gave yet another heartfelt sigh. "It was my fault really. I'm the one who reminded Peter about Annie, and he promptly rushed off in high dudgeon to talk to the press. Sheila never forgave him for it and it made life very difficult afterward."
"I can imagine"-I extracted "Doctor cleared by BMA"-"particularly as Sheila was exonerated. Mr. Potts wasn't even her patient."
"It was too late by then. The damage had been done. Peter did try to apologize but Sheila was having none of it." She paused. "But it wasn't entirely his fault, you know. Sheila was spreading some frightful counteraccusations against him, saying the reason Annie distrusted him so much was because he'd supported the neighbors' attempts to get rid of her from the street. She even suggested he was a racist."
"Is he?"
I thought she might be angry, but she wasn't. "No. He has many faults but racism isn't one of them. Sheila knew it, too. It was an unkind thing to say."
"Not much fun for any of you." I murmured.
"Terrible!"
"But it doesn't mean Sheila was wrong to say Annie was robbed," I pointed out.
"It just seems so unlikely," said Wendy. "No one thought Annie had a house full of treasures while she was alive. Did you think she had?"
"No," I admitted, "but Sheila does have evidence to support her story. Letters from the RSPCA inspector, for example, who went in to check on her cats. And if it is true that Annie was robbed, then it's also true that the police investigation into her death was flawed because it failed to take into account that someone took a small fortune off her either before or after she died."
"But who, for goodness' sake?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," I said, putting the press clippings back into their envelopes. "Someone fairly close to home is my guess ... someone who knew what was in there."
She canted her head to one side to study me closely with her bright, perceptive eyes. "What's your husband's view?"
"He doesn't have one," I said slowly. "The subject hasn't been mentioned in our house for twenty years."
She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be," I told her gruffly. "This is my project, not his."
Did she think "project" was an inappropriate word? "It's not your fault Annie died," she said with sincerity. "You've nothing to feel guilty about."
"I don't."
Perhaps she didn't believe me. Perhaps she saw a contradiction between my apparent composure and the evidence of obsession in my lap. "No one escapes justice," she said, dropping her hand to pick up one of mine and rubbing it gently between hers. "It may not be a justice we can see or understand, but the punishment is always appropriate."
"I expect you're right," I agreed, "but I'm not interested in abstract punishment. I want the kind I can see ... the eye for an eye ... the pound of flesh."
"Then you'll be disappointed," she told me. "There's no joy-in causing pain ... however worthy the motive."
I had no answer to that except to return the pressure of her fingers. It was acknowledgment of a sort and to that extent it mollified her, but worry remained etched around her eyes until I left.
Family correspondence-dated 1999
CURRAN HOUSE
Whitehay Road
Torquay
Devon
Wednesday, July 28 1999
Dearest M,
If I can give you any advice at all-and of course there's no reason why you should take it-it's that you talk things through with Sam before your mother and I come for our visit on Saturday. She's still very unhappy about your move to Dorchester and will, I fear, put pressure on the boys to supply answers if she can't get them from you. Sam has told her the farmhouse was the only property you could find at short notice-which is clearly what he believes-and she's now convinced "something's going on" as she says her tame real estate agent faxed you a list of suitable lets in Devon at the beginning of June.
Sorry to he a nuisance but the old adage-"of two evils choose the lesser"-is a good one, I find. You know what your mother's like when
"I can imagine"-I extracted "Doctor cleared by BMA"-"particularly as Sheila was exonerated. Mr. Potts wasn't even her patient."
"It was too late by then. The damage had been done. Peter did try to apologize but Sheila was having none of it." She paused. "But it wasn't entirely his fault, you know. Sheila was spreading some frightful counteraccusations against him, saying the reason Annie distrusted him so much was because he'd supported the neighbors' attempts to get rid of her from the street. She even suggested he was a racist."
"Is he?"
I thought she might be angry, but she wasn't. "No. He has many faults but racism isn't one of them. Sheila knew it, too. It was an unkind thing to say."
"Not much fun for any of you." I murmured.
"Terrible!"
"But it doesn't mean Sheila was wrong to say Annie was robbed," I pointed out.
"It just seems so unlikely," said Wendy. "No one thought Annie had a house full of treasures while she was alive. Did you think she had?"
"No," I admitted, "but Sheila does have evidence to support her story. Letters from the RSPCA inspector, for example, who went in to check on her cats. And if it is true that Annie was robbed, then it's also true that the police investigation into her death was flawed because it failed to take into account that someone took a small fortune off her either before or after she died."
"But who, for goodness' sake?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," I said, putting the press clippings back into their envelopes. "Someone fairly close to home is my guess ... someone who knew what was in there."
She canted her head to one side to study me closely with her bright, perceptive eyes. "What's your husband's view?"
"He doesn't have one," I said slowly. "The subject hasn't been mentioned in our house for twenty years."
She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be," I told her gruffly. "This is my project, not his."
Did she think "project" was an inappropriate word? "It's not your fault Annie died," she said with sincerity. "You've nothing to feel guilty about."
"I don't."
Perhaps she didn't believe me. Perhaps she saw a contradiction between my apparent composure and the evidence of obsession in my lap. "No one escapes justice," she said, dropping her hand to pick up one of mine and rubbing it gently between hers. "It may not be a justice we can see or understand, but the punishment is always appropriate."
"I expect you're right," I agreed, "but I'm not interested in abstract punishment. I want the kind I can see ... the eye for an eye ... the pound of flesh."
"Then you'll be disappointed," she told me. "There's no joy-in causing pain ... however worthy the motive."
I had no answer to that except to return the pressure of her fingers. It was acknowledgment of a sort and to that extent it mollified her, but worry remained etched around her eyes until I left.
Family correspondence-dated 1999
CURRAN HOUSE
Whitehay Road
Torquay
Devon
Wednesday, July 28 1999
Dearest M,
If I can give you any advice at all-and of course there's no reason why you should take it-it's that you talk things through with Sam before your mother and I come for our visit on Saturday. She's still very unhappy about your move to Dorchester and will, I fear, put pressure on the boys to supply answers if she can't get them from you. Sam has told her the farmhouse was the only property you could find at short notice-which is clearly what he believes-and she's now convinced "something's going on" as she says her tame real estate agent faxed you a list of suitable lets in Devon at the beginning of June.
Sorry to he a nuisance but the old adage-"of two evils choose the lesser"-is a good one, I find. You know what your mother's like when
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