The Shortest Journey (17 page)

‘I gather she’s back home again now?’

‘Oh, yes. I think the relief was mutual when she left
West Lodge! She likes to make brief forays there, but while Mrs
Jankiewicz reigns supreme she wouldn’t go in there
permanently.’

‘How did they get on?’

‘There was a sort of icy protocol. Throne spake unto
throne and all that sort of thing. But I think Mrs Jankiewicz had
the upper hand. Her intelligence system is even better than
Mother’s and, being Polish, she has the advantage of pretending not
to understand anything she doesn’t want to hear. It infuriated
Mother.’

I laughed. ‘Yes, I’d back Mrs Jankiewicz against all
comers, especially since she has a very highly developed sense of
justice which gives her a moral superiority as well.’

‘Still no word of Mrs Rossiter I suppose? I gather
Mrs Wilmot is still keeping her room free – another sore point with
Mother. But it seems a very forlorn hope now. Poor soul, it really
is terribly sad.’

‘I miss her very much. I hadn’t realised what a big
part of my life she was. Childhood memories, I suppose, and her
being such a friend of my mother...’

‘Have you heard anything from Thelma?’

‘I had a postcard of the Manhattan skyline, so I
gather she’s been in New York. But she hasn’t been down here. Or,
if she has, she hasn’t been in touch with me.’

‘What about the glamorous young man?’

‘With her in New York, I imagine.’

‘Goodness, what exciting lives some people do
lead!’

‘Oh, I don’t know, I don’t think it would suit me.
Think of the strain of always having to look your best, even when
you’d rather just slump and put your feet up!’

‘You’re right, of course, but I can’t help feeling
that there must be a happy medium. There really ought to be more to
life than trailing round Woolworths trying to find where they’ve
hidden what used to be called the haberdashery. I mean, should
actually finding a card of hooks and eyes and some knicker elastic
be the pinnacle of human achievement?’

I went home and tried to justify my own existence by
doing some work – making a start on a paper I was supposed to be
giving to the Victorian Society on Mary Cholmondeley’s novel Red
Pottage – but my thoughts kept straying. For some reason I couldn’t
get out of my mind the picture of Mrs Rossiter’s room at West Lodge
and her few remaining possessions: the desk, the footstool, the
French clock, the watercolour and the ivory gazelle. No, the
gazelle wasn’t there any longer. Had it been stolen? Or had Mrs
Rossiter taken it with her that day when she went to Taunton? And
if so, why? Certainly she could have done. It was small enough to
go into her handbag. But what would she have taken it for? Not to
sell it, she didn’t need the money. To give to someone, then? Not
to Thelma, who would have asked for it if she’d wanted it, as she’d
taken everything else she wanted when the Manor House was given up.
Perhaps for Alan, then, since it might have African connections.
But it wasn’t the sort of object I could connect with Alan – unless
it was to pacify him after their previous, unhappy meeting. Mrs
Rossiter was all too experienced in pacifying the irate, in making
the first gesture, in giving way. Or it could have been a gift to
his American friend.

Tris and Tessa burst in through the open French
windows after a boisterous game in the garden and lay panting at my
feet. Sighing, I got up to get their water bowls. As I tucked
Tessa’s ears into her collar so that she wouldn’t trail them in the
water, I thought that the gazelle might just as easily have been a
gift for Simon, a sweet and affectionate gesture that would have
been typical of her. But each of these theories meant that Mrs
Rossiter had met either Thelma or Alan on the day that she
disappeared and that she had been murdered by one of her own
children.

In some agitation I walked up and down the room, the
dogs looking at me curiously, as I tried, in a physical way, to
shake off such ideas. They were too preposterous, too unthinkable,
or, as my mind began to accept the possibility, too unbearable.
What was the alternative? Who else could have killed her? Not
Marion – I was utterly positive of that – or Van. That left Annie
Fisher and her brother, and the possibility that they had persuaded
her to go away with them to Australia. It would have to have been
planned in secret because of Thelma, who would certainly have put a
stop to it if she had known about it. Mrs Rossiter would have had
to pretend that she was coming back from Taunton that day, but –
and here a bit of the jigsaw seemed to pop into place – she had
taken the gazelle with her because it was the only thing from her
past life that was portable. I was so pleased with that thought
that I found myself looking at the Fisher theory with something
like approval. Yes, surely that’s what had happened. No nonsense
about matricide. Quite simply, Mrs Rossiter had decided that
anything was better than living out the rest of her life at West
Lodge, and Annie had at least shown her a kind of affection by her
years of devotion. Perhaps Mrs Rossiter believed that Annie was the
only person who had ever really cared for her. Soon, perhaps, word
would come from Australia – she would need to have money
transferred out there – and everything would be made clear.

