An Open Window, page 11
‘I suppose not. Yes, there’s that.’ She managed a smile, but not one of her best. I left her looking from the window and went to find the phone. There were two in Walter’s room, but I’d have had to ask Mary for the key.
The sitting room across the hall, being its twin, was quite as gloomy as the dining room. Worse, perhaps, packed as it was with plump and heavy furniture with a dark velvet surface, which absorbed what light managed to get in. Two glass-fronted bookcases flanked the marble fireplace, crammed with the uniform editions intended for that purpose. They would be secured away from prying fingers searching for a good read. Heavily framed pictures were accurately positioned in the deeper shadows. There was a dank smell, as though the room had eventually won the battle against humans, who might disturb its brooding silence. It seemed a singular choice for the location of a phone, but at least the weighty silence seemed to guarantee privacy.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘How’s things?’
‘You know very well, Richard.’
‘I have to ask. Politeness is all.’
‘If you’re feeling facetious…or you’re slightly drunk…’
‘One glass of wine.’
‘…you could call back later.’
‘I didn’t want to sound gloomy when talking to a woman in a hospital bed.’
The preliminaries over and our relative moods explored, we each paused for breath. At last she asked: ‘Was it really so very bad?’
‘As I’d guessed, yes. But Amelia love, it was so strange. The family acted as though they’d heard nothing about a new will.’
She seized on the operative word. You really do have to watch yourself with my wife. ‘Acted?’ she asked.
‘Not in that sense. If that was an act—three acts—then the National Theatre’s the loser. It was genuine shock. You can see what that means.’
‘I was thinking about it. Of course, you’re right. The motive’s certainly alive and well.’
‘Even kicking.’
‘So it’s a pity about the dog, Sheba.’
‘I haven’t told you about the dog.’
‘You did,’ she assured me. ‘By not saying about the dog. If she’d not been in the room with uncle Walter, you’d have said that first.’
‘Hmm!’ I said.
‘Even before you asked how I’m feeling.’
‘This is before I’ve asked you.’
‘So it is.’ She was very complacent. ‘Why don’t you do it now?’
‘How are you feeling, my dear?’
‘Rotten.’
‘That’s a lie. You never sounded chirpier. Or should I say more chirpy?’
I heard her chuckle. That chuckle of hers does peculiar things to the hair on the nape of my neck. ‘There’s news?’ I asked, realising she was waiting.
‘The house physician’s been round, and says he’s delighted with me.’
‘Me too.’
‘Are you paying for this call, Richard? You seem prepared to go on for hours.’
‘I’m at the house. In effect, you’re paying for it.’
‘You seem determined to get me there.’
‘You’re here already, in spirit anyway. Not quite a perfect substitution, I admit, but I’d rather have you here in spirit than at the caravan in spirit. And how the hell would I get you through the caravan door, with all that stuff on your leg?’
That chuckle again—she was driving me mad. ‘You’d never even get me into the car.’
‘I could hire a van…no, a private ambulance. There’s somebody here who’d just love looking after you—’
‘Now Richard!’ She cut in firmly. ‘You know my feelings on this.’
‘You should be here,’ I told her. ‘You ought to see these people, and talk to them…’ I left it unfinished, waiting to hear the effect.
‘If I only could!’ she whispered.
‘I miss you. I need your advice.’
‘You’re not coming back tonight?’ she asked in a tiny voice, as always ahead of me, and realising what I was aiming for.
‘It’s this inquest, tomorrow at ten. Somehow it seems indecent if you’re not represented, being his major legatee.’
‘Residual.’ But the joke no longer worked. Her voice was tiny. ‘I suppose you’re right, though. You’ll keep in touch? Promise.’
‘As though I need to.’
After a few more seconds of the conventional expressions of affection, we hung up. It doesn’t really work, on the phone. Expressions, you see, that’s what they’re called, and that’s what they have to be. Visual expressions. I scowled at the phone, now in its cradle. I could get there by eight, back here by nine in the morning, if I started early. But that would be stupid.
