of charity work (“David says it’s important to put something back into the community”) and I suppose she did some entertaining in their big house just outside Taviscombe – but still…

“Oh, is this your granddaughter?” Bridget leaned over the pushchair and peered in at Alice, who had just fallen asleep. “Isn’t she a pet!”

“Mercifully asleep now,” I said. “She’s a bit fractious at the moment – teething.”

“Poor little mite! But I love them at that age, they’re so sweet and loving. And a girl too – I always wanted a girl.”

“You must miss the boys,” I said, “away at school.”

“Yes,” she said wistfully, “I do.”

“My brother was at boarding school,” I told her. “It was the usual thing then, but I didn’t want Michael to go away. After all, there are some very good schools quite near where they can be day-boys.”

“Oh, I know! And I do so wish… But David said that it was important for them to go to a top public school – useful contacts, you know.”

“Yes, I see.” I rocked the pushchair gently to and fro. “Michael and I went to Lamb’s Cottage last weekend. Sidney is very kindly giving us some things for the Red Cross auction.”

“Oh, really.”

“We thought he was looking very well.”

“Oh… David says he’s getting very frail.”

“Well,” I said firmly, “we didn’t see any sign of that. In fact we both thought how well he’s coping.”

“He’s quite old, though.”

“The eighties aren’t that old nowadays,” I said briskly. “Lots of people stay in their own homes well into their nineties and still look after themselves perfectly well. Besides, Sidney has help in the house and the garden.”

“But it’s such a responsibility,” Bridget said earnestly. “Say he had a stroke or something and lay there for days and nobody knew!”

“Mrs Harrison would. And I’m sure she’d look in every day if you’re really worried. Besides, there are those splendid things you can wear round your neck to call for help.”

“I suppose so…” she said doubtfully.

“And there’s all sorts of help you can get from the Social Services to stay in your own home.”

“Oh, I don’t think David would like that!” Bridget said quickly. “Anyway, they’re for poor people, aren’t they?”

“I’m sure they’d let you pay,” I said. “If you insisted.”

Bridget looked at me, suspicious of an irony she had not quite understood. “Anyway,” she said, “David’s found this marvellous place in Devon for him. More like a hotel than an Old People’s Home. It’s very expensive. I’m sure his father would love it, and there’d be lots of company for him. He’d like that.”

The spaniel, as if sensing her uneasy mood, began to whimper and pull at his lead.

“Oh dear,” she said gratefully, “Dandy’s getting restless, I must go. Lovely to have seen you.”

* * *

“She’s obviously got a guilty conscience about it,” I said to Thea, when she called to collect Alice. “She’s a nice person really I’m sure, and she can’t be happy to see the way David is determined to get poor old Sidney out of Lamb’s Cottage.”

“Well, Sidney must just stand up to him.”

“Ye-es. But it’s not easy when you’re old. It would be different if there were two of them. Not,” I added thoughtfully, “that Joan would have been much good at standing up to anyone.”

“Really? I don’t actually remember her and she’d died before I came back to Taviscombe.”

“Yes, I suppose she had, it was quite a while ago – goodness, how the time flies! No, Joan was a sweet person, but a mouse-like little creature who couldn’t say boo to a goose.”

“Do mice speak to geese?” Thea asked, laughing.

“No, you know what I mean. Quiet and gentle, a real homebody, as they say. I often wondered how she managed when they were in London – he was a very high-powered accountant – and there must have been a lot of entertaining. And he was away quite a bit because his firm had connections in America, so she was on her own because David was away at boarding school. As far as I can gather she never really had friends of her own and her brother lived in Canada – she must have been lonely. Of course she was absolutely devoted to Sidney and he was to her. He once told me they were childhood sweethearts and they married very young. They did have their Ruby Wedding before she died.”

“That was nice.”

