Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

“His first stroke. The same time he set up the trusts. Was he gaga then, Dick?”

“That was old Bickner. He did a pretty good job on the trusts, and I’m very grateful.”

“Jocelyn told Bickner exactly what he wanted.”

“Well, that’s as may be, but—”

She could stand no more and cut him short.

“What about the Laduries? Why?”

He shrugged, glanced out of the window, then back at her, smiling, confident in the cloak of candour. It didn’t fit.

“Funny coincidence,” he said. “Here I was, coming to see you anyway… Do you ever watch a thing on the box called The Antiques Roadshow , Ma?”

“Sometimes.”

“Helen makes a point of it, so I do too if I’m around. Last Sunday…You know how it goes. They have these experts, and they set up shop in the town hall somewhere, like Salisbury, and people bring their heirlooms in to ask about—pictures, furniture, knickknacks, whatever, and then some old biddy who’s had a Rembrandt hanging in the loo all these years pretty well has a heart attack when they tell her what it’s worth. Right? Well, this time one of the pros was doing arms and armour, and some young woman—never seen her in my life before—showed up with a pistol, just the one of them, but I knew it was one of the Laduries the moment I clapped eyes on it. It had the initials even, J.M. ‘Hey! That’s one of Da’s,’ I told Helen. And the fellow who looked at it really knew his stuff. He spotted it for a Ladurie at once, and got very excited. Said it ought to be in a museum, and all that, and it must be one of a pair, and if the woman had had the other one and the box and all the fittings it would’ve been worth getting on fifty thousand quid—more, if it had belonged to someone famous, which it easily might have, judging by the workmanship. He even got it right that it could’ve been made for one of Napoleon’s marshals. The trouble was she’d only got just the one, and it hadn’t been properly cleaned last time it was fired, which knocked the value down a bit, but even as it stood he said it might fetch a couple of thousand. Are you listening, Ma? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Rachel had closed her eyes, rather than gaze any longer into the countenance of Greed. Lardy cake, she thought. I might have guessed, even then.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Go on.”

“There isn’t anything more. That’s it. The question is, How’s this woman got hold of one of my pistols? And where’s the other one, and the box and stuff?”

“Not yours.”

“Ours, then. When did you last see them? Where are they now? In the bank you said.”

“Don’t know. I’m tired. Can’t think.”

“But listen, Ma…”

“Sorry, darling. Tell Dilys… nurse … need her.”

He drew breath to persist, but then gave in.

“Oh, all right. I’m sorry, Ma, if I’ve upset you, but I’ve got to be on my way in any case. I’ll have a word with Flora about it. She’s got power of attorney, hasn’t she? See you soon.”

He squeezed her hand—she could feel the touch but not the compression—and kissed her on the forehead, but didn’t think to remove her spectacles. Her fury was now mingled with shame as she listened to his footsteps crossing the room. The door opened. She heard both voices from the corridor, footsteps returning, a murmur from Dick and a thank-you from Dilys, the door closing behind her as she crossed to the bed.

Good heavens, Rachel thought, Helen’s been teaching him manners. The notion was bitter.

“How are we then, dearie? Mustn’t wear ourselves out, chatting away, must we! Done with our specs, then?”

“No, leave them. Lock the door, please. Need you.”

“Now what’s this about?” said Dilys, coming back and feeling Rachel’s pulse. “So we’ve got ourselves excited, haven’t we? Tsk, tsk.”

“Do something for me. Important.”

“Well, well, well, aren’t we being mysterious? Out with it, then.”

“Don’t tell anyone, Dilys. Not Flora. Nobody.”

“Cross my heart. It’s all right, dearie, it’s just my manner of talking. I can see you’re dead serious, and I shan’t let you down. There’s secrets I’ve heard over the years from patients of mine—not like you, dearie, because maybe they’d lost their grip a bit and you’re all there and no mistake—but anything they told me like that, it’ll go with me to my grave. It wouldn’t be right any other way, would it?”

She spoke earnestly, with pride in her professional reticence—nothing that she’d ever taken an oath to, but she was a confidential nurse, and for her the word meant what it said.

“Thank you,” said Rachel. “Bottom drawer of bureau. Take everything out. Pull drawer right out.”

“Got you. My, isn’t this exciting!”

Dilys bustled off. Rachel listened to the slither of the drawer, and the movement of packages. While she waited she thought about the trusts, one for the as yet unborn children of each child. Jocelyn had begun to set them up a fortnight after his first stroke, when he could still barely make himself understood, and then only to her—just as she had at first been the only person who believed that Jocelyn himself was still there, locked inside the mumbling wreck in the wheelchair, all his intelligence, all his pride, all his immense willpower. Mr. Bickner had come and sat with them in the study, stiff and uncertain. Jocelyn had mumbled, she had interpreted, Bickner had answered pityingly, patronisingly, speaking to her, not Jocelyn, until she had been forced to interrupt him in mid-sentence.

“Stop. This won’t do. You must talk to my husband, not me. Look him in the eye—it’s what he expects you to do. He understands every word you’re saying, better than I do, in fact. And listen to him. You can hear what he’s saying, if you really try. Think of it like a very bad line on a telephone, but you’ve got this important message coming and you’ve just got to catch it, somehow. Please. You’ve been a very good friend to us over the years, so do please try. Now, darling, just a few words at a time, so I can help Mr. Bickner understand what you’re telling him.”

And stuffy, unimaginative old Bickner had genuinely tried, and by his third visit was making something of it and answering Jocelyn direct, without waiting for Rachel to interpret. That had been wonderful for Jocelyn, just knowing that there was someone other than his wife and one daughter who was prepared to make the effort to reach him… Dick couldn’t be bothered, and Anne, alas, had stayed away, furious and frightened … only Flora … Did she ever think how unfair it had all been? Anne always Jocelyn’s darling. Dick Rachel’s, but Flora, decent, impulsive, conscientious Flora, simply taken for granted, given her due of parental concern and affection, but never that extra element of passionate love?

There was a rap and creak as the drawer was pulled free. Dilys came back.

“That’s all done, dearie, but there’s nothing I can see in behind.”

“Put a lamp on the floor. Knothole at back on left. Put your finger in. Push left, till it clicks. Pull panel out. Package behind. Bring it.”

“Oh, a secret compartment, like in a Victoria Holt! I knew it had to be.”

Almost exhausted now, Rachel lay and waited, willing fresh energies to secrete themselves. She watched the rooks without attention, just letting them come and go… The panel clicked. Dilys gave a tweet of excitement. There was a scrabble as she eased the package free. It had barely fitted when Rachel had wedged it in against the back panel of the bureau… and then Dilys was by the bed again, her eyes bright, her mouth slightly open. She showed Rachel a large buff envelope with a flat rectangular shape inside it.