Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

JENNY

1

She got home a little before eleven, stiff and trembling after almost twelve hours of driving. Jeff ran her a bath and brought her finger-food to eat while she soaked.

“How have you got on?” she said.

“I’ve broken the back of it. There’s just a bit of tidying up and presentation to get right.”

“Are you pleased with it?”

“It’s the best I can do—clearer than I expected. But there’ll be boardroom politics I don’t know about, and Billy’s a formidable operator at that sort of thing. What about you? Was it worth it?”

“Oh, yes! It’s a terrific house for a start. And Uncle Albert seemed happy. There was just one sticky bit—I’ll tell you about that in a moment. But he made a little speech and gave Mrs. Matson the pistol—I didn’t see what happened to it—she sent me out of the room for that, but it wasn’t there when I came back and we didn’t bring it home.”

“Great. As long as I don’t have to bother about it any more. What’s the old lady like?”

“Upsetting. No, that’s wrong, because she’s rather wonderful. She’s disturbing, though. They didn’t tell us what’s wrong with her, but she’s paralysed from the neck down, and she can barely speak, but mentally she’s all there. Absolutely. You can see it looking out of her eyes. Hell, if I start telling you now I’ll get all wound up and I’ll never get to sleep. Are we going to have time for a lie-in tomorrow?”

“Nine o’clock? Then you can tell me at breakfast and I’ll have the rest of the morning to get my report together, and then we’re free.”

“Great. Let’s have lunch at The Cat and go and walk on the Downs.”

The telephone rang as they were leaving the house. Jenny answered.

“Mrs. Pilcher? This is Sister Morris at Marlings. Albert would like to talk to you. He’s upset about something he thinks he’s lost. He thinks you might have it. Wait. He wants me to go out of the room. Here you are then, Albert.”

Sounds of movement, and the closing of a door. Breathing.

“Hello? Uncle Albert?”

“Who’s that, then?”

“Jenny. Jenny Pilcher. I’m married to your great-nephew Jeff. Yesterday we drove all the way to Forde Place to give Mrs. Matson her pistol.”

“Say that again.”

“We drove to Forde Place yesterday. We took the pistol so that you could give it back to Mrs. Matson. She was in bed. You looked at a lot of old photographs with her. There was one of Anne fishing.”

His memory snagged on the image, held.

“Right,” he said. “So there was. Little Anne, fishing. And that’s where it’s gone, back in the box with the other one—that’s what I wanted to be sure of. Thanks. You’re a good girl, Penny. I’ve been misjudging you, but you’re a lot better than I gave you credit for.”

“I’m glad you think so. Don’t ring off, Uncle Albert. Can I have a quick word with the sister?”

“Listening at the keyhole most likely. I’ll get her.”

She heard the handset clunk down, and looked at Jeff.

“Could we go on from the Downs and have tea with him?” she said. “I’ve thought of something that might help.”

“Provided we don’t hang around over lunch.”

“I’ll be about ten minutes. You’ve finished with the computer?”

“For the moment.”

It took a bit longer than that, fiddling with typefaces to make the document look authentic. Jeff leaned over her shoulder and made suggestions. The end result pleased them both.

CERTIFICATE

It is hereby certified that on the 9th day of April 1996

SERGEANT MAJOR ALBERT FREDRICKS. M.C., M.B.E.

returned one (I) LADURIE PISTOL to MRS. MATSON. of Forde

Place, Matlock, Staffordshire, the said pistol having been entrusted to him for safekeeping by the late COLONEL MATSON.

Signed Jennifer Pilcher LLB.

Attorney at Law

“I’ll do a couple of copies,” said Jenny. “One for him and one for Sister Morris in case he loses it.”

“Fine—and I’ve had a thought. I’ll do his filing while I’m there, and that’ll give me a chance to see if there’s anything about this chap Voss in the old Cambi Road lists.”

The obituary was very brief. Terence Voss had died in 1978.

He had been a conscript, so his military career had been limited to the war years, and had consisted of his call-up, training, posting to Singapore, capture and internment. He had remained a private throughout. He was described as a cheerful and colourful character. His next of kin was given as E. J. Cowan, with an address in the Midlands.

As soon as she returned to work, without great hope Jenny wrote on the firm’s paper but giving her home telephone number, saying that she would be interested in any information about the late Terence Voss. On the same day she handed in her resignation, but agreed to stay on for a month to clear up outstanding work.

Jeff, meanwhile, received an acknowledgement of his report, with a formal note telling him he was temporarily suspended on full pay. This meant, among other things, that he still had the use of the car.

A few days later, while Jenny was at work, Jeff got a call from Mrs. Thomas, enquiring, with reasonable tact, about Uncle Albert’s finances. She told him her mother had asked her to find out.

“I explained we were a bit up in the air at the moment. I said we should be OK for a bit, but we couldn’t see very far into the future.”

“About till next Tuesday, you mean.”

“Oh, it’s better than that. Don’t worry.”

But Jenny felt she had a duty to worry, and to let Jeff see that she was doing so. It took some of the load off him. He wasn’t good at worrying, he hadn’t had enough practice. He had this image of himself as relaxed, easygoing, taking life as it comes, and to a large extent that was justified. For himself there’d never been much to worry about, and nor did there now seem to be for the pair of them. They would make out. But the sudden responsibility of worrying for Uncle Albert rather threw him. His instinct was to be laid-back about it, but his intelligence was aware that this might not be, in this case, the right response. So, Jenny told herself, if she kept on visibly working at the worry face, he could allow himself to relax.

She still hadn’t heard from Terry Voss’s next of kin when she left her job and was about to start temporary work with a firm in Sevenoaks. Then a letter arrived, forwarded from the firm she had left, marked “Personal.” It was computer-written and cleanly printed, from a church office in West Kent. It referred in formal terms to her enquiry and asked her to call a number. It was signed “Rev. E. J. Cowan.”

She called, a woman answered, she asked to speak to the Reverend Cowan, and was transferred. Another woman said “This is the vicar’s office. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for the Reverend Cowan.”

“Speaking.”

“Oh … my name is Jenny Pilcher. I wrote to you about Mr. Terence Voss.”

“Yes, of course. I would like you to tell me what you want to know, and why, before I say anything more.”

The voice was light, formal, scholarly in an old-fashioned way, but with something a little peculiar about some of the vowels.

“Well,” said Jenny. “It’s a bit complicated, and some of it is confidential. I wrote to you on office paper, by the way, because I thought I was more likely to get an answer. I’m a solicitor, but this is a personal matter …”

She paused for some kind of response, but none came.

“I got your name from an obituary in the Cambi Road Association newsletter,” she said. “I believe Mr. Voss was a Japanese prisoner of war, on the Cambi Road.”

“That is so.”

“My husband’s great-uncle, Sergeant Major Fredricks, was there at the same time.”