A Death in Two Parts (19 page)

She had wondered which of her big front rooms Mrs Vansittart would choose to entertain them in and was not surprised to be ushered into the more elegant of the two, the one with glass-fronted cabinets full of probably priceless china rather than books.

Responding to Mrs Vansittart's greeting, she suddenly realised just how awkward this occasion was going to be, and caught a rueful glance from Veronica suggesting that the same thing had struck her. The curtains were drawn against the early autumn darkness, but they were sitting with their drinks in the bay window that commanded such a good daytime view of the street, and Mrs Vansittart's question about her afternoon caller came naturally enough.

“No,” Patience answered it, “she didn't come back, and there wasn't a note. I can't think who it can have been. Not many people know my new address yet. I've got terribly behind with things because the Hall sold so fast and I had to move. I got the change of address cards from the man you recommended, Mrs Vansittart, but I'm ashamed to say I've hardly sent any of them yet.”

“I could do that for you.” Veronica put her orange juice down carefully on the little mat that protected the marquetry table. “One thing the sisters did teach us at my school was to write what they called a good clear hand.”

“Convent school, of course. And a very good education, too.” Mrs Vansittart approved. “So you're a Catholic, my dear, like the rest of your family.”

“Not any more, I'm not.” Veronica put down her glass and stood up. “May I use your loo, please?”

“Of course.” Mrs Vansittart concealed surprise like a lady. “Down the hall and right by the garden door.”

“Thanks.” She gave Patience a speaking look, and left the room.

Patience took the plunge. “Sensible child,” she said. “She's giving me a chance to explain to you, Mrs Vansittart. It's been a shock to me. It will be a shock to you, too, I'm afraid. My first thought was to say nothing, try to cover up, but we've talked about it and decided it's bound to come out sooner or later, so better sooner.” She took a steadying breath. “You asked about Veronica and the Lavolles, and you are quite right, she's the Duke's granddaughter, but illegitimate.”

“Oh!” said Mrs Vansittart. And then: “That youngest daughter! Jessica? – No, Jennifer. I remember my cousin saying something. And she never would name the father.”

“No,” said Patience bleakly. “He was my husband.”

“Oh, my dear—” For the first time, Mrs Vansittart used the words as if she meant them. “I am so very sorry. You didn't know?”

“No. If I had I would have divorced him. Veronica is eighteen years old, Mrs Vansittart, but it had been going on much longer. Ever since Suez. Since her mother was younger than Veronica is now.” Oddly, in the catharsis of speech, she felt bound to defend Veronica's mother.

“What a terrible thing. Just think of all those speeches he used to make, about family values! Do you remember? – Of course you do. I beg your pardon, my dear. It hits you hardest of all and I can see you are taking it quite beautifully. How long have you known?”

“Since Veronica came to me yesterday. I hope she is going to let me adopt her. Her mother is dead, you see—”

“And the family?”

“Veronica won't go to them because of the way they treated her mother.”

“Oh, my goodness … But here she comes!” She turned to greet Veronica. “My dear, I am so very sorry about your mother. You must let us all do everything we can to help you be happy with Mrs Crankshaw.”

“Oh, I shall, thank you. I mean to be.”

“Did you see how beautifully she changed the subject?” asked Veronica, back at home over an omelette. “You were dead right: she's a great lady. With not enough to do, poor thing.”

“I know. It's true of all of us. Someone needs to harness the energies of the old. To treadmills if nothing else offers. We're so wasted!”

“You're not old, Patience, and don't try to behave as if you were. It was a pleasure to see old Ma Vansittart taking in your new outfit. How soon can we go to London and buy you that suit?”

“Not till we have got a few things sorted out here. Your A levels, for a start; we must lose no time about that. And I must see Mr Jones and get him working on what happened about your mother's money. I can't believe even Geoffrey would have left you totally unprovided for.”

“Mr Jones?”

“My solicitor; such a nice man. He lives down the High Street.”

“Here in Leyning? Don't you have someone looking after all that money?”

“Geoffrey did. Mr Jones is finding someone.”

