A Death in the Family (11 page)

‘I must say they all sound a bit much! So how long is this Janet person staying?’

‘I don’t know. Until after the inquest I suppose,
and she’ll have to arrange about getting the body back to Bristol for the funeral.’

‘Just don’t let her put everything onto you. Let the family do it.’

‘I expect Christine will want to do all that,’ I said, ‘she’s obviously the organising type. But I’ve no idea how long it will be and I really don’t like to think of poor Janet alone in that cottage.’

‘Well, you’ll do what you have to do I know, but, just don’t let it get out of hand.’

‘I won’t,’ I promised.

‘What you need,’ Rosemary said, ‘is a diversion. You can help
me
out.’

‘Oh?’

‘Delia’s got a solo in Miss Morton’s show – you know Delia’s been going to her ballet classes for ages – and Jilly gave me two tickets for the Friday (they’re going on the Saturday – last night and all that) and, of course, there’s no way I can persuade Jack to come, so
would
you?’

‘Of course, I’d love to. I didn’t realise Delia was still doing ballet. I thought she was horse mad now.’

‘Horse
and
ballet mad,’ Rosemary said. ‘Poor Jilly spends her whole life ferrying her from one to the other. Still, she’s getting quite tall now so perhaps she’ll soon be too big for ballet. It doesn’t seem to matter so much for riding.’

‘Has she persuaded Roger and Jilly to buy her a pony yet?’

‘No, they’re holding out. Roger thinks he might
be able to get her a loan pony – you know, you have them on loan from someone who needs them exercised and looked after for a few months. That’s not so bad, though anything to do with horses is hideously expensive. Still now she’s a teenager Jilly’s decided it’s better the horsey set than the disco set!’

She smiled. ‘Just you wait, you’ve got all this to come yet with Alice!’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘it all sounds terribly exhausting.’

‘Families
are
exhausting,’ Rosemary said, ‘but very rewarding.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Though,’ I added, ‘I suppose it depends on the family.’

When I put on my warmer coat to go out to the shops, I felt in the pocket for my scarf and found the leaflet I’d thrust in there after we discovered Bernard’s body. What with everything else I’d forgotten all about it. I looked at the telephone number I’d scribbled down and saw that it was local. I took off my coat and picked up the telephone. I dialled 141, so that whoever it was wouldn’t know who was calling, then I rang the number. After about six rings the answerphone clicked in: ‘This is Brookside Farm. If you want to leave a message for Harry or Pam please speak after the tone.’

I replaced the receiver and stared at the telephone thoughtfully. Why on earth would Harry be telephoning Bernard? Pam said he found Bernard so tiresome he’d do anything to avoid him. So why? It had to be something to do with Bernard’s research, but I didn’t think Harry was the kind of person who’d be keen to follow up anything on the genealogical stuff Bernard had left him. Pam said
that Harry had (like me) put it away and forgotten it. Unless, of course, there was something in it that had worried or upset him.

I went over to my desk and got out the folder of papers. There was a separate family tree for each branch of the family as well as a large, comprehensive one of the whole lot. I stared at Harry’s, but it didn’t really tell me anything I could make any sense of. Just him and his father and his father’s elder brother and then
their
father and back to our common great-grandfather. It all seemed innocuous enough, nothing to upset anyone that I could see. Then I remembered Bernard saying to me that his research wasn’t complete and if he found anything else he’d let me know. Perhaps he’d found out something else about Harry’s branch of the family. Well, there might be a way of finding out.

When I rang Janet she was quite a long time answering.

‘Oh, hello, Sheila – so sorry to keep you waiting but I was just putting a few things into a case.’

‘You’re going away?’ I said, surprised.

‘Just overnight. Luke rang and suggested that I might like to go up there just for the afternoon and evening. I can drive up.’

‘What a good idea,’ I said. ‘When are you leaving? Only there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Not till just before lunch – if I drive through the
lunch hour, Luke says, there’ll be less traffic. I can have something when I get there.’

‘Would you mind if I came round now? I won’t stay long.’

‘Yes, of course, do come.’

The Janet who opened the door to me was a quite different Janet from the person I’d left with Christine. She looked happy for one thing, and ten years younger.

‘Do come in. Shall we have a cup of coffee?’

‘That would be lovely if you have time. I don’t want to hold you up.’

‘No that’s fine – it’s lovely to see you.’

We chatted as she made the coffee; at least she did most of the talking.

‘It’s only a one-bedroom flat they have over the restaurant,’ she said, ‘but there’s a sofa-bed I can have, it’s quite comfortable Luke says.’

The phrase ‘Luke says’ occurred very frequently in her conversation and I suddenly realised what a pleasure, a relief, it must be to her to be able to speak his name openly after all these years.

‘I’m so glad you’re going to have this little break,’ I said. ‘I was worried about you staying alone here.’

