The Twisted Way (20 page)

‘Never know when I might like to spend some of it,’ she had responded to their sensible suggestions and now she could indulge her poverty-stricken niece, though she was unaware of the full extent of her generosity.

Whenever she went into the lounge Felicity took pleasure from patting her newly trimmed hair and glancing quickly at her reflection in the expensive-looking bronze-edged mirror that dominated the old, but elaborate blue-and-white tiled Dutch fireplace. It became a habit. She delighted in her new image. She made a point of wearing pretty mohair cardigans under which matching silk blouse collars peeped out. She had bought several cardigans and blouses in various soft colours though green was her favourite. Her woollen trousers were the best the old woman in the shop in Brinton could produce. The cut of these trousers was better than any others Felicity had owned before and her figure, she decided, really looked quite trim, or at least her slightly dumpy waist did not seem so prominent. Her attractive soft leather Italian shoes moulded themselves to her feet and complemented the trousers. They fitted perfectly and she no longer needed to hobble. She had been stupid in the past to buy shoes that were too small just because they had been reduced. She hoped auntie would not mind too much, that is if she ever found out how expensive the purchases were. She did not appear to mind, indeed she had noticed that her aunt sometimes looked at her smart image with approval and had a satisfied smile that would linger around her mouth for a while when Felicity appeared in one of her new outfits. It had been wonderful to treat herself to some good French make-up, Janet had given her enough spare cash for that, and had obtained some excellent advice from some of the staff in the one rather up-market chemist’s shop. Quite a find that shop she decided; she had not expected to come upon such good products in a tip like Brinton.

Janet was not concerned. It was only money and her niece looked happier. She was not sure now what arrangement they had come to about paying for the goods, she could not remember, but it did not really matter. It had been interesting to watch her emerge from a cheap-looking tart into a smart woman who now dressed with good taste.

Joyce Skillet however had noticed with some disquiet that Felicity looked so much more presentable. She was suspicious and resentful of this usurper who seemed to be creeping and grovelling around her aunt. She did not like her any better as the days passed and wondered who she could ask for advice about the unwelcome newcomer to Primrose House. She decided eventually to talk to Robbie. He seemed to her to be a genuine man who cared in his way for Mrs Lacey. In that assumption she was right but he didn’t have any idea what they could do about the unwelcome visitor; their only option was to commiserate and wait.

Peter felt his age. His back often felt stiff and his knees ached. Pains radiated down his arms from his shoulders and settled in his wrists, making many every-day tasks uncomfortable and difficult. He was born in the same year as Janet and had been her solicitor and closest adviser for many years. He’d sympathised with her when James Anderson had departed so abruptly although he had been glad to see the back of the man, and comforted her when her second husband John Lacey died from cancer in his early sixties. Janet was devastated and he had been there to give her as much support as he could, which he was more than happy to do. Peter had promised John Lacey that he would look after Janet, something he agreed to with alacrity; he did not find that prospect onerous. Janet had always held a corner of his heart and he had loved her since they were pupils in the local primary school, far more than any other woman he had known, including his wife.

‘Don’t worry, John,’ he had said. ‘I’ll help Janet,’ and he did. It was not an arduous task and he took pleasure in it. He was intrigued to discover that John had left Janet a very wealthy widow. He helped her to obtain a financial adviser, a friend he strongly recommended. He was anxious to make himself indispensable and, with luck, persuade her to leave a little something to his family. She could afford to do that. He had no conscience about encouraging her to leave a legacy to his son and grandson.

Peter had helped Janet when she made her will in 1980 but when Peter retired in his mid sixties his son Jeremy had taken over the reins of the business, following in his father’s footsteps. His grandson Matthew, who had also studied law, was now in charge of the business. Whether Jeremy or Matthew had updated Janet’s will since he had retired he could not remember. They had probably mentioned it to him and he thought Jeremy had possibly made another will for Janet in 1990 but he was getting almost as forgetful as Janet. He had a vague idea that Janet had left some money to the Mace family together with some of her better pieces of furniture. He would have no hesitation in accepting anything she wanted his family to have. They had looked after her well over the years. The financial adviser he had recommended had no doubt kept a sharp eye on her affairs and increased her fortune through good investment.

Peter’s wife Alice had died ten years previously which had left him lonely, and he valued Janet’s friendship. Janet did not have any children and depended on him and a few other close friends for company. He was lucky to have his son Jeremy and grandson Matthew.

