A Dangerous Deceit Page 2

  ‘You didn’t really think—?’

  ‘I imagined nowhere but Folbury was going to do. I know how attached you are to the place.’

  ‘So much so that I’d refuse to live anywhere else? Symon, not really!’

  Symon, who disliked being made to feel foolish, was even more annoyed with himself, to think that he’d allowed himself to believe she wouldn’t contemplate living only a few miles away from where her life was presently centred, where her roots were, where all her activities were bound up. It was not only foolish, but disloyal to Margaret. All the same, a weight lifted itself from his shoulders.

  It scarcely mattered to him where they lived – well, hardly at all, as long as they were together – barring that miserable clergy house down in the town, which he had no intention of inflicting on himself, or his new wife. Equally, he was determined not to start their married life in Alma House, the large rambling residence where Margaret presently lived with only her brother, and Maisie Henshall, who helped to keep everything in order. In fact he had absolutely no desire whatsoever to live in the same house as Felix – hasty and argumentative, filled with all those preposterous Socialist ideas, forever throwing the place open to those so-called friends of his, some of whom were so left wing they had espoused Communism and given up their jobs to work for the party, and were never averse to a free meal and a bed. Surely he had only imagined that such a suggestion had hovered tentatively in the air? That Margaret, free now of the obligations to her father, was reluctant to hand over the running of the house to Maisie, or to abandon it to Felix and his cohorts? She was overprotective of Felix, when she had no need to be; he was more than capable of looking after himself.

  A few months previously, Osbert Rees-Talbot, who had not only lost an arm but had also sustained other long-lasting and debilitating internal injuries many years ago while serving as a soldier in the South African war, had died tragically. That night, he had kissed Margaret, said goodnight and gone upstairs earlier than usual, in order to take a bath before retiring. An hour later Felix had tried the knob of the bathroom door and, alarmed to find it locked, had called to ask if all was well. There was no reply. The key was in the lock and when the door didn’t respond to his shoulder against it, he had resorted to slipping a piece of paper in the space beneath and poking the key on to it. The door open, he was met with the sight of his father, face downwards in the bath he had run.

  It seemed there were always difficulties in reaching a firm conclusion in such a death, but in this case it appeared to be so obvious that there had been no need to search for underlying causes: it was evident that Osbert, possibly overcome by an attack of pain or dizziness, had slipped under the water and, one-armed as he was, his balance never very reliable, been unable to save himself, hapless as a fly with only one wing. The verdict at the inquest had been death due to accidental causes.

  No one outside the family remarked on the locked bathroom door, perhaps because they assumed that to be the normal procedure when one took a bath. His doctor, however, who had foreseen such difficulties in view of his disabilities and warned him never to do such a thing, shook his head angrily at the folly of patients who thought they knew better than he did. Within the family, none of them spoke of why Osbert, normally so conscientious about heeding this warning, had felt it necessary on that occasion to disregard it.

  They had understandably all been deeply shocked by the tragedy, which had thrown their lives into confusion. But now, in the face of Margaret’s procrastination, Symon’s never too easily held patience was wearing thin. He considered he had been more than generous in allowing it to go on so long, putting it all down to having too much responsibility thrust upon her since her father had died – amongst other things, dealing with his financial affairs.

  The fortunes of the present Rees-Talbots, such as they were, had come into being through their great-grandfather, Huw Rees-Talbot. Through his marriage to a young woman of the locality, he had come to Folbury from South Wales and, continuing the trade to which he had been apprenticed, had set up a brass foundry, one more in the mushroom growth of Black Country trades – some small, some not so small – allied to the metal industry, heavy and light, which had already made Birmingham world famous. By dint of unrelenting work and canny investment, Huw’s original two-man foundry had prospered and over the years he had expanded it to take in an engineering workshop for the machining of his castings. He had also bought up several smaller concerns, as well as property, both domestic and industrial. By the time he died, he had amassed a respectable fortune.