“It was a terrific do, at that big Country House Hotel just outside Taunton. Michael and I went. I remember thinking at the time that Joan was a bit overwhelmed by it all. Sidney was in his element, of course, but Joan just sat there looking bewildered.”

Alice, who’d been still asleep (I’d lifted her from her pushchair onto the sofa) showed signs of waking up and started to grizzle a little.

“Poor love,” I said. “That tooth is still hurting her. Do you think she ought to have some more Calpol?”

“No, she’ll be all right. I’ll wait until I get her home.”

Alice, now fully awake, caught sight of the various bags and parcels Thea had brought with her and rolled herself off the sofa and trotted over to investigate them. She opened one of the bags, took out a rag doll with fair plaits, dressed in pink gingham, seized it and clambered back onto the sofa again, rocking it in her arms.

“Dolly,” she said triumphantly. “Alice’s dolly.”

“I know,” Thea said defensively, “she’s got so many dolls already, but I had to bring her back something!”

“Better than Calpol,” I said. “Or any medicine. What else did you get?”

“Oh I must show you. I went mad in Laura Ashley and got her the most gorgeous velvet pinafore dress with an embroidered yoke. Look! And a dear little hat to go with it.”

When they’d gone I thought again about Bridget and how, in a strange way, she was a sort of replica of Joan, another doormat – so unexpected in this day and age. Thea was modern, in that she’d had a very successful career, but old fashioned because she’d chosen to give up her job to look after Alice. I wondered how it would be with Alice – home or career? Of course I might not still be around to see and the thought saddened me. I poured myself a gin and tonic, partly to cheer myself up and partly because I was out of practice at looking after small children and suddenly felt very tired.

Chapter Two

It is a truth universally acknowledged (at least among those engaged in Good Works) that committee meetings are (generally speaking) a complete waste of time. A great deal is said but very little is decided and, in the end, the actual work is done by the faithful few who have been doing it for as long as anyone can remember, while those who were most voluble usually find they have important engagements that can’t be broken when any sort of action is called for.

“It’s ridiculous,” Anthea said as the two of us were toiling away in Brunswick Lodge, the centre of all such activities, sorting out the things donated for the Red Cross auction. “It’s just like last year. And the year before. Maurice Freebody promised faithfully to come and help – and Norman Hastings. And who has to do it in the end – we do! Men!”

“It’s not just those two,” I said crossly. “Sandra Lewis said leave it all to her and Robert, they’d see to it this year. And then they went off to Malta. Why do people promise these things? They must have had the holiday booked when she said it!”

“Oh, Sandra Lewis!” Anthea exclaimed scornfully. “She’s completely unreliable. She offered to make the mince pies for last year’s Christmas concert and two days beforehand – two days, mind you! – she rang me up to say that they were having to go up to Nottingham to spend Christmas with Robert’s mother!”

“Typical!” I dragged a large wooden box full of assorted china out of the way so that I could get at a pile of old records. “Some of these things are jolly heavy. All those big pieces of furniture have got to be taken upstairs and there’s no way we can do that.”

“What we need,” Anthea said, conveniently forgetting her earlier condemnation of the sex, “is a man.”

“Exactly. But who? Most of our so-called helpers are either not available or too old. We need new blood. Surely there must be someone who’s just retired – you know, fit and with lots of time.”

Anthea considered this. “Well, there’s the Nortons,” she said. “They’ve just moved down here. From Reading, I think. They came to the Wednesday coffee morning last week. He looked quite strong.”

I met them the following Wednesday. Anthea called me over.

“Sheila, do come and meet Myra and Jim Norton.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mrs Malory – or can I call you Sheila? Everyone seems to use Christian names now, I suppose it’s friendlier. Anthea’s told me so much about you.”

Myra Norton was short and plump and, obviously, very voluble. Jim Norton was tall and, I imagine by necessity, fairly silent. He did, however, look suitably strong for the activities Anthea had in mind.

“How are you?” I said shaking hands. “Have you been in Taviscombe long?”

