Some Deaths Before Dying (8 page)

The blue eyes had come to life and were twinkling with factitious charm, but Jenny guessed that this was his response to being
for the first time mildly taken aback. She didn’t much like Mr. Matson and was far from sure how much of the truth he was
telling her. A good deal, she guessed, but neither the whole, nor nothing but. He had, however, two holds on her of which
he was unaware. The minor one was that she was enjoying her drink and now wanted the other half. The major one was that at
all costs the thing should be sorted out without troubling Uncle Albert.

Jenny had been looking through the boxes in the attic for clothes for the Oxfam sale while she waited for the engineer to
service the washing machine. She’d had to take the whole day off because they wouldn’t tell her when he was coming. She’d
found the box beneath, some strange old cricketing whites—wrong shape and generation for Jeff, and he’d never been a games
player, but she had found no end to the weirdness of the objects he’d hung on to. (She herself was a ruthless thrower-out,
except in the case of cotton socks. Her bottom drawer held nothing else but favourite pairs, now worn so thin that they would
have been in holes after one more use, so she had not been able to bring them to that point. Typically, Jeff had never queried
this quirk.) When she’d opened the box and seen the pistol she’d thought it was the same kind of hoarded curiosity as the
cricket whites, but beautiful. Then the doorbell had rung, so she’d carried it: downstairs and put it on the hallway shelf
as she opened the door.

Her caller was the engineer she’d been waiting for, a cheery oaf who apparently expected to be admired for the simple virtue
of being male, and became openly contemptuous when Jenny didn’t respond. They had parted in mutual loathing, leaving Jenny
feeling that she couldn’t move comfortably around her own kitchen until it was aired and decontaminated of his presence.

Then Anita Verey had shown up to collect the Oxfam clothes, but also carrying an absurd clock ornamented with stuffed finches
which bobbled around at the strike, a series of bird-like twitters. She was on her way to ask about it at this TV programme
which happened to be in town. She’d wanted someone to chat to while she queued. Jenny had felt the need to be out of the house
for a bit. Anita was good company, and it would be pleasant to get to know her better. Thus it was that Jenny had taken Uncle
Albert’s pistol to
The Antiques Roadshow
last summer.

She’d told Jeff when he came home.

“Oh, God!” he’d said. “It’s all right, darling, you couldn’t have known. Let’s just hope the old boy doesn’t get to see the
programme. When’s it on?”

“Uncle Albert? Why? What’s up?”

“You remember I had to sort his stuff out when he went into Marlings? He was a bit more on the spot then than he is now, but
he was pretty bewildered all the same. He sat in the middle of the room while I did the packing. He wasn’t interested. Anything
I asked him about he said, ’I’m through with that. Chuck it out.’ I’d noticed he was clutching this box on his lap and I assumed
it was something he was set on taking with him, but when I’d finished he pulled himself together and handed it to me.

“‘Now you’ve got to take care of this,’ he said. ’Seeing I don’t know who’s going to come poking around this place you’re
sending me to. You put it somewhere safe and don’t you go showing it around nor telling anyone about it. Right?’

“I took it from him and without thinking I started to open the box and see what was in it, but…well, remember me telling you
how I was brought up scared stiff of him, though as far as I know he’d never laid a finger on anyone, or even raised his voice
to them.”

“He’s got the most beautiful manners still. That’s how I’m going to raise ours, if I can.”

“You probably can’t see it, but it’s pretty well in my genes, being scared of the old boy. I’d thought I was past it, but
by God, no.

“ ‘And what do you think you’re up to, my lad? Did I say open it up? Did I? No I did not. Put it away somewhere safe, I said,
and don’t you go showing it around nor telling anyone about it. Right?’ ”

Jeff had got the old soldier’s voice and manner spot on. He then laughed and shook his head, as if trying to come to terms
with his having let himself be so dominated.

“You did look, all the same,” said Jenny. “You knew it was a pistol.”

“Well, yes. I was putting it away and decided I’d better check, but even then I felt guilty. God, I bet there was more than
one recruit who pissed himself when Uncle Albert picked on him for dirty boots or something. Let’s just hope he doesn’t see
the programme. When’s it on?”

“Next winter sometime. They shoot miles more than they use, so they’ll probably leave me out.”