  His son Joshua had outlived him by only a few years, dying of a heart attack while his own son and heir was in South Africa, in the first stages of recovery following the amputation of his arm. Afterwards, back home in Folbury, his army career behind him and faced with finding a new life for himself, Osbert had taken on the management of the Rees-Talbot finances, but it wasn’t a task anyone had wished to take on when he died.

  ‘Find a sound man of affairs and turn everything over to him,’ advised his brother, now retired from his own military career. A hitherto lifelong bachelor, Hamer had found himself comfortably entrenched in Malvern, unexpectedly and delightfully married to the widow of one of his fellow officers, and had discovered golf. In the end it had been Margaret – always her father’s right arm, literally and figuratively – who had stepped in to keep things ticking over until someone suitably trustworthy could be found, Felix having flatly declared himself unwilling to take on the job. In Symon’s opinion – though he had so far kept it to himself – it was high time they all looked after their own affairs.

  Now, at last, someone had been found, in the person of Mr Bertram Lazenby, an elderly, semi-retired accountant recommended by the bank. He had nodded approval at Osbert’s meticulous ordering of the family affairs, and the conscientious way he had looked after the interests of his brother and sister, but Osbert’s system had been one of his own devising and Mr Lazenby had still not succeeded in adjusting it to his own satisfaction. He was taking his time and would not be rushed.

  ‘Symon?’ Margaret’s question as they went back into the house made him blink, suddenly aware that he’d been lost in his own thoughts for too long. ‘Darling Symon, I’m so sorry if I’ve made you think even for a moment … How could I? You must know I love you more than—’ Her face became quite pink. Such declarations weren’t easy for either of them.

  ‘I do know it, Margaret, my love, of course I do.’

  ‘You mustn’t get me wrong – it’s just that I’ve been bothering too much with other things that don’t really matter one jot, when you have enough concerns of your own.’

  ‘What concerns do I have that aren’t yours?’ he asked lightly. But he had felt a jump of alarm, and in a moment his eyes, grey that always darkened with emotion, were the colour of slate. Yes, he had his own – not secrets, not at all, but rather worries he preferred to keep to himself, for the time being at any rate, though it seemed he hadn’t been as successful in concealing them as he had thought. Not seeing his own lack of logic, he said abruptly, ‘Whatever’s bothering you, you should tell me, you know. It’s what I’m supposed to be for, isn’t it? To listen to troubles.’

  ‘Since when have you ever taken Confessions?’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to try me. And I don’t mean in a professional capacity.’

  ‘Oh really, darling, there’s nothing to bother you with, just bits and pieces of my father’s that still need sorting out.’ She touched his cheek lightly. ‘Haven’t you noticed yet? I’m afraid it’s my nature to fuss unduly. You’d better marry me quick, before I become a finicky old maid.’ She laughed, yet he fancied the shadow hadn’t entirely gone from her eyes.

  That same night, a slow thaw began, and over the next few days the snow turned to slush, the gutters ran and the Fol, down in the valley, spread its banks.

  On the third day, out at Maxstead, two retrievers were bounding forward, joyful to be back once more in their familiar ro
utine, when the bitch, following her nose, suddenly found something very much to her liking. Setting up an excited barking, she began to dig. The other dog was close behind her and soon both were tugging furiously, their teeth into a brown leather boot that stuck up out of the newly softened soil.

  Two

  ‘Oof, I’ve had enough!’ Margaret collapsed into a canvas deck chair and threw her tennis racquet down on the grass.

  ‘You could have beaten me easily, if you’d had your mind on the game,’ returned Kay, though in fact she was the one who invariably won when she played against her cousin. She was little and dark and fierce, and she had a formidable backhand, but the game, one of the first of that season, had been an energetic one even for her. Flopping into the other deck chair, she lifted the muslin cover from the lemonade jug, peered into it and poured what was left into two glasses, one of which she pushed across the table.