I went to ask Mary if she could find me a bed. The incomparable woman already had one ready for me, next door to Donald’s. ‘Convenient,’ I said, beaming at her. ‘I’d like a word with him.’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘not tonight. Let me have a chat with him first. He might tell me.’
‘But not me?’
She shook her head, smiling in fond resignation. ‘The pride of the Manns.’
‘My impression was that he’s in some sort of trouble.’
‘Perhaps so.’ She looked beyond me vaguely. ‘I’ll be lucky if he tells me what it is, though.’
I smiled. ‘Then I’ll wait, and get it from you.’
She became immediately brisk and active, seeming to find a hundred things to do when I could see nothing. ‘Well that depends,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘You mustn’t expect too much, Mr Patton.’
In this manner silenced, I went outside to see how the scaffolding was coming along. It was finished—on double time it would be, the whole Sunday charged accordingly. There was nothing for me to look at. I went to stare at the Stag. It seemed the same, its perfection haunting me. I strolled round the gardens, threading my way down towards the river, not really aware of what surrounded me but keeping an eye open for Donald. It would not do to be seen chatting with him, in case Mary thought I was trying to steal a march on her.
I admit it, I was bored. Looking back, I realised that every time I’d been separated from Amelia, I’d had to pack the minutes with activity or I was lost and empty. So much to be done, so many aspects to be investigated, and I could think of nothing actually to tackle. I might just as well, I thought, fill the vacant hours with a trip back to the hospital.
Abruptly inspired, I turned and hurried back to the house, intent on ringing Amelia to warn her of a change of plan. I went through the kitchen without a word to Mary, yet I should have been warned by the presence of Sheba. The door to the sitting room was ajar, and I was through it before I saw him. I stopped, making no sound.
Donald was sitting at the phone table. He was in profile, and had not noticed me. With his right hand he was just replacing the handset, his left to his forehead, half in a gesture to support his head, half in a massaging movement with his fingers, as though he might be able to smooth away whatever was harrowing him. Somehow that gentle and undemonstrative soothing conveyed the depth of his despair. He was long past any vigorous outcry.
Quietly I returned to the kitchen. Mary was feeding Sheba. I said: ‘He’s at the phone table, Mary. Now’s the time to ask him.’
I took the dog’s dish from her fingers. Sheba whined in distress. Mary gave me one startled glance, and hurried towards the hall.
But I was wrong. How often my judgement is at fault! They met in the hall. I heard a mumble of voices, then Donald’s, raised close to a shout.
‘No, Mary! No!’
Then the slam of the front door. She had claimed he called her mother. Perhaps this was his form of rejection.
I bent and gave Sheba her dinner, so as not to witness Mary’s distress.
10
In a continuation of this theme, making myself scarce, I prowled the house. Five bedrooms, six counting Walter’s suite, the best facing the river. The ones at the front would be more appealing, perhaps, in artificial light. Two bathrooms. A ladder to the loft, which I didn’t explore. It was a large house, by my standards, and could be a very comfortable home. I discovered a cellar, the door opening from a corner of the kitchen. I could hear Mary’s vacuum cleaner busily active somewhere. In the cellar there was a lot of space, and the boiler for the central heating system. Separated from this section by a new-looking brick wall and another door, there was a sizeable wine collection in racks. I’m no wine expert, but the dust on the bottles was of a good vintage.
I discovered Mary in the hall. Was it usual to vacuum patterned marble? She noticed my shoes and looked up, switching off. ‘Donald?’ I asked.
The pain was still in her eyes. ‘He’s gone out. Probably to his brother’s place.’
I couldn’t imagine he’d get a healthy welcome there. I nodded. ‘Failing that, he’ll try Clare,’ she added.
The implication was that money was involved. I said: ‘Yes.’ And left her to it, the atmosphere not being congenial. The living room was the obvious retreat. I was bored to the eyebrows.
