Butchers and Other Stories of Crime

Woman and Home

Anita Sullivan adored Cornwall. One of her most vivid childhood memories was of sitting on a suitcase in the corridor of the Cornish Riviera Express waiting for the first glimpse of that level band of blue that would stretch across her vision through the blissful days of the family holiday. From Exeter onwards each sighting made her throat ache with anticipation until they approached Penzance, when St Michael’s Mount, the fairy castle of her storybooks, suddenly appeared in the golden light of late afternoon. Cornwall was an enchanted place.

It was on the evening of their tenth wedding anniversary that Tom told her that he had been offered the position of manager of the Penzance branch of the bank.

‘Darling, that’s wonderful!’ Anita cried out. She flung her arms around him and kissed him. Her eyes misted over with tears of joy.

‘Hold on,’ said Tom. ‘I haven’t accepted yet. It’s a big decision to take.’

She drew back from him to see whether he was serious. ‘Darling, it’s the chance of a lifetime. There’s nothing to decide — is there?’

Tom’s face stiffened into an expression that Anita had noticed increasingly at moments of stress in recent years. It seemed to have started at about the time he had been appointed sub-manager at Croydon. His lips would tighten and the muscles would tense along his jawline. He would have appeared a picture of dogged resolution if it were not for his eyes, which registered something between hesitation and fear.

Anita asked, ‘What is it, Tom?’

‘I have a feeling I shouldn’t take it. I know I shouldn’t turn down a chance of promotion, but Penzance is a bit of an outpost, isn’t it, right down there on the tip of the South-West?’

‘It’s a marvellous place,’ said Anita. ‘I was taken there year after year as a child. It’s full of atmosphere and charm. I love it, Tom.’

‘For a holiday, yes — but this is something else. Living and working in the place is another thing altogether.’

‘We’ll find a beautiful cottage. Property is sure to be less expensive down there than it is in the suburbs. We can look in the Sunday paper. I’m sure I’ve seen hundreds of lovely places advertised.’

‘It’s only a small branch,’ Tom persisted. ‘There are fewer staff there than I have in my charge at Croydon. The salary would be slightly better, but I’d lose my London allowance. I don’t know whether it’s worth it.’

Anita kissed him lightly and said, ‘Tom Sullivan, you’re beginning to talk like a banker now. Didn’t we always say that money isn’t everything? You still believe it, don’t you?’

‘It isn’t just the money. It’s my career prospects. If they shunt me down to Cornwall, they’ll forget about me. I’ll see out the rest of my service there.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ said Anita. ‘You’ve done enough since you started in the bank to earn heaps of self-respect. You’ve worked your way up to sub-manager at thirty-three. You’ve passed all those exams. You’ve plenty to be proud about, Tom, and I’m proud, too. But let’s not pretend that it’s been easy. We’ve both felt the strain at times. Now that you’ve earned a very good position in the bank for a man of your age, why shouldn’t you take the reward of a more relaxed job in a very congenial place?’

‘I suppose there is a danger of getting caught in the rat race.’

‘There are other dangers, worse than that. Remember that chief clerk at Epsom who had the breakdown? And Mr Beazley’s ulcers? I don’t want the man I love ending up like that. I’ve seen the danger signs already, Tom. You need this change. Of course it won’t be a push-over, managing Penzance, but I’m sure it’s less hectic than Croydon, or any of the London branches.’

Tom smiled. ‘You mean that I ought to buy a set of golf clubs?’

Anita played her strongest card. ‘I don’t see you playing golf, darling, but I’ll tell you one thing...’ She picked up a prism of crystalline quartz from his collection of mineral stones on the shelf unit and stroked her fingertip along its highly polished surface. ‘Cornwall has the most amazing rocks and minerals.’

Tom said, ‘You’re a devious, scheming woman and I love you.’ He reached for the Sunday paper and turned to the property page.

They found a buyer for their house in Croydon within a few days of putting it on the market. It was all so quickly arranged that Anita was apprehensive of Tom taking fright and backing down, but he seemed genuinely delighted. Cornwall had really taken a grip on his imagination.

They travelled down the following weekend to begin their house hunt.

