Scared to Breathe, page 13
The rest of the night is peaceful and I wake to the sound of birdsong. I shower and switch the kettle on. Just a slice of toast and honey for breakfast, I think, because I want to take a proper look at the furniture in the house. I’ve lifted corners of dustsheets before but this time I’ll remove them completely and take photos of everything. I’m going to compile ‘before and after’ photo albums.
I open the fridge and sigh with dismay. I forgot to get milk yesterday. I’ll have to nip to the village shop. I pull on a pink cardigan and I’m suddenly reminded of the cashmere one I’d received for my birthday and used on Dean Rigby’s victim. I shudder and try to push away the image of him holding the knife. I hope he’s suffering in prison.
The thought of prison reminds me again of my grandfather. Was it a gruesome murder? I try not to think about the violence of it but can’t stop wondering who did it. Perhaps I’ll find a pretext to visit old Bob and ask him more questions. Perhaps I should make some cakes and take them round to him.
I enter the shop and go straight to the back where the fridges store the milk. Muriel must be in the stockroom because there’s no one behind the till. I’m lingering by the chocolate trifle and lemon cheesecake when the bell rings to herald a new customer. I hear a familiar voice saying hello and Muriel apologising for being in the cloakroom.
‘Has Julian got any further with his negotiations?’ the woman asks Muriel. I was about to make my way to the till with a chocolate mousse but now I can’t resist holding back to listen to the reply.
‘He tells me it will all be sorted soon. You know as well as I do how persuasive he can be.’
They both laugh and I wonder what deal Julian is trying to pull off now. The situation here could become very awkward if I stay hidden so I walk around the shelf unit and make myself visible. It’s Sandy, looking elegant in a trouser suit – her sunglasses perched on top of her head. I contain a wry smile. It isn’t even sunny this morning.
‘Hi, Tasha! Lovely to see you.’ She rushes over to me and lightly holds my shoulders then kisses the air near my cheeks, first left then right.
I feel a little foolish but step back and smile. ‘How’s Morse? Not wandered off again, I hope.’
‘I’ve hardly dared let him out.’
‘Wasn’t it kind of Tasha to find your cat?’ Muriel looks from me to Sandy, not wanting to be excluded from the conversation.
‘Absolutely.’ Sandy moves past me and jiggles her eyebrows up and down when her back’s to Muriel.
I almost burst out laughing and have to disguise my spluttering as a cough. I didn’t expect Sandy to have a wicked sense of humour. Maybe she’ll be fun to know after all. I pay for the goods and wait for my change. Muriel pauses with her hand in the till, not ready to let me escape yet.
‘Did you have Bob round for tea?’
‘Yes, we had a lovely old chat. He’s good company.’
‘Well,’ sniffs Muriel. ‘It’s a good job you saw him when you did. You won’t be hearing any more stories from him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Muriel looks like her number has just been called at bingo on jackpot night. ‘He’s had a fall. He’s in hospital with a broken leg and concussion. I doubt you’ll be seeing him for a while.’
Chapter 26
How stupid am I? I knew Bob needed a stick so why didn’t I say anything? I’d watched him struggle to walk, to gain his balance, even to get up and down off a chair. I’ll go and see him in hospital – take him some grapes and a newspaper or something. I wish now I’d asked Muriel which hospital he was in instead of rushing out of the shop, but I couldn’t tolerate that woman’s look of glee. Muriel has clearly missed her vocation in life. She’d have made a great gossip columnist.
I search for NHS hospitals online as I’m pretty certain Bob won’t have private medical insurance. He could be at the Cheltenham General or the one in Swindon. It’s no good. I’ll have to ask someone. Rather than go out again I ring The Dog House and ask the woman who answers the phone. She doesn’t sound surprised at the question.
‘He’s in Cheltenham,’ she says. ‘If you visit him, send our love.’