  On this April afternoon, with a late Easter just around the corner and the last harsh winter fast receding into memory, the weather was pretending it was already summer, with only a few lazy, puffy white clouds drifting across a limpid blue sky. The sticky buds were fat on the horse chestnut that dominated the lawn between the house and the tennis court, and a blaze of azaleas lit up corners of the otherwise unremarkable garden which surrounded the house on four sides. Alma House, erected by Huw Rees-Talbot in the heyday of Queen Victoria’s reign and so named by him after the first victorious battle in the Crimea (rather as the Duke of Marlborough had named Blenheim), wouldn’t look the same again after the azaleas had finished blooming, leaving nothing until next year but their slightly rusty evergreen, the garden devoid of interest except for the brief flowering of the laburnum which hung over the front gate. The garden had never been anything to write home about, and the house itself, designed by some architect who had been carried away by his own imagination, was in fact rather ugly and certainly inconvenient, although being accustomed to both, the family scarcely noticed the shortcomings.

  Kay looked at her watch then picked up her glass again. ‘I’ll just finish this then I must scoot off. I have my women’s clinic this afternoon.’ She made a little face. ‘Tired mums and a hundred squalling babies all over the place, pity me! Return match tomorrow afternoon? I might grab a spare hour or two then.’

  ‘Afraid not. Symon has arranged for us to go over to see his mother.’

  ‘Ah. The dowager.’

  ‘Really, Kay. Lady Maude’s quite approachable, you know. When one gets to know her.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  They had grown up together, Margaret motherless from birth, and Kay, who was three years older, fatherless as well from the age of two. Kay now looked speculatively at her cousin, very attractive today in the white tennis dress with a low waist and a pleated skirt, and for the moment, at any rate, more relaxed than of late.

  ‘So, everything’s all right then, love?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. The bridesmaids’ dresses are in hand, and the cake’s ordered, and I’ve already chosen the flowers—’

  ‘—and arrangements for getting Laurel Mount ready are going smoothly. I know all that, that wasn’t what I meant.’ Kay picked up her racquet and held it to the light, squinting through the strings. ‘Look, if it was anyone else but you, I wouldn’t ask this – but as it is you, and as a doctor, I think I’m entitled … Are things all right between you and Symon?’

  Margaret sat up. Her face, still flushed with exercise, took on an even rosier hue. ‘And what exactly does that mean? As a doctor, of course.’

  ‘Darling, it’s no use getting on your high horse with me. As a doctor, I can’t help noticing that you haven’t been yourself lately. To be frank, you’ve looked positively peaky at times. You aren’t – well, regretting your engagement, by any chance? It’s not too late to back out, you know.’

  ‘I am not,’ Margaret said stiffly after several moments had elapsed, ‘in the habit of making promises I don’t intend to keep.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. That you’ll go ahead just because you’ve promised, even though—’

  ‘Even though what, Dr Dysart?’

  Kay looked directly at her and said sternly, ‘I thought you two were madly in love?’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘So why all the fuss about the wedding details? There’s plenty of time before July. Aren’t you in danger of neglecting Symon himself – just a bit?’

  Margaret looked as though she was about to stand up and walk away. But she sat on, not saying anything for a long time. She was well aware that certain people thought she had done rather a boring thing, agreeing to marry a clergyman. Well, she thought sharply, they didn’t know how right it had been, from the very first. What a rock he was. How alight with happiness Symon made her.

  Eventually, she said slowly, ‘If that’s what it looks like, you couldn’t be more wrong. You know what I’m like, about getting things done – and I am not neglecting Symon, as you so elegantly put it, and what’s more he knows that – if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t really, you know.’ Recovering herself, she added with some spirit, ‘Leave Symon – and his mother – to me please, Kay.’

  ‘Oh Lord, you’re right, it is none of my business, and no, I don’t suppose I did really think … Seems I’ve put my foot in it, but you know I always speak my mind and actually I’m not sorry I did because something’s bothering you, love. You’re so touchy lately, and that’s not like you. Come on, we’ve never kept things from each other before, don’t be cross … Is it all that Maxstead tradition? Could be more than a bit overwhelming, I suppose.’

