A Death in the Family (17 page)

Her voice trailed away and she took a few moments to recover.

‘Things went from bad to worse. They made Robin collect the stuff from the dealer, and by then it was hard drugs not just cannabis, and the inevitable happened: he was caught by the police.’

‘Did Bernard have any idea of what had been going on?’

‘I’m not sure, but he may have done. The fact is, though, when this Desmond swore that he had nothing to do with it and said Robin was the ringleader, Bernard backed him up.’

‘What!’

‘Desmond’s father was rich and influential, Robin was the perfect scapegoat.’ She paused for a while and then went on. ‘I think the police suspected the truth, but there was no evidence against Desmond and Robin had been caught red-handed, as it were, and however much he protested his innocence there was nothing he could do. But the police did try to make things easier for him. He wasn’t sent to a young offenders’ centre, thank God, and just did community service. But he has a police record.’

‘What happened at the school?’

‘Oh, Bernard expelled him with a great deal of fuss and commotion. You know – “An example must be made to show we won’t tolerate such behaviour…” and, of course, “After all I’ve done for this boy…” – that sort of thing.’

‘How awful for Alma.’

‘She and Howard were devastated. Of course they believed Robin, but there was nothing they could do. Still, that wasn’t the worst problem. The awful fact was that Robin had become an addict. They got him into a rehab programme and for a
while they thought things were going to be all right. But he lapsed. Time and again he’s lapsed and now – well…’

‘That is really terrible.’

‘It completely overwhelmed poor Howard. The worry and the sheer awfulness of what had happened were simply too much for someone in such frail health. He died a year after and ever since Alma has been trying to keep some sort of home together for herself and Robin and trying desperately to keep him clean.’

She finished speaking and we sat there in silence for some time. Veronica looked drained and tired, as if she couldn’t talk any more, and I was so overwhelmed by the dreadful story she’d just told me that I couldn’t find any words to speak of it. After a while she got up and went over to the window. Looking out, with her back to me she said, ‘So you see why Bernard Prior was unlikely to call on me, and why I thank God that he is dead.’ She turned and faced me. ‘No, I didn’t kill him, though I have often wished to, may God forgive me. And Alma didn’t kill him either. For the last two months she’s been up in Newcastle, finding work where she can, trying, once again, to support Robin on yet another rehab programme.’

When I drove away the mist had lifted but the sky was still iron-grey and the whole landscape seemed drained of light. Somehow I didn’t want to go straight home. I needed time to take in the dreadful things Veronica had told me, so I took the long way back, over the moor, and stopped in a lay-by to collect my thoughts. The feelings she’d described were so strong, the events so vivid, that I felt I’d somehow been living them with her and I needed time to come back to my own world.

I watched the sheep moving down the slope into the combe below, nibbling the short grass as they went, saw the crows wheeling overhead and heard the cry of a seagull perched on a mound covered with dead heather, hoping for some titbit from my parked car. Slowly I began to understand fully the horror of what had happened to that family, and the extent of Bernard’s responsibility for it. More than ever, when I thought of the irreparable damage he’d done to so many people, I felt, with Veronica, glad that he was dead. The heart attack was,
perhaps, divine justice – was that how Veronica thought of it? I wondered. But if only it had remained a natural death, if only that blow had not been struck. Admittedly, if what Roger and Michael had told me was true, then no one could be prosecuted for the attack, but all the same I couldn’t leave it alone, I still needed to know who had wanted to kill him.

Veronica said she hadn’t done it (and her reaction to the news of his death made me feel she was telling the truth), and Alma and Robin were far away, so there seemed to be no one left. No one in the family, that is. I suddenly remembered the conversation I’d had with Raymond Poyser about the boy – his neighbour’s nephew – at Bernard’s school who’d tried to commit suicide. That had been about bullying too. His parents would have felt as badly as Veronica and Alma; would, surely, have wanted Bernard dead. I sat thinking about this while the rain began to fall, the sort of fine, wetting rain, whipped up by that wind that almost always cuts across the high moor, sweeping it in waves so that it almost obliterated the landscape in front of me.

It wouldn’t do, I decided eventually. How would they have known that Bernard was down here in Taviscombe? It would obviously have been easier to kill him in Bristol. And, anyway, why wait so long after the event? No, I decided regretfully, although they certainly had a motive, it was unlikely the
parents of that poor boy could have killed the man they knew was responsible for their son’s desperate act.

So I was back to the family again and the feeling I’d had all along that Bernard’s own research had been responsible for what had happened. But there was no one left.

‘Yes there is!’ I said aloud, startling myself with the sound of my own voice in the enclosed confines of the car. ‘There’s Fred!’

I suppose I’d forgotten about Fred because he lived in Bristol and not locally, but there was no reason to think that Bernard hadn’t been in touch with him too and that he’d mentioned his projected trip to Taviscombe. Surely there’d been notes attached to Fred’s family tree. I couldn’t remember. I started the car and began the journey home, anxious to see what, if anything, Bernard had discovered about that particular branch of the family and if there was something there that might conceivably have provided a motive for murder.