I ring the hospital and I’m put through to the geriatric ward. I’m assured Bob is all right but needs to rest so it would better for me to visit after 4pm. It’s only 10am so I decide to spend the next few hours checking the equipment in the kitchen and the furniture in the main reception rooms of the Hall. Before I start I go to the dining room. I scan the floor for new footprints and am relieved when I find none. See! I tell myself, definitely old footprints.
I go back to the kitchen, put a tatty cushion under my knees and open the heavy metal doors of the old cooker. I find grimy shelves and rusty baking tins. The door on the left reveals where the solid fuel is burned. A pile of ashes lies in the bottom. I wonder if the stove is still functional. I suppose if the flue’s cleaned and serviced it might be. It would take some getting used to though. Imagine trying to cook a quick meal only to find the fire has gone out? Perhaps I can keep it but have a small electric cooker as well. It’s a shame there’s no gas supply to the house. It means we need to plan for central heating too. The old electric storage heaters must be totally inefficient. Reuben has been looking into alternative energy sources and is very interested in ground-source heat pumps.
‘It’s costly to install but cheap to run and environmentally friendly. It would add value to the property,’ he’d said but I hadn’t commented. I don’t want to talk about selling Black Hollow. I need him to fall in love with the place before it’s finished and I wonder how long I’ve got to persuade him. The builders think about six months to have it habitable but it might take longer for the finishing touches. I just hope we have enough money. I remove the rusty baking tins from the oven and stack them near the wall then move on to the cupboards.
When Mr Jarvis had told us there was £400,000 to do up the house it had sounded a lot of money but looking into the costs of everything it will probably be eaten up very quickly. We need to be careful if we want to bring in craftsmen towards the end of the project to match and replace some of the ornate plasterwork and carved wood, and sorting the rutted driveway out will be costly. The quotes for the general building works will be back on Monday and I’m looking forward to sitting down with Reuben to devise a detailed budget plan and timetable. At least I’ll know what I’m up against then.
Cursory glances into the kitchen cupboards reveal piles of plates, dishes and cookware. I look at the chipped edges, old-fashioned gadgets and rusty knives, deciding most of them need to be binned. I open a double length cupboard and am surprised to discover items of food that look more recent – packets of pasta, jars of sauce, peanut butter – and I wonder if they were my father’s supplies. They certainly haven’t been here for twenty years. I wonder why he didn’t keep them in the coach house kitchen, but perhaps they belonged to the workmen who repaired the chimney.
Back in the dining room I tie a scarf over my nose and mouth and pull at the grey-coated sheets, trying to catch the dust in folds as best I can. It still billows up in clouds and I wonder where it all comes from. When I was little my friend told me it came from the moon, which was just a giant ball of dust. I’d believed her for a while, but then I’ve always been gullible.
The dining table and chairs are the first items uncovered. I use the sheet to wipe a layer of dust off the table revealing a deep caramel-coloured mahogany. It’s curved at both ends with an extension piece in the middle. What a simple design yet so elegant. The twelve chairs in a matching wood have crest-shaped backs with a delicate fretwork design and striped fabric seats. It’s all a far cry from the little pine table and two chairs we have in Luton. I sit down and immediately jump up as a sharp spring stabs my bottom. I’ll have to get the chairs reupholstered.
Next I uncover a huge sideboard with multiple drawers and cupboards. Inside I find silver cutlery, napkin rings and place name holders, all in need of a clean but in good condition. It speaks of a long-lost way of life and I wonder what conversations have gone around the table, what dresses the women have worn and what hidden dramas their lives might have held. Like murder. I stop pulling items out of the cupboard and sit back on my heels. I look over my shoulder and shiver. What happened here? Which room was my grandfather murdered in? I wonder if his spirit is still here then push the thought away. I don’t believe in ghosts and the afterlife. It’s enough coping with this life. I refocus on the task in hand and pull open another cupboard. There are matching candelabras and boxes of tall white candles too. Wow. I can’t wait to hold a fancy dinner party. I carry the silverware to the kitchen ready to be cleaned.