“Ouch.” She pulled a face which turned into a yawn. “You
look tired, Patience, and I'm knackered. All that bracing Brighton ozone, d'you think? Shall we be slobs and stack the dishes and go to bed?”

“Yes, it's been a long day. I admit I am a bit tired. We'll both be better for a long night.”

But in the morning she woke with a small niggling headache and lay for a few moments wondering if she could be starting flu.

No time for that. She got herself firmly out of bed and discovered she had forgotten to open her bedroom window, which doubtless explained the headache. She thought Veronica looked heavy-eyed, too, when she joined her for breakfast. “Let's have a quiet day today,” she said, pouring coffee.

“Let things settle a bit,” agreed Veronica. “Cool. No, I won't have an egg today, thanks, just a bit of toast. That's all I usually have.”

“Funny to know so little about each other,” said Patience.

“I reckon we know the things that count. But, yes, there's going to be some ground to cover. Like do you watch the Teletubbies or the Simpsons?”

“Neither,” said Patience. “But I like to get the six o'clock news.”

“Mum watched a lot of soaps. I'm not into it much. Boring.” She stifled a yawn. “I'm falling asleep again. May we get the dishes done, Patience, so I can get going in the cellar? I'll feel better when I've done that.”

“It's going to be a horrid job, I'm afraid.” Patience turned on the hot tap.

“And serve me bloody well right. Sorry! Why don't you have a dishwasher, Patience?”

“No room. Anyway, I quite like doing dishes. Specially at this sink, with its view of the garden. We must get some more nuts for the birds when we go out.”

“I like the way you say ‘we',” said Veronica. “When are we going to go out?”

“When you're done in the cellar? There are all kinds of things I need for the house. It was all so different at the Hall. Goodness, it's hard to believe it's only five days since I left there.”

“Don't tell me you're homesick?”

“Good gracious, no way! If I never see that place again, it will be too soon. Lord, it's good to have you here to say that to, Veronica. Promise you won't let me batten on you?”

“Batten? Not just your line surely.”

“Well, don't let me bully you either. I mean, maybe you don't want to come out shopping.”

“‘Course I do. The least I can do is carry for you, when you're feeding me.”

“I like feeding you.” In her turn, she swallowed a yawn. “Are you sure you want to do the cellar today? It's going to be a pig of a job.”

“It'll get worse with leaving. Have you any old rags I can use for the turps?”

“Oh dear, not a thing. It never occurred to me to bring those.”

“Well you didn't know you were getting a poltergeist with the house, did you?”

“That's just what it felt like!” Patience smiled at her. “I know! Why don't you use that drippy skirt for rags? I really don't think I want to see you in it again.”

“I should rather think not.”

“Unless you think you ought to send it back to the friend who lent it to you?”

“No.” It came out explosively. “I shan't be seeing that lot again. That's the other reason I came away. What I didn't know, when I went to them, was they're on the hard stuff. They took my purse; that's why I had to hitch up here.”

“You hitched! Oh, Veronica. Promise you won't ever again. It's too dangerous.”

“Not looking the way I did, it wasn't. Well, one of them was a bit off, but you've got to be able to cope. And the last one gave me a fiver.
Not
for services rendered, in case you were wondering. He came from Newlyn, said he wouldn't want a nice St Ives girl loose in Brighton with no money. Truckers are OK mostly; it's private cars are dodgy. OK—” grinning at Patience as she dried the last teaspoon – “never again and that's a promise. Where did you put the turps?”

“Still in its bag in the front hall, I think.” Patience unbolted the cellar door as Veronica tore strips from the sad skirt. “Promise to leave it if it's impossible, Veronica; we can always get a man in, after all.”

“Anything he can do I can do better,” said Veronica cheerfully, rolling up her sleeves. “No, I can manage, thanks.” She picked up turps, scraper and rags. “Why don't you sit down for a bit? You look a bit off this morning, tell you the truth.”

“I've felt better,” admitted Patience. “I do hope I'm not starting something.” She finished polishing the table and was glad to sit down beside it with the newspaper, while Veronica vanished down the cellar stair.