They spent two nights at the Esplanade Hotel, Penzance, and visited all the estate agents in the town. They looked at more than twenty cottages that weekend, but not one was suitable. As Anita tried to explain to each of the agents, she and Tom weren’t interested in places with ‘scope for modernisation’; they wanted to invest their money in a property already fitted with kitchen units, elegant bathrooms and gas-fired central heating. Tom was no handyman, and anyway they could afford to buy at the top end of the market. But they were disappointed. Although several of the cottages they were shown had been stylishly modernised, there was always some overriding disadvantage such as the pylon in the garden or the private airfield across the lane.

‘We won’t let it get us down,’ said Tom on the drive home. ‘We’re learning a lot about the district. I have a suspicion that whenever new people arrive, those agents start by showing them all the rubbish they’ve had on their books for months. You have to sift through it before they come up with the good stuff. Let’s see what they have to show us next weekend.’

Comforting as Tom’s theory was after a disappointing weekend, it proved to be false. The properties they were shown on their next visit were for the most part bizarre or at least eccentric by their suburban standards: a water mill, the wing of a former monastery and a house built into the side of a cliff.

‘Haven’t you anything better than this in our price range?’ Tom asked.

‘I’ve shown you everything I can,’ the agents replied with depressing regularity. ‘It’s not a good time to buy.’

‘We’ve discovered that,’ said Anita.

When they got back, they found a letter from their solicitor. There was a danger of losing the sale of their house in Croydon if contracts were not soon exchanged.

They were reading the Sunday papers in bed before turning out the light when Anita gave a cry of excitement.

‘Darling, this is it! Listen: Near Penzance. Immaculate granite-built cottage in idyllic setting, superbly restored and modernised. Inglenook with wood burner. Open beams. Luxury fitted kitchen. Two reception rooms. Cloak/shower. Spiral staircase to three good-sized bedrooms, one with bathroom en suite. Double garage. Landscaped garden. Offers invited in excess of £60,000.’

Tom snatched the paper from her. ‘Is there a number to call? Yes.’ He reached for the phone.

‘It’s eleven at night,’ said Anita. ‘You can’t call them now.’

‘Try stopping me,’ said Tom. He dialled the number.

Anita put her head close to the phone to try to catch the conversation.

The call was answered almost at once. Tom gave his name and apologised for calling so late.

‘That’s all right,’ said the gentle-sounding voice. ‘I expect it’s about the cottage, is it?’

‘Actually, yes. I would have rung before, but we’ve only just got back from Cornwall ourselves. We’ve been looking at cottages, and found nothing suitable. When my wife noticed your advertisement, I felt I just couldn’t let this chance slip by.’

‘I understand.’

‘Could you tell me some more about the cottage, Mr, er...?’

‘Glass. Wilfred Glass. Well, I could, Mr Sullivan, but it’s only fair to warn you that I’ve been inundated by calls about the cottage. You must be at least the twentieth.’

‘I see. But you haven’t sold it?’

‘Not yet. Several people are coming to see it tomorrow, however.’

‘Tomorrow? I don’t know if we could manage that.’ Tom turned with eyebrows raised to Anita.

She nodded her head vigorously and mouthed the word ‘yes’.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Tom. ‘I think we could make a special effort to get there.’

‘I’d hate you to come a long way and be disappointed,’ said Mr Glass.

‘I presume you won’t make a decision before everyone’s had a chance to see it tomorrow. I mean, if someone were to make an offer before we got there...’

‘Rest assured that it won’t be gone,’ said Mr Glass. ‘There are so many factors one has to take into consideration in selling a house.’

‘Exactly,’ said Tom. ‘I think you could regard us as reliable purchasers. As a matter of fact, I’m about to take up an appointment as manager of a bank in Penzance. And we have already sold our own property.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Glass. ‘I also have in mind that I want the cottage to go to people who will treat it well. I’m very attached to the place. It’s been an important part of my life. I wouldn’t be leaving now if it were not that my mother is in her eighties and needs looking after. She lives in Plymouth and refuses to leave the house. But there — she looked after me as a child, and I’d hate to put her in some old people’s home. What time can you get here tomorrow?’