Peter climbed the road to Primrose House one afternoon almost every week to visit and talk about old times with a dog treat tucked in his pocket for Jack, who would nuzzle and press against his legs until he produced it. He thought that he was a smelly old dog, a bath would not go amiss, but he did not care to express that feeling to Janet and upset her in any way. Janet was becoming very forgetful and Peter was concerned about her state of mind. He would struggle up the slight hill to see her, stopping every few yards to catch his breath and lean on his trusty walking stick.

Approximately one week after Felicity arrived he paid one of his usual visits. The October damp crept into his bones insidiously as he made his way to Primrose House that day. His nose had turned a deep pink, purple veins cloaked his cheeks and his feet felt numb with the cold. Joyce showed him into the lounge and disappeared with haste into the kitchen to produce the afternoon tea of egg sandwiches and the sugar-splattered Eccles cakes she knew he liked.

‘Poor old man,’ she muttered to herself. ‘He’s still a good friend though and Mrs Lacey could do with a few of those.’

He warmed himself for a few minutes by a radiator before sitting down gratefully in an armchair. He expected that Janet would join him as usual, making her way to the lounge with her walking sticks, independent as ever, and not allowing him to assist her.

He heard footsteps, quicker than he had expected, and adjusted his old metal-rimmed glasses which had a habit of slipping down his nose. He turned his head as Felicity entered the room. For a moment he was startled. A stiff and somewhat false smile was glued to Felicity’s countenance and she gave him a derogatory look.

‘Who are you?’ he stammered rudely, which was unusual for this mild-mannered man.

‘I am Felicity Brown. Mrs Lacey’s niece. I’ve come to stay with Auntie, and who are you?’ she retorted sharply, a scowl creeping over her face which emphasised a spiteful hard expression which was impossible to disguise. Peter cringed.

‘I’m your aunt’s very old friend. We were at school together. I used to be her solicitor many years ago. We have tea together most weeks. Haven’t we met before?’

Felicity looked at Peter with a brief flicker of interest in her cold eyes. Huh, she thought. He is the one named in the will but he does not look as though he is going to last long. She expelled an audible sigh of relief. She wondered what his son was like and how many of the wretched Mace family still lived and were waiting ready to grab a share of her aunt’s fortune. She made an effort to compose her face into a pleasant and innocuous countenance and sat down on a chair next to him.

‘We probably met when I stayed with Auntie as a child,’ she responded in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. Her expression lost some of its suspicious edge.

What is the ghastly woman planning? Peter wondered. She is a typical leech and without doubt only interested in her aunt’s money. He was for a second or two quite dismayed and dumfounded as this realization sunk in.

‘How long are you staying with your aunt?’ he managed to say after a slight pause.

‘Oh, a month or two if Auntie will have me,’ was the swift and confident reply.

‘Well, then, we will probably see quite a lot of each other.’ Felicity hoped not but she looked forward to finding out more about the will she had found in the drawer. The wretched man may be able to help her.

Joyce’s head appeared at the door. ‘Tea will be served in the dining room today sir,’ she said, ignoring Felicity. ‘I’ve made a few of your favourite egg and cress sandwiches.’

Felicity quivered. Ugh, egg. What a silly old man. We could have had smoked salmon if he had not come, but still her mouth watered. She was always hungry. She should watch her waistline which was threatening to expand and spoil the sleek lines of her new clothes but she was enjoying the luxury of the free food in Primrose House. There would be chocolate cake with cream filling, she thought and cheered up. The sight of the sugary looking Eccles cakes was not welcome. They would sit like lumps of lead in her stomach and that she did not want. She hoped her face was not turning green. They sat with mounting unease around a small table in the dining room. Janet had struggled to move from her usual comfortable armchair with her stiff and unyielding limbs in an effort to sit between Peter and Felicity like a good hostess should. Felicity looked at Peter with small sly eyes. She must pump him about that will sometime. To do it without raising suspicion in the old fart’s mind would probably take some guile but she would think of something.

‘I think we definitely did meet when I was a child,’ she proffered in her strange Canadian accent, breaking the charged silence and looking at Peter with the most innocent expression she could muster as she fluttered her short stubby eyelashes. ‘I remember now.’