But, of course, I couldn’t get out the papers and start looking straight away. The animals, resentful at my absence, persecuted me unmercifully, gulping down their food and then asking (vociferously) to go out and then, when they saw that it was still raining (at every door), asking for more food, and, when that was gone, demanding my undivided attention.

When I’d finally got them settled (putting an extra bar of the electric fire on in the sitting room and bribing them with handfuls of dried food, which I knew they’d scatter far and wide, so that I’d be vacuuming it up for days) and I was just about to get out the briefcase with the papers in, the telephone rang. It was Janet, asking if I’d had the notice about going to the inquest on Bernard. Mine had arrived a few days ago and I’d pushed it to the back of my mind and almost forgotten it.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I assumed they’d want you there too but I wasn’t sure if you’d be well enough to come.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m fine now – my arm’s still strapped up though so I can’t drive, but Christine insists on coming too.’ There was a slight undertone of irritation in her voice. ‘So she’ll bring me.’

‘Let me see now, it’s at eleven o’clock. Will you both come back here for lunch?’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I think Christine wants to get straight back to Bristol – some important meeting she needs to go to.’

‘What a pity, it would have been nice to have a chat.’

‘Actually, the other reason I rang was to see if you’re still all right about coming to the funeral. We – that is, Christine has arranged it for Friday. It’s eleven-thirty at the crematorium and then back here afterwards. I do so hope you can come, it would mean a lot to me.’

‘Yes, of course I will.’

‘Luke won’t be there of course – well, it would hardly be – well – suitable really. So I’d be glad of your support.’

‘No, that’s fine. I’ll be there.’

‘The crematorium is at Canford, that’s Westbury on Trim, can you find it?’

‘That’s all right. I know where it is.’

‘Oh good.’ Janet paused for a minute then said tentatively, ‘I wonder if you’d feel like staying the night. To save you the journey back the same day. And,’ she added, ‘it would be so nice to have that chat.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I really don’t think I can leave the animals. But I’ll stay on afterwards and we can talk then.’

‘Oh good. Well, I’ll see you at the inquest then. I do hope it won’t be too awful – I’m really dreading it.’

‘No, I think it’ll be quite straightforward – at least that’s what I gathered from Roger – just explaining how we – how we found Bernard. That sort of thing.’

‘Well,’ Janet said, ‘I won’t feel so bad if you’re there too.’

The inquest, as Roger had said, was really only a matter of form. The coroner did refer to ‘some unusual circumstances’ but didn’t go into any sort of detail and pronounced the death to be ‘from natural causes’. I was pleased to see that the young
man who does the court cases for the local paper didn’t seem to be there so I hoped that the whole business would escape notice in the press. Janet had made her statement after me. She spoke in a low voice but seemed to be quite calm, although I thought Christine looked rather nervous while she was speaking. Afterwards I hardly had time to have a word, before Christine, with a brief, perfunctory apology, took her away again.

‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ Janet said, as Christine shut the car door.

I waved them off and stood for a moment outside the rather dismal red-brick building that housed the magistrates court and the police station trying to take in the fact that it was all over.

‘So that’s that, then.’ Sergeant Harris came out of the court and joined me. ‘Funny sort of business altogether,’ he said.

‘It certainly was,’ I replied. ‘So that’s it, is it?’

‘Well, of course, there’s still some paperwork to do – but then when isn’t there!’

‘But you won’t be investigating anything else?’

‘Like the coroner said, it was death from natural causes. There is the question of the break-in, but, honestly, Mrs Malory, since nothing seems to have been stolen, I don’t think there’s much we can do about it now.’

‘No, of course not. Well, it will be a great relief to Mrs Prior to have it all over.’

‘Yes, poor lady, it must have been a dreadful
experience for her – well, you too, if it comes to that, finding him like that – but she seems to be the sort of lady who would be easily upset, if you know what I mean.’

I agreed with his estimate of Janet’s character and thought ruefully that I obviously didn’t give the impression of equal sensitivity.

He moved towards the door of the police station. ‘I’d better be getting along,’ he said. ‘Like I said – all that paperwork.’

‘“A policeman’s lot is not a happy one”,’ I quoted. He looked at me blankly and I hastily added, ‘Gilbert and Sullivan,
Pirates of Penzance
.’

His face cleared. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The wife and I went to see it in Taunton last year.’ He hummed a few bars. ‘A really good evening out! Oh well, back to my
constabulary duties
,’ he said with a jovial emphasis, and went in.