Tom estimated two o’clock, and that was allowing for a very early start to beat the morning rush-hour around London. There was not even the chance to let them know at the bank that he would not be coming in. He was sure the manager would be sympathetic — he had more than once suggested Tom took a few days off for house-hunting — but it ought to have been arranged in advance. It wasn’t the same thing at all to call the bank from one of the service points along the motorway. He didn’t like doing it, but for once in his life the bank had to take second place.

They found Stennack Cottage on the St Just Road a few miles west of Penzance. The country here was more stark and dramatic than the outskirts of the town with its sub-tropical shrubs and palms. An ancient engine-house and chimney stack, relics of the great days of tin mining, stood on the skyline, covered in ivy. Below was the sea, more green than blue in the brilliant sunlight.

‘It’s wilder than I expected,’ said Tom.

‘I’m going to love it,’ said Anita.

The cottage was set back from the road and surrounded by a low granite wall topped by blue hydrangeas and flame-coloured montbretia. It was a solid-looking whitewashed building with a grey slate roof. Wilfred Glass was standing in the porch dressed in faded blue jeans and navy fisherman’s smock, a smiling neat-featured man in his forties with straight, light-coloured hair.

‘The kettle’s on the stove,’ he told them as they introduced themselves. ‘Come in and have some tea. What stamina you must have to make a journey like this twice in two days!’

‘Needs must, when the devil drives,’ said Tom.

‘I hope the devil had nothing to do with your promotion, darling,’ Anita said with a smile at their host. ‘This is a beautiful room, Mr Glass. And the fire as well — so welcoming.’

‘Not the real thing, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Glass. ‘It’s one of those gas burners, but it is quite realistic.’

With the tea he offered them buttered buns, distinctly yellow in colour. ‘Saffron,’ he explained. ‘They’re very popular here, and they taste better than they look. As a bachelor, I’m very reliant on the cakeshop in St. Just. Do you enjoy cooking, Mrs Sullivan?’

‘She’s marvellous at it,’ said Tom.

‘I think you’ll like the kitchen, then. I had it designed by some people in Penzance who specialise in kitchens.’

It was the first room they inspected when they got up to start the tour of the cottage. Mr Glass was right: it was a dream of a kitchen, fitted with pine-clad units, a ceramic electric hob, eye-level grill, double-bowl sink with waste disposal unit, fridge-freezer and micro wave oven. The view from the large double window was across open fields to the sea. It was the first time Anita had seen a kitchen she would not want to alter in the least.

‘Everything’s included,’ Mr Glass told her, ‘and that goes for the washing machine and drier and the washing-up machine in the utility room as well.’

The rest of the rooms were just as impressive, with coved ceilings and subtle lighting and stylish decoration. As they came down the white spiral staircase, Anita turned to Tom and whispered, ‘This is the one.’

‘I’ll show you the garden,’ said Mr Glass.

‘I think we’ve decided already,’ said Tom. ‘I believe the asking price is sixty thousand — is that right?’

Mr Glass gave a small shrug. ‘I think the phrase I used was "offers in excess of...".’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. ‘Tell me, did you have a particular figure in mind?’

Mr Glass put his hand to the side of his face in a gesture of meditation. ‘Well, it’s like this. Do sit down, won’t you? I’ve owned Stennack Cottage for seven years now, and as you have seen I’ve spent a lot of money getting it to my liking. I’m very attached to the place.’ As he was speaking, he put his hand on the chimney breast and moved it lightly across the surface, almost in a caress. ‘It’s probably ridiculous, but I would only agree to sell it to people who seem to be in harmony with the surroundings.’

‘You can rest assured that we appreciate the place,’ said Tom. ‘We’d keep it up.’

‘I’m sure you would, but it’s more than that.’ Mr Glass turned from the fireplace and asked, ‘Would you think it frightfully impertinent if I asked you some personal questions?’

Tom glanced in Anita’s direction. ‘If you want to know a little more about us, we’ll do our best to oblige you.’

‘What would you like to know?’ said Anita, more curious than apprehensive.

‘First of all, how would you expect to spend your time here?’

‘Well, I’m in the bank, as I explained,’ answered Tom. ‘That’s five days a week accounted for, but Anita would be here. The cottage wouldn’t be empty.’

Mr Glass turned to Anita. ‘Then you’re not a working wife?’