Behind a screen, in a corner, I discovered a television set. I wasn’t in the mood, and turned to the bookcases. The doors were unlocked. In one there was a complete set of Dickens, bound in brown, in the other was another complete set, bound in blue. Everything was in collections, with uniform binding. The Waverley novels, the Brontës, Jane Austen, Anthony Trollope. That era. An Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1923 edition. A Children’s Encyclopaedia, 1957. Trying my luck with spot checks, I realised that none had been opened and read. But in a bottom corner, as though hidden with shame, was a three-volume set of The Motor Mechanic, 1942. This was black with oily finger marks. I explored at random. Treasure indeed.
The Solex and Amal carburettors in cross-section. The wiring diagram for an ignition system. A diagrammatic illustration of the operation of the synchromesh gearbox, another of the differential gear. Petrol pumps, electrical and mechanical. Heavens, how simple life had been for the motorist in those days! You could actually do your own repairs. Now you don’t even dare to open the bonnet. Topping up the washer-bottle is about the limit.
The abrupt ring of the telephone in that silent room startled the wits out of me. I picked it up, my first thought: Amelia! What’s gone wrong?
‘Richard,’ I said.
‘Mr Patton?’ His voice was uncertain. ‘It’s Chad Leyton.’
‘Yes. Hello.’ I welcomed the voice, unexpected as it was. He might have something to suggest that would occupy my mind.
‘We’ve heard the news, so it’s all right now.’
‘Is it? What is?’
His voice had been eager. There would always be enthusiasms, briefly broken by fury if he was sufficiently obstructed. Any anger would be directed at the lack of understanding he encountered, at the futility of humanity in producing a mind that didn’t flow with his own. I could imagine a tumultuous marriage ahead, always assuming he managed to persuade her. A tumultuous something, anyway, with Heather as brisk and independent as she appeared to be.
‘It’s all right for you to come down to the factory,’ he explained with forced patience. ‘Now you’re the boss, sort of.’
I didn’t feel like anybody’s boss, though in practice I could no doubt now throw a little weight around.
‘To see that staircase?’ I asked. ‘It can wait.’
‘To see that system I’ve worked out.’ His anxiety might have been for my limping brain, but the hint of impatience in his voice implied that he was anxious for a verdict. Perhaps it was for me to give him a go-ahead! Oh Lord, I thought, the responsibilities of management!
‘I’d be interested, of course,’ I said cautiously.
‘Then what about this evening?’
It provided a distraction. ‘But it’s Sunday. The place’ll be locked up.’
‘Not to you it won’t. Come round here, in say an hour. Okay? We’ve got a chicken, and Heather will be here.’
‘I’ve already eaten one dinner…’
‘Come at around seven. It’ll give us time to talk.’
So Heather had told him I was still interested in—was committed to—an investigation of Tolchard’s death. I was pleased he was keeping that in the forefront of his mind.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We’ll have to discuss things. How long have we got?’
‘What? Well…as long as we like. Lock up after we leave. You know.’
‘I meant, to the adjourned hearing.’
He was silent for a moment. It had not been a subject he’d wished to consider. He was a concentrator; he could exclude side-issues completely.
‘A fortnight,’ he said at last, his voice dull.
‘As short as that?’
‘We can talk about that, too.’
‘I think we’d better.’
‘Seven, then?’
I agreed. He hung up. I was disturbed. On the one hand I was expected to uncover evidence, as yet unexplored, pointing to his innocence. This from Heather and her father. On the other hand, from Chad’s point of view, I was a potential arbiter of his future at the factory. His whole mind was set on his process, and a decision from management was needed, when he might shortly be in no position to go anywhere. If he was committed for trial on a murder charge, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed further remand on bail. Didn’t he realised that his fixation of purpose only underlined his motive for having killed Tolchard?
Perhaps I ought to try opposing him myself, I thought, adopting the role of managing director, and watching to see whether he tried to push me down that staircase.
Trying in this way to lighten my own mood, I replaced the motor manuals, and while doing so noticed that several more had been behind them. There was a workshop manual on the Stag, much battered. There was a treatise on electrical and oxyacetylene welding, another on spraying techniques. It was clear that Walter himself had preserved his Stag.