I thought a little sea air would dispel the depressing atmosphere of the inquest, so I drove down to the harbour and stood for a while watching the sea. A little way out a determined (or perhaps foolish) windsurfer was battling with a stiff breeze, sometimes making good progress towards the shore, then the sail would tip over and he’d be in the sea, and I watched anxiously as he scrambled back onto the board again. Time and again it happened, just as he seemed to be all set for the beach the wind would upset him and he was struggling in the water again. A bit like my
‘investigations’ I thought. A lot of effort leading nowhere. Oh well, it was all over now, the case (such as it was) was closed and it really didn’t matter (did it?) who had struck that blow. I could put it out of my mind. But, as I stood there watching the wind-surfer, I knew that I’d go on (determined or foolish), like him, not because I
had
to, but for my own satisfaction. And, as I watched, he finally made it to the shore and stood for a triumphant moment, looking out at the sea he’d emerged from, before making his way cautiously across the stony beach, back to his car.

Because I’m not very good at finding my way anywhere I always leave plenty of time, so I was very early at the crematorium on the Friday morning. I found a good parking place not too far from the entrance and sat quietly for a while listening to some nice soothing Elgar on the car radio. Gradually the other mourners began to arrive. Mostly middle-aged, colleagues perhaps. As far as I could see, there were no other relatives, though given the circumstances that was not surprising. About ten minutes before the service was to begin I got out of the car and went in.

Like all crematoriums this one was bright and airy, with a great deal of light wood everywhere in both fittings and furnishings. There were several large and impressive flower arrangements designed, perhaps, to draw attention away from the curtains
behind a kind of altar, though, of course, one’s eye was inevitably, if reluctantly, focused upon them. There was a lectern with a microphone and what appeared to be recorded music permeated the whole space – a careful combination of the religious with the secular, an attempt to be all things to all men, trying to offend no one, even if, in the end, no one was truly satisfied.

The service itself was a little like the crematorium – parts of the prayer book service interspersed with readings and two brief eulogies (praising Bernard’s ‘dedication to education’). People bent over their orders of service trying to keep up, joining in thankfully, back on safe ground, with the Lord’s Prayer. The service proceeded to its ineluctable end and we all trooped outside to shake hands with Janet, Christine and a tall thin man in spectacles who I took to be Christine’s husband.

‘A very nice service.’ I murmured the conventional words as I greeted Janet.

‘You can find your way back to the house?’ she said anxiously.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’m so glad you came…’

Christine interrupted. ‘Dr Fenchurch, Mother,’ she said, indicating an elderly gentleman who had come up behind me. ‘You remember he was so helpful to Father about those census reports.’

‘So good of you to come,’ Janet said dutifully, as quiet and subdued as the old Janet had been, and I
moved on, out into the fresh air and back into the outside world. As I was standing beside my car an elderly man came up to me.

‘Sheila? It’s been a long time, but you look so like your father I knew I couldn’t be mistaken.’ It was Fred Prior.

‘Fred, how nice to see you! I didn’t see you at the service.’

‘No, I always sit at the back at these affairs, in case I want to make an unobtrusive getaway.’ He gave me a quick smile. ‘I didn’t know you were a friend of the late lamented.’

‘Not a friend,’ I said, ‘but I wanted to be here for Janet.’

‘Ah, poor Janet. Freedom at last, eh?’

‘Well, yes,’ I said, a little disconcerted at his forthright remarks, though I did remember that Fred had always had the reputation (carefully fostered by himself) of being eccentric.

‘Are you
going back
?’ he asked giving the words an ironic emphasis.

‘Yes, I promised Janet that I would. How about you?’

‘No fear. Not my scene at all. I only came to see old Bernard off.’

‘Oh, right…’

‘It would have been nice to have had a word with you. I always liked your father and your mother was one of the wittiest women I’ve ever known. Next time you’re coming to Bristol give me a ring
and we’ll have lunch.’ He looked round. ‘They’re all coming out now, so I’ll make my escape. Don’t forget, give me a ring.’ He gave a wave and got into a dashing Mercedes sports car that I’d been admiring in the car park and drove off.

Bernard’s house – and I’m sure it was always Bernard’s house and not Janet’s – was in a quiet leafy road in Stoke Bishop, a pleasant suburb of Bristol near to Clifton and the Downs. It was a tall, Edwardian three-storey building set well back from the road with a lot of shrubs in front of it and a substantial driveway. There were already several cars parked there when I arrived (having got lost in one of the city’s difficult one-way systems), so I left my car in the road so that I could get out easily if it all became too much for me.

Although there had been a fair number of people at the service there were only about a dozen at the house, mostly, as I had suspected, former colleagues, including the two who had read the eulogies. One of these, a large, bald man with glasses, was holding forth in a loud, pompous manner about the problems of modern education with reference to the total failure of the comprehensive system. This was obviously a familiar theme and the eyes of his listeners had glazed over as they stood there balancing glasses of red wine and plates with vol-au-vents and small triangular sandwiches. My entrance obviously provided a welcome opportunity for them to break
out of the circle surrounding him and re-form into small groups where they engaged in hastily improvised conversations of their own.