Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

She drove on, stopping a little beyond the front door, climbed stiffly out and went round to help Uncle Albert.

“Lend me your shoulder, girl,” he said. “That’s right. I’ll do in a minute. Legs aren’t what they used to be.”

“Shall I take the box? It’ll go in my bag.”

“Might as well, now we’re here.”

The bell was answered by a middle-aged woman whom Jenny assumed to be Mrs. Thomas, but Uncle Albert spoke first.

“You’re new.”

“Only been here twelve years,” she answered. “Tell Mrs. Thomas you’ve come, shall I? She’s expecting you. If you’ll wait just a minute.”

She led them into the hall and walked off along a sunlit corridor.

Jenny gazed around. This was more like it—more in conformity with her expectations, that is, though still with something very odd about its proportions. A large space, three storeys high, roofed with glass. Polished old furniture, hyacinths, still lifes, seascapes, display cabinets, never-sat-in easy chairs. An extraordinary staircase, not, as would be expected in such a room, climbing handsomely up in broad flights, but a sort of free-standing shaft, a lattice of pale narrow timbers—satinwood Jenny thought—with stubby flights rising inside the shaft. It was a life-size version of the sort of staircase a hobbyist might model out of matchsticks. It had the beauty of total economy, with no ornament except itself, fashioned from the lightest materials, its obvious strength inherent in the design, in the almost pure idea. Jenny had walked across to look at it more closely when a voice reached her from the corridor.

She recognised it from the telephone calls, though the words weren’t distinguishable because, as it turned out when she emerged into the hall, Mrs. Thomas had been talking over her shoulder to somebody behind her. She halted and turned to finish her instructions.

“…and if he hasn’t got them in, ask him to order them. We don’t want anything different. We want the ones we’ve always had.”

She turned again.

“Well, well, well! Sergeant Fred! And you’re looking wonderful! What a stroke of luck you could come! Ma’s so looking forward to seeing you again. You remember me, don’t you? I’m Flora. I dare say you think I’ve changed a bit.”

She took both his hands in hers and gazed up at him, openly delighted. She was a neatly plump woman, somewhere in her sixties, Jenny guessed, with blond permed hair unashamedly greying, a little powder, scarlet lipstick prissily applied, scarlet fingernails, green flannel skirt and matching cardigan, cream ruffled blouse pinned with a jade brooch. She radiated a sort of dishevelled but contented energy.

“Ah, Miss Flora,” said Uncle Albert, a little uncertainly. “So you’ve turned out all right. And where’s little Anne?”

“She’s in Canada, breeding horses. We were over there a couple of summers ago and she seemed fine. And you must be Mrs. Pilcher. How very good of you to bring him all this way. I wish I could have persuaded you to stay the night. I hope you didn’t have too grim a journey—it all depends on the M25, doesn’t it? Somebody told me such a good joke about the M25 the other day—I wish I could remember it. You know, I could pretty well have told you the first thing he’d ask me about was my sister. She’s younger than me and it used to make me mad with jealousy that she was the one everybody was interested in. Well now, I’ll show you where the loos are. Can he cope for himself?”

She scarcely lowered her voice for the question.

“Now, this is my niece, Penny,” said Uncle Albert. “Penny, this is…”

He stopped, frowning.

“Flora. Flora Thomas, actually. I’m married now. This way.”

Still talking as if not expecting answers to any of her questions, she led them back along the corridor from which she’d come.

“…and then we’ll go up by the back stairs, and that’ll mean Sergeant Fred can use the chair-lift. We put it in for my mother when she could still get about a bit. Of course we’d never have got one in on our ridiculous main stairs…”

“I think they’re wonderful,” said Jenny.

“Oh, do you? I do too, of course, but then we’ve always loved this house, all of us. You know people used to say how hideous it was—here you are, Sergeant Fred, you’ll find everything you want in there—but nowadays students are ringing up the whole time saying can they come and look at it. He’s in a muddle about you being his niece, isn’t he? I suppose you don’t want me to ask you anything about the pistols?”

She asked both questions in exactly the same tone of sprightly candour, though she had glanced a couple of times at Jenny’s shoulder bag. The plural was puzzling. It must have been clear from the TV show that Jenny had brought only one pistol, and knew nothing about any others.

“I still couldn’t tell you anything, I’m afraid,” she said. “But Penny’s my mother-in-law. I’m Jenny.”

“How confusing for the old boy, but he’s pretty wonderful in other ways, isn’t he? Do you know, we’ve got a party of Taiwanese students coming to look at the house next month. Taiwanese, for heaven’s sake. Here you are—you must be bursting. Mind you, they didn’t come halfway round the world just for us—they were on some kind of tour, but even so…”

She laughed at her own amazement and let Jenny go.

Uncle Albert, of course, refused to use the chair-lift and climbed slowly but steadily up four longish flights, resting briefly on each landing. Mrs. Thomas talked the whole way, mainly to him, do-you-remembers about previous visits and encounters—usefully stabilising for him, Jenny thought, though she wasn’t sure that she was doing it with that in mind.

At the top she broke off, turned to him and said, “I’d better warn you about Ma, Sergeant Fred. Otherwise you may find it a bit of a shock. She’s completely paralysed, poor old thing, and she needs to have everything done for her. She can talk, but it’s an effort—just a few words at a time, and only a whisper, so you’ve got to listen pretty carefully. But she’s absolutely all there in her mind—sharp as a needle still. And her hearing’s spot on—you don’t have to shout or talk slowly, but she doesn’t give any sign—she can’t—she just lies there, but you’ve got to remember that she’s hearing and understanding, and thinking about what you’re saying all the time. You do see, don’t you?”

She gazed anxiously up at him.

“I daresay we’re all getting on a bit, Miss Flora,” he said gravely, speaking her name this time with confidence.

“Well I hope I’m in anything like as good shape as you are when I get to your age. These are all Ma’s photos, of course—you remember how potty she was about her cameras—she’s looked some out to show you. Ah. Dilys. Here’s our visitors. Sergeant Fredricks and Mrs. Pilcher. And this is Dilys, who’s been an absolute angel to Ma. All set up?”

A plump, grey-haired woman in a blue uniform had appeared from a door further along the book-lined corridor.

“We’re all ready, Mrs. Thomas,” she said, “and I’ve got the table out for when the tea comes up.”

“Good for you. I wasn’t quite sure what you’d want at such a funny time of day, Mrs. Pilcher, so we’re sending you up a sort of betwixt and between kind of meal. How would you like to do this? Ma won’t want us all milling around, and Dilys had better stay to—”

“Can’t have that,” said Uncle Albert. “We’ve got private affairs to see to.”

“Oh, but you see, Sergeant Fred, Ma will need somebody—”

“Penny can see to all that,” said Uncle Albert. “She’s a good enough girl, though I say it myself. And she’s young, what’s more, so she’s good sharp ears, and you’re telling me Mrs. Matson can’t talk that easy…”