My mum and dad would love all this. Another six weeks and they’ll be home. I can’t wait to see them. Communication has been quite sporadic from the cruise ship as the internet doesn’t always work. I miss my long chats with Mum and sage advice from Dad. I wish the Hall was habitable so they could stay but maybe I can find them a nice hotel nearby.
I move on into the large drawing room. Light streams through the massive window and illuminates the dust motes like a laser beam stage show. I adjust the scarf around my mouth and nose and pull off more dust sheets. Underneath is a plush dark green sofa with an ornately carved wooden frame. The fabric is worn in patches and it looks as though a family of mice has taken up residence there. I poke tentatively at the stuffing spilling out near the back of the cushion, wondering if the sofa can be recovered. Maybe it isn’t stuffing. It appears to be shredded paper. How odd. I go into the kitchen then come back with a silver fork. I don’t fancy putting my hand in there. I’m not afraid of mice but I don’t want to be bitten.
Hooking out a pile of nibbled paper I suddenly realise what it is. Old £50 bank notes. Lots of them. They’re no longer legal tender but it wouldn’t have made a difference if they were. The mice have made a cosy nest by shredding them up and none of them are in one piece. I hold a handful of paper in my palm and stare. Why would anyone hide so much money in the sofa?
Chapter 27
The nurse points to a bed at the far end of the ward and continues on her way. I thank her and smile at the tiny, frail people in the beds on either side of her. Some smile back as though hopeful I might pause and spend a precious few minutes with them, others lie with their eyes shut, either asleep or having given up on the world.
Bob’s face is pale and his eyes are closed as I sit on the plastic chair next to his bed but they fly open as soon as he hears the chair legs scrape on the floor. He sees me and his whole face pleats into one big smile.
‘Hello, miss.’ He tries to turn towards me and winces. ‘It’s so kind of you to visit me.’
‘Please. Call me Tasha,’ I say again. I suppose old habits are hard to break and I am the lady of the house in his eyes. Oh well, it’s better than ma’am. I move my position slightly to stop him twisting around. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve been better but I’ve been told I’ll live.’ He touches his head. ‘I’ve still got a corker of a headache and my leg’s giving me gip, but I’m fine in myself. I mustn’t grumble. They’re looking after me really well.’
‘I’ve brought you a few things to make your stay more comfortable,’ I tell him as I pull items out of a carrier bag. I put a punnet of grapes alongside a chopped fresh fruit salad, a bottle of cordial and a selection of savoury and chocolate biscuits.
Bob’s eyes shine with gratitude and appreciation. I imagine he isn’t used to many treats on his small pension and what money he does have over each week he probably spends on his daily pint of beer to buy himself some company. He reaches a hand towards me and I take it.
‘Thank you, Miss Tasha, you’re very kind to me.’ He squeezes my hand and I’m dismayed to see tears pooling in his eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m a foolish old man. It’s just that most of my friends and family have passed away. It gets very lonely when you’re eighty-five and the last one to go.’
‘It’s never too late to make new friends. When you’re better you’ll have to come for tea again. I enjoyed your visit. Oh, I nearly forgot. The lady at The Dog House said they all send their love.’
‘Really? Well it’s nice to be remembered.’ He sinks back into his pillows with a smile.
‘I brought you these as well.’ I hand him a newspaper and a crossword book. ‘I don’t know if you like crosswords.’ My dad does but it may not be old Bob’s idea of fun. He looks at them then puts them on the table and pats them.
‘I do like them but I haven’t got my glasses. I think they got broken when I fell.’
‘What happened, Bob?’
‘I don’t rightly know. I was making a bite of supper when the power suddenly went out. I got a bit wobbly in the dark – couldn’t work out where I was. Then next I knew I was lying on the floor. My head was pounding and my leg was agony. I must have bumped into the table or hit a chair on my way down. I had to drag myself to the phone in the hallway.’
‘Has your power gone off before?’ Maybe the supply to the village is unreliable.
‘It’s not the first time. I think my toaster’s a bit dodgy and it tripped the fuse. I need to buy a new one.’
I make a mental note to check his toaster. ‘Has anyone else been to see you, Bob?’