I went to tell Mary I’d been invited out to dinner. She said I couldn’t afford to put on any more weight. I agreed. She showed me which room was to be mine, and I wished I’d thrown a few things in a bag. Not even a razor. Mary recognised my dilemma and produced one.
‘It’s Walter’s, and I’ve put in a new blade.’
I thanked her, hoping I wouldn’t be expected to wear his pyjamas. The tube was of shaving cream. I preferred a brush and lather, but never mind. I said I’d probably be late returning, as I was going to have a look at the factory. She left me to my shave.
Feeling fresher, I walked down to her kitchen, and she had a key ready for me.
‘Donald back?’ I asked.
She shook her head. Her fingers played with the collar of her blouse, and she looked away. ‘He’s probably keeping out of your way.’
I nodded. Before I thought of a decent comment, I found the back door closing behind me. There was a distinct impression she had hidden him somewhere, and wanted him to herself.
It was necessary to remember the route I’d taken when following Heather, which meant that I was nearly there by the time I’d confirmed that a car was following me. It remained well back. Something dark. Why do so many modern hatchbacks look alike? I couldn’t put a name to it.
When I operated the winkers and turned into Leyton’s drive, I expected it to sweep past, so that I’d get a sighting of the driver. But it did not do so.
There was already a car in the drive, possibly Leyton’s or Chad’s. But I didn’t get out of the Volvo in case it was another visitor, which meant I’d have to back out. I rolled down the window. I could hear voices, and by leaning sideways I could see that the visitor was Clare, and that the car was her BMW.
They were in the porch, Leyton apparently attempting to restrain her.
‘And you can just take your hands off me!’ she shouted.
He said something in a more subdued voice.
‘Then whose fault is it?’ she demanded. ‘D’you think I’m a fool?’
This provoked his voice into more force. ‘I’m not having you leave here in this mood. We’ve got to talk, Clare.’
‘Talk about what? It’s gone too far for talking.’
‘I’m not going to be blamed—’
‘Then you do something about it!’ She was now visible, free of his hands, but unable to walk away from a good dispute. ‘It’s no good him coming to me. He’s gone to Paul.’
‘How can I—’
‘He’ll get nothing there.’
‘Then I’m sorry,’ he said, his anger at last breaking free. ‘I’m sorry for him, and for you too, Clare. I can’t do anything, and don’t intend to try.’
She took two paces to her car, turned back. ‘You’ve done more than enough, if you ask me.’
Then Leyton saw me at last. He hesitated, as though to scuttle indoors. Clare, not at all concerned about being heard, saw me too, walked towards me, and bent her head to the open window.
‘Get this sodding car out of my way.’ To Clare, all cars were apparently perverted.
If she’d been a man I’d have got out and questioned her manners. Instead, I politely backed out. So much for equality. With a roar of engine and a snatch of tyres, she swerved round me and was away. Quietly, I again drove in and parked by the front door.
Leyton was waiting for me, a small, weak smile held in place with an effort. ‘Sorry about that. Clare’s always a bit difficult…’ He waved me inside.
I smiled back, less meekly. ‘It’s that damned will.’ But it hadn’t sounded like that to me. I was merely offering him an escape route.
He plugged down it, a hand to my shoulder urging me into their living room. ‘She’s trying to get me to take a seat on the board.’
‘Your ten shares entitle you to that, surely.’
‘And with her thirteen and Paul’s we might form a…a…whatsit.’
‘Cartel?’
‘Something like that. To oppose you.’
‘It’s assumed, then, that there’ll be something to oppose?’ I took the seat he indicated obediently, wondering how far he’d go. ‘You’d still need Donald’s votes behind you. His original thirteen. Is that what it was all about?’
He didn’t answer, and had his back to me. It’s a convenient device, the filling of glasses. Turning with them, he said: ‘Sherry? Donald’s always refused any contact with the company.’
