How would her bank or building society be likely to look upon an application for a mortgage from a woman of her age, in her financial situation? Two years ago, when Grace Dalton was sufficiently recovered to be able to look calmly at her future, she had sent for Dorothy and told her she was making a new will. It had long been understood between them that Dorothy would retire at sixty with a pension, in recognition of her long and faithful service. Grace had asked if Dorothy would now forget about leaving at sixty and would agree instead to remain with Grace until the end, whenever that might be. In return she would receive a larger pension, together with an additional benefit – a lump sum based on the total number of years she had worked at Elmhurst. If she agreed, she would receive these new entitlements, even if Grace were to die within a very short time.
Grace hadn’t been coy about mentioning actual figures and Dorothy’s eyes had opened wide when she heard them. She had needed no time to think the offer over and had at once accepted.
But that was two years ago now. Dorothy had believed then that Grace wouldn’t last out the twelvemonth. But the doctor spoke now of the possibility that she might with care live a few more years. Suppose she did manage to raise a mortgage and they did buy the cottage: how would Alice relish living there on her own for that length of time? She frowned in thought as she wheeled about in the dappled sunshine of the woodland.
How long, realistically, was Grace likely to live? That was undoubtedly the question.
Dusk was falling on Monday evening, a week later, as Dorothy reached the crossroads marking the final stage of her journey back from Dorset to Elmhurst. She usually enjoyed driving but today she had found the journey wearisome. It had been altogether a tiring weekend, with so much to weigh up and ponder.
The cottage had turned out to be even better than she had hoped; it would do them beautifully. Not too small, a decent stretch of garden, neglected now, but they could soon put that to rights. They had found a surveyor to go over the cottage and he had been able to assure them the property was structurally very sound. A few repairs would be needed but nothing too expensive. He foresaw no difficulty in raising a mortgage.
She frowned out through the windscreen as she drove through the light-splashed twilight. It was her own share of the purchase money that now presented the only remaining stumbling block. The solicitor had agreed to give them a week to reach a decision. Next Monday evening she was to ring Alice at 7.45, to tell her if she would or would not be able to raise the money. She had fixed on that precise time in order to be certain of making the call without being overheard. Mrs Dalton would be settled down after her supper, watching TV or reading, maybe listening to music or to the radio. Jean would either have gone out or be glued to the TV in the staff sitting room, absorbed in the latest instalment of her favourite soap opera.
First thing the following morning, Tuesday, Alice was to phone the solicitor, to give him a straight yes or no.
At half past four on Wednesday afternoon, Matthew Dalton came out of the Brentworth office of the Inland Revenue, carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers. He set off back to his office with a light step and an air of profound relief. He’d managed to stave off disaster, for the present, at least. He well knew the euphoria would have drained away by morning but he intended to enjoy it while it lasted – take the evening off for once from his ceaseless juggling, spend it at home with Nina, a rare treat these days.
Shortly after six he bounded up the front steps of his house, a fine late-Georgian dwelling. Nina had always admired the property and Matthew had bought it a few years back, very near the peak of the market, as it later turned out; he had cheerfully taken out a massive mortgage. It hadn’t appeared an act of lunatic folly in those palmy days when it seemed the gravy train would thunder along full tilt for ever. And Nina had been overjoyed. She loved the house, loved living in it, often said as much. He intended to hang on to it for her if humanly possible.
Esther Milroy spent the late afternoon visiting one of her special patients at the Brentworth hospice, an elderly man with an overpowering need to recount the events of his long life. He asked little in the way of response, merely a willing listener. He occupied an out-of-the-way single room and she was able to stay with him for a good stretch of time without being disturbed. When at last he drifted into a peaceful sleep, she gathered up her things and went noiselessly from his bedside.
Six-forty-five. Too late to embark on a visit with another patient and she had in any case almost come to the end of her patience and cheerfulness. But ahead of her lay only the long empty evening at home. She cast about for some escape from the dreary prospect. She made her way quietly from the building, encountering no one in the maze of passages.
Twenty minutes later found her walking up the front steps of her brother’s house. Matthew and Nina were sitting at ease in the drawing room, enjoying a glass of sherry in anticipation of the delectable supper, almost ready. At the sound of the doorbell Matthew uttered a groan. ‘Who can that be?’ he exclaimed as he set down his glass. ‘I’ll get rid of them, whoever it is.’
But when he drew back the front door and saw Esther standing before him, gazing up at him like a lost dog, he could do no less than smile and invite her in. He gave Nina a glance of amused resignation as they entered the drawing room. Nina stood up at once, greeting her sister-in-law with warm friendliness. She sat Esther down, took her things and laid them on a nearby table. Matthew poured another glass of sherry.
A few minutes later, Esther reached for a carrier bag bearing the name of a high-class department store in the town. ‘I bought Grace’s birthday present this afternoon,’ she told Nina. ‘I don’t know if I’ve made the right choice. I’d be glad of your opinion.’
She took out a nightwear set of nightdress and matching negligée, unfolded them, held out each garment in turn for Nina’s inspection. ‘It’s a very good make.’ She indicated the label. ‘The material’s a wool and cotton mixture, nothing synthetic.’ White, printed with an all-over background pattern of rose-pink dots the size of a pinhead, scattered with delicate sprigs of rosebuds. A lavish use of frilled trimming, lace edging, satin ribbons. ‘You don’t think it’s too fussy?’ she asked with an anxious frown. ‘It was Verity chose this set. I happened to meet her in the street as I was going into the store. She had a couple of free periods from the college so she came along to help me choose. If you don’t think Grace would like it, I could take it back and get something else.’
‘It’s not at all too fussy,’ Nina assured her. ‘Grace will love it.’
‘I like the little rosebud sprays,’ Matthew said benignly. ‘It’s a very pretty pattern.’
Esther looked pleased and relieved. ‘I’ll keep it then,’ she decided, as she folded the garments away again. ‘I feel settled about it now.’
* * *
Early on Thursday morning, Dr Wheatley set out from his home in south-west Wales where he had chosen to retire. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a mild countenance, white wings of hair. He was very much looking forward to another stint as locum to his successor – and a good long stint, this time. He would greatly enjoy seeing his old patients, driving round his old stamping ground. He was particularly looking forward to seeing Grace Dalton again, his old, dear friend.
On Thursday evening Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey came down the steps of the main Cannonbridge police station and walked across the forecourt. He was a big, solidly built man with massive shoulders, a fine head of thickly springing carroty hair, shrewd green eyes, craggy features dominated by a large, squashy nose.
He smiled to himself as he reached his car. It would be Monday morning before he was due to walk back up those steps again. He had recently come to the end of a long and gruelling case and was about to savour the luxury of a few days off.