A Death in the Family (16 page)

‘What do you think about that country house hotel outside Simonsbath? Cynthia said that they did Stephanie’s wedding do very well, but that was in the summer, of course, and most of it was outdoors. Perhaps it isn’t the right place for December. Oh dear, I do wish we’d been married in
the summer, it would be so much more convenient! Of course, Mother’s still going on about having it at The Castle, but I really don’t…though, come to think of it, Simonsbath’s quite a way to travel for a lot of people, and if the weather’s bad some of those roads are practically impassable. Honestly, I wish to goodness people didn’t make such a fuss about having been married for forty years – and all to do again, if we make it to fifty!’

Alice needed my attention too.

‘Now you be the shopkeeper and I’m the lady coming in with her little girl. We want some cakes please (these sweeties are the cakes) and some rice (it’s real rice, Mummy gave it to me), and you weigh it out on the scales. Half a pound of rice. Gran, what’s tuppenny rice? Can you sing me the song? And I want two apples – we have to pretend the apples – my little girl likes apples, but she likes strawberries better. Do you like strawberries, Gran? Do you like strawberries better than apples…?’

Not to mention the animals. Foss, who is normally an enthusiastic eater, cleaning up his own dish and licking round Tris’s empty bowl in case some fragment has been overlooked, suddenly went off his food. For two days, although he seemed perfectly healthy (cold, wet nose, full of energy), he didn’t eat a thing. At first I thought he’d been catching mice and birds, but there were no pathetic little piles of feathers and no solitary mouse’s gall bladder on the doormat (his usual offering). I
couldn’t understand it and began to be really worried. But then, suddenly, he was his usual voracious self and ate everything I offered and asked for more. Another feline mystery. Such are the maddening ways of cats, using up your time and energy, never coming when called, then strolling in hours later, when you’ve been out combing the highways and byways, peering down rabbit holes in anxiety and despair, totally unconcerned. ‘Were you calling me?’

No, I decided, my life was full enough. After I’d been to see Sybil, I’d wipe the whole Bernard mystery completely from my mind. The trivial round, the common task, as Dr Keble tells us, should be
quite
enough for me.

Tuesday was another cold day, dull and misty with a fine drizzle falling, and I began to wonder why on earth I was going out in this miserable weather to see Sybil, someone I really didn’t actually
need
to see, when I could be cosily at home occupying myself in a more rational way. The animals, too, showed no signs of wanting to venture out. After breakfast Tris had retired to his basket with an ancient bone for company. Foss had gone to ground under the duvet on my bed and was visible only as a motionless hump. Feeling a strong desire to join him, I nevertheless put on my warm winter coat and gloves and got the car out.

As I drove along the coast road the mist got thinner, though there was still enough to obscure the view across the Bristol Channel on one side and the high moorland on the other.

I drove down Countisbury Hill into Lynmouth, empty now of tourists with only the gulls and the jackdaws inhabiting the seafront, and up again into Lynton and then on towards the Valley of
Rocks, but turning left back onto the moor again until I finally found the large imposing building that was St Winifred’s Home. It stood in solitary splendour, its Victorian Gothic towers overlooking lawns and shrubberies that, though they were doubtless pleasant in summer, now had a dismal appearance. There was no one about – not surprising, I suppose, in view of the weather, but nonetheless adding to my feeling of unreality, and it was with some relief that I saw a prosaic notice saying Visitors’ Car Park. Grateful for this sign of normality I drove the car into the space indicated and got out.

There was a heavy, complicated lock on the massive front door and at one side a modern bell commanding visitors to Ring and Wait. After a while, through the stained glass panel (the ecclesiastical theme?) in the door I saw a figure in a green overall who unlocked it and, inviting me in, locked it behind me. Noticing my startled look she said, ‘We have to keep it locked, you understand. Some of the old dears go walkabout if we don’t.’ She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a strong Welsh accent and she ushered me into a small waiting room. ‘Who was it you were wanting to see, dear?’ she asked.

I almost asked for Sybil, but remembered just in time that now she had another name and I must get used to calling her by it.

‘Sister Veronica, please, she is expecting me.’

‘Right you are, dear. I’ll just go and see if I can find her.’

The waiting room was rather dark, with one small window (more stained glass) and was furnished only with a table with four upright chairs standing stiffly around it. There were several magazines on the table and I picked one up, expecting it to be of some religious nature, but it was an old copy of
What Car?
and the others were equally unexpected –
Woman’s Own, Country Living
and
Hello
magazine. Encouraged by the secular nature of the reading matter provided, I sat down and picked up the latter. I was absorbed in pictures of the wedding of two American film stars I’d never heard of, when the door opened and Sybil – that is Veronica – came in.

