Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“Typical suitcase,” he said, putting her down. “Then Nell’s one too? Easy to spot on the carousel, by the sound of it.”

“Yes, but … I don’t know … I wonder … suppose what’s in there isn’t just a jumble of stuff. Suppose it’s just one thing, and it’s alive. And watching you.”

“You’re telling me you aren’t alive inside? Just underwear and stuff?”

“No, of course not. Forget about suitcases. I wish I hadn’t started it. She must have had a really extraordinary childhood. It wasn’t any worse than mine, but it was a lot weirder.”

The letter came on the Wednesday, Enclosed with it was a sealed envelope with Mrs. Matson’s name on it.

Dear Jenny,

First, I must thank you again for bringing Bert to tea with me. It was wonderful to meet him, and see him looking so well cared for, and loved and respected. He seemed to enjoy the service, and to remember afterwards who I was. That is to say that without being reminded he told me that I had done very well for myself, and Terry would have been proud of me. I am hoping to arrange for one of my congregation to pick him up sometimes on Sundays and bring him over for tea and evensong. I hope that you and your husband will see fit to join us occasionally.

Now to business. I accept your decision to help Mrs. Matson find out what she wants to know, as far as you can. For my part I propose to compromise. From what you tell me it sounds as though Bert and my uncle may have witnessed Major Stadding’s death, and were then asked, or decided, to keep the matter confidential. By your account Bert was prepared to make a considerable sacrifice of his self-esteem in order to do so. Since my uncle though he liked at least to drop plenty of hints about various episodes in his career, never mentioned the subject to me, except perhaps very indirectly, I believe he would have taken the same line as Bert. I therefore do not feel justified in trying to persuade Bert to break that confidence.

Within those limits, however, on the basis of my own memory of Mrs. Matson as well as what you tell me of her, I am prepared to help. Bert too, when I mentioned her name, was full of her praises, though he spoke as if he had not met her for years. I therefore feel justified in passing on to her a few things that Terry told me that might have a bearing on the matter. They are all trivial and tangential and though they were in some sense said to me in confidence. I do not feel constrained by Terry’s presumed promise of silence.

I have, as you see, written to Mrs. Matson separately, and must ask you to be so kind as to add her address. This is not out of any distrust of you but in order to respect her privacy. I am sure you will understand.

Yours very sincerely.

Eileen (I mean Nell)

“She’s been reading too much Jane Austen,” said Jeff.

“That’s just part of the trim on the suitcase.”

RACHEL

1

“The most peculiar letter for you, I’m afraid I opened it—it looked like a begging letter—you know they’ll try anything just not to look like begging letters—and that’s probably still what it is. I mean it’s from a vicar somewhere in Kent—at least he’s writing from a vicarage, St. Martin’s Vicarage—he was the one with the cloak, wasn’t he?—and he’s a reverend, or he says he is—the Rev. E. J. Cowan, though he might pronounce it the other way—you can’t tell. Have you ever heard of him? I haven’t. Jack hasn’t. What makes it so peculiar is there’s another letter inside, addressed to you too, I haven’t read that of course. That’s why I’m not sure it isn’t a begging letter after all. But listen …”

She started to read, interjecting her own comments, with no variation in the gabbling monotone.

“To whoever opens this letter dear friend—a bit pushy, but I suppose it’s better than Sir or Madam—dear friend the enclosed concerns a matter which Mrs. Matson may wish to keep private I am aware of her condition—it gets more and more peculiar. I mean the man’s a total stranger. Do you think he’s mad?—her condition I have therefore written it in large type so that it can be held by another person for her to read—he must have done that on a computer. Everyone has them nowadays, even vicars—her to read if that can be arranged if however having read the first few lines she indicates that she is content to have it read to her I for my part have no objection yours truly E. J. Cowan. At least he doesn’t say it isn’t a begging letter. If he did, we’d know it was. What on earth is this about, Ma?”

“Don’t know. Show me, please.”

“You want me to open it? Let’s get your specs on first, shall we? Now I’m going to shut my eyes so you know I’m not cheating. I say, isn’t this rather fun! Here goes. Help, it’s pages and pages. I don’t think I’ve got time now. There, is that the right way up?”

“Yes. Higher. Stop.”

The print was as large as a child’s first reader. How Jocelyn would have enjoyed a computer, Rachel thought—not just as a toy to be played around with, but as a tool he could use, an extension of his competence to deal with the world.

Dear Mrs. Matson,

Mrs. Pilcher has recently asked me on your behalf about my uncle, Terry Voss. I have no direct knowledge of the episode in which you are interested, but on the other hand I recall an incident that I now believe may be connected. I will describe it in some detail.

Despite the large print the lines filled less than half the page. Presumably the writer had stopped there so that Rachel could decide whether she wanted to keep what followed to herself.

“Too long,” she whispered. “Thank you. Dilys.”

Dutifully Flora folded the letter and slid it into the envelope before opening her eyes.

“Well,” she said. “Is it a secret, or isn’t it? Oh, Ma, don’t be so provoking! You might at least give me a hint.”

“About Terry Voss.”

“Terry Voss …? Oh, that funny London spiv Da was so keen on? What on earth has a vicar in Kent got to do with him? He can’t still be alive. Can he?”

“Nephew.”

“How extraordinary, but I suppose it takes all sorts, even in the Church of England, these days, anyway. I really do try to be broadminded, but I absolutely wouldn’t feel comfortable about having my grandchildren confirmed by a gay bishop, so I suppose I can’t blame Mr. Cowan for wanting to keep quiet about Voss. It is good of you, Ma, to keep up with these people after all these years, in spite of everything, just because they were on the Cambi Road with Da … oh, of course! That one! Da saved his life when the Japs beat them both up and left them by the road. And the first time anyone ever told me about it was Archdeacon Donnelly at Da’s funeral, and you said how Da would have hated that, which of course he would, but really it’s something people ought to know about. But Voss wasn’t there—at the funeral, I mean.”

“In prison.”

“Oh yes, and you tried to get him let out on compassionate grounds and they wouldn’t wear it—doesn’t it all seem ages ago?”

“Not to me.”

“No, I suppose not. Now I’ve got to run. I only came up, really, to bring you the letter. Di Grindle’s starting another of her Good Works, not as loony as last time, thank heavens—it’s getting pets into old people’s homes because it’s good for them having an animal around, and she wants me on the committee, except she doesn’t—she wants Jack, because he’s so organised, but he refused to play and who can blame him so she’s got me. Shall I ask Dilys to come and help you read the letter?”

“No hurry.”

“Right. Then I’m off and you can tell me later if there’s anything amusing in it. I do think you’re a wonderful old thing, Ma!”