Resolutely I wrenched my mind away from the problem
and went back to my typewriter. The dogs, resting their heads on
their paws, resigned themselves to an afternoon of sleep.

We get only one post a day now. It used to be two,
and my mother said that before the war there were four, the last
one at nine o’clock at night. Still, it could be worse; at least
the letters are actually delivered to the door and we don’t have to
have those hideous mail-boxes by the front gate like the
Americans.

I was sitting idly wondering whether to eat the
second slice of toast or give it to the birds when I heard the
letters plop into the basket. The basket beneath the letter box is
a legacy of the time when Tris was a puppy and each morning saw an
exciting race into the hall to see who got to the letters first. He
still rushes out when he hears the post but now he is content to
sit looking up at the basket waiting hopefully for the letters to
drop through the mesh on to the floor. He was in the hall this
morning, but Tessa (I could tell from the strange sounds coming
from the kitchen) was too busily occupied nudging her bowl around
the floor in an attempt to reach the last crumbs of breakfast to
join him as she sometimes does.

I took the post back to the dining room and poured
myself another cup of coffee. It was a varied collection. There was
a postcard of Delphi from my cousin Lorna, an invitation to a
conference on Nineteenth-century Historical Novelists, a note from
my optician to say that my new reading glasses were ready, and a
letter from Michael. This last item was so unusual (he favours the
telephone as a means of communication) that I pushed the others to
one side half-read and tore it open.

Dearest Ma,

I Take Up My Pen to tell you about Something Very Odd
Indeed.

To begin, as they say, at the beginning. I had to go
to the Dark Tower (the Law Society Library to you) to look
something up in Tolley on Inheritance – some Swine has made away
with the College Library copy. As you know I hardly ever venture
through those dreaded portals. Actually, I nearly didn’t make it
this time, because they don’t let you in unless you’re wearing a
tie. Fortunately I remembered in time and nipped into that rather
grand gents’ outfitters just round the corner and bought myself a
nice little striped number – I think it’s the Brigade of Guards or
something because the porter at the Dark Tower was quite civil for
once and didn’t even go through my tatty old briefcase with a
fine-tooth comb as he did the only other time I ventured in
there.

You know what libraries are like. I had to wait ages
before they got Tolley for me and while I was waiting I leafed
through the odd journal – not very riveting – the London Gazette
(published by Authority, whoever that may be) doesn’t seem to have
any film reviews. It’s mostly lists of bankruptcies, windings up of
companies, lists of wills – general death and disaster, not much
there of what you might call Good News. They have a list of people
who’ve died and the solicitors acting for them and I was just
casting my eye over them to see if Pa’s old firm was doing any
decent business these days when I came across an entry that read:
‘Edith Mary Rossiter (née Westlock) died October 15th. Solicitors:
Cowley, Grey and Thomas, Coleford, Glos.’ It must be the same one,
don’t you think? But what on earth was she doing in Gloucestershire
and with new solicitors, too!

Anyway, for what it’s worth, there you are. Poor old
Mrs R. I hope you manage to find out what happened. I suppose
Messrs C.G. and T. will be in touch with Horrible Thelma – that is,
if she didn’t change her will – so you should hear why on earth Mrs
R. ended up there on the edge of the world. Let me know – I’d like
to hear the end of the story.

Better get on with some revision, I suppose – exams
next week. Though first, since cousin Hilary’s off gallivanting
again, I must go down and feed Tish, Tosh and Tush.