She was wearing the sort of dress (one could hardly call it a habit) that Mrs Dudley had described and, indeed, she did look like an old-fashioned nanny. She came forward into the room with her hand outstretched.

‘Sheila, this is a pleasure. Do forgive me for keeping you waiting but I was in the laundry.’ She smiled, seeing my puzzled expression. ‘All our residents are elderly so, as you can imagine, keeping up with the laundry is an ongoing problem.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Well, now,’ Veronica continued, ‘let’s go up to my room where we can have a proper chat.’

She led the way through the hall and up a fine,
ornately carved staircase and along a series of corridors each lined with heavy doors with little brass slots, like those in Victorian pews, marked with their occupants’ names. Like all residential homes it was very warm, but today, given the miserable weather outside, the warmth was welcome. Veronica’s room was quite small and at the back of the house with a view over part of the vegetable garden. There was a divan bed with a cream candlewick cover, along one wall, a small bedside table, a table with one upright chair, and two armchairs facing the window. The curtains at the tall window were brocade, faded to some indeterminate colour and the carpet was a neutral green. The room was saved from dullness by the fact that the walls were lined with bookshelves, crammed with books, many still in their bright jackets, and a large, white cyclamen plant on the table.

‘Do sit down,’ Veronica said. ‘I’ve asked Gwyneth to bring some coffee.’

‘That would be lovely,’ I said. Then, uncertain of what to say next, I went on, ‘It’s so nice to see you again – I can’t remember when the last time was.’

‘A funeral I expect,’ Veronica said with a smile, ‘it usually is.’ She indicated the armchairs. ‘Do sit down.’

There was a knock on the door and the woman in the green overall came in with a tray with two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar and a plate with four plain biscuits on it.

‘There you are, Sister,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the biscuits but Mrs Granger had the last of the shortbreads.’ She put the tray down on the table and went away.

Veronica handed me one of the cups of coffee and I refused the sugar and the biscuits. We sat in silence for a moment, then she said, ‘It’s always lovely to see you, Sheila, but do I get the feeling there’s a reason for this particular visit?’

I nodded. ‘Actually, yes there is.’ I put my coffee cup back on the table. ‘Do you remember a cousin of ours, Bernard Prior? He was down here doing genealogical research into the Priors, and he’s been calling on members of the family, asking for photos, documents and so on. I wondered if he’d been to see you?’

I became aware of the fact that Veronica was sitting very still, almost holding her breath. She didn’t reply straight away, but then she said in a calm, measured voice, ‘Yes, I remember Bernard Prior, and no, he didn’t call on me.’

I looked at her curiously, but her face was impassive.

‘Oh, well – it’s just that I thought I’d better let you know – he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Her voice was no longer calm. ‘Dead? Do you mean that?’ she asked urgently. ‘Really dead?’

‘Well – yes, really dead,’ I said.

‘Thank God,’ she said.

This reaction disconcerted me so much that I simply didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent.

‘Thank God,’ she repeated and got up and went over to the window where she stood for some minutes looking out. Then she turned and came slowly back and sat down again, gripping the arms of the chair tightly. She was very pale and she took deep breaths as if to restore her composure.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked anxiously and made a movement to get up. ‘Shall I call someone?’

‘No, no…’ She made a great effort to speak. ‘It was a shock – I’ll be all right, just give me a minute.’

I sat quietly for what seemed like a long time, though it was probably only a few minutes, and then Veronica said, ‘I’m so sorry. You must wonder what on earth…’ She broke off and got up again, this time pacing up and down the room. ‘I’ve tried so hard, you see, prayed so much, but I couldn’t, I
couldn’t
forgive him. Even now, you see, even now when he’s dead. You’d think that
now
…’ She made a despairing gesture and stood quite still. After a moment she seemed to collect herself and came back and sat down. She took a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry, Sheila. You must think I’m completely mad. Perhaps I am where that man is concerned. When did he die, and how?’

I told her what had happened and for a moment she said nothing. Then she gave a wry smile. ‘So there was someone else who hated him as much as
I did,’ she said. ‘What a pity he was already dead and didn’t know it.’

She saw my expression and shook her head. ‘I know, I know. It’s a shocking thing to say, especially by someone in my position, and, as I said, I’ve tried to forgive him for the awful things he did, and, indeed, I’ll go on trying for the rest of my life. Then perhaps
my
trespasses may be forgiven. It is, after all, a fundamental tenet of Christianity, is it not?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose I should tell you what on earth all this is about.’

‘No, really, you don’t have to,’ I said, ‘not if it upsets you.’

‘I think you deserve an explanation after my little outburst just now. I’m sorry to have inflicted that on you, but, well, it was, as I said, a shock.’

