Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“Major Stadding—he’s dead. Saw it happen. No doubt about it. Ask Terry Voss.”

There was an odd note in his remark which made Jenny look round at him. Anger or something? His face gave her no clue. She checked the date on the front of the list.

“It’s this year’s,” she said. “I suppose it might be his son, or something.”

“Simon. Now, he’s a good lad. Going to marry Miss Anne, one point, only he didn’t. What about him?”

“I’ll call him and see if he’ll let me have Mrs. Matson’s number and then I’ll call whoever’s looking after her and ask if there’s any chance of you going up to see her, and then, if she says yes, we can work out how and when. All right? But what we’ll do now—it’s such a lovely afternoon—is go for a drive and have tea somewhere, and then I’ll bring you back. Would you like that?”

“If you say so.”

“Do you want to go to the bathroom first?”

“Might as well.”

He rose obediently and left the room. Jenny made a note of Mr. Stadding’s number, tidied the files away, put the pistol in its box and then in her bag. On Uncle Albert’s return he looked at her sharply.

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m Jenny, Jeff’s wife. We’re going out for a drive.”

“Going to Forde Place, you mean?”

“Not today, Uncle Albert. There isn’t time.”

He enjoyed the drive. They stopped at a sports field and watched schoolboys playing soccer, and ate at a tea room below the Downs, after which she shepherded him round a supermarket so that he could buy a packet of ginger nuts. On the way back to Hastings he slept, effortlessly balancing his head upright, unperturbed by the movement of the car.

“Wake up, Uncle Albert,” she said as they climbed the Marlings drive.

He leaned forward to stare through the window screen.

“No,” he said sharply. “You’ve got it wrong, young lady. That’s never Forde Place.”

“We’re not going to Forde Place today. There isn’t time. But when I get home I’ll—”

“If you say so,” he interrupted and groped for the door catch. She went round and helped him climb out, slowly and stiffly, looking very much his age. When she’d got him up to his room and settled him into his chair she asked him whether he wanted her to leave the pistol or take it back to Jeff to look after.

“Do that, if you like,” he said, and fell asleep.”

She looked for Sister Morris, to tell her about the pistol, but she was busy with one of the other patients, so she just told one of the junior staff that she’d brought Uncle Albert home and drove back to Maidstone.

There were two messages on the machine, one from Jeff, saying he would be on the eight forty-eight, and things had gone pretty well, he thought, and the other from Sister Morris, asking her or Jeff to call as soon as possible. She did so, and was told that Uncle Albert had twice been stopped trying to leave, once needing to be chased down the drive. He said he had to catch a train to London, and he was very upset about something he’d lost, but refused to say what it was. They’d given him a sedative and he was quieter now, but they didn’t like doing that more than they had to.

“I know what this is about,” Jenny said. “I was going to ring you anyway, in case. Tell him that Jeff’s got this thing and is looking after it. You may need to remind him that Jeff is Penny’s son. Penny is Uncle Albert’s niece. He sometimes thinks I’m Penny. He wants to go see an old lady in Derbyshire. I’m trying to get hold of her, to see if anything can be arranged. I’ll let you know as soon as I can. With a bit of luck he’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow. But I don’t think he will.”

A woman’s voice, quavering and anxious, answered the telephone. Jenny asked to speak to Mr. Stadding.

“Could you tell me what it’s about?”

“It’s to do with the Cambi Road Association.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’ll see. Please wait.”

There was a long pause, and then a man’s voice, slow, weary.

“Well, how can I help you?”

“Mr. Stadding? My name’s Jenny Pilcher. My husband—”

“Pilcher who deals with old Fredricks’s affairs?”

“That’s right. Jeff’s away, but I visited Uncle Albert today and—”

“One moment. You’re in Maidstone, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ll explain in a moment. Carry on please.”

Jenny did so. When she’d finished she heard him sigh, as if her apparently simple request posed immense problems.

“I don’t normally give telephone numbers,” he said. “The rule is that you have to write to the member in question, care of the Association, at this address, and I will then forward your letter. However, I have reason to believe that Mrs. Matson, or rather her daughter, Flora Thomas, is trying to get in touch with you. She called only this morning to ask if any of the members lived in Maidstone. I told her no, because I send Fredricks’s stuff direct to that place in Hastings, and it slipped my mind that your husband is in the list at Maidstone. I think this must be more than mere coincidence, so what I suggest is that I call Mrs. Thomas now and tell her what’s happened, and then it will be up to her. So if you’d give me your number to pass on…”

“That’ll do fine. Thank you very much. Ready?”

The call came through in twenty minutes.

“Mrs. Pilcher?”

“Speaking.”

“Now let’s get this straight before we start. Are you the one who took a Ladurie pistol to The Antiques Roadshow , the one that was shown—Sunday before last, it would have been?”

Jenny paused, unprepared. The voice was sharp, a bit county, bossy in a lively way.

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to say anything about that,” she said.

“Oh, come off it. It’s quite simple. You’ve got my father’s Ladurie pistol. I’ve no idea how you got hold of it, but it belongs to my mother and we want it back.”

With her wits now about her Jenny had no problem remaining professionally unruffled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but what I told you was the truth. The pistol isn’t mine and I shouldn’t have taken it to the show. I’m not in a position to talk about it. I have no standing in the affair. All I can do is to pass on anything you wish to say to the person concerned, who may then be prepared to discuss it with you.”

There was a pause, and a frustrated exhalation.

“Can I tell you why I wanted to get in touch with you?” said Jenny.

“Has it got anything to do with the pistol?”

“I don’t know, and if I did I couldn’t tell you.”

“Bother you. You talk like a lawyer.”

“I’m a solicitor…”

“Ha!”

“…but I’m not acting for anyone in this. Really, I’m not.”

Another pause.

“All right. You’d better tell me what you want.”

“It’s about my husband’s great-uncle, who’s an old man called Albert Fredricks—”

“Sergeant Fred!”

“Yes, he was a sergeant major in the Second Derbyshire Regiment, I believe.”

“That’s right. Such a dear. Salt of the earth. How is he? Getting a bit doddery, I suppose.”

“Physically he’s in very good shape for his age, but his memory’s pretty erratic. He’s in a retirement home in Hastings, and being very well looked after. I took him for a drive this afternoon.”

“Good for you. Go on.”

“Well, while we were talking Mrs. Matson’s name came up—that’s your mother, isn’t it?—and Uncle Albert took it into his head he wanted to come and see her about something that’s bothering him. He wouldn’t tell me what, but he got very upset about it. He wanted to start off at once, and to keep him quiet I told him I’d try and get hold of Mrs. Matson and see if it was a possibility. He may have forgotten all about it by tomorrow but I don’t think so. After I went he was trying to leave the home to catch a train to London.”