Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death (24 page)

“But surely,” I said, caught up in her explanation, “you couldn’t be sure it would be fatal—not all poisonous fungi actually kill people. She might just have been very ill and then recovered.”

“The thing about this particular fungus is that it causes renal failure. I happened to know that Annie had only one kidney. I heard Father mention it—I can’t remember the context, but I did remember that. So even a relatively small amount of the stuff, if she ate the whole quiche, would be enough.”

“But what about the ones in the house? How did you get them in there?”

“When we came back and heard the news, I helped Judith clear up the house, if you remember. It was easy to leave the back door on the catch—Judith was so busy talking she wouldn’t have noticed if I’d left the door wide-open—so I slipped round the back way through the field after dark, and put the poisonous ones in a basket in the kitchen.”

We’d been standing all this while, but now she sat down and I felt the need to as well.

After a bit I said, “Does Phyll know?”

“Good God, no! And, please, Sheila, I would be very grateful if you never told her.”

“But—but you can’t expect me to condone what you’ve done! I agree that Annie was a despicable person and she made a lot of people thoroughly miserable and she should have been punished. Punished, perhaps, but not
killed
.”

“I agree with you. But there was no way of exposing her without the facts coming out. And, from what I gathered, many other facts too, that might have blighted other people’s lives.”

“You can’t justify—”

“No, of course I can’t—it’s indefensible. All I can do is try and make up for what I’ve done in other ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“The phone call I just made—it was to Jamie’s boss at the relief organization. I’m going out to Somalia to one of the refugee camps. They’re desperately short of people with medical training.”

“It’ll be terribly dangerous.”

“It’s something I can do to make amends, something worthwhile.” She gave a wry smile. “I believe it’s called expiation. So, please, Sheila, let Annie’s death still be an accident—don’t tell anyone.”

I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “I’ll tell Rosemary—she’s been puzzled about the whole affair as I have, but she won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you. I’m very grateful.” She smiled. “Though, actually, I don’t think there’s any actual evidence . . .”

“There’s the book,” I said. “Why did you keep it?” Rachel leaned forwards slightly, as though imparting something secret. “You must
never
think that I’m not aware of what a terrible thing I did; it’s burned on my mind. But, just to remind me, every day, I’m taking that book with me—a sort of hair shirt, you might say.”

“When are you going?”

“That’s what I’ve just been arranging. I’m going next week.”

“But Phyll will still be away on her honeymoon.”

“I know. She’d want me to change my mind, ask questions, all sorts of complications. Better to make a clean break. I’ll write to her from Cairo. Isn’t it wonderfully providential that she has Martin? I worried before about her being lonely again. Now they can live here; I was never very happy about them living in Annie’s cottage.”

“What about the people in the village? What will you tell them?”

“Oh, anything. I’ll say I’m going to visit Grace, something like that, something that will satisfy them until Phyll comes back.”

“I hope all goes well for you,” I said stiffly.

“Please, Sheila,” Rachel said, “please understand.”

“I do understand—it’s just that I don’t approve.” I got rather unsteadily to my feet.

“So you won’t be staying to lunch? I can promise you—
no
mushrooms.” She smiled, and it was the smile of the old Rachel, the one I grew up with, admired for her dash and daring, for her confidence and warmth and for that special something that so few people have—genuine charm.

Reluctantly I smiled back. At the old Rachel. “Good-bye,” “I said, ”and good luck.

 

William picked up a copy of the village book from the pile on the table, opened it at the back, and looked at the list of subscribers.

“You do realize that this is the most important thing in the whole book,” he said. “I hope you got all the names right.”

I smiled. “We were very careful. So, what do you think of it?”

“Quite excellent. You must be very pleased with it.”

“The printer did a really good job. But, actually, I only did the history bits and chose the items, all rather fun. Mary did the hard work—all the boring stuff.”

William closed the book and looked at the picture on the jacket, which was of the village in its rural setting, with a view along the village street leading up to the church—charming and picturesque. Then he turned to the dedication. “ ‘For the people of Mere Barton, past and present.’ Yes, that’s right. It’s not the landscape or the historic buildings that matter; it’s the people. The community—to use a word I particularly dislike—people acting together, or, indeed,
not
together, but all part of a whole.”

“All involved in mankind,” I said. He looked at me and I smiled. “Yes, I heard it—it made me think. About Annie, especially.”

“Oh yes, Annie. I take it you have solved our mystery.”

“Well, yes, I have, but I can’t—”

“I don’t want to know. Besides, I feel somehow that a kind of resolution has been found.”

“Yes.”

“Good. ‘A broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.’ ” He spoke very softly so that I could hardly hear the words. Then he went over to the decanter and poured the sherry. We both sat down and he raised his glass. “To absent friends.”

I hesitated for a moment and then raised mine. “To absent friends,” I said.