Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“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?”