Free Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death by HAZEL HOLT

wouldn’t say that.”
    “Something she cared about so much!”
    “I don’t know if I can go on with it. There were a lot of things Annie was going to do.”
    “I’m sure you’ll find a way—you’re so resourceful—and it’s the last tribute the village can pay to her.”
    There was much more in a similar vein, and when he’d finally rung off I slammed around the kitchen in a temper.
    “It’s absolutely ridiculous and I don’t see why I should be lumbered with it!” I said to Tris, who looked at me with his head on one side, worried by my cross voice. “All that tiresome work—and I don’t even live in the wretched village!” I said to Foss, sitting impassively on top of the microwave. “Even when she’s dead, Annie Roberts is forcing me to do things I don’t want to do. It isn’t fair!”
    Foss gave me a contemptuous stare, jumped down and stalked off into the hall where I could hear him sharpening his claws on the stair carpet.

Chapter Seven
     
     
     
    I got out the photocopies I’d made of Annie’s letters, because I still didn’t like to work from the originals, and began to look through them. I’ve read quite a few letters written home by soldiers (including those from my father when he was a chaplain in Italy during the last war) and I’m always struck by the fact that, almost always, even in the most horrible places and at times of great stress and danger, the language is so matter of fact. I suppose it’s an instinctive shying away from heroics.
    Frank Roberts’s letters were like that. Written from a position just outside Ypres, the commonplace words (designed to keep from his family any knowledge of the appalling conditions around him) were very touching. Now that we’ve all seen on television pictures of the unspeakable horror of mud and devastation, the words “a bit wet and miserable” and “not exactly a home from home” were immensely moving. As were the references to the children, about how much they’d have grown, so that he wouldn’t recognize them when he got back.
    Fortunately Frank Roberts did go back and took up his old job as village carpenter, just as if he’d never been away. And I believe he never referred to those years, except to make the odd joke with a fellow ex-soldier, down at the Legion, about lorries that should have brought ammunition being full of plum and apple jam, and to say, on occasion, that he didn’t think much of foreign parts. I would have liked to ask Annie what memories she had of her grandfather—he seems to have been a mild and kindly man who would have been fond of his grandchild—but now it was too late. I would just have to imagine it. Though it was hard, almost impossible, to imagine Annie as a child.
    On an impulse, I put the letters away, got out the car and went to Mere Barton. Having no plan in mind I went into the shop, the most likely place to glean what information there was about Annie. Maurice was behind the counter, deep in conversation with Judith. He looked up as I came in.
    “Sheila might be able to help,” he said. “Her son is—was—Annie’s solicitor.” He turned to me. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, he is,” I said, “but I don’t know . . .”
    “It’s so awkward,” Judith said. “I really don’t know what to do—it’s the keys, you see. Now that poor Annie’s gone, who should I give them to? I mean, I’m quite happy to hang on to them for the time being, but I wouldn’t want to do the wrong thing—legally, that is. What is the situation? I don’t know of any relatives, do you? And what’s to become of all her things? She had some very nice pieces—that dresser in the kitchen (it’s a really old Welsh dresser, you know, and they’re fetching a good price at auction. I saw one on television the other day) and that bookcase in the sitting room—lots of things. What’s to become of those?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to Michael since