She smiled. ‘I don’t go out to work, if that’s what you mean. There’s plenty of work in running a house, even one so well equipped as this.’

‘But you have no children?’

‘No children,’ said Anita evenly.

‘There’s nothing to prevent you from going out to work if you wished?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Anita. ‘But this is the style of life we both prefer. I’m not one of those women who feel deprived and demeaned by not going out to work. Our marriage is a partnership, and I do my share, and have my share of the rewards.’

‘A partnership, yes,’ said Mr Glass, and he seemed to approve of it. ‘Does that mean that you would jointly own the cottage if I sold it to you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Look here,’ said Tom. ‘If you’re worried about us not getting a mortgage, forget it. As a member of the bank, I can have as much as I like within reason, and on very good terms. Would you settle for sixty thousand?’

Anita put her hand on Tom’s arm and said, ‘Tom, dear, don’t rush things. Mr Glass wants to know more about us.’

‘You’re both being very patient,’ said Mr Glass. ‘Now, Mr Sullivan, I like to have a picture of what will happen here in the evenings and at weekends, when you are both at home. Do you watch much television?’

‘Very selectively,’ said Tom. ‘I spend a lot of time with my hobby of lapidary — stones, you know.’

‘Really? Well, there’s plenty of opportunity for that in Cornwall. I know of several local collectors. In fact, there’s a shop in St Just.’

‘I prefer to find my own specimens,’ said Tom. ‘I do a lot of walking at weekends.’

Mr Glass asked Anita, ‘And does the partnership extend to joining your husband’s expeditions?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not much of a walker. I think it’s important to have your own thing to do. I’m the gardener.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do better than I have. You may even find some interesting minerals out there. Stennack is Cornish for tin-bearing ground. There are several mines hereabouts, some of them still being worked.’

Anita said with a smile, ‘A pity it isn’t a gold mine.’

He gave her an interested look, and said, ‘It’s not impossible.’

Before they left, Tom offered sixty-two thousand pounds.

Mr Glass agreed to consider it. ‘I ought to tell you that I’ve had a considerably higher offer,’ he told them, ‘but as I explained, I want the cottage to go to the right people, and you may well be the ones. Can I phone you tomorrow?’

On the long drive back to Croydon, Anita tried hard to suppress her excitement. In her mind, she explored the cottage repeatedly for some flaw that she could seize on as a consolation in case Mr Glass decided not to sell to them. But secretly she believed he would. She knew from the way he had looked at her that she had made a favourable impression on him, and Tom had definitely scored a hit with his stone collecting.

‘Offering silent prayers?’ asked Tom.

‘Something like that.’

‘Odd sort of character, wasn’t he? He seems so possessive about the cottage that I couldn’t help wondering whether he really means to sell it at all.’

‘Don’t say that!’ said Anita fearfully. ‘Surely he wouldn’t bring people all that way if he wasn’t serious?’

‘Well, you have to admit it was strange, asking those questions.’

‘They didn’t embarrass me.’

"That isn’t the point. If you want my opinion,’ said Tom in the voice he used in the bank, ‘he’s spent too much on the place. Overstretched himself. Can’t keep up the payments. I don’t believe the story about his old mother in Plymouth. If that were true, he could easily let it furnished for a year or two, until he’s ready to go back.’

‘I don’t really care, as long as we get that cottage,’ said Anita.

Next morning, Mr Glass phoned and said that he accepted the offer. Anita went out and bought a bottle of champagne.

There were no complications in the sale. At the end of July, six weeks after they had seen the advertisement, Anita and Tom became the joint owners of Stennack Cottage. They moved in a week later. Mr Glass had put flowers in the hall to welcome them.

They had purchased the curtains and carpets with the cottage, so once their furniture was arranged, it was easy to settle in. Anita rather wished Mr Glass would call on them and see how right everything looked. She was sure he would approve. She found that her thoughts often turned to him as she went about the house when Tom was at work. But he didn’t come. He must have gone to Plymouth after all.