Love from your Afft. Son, Michael

At first I couldn’t take in what Michael’s letter had
said and I had to read it several times before I accepted the fact
that Mrs Rossiter was undoubtedly dead. Coleford. The name rang a
bell. Years ago when Peter and I stayed for a few days at Monmouth,
we had driven through the Forest of Dean and I seemed to remember
we stopped at Coleford to find a post office to buy some stamps for
our postcards. A small town, workaday, unremarkable, with no
noticeably picturesque features – I could think of no reason why
Mrs Rossiter should have visited it.

And why should she have made a new will? At least I
supposed it was a new one, since they were new solicitors. My
thoughts flew to Thelma. If Mrs Rossiter had died nearly three
weeks ago then presumably Messrs Cowley, Grey and whatever had got
in touch with her by now. And if Thelma had been told about the
will then she would now know the circumstances of her mother’s
death, so why hadn’t she telephoned to tell me about it? Of course,
if she hadn’t been left anything in a new will, then she might not
have heard anything at all.

I got up from the table and went to get my handbag.
As I rootled about in its depths to find Thelma’s card with her
office telephone number, I wondered briefly and maliciously what
Thelma would do if she had been cut out of her mother’s will.

I dialled the number and was put through to Thelma’s
secretary – no, Personal Assistant – whose bright efficiency made
me stumble over my enquiry.

‘Mrs Douglas isn’t here right now. Can I help
you?’

‘It’s a personal matter,’ I said rather stiffly.
‘When will she be back?’

The voice relented slightly and became more human.
‘Well, actually, Mrs Malory, she’s had to go back to New York.
She’ll be there for about six weeks.’

‘When did she go?’

‘Nearly a month ago.’

‘I see.’

Thelma could have gone, then, before the solicitor’s
letter arrived. But Gordon would surely know something.

‘Can I speak to Mr Douglas, then?’ I asked.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Malory, but he’s in Milan and
won’t be back until next week.’

‘I see. Oh well, it will have to wait until Mrs
Douglas is back, then.’

‘I’ve made a note of your call, Mrs Malory, and Mrs
Douglas will have it the moment she gets back. Meanwhile if there’s
anything I can do, please do ring on this extension and ask for
Trish.’

So I was no further forward. All day I turned over in
my mind theories, some prosaic, some wildly fantastic, as to how
Mrs Rossiter had ended up in Coleford. By the evening I knew what I
was going to do. The very next day I was going to Coleford to find
out somehow how Mrs Rossiter had died.

I rang Michael and told him what I had decided. ‘I
know the solicitors won’t be able to tell me anything about her
affairs,’ I said, ‘but surely, if I explain the very unusual
circumstances, they might give me an address or something.’

‘If it’s quite a small firm,’ Michael said, ‘and if
you can find a young assistant solicitor who’s still wet behind the
ears, and you do your middle-aged female in distress act, then I
daresay you might get something out of them.’

‘Well, Thelma and Gordon are both away and goodness
alone knows where Alan is, so I’m practically next of kin. Anyway,
I’ll have a good poke around while I’m there. Who knows what may
turn up.’

‘Good luck. And Ma’ – Michael hesitated and then
said, ‘do be careful, won’t you? After all, she did disappear in
very strange circumstances, so what I’m saying is, don’t take any
chances.’

‘No, of course not. You know me.’

‘I know what you’re like when your curiosity’s
aroused. You just go plunging in.’

‘I’ll be careful. You go back to your work. What is
it tonight?’

‘A little light consumer protection and then a bash
at company law.’

‘Poor you. Have you had anything to eat?’

‘I’ve just had an enormous pizza so you may set your
mind at rest. Good luck with your sleuthing. Report back.’

The next morning was one of those brilliantly fine
late autumn days. I got up very early and left a lot of food for
Foss. Packing some biscuits and water for the dogs and putting them
in the back of the car, I set off as soon as it was reasonably
light. Because I had left so early, of course, I ran into the
Bristol morning rush-hour at the Almondsbury intersection of the
motorway and there was a longer than usual wait to get on to the
Severn Bridge. I always hate driving across long suspension bridges
and keep looking nervously at the fragile-looking supports. Safely
across and past the first road signs in Welsh, I felt that I had
come a very long way (right into another country, in fact) so that
I really deserved a break for coffee in Chepstow. I parked in the
Castle car park and stood for a while looking at the noble ruin
towering above me, perched on an eminence, keeping watch over the
steep, muddy banks of the river below.