‘No. Sadly ,Jim the man I play dominoes with, is staying with his daughter for a while. He’s getting forgetful and she’s worried about him. He leaves his stove on and forgets to take his medication. The other day he forgot where he lived.’
I dread getting old and possibly losing my memory. I try to think of something more cheerful to talk about.
‘We’ve ordered some pink rhododendrons and blue hydrangeas for the gardens to give them some colour.’
‘Aah. Now there’s a thing…’ Bob tilts his head and looks at me. ‘Do you drink that real coffee stuff? You know, where you get the leftovers; grounds, I think they call it. If you want a blue hydrangea you need to throw the grounds on the soil otherwise the flowers will turn pink.’
Bob’s soon in full flow, plying me with gardening tips. Maybe I should take more interest in the garden. I could restore the flower beds under Bob’s guidance. I want to spend more time with him and hear his stories about Black Hollow. He spent a lot of his own childhood there when his dad was the chauffeur and he knows so much about my family. Before I go I want to find out more about my grandfather’s murder, but I don’t want to upset Bob when he’s clearly so vulnerable. Despite William saying there’s nothing to be gained from knowing more, I’m creating all sorts of scenarios in my head which are probably far worse than the reality. And what about the money I found stuffed in the sofa? Is there a link between that and the murder? Perhaps I should skirt around the subject to see if Bob will divulge information without being pressured.
‘What was it like for my father growing up at the Hall? Was it a happy place?’
‘He had a wonderful childhood. His parents doted on him and he and his friends ran almost wild in the woods and grounds. They even had a boat for the lake. It was picture postcard perfect. The only problem he had was trying to avoid his brother. Simon wasn’t able to make friends easily so he often tormented Andrew and his chums. He used to hide the cricket bat so they couldn’t play or make up stories saying someone had rung and the friend was needed at home.’
‘Where’s Simon now? Was he around when my grandfather was killed or had he already left the area?’
‘He was around all right. After Andrew left for college and then university Simon had his parents to himself. He took every penny of theirs he could lay his hands on. He got in with a group of serious gamblers over in Cirencester and built up massive debts. His father refused to pay them off. I heard them arguing about it once and my Nancy, who was the cook and housekeeper, said they were always at each other’s throats.’
Maybe that explains the money in the sofa. Perhaps Simon’s parents were hiding it from him. What an awful way to live.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you this but I suppose you have a right to know.’ Bob frowns as he thinks what to say. ‘It was your uncle Simon who killed your grandfather in a terrible rage one night. He’d got a gun from somewhere. Said he only intended to frighten his father with it and it went off by accident. He was found guilty of murder though. Simon’s in prison serving a life sentence. He got twenty years.’
Chapter 28
I can’t stop thinking about my uncle killing my grandad. Was it really an accident like Simon had said? But the courts found him guilty so it can’t have been. Reuben and I have talked about it but I still feel the need to pick over the information again in my head. There might be a morsel I’ve missed or failed to analyse.
‘Tash!’
I shift in my chair and realise I’ve been lost in thought and not paying attention to Reuben.
‘You’re not bloody listening. I said Scott Dawson’s quote is much better value. Look.’ Reuben plucks the sheet of paper off the dining table and points at the figures on it. ‘He even itemises everything so you know what you’re paying for. Tell me again why you prefer the other one.’
I bite my lip, my mind racing to think up a plausible reason. ‘Michael Chambers was the more knowledgeable about old buildings. He had a real feel for the place. And I think I could work well with him. Which is important seeing as you’ll be away for–’
‘Come on, Tash. What’s the real reason? I know you judge people sometimes without giving them a chance to prove themselves.’
‘No I don’t! I’m open-minded. Who have I judged?’
‘That woman in the shop for a start.’
Damn. He’s got me there. ‘She’s an old busybody.’
‘Or just chatty and friendly.’ Reuben takes my hand in his and gives it a little shake. ‘Tell me what the real problem with Dawson is.’
‘I just… I didn’t feel comfortable around him.’