But they hadn’t. She’d watched the programme with Jeff the Sunday before he’d left for Paris. All other reasons for watching
were instantly forgotten in her fascination by her own appearance…nothing like the mirror of course, but not much like photographs,
or even the odd glimpse on a wedding video. This was the Jenny strangers seemed to see, the chilly little bitch. (She had
actually overheard that phrase after a case conference, from a QC who had tried to chat her up.) Yes, there was more than
a touch of that on this apparently neutral occasion, when she hadn’t at all been aware of turning it on deliberately…and anyway
she must stop wearing that denim jacket. It gave her a curious hump in profile…

“Well, let’s just hope he’s missed it,” said Jeff with a worried sigh, as he switched off.

“He can’t still do anything to you, darling.”

“It isn’t really that. Or not just that. He hasn’t got much grasp of what’s going on these days, but that doesn’t stop him
being pretty-shrewd at times. I told you he was talking about selling his medals to help with the fees at Marlings…”

“He can’t. You’ve got power of attorney.”

“That isn’t the point. I think he’s worked out that I’m paying some of it—he’s no idea how much, of course, but he still doesn’t
like it. He hates the idea that he might be dependent on anyone. He’s saved all his life for his retirement, and he thinks
that and his pension and the little bit he gets from the Cambi Road Association ought to be enough to see him out. Of course
it isn’t, anything like, not at Marlings anyway. He likes it there. He’s got friends. The staff think he’s great. But if he
decides that I can push him around and do what I like with his stuff because I’m paying the fees, he’s going to try and insist
on moving out and going somewhere he can afford on his own. It would kill him, for a start, and anyway there’s no such place.
Besides, I just don’t want the hassle, I get quite enough of that at work.”

“Suppose I went and talked to him. I could tell him it was all my fault, and you didn’t know anything about it…”

“It’s a thought. Look, I’ll call Sister Morris now and tell her we’ve just seen something on the box that might upset him,
and could she just check if he’s OK without letting on that’s what she’s up to…”

Sister Morris had said that the residents had been having their tea during the programme. The TV had been left on, but it
was much more likely to have been ITV, and anyway Uncle Albert had had his back to it. He was fine. So that had seemed to
be that.

Until now.

Jenny finished her drink, taking her time. Mr. Matson didn’t seem to mind waiting. If he was telling anything like the truth,
he, or at least his family. obviously had a good claim on the pistol. For herself, she wouldn’t, have had any hesitation in
handing it over, given reasonable proof of ownership, and she didn’t imagine Jeff would either. But she was pretty sure he
wouldn’t do so without consulting Uncle Albert, who’d then be extremely upset, try and insist on leaving Marlings, and so
on.

Fortunately, Mr. Matson didn’t know about any of that, and otherwise he was no great problem to deal with. Apparent cooperation
without any concessions—the lawyer’s stock-in-trade. So, since the company wasn’t particularly enjoyable, she concentrated
on not wasting her pleasure in the stout, relishing both the mild alcoholic kick and the way the smooth creaminess contrasted
and combined with the slight harshness in the flavour.

“What about the other half?” he said as she put her glass down.

“My turn,” she said, rising. “What’s yours?”

He glanced ostentatiously at the slogan on her bosom and chuckled.

“If you insist,” he said. “Another of the same, thanks. I’m driving to Devon.”

“We had a cook once, used to drink stout,” he said when she carried the drinks back to the table. “Mrs. Moffet. Little nut
of a woman, henpecked poor Moffet stupid, but she made a wonderful roly-poly. I’ve never tasted anything to touch it. Well,
here’s mud in your eye, Mrs. Pilcher, and I’ll drink your health for real as soon as I’m home.”

“How long will that take you?”

“Bit under four hours, coming, but it’s Friday evening. I might be in by midnight if all goes well.”

“You drove all this way, just on the off chance of seeing me?”

“They matter to me, Dad’s pistols. The old boy was potty about them. I want the other one back. What do you say?”

“It’s not as straightforward as that, Mr. Matson. As I’ve told you, the pistol doesn’t belong to me. I found it one day in
the attic, when my husband was at work. A friend asked me to go with her to the
Roadshow
programme and I took it so that I’d have something to show too. I told my husband when he came home and he said it wasn’t
his, either. It had been given to him for safekeeping by an elderly relative whose affairs he looked after, and he’d been
asked to put it away and not talk about it or show it to anybody.”