“No, only a couple of months. It took us all that time to get settled. Well, you know what it’s like, moving. You can never find anything and then one of the boxes went missing. It had all my tablecloths and dusters in it – you can imagine how inconvenient that was. I had a terrible time getting it back from the removers. And then, of course, the bungalow here is quite a bit smaller than our house, so it was really quite difficult to fit everything in, though I must say this place has a lovely lot of cupboards.”

“That’s nice.”

“The garden’s bigger though. I tell Jim there’s quite a lot to keep him busy.”

“Not too busy, I hope,” Anthea broke in, “to lend a hand here at Brunswick Lodge.”

“Oh yes,” Myra Norton said eagerly. “We’re looking forward to joining in things, aren’t we, Jim?”

Her husband gave a wintry smile but didn’t commit himself. Obviously his consent was not considered necessary.

“It’s the Red Cross auction,” Anthea said. “Just a question of another pair of hands to sort things out. Some of the stuff is quite heavy, furniture and so forth.”

“Well,” Myra Norton said, “isn’t that a coincidence? I was saying to Jim only yesterday that we have a few things we really don’t have room for. There’s that corner cupboard, Jim, you know the one I mean, and the small chest of drawers that used to be on the landing – though, of course we don’t have a landing now, living in a bungalow!” She laughed heartily. “Yes, we’d be really pleased to donate those. I mean, if you put things in the sale rooms you never get anything for them, do you? So I’d much rather they went to a good cause.”

“That’s very generous of you,” I said.

“And of course,” Anthea broke in, “if you,” she turned to Jim Norton, “could very kindly give us a hand with some of the heavy stuff, we’d be most grateful.”

“Well,” Anthea said with satisfaction as we were washing up after the coffee morning, “I think they’ll be quite useful. She goes on a bit, but they both seem very willing to help.”

“I don’t think he’s got much choice in the matter,” I said, laughing.

“Oh well,” Anthea said dismissively, “as long as he moves that furniture, what does it matter!”

The Red Cross auction was very well attended. It’s always popular, partly because of the bargains to be picked up, partly because it’s become a social occasion, and partly because Tommy Hunter conducts the proceedings. Tommy, an auctioneer by trade, is a large, genial man with a fund of well-worn witticisms, and immensely popular in the district. To see Tommy in full flow at a cattle auction (his favourite venue) is to see a true professional at work. He’d got the proceedings well under way (the audience nicely warmed up with a selection of the terrible jokes that are his trademark) when I saw Sidney Middleton come in. I edged my way round to the back of the room to where he was standing.

“Hello, Sidney, how splendid to see you.”

He smiled. “I thought I’d just come along to see how it was going,” he said. “Dick and Marjorie Croft from the village were coming so they gave me a lift.”

“I’m afraid your things have gone already,” I said. “They all fetched really good prices.”

“That’s good.”

“Have you decided yet what you want to do?” I asked.

“No, not really. David’s very anxious that I should move before winter sets in.”

“Oh, but Lamb’s Cottage is very cosy.”

“It is a bit isolated, I suppose, if the weather’s bad.”

“We haven’t had a really bad winter for ages,” I said. “All this global warming!”

Sidney laughed. “Well, I’ll have to see. Good gracious, whatever is that?”

Tommy Hunter was holding up a peculiar object made out of wrought iron. Its shape was amorphous and its purpose enigmatic. Even Tommy appeared to be baffled by it.

“Now who’ll make me an offer for this excellent – whatever it is! One thing you can be sure of. If you buy this, you’ll be buying something really unique. Now who’ll start me off at ten pounds? All right, five pounds. Come along ladies and gentlemen – look at what you’ll be getting for your money. There can’t be another of these in the whole of West Somerset! Put it in your garden, frighten the birds away! That lady at the front! Five pounds? Right now, any advance on five pounds? You’re missing the bargain of a lifetime! No? All right then. Sold to the lady with excellent taste!”

