“I know I’ve only met her once, but I feel I know her really well — as well as I know you — just through her writing.” Marina patted my arm — she was always touching me, which was one of the things I disliked most. “I’ll tell Mrs David I’ve been making converts in Lydmouth. I’m sure she’ll be delighted. I’ll be back on Monday, so I’ll come and tell you all about it on Tuesday.”
I was in a quandary for the whole weekend. Should I or shouldn’t I? It was such a good opportunity, presented to me, as it were, on a plate. It would make up for the rather tame performance of the rat. I didn’t want to hurt Marina, of course, not seriously. But there would be very little risk of that. The amount of poison that would kill a rat would surely give a human being nothing more than a mild bilious attack.
All weekend I toyed with the idea. What if? What if? On Sunday evening, when it was dark, I put on the headscarf and the raincoat and left the house. I had the torch and the key of Marina’s flat in my pocket.
Everything went as smoothly as last time. In the refrigerator was a saucepan containing what I now knew was ratatouille. It looked and smelt quite disgusting. The rat poison was on saucers, one under the cooker and the other in larder. I took a little of the poison from each and rearranged what was left on the saucers so that they both looked untouched. I stirred it into the ratatouille. To my relief, it seemed to dissolve very quickly. I wondered if the poison would taste. Even if it did, I thought that the ratatouille was so strongly flavoured that it would mask any additions.
What if? What if?
I went home. That night I dreamed of Nigel. Funnily enough I had always dreamed more about Nigel than about Charles. On Monday morning, I woke with a light heart. Now I could put the past behind me and look to the future. In a sense, there was nothing personal in what I’d done at Raglan Court the previous evening. There was no reason to gloat. It had not been a question of being vindictive — merely of doing my duty. Someone had to teach the woman a lesson, and the someone had happened to be me.
I was washing up after breakfast when a man walked past the kitchen window and knocked on the back door. A plate slipped from my hand and broke when it hit the sink. I dried my hands and went to answer the door.
It was the rat-catcher, a grubby little man with a baggy tweed jacket and a collarless shirt.
“Morning, ma’am. Just come to see how the little fellows are getting on.”
“I really don’t know.”
“No dead ’uns?”
“Who knows?”
“Shall I take a look? See if they need a second helping?”
“Yes, please.”
The rat-catcher went down to the stable. I cleared up the broken plate and tidied the kitchen. A few minutes later, the man came back.
“They’ve eaten it all. I put down a bit more.”
“Good.” I opened my handbag and took out my purse. “Were there — were there any bodies?”
He chuckled. “Gone back to their nests. Give ’em a choice, they like to die in their own beds — just like us, eh?”
I paid the man. He wanted to stay and gossip — in my experience, men are far worse gossips than women — but luckily we were interrupted by the ring of the front doorbell.
It was a telegram. My heart lurched because telegrams usually mean bad news, apart from those connected with births and weddings; and I had nothing to do with either. I tore it open.
BOAT DOCKED LATE LAST NIGHT. COMING DOWN TODAY. IN CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE BOOKED ROOM AT BULL. SEE YOU ABOUT FIVE. NIGEL.
That was typical of my brother-in-law. Nigel could be very thoughtful. When Charles was alive, Nigel always stayed at the house. But now Charles was dead, the situation was different. Lydmouth wasn’t London. If we were alone under the same roof, tongues might wag. People might even remember that before I became engaged to Charles, I had seen a good deal of Nigel.
By half-past four I was as ready as I could be — the lounge fire burning brightly, the brasses in the hall gleaming, the water near boiling point in the kettle, the tea tray laid. As I sat waiting, all sorts of foolish thoughts chased through my mind. What if? What if?
Nigel rang the doorbell at twenty-past five.
“Anne — wonderful to see you.” He swept me into his arms. “I’m so sorry about Charles.” He hugged me, then stood back. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Train was delayed. Nothing works properly in this country.”
Nigel was taller than Charles had been, and age had been kinder to him. As a young man, he had been gawky and had had difficulty in talking to a girl without blushing. The war had changed all that. I brought the tea in and we chatted for a while — mainly about Charles.
“You must be wondering about the money side,” Nigel said. “No need. As far as I am concerned, you can stay in the house for as long as you like. You own fifty per cent of it now, anyway. And Charles’s share in the shop comes to you, so that should give you a decent income, even if we have to pay out a bit more in wages.”
I asked him how long he was staying in Lydmouth.
“Only a couple of nights, I’m afraid. I’m popping over to Paris on Thursday.” He grinned at me. “I’ll see if I can find you some perfume.”
“It’s a shame you can’t stay longer.”
His eyes met mine. “I’ll be back.”
“I wonder — could I ask you to help me with Charles’s things? There’re all his clothes, for example. And I’ve not really been through the business papers in the bureau.”
“Of course I will. When would suit you?”
“Come to lunch tomorrow — we can sort everything out afterwards.”
He hesitated.
“I’ll see if I can do something interesting,” I said brightly. “I’ve been experimenting lately. I love Elizabeth David. Her recipes are mouth-watering.”
“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “Elizabeth David, eh? You’ve been acquiring cosmopolitan tastes in my absence.”
“I try.” I smiled at him. “Even with all the shortages, there’s no excuse not to be adventurous in the kitchen.”
Nigel stood up and tossed his cigarette end in the fire. He ran the tip of his index finger along the spines of the Kipling edition in the bookcase. I shivered. He turned to face me.
“Oh — by the way: I owe you some money.”
“Really?”
“I asked Charles to pay a debt for me. He mentioned he’d done it in his last letter. A hundred and ninety-odd pounds.”
A hundred and eighty-nine pounds, nineteen shillings and eleven pence?
“Oh — oh yes.” I felt as if a horde of insects were crawling across my skin. “I’d noticed the cheque. To a jeweller’s, wasn’t it?” With immense effort I forced a smile. “Who was the lucky lady? If it was a lady.”
Nigel’s cheeks darkened. The young man I had known before the war was suddenly not so very far away. “I–I suppose I’d better tell you. The thing is, when I’ve come down to Lydmouth in the last year or so, I’ve had a sort of friendship with a woman. A special friendship.”
“And Charles knew?”
He nodded, took out his cigarette case and fiddled with the catch. “And then I went to Paris on a business trip in the spring, and I met Ghislaine. One thing led to another — well, in fact we’re going to get married.”
He paused, looking at me, as if waiting for congratulations. I couldn’t speak.
“But there was still this — this other lady. That had to end. But I wanted to give her something as a keepsake. Then I had to go to Tanganyika...” He managed to open the case at last. He took out a cigarette and rolled it around in his fingers. Crumbs of tobacco dribbled down to the hearthrug.
“I asked Charles if he’d buy her a present. It was while you were in hospital. A piece of jewellery — something quite decent. So I gave him a rough idea of how much I wanted to spend and left him to get on with it. We were going to settle up when I got home. I do hope you don’t think too badly of me.”