“A bit fishy, do you think?”

“Not if you know the old man in question. It’s not just that he’s an ex-soldier—that doesn’t mean anything—but…well, no. I’m
absolutely certain he came by it honestly, so all I can say is I’ll talk to my husband about it. Jeff’s in Paris at the moment,
but he may call tomorrow morning and if he does I’ll tell him what’s happened, and then he or I will get in touch with you.
That’s really the best I can do.”

“All right,” he said, with surprising resignation. “I get you. You talk to your man. You keep my card. Now, I’ll tell you
my offer. You’re obviously straight, Mrs. Pilcher, and I’ll take it your man is too—Jeff, did you say his name was?”

“That’s right.”

“So this is what you—”

He stopped abruptly. He had been looking into her eyes, all sincerity. The look changed to one of astonished revelation. He
gave a silent laugh.

“Tell me,” he said. “This old soldier, the elderly relative you’ve been talking about—are we by any chance speaking of RSM
Albert Fredricks of the Second Derbyshire Regiment? It’s all right, Mrs. Pilcher. You play your cards as close to your chest
as you please, but last time I visited Sergeant Fred—that’s what we used to call him when we were kids—he was full of this
nephew of his who kept his papers in order. Wasn’t he living with his sister near Aldershot someplace? Grand to know he’s
still alive and kicking. RSM Fredricks, salt of the earth. I remember him since I was knee high. Tall and skinny—looked as
long as a flag pole to a kid my age, with this bony great nose sticking out at the top. That was before the war, of course,
then he went east with Dad and the Japs got them a week after they’d landed, and then they were on the Cambi Road together.
And that pretty well did for them, except that they both had what it took to haul themselves round. Well, well, well, how
is the old boy?”

Jenny hesitated. Presumably once again Mr. Matson was telling her something very like the truth. She couldn’t imagine how
else he might have made the connection, or known what he appeared to about Uncle Albert, but in the end both professional
habit and her own continuing distrust won out.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t even tell you that, until I’ve talked to my husband. He told me his possession of the pistol
was confidential and I’m not in a position to decide for myself what’s relevant to that and what isn’t.”

“Lawyers, I love ’em,” said Mr. Matson, shaking his head. “You’re not in court now, Mrs. Pilcher. You’ve told me, and you
know you have. But you talk to your man and tell him this. What was it the fellow on the telly said the pistol was worth,
as it stood? Three or four thou, wasn’t it? Let’s split the difference, call it three-five. We’ll make a date and I’ll show
up with the other gun in its box, with all the trimmings and a copy of Dad’s will—you couldn’t ask for clearer proof it’s
mine than that—and I’ll hand over three thousand five hundred in cash for the one he’s got, no questions asked about how he
came by it. Now that’s a very fair offer, he couldn’t ask for a better, and Sergeant Fred could do with the money, I dare
say—it’s no joke what it costs looking after an old buffer like that—I don’t like to think about what my old ma’s costing
us in nursing. When is your man back? Thursday, you said. We’ll give him another week to think about it, so if I haven’t heard
from him by the end of the month, I’ll be coming after him. Right?”

Jenny finished her glass and put it down. It hadn’t given her anything like the satisfaction of the first one.

“I’ll tell my husband what you’ve said,” she said, rising. “After that it’s up to him. It won’t be any use getting in touch
with me, so please don’t come again without first checking that he’s in and is willing to see you. You understand?”

“Only too well, my dear. It’s none of your business, and you want no part of it, and nor would I if I were in your shoes,
so I don’t blame you. Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for sparing the time. Good night, Mrs. Pilcher,
and give my regards to Sergeant Fred next time you see him.”

W
hen she was alone in the house, especially at night, Jenny kept the CD player turned up as far as she thought the neighbours
could stand. She wasn’t musical—wouldn’t even have described herself as a music-lover—but the sound provided a sort of magical
companionship, a force field that kept at bay the little insinuating monsters of silence and darkness. Human voices were more
potent than instruments, and foreign languages better to work to because the words were mere noise, without intrusive meanings.
She had no strong feelings about styles or composers. Handel was as good as Wagner, but it happened to be Verdi that evening,
with the Anvil Chorus going full blast, so she never heard the key in the lock or the movement of the door, and the first
she knew was when the clamour suddenly muted and Jeff’s voice said “Hi.”