Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (21 page)

“He might borrow from the bank against his expectations,” I said. “I must ask Michael if that’s possible.”

“Talking of Simon and Gordon,” Rosemary said, “have you seen Esther lately?”

“No, not for quite a while, which is odd, really, because I was forever running into her. How about you?”

“Well, yes I did. I saw her in the chemist—I wanted one of those heat patches for Jack’s bad back, but, of course, he’ll never use it—and I thought she looked very strained.”

“Strained?”

“You know, sort of tense and anxious.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Very briefly; she didn’t seem to want to talk.”

“
That’s
not like her!”

“Exactly. No, I asked her how she was, but, instead of going on like she usually does, she just said she was quite well and that was more or less that. It was even odder because I saw she’d been collecting some sort of medication, and you know how she loves telling you every last detail about any sort of illness she has.”

“Very odd.”

“I did ask her to come round for coffee one morning, but she said she was rather busy just now, and that’s not like her either.”

“I suppose she’s still getting over Gordon’s death,” I said. “It wasn’t that long ago and it must have hit her very hard.”

 

Strangely enough I ran into Esther the very next day. I’d gone down to the harbor, as I often do after I’ve finished the shopping, and I was sitting in the car, looking at a large container ship making its way slowly up the Bristol Channel, when I saw a figure leaning on the seawall. For a moment I didn’t recognize her because it was the last place I’d have expected to see Esther, but there was no doubt it was her. On an impulse I got out of the car and went towards her.

“Hello,” I said brightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She turned and looked at me blankly for a moment and then said, “I wanted some peace and quiet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said hastily, and moved as if to go away. Then I stopped and said, “Esther, are you all right?”

Again the blank stare, and then, “I can’t sleep. They’ve given me some tablets but they don’t work. Or if I do sleep I have bad dreams.”

“What sort of bad dreams?” I asked.

“About her.”

“Her?”

“Jo. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“What is it?”

“Jo and Gordon. Just before he died . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“Surely not,” I said.

“Oh yes, it’s true. I followed him—to the stables.”

“He did occasionally go up there,” I said, “something to do with his friend Dan Webster’s horse.”

“Not the stables, her house. Several times.”

“I’m sure there was a perfectly simple explanation.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Oh yes. She’d lost Charlie, so she wanted Gordon back.”

“Look, Esther, I’m sure you’ve got it wrong. Jo wouldn’t . . .”

“You don’t know her like I do. She always wanted everything, even things I had that she didn’t really want.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “And, Gordon . . .”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Esther said quickly. “She had this hold over him, like she always did. Like she did in the old days. Just had to lift her little finger and he went running—every man did.”

“Gordon married you,” I said, “and you had two lovely children.”

“And she took Simon away. All the time up at those stables, hardly ever at home, doing things for her. She was jealous because she didn’t have any children, so she took Simon. Not Vicky though. Vicky saw through her,” she said. “She knew what Jo was up to; she wasn’t taken in.”

Her voice rose sharply and a man walking his dog turned and looked at us curiously. I was worried about her. She was obviously in a bad state and I wondered how I was going to get her home.

“Gordon, poor Gordon,” she went on. “He didn’t know what he was doing.” She looked at me pleadingly. “He did love me; he really did. But it was the same, just like it used to be; he couldn’t help himself. Only
then
she went away. She wasn’t going anywhere this time.”

“Esther,” I said, coaxing her, “don’t you think you ought to go home? It’s getting cold. There’s quite a wind now.”

She ignored me and stood looking out at the dull gray water. Then she said, quietly, almost resignedly, “I hated her. I’ve always hated her. I’m really glad she’s dead.”

Chapter Eighteen

For a moment I was silent. There didn’t seem anything I could say.

“I was always second best,” she went on in that same, quiet tone, “for Gordon and for Simon. I was used to that, I suppose, but then, after all those years, when I thought I was safe, she took him back. She won—just like she always did.”

“No, really Esther,” I said, “I’m sure you’ve got it wrong. Gordon may have gone to see Jo, but I think it was something to do with some land he wanted her to sell.”