“Who on earth bought that?” Sidney said.

I craned forward. “Goodness,” I said, “it’s Mrs Norton.”

“Norton?”

“Yes, Myra Norton. She and her husband Jim Norton have just moved down here.”

Myra Norton, catching sight of me, waved enthusiastically – almost inadvertently bidding for a large copper coal scuttle. I waved back, more circumspectly.

“That’s her,” I said to Sidney, “and that’s her husband, the tall, melancholy man standing behind her.”

Certainly Jim Norton was looking particularly glum today – though I suppose in view of his wife’s recent purchase that wasn’t surprising. He leaned forward and spoke to his wife and then turned away from the bidding abruptly and walked out of the room.

“Poor man,” I said, “he probably can’t bear to see what she is going to bid for next!”

Sidney laughed. “It’s extraordinary what people will buy on occasions like this. They seem to lose all sense of reason!”

“Thank goodness,” I said. “It’s all for a very good cause.”

“It’s been really successful,” Anthea said the next day when we were clearing up. “Trevor said we cleared nearly three thousand pounds.”

“That’s more than last year, isn’t it? And not too much stuff left over.”

“A few of the old faithfuls,” Anthea said, holding up a pair of stag’s horns mounted on a wooden shield. “I think these will have to go to the tip this time – no one will buy them now – politically incorrect.”

“I suppose so. Still, you never know. It seems a shame…”

“Well, certainly that chair will have to go, it’s got woodworm and is really unsafe, and that box of ornaments and that ghastly firescreen.”

“I’ll see if Michael can spare the time,” I said. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“No, it’s all right, there’s no need to bother Michael again. Jim Norton has a trailer and he’ll take all the junk things to the tip for us. He said he’d call in today and see what there was and whether he’d have to make several journeys.”

“How splendid! Did he actually offer or did his wife offer for him?”

“No, he came up to me after the sale and was quite chatty.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I was surprised. I think he wants to be involved in things as well as her. He was asking about the various people there and that sort of thing. I was quite pleased, he’s just the sort of person we need. And,” she added, “he knows all about electricity so perhaps we can get another point put in the kitchen, you know how inconvenient it is only to have the one.”

“He sounds too good to be true!”

We were just on the point of packing up when Jim Norton appeared.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said, “but Myra wanted me to help her move some things out of the shed.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Anthea said. “We’ve only just finished. Now then, these are the things to go. Do you think you can manage them?”

He surveyed the various items scattered around and said, “I think they’ll all go in one load.”

“Oh, that would be splendid,” I said. “Can we give you a hand with moving them?”

“No, no, I can manage.”

“So,” I asked, “what did you think of the auction?”

“It was very well attended.”

“Practically everything went,” I said, “even the more peculiar items. Sidney – that’s Sidney Middleton – was only saying how extraordinary it is how people will bid for anything!”

“Oh, was Sidney there?” Anthea said. “I didn’t see him.”

“He only popped in for a little while. Dick and Marjory brought him.”

“Well, he was certainly right. That wrought iron thing your wife bought,” Anthea said with her usual lack of tact, “whatever was it?”

“Myra thinks it’s a jardiniere. She’s going to stand plants on it on the patio.”

“How clever of her to spot it,” I said hastily. “She must have a good eye for a bargain.”

Jim Norton looked unconvinced.

“Well,” Anthea said, “if you’re sure we can’t do anything to help we’ll be off. Just slam the front door behind you when you go. It’s a Yale lock.”

“And thank you very much for all your help,” I said, anxious to keep this paragon. “It really is appreciated!”

He mumbled something about it being nothing and began gathering the various objects together in a workmanlike way.

“Well,” I said to Anthea as we were walking along the Avenue together, “he does seem to be a find! Let’s hope we can keep him.”

Things seemed a bit flat after the auction, but as Rosemary said, the next Bring and Buy sale would be on us before we knew where we were and we deserved a little break.