‘Yes,’ Peter replied. ‘I remember too; it was a long time ago.’ He remembered all right. A vile child, malicious and cruel, he had considered at the time though disturbed was a more apt description. She did not look much more agreeable now.

‘How is your brother Ronald?’ he asked after a short pregnant pause. Poor little fellow. He was unlucky having to put up with a sister who behaved like she did.

‘Oh, OK, sure,’ Felicity replied in a flippant tone. ‘He is a dentist now and married with one kid. They live in Melbourne, Australia and are doing all right I think. We don’t correspond much.’ She turned her head to look at her aunt and gave her a warm smile, the subject of Ronald neatly closed.

Janet nodded and passed the rather gooey egg sandwiches to Peter. They were soft and oozing with mayonnaise with flecks of wilted green cress hanging out of the sides. There was a vacant look in her fading brown eyes as her mind wandered.

Felicity sniffed and wriggled in her chair. Peter took his fifth sandwich, mayonnaise dripping down his fingers, and an odd silence engulfed them for several minutes. In Felicity’s eyes he was just a greedy old twit. He held a torch for auntie years ago she reflected and almost laughed out loud. Good old Uncle James got there first and they did not have any brats to complicate matters. Thank goodness for that.

Felicity poured the tea from a large elegant fine china teapot into the matching cups that Joyce Skillet had set out earlier. Peter was surprised. He always did that for Janet when they had tea together. The wretched niece was playing at being hostess and usurping him. She was unnerving him and forcing him to make an effort to stop his hands from shaking.

Peter looked with avarice at the antique dining chairs, a look that was not lost on Felicity. The six chairs were elegant and no doubt worth a penny or two, Felicity turned over in her mind. Peter caressed the soft striped velvet chair covers with his arthritic fingers and smiled with satisfaction. Jeremy had taken the chairs to be repaired and re-covered in a traditional style only a few years ago, having made the excuse that they were getting wobbly and unsafe for visitors to use. They cost Janet a lot to repair but were, he was sure, valuable antiques and Janet had promised to leave them to the Mace family in her will.

‘Another sandwich, Felicity?’ her aunt said interrupting her reverie and making an effort to take over the role of hostess.

‘No thank you Auntie dear,’ Felicity responded in a gushing tone. She observed the fine Minton plate. Nothing but the best it seemed for old Peter Mace. A feeling of nausea was threatening to overtake her. She swallowed several of what she considered to be the tasteless soggy old sandwiches. There was no added salt in them because Peter had said he did not like that. It was bad for his blood pressure.

‘Would you like another one Peter ... er Mr Mace?’ she drawled, smiling in as charming a manner as she could manage, and took the plate from her aunt in order to pass it to him. Scraps of egg already clung in an unsavoury way round the edge of his mouth and Felicity groped for a napkin and made a desperate effort not to retch. Her face blanched but both Peter and her aunt with their failing eyesight did not notice.

Peter Mace continued his visits as usual during the month of November. He liked to look round the garden at Primrose House before taking tea with Janet. He had a habit of wandering round to the kitchen garden at the back where there was a small greenhouse which contained many of Janet’s garden plants that needed shelter at that time of the year. Robbie was a wonderful asset to his friend, he had concluded. Peter never failed to be impressed. There was a large potting shed next to the greenhouse where Robbie kept the garden tools, which were all well oiled and cared for, and an old table and chair he used when he took his morning coffee or ate his lunchtime sandwiches if he stayed that long.

The next time Peter visited Primrose House he clambered up the short metal staircase which led to the kitchen from the garden. He sometimes entered the house that way when he thought that Joyce Skillet would be there to let him in, though quite often the door was left unlocked if he was expected. Struggling with the icy conditions he clutched and hung on, as well as he was able with bent old hands, to the slippery and worn iron handrail in an effort to stop himself from falling, but his arthritic feet and legs were not helpful. On reaching the top he paused for a moment to catch his breath. The door swung open and, to his surprise, an arm shot out and hit him violently in the chest. Losing his grip on the slippery rail he slid backwards. His legs buckled painfully beneath him as he plummeted downwards and landed with a sickening thud that resounded on the frozen earth. Peter struggled to open his eyes and saw someone holding a large stone above his head. He tried to cry out but could make no sound. Something akin to an electric crackle trickled across his brain accompanied by a bizarre and remote feeling of helplessness. Within seconds there was darkness.