She ignored me; it was as if I hadn’t spoken. “She could always make people do what she wanted. Everyone was fooled by that manner of hers, but I knew. . . .”

Realizing that it was useless to argue with her, I concentrated on trying to get her home.

“Is your car here, or did you walk?” I asked.

That mundane question seemed to rouse her a little and she said, “I think I walked—yes, I wanted to get out of the house, to get some fresh air.”

“Well, look, my car’s just over there. Let me drive you home. I think it might be going to rain. The wind’s getting up too. Look, the sea’s quite choppy.”

Talking at random I managed to lead her over to the car and got her in. As we drove back she was silent and seemed quite passive. At the house I helped her take off her coat and persuaded her to stay in the sitting room while I went out to the kitchen to put the kettle on. While I was waiting for it to boil, I rang Simon on my mobile.

“Can you possibly get away and come home? Your mother’s not well—I found her down by the harbor—she’s very upset. I’ve got her home, but I don’t like to leave her alone.”

I made the tea and went back to find that Esther was sitting just as I’d left her. She drank her tea like an obedient child and we sat in silence for a while until, to my great relief, I heard Simon arrive. I went out into the hall and drew him to one side.

“I think she’s having some kind of a breakdown. She was saying all sorts of wild things about your father and Jo. Really agitated. She’s quiet now, but I didn’t know what to do. Perhaps she should see a doctor?”

He nodded. “Yes, I think it’s come to that. She’s been like this several times since Father died and I did hope she’d get over it as time went on. Perhaps she should have professional help. But I can cope for the moment. Anyway, thank you, Sheila. I’m really grateful for all you’ve done.”

We went into the sitting room and I said brightly, “Well, I’ll be off now. Simon’s here. I expect he’d like a cup of tea too.”

She turned her head and gave me a vague smile. “It was nice to see you, Sheila. Do call in again when you’re passing.”

When I got home I felt I needed something stronger than tea, so I had a glass of sherry before making myself some lunch. I was still attempting to think through what Esther had said, but the animals chose to be difficult, wanting to be let out and then, almost immediately, in again, demanding extra food and attention, and making it impossible for me to concentrate on anything. I was just, finally, sitting down with a ham sandwich when the telephone rang. It was Simon.

“I thought I’d just let you know that I’ve got her to go and lie down for a bit,” he said. “She wouldn’t have any lunch, but I thought that if she managed to have a little sleep, she might be more herself when she woke up.”

“She said she hadn’t been sleeping,” I said. “Perhaps that’s part of the trouble.”

“Dr. Macdonald prescribed some sleeping tablets, but she said they made things worse and stopped taking them.”

“She told me they gave her nightmares,” I said. “About Jo.”

He sighed. “Oh dear, it’s so difficult. She has this stupid idea, about Jo and Father. There’s nothing in it, of course,” he added hastily.

“No, of course not,” I agreed, “but it seems like an obsession with her.”

“Yes. And you’re right. She does need some sort of professional help. That is, if she’ll take it. Anyway, I’ll ask Dr. Macdonald what he thinks. He’ll know whom to consult.”

“That’s the best thing. You’ve got enough on your shoulders just now. Can’t Vicky help?”

“Well, you know how difficult it is for her, being a freelance and so forth.”

“I don’t see why you should bear all the burden yourself,” I said sharply.

“I’ll have to consult her anyway,” he said, “before I make any arrangements for Mother. But I wanted to thank you again for looking after her. She hasn’t gone wandering like that before. I’ll somehow have to try to keep an eye on her.”

“If there’s anything I can do,” I said, “you only have to ask.”

“Bless you, Sheila. I’m so grateful.” He paused. “I’d rather people didn’t know. . . .”

“Of course not,” I said. “I quite understand.”