“So,” she said, “let’s go to Taunton next week and have a look at the sales. It shouldn’t be too crowded now that the schools have gone back.”

“Oh yes, that would be nice. I’d like to get a few things for Alice – she grows so fast, and some of the children’s dresses are so pretty now.”

“Which is more than can be said for the grown up ones,” Rosemary said. “Quite hideous!”

We spent a happy morning walking through the department stores making disparaging remarks about some of the items on display.

“Honestly,” Rosemary said, stopping in front of a shapeless garment in violent tangerine, “how could they imagine anyone would buy that, even in the sales?”

“This is worse,” I said, taking a dress from the rack. “Lime green and purple zigzags – and look at the skirt!”

“Ghastly!”

“I mean,” I went on, “I know they’re meant for the young, but we wouldn’t have worn these things, would we, even in our giddy youth?”

“Certainly not. In our day, thank goodness, there were dresses that actually made you look more attractive, not less!”

“Come on,” I said, “let’s go up to the children’s department and find something pink and frilly.”

Laden with parcels (in spite of any good resolutions I may make beforehand, I always get carried away in the sales) we collapsed into chairs in the café grateful for pots of tea and prawn sandwiches.

“I’m not sure about that top I got for Delia,” Rosemary said, rummaging in the bag to refresh her memory of it. “I think they’re still wearing them with those glittery bits. But she’s practically a teenager now and she has to wear whatever her friends are wearing.”

“Oh, I think it’ll be all right,” I said reassuringly. “I’m sure I saw one like that in the trailer on television for some sort of pop show.”

“Oh well, we must hope for the best. You make the most of Alice while she’s small and doesn’t have an opinion on such things – it doesn’t last long!”

Rosemary poured herself a second cup of tea.

“It was nice to see Sidney at the auction,” she said. “I thought he looked very well. Surely there’s no need for him to go into a home, is there?”

“No, of course there isn’t. It’s only the wretched David pushing him. Still, Sidney said he hadn’t decided yet, so perhaps he’ll stand up to David and stay where he is.”

“It is a problem, though,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “I suppose the time will come when we’ll have to do something about Mother.”

“Surely not!”

Rosemary’s mother, Mrs Dudley, has always seemed to me indestructible, immortal even.

“Oh, she’s all right for the moment – she’s quite well and pretty mobile, and as long as she has Elsie she’ll be fine. But Elsie’s in her seventies now and won’t go on for ever, even if Mother does!”

“I can’t imagine your mother anywhere except in her own home.”

“She’d fight any sort of move every step of the way,” Rosemary sighed. “I can see battles ahead. I know she’s spent the odd week in West Lodge – mainly to keep up with the gossip there! – but I don’t think she’s ever seriously considered going in there permanently.”

“Oh dear. I didn’t have that problem with my mother, of course. I mean, she was an invalid for so long but able to stay at home with us. It was only at the end that she had to go into a nursing home.”

“There’s no way we could have Mother to live with us,” Rosemary said. “Jack would divorce me!”

“Good heavens, no!” I said, shuddering at the thought of the battle of wills between those two strong-minded people. “It doesn’t bear thinking about!”

Rosemary picked up a stray prawn from her plate and ate it.

“Getting old,” I said, “I mean really old, is horrible. Do you think we’ll be as difficult to our children?”

“Certainly not,” Rosemary said briskly, “we have much sweeter natures. No, we’ll be like poor Sidney, not wanting to be a nuisance, taking ourselves off to a retirement home at the first hint of feebleness.”

“What a dismal thought,” I said. “Oh well, with that in view I’m going to have a slice of that delicious looking chocolate cake while I still can. How about you?”

Chapter Three

“What on earth are you cooking?” Michael asked as he came into the kitchen.

“It’s only Foss’s fish,” I said, taking it out of the microwave. “Be an angel and open the window to let the smell out, will you?”