‘Actually,’ she leant forward confidentially, ‘I’m not telling Christine I’m going back to Bristol. She probably wouldn’t approve and it’s only for a night after all. Do you know I’ve never been into the restaurant – I’ve passed by it so many times, looking in, hoping to see him…’ Her voice trailed
away, but she brightened up and went on, ‘And I’ll be able to meet Yves. Luke says he’s always asking about me – isn’t that nice?’

‘That’s lovely,’ I said warmly. ‘And you must be on your way soon, so I’ll just ask the favour I wanted. Do you think I could borrow some of Bernard’s research notes?’

She looked surprised, as well she might seeing what little enthusiasm I’d shown for them before.

‘It’s just that Michael’s interested,’ I said, ‘and there may be a few points – things that Bernard found after I saw him last…’

‘Yes of course,’ she said. ‘They’re all in a briefcase upstairs, I’ll get them for you.’

She came down with the heavy briefcase Bernard had brought with him when he visited me. ‘Everything’s in there,’ she said. ‘They’re all in order – arranged by each branch of the family. The family tree is in sections with the relevant notes attached to each one.’ She sounded as if she was repeating a well-learnt lesson, which she probably was. ‘I think you’ll find it all quite easy to understand.’

‘Did you take down all the notes?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not all of them. Bernard had to do some of them himself when I wasn’t well. But his handwriting is very clear.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. I won’t keep them long.’

‘As long as you like,’ she said. ‘I don’t want them.’ She stopped suddenly as if realising what she’d said, then she continued defiantly, ‘Well, I
don’t. I was never interested in all that – and it was
Bernard’s
family after all. No, you keep them if you want to.’

‘Oh no,’ I exclaimed, appalled at the thought of being the repository of the family archive, ‘I couldn’t do that. Besides, Christine would probably like to keep them – after all the work her father put into them.’

‘I suppose so,’ Janet said. ‘But you hang on to them for as long as Michael needs them.’

I thanked her and picked up the briefcase. As I turned to go I asked, ‘Did any other members of the family get in touch with Bernard about all this – after he called on them, I mean?’

She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, now you mention it – Richard Prior telephoned, oh, it must have been a couple of days before Bernard – before Bernard died. He was out so this Richard person said would I ask him to get in touch.’

‘And did he? Get in touch?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Bernard said he wanted to make a few enquiries about something first. I don’t know what that was all about. Oh dear, I suppose I ought to telephone and tell them what’s happened…’

‘I’ll do that, if you like,’ I said. ‘I’ll get in touch with them all. You’ve got quite enough to worry about without going into all that.’

I felt a little guilty when Janet thanked me profusely, because I thought I could use that as an
excuse to see if I could find out what, if anything, Bernard had discovered about their family secrets.

‘Have a lovely time,’ I said as Janet came to the door with me. ‘Why don’t you stay for a couple of days – it would do you good.’

‘I might,’ she said. ‘I suppose there’s nothing to stop me now, is there?’

I smiled. ‘Nothing at all,’ I said. ‘Tell Luke that the next time I’m in Bristol I’ll look forward to visiting the restaurant and sampling his delicious food.’

When I got home I laid the briefcase on the sitting room table. For a moment I felt uncomfortable seeing it there where Bernard had put it those times he had visited, but I pulled myself together, opened it and took out some of the folders. As I would have expected, each branch of the family had its own folder with a label listing its contents. I found the one for Harry Prior and opened it. Inside there was the family tree – like the one I’d already seen – and a few pages of notes made while Bernard was conducting his research. The earlier ones were in what I took to be Janet’s handwriting, the later ones in Bernard’s. The early ones were copies of entries in parish registers and census reports. The later notes comprised brief histories of various people in that branch of the family. These seemed much more promising.

‘James Prior
d
. 1936 (possibly cancer, since he was only in his fifties, though this is not stated
anywhere), his wife Martha had died after the birth of the second son (puerperal fever) in 1920. The eldest son, Robert, inherited the farm on his father’s death and his younger brother, John, worked for him. At the outbreak of war Robert joined the army and left his brother to run the farm (a reserved occupation). Before he joined up he made a will leaving everything to his brother John. No further will found. While he was stationed on Salisbury Plain he married Gloria Porter, a land-girl working on a local farm (Marlborough registrar’s records) and shortly after this he was sent to France with the invasion forces and was killed in Normandy (1944). His wife seems to have left the area (no mention in any census report) and there is no further information about her. Query: Any issue? John Prior
d
. 1988 leaving the farm to his only son Harry (
b
. 1961). Further enquiries to be made.’

I closed the folder and tried to work out the relevance of what I’d just read. The first thing that struck me was the question of what had happened to Robert’s wife and if she’d had any children. Did Bernard make those further enquiries and had he found out anything more that didn’t appear in these notes? Was this why Harry had made that call on the day Bernard had died?