The thing that was uppermost in my mind, as I finally got to eat my sandwich, was the fact that Esther had followed Gordon. It seemed to show the sort of initiative—if that’s what you could call it—that I hadn’t expected of her. And if she’d always been resentful of Jo and the fact that Gordon had taken her as second best and had lived with that all these years, what, I wondered, had suddenly brought her to the point of this kind of obsessive jealousy? What had sparked it off? The fact of Charlie’s death perhaps left Jo available again; but was that enough?

Tris’s bark and a ring at the door interrupted these thoughts. It was Rosemary.

“Sorry to drop in, but Delia’s got an hour’s ride and it didn’t seem worth going all the way home and then coming back again, so I thought I’d come and beg a cup of tea from you.” She looked at me critically. “Are you all right? You look sort of confused and woolly. Is anything the matter?”

Rosemary and I always tell each other everything, and, anyway, Rosemary is Esther’s friend too, so, as we went into the kitchen, I told her what had happened.

“Oh, poor Esther. It sounds as if she’s really breaking up.”

“She was fairly odd and emotional when I went to see her just before Gordon’s funeral,” I said. “But this is much worse.”

“And all that stuff about Jo,” Rosemary said. “She must have been brooding about it for years.”

“I know. That’s what’s puzzled me. What made her suddenly do something as bizarre as following Gordon?”

“Well, perhaps she overheard part of a phone call—something like that—and got the wrong idea. I mean, any sort of connection between Jo and Gordon would have been enough.”

“That’s true,” I said, pouring the tea. “Poor Esther, always trying to compete with Jo and knowing how impossible it was. I suppose that’s why she made herself a sort of slave to Gordon. Whatever he wanted always came first; everything he did was always perfect. Remember how she used to go on about him?”

“Dreadfully sad, really. But really awful now. I think I prefer Esther being irritating rather than Esther being pathetic.”

“I suppose Gordon was trying to bully Jo into selling that land. That would be why he went up to the house rather than seeing her at the stables. Well, I’m sure he—and Dan Webster—got nothing out of Jo. I did try to tell Esther about it, but she didn’t want to hear; she was so obsessed with her own theory.”

“I do hope Simon can get some sort of help for her,” Rosemary said. “It must be such a worry for him.”

“He said he’d have to consult Vicky first. I do hope she doesn’t cause any difficulties. After all, she’s not around; Simon will have to cope with it all.”

“Some sort of psychiatric help, I suppose,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “Vicky would have to agree.”

“Do you think actually psychiatric?” I asked.

“Or possibly counseling—whatever that means nowadays. But she is obviously getting worse.”

“Do you think,” I said slowly, “with all that hate she had for Jo, she might have tried to do something to—well, to harm her?”

“You mean,” Rosemary said bluntly, “did she kill her?”

“Well, yes.”

“Are you still thinking it wasn’t an accident?”

“You must admit it’s a possibility.”

“But Esther! Totally out of character!”

“Well, she did creep about following Gordon. You must admit that was out of character too.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“And, after Gordon died, when she was in that funny sort of mood, she could easily have found some excuse for going up there, and you know how that office is left empty half the time with people out taking lessons or rides.”

“It still doesn’t sound like Esther to me.”

“And,” I said, “she didn’t go to Jo’s funeral.”

“Well, nor did you,” Rosemary said, “and you didn’t kill Jo. She was ill like you.”

“She could have pretended to be ill; it wouldn’t have been difficult. Simon, and even Vicky, knew she’d been acting a bit strangely. They’d have been quite glad she didn’t go.”

“No really,” Rosemary said, “I know you always like to find mysteries in everything, but I honestly don’t believe that Esther killed Jo—or that anyone did for that matter.”

“Oh well, perhaps you’re right,” I said reluctantly.

Rosemary looked at her watch. “I’d better get going. Though Delia wouldn’t care if I never turned up.”

“Do you mind if I come with you?” I asked. “I’d rather like to have an excuse for seeing how things are at the stables. You can drop me off at the end of the lane on your way back.”

 

As we were approaching the stables I saw a familiar Mitsubishi driving away.

“That’s Dan Webster,” I said, craning my neck to make sure who the driver was. “I suppose he’s been up here to persecute Simon again about selling those fields.”