  Margaret managed a laugh. ‘You think I’m suddenly getting worried about which knives and forks to use? For heaven’s sake, Kay! In any case, it’s Symon I’m marrying, not his family tradition.’

  ‘Now you’re being difficult, as Aunt Deb would say.’ Kay sighed and laid her glass against her hot forehead, though it was an hour since it had been brought cold from the cellar and was unlikely to have any cooling effect. ‘Well, I’m pleased to see you know your own mind.’ She paused. ‘If that isn’t it … it couldn’t be that you’re still upset about Uncle Osbert, could it?’

  ‘Kay, of course I’m still upset! He was my father!’ Less tensely, Margaret added, ‘But not in the way you mean.’

  ‘Still, maybe you should give it a rest for a bit – typing and sorting out that manuscript.’

  Just before he died, having for some reason become preoccupied with looking back at the time he had spent in South Africa, fighting in the war against the Boers at the turn of the century, Osbert had suddenly been taken with the idea of writing down his experiences with a view to publishing them as a small book or even just a pamphlet, which he thought might offer something to those interested in military history, and perhaps to the general public, too. He had intimate knowledge of several major battles, and had also played a significant part in the seven-month siege of Mafeking, a victorious demonstration of true British grit and moral fibre which patriots at home had not yet tired of hearing about. And indeed, had not Lord Baden-Powell, himself the great hero of that historic event, still remembering Osbert after so many years, sent a letter of condolence on hearing of his death, praising him as an outstandingly able and courageous officer?

  But halfway through the project Osbert had suddenly declared it had gone sour, and would have abandoned it had not Margaret, who was typing it out for him, pressed him to carry on, which he eventually did, though reluctantly and with diminished enthusiasm. He gave no reason for his change of heart, except to say that reliving that time, seeing it in perspective, had brought home to him how reprehensibly his own side had behaved in many ways. With his brother Hamer, Osbert had arrived in South Africa, a young captain filled with ideals of honour and freeing the Blacks from slavery, but such notions of fighting for justice and freedom became secondary when faced with what he encountered. By the time he was sent back to England after being wounded, he had not been so proud to fight un
der the British flag.

  After a short silence Margaret admitted, ‘I suppose you may be right and I did ought to leave it. But it seems a pity when it’s so nearly finished.’ In a burst of honesty, she added, ‘Though I have to admit he might have had a point – about abandoning it, I mean. Maybe no one will want to read the sort of opinions he had about that war, even now. They’re not exactly complimentary to us as a nation. But there’s more to it than that.’ She frowned. Until the moment when, out of the blue, the notion of publishing his reminiscences had occurred to Osbert, never before had he volunteered information about that war in which he had fought. Indeed, if asked, he had always replied shortly that it was better not to know. The abrupt change of heart was very confusing; he had been a man who rarely changed his mind once it was made up.

  ‘More to it? Like what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really, I suppose. Only that he wasn’t fighting all the time he was out there in South Africa. There was a long gap between when he was wounded for the first time and when he was allowed to fight again, but he says nothing of what he did or where he was, or even what was happening with the war at that time. It may not have been relevant to what he was saying, I suppose, but it seems odd just to leave a blank. I couldn’t pin him down over it. He simply waved me away when I asked, saying there was nothing important.’

  ‘The sort of things he wouldn’t want posterity to know about, I expect.’

  ‘Why not? That was what he was writing it for, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, love, he was a soldier. And you know what soldiers are.’

  Margaret stood up. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. How could you?’ Her eyes gave off sparks and she began to bang together the glasses and the empty lemonade jug on the tray to carry indoors. ‘I expect Felix and Vinnie will be back soon. They’ll be starving hungry,’ she said shortly, closing the topic.

  Kay attempted no more, though she didn’t believe the thought she’d voiced hadn’t previously occurred to Margaret herself, either, or that she would put her doubts aside. She always had to do something about any puzzling situation; she could never leave it and let its own solution present itself. So she merely remarked, ‘Vinnie’s coming to lunch?’