I got up and stretched, stiff from sitting so long, and went out into the kitchen to make myself some lunch, the animals getting up from their apparently impenetrable sleep to accompany me. I was just
sitting down with my ham sandwich (I couldn’t be bothered to cook anything) when Michael arrived.

‘Sorry to disturb your lunch,’ he said, ‘but Thea asked me to leave these magazines for you when I was passing. She said something about a recipe.’

‘Oh, thank you, dear. Have you had any lunch?’

‘Not really,’ Michael said, looking at my sandwich. ‘I won’t really have time to get anything. I’ve just been to Barnstaple and I need to be back in the office in just over half an hour.’

I pushed the plate towards him. ‘You sit down and have this and I’ll make you a quick cup of coffee.’

While he was drinking the coffee I said, ‘There’s something I’d like you to look at – it won’t take a moment.’ I went and fetched the notes from the sitting room. ‘These are Bernard’s notes on the Priors at Brookside Farm,’ I said. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘The bit about the wife is puzzling,’ he said when he’d read it. ‘Why didn’t she make some claim on the estate when Robert was killed?’

‘It says that there was no new will after he got married,’ I said. ‘I don’t expect there was time for him to do anything about it before he was shipped off to France. So I suppose the will he
had
made still stood.’

‘No,’ Michael said. ‘It would have been revoked on his marriage. That is unless he’d put in a clause along the lines of – how does it go? – “I make this
will in contemplation of matrimony to so-and-so”. Meaning “I still want this to stand even when I marry.” But he obviously wouldn’t have put that clause in because when he made that will he didn’t know he was going to marry.’

‘So?’

‘So his widow would have inherited his estate.’

‘And she would be the rightful owner of the farm?’

‘Yes. But the odd thing is that she never showed up.’ He got to his feet. ‘I must dash. Thanks for the lunch. See you soon.’

While I was making myself another sandwich I thought about what Michael had said. The startling fact that Brookside Farm could legally belong to Robert’s widow or, since she was probably dead by now, her descendants. I wondered if Harry
had
looked at those notes and if so what he’d done about it. All I knew for certain was that he’d telephoned Bernard and there was no other reason that I could think of why he should have done that.

I suddenly remembered telling Janet that I’d let people know Bernard was dead. Amazingly the news hadn’t so far appeared in the local paper – I imagine Roger had had something to do with that – so I had every reason to get in touch with Harry. I thought about telephoning but, in the end, I felt I’d get a better idea of how things were if I went in person. I’d just drop in – on my way to somewhere or other. And I thought the morning would be the
best time to find someone at home.

Next morning was bright and sunny and this somehow gave me confidence. As I drove up to the front door I saw that their Land Rover was parked outside and just as I drew up Pam got out of it and came towards me.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘have you brought Alice to see the cows?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I was just on my way to Monksilver so I thought I’d call in and see you. I have a bit of news.’

‘Come on in and have a cup of coffee. I’ve just been taking some cakes to sell at the WI market – it earns a copper or two – but there’s still one left.’

She led the way into the house and settled me at the kitchen table while she put the kettle on.

‘So what’s the news?’

‘You remember cousin Bernard?’ I said.

‘Only too well.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Good heavens. When did this happen, was it while he was down here?’ She put down the knife she’d been cutting the cake with and stared at me.

‘Yes it did. As a matter of fact I discovered him. Well, Janet and I did, do you remember his wife?’

‘How upsetting – it must have been awful for you. What did he die of?’

‘Well, he actually died of a heart attack, but…’ I paused. ‘But,’ I continued, ‘someone had tried to kill him.’

‘Good God!’

‘I know. I couldn’t believe it, but it’s true.’

‘Who on earth would want to kill him?’

I shrugged. ‘Several people, apparently. He wasn’t a very nice person.’

‘He was a dreadful bore, but still… Of course, we hardly knew him so I suppose we wouldn’t have known…’ She was silent for a moment and then she said, ‘But you said he died of a heart attack?’

‘That’s right. But the murderer didn’t know he was dead – just thought he was asleep. Hit him over the head.’

‘But that’s ghastly,’ Pam said slowly, ‘really horrible.’

‘I know.’

Pam moved a cup of coffee towards me and put a slice of ginger cake on a plate. ‘Tell me what you think,’ she said. ‘It’s a new recipe.’ She appeared to be considering something and then, seeming to make up her mind she said, ‘Cousin Bernard gave us rather a nasty shock,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘You know that genealogy – family tree and all that stuff – well, I think I told you, Harry shoved it in a drawer and forgot about it. But one day, when Matt was home for the weekend, I told him about it and he said he was interested and could he have a look at it.’