So she thought, until one Sunday evening Tom returned from one of his walks and said, ‘I believe I saw that fellow Glass this afternoon. I was looking for specimens in that old mine near Sancreed and for some reason I turned round and saw someone higher up the hill near the prehistoric site. He was looking down at me through a pair of field glasses. As soon as I turned, he ducked out of sight. I can see a long way, as you know, and I’m certain it was Glass. That fairish hair and slim figure. Damned if I know why he was behaving like that. A very odd man.’

‘I expect he was embarrassed,’ suggested Anita. ‘Perhaps he’d just got you in focus when you turned round. He didn’t want you to think he was spying on you.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Tom. ‘It doesn’t bother me. If he starts spying on you I’ll have something to say about it. What do you think of this, then?’ He took a large encrusted stone from his bag and held it to the light so that Anita could see its emerald green surface. ‘Malachite. Isn’t it beautiful? I dug it out of the tip beside the old pit-head up there. I think there must be more of it there.’

Later that week, he told Anita, ‘I was right about Wilfred Glass. I had lunch today with the manager of the bank across the street. I happened to mention that I bought the house from Glass and he told me the fellow banks with them. It was just as I surmised — he overspent on the cottage and got himself in deep water. His old mother died eight years ago, so it was pure invention about Plymouth. He used her money to buy this place, with a hefty mortgage. He’s living in a small terraced house in St Buryan now.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Yes, we all have our pride,’ said Tom. ‘I understand now why he didn’t want to be seen the other day.’

But Tom’s understanding of Wilfred Glass never went any further than that. The following weekend, he went off for one of his walks in search of rock specimens and did not return. When it got dark and he was still missing, Anita phoned the police. They promised to radio their patrols and they sent a young constable to take down the details, but little could be done in the way of a search before morning. Anita suggested that they should concentrate the search around the old mine works near Sancreed.

Tom’s body was found at the foot of the shaft. His neck was broken. His bag of rock specimens lay beside him. It contained two pieces of malachite.

The verdict at the inquest was misadventure. Everyone was very kind to Anita. Someone came from the bank to talk about the pension she would get. The cottage became hers on Tom’s death. There was no more mortgage to pay, because it had been covered by an insurance policy. She decided she could afford to remain at the cottage.

Several weeks later she met Mr Glass in the cakeshop in St Just. She bought some bread and turned from the counter and there he was, facing her. He didn’t seem at all surprised. He touched his hat and said, ‘How are you now, Mrs Sullivan? What a terrible thing to have happened. I was so deeply shocked when I heard.’

‘Yes,’ said Anita, ‘but I’m beginning to get over it now.’

‘I know what it’s like...’ My mother... But of course she wasn’t young like your husband. Are you still at the cottage?’

‘Yes, in spite of everything, I think I shall stay.’

‘I thought you would,’ said Mr Glass, adding quickly, ‘You were the one who fell in love with it. How are you managing there?’

‘Quite well, thank you.’

‘Everything in working order? No trouble with the electricity? It has been temperamental in the past.’

‘None that I’ve noticed.’

‘Oh.’ Mr Glass looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m living in St Buryan now. Not the same at all. I passed the cottage on my way. I walked, actually.’

‘Perhaps I can give you a lift,’ said Anita because it seemed the decent thing to say.

‘How kind! I’ll tell you what: I’ll buy some saffron buns. It will be such a treat to see what you’ve done with the cottage.’

She was really rather pleased. He was a sweet man. It was Tom who had kept saying he was strange.

On the drive back, she asked him whether he possessed a pair of field glasses. ‘Tom thought he spotted you one afternoon at Sancreed, near the old tin-mine,’ she explained.

‘He must have been mistaken, my dear,’ said Mr Glass. ‘What would I be doing with a pair of field glasses?’

She heard him give a sigh of happiness as he stepped into the cottage. She went into the kitchen to make some coffee and put the buns on a plate. She called out, ‘Black or white, Mr Glass?’

He answered, ‘White, if you please, Mrs Sullivan.’

She said from the kitchen, ‘You can call me Anita.’

Mr Glass smiled to himself. She was quite the prettiest of all the young wives who had come with their husbands to look at the cottage. In a month or two he would marry her and the place would be his again. He stood by the fireplace and passed his fingers fondly over the brickwork. Woman and home. It had all worked out according to plan, a plan as easy as falling off a log. Or pushing a man down a mineshaft.