“It stinks of paint down here,” came her cheerful voice. “No wonder you weren't fooled.” And then: “That's funny …”

She reappeared a minute later to find Patience nodding
over the newspaper. “Wake up,” she said. “There's something blocking the vent down there; that's why we're so sleepy. It's the boiler.” She found the front door key on the hall shelf and swung the door wide. “Yes,” – looking down into the sunk area beside the steps – “something's fallen on to the vent. It wasn't like that the other day or I could never have got the paint down. Come and look, Patience, fresh air's what you need.”

Patience had been on the verge of drifting off to sleep, but pulled herself reluctantly out of her chair and moved slowly out to join Veronica at the top of the front steps.

“Don't fall in!” Veronica put a steadying arm round her waist. “You need a grating over it, Patience. It looks like somebody's rubbish down there. What sluts people are. Missed the dustmen, I suppose, and just dropped it in. And it's cut off the air supply to the boiler, see? You read about it in the papers: whole families dying in caravans with faulty heating.”

“What an extraordinary thing.” Patience was breathing great gulps of fresh air and feeling better by the minute. “Do be careful.” She hung on to the door jamb as Veronica let go of her and climbed down into the area.

“It's just a bag full of newspapers.” She picked up the black bag and heaved it up on to the pavement. “How very odd.”

“I don't like it a bit,” said Patience. “Bring it indoors, Veronica – quick, before anyone notices.” She glanced swiftly across the road.

“She went out shopping,” said Veronica.

Back in the house, Patience went straight to the back door and threw it wide open. “Would you be a dear and open all the windows upstairs? But don't sit down or anything!”

“I sure won't. Should we leave the front door for a bit, do you think? Get a through draught?”

“Don't you think the windows should do it, if we stay out for a while?”

“Get the shopping done now, while it clears? Now you've got that bolt on the back gate we could perfectly well leave the back door open while we are out.”

“I suppose we could.” Patience propped a chair against the back door to hold it open against the draught that rushed through the house when Veronica opened the front windows upstairs.

“I managed to get the attic window open,” said Veronica, returning. “You ought to do something with all that space, Patience. How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“So do I. But should we call the Gas Board, do you think?”

“I don't really see why. They'd take forever to come, and we'd have to stay in for them, and we do know exactly what happened. They made me put in that grille, you know, after I had the boiler installed. When they tested it, it didn't draw properly, and it was the grille or no boiler. You're absolutely right, I should have had a grating put across the top, but I was afraid it might mean planning permission and all that hassle; you've no idea how fierce they are in this High Street.”

“I can imagine,” said Veronica. “You can hardly change a door knob in St Ives without a fuss. When are your dustbins emptied, Patience?”

“That's the funny thing,” said Patience. “Tomorrow.”

“But you really ought to tell someone,” said Veronica, not for the first time, over their lunch of salad and cheese. “Like, I keep thinking, if you hadn't had the heating switched to go off at night, we might not have waked up this morning.”

“I don't think it works like that.” Patience had been thinking about this. “The boiler was on all night, after all, it's just the radiators go off. It's a slow build-up, isn't it? You had your window open, didn't you? I forgot mine. But it was your going down to the cellar saved us. Lucky for me you came.”

“Lucky for me too. Look, I know it seems crazy, and it has to have been an accident, but don't you think maybe you ought to tell the police?”

“You say that?” Patience temporised. “I thought you young hated the police?”

“Like pigs, you mean? Fuzz? All that? I've always found them OK.”

“Well, I suppose in St Ives they knew who you were.”

“For what it was worth? I suppose they did. So: good old English snobbery at work, you mean?”

“Just that. Geoffrey was a policeman when we met.”

“I never knew that. I thought he was just a leisured gent.”

“That was after he married me,” said Patience. “Before, he was working his way up at Scotland Yard. But it didn't happen fast enough for him. Nothing ever did, poor Geoffrey …I've never liked the police much. You see, I was accused of murder once. Clapped in the cells, in Lewes, under the Magistrate's Court.”