‘If you’re sure.’

She nodded. ‘You remember Alma, my younger sister? She married someone called Howard Osborne, a nice man but not strong – he’d had tuberculosis when he was young and it left him with a weakness so he couldn’t work full time. He was a part-time library assistant, but, of course that didn’t bring in much money, so Alma trained as a nurse and when their son Robin was born, she went to work for an agency so that she could arrange her shifts to look after him.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘Robin was a lovely boy, so sweet-natured, a bit delicate though – they had worries about him, worries about his lungs of course – and perhaps,
being an only child, a bit timid and introverted, but such a happy child. They were all so happy. I used to go and stay with them sometimes and the atmosphere in that household was so warm and loving…’ She broke off and sat in silence for a moment. ‘When Robin was about twelve, Alma ran into Bernard Prior – I think he had to come to the hospital for something. Anyway, they met again. We’d both known Bernard when we were children. We used to be invited round to tea with him – he was an only child and his mother (such a nice woman) worried that he didn’t have enough company of children of his own age and he didn’t seem to have any friends. We never liked him because he was what we called “bossy”. I suppose it was really bullying, but, you know how it is, if your parents arrange things you don’t really feel you can do anything about it – well, that’s how we used to feel – I expect children today speak up for themselves more than we did.’

‘Indeed they do!’ I said.

Veronica acknowledged my interjection with a smile and went on, ‘Anyway, Bernard seemed quite pleased to see Alma, went on about the old days and so forth and invited them all to Sunday lunch, so they went. After that they saw quite a bit of Bernard and his family. Alma didn’t really want to – she found Bernard as domineering as he used to be and was so sorry for his poor wife and children, especially the boy – but, as she said, it was difficult
to keep on finding excuses without sounding rude.

‘Bernard had just been made headmaster at this private school and, when Robin was thirteen, he suggested to Alma and Howard that he should become a pupil there. Of course Alma said they couldn’t possibly afford the fees, but Bernard said that he’d waive the fees because Robin was such a bright boy he deserved the best chance they could give him.’

‘That was generous.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘Bernard never did anything without an ulterior motive.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said.

‘Robin really was bright and was obviously going to do well in exams and with league tables being as important as they are I can see that Bernard thought he’d be useful.’

‘Oh, those wretched league tables! They seem to be the be-all and end-all of everything now!’

‘Well, Alma and Howard talked it over and decided that they ought to accept Bernard’s offer. His school had a very good academic reputation and could give Robin a lot of things his local comprehensive couldn’t. So they said thank you very much and Robin started at the beginning of the next term.’ Veronica paused for a moment, as if remembering something, then went on. ‘It was all fine to begin with. Robin did very well and his teachers were pleased with him and the other boys seemed friendly enough, but, after a while, things
started to go wrong. I think I told you that Robin was rather a timid child, overprotected I suppose – he was so precious to them – and I suppose that sort of child does tend to attract the bullies, and that is what happened. It wasn’t bad at first, just a bit of name-calling, but when they saw he was scared it got worse. Then one of them found out his parents didn’t pay any fees and they taunted him about that, and it was made worse when they discovered Bernard was a relation.’

‘Children can be very cruel,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t just the children,’ Veronica said. ‘Bernard began to ask Robin about the other pupils – who was doing something wrong, who was responsible for various things that had happened in the school – making him a spy, in fact.’

‘But that’s awful!’

‘Of course Robin didn’t want to, but Bernard told him that it was the least he could do because his parents didn’t pay.’

‘No! He actually
said
that?’

‘Not in so many words, of course, but he implied it. “Your parents would be so grieved to know how ungrateful you are being” – that sort of thing. Robin was totally confused, he adored his parents and couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting them, so he did what Bernard asked.’

‘The poor child!’

‘It wasn’t long before the bullies found out and then it really was hell for him. The ringleader, was
a boy called Desmond, and the rest of the gang kowtowed to him because he was the son of the local millionaire. Anyway, this boy decided that the best way to teach Robin a lesson, as he called it, was to introduce him to drugs.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘The group had been smoking cannabis – I imagine it was quite easy to get if you had the money. So instead of tormenting Robin this Desmond said he knew the sneaking wasn’t his fault and he could join the gang. Again, I don’t think Robin wanted to, but anything was better than the misery he’d been enduring. They said he had to smoke the cannabis if he wanted to be part of the group and so he did.’

‘What about his parents? Didn’t he tell them what was happening?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘No. Howard wasn’t well and his mother was working all the hours she could just to keep their heads above water financially. Poor Robin didn’t want to give them any more worries so he kept all this to himself. And I was too far away down here for him to be able to turn to me. If only I’d known…’